Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s adaptation, really—them, the two of them, how they gravitate towards one another but don’t fit like those puzzle piece soulmates that literature loves to wax poetic about. Not that the puzzle piece soulmates don’t happen, no—Ginny and Luna fall together like two halves of a single soul the moment that they meet, fast friends at first, and then, a few years later, something a bit more—childishly flirtatious and absolutely adorable, no matter how much Ron’s brotherly instincts try to turn up his nose at the very beginning. For a relationship such as Ginny and Luna’s, they don’t need to adapt, per se, only adjust, rearrange, to make sure they both fit comfortably in each other’s lives, and then that’s it.

For Ron and Harry, however, it’s different.

They’re different, is the thing. Similar in many ways, sure, understanding of certain plights, but… different, nonetheless. It’s simple to overlook this when they’re eleven and meeting on a train, but impossible to ignore as they grow older and more aware, more wary—and, of course, more concerned and tuned in to the other’s well-being, to how they behave and think and act and react to certain things.

Thinking back on it, Ron figures the earliest moment he has this sort of realization is during the summer between first and second year, when Ron sends letters—so many letters, more than necessary, of course, but so desperate for a response. His brothers have always received letters, as well, waving around whatever parchment their friends sent them on with an air of joy and well-intended bragging, wanting to show off their friends, the fact that there are people out there willing to recount every last detail of some Muggle film just because the Weasleys have never even been to a—a cinema, is what Hermione called it. It’s an odd and, realistically, insignificant thing to become so focused on, but having grown up in the shadows of various elder brothers like he had, any chance to step up to their level, whether it be through his intelligence, through Quidditch, through reputation—through anything , Ron takes it. And that includes wanting friends, the way that Fred and George have friends, the way that Percy has his group that may not always seem friendly but, in actual fact,, meshes really well with the way that Percy thinks. The way that Bill has friends, and Charlie—far away as he is, focused on his job more than anything else, sometimes more than family itself—Charlie has a few good friends, too, that he’s met in Romania.

And Ron meets Harry, first day, before classes even start. Met him at the station, and again on the train, and when the school year comes to an end and he feels connected to Harry—to both him and Hermione, of course, but especially to Harry—in a way he has never been able to put into words, and Harry promises, looks Ron right in the eyes and swears on it, that he’ll do whatever he can to write to him…

Ron believes him, is the thing. For good reason, as well, because Harry hadn’t been lying when he said it, but Ron hadn’t quite known the extent that Harry doing whatever he could meant, and how it simply just isn’t enough. Instead, at the time, Ron frowns at unreturned letters and writes to Hermione instead, that feeling in the pit of his stomach sinking when she says that Harry hasn’t written her, either. Half of him is concerned, but the other half, filled with insecurities that his young brain is still unable to articulate quite yet, becomes convinced that Harry has simply decided that a Weasley may not be a worthy friend.

“Chin up, Ronnie,” George tells him, after finding Ron staring down at an empty piece of parchment that he had been trying to write on for over thirty minutes. “Who’re you so anxious to get a reply from, anyway, hm? If it’s that Seamus kid, I’d bet he keeps catching his letters on fire b’fore he can send ‘em.” He grins, like he’s offering solace, offering relief, only to look at Fred a moment later when Ron does nothing more than puff out a sigh and sink down in the chair he’s currently sitting on.

“Don’t look so glum,” Fred tries, plopping down in the seat besides Ron and plucking up a crumpled piece of parchment that had been tossed to the side; a failed attempt at starting a letter before this one, clearly. He smoothens it out, quirks a brow at Ron, and says, “Maybe we just need to liven these letters up a bit, eh? Let’s see, what have we got here—” and then he pretends to adjust a pair of phantom glasses, squints his eyes to create the effect of an elderly person trying to squint down at the words. It’s quite stupid, Ron can admit when he looks back at it, but it had been beneficial in the moment, and causes the ends of Ron’s lips to quirk, just slightly, before pressing into a straight line as Fred brings the parchment closer to his face and starts to read what Ron has written. “Harry,” he starts, voice pitched, just slightly, to be that smallest bit more dramatic. “Haven’t heard from you, mate. Starting to—”

George holds up a hand, frowning. “Hold on a moment,” he says, turning to Ron. “You’ve been waiting for a response from Harry? That’s what’s got you looking like a kicked puppy, I suppose?”

Ron huffs. That, of course, is plenty answer enough.

“Fred,” George says, turning to his twin with furrowed brows. “I don’t suppose you thought of Harry as the kind of lad to leave letters unanswered, did you? Because I assumed we’d need to get another owl just for these two to talk to each other all summer. And Harry hasn’t responded since…?”

Ron glances at George, straightens his posture a bit when he sees that the twins aren’t just trying to mess with him again—when he sees the glimmer of actual concern . “Hasn’t responded all summer,” he says.

“And Harry hasn’t responded all summer,” George fills in, brows raising. “Thoughts, Freddie?”

Lowering the parchment slowly, Fred meets eyes with his twin, the only indication that he’s deep in thought being the slight twitch in his jaw. Then, dropping the rumpled parchment to the table altogether, he responds with, “Same as yours, I reckon, Georgie.” Getting to his feet, he claps a hand on Ron’s shoulder and assures him, “Chin up, Ronniekins. We’ll figure this out—won’t we, George?”

George gets to his feet, as well, and says, “I’ve already got a few ideas how,” before following Fred out of the room, the two of them bowing their heads together to whisper quietly back and forth.

Ron doesn’t have to wait for long to figure out what that had all meant, as it is only that night that the twins shake him awake long after everyone else has gone to bed. With wicked grins on their faces, as they shove clothes into his arms and quietly tell him, “Up you get, up, up! You wanna make sure Potter’s okay, don’t you? That’s what we thought, there we go—and quickly, before Mum wakes for her midnight tea and sees us all out of bed! Rather not get grounded before we even find our answers, do we, Ronnie?”

All things considered, Ron will never be able to forget what it looks like—Harry, with all of his childish glee, grinning at him through the steel bars on his window. Saving him from the Dursley’s.

Adaptation, for the two of them, starts that very morning—when Ron looks down at his plate, his breakfast piled high, and he thinks. For a long, hard moment, he just ponders, considers, runs it over and over in his head—he always takes so much food because his older brothers are always quick to take as much as they can, often leaving Ron the scraps because, as much as they try not to, he is the youngest of the boys, and Ginny, the only daughter, gets most of the attention that he never had. Gets prioritized over him a lot of the time, whether anyone is fully aware of it or not. Ron always gets the scraps.

But Harry, who is stick thin and looking at the mounds of food around him with longing eyes while poking at the world’s smallest portion that he had placed on his plate…

It’s different. Ron feels the need to gather food because his brothers will just eat it first if he didn’t.

Harry, quite simply, isn’t getting fed.

(“They were starving him, Mum!”)

Without preamble, excuses, or warning, Ron silently scrapes some of his food onto Harry’s plate. Not enough to draw attention to the action or potentially overwhelm him—or his stomach, which likely will need to adjust to having more food at once after staying with his relatives for a majority of the summer, barely eating the entire time—but enough to properly feed him. To make sure he feels full afterwards.

Harry looks at him, wide in the eyes, looking almost scared at the prospect of being offered something as simple as a sufficient amount of food. When Ron does nothing more than shovel a bite of his own food into his mouth, Harry ends up offering a small, tentative, yet grateful smile.

Ron grins back, his chewed up food on display. Harry’s snort is well worth his mother’s scolding.

Never before has Ron broken a bone. It’s awful, he can attest—bloody awful, and excruciating, especially when standing on said broken bone, leg threatening to give way beneath him, but he ignores the burn, swallows back the urge to scream with how much it hurts, and he stands in front of Harry.

He becomes a barrier, and maybe he can’t do much—they’re thirteen , after all; he could barely manage a push up when Harry was showing him the kind of exercises that Muggles do—but he can do something.

If nothing else, he can be a distraction that allows Harry more time to run away.

“Idiot,” Harry says, when Ron’s leg is in a cast and it’s just the two of them in the infirmary. “You’re a bloody idiot. What were you even thinking, standing up to Sirius like that? If he had really been the murderer that we thought he was, you could have—Merlin, Ron, you could be dead right now!”

Ron shrugs, too tired to care much about his indifference. “And you could have made it out alive.”

If Harry responds, Ron doesn’t hear it before falling asleep.

When he wakes up, Harry’s hand is in his own, and Ron doesn’t regret a single second.

Sometimes, Ron finds it easy to forget.

It’s only ever his own fault, he knows—which makes it that much harder to fix in the aftermath, because he knows there’s never anyone to blame but himself. He is the one that let his own jealousy get in the way, his unending desire to be seen, to be in the spotlight, just once, not shoved into the background, not just another Weasley or a forgotten face known only for being friends with Harry Bloody Potter, and he…

He had been awful. More awful than he has ever been, really—more awful than he thought he ever could be. To Harry, anyway, who he had sworn to never treat badly, to only treat as another person, a regular person, outside of infamous legacies and childhood traumas and tragic backstories.

But in the midst of making sure he treats Harry as no more than a regular person, without the baggage and the scars and the skittishness, it becomes all too easy for Ron to overlook the fact that, just because he never treats Harry different, doesn’t mean that Harry isn’t different all the same. It doesn’t change the fact that Harry has never been one for the spotlight, that he shied away from it the very moment he was introduced to the wizarding world as a celebrity, the death of his parents being transformed into this awe-inspiring story displaying an act of strength and perseverance, as if Harry had fought back as a toddler and won rather than him being a baby when it happened, lucky in a way that no one has been able to explain, a way that no one has ever been lucky before. Having grown up with only negative attention from the Dursley’s, it’s no wonder attention whatsoever makes him so tense and terrified.

Ron knows this. He’s known it for years.

And yet.

And yet, Ron glowers, tells Harry to piss off when Harry tries to tell him that he didn’t put his name in, that he doesn’t know what happened or why. Turns away, even after catching a glimpse of the way Harry stares at him, eyes so sad and heavy, features crestfallen in a way that Ron chooses to ignore.

(He looks alone. Lonely. Ron chooses to ignore that, too.)

Fred and George surprisingly, lay into him heavily for it, as well. It should be what opens his eyes to it all, he realizes later on, but in the moment, he’s just annoyed and frustrated when they grab him by the elbows and drag him into a vacant classroom. “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?!”

“Talking some sense into your thick skull,” Fred tells him, tone deceptively chirpy.

George, however, doesn’t even try to put up the cheery pretense, looking shockingly serious as he crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against the closed door, blocking Ron’s only way to escape the situation entirely. “You’re being a git,” he states simply, brows quirking up at Ron’s indignant spluttering that follows the statement. “Don’t act surprised, Ron. Think we haven’t noticed a certain glasses wearing friend of yours that’s been lurking about the halls looking like someone kicked his puppy, do you?”

Ron grimaces, shoulders going tense, posture defensive. “You’re talking about Harry.”

“Of bloody course we’re talking about Harry, Ronald,” Fred bursts out, his chirpy tone gone and replaced with something fierce and exasperated. “Have you gone absolutely mental? Did you hit your head?”

“It’s none of your—”

George straightens his shoulders and properly glares at Ron, genuine anger burning within his eyes. “You’re the one who brought that scrawny git into this family, so yes, it bloody well is our business, just like it would be our business if someone was treating you the way that you’ve been treating him. Blimey, Ron, what would you say if one of Ginny’s friends turned on her like this, huh? It’s ghastly.”

“Thought you were the one who knew him best,” Fred adds, shaking his head with a frown. “You really believe Harry put his own name in? Mate, if you believe that, you must not know him at all.”

Ron rolls his eyes, plops down in a chair because it’s already clear that he won’t be leaving the room until the twins deem it fit. “You don’t have a single clue what you’re talking about,” he tells them firmly. “I’ve every right to believe it, alright? And I wouldn’t care that he did it so long as he just showed me how.”

Fred scoffs, turns away with his hands thrown in the air like he can’t keep looking at Ron while feeling as incredulous as he does. George lets out a slow breath, one that’s closer to a sigh than anything else, and shakes his head at Ron sadly, looking—oddly enough, looking disappointed more than anything else. “I don’t know what’s more upsetting,” he says. “The fact that you’ve got your head so far up your arse that you can’t even see the light of day, or the fact that Fred and I are the only ones that Harry doesn’t look bloody terrified to be around anymore. I mean, honestly, Ron, have you even seen him? He’s miserable.”

“Good,” Ron spits. (Later, he’ll think back to this and want nothing more than to punch himself for it.)

Whirling back around, Fred stalks closer to Ron, close enough to shove a pointed finger into his chest and exclaim, “Don’t you ever fucking say that again! Blimey, do you even hear yourself right now? Are you really sitting there and telling us that you’re glad that Harry is miserable? Do you even realize what we mean when we say that? Merlin, it’s like you’ve completely lost your head!”

“Harry’s fine,” Ron grumbles, leaning back.

“Is he really?” George questions, sarcasm evident in his voice.

Ron huffs. “He bloody well will be, won’t he? Always is.”

Fred drops his hand and brings it up to scrub over his features, turning back to George with the shake of his head and an airy, “I’m gonna lose it, Georgie. I mean, I’m about to go absolutely mad.”

“I’m right there with you, Freddie,” George tells him, jaw clenching and unclenching as he looks at Ron with something guarded and angry in his gaze. The disappointment is still there,, only intensified tenfold by the way he barely manages to breathe through his barely contained rage. Letting Fred take his place at the door, George steps forward—not as close as Fred had been, making no move to shove his finger at Ron the way that Fred had, instead stopping a few feet away and holding Ron’s gaze in a way that makes it feel impossible for him to look away. “Tell me this,” George says, hands curling to fists as he drops his arms to his sides. “How is it that you can sit there and tell us that Harry is fine when you won’t even look at him, let alone talk to him? How can you tell us how Harry is doing, how he’s feeling, when even Hermione has been spending more time with you than him? This tournament’s a bloody shit show, Ron. Even Cedric is nervous about it, told us that he’s starting to regret entering because of it, and Cedric’s seventeen. Harry’s even younger than you, only been fourteen for, what, a month or so, and he’s got no choice but to fight in this because someone else decided it for him. You understand that?”

Ron’s frown deepens. “What the hell does that mean? Of course he’s got a choice.”

The way that George snorts humorlessly and turns around makes Ron start to doubt himself, just a little bit. Fred takes the hint and steps forward again, looking downright murderous as he tells Ron, “See, if you weren’t being an arsehole to Harry right now, maybe he would have told you that he told Dumbledore he doesn’t want to do the tournament and Barty Crouch said that he has to because the bloody goblet spit out his name. He might have even told you about his talk with Sirius—”

“Sirius?” Ron cuts in, brows bunching together in bewilderment. “When did he—you know what, how do you even know all of this, anyway? Harry already replace me with another Weasley, did he?”

