When it looked like the other two were going to try and stay behind as well, the teacher added pointedly, "Alone?"

Harry and Hermione shared apprehensive looks, but Ron nodded, turning away from the doors that he had been approaching and facing the teacher.

"Don't wait up," he told his friends, who nodded, looking curious, wondering what Lupin could want with Ron. Lupin eyed Ron with curiosity as he opened his mouth and began to speak.

Ron eyed Lupin wearily. When surrounded by other students, the smell of wolf that emanated from the professor was easily ignorable and the instinct to run was less profound. But when he was alone with the man, all he could think about was how Lupin smelled like an Eraser. Ron knew the scent of an Eraser well, and he knew that Lupin couldn't be one of them- his smell was more… was less of a tinge of chemicals and more of a savage, uncontrollable undercurrent of painful recession.

So Lupin was most assuredly not an Eraser. Ron had noted this when he had first met the man. But he smelled too much like one for Ron to feel at ease in his presence. Ron, tense and prepared for anything, tried to act like a regular student who had been asked to stay after class by a teacher.

Eyes cast downward, he opened his mouth and said, "Look, Professor, if this is about that hinkypunk paper I didn't turn in, I promise I'll get it to you tomorrow."

"While that paper was not my original purpose in calling you behind, I will be expecting it, Mr. Weasley."

"... If you weren't planning on talking to me about that paper… What other homework did I forget?" The picture of a confused, slightly intimidated student- or at least, that's what Ron hoped he looked like.

"I didn't want to talk to you about homework."

"Then, um, what did you want to talk about, Professor?"

"I wanted to talk to you about the dementors. I've noticed that they are particularly attracted to you and your friend Harry, and I would like to offer to teach you both the charm for repelling them."

"If this is about both me and Harry, why did you ask for just me? Oh, and, thanks for the offer, I'll think about it."

"The dementors are not the only thing I wanted to ask you about."

"What else, then?"

"Dementors only go after people who have been the victims of traumatic experiences. Likewise, your boggart was nothing less than terrifying to you. I just wanted to let you know that I am here if you ever want to talk about whatever it was that happened. I figured that you would appreciate me not telling you this in front of your friends, who appear to be less than aware of whatever situation you may have gotten into. I wanted you to know that I am here. All I want to do is help."

Ron stared intensely at Lupin, trying to discern any falsehood in his expression. Seeing nothing other than the desire to assist, he dropped the matter and said, "...I'll keep that in mind. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to be late for my next class. I'll ask Harry about the dementor charm and get back to you, though I'm fairly certain he'll say yes- the stupid things are a real pain in the-" Ron cut himself off, remembering to not swear in front of a teacher. "-neck. Pain in the neck."

Lupin smiled at him, clearly noticing the near-slip but choosing to ignore it good-naturedly. "That they are. I look forward to receiving your answer."

Taking the statement as its intended dismissal, Ron spun on his heel and exited the classroom, breathing out a sigh of relief as he stepped through the heavy doors. While he was glad Lupin had offered his assistance in the whole dementor thing, he did not appreciate the old man prying into his private business. What had happened was in the past- he tried to concentrate only on the good things that had come of it, like his wings. A pain they may have been at times, he didn't know who he would be without them.

Without having tasted the wind in his mouth, what would he have become?

Ron shook his head sharply, like a dog dispelling water. Those were exactly the kinds of thoughts he tried actively to avoid. He strode purposefully towards his next class, as if the physical act of walking away would help him escape his own mind.

Something was wrong.

And it was more than the omnipresent something was wrong that prevailed over all humanity- this wrong thing, whatever it was, was affecting Ron.

A lot. It started as most things do- Ron woke up.

He noticed that most of his dorm-mates had already left for breakfast and groaned, wondering why none of them had bothered to wake him. He uncurled himself from the fetal position that he tended to favour in his sleep and stretched out to his full length, remaining under the sheets where it was warm.

The problem really started when he tried to sit up. Nausea struck him like a heavy sword and his eyes widened as his head spun sickeningly. He had made it about six inches from the bed when his muscles had decided to revolt against him and he fell back onto his pillows. The jolt that came from his body hitting the soft bed, while not normally anything of significance, made Ron feel the need to scream.

