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He knew he had made a colossal mistake before his feet even hit the ground, but the realization that he was not alone in the forest only amplified Ron’s regret at leaving the relative safety of the tent.
“Well, well, what have we got here?” A tall wizard in baggy robes strode toward him as the others moved to surround Ron. He raised his arm, but his wand was wrenched from his hand by a silent disarming spell before he could fire off one of his own.
“Looks like a student,” said another wizard, now pulling Ron’s wand through his fingers in examination. “You running from ‘ogwarts, mate?”
“No.” Ron coughed and lowered his voice, wanting to render unrecognizable any part of himself that he could manage. His heart was pounding, but he forced himself to remain calm. He had to get away from this gang of wizards that he had unwittingly Disapparated into and back to Harry and Hermione. “Been out of Hogwarts for years. And who the bloody hell are you?”
A third wizard withdrew a scroll from his pocket and consulted it. “We’ll be asking the questions. What’s your name, then?”
“Why should I tell you?”
A hard blow was delivered to his stomach, knocking the breath from Ron’s lungs, as a strong arm was wrapped around his middle from behind, holding him in place. The tip of a wand dug into his neck, and Ron let out a gasp of pain before he could restrain it.
“Because we got no qualms about killing you either way.” The voice in his ear was gruff, and the wizard holding him smelled like he was in desperate need of a shower. “But you’ve got nothing to fear if you’ve got nothing to hide.” The man echoed words Ron had once heard from Dolores Umbridge, and the implication that these men were from the Ministry made his blood run cold. “Now, you on my friend’s list of runaway Mudbloods, or not?”
“Stan,” Ron gulped, blurting the first name that came to mind as the wand pressed deeper into his neck. “Stan Shunpike.”
None of the wizards surrounding him called out his lie, so he figured he had at least bought himself some time as the wizard with the scroll scanned the list in his hand. “No Shunpike on the list,” he confirmed.
“Told you,” Ron snapped, swallowing his relief. “I’ll take my wand back now.”
“Hold on.” The wizard who had first addressed him took a step closer and peered at him. “We sure he’s telling the truth?”
“He looks like Stan,” replied the wizard holding Ron’s wand with a shrug.
“Yeah, but we can’t afford to be making any mistakes, now, can we?”
The two wizards began to argue, and Ron saw his opening. He bent his arm and swung it backwards into the gut of the wizard holding him. He doubled over, allowing Ron to snatch the man’s wand and disarm the one who was holding his, Disapparating with both wands before they could make another grab at him.
“Ow— bugger,” Ron groaned, looking down at his hand. Two of his fingernails were missing, and the wounds were bleeding profusely where he had splinched himself. Of course, he had no one to blame for this injury but himself. He hadn’t really blamed Hermione for the first one, but he knew he’d had a funny way of showing it in the past few weeks.
That bloody locket.
He would apologize for his behavior later; he had to get back to them first. He had to get back to her. Ron’s gut was twisted with guilt as Hermione’s yells echoed in his mind. He’d heard her calling for him to stay, and he’d ignored her.
He took a look around his current location. It looked like the forest where the campsite was—similar foliage, and the ground squelched under his boots from the earlier downpour—but without any landmarks to go by, he wasn’t sure how far he had really gone. They had pitched the tent by a creek, he knew that much, and he couldn’t hear any running water. He raised his wand to try again, but the blood still dripping onto his coat from his splinched fingers made him pause.
Destination.
Ron took a deep breath to steady himself. He had to focus if he wanted to make a safe return to the tent; if he kept splinching himself, he’d soon be in pieces throughout the forest, and he shuddered at the mental image he conjured.
Deliberation.
His wand gripped tightly in his hand, Ron spun and Disapparated again. He landed this time near the creek, but as he let his eyes scan the winding path of the water, he could tell he was miles from where he’d left. Heaving a sigh, Ron prepared to Disapparate again.
Determination.
When his feet hit the ground this time, he knew he was in the right spot, though the forest was still. Even the pouring rain had slowed to a drizzle. Ron’s steps were slow and measured as he approached the area of the campsite, and his heart sank as he crossed where the boundary of the wards had been. It wouldn’t have surprised him if they had blocked him from entering, but the lack of resistance told him that the wards were gone.
They were gone.