Fred clenches his jaw again, closes his eyes and takes a moment to just breathe, like he’s physically restraining himself from exploding. After a moment, he opens his eyes, and Ron is shocked to find just how intense his stare is, pinning Ron in place as he speaks, low and damn near venomous. “We know this,” he says, “because you’ve abandoned him, Ronald! And Hermione—she’s like a sister, as well, and I know she’s spending more time with you to try and talk some sense into your thick head, but that’s left him alone. He’s alone, Ron, don’t you understand that? And tell me, what do you think being alone and ridiculed reminds him of? Maybe those bastard muggles that we saved him from? But—” Fred holds up a hand, cutting off the argument that Ron was parting his lips to spit out. “But that doesn’t answer your question, now does it? We know this because we saw him alone and it’s your bloody fault that he’s like a brother to us now, so we’ve been making sure to sit with him when no one else is, going on walks, for the most part, using the Marauder’s Map, taking some hidden passages, all because he doesn’t want people to see us with him and end up getting spat at as well. Because he’s Harry, and he’s good, and he doesn’t deserve to be shit on by the bloke that’s supposed to be his best mate and stand up for him!”

Ron stares at him, slack jawed and frozen in shock. When he doesn’t respond, too flabbergasted to do so, Fred lets out a huff of a sigh and looks to George, both of them shaking their heads at each other. “Right,” Fred says, sounding put out and tired. “Well, I suppose that’s all we can do, isn’t it? But think about this, Ron—” he turns to Ron again, points at him semi-sternly. “When talking with Sirius, Harry said that he’s not ready for this. He told us that he was hoping Sirius could think of something to get him out of the tournament entirely, but Sirius told him that he had no choice, as well. Sirius, the only one he’s got left, the only person he felt comfortable enough to tell about this, told him he has no other options anymore. Think about that and then tell me again if you think Harry is fine.”” He drops his hand, shakes his head again, and steps back. “Fix it, Ron,” he says—and then, within the blink of an eye, him and George are gone, leaving Ron behind in the vacant classroom, wide eyed and beyond conflicted.

But he doesn’t do anything—not yet, anyway. Even though he should.

It isn’t until the first task that Ron fully grasps what he’s done, standing with the crowd of people, all of whom are cheering on their fellow students like it’s a regular game of Quidditch. Something that Ron would probably be doing, too, if not for the fact that, the moment that the first dragon appears within the arena, it becomes all too real. Like iced water being poured down the back of his shirt, he realizes just how serious this tournament is, remembers the panic in Hermione’s eyes as she stressed about the fact that people have died, that people can die, will die, in this nonsensical competition.

Harry has never enjoyed the spotlight, the attention. He wants to blend in. He wants to live like he’s never had the chance to before, while all these things keep happening to ruin that for him.

Why on earth would he ruin it himself by entering into the bloody tournament, then?

It’s simple. He wouldn’t.

Ron sits in the crowd, and he worries, and he hates himself for even allowing it to get this  far.

Harry lives, and Ron doesn’t know why, but he starts to weep, has to wipe at his eyes angrily as he ducks and bobs and weaves his way through the crowd, making his way back to the common room, where a celebration is being held, because of course it is, only—only he can’t see Harry, who is the center point of the celebrations, anywhere within the room. He doesn’t even realize he’s looking frantically, drawing attention to himself as he does so, until Dean is gripping him by the elbow and spinning him around, pushing him towards the stairs. “Said he wanted to lay down,” he tells Ron, when Ron swivels his head around to look back at him with wide, questioning eyes. “Seemed shaken up. Good luck, mate.”

Ron isn’t sure what the good luck is for, but Dean offers the smallest of smiles, the kind that seems understanding in more than just a go make up with your best friend kind of way, and it provides a comfort that makes it just the slightest bit easier to breathe. “Alright,” he says. “Thanks, mate.”

Dean tilts his head in a nod, and is lost in the mingling of everyone else by the time Ron has reached the stairs. He only spares a quick glance back before climbing them two at a time.

Right before disappearing up the steps, he sees Hermione, sitting beside Ginny and Luna—which almost makes him stop, before deciding that non-Gryffindor’s being snuck into the common room for a party isn’t actually all that shocking—and she shoots him a soft, encouraging smile and a thumbs up. He tries to let it motivate him, or comfort him, or something, like Dean’s had, and it does, a bit, but not as much, because Hermione lacks that sense of really understanding like Dean’s did.

Which is. Odd, really, but—not his main priority at the moment, clearly.

The chattering and celebratory cheers fade into a distant noise as he nears their dorm room, and by the time he’s pushing through the door, it’s a mostly muffled background noise that’s far too easy to filter out, focus drawn, instead, towards the darkness of the dorm room—so dark that he’s sure, for a moment, that Dean was mistaken, or Harry had used his cloak to leave in secret, or—or—

But then there’s the smallest of sounds, a little sniffle that instantly makes Ron’s chest ache. Swallowing the lump that forms, suddenly, in his throat, he steps into the room properly, allows the door to swing shut behind him, effectively cutting off any of the muffled noise from downstairs and leaving him in a silence that would be unnerving if he didn’t already feel so heavy and sad. There’s another sniffle, even more quiet than the last, like—like Harry is trying to keep himself silent and unseen.

So he can suffer alone. He always thinks he needs to suffer alone, doesn’t he?

Well. Bollocks to that, Ron thinks.

“Harry?” he murmurs, softer than intended, but still edging a bit too close to too loud in the otherwise silent room. He shuffles forward, wary and unsure but knowing, more than anything else, that he needs to be here. That there is quite simply no place else for him to be other than exactly here, exactly now.

There’s a moment of pause, followed by a gentle sigh that sounds thick and wet with tears, and then the shifting of a body on a bed, before Harry is responding with a lifeless, “What do you want, Ron?”

His tone is void, hollow. It makes Ron wince, the backs of his eyes already burning with tears that will likely join the drying tracks still sticky on his cheeks. “Harry,” he says again, slightly louder, closing the last bit of distance between where he’s standing and Harry’s bed. He stops there, hesitates, and knows that, mere weeks ago, he wouldn’t hesitate to open the curtains and clamber in next to him to spout whatever shite came to mind, just to joke and laugh and feel happy for a bit. It’s different now, though. He broke that foundation, put cracks in it, and now he has to fix it, from the bottom to the top.

“Go away,” Harry tells him, a waver to his words that wasn’t there before.

“Do you really want me to go?” Ron questions. “Or are you just pissed at me? Because, mate, you have every right to be pissed at me right now, but—but if you don’t want to be alone, then—”

Suddenly, the curtain gets thrown aside, and the only proper light in the room is the tiniest bit of sunset slipping past the edge of the curtain, so Ron can only really see a sliver of Harry’s features, but he catches a glimpse of a bloodshot eye and a trembling lower lip. “You care about leaving me alone now, do you? Sure didn’t seem like it when you went and walked away on me, hm? Or are we just gonna ignore that?”

Ron’s knees feel weak, quite quickly, at the raw, genuine hurt that echoes in every syllable of every word that Harry throws his way. He wants nothing more than to reach out and place a hand against the wall to steady himself, but he manages to hold off the urge, instead curling his fingers into fists at his sides and telling Harry the only thing he thinks makes sense to start—a simple, yet genuine, “I’m sorry, Harry.”

There’s a lapse of silence, one that stretches on for so long that Ron would assume Harry had vanished if he weren’t able to make his silhouette out in the shadows of the room. He’s just about to clear his throat or something, just to fill the silence, when Harry disbelievingly asks, “You are?”

“Merlin,” Ron rasps, shuffles over to sit on the foot of Harry’s bed, giving him plenty of space but still being here, being close and present. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this awful over something I’ve done, mate. I was—I mean, I was a right prat to you, wasn’t I? Not once have you given me reason to think you’d lie to me or go behind my back about something, and yet… I still assumed . I—Blimey, Harry, you just fought a fucking dragon and I wasn’t even there to give you a bloody pep talk before you did it!”

“I didn’t—” Harry clears his throat, sinks back into his pillows, and it’s so odd, Ron not being able to see him properly, only the vaguest of outlines, but he figures Harry has it dark for a reason, so he decides to give it a minute before asking if they can light a candle or something. “I didn’t exactly explain myself,” he goes on, sounding softer, yet sadder, somehow, too. “When you accused me, I just—I just said I didn’t do it and didn’t try harder, or try all that hard at all, I suppose, to prove that I wasn’t lying.”

Ron frowns. “You shouldn’t have to prove you aren’t lying,” he says. “You’re my best mate, Harry. I’m supposed to believe you when you tell me things, and I didn’t. I let myself get in my head, instead, and was so centered on my own stupid shite, that I let myself believe you were in the wrong when you weren’t. You—I mean, you aren’t, Harry. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Another pause, like Harry is faltering, before: “But, I—I could have—I should have—”

“Harry,” Ron cuts in, trying to find a balance between a stern tone without sounding cruel. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Shall I say it a third time? I can keep repeating it, if I have to, because you didn’t do anything wrong. Hell, this tournament is deadly—it’s obvious, now, really, that someone had to have set you up in the hopes of getting you killed, and I let myself be a prat about it when it isn’t about me!”

Harry chuckles, the sound not exactly full and joyful like Ron is so used to, but it isn’t empty, either. However, it does taper off into another sniffle, and then another, and a third, and then—and then Harry is crying, proper, earnest sobs shaking his shoulders as he buries his face in his hands and manages, somehow, to keep himself silent besides the deep, lung-aching gasp that he sucks in when he needs it. Even with the shuddering gulps of oxygen, though, he manages to push through it, just a bit, just enough to spit out, “I don’t—want to do this, to do—to—the tournament, Ron, it’s—I’m so bloody scared—”

“Shit,” Ron whispers, hands hovering uselessly by his sides for a moment, part of him wanting to grab his wand just to cast Lumos and provide some clarity to the situation, wanting to see it all and assess it and figure out what the hell to do from here, but—adaptation, once again, must be considered here. Harry isn’t one to cry often, or at all, really, was never given much of a chance to explore emotional expression and outbursts and ways to cope, was told that crying was bad, that it was too loud, disruptive and inconvenient, and he was, from Ron’s understanding, locked up in the cupboard under the stairs whenever he did something that was deemed even slightly disruptive or inconvenient.

Which, really, means that Harry is likely used to crying in the dark, on the few occasions he cries.

Ron clenches his jaw, wants nothing more than to track down the Dursley’s and give them a few dozen pieces of his mind, but that can wait until later. For now, he just moves, toes off his shoes to avoid getting dirt or mud on Harry’s bed, and then scoots over to lean against the headboard besides Harry. Not sure where to go from here, he gently rests a hand on Harry’s shoulder and murmurs, “It’s alright, Harry.”

Harry has no reason to place trust in him, Ron fully aware and accepting the fact that Harry should turn his back and push him away, but—miraculously—he doesn’t. Instead, he sucks in a sharp breath, one that seems to rattle within his chest, and then he turns, leans into Ron, into the comfort, and Ron—well, as much as they have always been at least a little bit affectionate friends, he hasn’t comforted a crying Harry before, so he has to follow instinct and logic as he settles back against the headboard and lets Harry decide how much comfort he really needs, helps guide him until his nose is pressed to the underside of Ron’s jaw and he’s basically sprawled over him. He doesn’t start to wail, though Ron honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he did, but he does release a few more rough sobs that seem to escape before he can swallow them down.and then he’s just—breathing, really hard, for a really long time, like he’s just trying to inhale through his tears and exhale away the need to cry altogether. Ron can’t imagine that it’s very healthy, suppressing the need to cry like that, but he’s keeping the reigns in Harry’s hands, so he just sits there and rubs soothing circles against Harry’s back until he’s calmed down enough to speak. When he does, his voice is still thick and garbled by barely contained crying, and all he says is, “I—I hate it, Ron. I really do.”

For a moment, Ron falters, confused, before continuing to rub circles and asking, “Hate what, mate?”

“Being—Harry Potter, you know? Being this.” With the last word, he wriggles out an arm to gesture vaguely at himself, and then shivers, like he’s talking about a particularly grueling ghost story. “I hate everything that it is, and—and I never wanted this, Ron, I never—Blimey, I don’t want this!”

Harry stops, brings a hand up to smother the cry that tries to crawl out of his throat and squeezes his eyes shut. Ron thinks his heart must be in his throat, with how hard it is to catch a breath right now, and he brings his hand up from Harry’s back, up, up, until he’s gripping his shoulder and pushing him back just enough to get a good look at him. Waits until Harry is able to part his eyelids again, waits until he can really look at him and maintain that eye contact, before telling him, “You’re more than all that. You know that, don’t you? Being Harry Potter, being you, that isn’t—that’s not a bad thing. You aren’t a bad thing.”

“Feels bloody awful, though,” Harry murmurs, looking away from Ron with an angry sniffle.

“Mate,” Ron says, sounding more exasperated than he means to. “You’re not just Harry Potter, the boy who lived. You’re Harry, you know? Harry, my best mate, who—who laughed for twenty minutes straight after helping the twins with that prank on Ginny, and takes Quidditch way too seriously for a bloody fourth year, and falls asleep in Potions every day and still seems surprised when Snape whacks you with your book to wake you up. The wanker that steals my chocolate frog and then buys me ten more as an apology. You’re not just what everyone else sees, now are you? You’re not just what they think.”

There’s a pause, as Harry stares off, over Ron’s shoulder. Then, with a voice that’s so hushed and sounds so ashamed, Harry whispers, “Most of the time, I just wish I were somebody else entirely.”

It’s an admission, one that, logically, Ron could have guessed on his own, but hearing the words is something else entirely. The defeat, the heaviness, the heartbreak dripping from each and every syllable… it makes Ron’s chest split open and cry out. He pulls Harry back in, hugs him tight, and tries to pretend his voice isn’t somewhat shaking when he tells him, “I wouldn’t trade you for the bloody world, mate.”

When Ron blinks lake water out of his eyes and pushes his sopping wet hair away from where it’s hanging in his face, he isn’t quite sure what to think of—of whatever the hell just happened.

As it turns out, he doesn’t get the chance to figure out what to think, because Harry is in front of him, wide eyed and frantic and coughing up lake water but pretending that  he isn’t as he clutches onto Ron’s shoulders and looks him over. “You’re okay?” he questions, tone bordering on something similar to hysteria. “You’re alright? You didn’t—I mean, you—you aren’t hurt, right? You didn’t get hurt?”