Pain such as he could not ever remember feeling ripped through him momentarily, the fire of it all escaping him as soon as it had come but leaving behind the feeling of having been burnt to a crisp by a wild, raging fire. Ron's entire body ached like he had run twelve hundred marathons and everything felt like lead.

To think, less than a minute ago, everything had been fine. He let out a strangled groan, which was all that his suddenly parched throat could handle at the moment.

There were, he reflected, many different flavours of pain, if you will. He had been through most of them, to be sure, and this one most reminded him of the type of pain that had occurred when his wings had been growing inside him. He knew it best as growing pains, and knew that everyone went through such a thing, to a much lesser degree. What he did not understand was why this pain was choosing to rear its head now, of all times. He hadn't even been doing anything, just trying to sit up, for Merlin's sake!

"Ron? Are you alright?" The voice drifted down through Ron's ears and ended up in his brain, which was having trouble processing anything other than the violent aches that spread throughout his entire body. Eventually, though, Ron noted that someone was talking to him and he tried to respond with a negative- 'no, I'm not alright, I feel like I've been burned alive, please kindly get Madame Pomfrey, I'll take even the Hospital Wing over whatever the bloody hell this crap is'- but he was sure that whatever came out was probably more akin to a grunt.

The as-yet-unrecognized person who was talking to him creeped over to his bed, pulling back the heavy curtains.

Thankfully, it was Neville, and he seemed to understand that something was wrong because he immediately put his hand over Ron's forehead, presumably to check the temperature. Neville pulled his freezing hand almost immediately, as if he had been burned. Neville stared in shock at Ron, not knowing that it was possible for a human to still be alive at that temperature.

"Ron, I'm going to go and get Madame Pomfrey, I'll be right back, all right?"

Ron could hear the fear in Neville's voice as it quavered. Obviously he looked about as bad as he felt. He tried to nod but failed miserably and so just stared at Neville, hoping to telepathically communicate his assent. Neville either got the message or was too worried to care and soon Ron was left on his own, waiting for the aid he desperately needed. He couldn't tell how much time had passed before Madame Pomfrey and Neville (who had been joined by Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore) returned. Madame Pomfrey then repeated the process that Neville had done, laying her hand on Ron's forehead and immediately withdrawing it, staring at Ron in shock.

Ron thought sardonically, Yes, I know I'm smoking hot- we've established that. Can we move on now? Possibly to the part where I get some pain meds?

He really wished he could say the words out loud, but decided it wasn't worth the pain and raised his eyebrow instead, silently asking Madame Pomfrey to get on with the painkillers. Madame Pomfrey got out her magical equipment that nobody had any idea how it worked and began attempting to diagnose Ron. Ron beared it while she randomly pulled on Ron's ear and stuck smooth, wooden rods into his mouth, thankful that her specialized equipment looked nothing like the specialized equipment that he grew up on.

After a few minutes, when Ron had yet to be diagnosed with anything, Madame Pomfrey said that she could do nothing more without her other things, which were all in the Hospital Wing. Dumbledore nodded at this and, after being assured that Ron was not allowed (nor able) to walk, he cast a spell that made Ron hover off the ground, as if suspended by an invisible stretcher.

At this point, Ron's awareness was getting rather faded as the line between being awake and being unconscious got increasingly hazy. As he was whisked hurriedly out of the room, a hovering Neville was told, not-so-firmly by a worried Mcgonagall to go to his classes like usual and perhaps inform Ron's friends on the development.

Neville, glad for something to do but torn by the need to stay by his friend, hesitated a bit before Mcgonagall's stern face won out and he obeyed.

Ron was bored.

He had already done all of his homework (Hermione had almost fainted when she had heard the news) and there was nothing else to do in the Hospital Wing, except for staring aimlessly at the stark white wall, which brought back far too many uncomfortable memories for Ron to feel at all like doing it.

Yes, he realized that if he was allowed out of the Wing he might spontaneously combust or something, seeing as Madame Pomfrey still had no idea what was going on, but he felt fine. He realized the need to be under observation, really he did. He just hated the affect his surroundings had on him.

He normally avoided the Hospital Wing at all costs because of the memories it brought back, but now he was stuck here against his will and the feeling was all-too-familiar and he hated it so much. He wished that he would be allowed to leave, but knew that he wouldn't be until at least the next day. He sighed for the umpteenth time and, again, wished to be somewhere else.

