"H minus fifteen minutes and counting," Ron said in a monotone. Neville Longbottom gave him a sideways glance that somehow managed to question Ron's sanity. Sweetfang was sprawled on the forest floor between them, napping, undisturbed by the battle going on just beyond the trees.

  "It's how Muggles count down to the launch of their rocketships," Ron explained.

  Neville said, "Really? Like the rockets you sell at your shop? It doesn't seem like those would be safe to make a ship with. And wouldn't the water put them out?"

  "Not ships like on water," Ron explained. "Ships to go out into space. Even to the Moon!"

  "Muggles have been to the Moon?"

  "Bunches of times. But not recently."

  Neville nodded. "So, what do Muggles call this counting down process? And how do you, excuse my sceptical tone, even know about this?"

  Ron shrugged. "They just call it a 'countdown.' As for how, I saw it on Muggle tel-eh-vision." He pronounced this last cautiously.

  "What's a tell-uh-fission?" Neville asked. "Wait. I've heard Hermione mention that. It was some sort of Muggle moving pictures that could tell stories. She used to watch it before her magic got too strong. Knowing Hermione, that was probably about the age of five."

  "Four," Ron said, a little glumly. "She still goes on sometimes about Fraggles, a tower of books, and a guy named Peter, who was blue for some reason. Reason I know anything about it is the Limited Partnership we have with Harry's cousin, Dudley Dursley. We have a Research Group that develops Muggle things for wizards to use, and vice-versa. The tel-eh-vision is still under development, but both George and Dudley have prototypes to test. They have to be really shielded from magic, or they go flooey. I've watched a few different things at George's."

  "Like what?" Neville asked, looking truly interested for the first time.

  "Muggle news programs, and their history programs, that's where I learned about the rockets. Stories about people's lives, some serious, and some are meant to be funny, I think. But they mostly seem to happen within hour or half-hour chunks. Oh, and lots of different sports. You've seen Muggles playing that game, football?"

  "Yes." Neville wrinkled up his nose. "Never saw the point. Seems a little boring."

  Ron scoffed. "Well, mate, over half the Muggle world seems to disagree with you. There's probably hundreds of games every day just on the tel-eh-vision. And as for what the Americans call football..." Ron shook his head.

  "Bad?"

  "Worse. They get eleven guys, mostly huge to begin with, then they pad them up and give them helmets. They look like big-headed trolls who have lost their clubs. Then they line them up against eleven more trolls and set them at each other. Since they don't have clubs, they try other ways to kill each other.

  "Biting?"

  "Nah, but it must have been a problem once. They got bars across the face of their helmets, now."

  Neville stood up and peered through a handy gap in the underbrush. "Still no sign of Hagrid."

  Ron checked his watch. "Still about fifteen minutes to the Go Time we were given. But I get you. 'Hagrid' and 'on time' don't mesh in my experience, either."

  "Wanted to see if I could catch another glimpse of Hannah, but they're keeping her busy. Looks like mostly minor stuff, somebody peeking out at just the wrong time, and catching a Conjunctivitis curse to the eyes. Somebody over there apparently specialises in them."

  "Did you see Hermione?" Ron asked, a little nervously.

  "No sign," Neville said placidly. "What's going on with you two, if you don't mind my asking?"

  "Same old." was Ron's glum reply. "I was right about something. I don't know why it's a big deal!" he burst out. "It's not like it happens often, for Merlin's sake!"

  "What were you right about this time?" Neville asked sympathetically. He could relate, being continually caught in the low-level sniping between Hannah and his Great-Uncle Algie.

  "Well, Mum was talking to Hermione, and she mentioned our old ghoul, the one that lived in the attic above my old bedroom?" Neville nodded. Ron continued. "Well, he's getting on a bit, as ghouls go, and he had a nasty fright when the Death Eaters attacked. He had stayed behind when the family evacuated. Ghouls get real attached to places, y'know. If the family hadn't gotten a warning from one of the Aurors who were posing as Death-Eaters, well, he probably would have been burnt right up. As it was, Charlie, Bill and Remus got together, and staged a last minute rescue."

  Ron scowled fiercely. "Little later than last minute, actually. Bill and Remus were actually standing the Death-Eaters off, while Charlie was coaxing the ghoul down from my old room." Ron scrubbed angrily at his eyes, which were a little moist. "Charlie's always been great with creatures of any sort. There was a bit of trouble, until Charlie figured out that the ghoul wanted to bring a comb for his red hair, and my old pyjamas. Then they all scarpered."