Ron feels sluggish and slow and unsure, but he can recognize the genuine panic within Harry’s eyes and he nods, reaches up to hold onto Harry’s wrists as he does so. “Yeah,” he croaks. “A bit cold, but I’m good. You should—” he grimaces, seeing just how purple Harry’s fingers are, how pale his features are, how much he’s trembling—worse than a leaf in a breeze, shaking like he’s vibrating from his very core, and he turns his head, just slightly, coughs into his shoulder and splutters up more water and then looks back at Ron as if it’s Ron in need of the attention. “You should worry more about you,” he finally says, brows coming together in a furrow, concern welling within him, distracting him from whatever else had been on his mind before. “Blimey, Harry, what’d you do, try to drink the whole bloody lake?”

“’m fine,” Harry tries to say, but he’s already coughing again, hunching over as his body is wracked with them, violently dispels another mouthful of water onto the wood next to where Ron is sitting, where Harry’s kneeling in front of him. Ron tenses, holds Harry up when he nearly topples over.

“Fine?” Ron repeats incredulously. “You don’t look fine, mate. Merlin, you’re turning blue, Harry!”

Harry tries to shake his head, but leans more into where Ron is clutching him by the shoulders, letting Ron hold up more of his weight, like he’s feeling too weak to do it himself. “Fine,” he says again, though his tone is less insistent. “It’s the—the Gillyweed, it wore off a bit too soon, and I—the mermaids, they were dragging me down, and I had to make sure you got to the surface, so I—I went down, a bit, but—”

“You went down—” Ron cuts off, eyes growing wide. “Harry, how much water did you breathe in?”

For a moment, Harry looks like he won’t answer, but then he slumps his shoulder and allows a pained expression to cross his features. “More than I’d like to admit,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest.

Ron wants a moment to steel himself, to take a breath and think, but that’s a moment of Harry still being in pain, so he ignores the want and instead quickly turns his head, calling out, “Oi!” Immediately, Hermione, who had been leaning into Krum with a towel wrapped around her shoulders a mere five or so feet away, looks over. Ron hopes his urgency is obvious in his features, as he tries to keep his voice more tame and calm as he asks her, “Where’s Madam Pomfrey? Harry inhaled some water.”

Hermione’s brows furrow, like she doesn’t understand why he looks so concerned about just some water, but then her eyes go wide, too, and she leans forward to get a proper look of Harry from around Ron, features going a bit frantic herself when she sees how Harry’s features are contorted in pain as he continues to press against his own chest, like he’s trying to relieve some sort of pressure building within in. Looking back to Ron, Hermione nods once and says, “I’ll get her,” before getting to her feet.

“Thanks, ‘Mione,” Ron tells her, catching a glimpse of her soft smile before she steps away.

Comforted by the fact that Hermione is getting the help they need, Ron turns back to Harry, only to feel his heart jump as he takes in the way Harry is hunched over even more, breathing shakily as he convulsively swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing just slightly. “Ron,” he rasps. “Think I might be sick.”

Ron scrambles onto his knees and tries to help Harry turn, hoping to make it so that, if he is sick, he can just lean over the water and expel whatever comes up into the lake, but it happens too soon, and all he can really do is call out a sharp warning—which, miraculously, actually works; people leap back and out of the way instantly, clearing out the space in front of Harry in record time—before Harry lets out a harsh gag and is throwing up. Most of it appears to be more lake water, mixed in with the Gillyweed and bile, which Ron hopes is a good sign and not an awful omen of sorts. Harry leans forward, rests his weight against his hands, which are pressed against the wood in front of his knees, as he vomits a second time, heaves for a minute before doing it a third and fourth time, as well, before he finally goes limp, flopping over into Ron’s side weakly while clutching at the material of his shirt with trembling fingers.

“Ow,” is all Harry croaks out before Hermione finally returns, Madam Pomfrey on her heels.

Harry is fine, thank Merlin—just inhaled too much water, which could be concern for an internal infection, but Madam Pomfrey assures them that, with the potion she gives him, it isn’t something to worry about. She prescribes him a long rest and tells him to take a day or two off from classes.

Ron resigns himself to a detention or two, because he knows he’ll be missing those classes, too.

Cedric dies.

Cedric dies, and part of Harry goes with him, buried with Cedric’s body, left behind in fragments in that bloody graveyard. Ron will never be able to describe how it felt, the way the world seemed to go still and silent when Harry and Cedric reappeared outside of the maze—the relief, for a moment, before concern ebbed in because something just didn’t seem right, and then… fear, ice chilling fear because he could tell Harry was slumped over oddly and people closer to the front were shouting something about someone being dead and he was so sure—for a moment, he just knew he lost his best friend, he knew it.

Guilt, eventually, because Ron finally gets close enough to see that Harry is sobbing over Cedric’s body, and the only thing that Ron can bring himself to think is, Oh, thank Merlin.

Because Harry makes it out alive.

But something about him will never be the same.

Ron knows this the moment he realizes what happened, and he pushes, doesn’t care about the people shouting at him to stop, to slow down, to wait a second, because none of them matter more than Harry, nothing else matters more than getting to Harry. He’s relieved, of course, that Harry isn’t the one who people are exclaiming about being dead, but that doesn’t mean he’s okay, unharmed, unscathed, and Ron likes to think he knows Harry well—better than most; perhaps, even, better than anyone—and if Cedric really is dead while Harry remains breathing, then Harry must already be spiraling down a path of believing it should have been him instead, and Ron needs to be there and push that belief away before it can take proper rooting in his brain. It won’t disappear, no, but if Ron is quick enough, it won’t be so insistent, either. It’ll be a fleeting thought when Harry is feeling upset, rather than a constant fact playing loops within his head at all times of the day. He does that, often—blames himself, more than he should.

He has to hop over a gate, duck beneath flailing arms and wriggle through a group of people who don’t intend to get out of his way on their own, but he makes it, a few moments later—makes it in time to see someone trying to pull Harry away from Cedric’s body, more forceful than gentle, tone firm as they tell him to move, Potter. Ron clenches his jaw but pays them no mind as he sprints over to them, unceremoniously shoves his way between whoever it was trying to yank at his wrist (Professor Moody, Ron will realize shortly after—and he wasn’t trying to get Harry away from Cedric’s body, he was trying to pull Harry with him entirely, planning to take him somewhere, and Ron will feel his stomach twist when the truth of Polyjuice potions and fake identities comes out; what could have happened, then, if Ron had allowed himself to be swept up in the crowd?) and falls to his knees. Vaguely, he recognizes that Fred and George are standing behind him, hovering, worrying, but he pays them no mind, either, only focuses on his best mate, who’s wailing out sobs like his soul is leaving his body.

“Harry,” he says—breathes it, really, more air than sound as his eyes dash about, trying to take in all of Harry at once, the distraught look on his features and the way his entire body trembles, shoulders wracking with harsh, painful sounding cries. “Harry, Harry— look at me, Harry!”

Finally, Harry tears his eyes away from Cedric’s body—Ron refuses to look just yet, because he’s a child, isn’t he? Fourteen, the both of them, Harry the younger of the two, his birthday barely making it before the school year starts, and Ron can be strong for him, when he needs to be, but looking at the corpse of someone he saw wandering the halls of Hogwarts just the day before… he can’t, not if he doesn’t have to, though he knows it’s a privilege for him to have the choice—and he looks at Ron with red-rimmed eyes and gasps out a sob. Reaches forward, seemingly without realizing what he’s doing, and clings to the fabric of Ron’s sweater, falls into him and tucks his face into his neck and properly wails once more.

It’s still quite new, the comforting Harry while he cries thing—only done it twice before now, after the first task, shortly after the second one, too, when Harry seemed to realize just how easily he could have failed to save Ron—but Ron has a general idea of what to do now, wraps one arm around Harry’s waist to support him, keep him from falling over, while the other raises to cradle the back of his head. It seems to help, holding him like this; Harry calmed down much quicker after the second task once Ron had shifted them into this very position. At the time, Ron had whispered an endless flow of it’s alright, you saved me, we’re both okay, you did it, Harry, it’s done now, but he knows those words won’t work here.

It isn’t alright. Whatever happened—and Ron wishes he could just know, somehow, without having to be told, without having to ask Harry to relive whatever trauma he just endured—it isn’t something that can be brushed aside with a simple it’s okay. Because it’s not. Nothing about this is okay.

But Ron needs to say something, before Harry spirals too far, out of his reach, unable to be grasped, unable to be saved. So, Ron settles on something different, turns his head just slightly so that his lips are placed closer to Harry’s ear, easy to be heard despite the noise surrounding them—and it’s far easier to have this moment, of just them two, than he would have thought, and it won’t be until later that he’s able to murmur his gratitude to the twins, who are currently hovering over them and glaring daggers at anyone who dares try to approach the pair—and he whispers, “I’ve got you,” and his voice is thick with the urge to cry as Harry scrabbles with his hold on Ron, practically claws at him like he’s terrified of Ron going away. “I’m here,” he adds—feels Harry’s breath hitch as he bunches up Ron’s sweater in a fist, but feels a little less desperate about it, like Ron’s words are providing the reassurance he was looking for with his actions. Blood is dripping from the wound on Harry’s arm and seeping into the back of Ron’s clothes but he couldn’t give less of a damn if he tries. He lets his eyes flutter shut, tries to block out everything else and focus in on this, on them, on Harry. Voice going, somehow, even softer, he settles on these two statements and hopes that they work, repeats them under his breath, over and over again.

I’ve got you, Harry. I’m here, and I’ve got you—always, always, always.

Ron decides that he’s no longer scared of Voldemort during their fifth year. Not because Voldemort isn’t powerful, isn’t terrifying to think about—but because he is fueled with so much anger, burning in his veins and igniting a fire building in his chest, that it’s hard to feel the fear beneath it all.

The bastard won’t give Harry even a moment of peace, and Ron is fucking furious about it.

It started, really, at the end of last year—following the third task, the murder of Cedric Diggory and the revival of one Tom Riddle, Harry started having these dreams. He’s had nightmares since before even starting at Hogwarts, Ron knows, because he’s woken up plenty of times to a shaken Harry doing homework in his bed rather than sleeping himself, and he usually opts to stay up with him the rest of the night, or until Harry eventually falls back asleep. Dreams of the Dursleys, Ron was told, on a night that Harry had been plagued by such awful nightmares that he hadn’t been doing anything but staring at the wall, arms wrapped around his shins, knees pressed to his chest, shaking like a leaf. Dreams of dark cupboards and scalding water while being forced to do dishes when he was far too young and broke a glass by accident, dreams of the punishments for when he was unable to be perfect (and he was never able to be perfect, he tells Ron—“I tried,” he says, tone hushed. “I tried so bloody hard, thinking that, if I just got it right, maybe they would love me, maybe we—we could be a family.” ), dreams of bruises in the shapes of fingertips and hand prints and, sometimes, even the end of a boot. Occasionally, his nightmares were more abstract and odd but overwhelmed him with a sense of dread and grief—and Ron has come to realize, since his first year, that these are dreams about the jumbled up barely-there memories of the night his parents were killed, an odd recollection of sounds and shapes and feeling scared. Each year has added new material—the stone, the Chamber of Secrets, the Shrieking Shack, the tournament…

Nightmares, to put it simply, are not abnormal—they aren’t new, especially when it comes to one Harry James Potter, but the dreams he starts having after the tournament comes to a horrific end are different.

“It’s like—” Harry stops, voice hushed because it’s no more than half past three in the morning and Neville is snoring, Dean and Seamus laying together in Seamus’ bed (also not abnormal or new, really; from what Ron has heard, the both of them don’t have the most ideal lives outside of Hogwarts, and it helps them sleep when they share a bed. Ron’s never thought much of it, probably never will, because there have been times where Harry and him have wound up resting in the same bed, as well, on nights when Ron is feeling put out or Harry is in need of comfort. Doesn’t stop Ron from thinking Seamus is a foul git for the shite he’s been saying, spouting off constantly about not believing Harry, not believing that Voldemort is back. Even if Ron doesn’t want to believe it, either, he learned his lesson in thinking Harry a liar, and he was the one to hold Harry after the third task, as well. It doesn’t matter what anyone may have to say about it—Ron knows Harry wouldn’t have reacted like that if every word he said hadn’t been the truth.) and they don’t want to wake any of them up.

Ron is leaning against the headboard of Harry’s bed, knees drawn up because Harry has that look in his eyes that he gets when he needs comfort the most but refuses to accept it, his senses on overdrive and touch—any kind, harsh or gentle or otherwise—only ever serves to overwhelm him. Ron knows to wait until his breathing is a bit more even, his eyes less frantic, hands only shaky rather than flitting about the air like he’s trying to paint a picture with his fingers in front of him rather than explain it with words.

(It’s a bit new, the frantic-ness that overcomes him so often. First time Ron saw it was at the Quidditch World Cup, before their fourth year started, after him and Hermione went back upon realizing Harry had somehow fallen behind, only to discover him hiding behind a charred tent and glancing around in wide eyed fear. “There was a man,” he’d said, when Ron asked about it later on—something he had expressed to Barty Crouch, as well. “Looking at him… it made my scar hurt, almost as much as the dark mark.”

It was consistent, however, through their fourth year. During the tournament, most of all.

The frantic feeling—like there’s so much to do, but Harry can’t seem to figure out what it is he’s supposed to be doing in the first place—has yet to go away. Lessens, at times, sure, but it’s always there.)

It takes a minute before Harry is able to articulate himself again, though his words still come out jumbled and messy, like his mouth is trying to keep up with his brain yet his thoughts are moving far too fast, tripping over syllables as he says, “It’s like—like I’m there, I’m—seeing these things through someone else’s eyes, and it’s—these things are real, Ron. I don’t know how I know, but I—I know it, I’m certain, that whatever I’m seeing, whatever keeps happening, it’s—it’s real. Like last year, yeah? Barty Crouch Junior, having an assignment to get to me, I—I saw that, in my dream, before school started. I saw it.”

“What are you seeing now?” Ron asks, voice soft yet inquisitive. “In your dreams?”

“I… I don’t even know, really,” Harry tells him, shaking his head and staring down at where his fingers are intertwining, locking and twisting together, tugging at one another like he’s wearing skin tight gloves and is trying to rip them off. It’s unsettling, really, for an odd reason that Ron can’t quite place, and he finds himself reaching out, hesitating only a fraction of a moment, before settling his hands over Harry’s. He flinches at the contact, but stops yanking at his fingers like he’s trying to tear them off completely, so Ron keeps his hands where they are and waits for Harry to piece together his next sentence, lips moving, somewhat, though no sound comes out, like he’s testing out the words before he says them, then shakes his head again, this time more sharply, curt and determined, and says, “It’s… obscure, I suppose. None of what I see really makes sense, not like the dream before fourth year, where it was—it was concise, and I could tell what was happening. With these, it’s more like… like flashes of things, images and sounds, but it’s—mostly, it’s feelings, being—shoved, almost, into my chest. It feels… it sounds mental, but it feels like a warning that something’s approaching. That, whatever I’m seeing and hearing and feeling now, it’s only just the beginning. I don’t want to go to sleep, in fear of whatever I’m going to see when I do.”

