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Ron had always been a tag-a-long, his plump legs working furiously to catch up. During summers when Bill and Charlie were home he would climb onto the broom his mother had given him for his fifth birthday and swoop after them. Swooping made him dizzy and they loved to fly circles around him. He would turn left, then right, until he would make a three-sixty. Then he would sink queasily to the ground, nearly in tears, as he tried to keep from vomiting over his hand-me-down robes.

Most summer days would end up with Ron tossing his broom into the shed, his lower lip clutched between his teeth. Then he would find Percy. Percy would find the right words to soothe his punctured ego and he wouldn't refuse to read to him from Ron's favorite book. His voice would be quiet and calm and soon Ron would be asleep in the sunshine in front of the Burrow.