  "Bill told me about standing on a hill, a good distance away, watching the Burrow burn. Still and all, he reckoned it worked out for the best. What with those three actively defending the Burrow, and the trap Remus left, which brought it down on their heads, the Death-Eaters must have figured the family were still there. So, afterwards, they didn't keep looking." Ron's grin was savage. "Especially since they lost four people in the collapse."

  "They set the ghoul up at Great-Aunt Muriel's in the attic of one of the wings farthest from Muriel's rooms. Then they moved him back after the Burrow was reconstructed. Made him his own little finished space in the attic as well. It took a while for him to get the new pipes back in tune, though."

  Ron sighed. "Then Hermione and Mum get to talking. Mum reckons that the ghoul is getting lonely in his old age. Sure, grandkids are all visiting a lot, but that's not the same as a house full of kids. And Hermione decides he needs to come live with us. Which is fine with me, of course. I owe that ghoul, and he is always welcome."

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  "But you know Hermione. She can't just let a creature be a creature. She had a little house built for him in the back garden, with windows, and furniture, and a neat little bed. The she gets upset because the ghoul crams itself into the only dark place it can find, a little clothes closet that is much, much, too small. I try to talk to her, but she snubs up, and says things, like 'a period of adjustment' and 'we have to be patient."

  Ron looked Neville in the eyes, and said, "Neville, have you ever considered 'patience' to be one of my strengths?"

  Neville snorted wordlessly. Ron nodded in agreement. "So, I did something. Rosie and Hugo's bedrooms share a little annex built off the side of the house. Nothing as fancy as a wing, but it has its own roof and attic space. I went up and laid a little floor of plywood over the rafters. I made sure to leave a few gaps and edges sticking up. Ghouls don't like things too neat.

  "I went to a... what do Muggles call them...? Foot sales? Boot sales? I found a beat-up old chest of drawers and night table. I also picked up a good-sized cedar chest with a missing lid, and a cracked old-fashioned mirror in a weathered frame. I smuggled all that tat up into the attic..., Yes, Neville, I had to smuggle stuff into my own house."

  "I knocked the legs off the chest of drawers, and half filled it with cast-off clothing. Then I kicked the cedar chest around a while, 'cause it was a bit too spruce, and filled it with clean old bedding and a few old pillows. Plus I had saved the ghoul's tatty old comforter from the bin. Hermione had tried to throw it away, but I got it and washed it. The nightstand got nailed to the plywood, and the mirror hung from the rafters above it."

  "There was a single light socket, not that we can use Muggle lighting. I glued a crystal over the socket, magicked for light. It shone with a very dim, slightly purple glow. Then I made sure no outside light was coming in anywhere."

  "Finally, I went to a Muggle salvage yard that George knew about. He said I could get a good price because it was going out of business. I asked him when, exactly, and he said he hadn't decided yet. I could see why they were going to close, the guy I dealt with looked to be on his last shred of sanity. I picked up some tarnished old plumbing pipe and took it home. I built a little jungle gym shape, and screwed it to the plywood as well, so it looked like it was connected to something. Hermione wasn't home from work, so I took the ghoul's old comforter, which he was glad to see, I tell you, wrapped him up in it, and led him up to the attic. I set him in place, and retreated to the attic access."

  "He peeked, cautious-like, out from under the comforter. When light didn't hurt his eyes, he pulled it back to drape over his shoulders, and slowly started exploring. I had scooped up his comb, and it was on the night table. He looked in the mirror and combed his hair down over his eyes a little, turning his head from side to side. I reckoned he was prouder of that hair than anything. Ghouls are pretty much all bald. It was no trouble to renew the spell every now and then. Moving on, he checked out the chest of drawers, rummaging through some of the drawers. He examined the cedar box, and carefully spread his comforter over it, tucking in the sides, (I guess Mum taught him to make his bed. I don't know why I was surprised). When he got to the pipework, he stroked it like a pet, and gave it a couple of tentative clangs."

  "He looked over, and gave me the biggest smile. That's not a, what is it? Euphemism? Ghoul's mouths go halfway around their heads. His teeth, well, fangs, were almost blinding white. (I guess Mum taught him to brush his teeth, as well).

  "One more thing," I said, and beckoned him over. "See this cord? It lets you pull up the ladder." I sat on the edge of the access and demonstrated. "And see this bolt?" I demonstrated that as well. "When you throw this bolt, nobody can get up here without your permission. This is YOUR space. If you want to let the kids up to play, that's fine, but you don't have to. Okay?"