Ron mulls over that for a minute, feels the crease between his brows deepen as he tries to think, tries to, horribly enough, take a step back from the emotion of it—from the urge to prioritize Harry, to comfort Harry, to be here, always, for Harry—and consider what this could mean in the grander scheme of things. It’s already quite easy to tell that, due to whatever connection that Harry has with Voldemort, he’s able to have these dreams. Not exactly prophetic, seeing as they don’t show him the future, but something happening in the present, something real and tangible. That’s how Harry dreamed of Barty Crouch Junior and Wormtail, that conversation with Voldemort, hinting at plans of Polyjuice potions and lies.

Above everything, Ron knows to believe Harry—to trust what he sees.

But what he sees is not necessarily the problem. Harry is in the thick of it all, the chaos and the misery that comes with being the boy who lived, and being at the center of it all makes it hard for him to step back and analyze. A bit similar to how he plays chess, as well—he’s bloody good at it, sure, probably the only person that can sometimes challenge Ron when they play together, but he’s impulsive to a fault, at times. He sets his eyes on one goal, on a single end point, a single tactic, and he doesn’t let up on it.

Strategy, Ron knows, requires adjustment. Adaptation—of course, always, adaptation. But adaptation isn’t necessarily Harry’s strong point, not when he’s so overwhelmed with every little thing that’s happening, his dreams, worrying about Sirius, that looming stress of Umbridge and the detentions he’s supposed to start serving a few days from now, the ongoing conversation between them and Hermione about gathering people, students, who want to learn to fight, who want to learn to protect, but aren’t given the ability to with the way things are, and teaching them. Ron’s in the thick of it all, as well, but the eyes aren’t on him, are they? The eyes are on Harry—the one who wishes, most of all, that they’d look away.

Ron can take advantage of this, however. People aren’t looking to him for all the answers, for the action, for the re action—and because of that, it’s quite simple for him to slip away for a moment. To look. To see the entire board and try to place himself in the mind of the opponent. The mind of Voldemort.

No person, other than Voldemort himself, knows how his mind works the way that Harry does, because Harry sees it, gets glimpses of it, but he tells Ron and Hermione every little bit of what he knows, gives them the facts before spouting off his impulsive opinions and assumptions. Because of everything that he shares, Ron thinks he can get a good grasp of how the enemy thinks.

So, with that in mind—what could the dreams be for? What do they accomplish?

How does allowing Harry to see these obscure images, to hear these sounds, feel these feelings, and place utmost certainty into the fact that everything he witnesses is real, give Voldemort an advantage?

“He’s pulling you in, mate,” Ron states, forgetting to hush his tone in the quiet of the room as the realization hits him suddenly, rolls over his stomach and makes him feel sick. Harry falters, freezes entirely, clearly not expecting that response, and then looks at Ron properly for the first time since Ron shook him awake, confusion evident on his features. Ron leans forward, just a bit, eyes blown wide as he says, “Think about it, Harry! How does showing you these things help him? He’s—Blimey, this is going to sound awful, but he’s building your trust, in a way, isn’t he? Making sure you know that these dreams are real, so that, eventually, he can show you something that isn’t, but you’ll believe that it is. It makes sense, doesn’t it? He’s taking advantage of your connection to him. He’s going to try to trick you.”

Harry blinks, slow and sluggish—which is something that Ron hasn’t seen in a while with him, Harry far too caught up in everything, all the time, to be able to take a breather, to be able to be slow and sluggish with much of anything; even when he wakes up, he’s instantly alert, skittish and jumpy—and then shakes his head, an incredulous expression crossing over his features. “You’re bloody brilliant,” he says, a tone of awe, almost, tinting his words. “How the hell did you think of all of that? How’d you figure that out?”

The way Harry is looking at him—like he’s a genius, or a savior, or something else entirely—makes Ron glance away, for a moment, before looking back and sheepishly explaining, “I just—I dunno, mate. Was just trying to think of why he’d be showing you all of this stuff, and it’s the only thing that makes sense. I mean… it does, doesn’t it? I’m not being a daft idiot, am I? It really does make sense?”

“It makes sense,” Harry confirms, voice taking on a more airy tone as he suddenly looks back down at his hands, looking deep in thought. “But what’s he got to trick me with, then? What’s it going to be?”

That’s what Ron is wondering, as well. “I don’t know,” he replies softly.

But he knows, whatever it is, that it won’t be anything good.

When Harry returns from his first detention with Umbridge, Ron’s only able to ask a simple, “How’d it go?” before he’s being brushed aside in favor of running up to the dorm room, taking the stairs three at a time. Ron stares after him, bewildered and wide eyed, before turning his head to share a look of concern with Hermione, her features reflecting the baffled sort of worry that he feels within his gut.

“Oi,” Seamus calls, sitting with Dean not too far from them. “What’s got Potter in a twist, eh?”

“Like you bloody care,” Ron instantly responds, tone harsh—ignores Hermione’s heavy sigh, though he knows she’s on the same page as he is, just as angered and furious by everyone calling Harry a liar as he is. Seamus looks somewhat affronted by the ice in Ron’s voice, brows raising slightly, and Ron decides that the fact that he’s surprised is almost as infuriating as the shite he’s been spitting. Getting to his feet, he tells Seamus, “Don’t act like you’re suddenly concerned now, Finnigan. You’re not the one who actually wakes up when he’s having a bloody nightmare about Voldemort again and then has to sit there and listen to you spouting bollocks about him lying about it. Try believing him first, before acting like you suddenly give a damn about how he’s doing. You’ve made it pretty bloody clear that you don’t.”

Turning around, Ron makes his way towards the stairs, planning to go and see what’s got Harry in such a state, only to be stopped by a hand on his elbow. Looking back, he finds Dean standing there, other hand latched around Seamus’s wrist, his eyes firm as he settles his glare on Seamus and says, “Talk. Now.”

Seamus looks uncomfortable, but seems to accept his fate, letting out a haggard sigh and avoiding both Dean’s and Ron’s eyes entirely as he grumbles, “I don’t— not believe him, alright? I know he’s not a liar, and he wouldn’t lie about—about something like this, especially since Cedric…” he trails off, brows bunching together, lips tugging down into a frown. “But I don’t want it to be true, either. Alright?”

Ron stares at him for a long, hard moment, and then—he snorts, no humor to it, and shakes his head. “I don’t want it to be true just as much as you do,” he says, tone still cold, but not necessarily as bad as before. “Doesn’t mean it isn’t real. Besides, you think you’re scared? Try being Harry, for Merlin’s sake.”

Wincing, Seamus looks up the stairs, and Ron is both surprised and relieved to find regret and guilt clouding over his eyes. “I’ve tried not to think about it,” he murmurs. “What it must be like… for him.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re able to not think about it,” Ron states. “Not all of us are that bloody lucky.”

Before Seamus can respond—though Ron knows they’ll likely be coming back to this conversation later, at some point—he removes his arm from Dean’s gentle grasp and starts to climb the steps, already bitter about the few moments he wasted on talking to them rather than checking on Harry. Behind him, though, as he walks away, he hears Fred saying, “Seamus, mate—come here, yeah? Ronnie’s got a best mate to look after, but we can finish up this conversation for him just fine, don’t you think?”

Followed instantly by George saying, “Aw, mate, don’t look scared! We’re only going to hex you if you keep being a prat, but if you’re done with it, then there’s no reason to be afraid!”

Ron smiles, slightly amused and beyond grateful for the twins—for caring about Harry, for being so protective of him, enough so that they had chewed him out last year for being a prat himself. His smile doesn’t last, however, as he quickly ascends the rest of the stairs leading to their dorm, hesitating only a moment outside of the door, unsure of what to expect on the other side, before steeling himself and making his way into the room, clearing his throat once before calling out a gentle, “Harry?”

It feels awfully reminiscent of last year, when Ron came to reconcile and apologize for being a git and wound up comforting Harry in the aftermath, only Harry isn’t hidden behind the curtains of his bed this time and the room isn’t all that dark. Instead, Ron finds a perfectly well lit room, and Harry sitting on the floor between his bed and Ron’s, back pressed to the wall, one hand cradled to his chest and his breathing labored, staring at the toes of his shoes with a clenched jaw and a stuttering chest.

“Harry,” Ron tries again, voice a bit louder, trying to draw in his attention as the door swings closed behind him. When Harry doesn’t so much as flinch at the sound, showing no reaction to Ron being there at all, concern twists more harsh and insistent in his chest. He steps forward, keeping his actions slow and deliberate, so as to make sure Harry has plenty of time to see him approaching. Once he’s deemed himself close enough, he carefully kneels in front of him, only a foot or so away. “Mate…” he trails off, voice catching in his throat because Harry is—he’s just not responding, not reacting, and his breathing is… not incredibly heavy, really, but definitely faster than normal, a bit choppy and uneven, like his lungs won’t expand all the way and he’s battling to inhale. Ron feels a lump in his throat, swallows it down and slowly raises a hand, just as slow as before, again giving Harry ample time to see and acknowledge his movements, time to tell him to stop moving if that’s what he so pleases, and he reaches forward until he’s able to gently wrap his fingers around Harry’s right wrist.

Still, no reaction.

Feeling his heart thud within his chest, afraid and confused and almost as worried as he had been when he wasn’t sure if Harry was the dead person everyone was shouting about at the end of the third task, he carefully tugs at Harry’s arm, trying to unfurl it and get a look as to why he’s cradling his left hand so closely. “Are you hurt?” he tries to ask, gaze falling down slightly, just in time to catch a glimpse of crimson between where his right palm is pressed against the back of his left hand, and he has to repeatedly tell himself not to tighten his hold on Harry’s wrist, instead sucking in a sharp, sudden breath, letting it out shakily, and, voice trembling, words weak, asking, “Harry, is… is that blood?”

At this point, he isn’t sure if he’s expecting a response or not, so he can’t tell if he’s surprised or just relieved when, slowly, Harry lowers his chin and then raises it in a nod, his tongue pushing past chapped lips to wet them before retreating, voice a mere croak when he manages to say, “Yeah.”

“Why are you bleeding?” Ron questions, eyes flicking back and forth between the barely visible smear of blood catching on the light beneath one of Harry’s fingers and Harry’s features. He’s trying to see everything at once, understand everything at once, but it seems that Harry isn’t keen, can’t find the energy, perhaps, to properly respond again. His eyes drift off to the left, lids fluttering for a minute, and Ron has to take a steadying breath in order to keep his tone calm as he tries a different approach. “Can I see?”

It takes a moment—a long pause between Ron asking the question and any sort of answer being given, verbal or otherwise—but Harry goes a little less tense, no longer coiling his arms to his chest, allowing Ron to carefully, being oh so gentle with his every move, pull Harry’s right arm away from his left, revealing the source of the blood, the scratch of words sliced into skin, angry and painful.

Ron sees red. “That bloody toad—”

Harry flinches back at the rage shaking Ron’s words, and Ron has to bite his tongue hard enough to taste copper in order to stop himself from exploding the way he wants to. He can do that later, the yelling and the shouting, when he inevitably marches down to Dumbledore’s office and demands that the scum of a professor is dealt with properly. For now, the wound is still fresh and bleeding, and Harry is locked away deep within his own mind—so far within that Ron can only wonder if it’s possible to guide him out.

“Sorry,” Ron murmurs, once he’s got his anger under control, wrapped up in a box in his head and shoved into the corner to deal with at a later time. He lowers Harry’s right arm to the floor and gingerly grabs his left hand instead, brings it closer to examine it better (again biting down on his tongue once he properly reads the words; I must not tell lies, as if Umbridge isn’t committing an act so much more horrid than lying by doing such a thing, as if Harry is even lying at all). “I’m sorry,” he says again, partially to fill the silence, but also because he is—he’s sorry that things like this keep happening. He’s sorry that he can’t take Harry’s place, if only for a day or two, to give him just a little bit of a break.

Slowly, almost lethargically, Harry slides his gaze back over until he’s looking at Ron blearily. “S’alright,” he says with a rasp, like assuring Ron’s apologies is important enough to focus on now.

“It isn’t,” Ron tells him sadly, before shaking his head and offering a somewhat forced smile. “But we’ll manage, I suppose. Always do, don’t we?” It looks like the end of Harry’s lips twitch, just barely, but nothing comes out of it, so Ron puffs out a sigh and looks at the wound once more. “You want to go to see Madam Pomfrey for this, mate? Or do you just want me to clean it up, instead? I remember all of those healing spells that Hermione insisted we learn, so I can do it just fine, if you’d like.”

Harry blinks at him, Adam’s apple bobbing with a rough swallow. “You,” he manages. “Please.”

Ron glances up, meets his eyes and holds it for what feels like a few moments too long, and then looks away once more with a nod. “Alright, then,” he says. “Whatever you want, mate.”

“Good evening, Mr. Weasley,” Dumbledore greets pleasantly from where he’s sitting behind his desk. Ron’s hands are shaking by his sides, both from his boiling anger and because of the argument he had with Harry about coming to Dumbledore in the first place—Harry’s convinced nothing will come of it, because of the way the headmaster has been distancing himself this year, and Ron can’t blame him for that. With his upbringing, distance often translates to hatred, after all. “What can I do for you?”

“Get Umbridge out,” Ron spits, not bothering to beat around the bush or try for a more professional or calm approach. He doesn’t give a damn about being professional or calm, not right now—not when it’s Harry that’s concerned, his eyes bland and lifeless as Ron used a damp rag to sop up the blood. Biting down on the inside of his cheek because whatever the hell Umbridge spelled that quill with made it so the wound can’t be healed with magic, rendering his healing spells useless and requiring them to clean up the blood and wrap up his hand the Muggle way, instead.

Dumbledore sighs, like he was expecting this, and pushes himself to his feet. “I’m afraid that’s out of my hands, Mr. Weasley,” he informs him. “Disliking a professor isn’t reason enough to—”

Ron interrupts with a loud, humorless laugh, one that seems to genuinely render Dumbledore shocked, even if only for a moment. “Disliking her?” Ron repeats incredulously. “It’s not about just disliking her, Professor. She’s gone and made Harry write lines with a bloody blood quill! He came back from his detention looking like a walking corpse, that’s how shaken up he was--and he didn’t even want me to come down here and tell you this because you’ve been a bloody prat to him all year. But I just had to sit with him for a fucking hour while helping him clean up and bandage his hand because that toad had him carving into it for an hour and a half, and I—I’m not allowing it! I’m not!”

