Sometimes, the universe farts.

Of course, flatulence is not exactly a flattering way to describe it, but it's still the best way. Sometimes time and space tootle, blart, or, more flatteringly, blip. Something happens that shouldn't or should, or neither.

An excellent case of this was what happened in a world where there was a Boy-Who-Lived and a Dark Lord whose name people were afraid to say. The truth was that there were many variations in the events of this world, many timelines, many ways things shouldn't have happened or should have, or neither.

Two such timelines were connected to a bar at the end of a universe. One had events such as the Minister of Magic--a man in charge of the whole Wizarding Community--being a servant of the Dark One. The other had him working as an advisor to his newly elected replacement.

Neither timeline was "right." Neither was "wrong," either. They were just two ways things could have happened, because of many little choices made by people in each, but mostly because a butterfly sneezed somewhere in the African savanna second timeline, but didn't in the first. How the butterfly sneezed can't really be explained as butterflies have no noses, but it did, and this is what resulted because of it: Ronald Weasley was hurled into a closet in the same world he'd left, with a future in store for him that was different from the one (of which a few bare hints were gleaned) that he thought he'd face.

The same exact thing happened to his best mate and Chosen Hero-type Harry Potter, and his other best mate, Hermione, but he didn't know that yet (and I am not the mun of either).

***

Ron stumbled through the door at Milliways into darkness and landed hard against what felt like another door.

“Ow.”

He pressed his hands against the wood, pushing himself up onto his knees. He was in a dark, very small, enclosed space, rather like a closet.

Rather like the sort of closet the door to Milliways had been in...

Ron immediately reached up, and groping around in the dark, he found the door handle, turned it, and shoved the door open.

What he saw beyond it made him cry out in relief.

It was the sitting room, the little parlour the closet had been in. Various rubbish was piled on the floor in front of the closet, where Ron had last stacked it before going in through the door.

The door...

Ron whipped around, his eyes wide, but nothing but flat panels of wood greeted him. Slowly, he reached out his hand and grazed his fingertips against the wood, then pressed his fingers against it more firmly. He felt only wood grain.

There was no door, red as freshly spilled blood. There was no latch that looked like it was made of bone and muscle and sinews, that could make a face, that had a voice...

He gave a slight shudder, but amidst the disgust at what had happened to him, there was relief.

He was home!

Well, not technically home, but since his family was here it was!

He climbed to his feet, quickly gathered up all the junk in front of the door, threw it back in, and slammed the door shut. Then he ran out of the hallways, skidding slightly as he rounded a corner, and slipping on the hall rug, in his haste. He thudded down the stairs, two and three at a time.

Suddenly, at the bottom, he stopped, and listened to the raised voices within. They didn’t sound angry, just concerned.

“...Move out? But we just got settled in. Cleaned the whole place up...”

“Molly,” Ron heard Professor Lupins’s voice in the kitchen. He sounded horribly weary, and Ron didn’t blame him. If his best friend had died--if hewould die--he shuddered off the thought, and tried not to think about it. It had nearly happened far too many times already.

“Dumbledore believed Grimmauld Place to be safe, but he’s afraid he may have been mistaken. He said that until he sees Harry, he’ll have no way of knowing whether Harry or Bellatrix inherited it when--when Sirius passed away. None of us were sure about this place, but I looked through Sirius’ will and into some of the deeds of this place, and everything contradicts everything else. There’s no way to be sure--it’s too great a risk.”

“He’s right, Molly,” Ron heard his dad say, “We can’t risk Lestrange just walking in the door. The children...”

“But will the Burrow be as safe?” Molly asked. “We haven’t had time to put up any wards...”

“That’s already been taken care of,” Lupin answered. “Harry’s staying with you for the summer holiday, yes?”

“Of course, Remus,” Molly answered. “He can’t stay with those horrible muggles all summer--always starving the poor boy, and after all he’s gone through...”

“I assumed as much--Arthur, you’ll be receiving heightened security clearance from the Ministry--Dumbledore already got it put through, and this means you’ll have Auror guards, and many other defenses guarding the Burrow. It’ll be as safe as any place can be right now.”

“That sounds fine to me.”