  He gave out a series of very sincere, plaintive groans. I shook my head, and said, "No. Thank you. You were there for me and my family when we needed it. We will always be here for you."

  I climbed down, and left him to get settled in. The ladder went up, the hatch closed, and I heard the thunk of the bolt.

  "And that was it. The kids came home from a friend's house. I fed them, and had them do their Summer Term Worksheets, (Ron made disgusted quote marks in the air). Then I got them ready for bed. Before we went down the hall to their rooms, I told them about the ghoul moving into their attic. They were thrilled. He was an old friend from Granda and Granma Weasleys', and they had been worried about him, too. He hadn't been much fun, stuffed into a cramped little closet."

  "They ran off to their bedrooms. Even through the shut doors, I could faintly hear spooky groans, clangs, and screams of laughter."

  Ron was grinning to himself, then his face kind of puckered up. "Then... eventually, Hermione came home. Woman's a workaholic. She smiled at me, and gave me a little kiss when she saw I had cleared up after myself from making supper. She noticed the faint sounds coming from the kids' rooms and said, 'What's that?'"

  "My dear old Dad has given me many good pieces of advice in my life. The one that came to mind right then was, "Always tell the truth..., when you can.' So I went with that. 'The kids are playing with the ghoul.' Short, sweet, to the point. She said, 'See? I told you it would all work out.' 'Yes. Yes, you did,' I said. Then I changed the subject. 'Want some supper? It's that chicken casserole recipe you taught me.' And it turned out she did. A short reprieve, but a reprieve nonetheless."

  Ron's sigh was heavy, this time. "But nothing lasts forever. She finished, cleared her dishes, and told me she was going to go quieten the children down, since it was past bedtime." Ron shook his head sorrowfully. "Wizard children and bedtime. That's another lesson she has yet to learn. I heard her open a door. Apparently, both kids were in Rosie's room. And I heard, 'Mum! Ronnie lives upstairs now, isn't that brilliant?' 'Ronnie can play Three Blind Mice on the pipes!' 'Ronnie, play Three Blind Mice!' 'Sing with us, Mum!'"

  "I just stood there, waiting to die. Then the Protean Charm on my Auror badge went off with 'All Hands On Deck' and 'Rally at Hogwarts!" I yelled down the hall, "All Hands, dear! I'll see you later!" And I Apparated out of there so fast that all I heard was the syllable, 'RO...!' Well, that was just a few hours ago, and I've been avoiding her ever since." Ron sighed and buried his face in his hands.

  Neville looked as if he was not laughing through sheer force of will. "Buh-b-back up a minute," he choked out. "R-r-ronnie can play Three Blind Mice...?"

  Ron looked up. "What?" he said. "Oh. That. Yeah, while he was covering for me, every time the Ministry would visit, Mum would lead them up the stairs, calling ahead, 'Ronnie, dear, there are some nice men from the Ministry of Magic who want to see you. I know you're feeling very poorly, but do try to perk up a little for them, won't you, dear?' That was the signal for the ghoul to get in bed if he wasn't already. He would also, and this was his own idea, see if he could find any particularly pustulent pustules he could accidently pop at them." Neville finally gave up and rolled to the forest floor, howling with laughter. Ron grinned. "I know, brilliant, right? One time he got Dawlish right up the nose! He ran out of there, screaming about Spattergroit, and flew straight to St. Mungo's. I heard later he almost drowned in a barrel of eels' eyes. So, anyway, by the time the whole thing was over, the ghoul's name was 'Ronnie.' I sure don't mind, I always hate it when people call me that."

  "And Hermione is mad at you because you were right?"

  "Honestly, it's more like she's mad at herself, because she was wrong. Hermione really, really, REALLY HATES to be wrong. I'm the one who takes the grief, because I'm her dedicated whipping boy. AND because I knew she was wrong." Ron gave Neville a faint grin, and shrugged. "It always comes right in the end, though. All things considered, I'm a lucky man."

  Neville was but imperfectly recovered when LIGHT flared in the clearing. Even behind the brush, they were momentarily blinded. They removed their SpectreSpecs to let their eyes adjust, put them back on, and moved to the gap in the shrubbery. Their jaws dropped as one.

  "WHAT in the NAME of Merlin's Y-front drop-bottom LONG JOHNS does Hagrid think he is DOING!?!" Ron's bellow was nearly deafening.

  "Never mind THAT!" Neville yelled, pointing. "ATTACK!"