For a long moment, the headmaster’s office is silent, save for Ron’s heavy breathing from his outburst. Dumbledore seems to be peering, unseeingly, over Ron’s shoulder, grip tightening on the edge of his desk until his knuckles are white, though his features appear unsettlingly calm. Ron has to bite his tongue not to bark out something harsh, though every cell in his body is screaming for him to demand a response, to demand that Dumbledore fix this mess and allow Harry  a reprieve from all the shite the world keeps throwing at him. He doesn’t demand anything, though— simply waits, teeth sinking into the inside of hislower lip, until Dumbledore takes in a long, slow breath, and says, “…Ah. I see.”

“You better do more than see—”

Ron stops himself, sucks in a sharp breath and holds it, then lets it out again.

“Sorry,” he offers, as Dumbledore finally returns his eyes to him, looking shocked and slightly amused by Ron’s outburst. Ron clenches his jaw, and then amends, “Well, no—no, I’m not sorry, not really. I like to think I have every bloody right to be as angry as I am about this whole thing.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” Dumbledore tells him simply, releasing his white knuckled grip on his desk and lowering himself back into his seat. He gestures to the chair on the opposite side of his desk, the action strikingly normal and calm in the midst of a situation that’s got Ron feeling as out of place and tense as ever. “Please, have a seat. I’ll need more information in order to file a proper complaint against Dolores.”

Harry runs his thumb over the raised scabs on the back of his hand. “You didn’t have to—”

“I bloody well did,” Ron cuts in, tone more firm than intended, though he doesn’t try to fix it. “And I’m glad I did it, as well. Umbridge is under investigation, Harry! Do you understand that? And Dumbledore says that he’s got a bloody good case against her, as well. We could get rid of her!” Harry doesn’t look up, doesn’t do much more than frown and start to do that thing where he tugs at his fingers. Ron takes a deep breath and sits next to him, rather than standing over him—reaches over to take hold of his hands, the only way he’s been able to calm this particular habit of his, and tries again. “I’m sorry,” he offers—though, unlike when apologizing to Dumbledore, he actually means it. “I know you didn’t want me to go to him about it, and—and I can understand why, mate. Might have called him a prat because of how he’s been treating you this year, you know, but—not the point, is it? Um…” Ron tries for a semi-sheepish grin, one that Harry only really glances at before looking away. “Point is, I couldn’t just sit back and do nothing while that toad tortured you. I am sorry, Harry, really, but—I’m still glad I did it.”

There’s a long silence  once Ron finishes speaking, where Harry doesn’t do much more than stare down at where Ron’s hands are covering his own. Ron is just starting to wonder if he’ll be getting a response at all when Harry lets out a sniffle, turns his hands over, palms up, and carefully twines their fingers together. “Right,” he says, jaw clenching, just a bit. Ron isn’t sure if he looks more determined, or more terrified, but there’s a strength to it—an awe inspiring sort of strength, the kind that rises from the roots of a person, takes hold in the traumas and the troubles and builds —that leaves Ron almost speechless. “Right,” he says again, more firm, like he’s speaking more to himself. “It’s a good thing. Isn’t it?”

Ron frowns, confused. “Getting rid of Umbridge?”

“You,” Harry corrects, shaking his head. “Being all… all of this, yeah? Going to Dumbledore even though I didn’t want  you to, even though you could have gotten a detention yourself for speaking out of turn, or something. Being willing to—face trouble, I suppose, for the sake of… of me. Helping me.”

“I’m not sure…” Ron trails off, even more confused than he was a moment before, but registering, quite quickly, that Harry is trying to speak of something he’s never spoken of before.,  He knows he needs to respondcarefully , unless he wants to risk Harry shutting the conversation down entirely, likely to never properly approach again. “I’m not sure what you mean by that, mate.”

Harry wets his lower lip, seems to be glaring down at his knees and working his jaw around poorly formed thoughts and incoherent, jumbled-up masses of words. “You… care for me,” he says slowly, almost unsurely, and then casts a sideways look at Ron, something vulnerable in his eyes. “Right?”

Ron doesn’t hesitate to say, “Yeah. Of course.”

“Right,” Harry murmurs again, before clearing his throat and shaking his head once more, as if trying to physically clear his mind. “You care for me, enough to… do these things. The… going to Dumbledore type of things, calling him a prat because of how he’s treating me, arguing with Seamus because he’s speaking badly about me, getting Umbridge put under investigation…” his words drift into a small pause, where he worries his lower lip between his teeth and appears to be deep in thought, before he settles on a simple conclusion of, “It doesn’t seem worth it. Doing all of that. For… me.”

The confusion starts to clear away, just a bit, because—well, of course Harry is conflicted on this. Of course. It’s only his entire life that’s being dictated by a constant clashing of being mistreated (by the public, by friends, by relatives—by, at some point, everyone and everything) and being worshiped (how many times has someone approached him in Hogsmeade, talking of family members who died in the first war, insisting that they’d be proud if they were to die in the same way; “It’s worth it,” they always say, like they’re boasting, like they’re excited about it. “Dying for this—for you, Mr. Potter—it’s worth it.”) Having someone like Ron, who has risked himself for Harry, who is happy to do so again, and yet, at points, who has been his biggest critic, as well—it’s shocking, really, that this topic is only coming up now. Though, in complete honesty, Ron can understand why it’s happening so late, as well.

Harry’s almost died—more times than Ron likes to think about, more times than anyone ever should, let alone a fifteen year old boy—but he’s managed, for the most part, to keep Ron and Hermione relatively safe. There was the chess board, first year, where Harry went on alone to go after the stone, while Ron and Hermione—after Ron woke up—retreated to safety. The Chamber, second year, which was terrifying beyond belief, but it was only Harry and Ginny that laid their eyes on Tom Riddle that day. Sirius, and the Dementors, third year—the Triwizard Tournament, last year—Umbridge, so far, this year. The dreams.

Ron and Hermione have been in danger before—countless times—but it might only just now be sinking in that one of them could get hurt, get killed, involved with everything going on. And they are involved, of course. On the front lines. Side by side with Harry James Potter, as they should be.

But that’s the issue here, isn’t it?

Side by side with Harry. Where they’re even more likely to die.

“Mate…” Ron starts, but has to stop almost instantly, trying to piece together the proper way to put his thoughts into words, to articulate the mess within his head and make it into something concise and clear, something unable to be misinterpreted or twisted down the line. He shakes his head, feels the crease between his brows deepen, as he says, “Harry, this isn’t— you. This, everything, the—the bloody war that’s only getting closer and closer, it’s—a whole lot more than you, mate. It’s bigger than that.”

Harry goes still, then nods, once, and begins to pull his hands away.

Ron panics—latches onto Harry’s hands and knows he missed the mark. “No, no, hold on, that’s—let me explain what I mean, alright? Let me explain.” Again, Harry goes still, but he stops trying to pull away, though he’s no longer holding onto Ron’s hands the way he was before, instead leaving his fingers limp and lifeless as Ron curls his own, grips Harry’s hands with all the strength he can muster. “I just—I mean that, this fight, everything going on, it isn’t— on you. It isn’t your fault. You didn’t start it, mate, and you can’t be blamed for it, or whatever the hell comes out of it. But, even if—if, if it was… for you, yeah? If the entire bloody war was for you, to protect you, to save you, to—if it was all about you, I would… I’d fight, still. Just as much as I am now. ‘Cause you’re worth it, Harry. You’re worth fighting for.”

There’s a long moment where time seems to stop entirely, where Ron only watches, hopes, that Harry will understand his words, will get it, somehow, while Harry continues to stare, eyes downcast, looking at his knees and the toes of his shoes. Ron sinks his teeth into his tongue, bites down on it to stop himself from speaking too soon, wanting to make sure that there’s plenty of time for his words to sink in, to process.

And then Harry nods again, voice more hoarse when he says, “Alright. That’s… a nice sentiment, but—”

“But nothing,” Ron interrupts, already sensing that his point hasn’t hit quite yet. “It isn’t a sentiment, either, Harry. It’s—I’m not even sure what to say first, mate. The fact that you blame yourself for everything is complete bollocks, for starters, but—I suppose you’ve got to be in the right state of mind to really believe that, what with everything going on, huh?” Harry huffs—it’s almost a laugh, but it’s a bit too dull and empty to really fit the bill. Still, it makes Ron grin, makes him feel a little bit less stressed about having to say the perfect thing. There’s no perfect thing to say, after all, and this is Harry.

Blimey, it’s Harry. Ron never has to worry about being perfect when it’s the two of them.

“We can work on that,” Ron says decidedly. “You, blaming yourself, all that—we can work on it, later, yeah? For now, we can just—try to pretend this is a normal school year. Umbridge will hopefully be gone soon, Dumbledore will hopefully stop being a git, and we can… exist, for a bit.”

Harry frowns, shaking his head slightly, though he looks at Ron with something similar to hope in his eyes. “There’s so much to do,” he murmurs. “This group, that Hermione’s been on about—”

Ron shrugs. “A fun club,” he offers, grinning toothily. “Just a bunch of mates, practicing spells.”

“Spells to fight Death Eaters and dark wizards with,” Harry points out, brow quirking.

Again, Ron shrugs. “Down the line. For now, though—just a fun club, yeah?”

For a moment, Harry just stares at Ron with something incredulous and disbelieving on his features, but then the ends of his lips twitch, just slightly, and then he’s grinning, just as wide as Ron is. “Right,” he says, tone amused. “Just a fun club. Without a place to meet, or a plan, or official members.”

“Ah, Mr. Potter,” Ron tsk ’s. “That’s where you’re wrong. We’ve got all three.”

Harry’s grin falls, eyes widening. “What?”

Ron tries not to feel smug—or, rather, tries not to look as smug as he feels—as he tells Harry, “Well, with all that’s been going on, your dreams and Umbridge and Dumbledore and all that, I figured the least I could do was take some stress off of your shoulders. Plus, it’s a part of my apology—talked to Luna, and she’s got the perfect place in mind. Talked to Hermione, too, and we came up with a rough plan to run by you, once you’re ready to look it over, as well as an official list of who wants to join. From all houses.”

“You…” Harry trails off, looking flabbergasted and beyond touched. “You’re brilliant, Ron.”

“Not really,” Ron deflects. “No reason for you to shoulder everything, though, is there?”

“I’m supposed to,” Harry tells him, tone a bit bitter as he says it. “I’m the boy who lived, aren’t I? Now it’s my job to—fix everything, or inspire everyone, or whatever the hell people want from me.”

With a curt shake of his head, Ron tightens his hold on Harry’s hands and sharply tells him, “That’s bollocks, mate. People can expect whatever they want from you, but it’s your choice, Harry. May not feel like it, but you can always say no. You don’t owe anyone a bloody thing, you realize that? You’re just a stubborn git who insists on taking responsibility for everything and everyone, and if you’re gonna take it all on, then I’m going to help you do it. However I can, mate. Just like always, yeah?”

Harry looks at him—nothing more, nothing less, just looks, for a moment, features unreadable yet distinctly soft, like he’s laying eyes on something worth cherishing. The kicker, really, is that Ron can recognize the look already; Harry’s looked at him like this before, many times, really, at breakfast or in class or at Hagrid’s, the Burrow, Hogsmeade—it’s how he looks at Ron, most of the time. Yet Ron isn’t sure he’s ever seen it quite this close, close enough to really take in the depth of it and the way it’s like Harry’s green eyes fill to the brim with affection. No one—and Ron means no one, not his mother, his father, his siblings, nobody —has ever looked at him like this before.

Only Harry has. And Ron’s only just now realizing it.

“You really are brilliant,” Harry tells him, murmurs it softly like it’s a precious sentiment that can’t be spoken too loud or else it may become warped and corrupted. “I wish you’d believe me when I say that.”

Ron feels the need to look away, but the mere idea of doing so sounds offensive for a reason he can’t quite place, so he settles for gnawing on his inner cheek until the sheepish, embarrassed feeling has settled somewhere within his rib cage, easy to ignore under the beating of his heart. Offering what he hopes is a genuine smile and not an awkward attempt at one, he bunches up his shoulders in an awful attempt at a jumbled, uncoordinated shrug and says, “Well, I’m not—I’m no Hermione, now am I?”

Harry barks out a laugh, shakes his head slightly, though not enough to break the eye contact that they’ve been maintaining. The ends of his lips pull back, revealing a wide, toothy grin. “I’d bloody well hope not, mate,” he says, a chuckle to his words that makes his voice sound more lively than it has since the school year began—since last year ended, if Ron’s being honest with himself. “I love Hermione, I do—she’s a sister to me, she’s family, but, blimey, if there were two of her? I’d go mental.” He laughs again, softer this time, and the smile lines around his eyes are like—like, happy crows feet, or something similarly ridiculous to put into words but just as fitting. Ron tries not to linger on finding the right description and, instead, listens intently as Harry tells him, “No, you—you’re not like Hermione, but that doesn’t make you not brilliant. You are brilliant, Ron, and—and, fairly often, I can’t figure out who’s the smarter out of you two. ‘Mione, she’s book smart, clever beyond bloody belief, but you, Ron—”

“I’m an idiot, Harry,” Ron cuts in, finally breaking that eye contact in order to duck his head and puff out a sigh. He doesn’t like to be so outward with it, with how much he simply doesn’t believe in himself, because he knows it’ll look as though he’s fishing for compliments and that’s not what he wants. Though, what he wants doesn’t dictate the fact that what he’s just said is what he truly, honestly believes.

“No,” Harry states simply. “No, you’re not. Care to let me finish my sentence now, mate?”

Though Ron’s quite sure that Harry won’t change his mind, he nods once and murmurs, “Yeah, alright.”

It’s subtle enough that Ron questions it as soon as it’s happened, but, for a moment, it feels like Harry squeezes his hands, like the situation has flipped, somehow, and it’s no longer Ron talking Harry through some things, now the other way around as Harry starts with, “You’re brilliant in a different way. You’re beyond smart, Ron, it’s just—not the kind of smart meant for school. The incredible things that you come up with, the things you’re able to think of and figure out before me or Hermione have even considered it… it’s amazing, Ron. I’m not—I’m not sure how to say it in a way that’ll make you actually believe me, but I’m telling you the truth. When I tell you you’re brilliant, Ron, it’s because you’re bloody brilliant.”