He had no idea what had happened to him on the previous morning. He had spent the rest of yesterday in the same state that he had woken up to- namely, unending agony. But, after a good night's sleep, he felt almost normal, except for a lingering ache. Madame Pomfrey had proclaimed the case to be 'completely befuddling' and had also decided that Ron had cardiovascular problems, because her instruments had not been able to pick up a biologically possible heart-and-breathing rate.

Ron had secretly smirked at that, but wondered what would happen if the Madame had asked him to remove his shirt.

What would she have thought of the scars, of his wings?

He seemed to be considering this whole revelation scenario more often and it scared the crap out of him. He was seriously concerned that, one day, he would break from the stress and just announce his secret to the whole school. But, as much as that option seemed likable at the moment, he couldn't do that to his classmates. He refused to put them in such danger. His thoughts drifted until he fell back into a peaceful sleep.

Max sighed in relief as the flock all settled in to the tree that they were using as a roost for the night. She felt a little bit odd with her hair cut properly, and knew that the rest of the flock probably felt the same way- they were more used to hairstyles done with safety scissors than proper, salon-cut locks.

But she was glad for the disguises. Just as everyone was starting to drift off into a quasi sleep, a bird of prey (Max couldn't tell which one, it was too dark) landed on the branch next to Nudge and begun cawing loudly.

Gazzy, still in a daze from his half-sleep, thought that Nudge was the one making the noise and responded aptly- "Cut it ouuuututttttt, Nudge! I'm trying to sleep, here!" Max could hear Nudge's eyeroll.

"Wake up, Gazzy! I may be part bird, but I don't caw! It's this bird. Max, make it shut up!" Max groaned, not happy about being awoken.

"Do it yourself, Nudge. It's not my job to shut up irritating wildlife. Just shove it away, it should get the message." A short, blessed silence ensued as Nudge did just that. Max held her breath, and, after a while when no other sounds occurred, she let it out in relief and attempted to return to her slumber. Not two seconds later, Nudge spoke up.

"Max, it's not leaving me alone! Also, it's got a paper tied to its talons." Max rolled her eyes and gave up on sleep for the immediate future.

"Well, untie it then!" She rolled over and sat up on her branch, so that she could see her whole flock. She had, obviously, claimed the highest vantage point for her own. Nudge did just that and soon Max heard the distinctive sound of parchment being unrolled.

"It's a letter! For us!" The cocoa-skinned girl exclaimed, and the rest of the Flock perked up with interest.

"Who'd want to write to us?" Iggy questioned the air.

"Well, obviously, someone." Fang replied.

"I got that much, thanks, Fang." Iggy returned.

Before a full-blown catfight could ensue, Max said loudly, "Who does it say it's from, Nudge?"

There was silence for a beat as Nudge used her rusty reading skills to scan the letter, looking for the bit where the sender normally signed their name.

Then, once she found it, she shouted out with glee- "It's from Ron!"

The reaction to this announcement was instantaneous. All of the Flock had missed their seventh member greatly and wondered what had become of him often. They knew that he was probably going to the wizarding school he had talked about with them, and that he was probably back with his birth-parents, but other than that, they really had no proper clue. They were as in the dark about it as they were about their own birthparents- that is to say, seriously clueless.

To get word from him now was a dream. Fang, who was by far the best at reading, snatched the letter from Nudge's fingers and began to read aloud.

"Flock-

This is Ron. How are you? I'm sorry I didn't get in contact sooner, but, well, the past few years (Merlin, has it already been years?) have been horribly busy. I've made some friends here, and I'm in third year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and WIzardry. The bird carrying the letter is Cai, he's a friend and will probably expect payment for his services in the form of food. Sorry about that, but he's the only way I could talk to you. The school's owls don't do oversea flights.

Max, the knife is for you. I was in a shop and I saw it and I thought of you so I got it.

What have you all been up to over the past four years? I've made friends with Harry Potter, who is famous in the Wizarding World for defeating You-Know-Who (Lord Voldemort) when he was a little kid. Hermione Granger is a genius witch who is also a dear friend. Harry (and, by extension, me and Hermione) is a trouble magnet. In first year, we had to save the Sorcerer's Stone (which is pretty much a ruby that can make you immortal and turn any metal it touches into gold) from the ghost of You-Know-Who, who is apparently not all the way gone. In second year, a basilisk (basically a giant snake that can kill you with its eyes) kidnapped my sister so we had to chase it into its lair- which was in the girl's restroom, by the way- and kill it. We were all fine, in the end, thank Merlin. This year, my third year, Harry's got a homicidal maniac out for his blood, but Hogwarts is the safest place in all of England, so we should be fine. Probably. Anyways, I wanted to ask you all if you were fine. How are you? What's been going on? Anything exciting? What have I missed?

