Ron sat in front of the fire in the Gryffindor common room, munching on some of the peppermint bark Lavender had sent and feeling vaguely grateful that he'd been spared jewelry this year. Under normal circumstances, he'd have considered it quite a good holiday; but these were hardly normal circumstances, and it hadn't escaped him that the most useful of his gifts all pointed him towards one thing: he had to leave. Percy's warnings and the Prophet's ridiculous accusations helped to confirm it, but worst of all was the tightening feeling in his stomach every time he saw the snow whipping by the window. It put him in mind of a cold tent and a sharp sense of hunger.
He had to go back, he knew, but he had no idea where to find them. How could he, when none of them had ever had any idea where to go? As he clicked the deluminator on and off, on and off in his pocket (where he kept it out of little more than habit and superstition) he felt a familiar surge of anger. The fact that he truly wanted to find them served only to make him feel worse; he was no closer to being able to do so. Not even Dumbledore's "gift" could give him that. He shoved himself up out of his chair, clicking the deluminator again to release the lights, and began to stalk off towards the staircase.
But the darkness persisted. Ron turned with a curse back to the fireplace - of course the bloody thing had gone and broken - and stopped in his tracks. The light that ought to have returned to the common room fire was hovering lazily in the middle of the room. It began to float in his direction as he watched - and his initial surprise when it when inside him was overwhelmed almost immediately by the realization that he knew now exactly where to go. He couldn't have said what it was called, and didn't know where it actually was - but he could see it in his mind, more than clearly enough to Apparate. There was an urgency about it, and he turned immediately to climb the stairs to the dormitory. It was the work of a few minutes to pull together everything he'd need - warmer clothes, the map, all that remained of the food he'd been given - and to slip down the stairs again, through the portrait-hole and into the empty halls.
The entrance to the tunnel that would take him into Hogsmeade was unguarded, and after a few breathless minutes he was through. He sent up a prayer of grudging thanks to Fred and George as he broke out into the night, paused to look back up in the direction of the castle, closed his eyes, and Apparated.
The disorientation passed off a moment later, and he looked around - dark, freezing woods again. Of course. Fantastic. But there was no sign of the tent, and his heart sank. There was only a lake, looking frigid and desolate. A sudden motion caught his eye, and he turned to see Harry stumbling into the water ... with the sword of Gryffindor, of all things. Ron waited for him to climb out. It was shallow enough, surely he'd only tripped. But he didn't. He only kept thrashing, and sinking. Ron held his breath.
... It was taking too long. He ran down to the bank of the lake, dropping his coat and everything he'd brought with him before diving in headfirst after Harry. The cold felt like a punch in the stomach, but he grabbed Harry around the ribs, dug his feet into the mud, and jerked, hard, to pull them both up onto relatively dry land. His hands and arms felt frozen solid, locked in place; but he remembered how to breathe after a few moments.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" he shouted, before his teeth started chattering. "Are you mental?"