Slowly—almost unsure, but feeling compelled in a way that’s impossible to articulate, impossible to put into words—Ron brings his eyes back up, cautious and curious, until he’s meeting Harry’s gaze once more, and it’s that—that adoration, that fondness, shimmering in his eyes and evident in his features and  presenting all the evidence that Ron needs to know that he’s being honest. He isn’t even exaggerating.

He really, genuinely thinks of Ron so highly—and Ron, quite simply, may never understand why.

“Well,” Ron says, voice slow and tongue glued against the roof of his mouth, making it impossibly more difficult to formulate his words. “I suppose I should make sure I never give you a reason to change your mind, then. That’s my top priority, now, finding a way to never mess it up.”

Harry smiles, soft, warm, and says, “Even when you screw up, you won’t be able to change my mind.”

Back in fourth year—before the Triwizard Champions were chosen, but after their first Defense Against the Dark Arts class with Moody (who wasn’t really Moody, but they had yet to find that out)—Harry and Ron had a conversation, quite unprompted, about the future. About their future.

“I think I’d like to be an Auror,” Ron had said, pondering over their assigned reading while the common room fire cast a warm glow over his skin. “Getting rid of the bad guys, yeah? I’d like to help with that.”

Harry had looked up from his own reading, a thoughtful expression crossing his features as he gazed over at Ron wordlessly. For a moment, Ron had felt as though he was being judged, but then Harry had hummed and nodded and he realized Harry had been scrutinizing him, instead. “You’d be good at it,” he had told him, nodding his approval. “You’re incredible at thinking from the enemy’s perspective and coming up with good strategies on the spot. It’s why you’re the best chess player… ever, probably.”

Ron had huffed out a laugh, lips pulling back into an easy grin. “You think too much of me, mate.”

“Doubtful,” Harry had replied. “I’d like to think I could be an Auror, but… not forever. Not for the rest of my life, or anything like that. After Hogwarts, for sure, but, eventually, I’d like something more quiet.”

It isn’t until they start meeting in the Room of Requirement that Ron can really see it, though.

Harry is brilliant when he’s teaching. He’s interactive and responsive and encouraging, seems to relax into this brighter, bubblier version of himself that Ron only sees on a good night at the Burrow, often hidden beneath his bruises and his heavy past and the wariness that bleeds down to his bones and presses an awful weight against his chest, carrying the world on his shoulders. For the first meeting, Ron barely does much of anything, just adds what he thinks is important during their opening statements, explaining their plans and what they want to accomplish with this and making it clear that no one is obligated to be here, no one is required to risk their lives like this, for this—giving them an out that Harry has never been offered himself, something that Harry had been adamant on including—and then, as Hermione and Harry take the reigns in explaining the first spell they’re going to try, Ron takes a step back and watches.

Last year, he reckons he would have been beyond jealous during a moment like this, but Ron let his jealousy push him away from Harry when Harry had needed his best friend by his side, and the fear of repeating that has led Ron to teach himself—to force himself, really, at first, but it’s become easier, as the months have gone by—to carry a different approach when it comes to his problems with jealousy and envy. A year ago, Ron would have huffed and slouched his shoulders and bitterly made a point of saying that they must think he’s the worst wizard of them all since they aren’t letting him teach. A year ago, he would have gotten angry and jumped to conclusions and accusations just to ...try and create a possibility that his own inadequacy wasn’t his fault—but that was a year ago. This is now.

Now, Ron watches, an easy smile on his face, content with the fact that he created these lesson plans, these strategic approaches to learning and developing the talents and abilities of all the young witches and wizards surrounding them—that he isn’t teaching right now because the three of them sat down and decided that having all of themteach at once would only become a hassle, confusing. Instead they’d agreed that they would take each lesson and spell and have the two who are the most naturally gifted at that skill take the lead while the third stood back and kept an eye on everyone else, tracking progress and suspicions (there are a few Slytherins that have joined the group, and they’re trying not to judge based on house, but they all agreed that paying a bit of attention, and making sure that no one, Slytherin or otherwise, appears to be making plans to reveal their entire operation or betray them would be wisest).

For now, it’s Harry and Hermione. Next spell will be Hermione and Ron, and then Ron and Harry, and then Ron and Hermione again—and so on and so forth, until they have covered everything that may wind up being useful or important somewhere down the line.

So, no, he isn’t jealous, though he knows he would have been when he was a year younger and more naïve. Instead, he glances between the faces of everyone listening intently as Hermione and Harry take turns explaining what today’s spell, why they’re teaching it, and what it can be used for. He circles to the back of the room and keeps an eye on anyone who seems disinterested as they spread out and start to practice, is still looking between them all when his eyes just happen to land on Harry, but… he can’t seem to look away.

It looks as natural as breathing, the position that Harry takes, stepping up to the teaching role like he was born for itHe rolls his sleeves up to his elbows and keeps his wand tucked into his back pocket as he stands by one of the fourth year Hufflepuffs that Ron can’t remember the name of, arms crossed over his chest and nodding with a look of genuine interest and intent on his features. He leans into teaching like it’s an old friend, a welcoming embrace from a comfortable blanket—cheers people on and only takes out his own wand to give an example when someone asks him to, not wanting to look as though he might be showing off or something equally as boastful. Even when Harry winds up strolling over to Ron and taking his place at the back of the room, Ron can’t get the image from his head.

For the first time in years, it looked like Harry felt as if he belonged somewhere.

It looked like Harry had settled into his purpose in life and begun to thrive.

Later, after the meeting is over and they’ve all settled into bed for the night, Ron finds himself picturing what the future may hold—Hermione, he knows, is planning to change the wizarding world as they know it, and she bloody well will, he’s certain. Harry and him, both considering, planning, perhaps, to become Aurors once Hogwarts is over and done with, and they’ll be good at it, he believes—because they already are, and they’re only fifteen, without all that official training or the resources that Aurors have—but it won’t be forever. Maybe, for Ron—he can’t envision himself changing course until he either dies or retires, so he very well may be an Auror the rest of his life—but for Harry? No. No, definitely not forever.

Eventually, Ron thinks, Harry will grow restless and weary of the daily dangers that have been two steps behind him his entire life. He will be an Auror, maybe for two years, maybe for ten—and then, when he’s ready to settle into something more stable and calm, he’s going to come right back here.

Back to Hogwarts, where Ron can envision him teaching, just as he was at the meeting, only older—which is a concept Ron struggles to capture in his mind; an older Harry Potter—and happier, too.

Not weighed down by everything that life is—and by everything that it isn’t.

It’s well past midnight when Ron is awoken by an anguished scream.

By the time he’s managed to untangle himself from his sheets and trip his way out of bed, Harry is on the floor on his hands and knees, a puddle of sick a few feet away as he breathes heavily. Neville is awake, already, as well—hovering behind Harry with wide, panicked eyes that reflect worry and confusion—while Dean and Seamus, curled up in Dean’s bed for the night, struggle to blink the sleep from their eyes as they blearily look over. Ron drops to his knees next to Harry without hesitation, all remnants of drowsiness having vanished the moment that his brain registered the scream to be Harry’s, and lightly skates his fingers across Harry’s shoulder. He grips it harder when Harry doesn’t flinch away or pull back from the touch.

“Harry?” Ron’s voice is croaky and sleep-slurred, just slightly, but he doesn’t dwell on it, doesn’t bother to focus on anything other than this, his best friend, sobbing so heavily that Ron won’t be surprised if it makes him sick again. Only moments later, he’s proven right, as Harry lets out a rough gag and the rest of last night’s dinner joins the sick already on the floor. Ron readjusts his grip on Harry’s shoulder. “Mate—”

“I—dreamt—” Harry sounds destroyed as he tries to speak, only to break down into those rough sobs once more. Ron tries to use his grip to pull Harry into a hug, wanting to offer some kind of comfort, something that will help, but then Harry shoves Ron’s hand away entirely and shouts, “No! No, we—we don’t have time, we don’t—Merlin, Ron, he—he showed me—your dad—your dad, Ron, he—”

Ron shakes his head, uncertain but trying not to appear so. “He’s tricking you,” Ron tells him, ignoring as Dean and Seamus finally join Neville a mere few feet away, looking confused and worried and baffled. “We already figured that out, yeah? He’s trying to use your dreams to trick you.”

Harry shakes his head, adamant and trembling. “No,” he croaks. “He isn’t tricking me yet.”

Although Ron feels the need to argue, there is so much certainty and dread weighing down Harry’s voice that he finds it impossible to argue. With a rough swallow, he nods, just once, and holds his hand out in an offer. “Alright, then,” he says. “We should go let Dumbledore know about it, then, shouldn’t we?”

It looks like Harry wants to refuse the offered hand, but seems determined on that not having a lot of time thing, as he barely hesitates before he’s allowing Ron to press palm to palm and pull him to his feet.

(Left in their wake are their three dormmates. Neville looks like he wants to follow after them, but puffs out a sigh and tells the other two, “I reckon I’ll clean up the mess, then,” before heading towards the bathroom with an antsy sort of worry, emerging a few moments later with a bucket of soapy water and a handful of rags. “Magic doesn’t clean as well,” is all he says, before dropping to his knees to start cleaning up the sick that’s still on the floor.

“What the hell was that about?” Seamus murmurs, scrubbing a fist over his eyes sleepily.

Dean frowns, staring out the door that Harry and Ron disappeared through. “I’m not sure,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “Ron said he —said that he was trying to trick Harry. With his dreams…?”

Neville glances at the pair with a look of annoyance. “Isn’t it obvious? It’s You-Know-Who.”

“What?!” Seamus looks, all of a sudden, wide awake and frantic. “No, it can’t—it can’t—”

“Still think he’s lying, do you?” Neville cuts in, sounding bitter.

Seamus glares at him sharply. “Of course not,” he spits. “But—You-Know-Who, tricking Harry through his dreams? That can’t be possible. How the hell could that be possible?”

With a huff, Neville turns back around, not giving an answer.

Dean keeps staring at the door.)

Arthur is okay.

Well—he isn’t, at first, but they’re certain that he’ll make a full recovery, so the relief overtakes the worry fairly quickly. As awful as it is to know that h’d been attacked, to know that he’s in pain—the fact that he’s going to be okay provides the soothing balm that Ron and Harryneed to return to their rooms.

Ron settles beneath his blankets feeling somehow like he weighs more than the planet itself and as if he’s floating all at the same time—doesn’t fall asleep right away, no matter how bone deep his exhaustion is, and instead lays there with his eyes glued to the bunched up curtain at the foot of his bed. His features are oddly blank despite the train of thoughts running off course in his head. It’s hard to grapple with, whatever the hell they just went through—hard for him to comprehend that, not only was his own father attacked—he could have lost his dad forever, had Harry not dreamed it.

Of course, that’s not how Harry’s going to see it.

What’s happening to me? he had asked Dumbledore, looking seconds away from dropping to his knees and begging for answers, for guidance, for something —anything to take all the weight in the world off of his fifteen year old shoulders and breathe, chest not heavy with the constant pressure pushing against his weakening ribcage. He had sounded broken—shattered, terrified of himself.

It makes Ron’s skin itch, thinking that Harry looks at his reflection and doesn’t like who he sees. Knowing that Harry can stare into his own eyes and hate the person looking back at him.

Arthur will be okay—and that’s entirely thanks to Harry, who will only blame himself instead.

Ron tosses, turns, rolls onto his side and uses the sunlight peaking past the curtain of the window to illuminate his vision, squinting over to try and see if Harry is still awake, already knowing he will be yet still somewhat surprised to find him sitting up. His back is pressed to the headboard, knees to his chest and arms wrapped tightly around his shins to hug his knees even closer, head buried in one of his elbows, shivering so strongly that Ron isn’t sure if it’s just shock or if he’s silently crying.

Either way, he can’t just sit here—he never could before, and he can’t do it now.

Quietly, Ron gets to his feet and pads over to Harry’s bed, murmuring a soft, “Move over, mate,” before crawling onto the mattress to sit next to him, their shoulders brushing together. He’s planning to say something comforting or ask if he’s alright, but then Harry goes tense the moment their shoulders barely even touch.  Ron’s throat closes because it’s one of those days—the harder ones, the rare ones where Harry is so overwhelmed by his guilt and weighed down by how much he blames himself that something as simple and comforting as human touch makes him feel as though he’s receiving attention he doesn’t deserve. Ron hates when he gets like this, because he knows it’s more than feeling unworthy of gentle touch—it’s a childhood built from an absence of gentle touch at home, only rough grips and backhands and red faces spitting awful, hateful, brutal words that Harry struggles so hard not to believe.

He knows that Voldemort and Death Eaters, basilisks and dragons aren’t the only monsters he’s faced.

“Harry…” Ron trails off, voice more air than sound as he speaks, softer than he thinks he’s ever  been before. He swallows the lump in his throat and carefully reaches over to settle a hand on Harry’s knee, just rests it there and waits until Harry has gone stiff and tense, and then keeps waiting until that tension slowly bleeds away into some kind of resignation. “Can you look at me, mate?”

Usually, when asking this, Ron only has to wait a few moments, maybe a minute or two, until Harry inevitably complies and raises his head to meet Ron’s eyes. This time, however, Harry just shakes his head and buries his head further into his arms, though he doesn’t dislodge Ron’s hand as he does.

Ron doesn’t know what to do with this. He knows Harry well, of course, knows him best out of anyone, he likes to believe—he’s right to believe, really—but this is something uncharted. The entire point in asking Harry to look at him is to get a read on where he is, if he’s ready for comfort or just needs a companion, if Ron should hug him or sit with him or give him room to breathe. Without being able to see his face, though, Ron’s only got body language to go off of, and Harry’s shielding his with all he’s got.

Or, in simpler terms—Ron’s got no bloody clue where to go from here.

But it’s Harry. And Ron’s adapted for him plenty of times before, just as he’s adapted for Ron.

He can do it again. Adapt, once more, for him—for this. Them. Something.

“Alright,” he says, after taking a moment to ponder how to proceed. “You don’t have to. What can I do, then? You want me to sit with you, give you some space, give you a hug, or—?”

Harry makes an odd sound, shakes his head and croaks, “Why on earth would you want to do that?”

“Because you’re my best mate,” Ron answers instantly. “And you’re blaming yourself for something you shouldn’t be, so I’m going to do what I have to in order to change your mind about it. Once you’re ready, of course—I’d just be a prick if I made you talk or anything when you aren’t ready to.”

After a pause of hesitation, Harry slowly lifts his head and looks at Ron strangely. “Spending more time with Hermione than usual, have you? You’re sounding like those Psychology books she’s been reading.”