Please, tell me if you're alright.

-Ron

P.S. Cai is lactose-intolerant. Don't give him cheese or he gets really moody and violent."

Silence fell, as they all absorbed the information that had been presented to them. Max reflected that this Hogwarts place certainly didn't sound like the safest place in Britain, not if he had nearly been killed twice already.

"Oh, here's the knife, Max."

Nudge said, after finding the sharp object tied to the falcon's other talon. The knife was handed up to her and she looked it over, seeing what she could in the dark, which wasn't much.

The sheath hung from a utilitarian leather belt and the knife slid easily from it. The leather was soft, pliable, obviously pre-worn. More than that, though, would have to wait until morning. As would the reply that each of the Flock was eager to write.

"Alright, guys, I know we all want to write back immediately, but we have to get some sleep. We'll worry about the letter in the morning."

A few token groans ring out at that, but everyone knows that there's no arguing with Max when she uses that tone of voice.

So they obey and sleep.

But Max doesn't have that luxury. She stays up half the night, thinking about Angel and Celeste, about Ron and his adventures. She doesn't know how she feels about either of the two- she tries to sort out everything in her head, but it's hard to think because even the invincible Maximum Ride gets tired sometimes. Eventually, she can't help it and sleep overcomes her. She hasn't figured out anything.

A day later, Madame Pomfrey couldn't keep him any longer and he was freed from his imprisonment in the horrible hospital wing.

He went to classes like normal, but noticed that all of his siblings, Neville, Harry, and Hermione (all of whom had visited him on that first, awful day) were keeping a close eye on him, as if they suspected him to collapse at any moment. He honestly couldn't blame them, being as unnerved as they were over the whole incident. He wondered if some of the School's genetic meddling was catching up to him- perhaps they had messed him up so much that his body was becoming unable to sustain itself, or something?

It was by no means out of the realm of possibility, but since he couldn't do anything about it, he mostly attempted to ignore the thought. When night came around, he went out to his little practice clearing and started his typical routine- shrug off shirt, spread wings, running start, takeoff- but before he could get past step two, the pain reappeared, knocking him to the ground.

It wasn't as extreme this time, nor as long lived, but that wasn't a comfort to Ron, who couldn't climb to his feet for nearly fifteen minutes. As fear clouded his mind, he thought, What is wrong with me? Scenarios in which he died in the near future played themselves out in his mind as he lost control.

He hadn't faced the possibility of a really long, painful death since his days at the School. At least the basilisk would have been over quickly, right? This was worse, much worse. The idea that he, a perfectly functional individual, could hopelessly fall apart at the seams like he seemed to be doing was a hard one. Especially because, if he was right, there was nothing he could do about it. In Ron's mind, he felt all of the emotions but was too terrified to put them into language.

A wordless horror filled him and he stumbled over to the nearest tree, placing a hand against the thick trunk for support. He didn't really know how long he spent, fearfully leaning against the tree and trying not to think about what it would feel like to slowly degenerate until, inevitably, death took hold.

But soon enough, he managed to wrest his mind from the horrors it had poisoned itself with and regained a sense of his surroundings. In the process, he removed his hand from the trunk. There was a still-hot brand of a human hand that went through the tree.

Brows furrowed, Ron placed his own hand in the imprint.

It fit perfectly. ...What?

A theory began winding its way through Ron's thoughts. Obviously, Ron had something to do with the handprint, but how? The handprint had been branded deep into the trunk, and the only way to do that in such a short amount of time would be with an extremely hot flame.

Ron didn't have such a flame, nor was his hand fire-resistant, as far as he knew.

The trickle of a theory grew into a stream as the faint memory of two whitecoats discussing science over his head returned to him. He vaugly recalled them mentioning that certain side-effects might appear in the genetically modified subjects. At the time, he had thought that they meant 'mutation' to mean 'sickness'. But perhaps they meant it in more of a classical, comic book sort of way? Ron had heard tell of a Muggle story, something about a giant green man named the Hulk, who ran around smashing things because he had been exposed to too much gamma radiation or something.