“Well...I suppose, if Dumbledore thinks it’s best. Arthur, we need to round up the children, and get them to pack as quickly as possible. And owl the twins so that they start going to the Burrow instead of here.”

“There are several here to guard you during the move,” Lupin told them. “I’ll be coming along as well.”

Ron backed away and walked up to the top of the stairwell, so it didn’t look like he’d been listening in, even if it wasn’t exactly something that was a horrible secret.

Why would Sirius dying make Grimmauld Place unsafe, though? Obviously, Dumbledore had suspicions that were rather serious, or he wouldn’t be making them move, but shouldn’t the Fidelius Charm protect Headquarters the same as it always had?

The noise died down--obviously, his mum had seen fit to cast an Imperturbable. They were probably discussing Order business, maybe about wherever the new Headquarters was.

It was then that he heard a hissing, furious voice behind him. “Why is the blood traitor here? He is supposed to be dead. Kreacher helped Master Black with the binding, with preparing the door...”

Ron turned around abruptly to face Kreacher, whipping out his wand, absolutely furious.

“Yeah, well the blood traitor got lucky and didn’t snuff it, which means he’s pretty hacked off. As he isn’t so keen on house-elf rights as one of his friends is, maybe the little toe-rag house-elf should clear off before he gets hexed.”

“The blood traitor Weasley brat wouldn’t dare...”

“Impedimenta!”

The house-elf, who wasn’t armed, was knocked backwards into the wall, rather hard. Muttering darkly and glaring sharply, Kreacher climbed to his feet scampered off, leaving Ron alone and glowering at the top of the stairs.

He hoped Harry had inherited Grimmauld Place. Maybe he could do away with the little git once for all, maybe order him to jump off a cliff or something. Harry had every right to, as far as Ron was concerned, after what Kreacher had done.

As soon as he was sure the house-elf was gone, he pocketed his wand and sat, perched at the top of the stairs again, his knees drawn up near his ears with his arms around them.

What he wanted to do was run downstairs and throw his arms around his mum and dad’s necks in massive hugs, and then to hunt down Ginny--who hadn’t been to the bar in ages--and do the same to her. He stopped himself, however--he knew they’d think something was off, and he didn’t know how he could even start to explain it.

After some time he heard voices downstairs again, and then his mother appeared in the stairwell below him.

He had never been happier to see her in his life.

“Ro--!” she started to shout. “Oh, there you are. Find your sister and tell her to come downstairs right away. Remus is here and we’re going to need to pack. Dumbledore thinks--”

“That Grimmauld Place might not be safe, I know,” Ron said. “I overheard.”

So apparently no time at all had passed then. None. He’d lived a whole year without really living it.

She gave him a sharp look--she had never liked it when he or Ginny or the twins listened in on Order business--but he stomped down to the stairs straight to her, and wrapped his arms around her neck.

She looked concerned. “Are you sure you’re feeling alright, dear?” she asked worriedly, pulling away from him slightly, and looking him in the eyes. “You’ve been acting so strangely today--not that I mind you being this affectionate, but you haven’t been this way since you were little.”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice slightly choked. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

She looked at him for another moment, concerned, then pulled him into a hug again. He finally pulled away, looking faintly embarrassed.

“I’m...I’ve got to ask dad something. Then I’ll nab Ginny and we’ll pack.”

“That’s a good boy,” Molly said, and she took advantage of her son’s rare affectionate state and kissed him on the cheek.

He swallowed and she hitched up her apron and walked upstairs, presumably to start getting all their affairs in order.

Ron swung around the corner and nearly ran straight into his father. “Oh, Ron, your mother wanted you to--”

“I know,” Ron said quickly, hugging his father tightly.

Arthur Weasley looked surprised, but hugged his son back. “Ron, are positive you’re feeling--?”

“I’m fine,” he cut his father off, letting go.

I’m home.

Ron wondered if he’d ever really been away, however. Had all that been real, or had it been some horrible, delirious dream? Maybe he’d touched something bad in the closet that had knocked him out and made him have crazy dreams, or he’d hallucinated or something. He wouldn’t have put it past the Blacks to store some vile thing that could do that in Grimmauled Place. That he was wearing the clothes he’d left in was either a rather remarkable coincidence or a sign that nothing had really happened.