Ron shakes his head. “Nah, mate. We’ve both been reading them. Fred and George, too, actually, have most of the second copies right now, and they’re going to give them to Mum and Dad to read when they’re done, and the copies I’ve got are going to Ginny when I’ve caught up on them.”

Harry frowns, confusion, for a moment, overshadowing whatever else is going on within his head. “Why?” he asks, looking bewildered. “Is this some kind of book club that I wasn’t awareof?”

“We’re reading them for you,” Ron tells him simply—because everyone else insists on keeping it a secret, everyone except for him, Fred, and George, who have been insisting that nothing will chase Harry away like keeping something from him, nothing will create distance like acting as though they were doing something without him. Harry’s brain is like that—always on the brink of spiraling into thoughts of why he’s being excluded, why he isn’t a part of it, why they don’t trust him—down and down he’ll go until he’s so far into his self-doubt that he’ll lash out and push everyone away from him.

(“Seems a bit dramatic, doesn’t it?” Ginny had questioned, toying with the cover of one of the books.

Hermione had shaken her head, sitting across from Ron in the dining hall while Harry was in the loo, a thoughtful expression on her face. “They’re not wrong,” she had conceded, though there was something pained and pinched in the draw of her brows that conveyed that she wasn’t quite convinced. “But, Ron, you know just as well as I do that he’ll hate the lot of us doing all this for him. He won’t see it as us wanting to have a better understanding of how to help him through all this, he’ll see it as us babying him or assuming he needs the support to make it, like—like we don’t believe in him, or something.”

Ron had considered that for a moment, weighed it in his head, and then offered, “What if we don’t bring it up on purpose around him, but we don’t try to hide it, either? That way, if he asks about it or something like that, we don’t lie to him or make it feel as though we were keeping it from him, but it also feels more casual and less like—like some sort of secret operation, or whatever it would look like to him.”

Fred and George nodded along, seemingly happy with the arrangement, while Ginny speared her food with her fork and shrugged when Hermione glanced ather for her opinion. Though clearly not entirely satisfied, Hermione seemed to agree that it was the best compromise they would get and nodded once. “Fine,” she said. “But if it’s me he asks about it, I’m sending him your way, Ron. He always listens better when it’s you, and I’d rather not be on the loud end of his assumptions when he finds out, alright?”

“Fine,” Ron had agreed, unbothered by the deal. He’d rather it be him, anyway.)

Harry stops—freezes, staring at Ron. “…What?”

Ron shrugs, keeping it simple and relaxed, hoping his demeanor will help show that it isn’t a big deal, that they just care and they want to help. “We’re reading them for you,” he repeats. “There’s been a lot of shite that’s happened to you, mate, and it’s still happening and we want to help however we can. Unfortunately, you barely let me and ‘Mione share any, or even some, of the responsibilities you’ve taken over, so there’s no bloody way you’ll let Fred, or George, or Ginny, or Mum and Dad. So, we thought the best way to support you was to know how to help you stay strong in it all, and they asked me for ideas on how to do that, but the only things I know how to do are more—personal, yeah? Figured you wouldn’t want me sharing them to my parents, of all people, so I told them about Hermione’s psychology books and they thought it was a good idea, and I figured it wouldn’t hurt to give ‘em a read, too.”

For a long moment, Harry just stares at Ron with that bewildered incredulousness that always settles over his features when Ron provides evidence that people actually care about him. It would be endearing if it didn’t make Ron want to track the Dursley’s down and hex them into the next decade, but he keeps his features collected to prevent that thought from showing in his eyes as Harry continues to look.

When it becomes clear that Harry won’t be responding verbally anytime soon, Ron decides to take some initiative and gently asks, “Do you want to be left alone, or do you want me to stay?”

Harry keeps staring. Eventually, however, he ghosts out a quiet, “Stay.”

And Ron does.

Harry is still snoring when Neville pushes open the door, Dean and Seamus on his heel, the three of them peering in with wide, curious, worried eyes. Ron holds a finger to his lips, groggy from the good few hours of sleep he got himself, before using his finger to point to Harry. He’s drooling on Ron’s shoulder without a care in the world—though the barely visible tear tracks on his cheeks are striking enough in the soft light to shatter that illusion .All of them are well aware that no cares in the world and Harry Potter don’t go together, aware of the fact that they never have and likely never will.

“We heard you were back at lunch,” Neville says, voice hushed as he carefully steps into the room. “Almost headed up right away to check on you, but McGonagall said you were probably resting and we should wait until after our classes.” He toes his shoes against the carpet, looks at Harry, shares a look with both Dean and Seamus with an uneasy expression, and then looks back at Ron. “What happened?”

Ron doesn’t want to tell them everything—because a lot of it isn’t his to tell—but he puffs out a breath and answers with, “You-Know-Who attacked my dad. Harry saw it in his dream. Saved his life.”

For a moment, Neville seems to perk up, as if he guessed it, before instantly deflating with his worry increasing tenfold. Seamus looks bewildered, sinks his teeth into his lower lip as if physically forcing back his urge to ask questions. Dean is looking at Harry, brows creased. “Is he alright?”

“My dad? He’ll be fine, yeah.”

Dean shakes his head, eyes not moving. “Harry,” he clarifies. “Is Harry alright? It made him sick, whatever he saw in that dream, and… I’ve never seen someone cry like that before.”

Ron can’t decide if he’s surprised or relieved that one of them is asking about Harry’s wellbeing, but he knows that Harry wouldn’t want him to air out the inner workings of his brain and just how badly this affected him. Instead, Ron settles on, rather slowly and carefully, telling Dean, “It wasn’t pretty, when they found my dad. I don’t know how much of it Harry saw, but… but it was—not good. Like I said, my dad will be fine, but—it’ll take a bit, for him to heal from what was done to him. What Harry saw.”

“What I did,” Harry says—and Ron isn’t sure when he stopped snoring, but it’s blatantly obvious, now, that Harry is awake, his body more tense and rigid, though his head is still leaning against Ron’s shoulder and he doesn’t seem intent on moving it any time soon. Ron looks down at him, but doesn’t verbalize his question, already aware that Harry will explain himself in a moment. As expected, Harry lets out a sigh, brings a hand up to rub at the bridge of his nose, where his glasses had pressed into the skin as he slept, the two of them forgetting to take them off beforehand. He elaborates: “In the dream, it… I was watching from the perspective of—of the attacker. It was like—like I was the one hurting him.”

“But you weren’t,” Ron states.

Harry falters, and then asks, “Wasn’t I?”

Ron grimaces. “Harry—”

“It feels like I was,” Harry cuts in, pulling away from Ron then, facing away from him with his knees curling back up to his ches, head ducked, hands visibly trembling. “It felt like it was me. What if I could have stopped it? I could have—woken up sooner, or tried to take control while dreaming, somehow—”

“Have you been able to control them before?” Ron questions. “Your dreams, I mean.”

Harry pauses, and then lets out a sigh while curtly shaking his head, still refusing to look in Ron’s general direction, instead staring down at the holes in his pajama’s knees. “No,” he murmurs.

“No,” Ron agrees. “Because they aren’t just dreams. He’s trying to trick you, remember? He’s building your trust in the dreams so that he can trick you with them. We already figured that much out.”

“How will I know when it’s the trick, though?” Harry questions, hands coming up to run through his hair and tug on the locks with blatant frustration. “Either I assume it’s a trick and it isn’t and someone else dies because of me, or I think that it’s real and fall into whatever trap he has set up. How do I--?”

Ron reaches forward, grabs Harry by the wrists and turns him, somewhat forcefully, until he can duck his head and force them to meet eyes. “You tell me about the dream,” Ron says, “and we figure it out. We do, Harry. Me and you—and Hermione, if you want her here, or Ginny, Fred, George, whoever the hell you want. We’ll figure out if it’s real, or if it’s worth the risk on the chance that it isn’t. We figure it out.”

Neville, Seamus, and Dean watch, the most silent the three of them have likely ever been, as Harry stares at Ron with more vulnerability than they’ve ever seen before. Slowly, Harry nods. “Alright,” he says.

“Alright,” Ron responds. He loosens his grip on Harry’s wrists, but doesn’t let go, not yet. “You hungry?”

“A bit peckish, yeah.”

(When they leave the dorm, they leave their dormmates behind once more. This time, however, they leave the three of them with a sudden revelation. Or, rather, two of them—Seamus and Neville are slack jawed and sharing wide eyed looks of unexpected understanding, though they’re both grinning, as well.

Dean just smiles, having known for a while, and asks, “Finally figured it out, did you?”

“Merlin’s Beard,” Seamus breathes, twisting his head to stare at the closed door. “They’re in love.”)

Arthur hasn’t even finished healing when Harry dreams of Sirius.

“Let me go,” Harry says, trying to pull his wrist free from Ron’s grasp while using his other hand to try and shove Ron away from him, eyes wide and frantic and chin wobbly for only a moment before it’s set in determination. “Let me go! I have to save him, Ron! I have to—I have to—let me go, Ron! Let me—”

Run rolls his eyes. “Let you what, Harry? Run off because of something that might not be real?”

Harry makes a strangled sort of noise and pushes Ron harder, just enough to make him stumble back a few steps, but Ron’s grasp on Harry’s wrist only tightens to keep him from running away. “He’s all I’ve got left of them, Ron! He’s the only bloody family of mine that hasn’t died yet and if I don’t go save him then he’s going to do just that! Voldemort’s going to kill him, Ron— please, just let me—let me go—”

“Why would Sirius be at the Ministry?” Ron demands, a twinge of guilt in the depths of his stomach at the force in his words, but he knows it’s the only way to get through, to get Harry to stop and really look at things for a moment. “Give me one reason why he would be there and we’ll go right now.”

“I don’t—” Harry keeps struggling, but he’s not fighting as hard anymore. “I don’t know, alright? But I saw it, I saw—I saw it, Ron! I saw it, just like I saw your dad, and—and—”

Ron lets go of Harry’s wrist, moving both hands up to cup Harry’s face in his palms and steady him, if only for long enough to maintain eye contact and ask, “Why would Voldemort show you my dad? What’s he got to gain by showing you a vision of that snake attacking him? How does that help him beat you?”

Harry’s hands are still pushing at Ron’s chest weakly, but he slowly comes to a stop as he stares into Ron’s eyes, his own green irises widening as realization sets in. “This is the trick, isn’t it?”

“It has to be, don’t you think?” Ron asks him. “He attacked my father and showed it to you so that you would know he could, and now he’s showing you another attack that doesn’t make sense. Sirius wouldn’t be at the Ministry, Harry. He’s still in hiding. It would be far too risky for him to be there. One of the only people who know where he actually is—is you, yeah? Where was he, last you heard?”

“I…” Harry wets his lower lip, hands resting against Ron’s chest. “Grimmauld, as of a few days ago.”

“Then we’ll go to Grimmauld,” Ron says.

They’re still at Grimmauld the next morning, Sirius insisting they don’t try to travel so late, though Ron can tell by the haunted look in his eyes that he’s lonely without anyone staying with him, with only visits from Remus and Molly and Arthur a couple times a week. Harry is pouring them some tea to have with breakfast before they leave when Sirius comes in, dropping a copy of the Daily Prophet in front of Ron, who’s leaning against the counter and rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Good thing you came here,” Sirius says solemnly. “I don’t even want to think about what might have happened if you hadn’t.”

Ron looks down at the Prophet and sees the bold headline— BOY WHO LIVED TELLING THE TRUTH; YOU-KNOW-WHO HAS RETURNED. Below the headline, there’s a blurry picture of Voldemort on the floor of the Ministry, only for a moment, before he disappears, looking angry.

Harry stands behind him, has to rise up to the tips of his toes to peekover Ron’s shoulder and see the paper for himself. He grimaces, obviously glum. “I can’t believe he almost tricked me.”

“We knew he was going to,” Ron reminds him. “No one could blame you for thinking it was real at first.”

“Not until my mistake got someone else killed,” Harry grumbles, before walking away.

Ron and Sirius stare after where he disappeared for a drawn out moment. Sirius sighs, curls his fingers around the cup of tea that Harry left for him, Ron’s settled on the counter beside it, and takes a sip from it. “One day,” he says, “that poor boy will know better than to blame himself. One day.”

Ron sighs, picks up his own tea, and takes a sip, as well. He’ll give Harry a minute before going after him, just in case he needs it, and then he’ll try to get him to believe precisely what Sirius just said.

By now, however, Ron isn’t sure Harry will ever learn that he is not to blame.

The hug they share before parting ways for the summer is longer than usual. Harry presses his forehead against Ron’s collarbone and melts into him, like the last thing he wants to do is let go. Ron holds him up and hugs him as tight as he can and doesn’t let go until Harry does.

“You turn seventeen next summer,” Ron reminds him. “Then you can hex them, when they deserve it.”

Harry shakes his head, but a small smile pulls at his lips.

It doesn’t matter. They both know that the Order has plans in motion—and they won’t wait until Harry’s next birthday to execute them. For all they know, Harry’ll be long gone by the time it comes around.

Still, Harry has to leave with the Dursley’s—and he looks more dejected than ever when he does.

He sends an owl on Harry’s sixteenth birthday.

A few days later, Harry shows up at the Burrow unannounced, claiming that Dumbledore sent him.

It’s ten times better than a letter back ever could be.

As their sixth year begins—as it starts to drag on in a way much different than every other year has so far, slower and darker than it ever has been before—Harry becomes more and more tense.

“I don’t know,” he says, the first time that Ron asks. “I mean—with Dumbledore having me do all these things to get closer to Professor Slughorn, and whatever it is that Malfoy is up to, and—Voldemort being back, still, and I can—feel him, you know? I can feel him within me, and sometimes I can tell when he’s angry, or when he’s excited, or when he’s figured out a part of his plan, but I can’t actually see the plan or prevent it, I just know he’s figuring it out, somehow, and—I don’t know. I just… I just don’t know.”

Ron bumps their shoulders together, the two of them sitting, admittedly, closer than necessary as they lounge on the floor of the common room, leaning back against the sofa, the fire crackling and warm. “Tell Dumbledore you need a break,” he says. “Don’t worry about Malfoy for a bit. Can’t really do anything about Voldemort being in your head, but the other two—we can do something about those, yeah?”

Harry shakes his head, looking downcast. “I can’t,” he says. “Dumbledore is preparing me to deal with Voldemort, and Malfoy—I don’t want to assume the worst, Ron, but I have to, don’t I? Just in case he does something awful, I have to be prepared to stop it. That’s my responsibility now, isn’t it?”

“Your responsibility,” Ron tells him, “is to pass your classes and grow old. Everything else isn’t on you, alright? I know you think it is, and me saying otherwise won’t change that, but it isn’t. You have every bloody right to tell everyone else to bugger off. I know you won’t, but you have the right to.”