Perhaps he was mutating? Developing powers?

This idea rather freaked him out. He remembered that the Hulk had absolutely no control over himself when he was in a rage and ended up hurting a lot of innocent people.

Would that happen to him? But, on the other hand, having pyrokinesis would be pretty freaking awesome. After calming himself all the way down, he tried to remember what it was that had caused the fire to arise within him.

He recalled that he had been afraid of death and nodded, because it made sense. His body would have registered the fear and his fight or flight instinct would have kicked in. He hadn't taken flight, so his brain decided to fight. Thus, the fire. But this just wouldn't do- if his hands lit up every single time he got fearful, there were sure to be questions.

The dementors were hard enough, but if he had to remember not to burn things while under their influence, he was doomed. He needed control, and control came from practice. So that was what he did. He spent the whole evening practicing and throwing fire around.

At first, it was difficult to produce anything. He struggled to match a candle's flame, but soon enough he had figured it out and it got easier and easier. Ron was actually surprised at how easy it was, once he had gotten the hang of it. He guessed that it was something to do with the mutation- it must have developed to fit with him, who he was as a person.

And, to be honest, Ron thought that fire matched him well. It just seemed to fit. He practiced until he was just too tired to do anything more than stumble back up to the dormitories, utterly worn out.

He wondered if this new talent would end up as a gift, or a curse.

It was a few days later, now, and Ron had gotten a decent control over his powers.

It was weird- he had expected for it to have taken longer than it had, but it was actually extremely easy. He thought perhaps it had something to do with his magic, and how he had been controlling it for ages. Perhaps that same control extended to the fire mutation?

Whatever it was, Ron was thankful because it would be pretty embarrassing to burst into flames in the middle of class.

Hermione and Harry sat on the couch next to him in the common room, each occupied with pieces of homework. As they furiously scribbled, Ron smirked because, for once, he had finished an assignment before the night it was due.

He had even beaten Hermione, but that wasn't much of an accomplishment because she was taking so many classes. Soon enough he was bored with simply silently gloating over his homework success and wandered off to play a game of Exploding Snap with Ginny.

Roughly an hour later, Ron was down an eyebrow and Ginny had won the last eight games, so Ron quit (with extreme grace, mind you. He most assuredly did not throw the cards on the table and stomp up to his dormitory. Where on earth would you get that idea?) and went upstairs, done for the day.

He wasn't going out to practice today because he just didn't feel like it- he would go tomorrow. Sometimes a little laziness was okay, and since Ron had been extremely proactive with the whole 'practice' thing lately, he figured he could do with a little rest.

So he laid down on his bed and waited to be swept away by sleep.

Except there was a problem.

Ron was used to getting one or two hours of sleep a night, but here he was, trying to sleep at 10 o'clock at night.

He just wasn't tired.

Despite the fact that he knew it wasn't going to work, Ron tried for hours to fall asleep, even after all of the other boys had filtered in and achieved it already. Somewhere around one, he just gave up and rummaged around in his trunk for something to keep him occupied.

He found nothing except his wand, and found entertainment for maybe a minute casting little charms to wrinkle bedsheets, making them look like inchworms.

As expected, that soon lost its luster and he was back to square one- bored and couldn't do anything more because every other spell he knew would make noise or emit light, both of which would not endear him to his dorm mates. So he stowed the wand and returned to the valiant fight for sleep.

He finally managed to slip into a graceless, uneasy slumber, but it wasn't restful. He woke up several times, barely catching himself from screaming out as the nightmares faded from his sleep-fogged mind. He almost thought he was dreaming when he woke to the horrible swish of a knife.

In the few seconds between the daze of sleep and the harsh, adrenalin-fused awareness to follow, Ron was confused. Why was there a knife-wielding maniac trying to kill him? He had thought he had been good with the 'not offending knife wielding maniacs' thing lately- had he been wrong?

But then the adrenalin set in and he didn't have time to question his ability to not piss people off.

Instinctually, he let out a horrified scream as he recognized the maniac to be the notorious serial killer, Sirius Black. The scraggled, pale face that loomed above him crumpled in a sort of resigned frustration and then seemed to just… disappear.