His father said, “We need to get upstairs Ron, and pack.”

“Yeah,” he said vaguely.

He shook his head, which was swarming with questions he wanted to ask...well, somebody. But if he told anyone, they’d just think he was barking and lock him up in St. Mungo’s or something.

“Yeah, okay,” he said, quickly looking away, and following his father upstairs, where he heard his mother faintly explaining things and Ginny protesting, “So we cleaned up this dump for nothing?”

****

The move had been easier than Ron thought it would be, considering that they honestly didn’t have a huge amount of possessions to begin with and only really had essentials at Grimmauld Place. Ron’s trunk was still half-packed from school anyway.

Pig had gone crazy when Ron packed him in his cage, almost as if he somehow knew he'd been gone.

He was sitting in the living room, listening to muffled conversation going on in the kitchen. Ginny was unpacking upstairs.

“Dumbledore said he’d send an owl in a week or so before he’s picking up Harry to tell you when he’s bringing him here.”

“He’s picking him up himself?” Arthur said, sounding somewhat relieved. “Well, that’s good news.”

It was safest if Harry came with Dumbledore.

Aside from that, the Advance Guard was top-notch, but they had been taking heavy losses back before Ron left--which was now, technically--hadn’t they?

“Apparently there’s some sort of errand Dumbledore needs his assistance with.”

“Not anything...dangerous?” Molly Weasley’s voice rang out with a quiet chill, and it seemed she was straining to keep it from sounding accusatory.

“I hope not,” Remus answered. “I doubt he would, anyway. Not after--.”

The conversation fell down to a depressing, uncomfortable lull, and as Ron was too lazy to unpack, he made his way outside, where he leaned against the side of the house right near the door. The chickens clucked and pecked about in front of him, and he had to nudge one with his foot when it started tugging on his shoelaces with its beak.

Hw quickly fell deep into thought.

Should I tell Harry and Hermione? Maybe it did happen and they remembered it. Maybe it wasn’t all in his head.

But if it was, he didn’t want them to think he was crazy. And in a way, he didn’t want to find out if it was real because he was afraid the answer would be that it wasn’t. Milliways bar wasn’t exactly paradise, but the idea of Val, Nita, Faith, Xander, Wolf, Smeagol, and Meg, and all the others he had befriended there not actually existing would have been horribly depressing. It would almost be as if they had died.

It was then that Lupin opened the door and walked through, saying goodbye to Molly and Arthur Weasley and disapparated away with a crack.

“Ron, I want you inside in five minutes,” his mother said, shutting the front door. “It’s getting dark.”

The sun still wasn’t anywhere near the horizon. Although, Ron had to admit that there was a strange chill to the air.

It was right then that Ginny walked through the door. Ron heard his mother shouting the same warning about getting in before dark to her before the door slammed shut.

“Nice night out,” she said calmly, rocking on her heels. She’s been watching Ron with a strange gleam in her eye ever since he’d hugged her in the middle of her packing.

Ask her. Maybe she knows. Ginny could get there, too, although this one might be from before I went. Or after. Or...bloody hell, I hate time stuff. Anyway, so what if she thinks you’re crazy--she’s crazy by default ‘cause she’s your little sister.

Before he could say anything, however, Ginny said in a cheerful voice, “Sometimes, when I’m confused, I check my pockets.”

She looked at the right pocket of his sweatshirt meaningfully, with a knowing, smug sort of gleam in her eye that ruffled Ron’s feathers a bit.

“Right. That was the most pointless thing I’ve ever heard, but OK.”

Ginny frowned, and punched him in the shoulder, hard, then walked back inside, muttering something along the lines of, “...why are brothers so stupid?”

What good were his pockets? It wasn’t not like there was anything in the--

--They were awful heavy though, the pockets of his sweatshirt. It was the one had been wearing in Milliways, the last night he saw Faith. If Milliways was real that was.

Slowly, his hands shaking slightly, he reached into his pocket. His fingertips grazed something smooth and metallic and he took out a very small belt--that could perhaps be fastened around the ankle or upper arm--with four tiny knives attached.

He stared.

“Wicked!”