"Bloody hell," Ron Weasley swore under his breath as he ducked behind a crumbling pillar in the Ministry of Magic's Atrium. 

The roar of spells echoed through the chamber as the air had the scent of ozone and fear. Ron's wand was clutched tightly in his hand, the grip slick with sweat.

He peered around the pillar, catching a glimpse of Sirius and Harry, dodging and weaving through the chaos together. They had brilliant teamwork, his mind supplied enviously. 

Now—really isn't the time, you twat! Shaking his useless thoughts away, Ron's heart hammered in his chest as he saw Bellatrix Lestrange in the corner of his eye, her malevolent gaze locked on Sirius. He didn't need to be a mind-reader to know the crazy bitch was about to make her move. 

So, without a moment's hesitation, he sprinted across the battle-scarred floor, his eyes never leaving hers. The world around him slowed, the sounds of the frenzied battle fading into a distant buzz.

As Bellatrix raised her wand, a snarl twisting her lips, Ron threw himself in front of Sirius. The force of the curse hit him like a runaway carriage, but it was surprisingly painless. 

Then—Then the world around him turned to ash and shadow, and he felt himself being torn apart.

For a moment, he was sure he'd see his mother's face, but instead, he saw Harry and Sirius, frozen in shock and horror. Harry's mouth was open in a silent scream, his wand arm dropping to his side, and Sirius' eyes wide with disbelief. 

Ron attempted to smile, hoping to offer them his famous lop-sided grin or some semblance of comfort, but his muscles didn't respond.

He probably looked like an idiot even when dying. 

Brilliant. He can't even die in a cool way.

The veil was cold, much colder than anything he'd ever felt in the Forbidden Forest on the coldest winter nights. 

It sucked him in, a void that promised oblivion, and for a brief second, he wondered if this was what it was like to die. 

But then, the world didn't go dark. Instead, it grew brighter, and he was falling through a curtain of light, his body feeling as insubstantial as a feather on the wind. Like he was the one being Wingardium LevioSA-ed until he lost his consciousness. 

When he opened his eyes again, the first thing he saw was the sky - a vast, empty canvas of deep blue, with not a single cloud to mar its perfection. He was lying on the cold, hard ground, surrounded by trees that stretched up to touch the heavens. 

The silence was deafening, a stark contrast to the chaos he'd just left behind. Ron's chest rose and fell, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. 

He was alive, but where was he? This certainly wasn't Hogwarts, and it wasn't the afterlife either, unless the afterlife had gotten a serious upgrade.

He pushed himself up onto his elbows, feeling the cold seep through his robes and into his bones. 

The place was eerily quiet, save for the distant howl of a wolf. He'd heard that sound before, in the Forbidden Forest, but these woods didn't look anything like home. They were grimmer, more ancient, with a sense of brooding foreboding that sent a shiver down his spine.

Panic began to set in, his heart racing as he scanned the unfamiliar surroundings. He knew he had to move, to find some sign of civilization, or at least figure out where he was. 

"Bloody hell," he murmured again, his voice sounding strange in the alien stillness. He tried to stand, but his legs felt wobbly, like a newborn foal's.

As he stumbled through the woods, the stark beauty of the place began to unnerve him. 

The trees looked like sentinels, watching him with ancient eyes, and the leaves crunched beneath his feet like whispers of secrets long forgotten. The sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows that danced and shifted as he moved. Ron knew he had to find shelter before nightfall, or he'd be as good as dead. 

He paused to lean against a massive oak, panting and disoriented. The battle at the Ministry felt like a distant memory, a nightmare he hadn't fully woken from. He needed to think, to sort out what had just happened. 

He'd read about the veil in his school books and Hermione—knew it was a one-way ticket to the afterlife, but here he was, very much alive and kicking in a strange land that was definitely not his own. 

He'd seen the look on Harry's face, the despair in Sirius' eyes. They probably thought he was dead, but he wasn't. 

He was... somewhere else.

Ron took a deep breath and focused his thoughts. He had to get his bearings, figure out a plan. 

He pulled out his wand, a comforting weight in his hand, and casted a simple cleansing charm. The grime and blood that had coated his clothes from the battle lifted away, leaving them looking almost new. He took stock of his appearance, noticing a few tears and burn marks, but at least he wasn't covered in filth anymore. It was a small victory in a sea of confusion.

Next, he cast a warming charm, the warmth seeping into his bones like a cup of hot tea after a Quidditch match in the snow. The chill that had settled in his core retreated, allowing him to think more clearly. He pondered his next move, trying to remember any spells that could help him navigate. If he could just get a message to Harry, maybe they could figure out a way to get him back.

But what if he couldn't? What if he was stuck here forever? 

The thought was too much to bear. 

Ron took a deep breath, pushing the panic back down. He couldn't just sit here and wait for a miracle. He had to find help, find somewhere safe. 

He thought of Hermione, her face a mask of concentration as she studied ancient tomes and maps, her voice recounting every detail of a lesson he'd half-heartedly listened to. "Always be prepared, Ronald," she'd say, her brown eyes stern over her books. "And pay attention in class!"

Ron smiled and scoffed, but the memory spurred him into action. He set off again, his wand at the ready.