Ron almost thought he was dreaming again, until he saw that his curtains had been slashed up, presumably by the selfsame knife that had been hovering over his vulnerable form but a few moments beforehand. The other boys in his dorm sleepily woke up, sending tired, questioning glances his way.

"Ron? Wassgoinon?" Harry mumbled, blinking wearily in the direction of his friend. Ron had recovered enough from the shock to blurt out the barest explanation.

"Sirius Black! Standing over me! With a knife- just now!"

The boys who roomed with Ron were familiar with the fact that he experienced nightmares on a regular basis and were ready to dismiss the incident as one of the same, until Ron showed them irrefutable evidence.

"Look! The curtains are all slashed up!" Harry, who's bed was closest to Ron's, verified this fact and they all decided as a group that they should wake McGonagall. They did so and the head of house went on to rouse Dumbledore and her fellow House Heads, who quickly had a meeting and verified, once again, that it had actually been Sirius Black who had attempted to murder Ron.

Ron got over the incident quickly- he was used to the thought of sudden death. It was the rest of the school that needed to take a metaphorical chill pill- everyone was freaking out, asking him if he was alright, treating him special just because he had almost had his throat slit by the wizarding world's most notorious criminal.

To be honest, it irritated him.

He didn't want to become fodder for the rumour mill, he didn't particularly enjoy not being able to walk down the hallways properly because people queued up to interrogate him over something he would rather forget.

Amidst the stress of the almost-being-stabbed and the added exhaustion that came with logging extra practice hours, Ron was spending all of his free time in the library, trying to find an answer for Hagrid's Hippogriff problem.

He knew that his schoolwork was suffering, but he couldn't bring himself to work on something as unimportant as a Charms essay when an innocent beast was about to get condemned to death. He didn't know why it was so important to him. He didn't even really like Buckbeak- the beast reminded him too much of something that could be found at the School- but he found it almost impossible to think about anything else.

He guessed maybe it was the finality of it all.

He knew the feeling that came with facing certain death. He knew how it felt, he knew the ominous thing that sat deep in the gut when you knew with absolute certainty that you were going to die. So he researched. He and Hermione spent hours in the library, in silence except for when they thought they had found something helpful.

Ron knew that they were fighting a war that they just couldn't win- Malfoy's parents had the jury in their pockets and there was nothing he could do to sway their minds. Despite the lack of logic in his frantic search for justice, he just. Couldn't. Stop.

Harry joined the two of them, sometimes. But most of the time, he was busy with Quidditch and schoolwork and basically all of the things that Ron and Hermione were ignoring in favour of fighting the inevitable.

Day after day after day, the redhead and the burnet met in the library and tried to find something, anything, to save the majestic beast from death. But they never found anything.

It was the next morning and Max wasn't any better rested.

But she rose, as usual, with the sun, waking up the rest of her Flock with some well-placed pokes and shoves. She knew that she had to get them out of the trees before they were spotted- she was fairly certain it was against the rules to be climbing trees in Central Park.

And while Max didn't care for rules, she cared even less for the consequences of getting caught breaking them.

A few minutes later, each member of her family was standing, more or less awake, on the ground underneath the branches of the great tree that had sheltered them for the night.

"First order of business," Max barked out as her stomach rumbled, "Food."

The suspicious but surprisingly convenient bank card got them enough money to stop by New York's most famous and lauded attraction- the hot dog cart.

As Max exchanged the green stuff for unidentifiable meats and water-y condiments, she thought to herself that she would rather be no where else. Here she was, with her family, out on the street (mostly) without fear, on this gorgeous day.

The sun was shining, the breeze was blowing, and all was-

Max?

A voice interrupted her musings. No, not The Voice- this specific one was by far more welcome in her head than the painful intruder.

Yes, Angel? Max asked, raising an internal eyebrow.

When did you become such a sap? Max almost choked on her hotdog.

"Angel!" She exclaimed in shocked offence.

"What? It's true!" the young girl replied in her own defence. Max honestly couldn't think of a good reply to that- she had been acting a tad sappy. So she just shook her head and returned to her hotdog, the experience ruined.

The rest of the Flock eyed the two with curiosity, wondering what had been said but not asking. After they swallowed the last of their possibly-toxic hotdogs, they returned to the tree in Central Park out of habit.

They lounged around its base and thought about what they would say to Ron.

Each of them had their own thing that they wanted to say- Max wanted to tell him to not be an idiot and to stay safe. Fang didn't particularly want to say anything- he just wanted to convey a feeling, the feeling that Ron was missed. Iggy wanted his partner in crime back- Gazzy was great, but an extra set of hands was more than welcome.

Nudge wanted Ron to come back- she missed him something terrible. It had been a while since she had seem him, and it kind of scared her how little she remembered about him. She just wanted to see him again- she hated the fact that her memory was failing her. Gazzy looked up to Ron, having vague memories of pranks pulled and fun times, but his memory was even worse than Nudge's. Angel could barely even remember the redhead, she had been so young when he left. But she could recall the fact that he was family and she wished she could have known him better.

Max knew that she would have to fit all of those emotions into one letter, but she had no idea how. That was part of what had kept her up last night- how does one write a letter to family you haven't seen in four years detailing everything that had happened and conveying six different peoples' emotions? The fact was, apart from writing a novel - which none of them had time for - it was impossible, and the best thing to do was to just start writing. So Max did.

After a brief discussion, the Flock had composed a letter that they deemed fit.

Ron-

It's great to hear from you after so long! We all miss you but are very glad that you're having fun at Hogwarts. Though you could be doing better at staying out of trouble, we think.

We are doing pretty well, though we've been better. We are all staying together, but we're hiding out in New York now because Erasers found the E-house in Colorado. They took Angel from us, and they took her back to the School. Long story short, we got her back and are now in New York, trying to figure out some stuff.

We think there are more than one branches of the School, and one of them might be here, in New York. But more than that, I don't want to say because, well, what if your bird gets intercepted? On that topic, can we continue this line of communication without fear of something like that happening?

I don't want to put you in danger, and I don't want us put in danger either. Is this safe? Not to say that I'm doubting your bird, I'm sure he's awesome. He did, however, turn his beak up at one of New York's finest hot dogs, which is a con. Honestly, who turns down hot dogs?

The knife rocks, thought to be honest I hope I never have to use it. On the subject of your new friends, Nudge says to be careful. We aren't trying to say anything bad about your friends, but they do seem to be putting you into an inordinate amount of dangerous situations. Just be careful, especially with this serial killer out. Don't rely only on the fact that you're staying at the 'safest place in Britain' because to be honest, this Hogwarts place doesn't sound too safe.

Anyways, how's being at school? Do you have to do homework? Are there grades? What about that drama that always happens in the sitcoms?

Enjoy school stuff,

-The Flock

At the bottom of the page, each of the Flock members had signed their names, because that's something that they had heard that people did.

Once they were done, the bird seemed to sense the fact that they needed to send the letter, as it flew down from the branch it had been perched on and landed on the ground, next to Max who had the letter folded neatly in her hand. The bird- Max remembered that its name was Cai- proffered its leg as if asking Max to tie the letter to it, and, knowing Ron, it probably was.

Right after she had finished the knot, the bird took off and soon was just a speck on the horizon.

Cod, I'm tired.

It's about 11pm here, and, seeing that I got maybe for hours of sleep last night, I'm just exhausted.

Seriously sorry this took so long to get to you. I have excuses but I don't think you care to hear them because they're basically the same- school and general busyness mixed with a lack of inspiration.

I don't think the schoolwork will be easing any time soon, and I've gotten even busier of late, so no promises on the time of the next chapter, but I do think I've got the rest of the plot ironed out.

Um. As for the song of the update, I guess I'll go with You Give Love A Bad Name by Bon Jovi because I've recently rediscovered it and love it.

SOME IMPORTANT STUFF YOU SHOULD READ!

I WOULD LIKE A BETA PLEASE

ALSO IDEAS FOR AZIZA

I've basically got her down, but any suggestions will be considered. Also, if you have any ideas as to where this story is heading, please, let me know. I'm interested to see what you all think is going on.

ONCE AGAIN, CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM IS ENCOURAGED. ANYTHING. I'M WRITING THIS PARTLY TO IMPROVE MY WRITING SO PLEASE HELP ME.

~Pseu

OH ALSO

I have a FictionPress account now. The username is the same- MyOtherNameIsAPseudonym- and I've got one story up and I'm quite fond of it so please go check it out.

Good night, guys!