“I wish I would, sometimes,” Harry admits with a sigh, looking down at the beaten up potions book sitting in his lap, using his fingers to idly flip through the pages, though it’s clear by the haze in his eyes that he isn’t actually reading any of the words scrawled along the margins or printed on the paper. “It feels like it never ends, doesn’t it? Even when summer comes ‘round and I’m supposed to get a few months away, I have to spend that time with the Dursley’s, who— hate me, and—”

Ron can see the way that Harry’s eyes begin to flicker back and forth between the words that he isn’t actually reading, moving faster and faster as his fingers start to tremble and his jaw clenches, unclenches, and clenches again. It’s that antsy thing again, when his thoughts start running too fast and he’s struggling to keep up with them all. Ron bends his leg, leans it until they’re bumping knees, and then leaves their knees pressed together and tells Harry, “You’ll get the time off you deserve eventually, mate. Promise.”

Harry looks at him, that wide eyed vulnerability that he only allows very few people to see—Ron being the most frequent one, Hermione a close second; Fred and George are tied for third, which would be odd if Ron wasn’t aware of how protective they really are, if he didn’t already know that their joking nature doesn’t mean they’re careless or care-free in every aspect of life—and then Harryasks, “How?”

“How…?”

“How will I—” Harry stops, brows drawing together. “How will I get time off? There’s always something, Ron, and I don’t see myself stopping without—without… you know…?”

No—Ron doesn’t know, actually. He doesn’t know what Harry is implying until he takes a steady look into Harry’s eyes and sees a frightened acceptance, and that’s what makes it so much worse. Not that Harry has even considered the idea that it’s his only way out of all of this, but that he’s accepted it, despite it scaring him. He’s accepted what he believes to be his fate, and it makes Ron furious.

Not at Harry. Blimey, never at Harry, but—at everything and everyone else.

“If you think I’m letting you die,” Ron says, his words slow, careful and precise, not wanting his emotions to bleed into the syllables and make them angry. Wanting, instead, to keep them as fact, as reassurance that Ron will not allow it to happen. “Then you have gone completely mental.”

Harry looks back down to the potions books, lips pressed in a thin line. “I don’t want to,” he murmurs.

“And you won’t,” Ron insists, a tinge of desperation affecting his words without his consent. He takes a moment, tries to reel it in, and softly repeats, “You won’t. Alright? I refuse, Harry. You won’t die.”

Though Harry doesn’t ask it, the question of what if you can’t stop it? lingers in the air.

Ron decides that he’ll find a way, no matter what he has to do.

There isn’t much that Ron remembers after accidentally taking that love potion, besides the weird feeling that had been swelling in his chest and the odd twinge in his head when Harry had walked into the room. If he thinks hard enough, he remembers Harry looking suddenly drawn in and bitter, can recall his voice when he murmured a tense, “You talking about Lavender Brown?” and the confusion on his features when Ron had, apparently, thrown a pillow at him and claimed otherwise.

He also doesn’t remember much from being poisoned. One moment, he had been taking a sip from his drink, and the next thing he knew—he was on the floor, his limbs sore, a distinct idea that fire must have been coursing through his veins stuck in his head—and Harry, leaning over him with tears glimmering in his wide, frantic eyes, features tense and terrified, his hands cupping Ron’s face in his palms.

“—on? Ron? Can you hear me? Ron, say something—please, please, I can’t lose y—”

He wakes up in the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey walking past the foot of his bed, Hermione sitting to his right and clutching onto one of his hands. She tightens her hold when she sees him blinking his eyes groggily, and her tone is oddly sharp when she asks him, “How are you feeling?”

“Mm…” he trails off, brows bunching together as he tries to get a grasp on himself, thinking back to the vague details that he’s able to recall from what happened. “Alright, I s’pose. Tired.”

Hermione scans over him with scrutinizing eyes and then narrows them into a glare. “We’re going to have some words, Ronald Weasley,” she tells him, reminding Ronmore of his mother than she ever has before—though, just like with his mother, he can see her worry and love behind the clench of her jaw and the twitch of her nose as she fights back her real emotions, settling on anger instead. “If Harry weren’t here,” she goes on, “we’d be having them right now, but I have a feeling you won’t want him to hear.”

At the mention of Harry, Ron feels himself become slightly more awake, blinking sharply and turning his head to try and figure out what Harry and here means—and then he sees Harry, head resting in the cradle of one arm, cheek smooshed up and glasses crooked, while the other arm is extended out to allow him to hold onto Ron’s other hand. There are dried tear tracks on his face. It makes Ron want to kick himself for allowing himself to wind up like this, as if he had any control over it, but he wishes he could somehow prevent it from happening—prevent Harry from having to cry over the idea of losing him.

I can’t lose you. That’s what he had been saying, right before Ron fell unconscious. He had been begging.

“What are the words about?” Ron quietly asks, though he keeps looking at Harry as he does so.

Hermione almost sounds amused when she answers with, “You’re looking at him, Ronald.”

Immediately, Ron whips his head around to look at her again. “Harry?” At her nod, he finds himself getting antsy with worry. “Why? Is something wrong with him? What happened while I was—”

“He’s fine,” Hermione interjects, shaking her head. “Shaken up, obviously, but fine. We’ll talk about it later, alright? He hasn’t left your side since last night—I’m surprised he fell asleep, really. You should wake him up, let him see that you’re alright, maybe convince him to eat something, since he refused any of the food that me or the twins tried to bring him earlier. I’ll get you some water, alright?”

Ron’s eyes flicker back to Harry. “Yeah,” he says. “Alright. Thanks, ‘Mione.”

She squeezes his hand. “Of course. I’m glad you’re okay, Ron.”

With that, she gets to her feet and walks over to Madam Pomfrey, who is sorting through a shelf of potions on the other side of the room. Ron uses his newly freed hand to reach over, gently rests it on Harry’s shoulder, and then shakes him slightly. “Harry?” He shakes him again, a little bit harder, and feels when Harry’s grip tightens on his hand, watches his brows furrow. “Harry, mate—wake up.”

For a moment, he only gets a confused, sleepy grunt in response—and then Harry is bolting upright, eyes going wide behind his glasses, hair a downright mess, and the side of his face red from resting against his arm. When his eyes focus on Ron, it looks like a war rages within him, excitement and guilt and joy and despair all battling across his features, his voice a croak when he breathes out a soft, “Ron.”

“Yeah,” Ron says, trying for a smile. He squeezes Harry’s hand and feels something bubble low in his stomach when Harry squeezes back. “I’m alright, yeah? You don’t have to look at me like I’m dying.”

“You were,” Harry says, more air than noise. “Merlin, Ron, you—you dropped to the floor. You were shaking, foaming at the mouth, like—it looked like you were going to die. You were dying, Ron. If I hadn’t been able to find that bezoarin time, I—”

Ron swallows roughly, shakes his head. “You found it,” he cuts in. “You saved me. Again.”

Harry’s features crumble. “You almost died because of me,” he corrects. “Again.”

Though Ron wants nothing more than to argue against this, he finds it hard to find the words while looking at the tears welling in Harry’s eyes once more, choosing, instead, to use their intertwined hands to pull Harry towards him—keeps pulling, even when Harry tries to resist, until he’s got Harry laying next to him. Manages to move the blanket until it’s over both of them, then clings to Harry just as hard as Harry clings to him, struck by the fact that Harry could have been poisoned, too.

Eventually, they fall asleep, curled into one another—comfortable with each other.

“Boys,” Hermione murmurs, setting Ron’s glass of water on the table besides the bed with a small smile and a fond shake of her head. “When are you two ever going to learn?”

The talk with Hermione starts likethis:

Hermione sits beside him at the edge of the lake and asks, “What’s happening with Lavender Brown?”

Ron frowns, confused. “Nothing,” he tells her. “She snogged me after that Quidditch game and asked me out, but I told her no. We’ve been talking since then, though, in the halls. Might be friends, now, I guess.”

“You don’t fancy her?” Hermione questions, though she asks it like she already knows the answer.

Ron shakes his head. “No, I don’t.”

Hermione looks at him like he’s a puzzle. “Have you figured out why?”

The talk, somehow, ends with this:

“You love him, Ron,” she states simply. “And he loves you, too.”

Ron stares out at the water and feels like it’s easier to breathe.

Malfoy was planning something—but he didn’t follow through, according to Harry. Snape did it, instead.

Dumbledore dies.

Not for the first time, Ron watches as something within Harry dies, too.

“I need to find the Horcruxes,” Harry tells him, mere hours before his seventeenth birthday. He has a bag on one shoulder and his jaw is set in determination, but he seems to be looking over Ron’s shoulder rather than at Ron himself. “I need to find them,” he says, “and I need to destroy them. I need to end this, Ron.”

Ron—standing barefoot in the grass, his heart hammering within his chest because he ran out here and all he saw was Harry walking away, Harry leaving them, leaving him —shakes his head and promises, “We will end this, Harry, I promise you that. But—not like this, okay? Not by running off like this.”

Harry stares down at the toes of his shoes, eyes narrowed into a stubborn glare. “I have to,” he says.

“Why?” Ron asks—demands it, really, as he takes a step forward. “Why right now? Why go alone?”

“To—” Harry stops, squeezes his eyes shut and then blinks them open again to look up at the sky, the stars reflecting in his eyes in a way that’s addicting to look at—even more so, ever since that talk with Hermione, ever since he really realized why Harry is his favorite person, why there is so much that bubbles within his chest whenever they’re together. The moon reflects off his glasses and shines a halo around his hair. “Waiting will only put more people at risk,” Harry says slowly, carefully, as though he’s struggling to piece the words together, plucking them from the jumbled mess within his head and trying to force them into sentences that make sense. “And going alone… it saves you, doesn’t it? You, and Hermione, and—and everyone else. It keeps you two safe.”

Though Ron knows what Harry is trying to say by that, he can’t help the humorless laugh that bubbles from the back of his throat and echoes in the empty air around them. “You think that we’ll be safe?” he questions incredulously. “Mate, we were blood traitor Muggle lovers far before you came into our lives. My family’s had a target on our backs since before I was born because of it. You going off alone won’t keep any of us safe. All you’re going to accomplish is keeping us from being able to help you.”

“I don’t need help,” Harry says sharply. All Ron hears is the absence of a certain word.

“But you want it,” Ron states matter of factly. “Or else you wouldn’t have stopped walking when I came out here. You wouldn’t have let me try to talk you out of going. You want our help, Harry, and it’s okay that you do. No one should have to face the evil of the world by themselves, mate. Least of all you.”

For a moment that seems to last hours, Harry stares up at the sky, lips pressed into a thin line. Then, slowly, he brings his gaze back down until he’s staring over Ron’s right shoulder instead, eyes flickering back and forth from Ron’s face to the point behind him that he’s settled on. Ron isn’t sure what kind of response he’s expecting, doesn’t know what he should prepare himself for, stands tense and anxious and antsy in a way he’s only ever felt in situations related to Harry, until Harry finally releases a long, shaky sort of sigh and says, “If you stay here, I can’t get you killed, and if—if you die because of me, Ron, then I—I don’t even know what I’d do with myself. I can’t even imagine …”

Ron takes another step forward, then two more on top of that, until there’s only a foot or two of space separating them and Harry can’t avoid holding his gaze. “If you leave,” Ron tells him, “and I’m not there to help you out, and you die… do you honestly believe that I’d be any better off than you would, mate?”

Harry stares at him, something calculating and strained crossing over his features. Eventually, he nods, just once, and says, “Fine,” before allowing Ron to take his bag and following him inside.

That night, Ron and Harry sleep in Ron’s bed, curled up and clingy—refusing to let each other go.

There’s this moment, in the middle of Bill and Fleur’s wedding where almost everyone is dancing, and those who aren’t are standing off to the sides, sitting at the tables, bubbly drinks in hand and wide grins in place, teeth on display as they chitter and chatter and laugh, laugh, laugh.

Ron’s one of the standing ones, conversing pleasantly with one of his dad’s coworkers and idly scanning the surrounding area. He spots Hermione—dancing with, surprisingly, Viktor Krum of all people, though Ron knows the two have been in contact since fourth year. Hermione insists they’re only friends but he wonders if that’s true, because Viktor is looking at her with a fondness in his eyes as she speaks excitedly about a topic that Ron can’t hear. He can recognize the light in her eyes, though, and the way her fingers twitch against Viktor’s shoulders, showing that she’s restraining herself from gesturing with her hands to provide a visual behind her words. It makes Ron smile, just slightly.

If Viktor is enamored by her, then Ron thinks it’ll be good for them to be a thing. If they’re just friends, he thinks that they’ll be bloody good friends, as well. Either way, he sees no harm.

Looking away from Hermione and Viktor, Ron continues to scan the crowd, humming along to whatever Arthur’s coworker is blabbering on about—Ron stopped listening when the bloke started going on about coffee filters and communism, whatever the hell those things are—as he looks around. There’s nothing in particular he’s looking for, but he has to admit that his focus seems to gravitate towards one person most of the time, so he isn’t surprised to find his gaze landing on Harry from across the room.

Harry’s talking to Luna, the two engaged in what seems to be a simple conversation, Harry nodding along to something that Luna has to say before responding with something that makes her laugh. Ron’s smile melts into something softer and fonder than it has any right to, and he doesn’t even notice when Arthur’s coworker eventually trails off mid-sentence, shares a knowing sort of look with Arthur himself, who’s dancing in circles with Molly only a few feet away, and then moves to sit at a nearby table, thankfully unbothered by losing Ron’s attention so suddenly. Not that Ron is aware of any of this, of course—he’s still looking at Harry, he’s always looking at Harry, never seems to stop if he ever has the chance.

He must stare for too long, though, because it feels like it’s been hours when Harry turns his head and looks at him right back, the ends of his lips twitching up, up, into a small little smile that’s all fondness and comfort and happiness—a look so rare for Harry James Potter; a look that Ron is proud to be the reason for on the rare occasions that it shows itself.

Ron is thinking about asking Harry to dance—something they’ve done before, dancing together, mostly for the joke of it than anything else, but in a setting like this it can be something normal with a little bit of something more —when the message is sent, the wedding is attacked, and they have to get to safety.

When Hermione apparates them away, Ron makes sure he’s holding onto Harry’s hand with all he’s got.

Retrieving the locket is stressful—and it doesn’t help that Ron keeps thinking about waking up at Grimmauld curled up on the floor of the living room, a blanket draped over him and Harry’s hand still clutching him. Sirius had stood over them with a small, amused kind of love reflecting in his smile, and Ron had basked in it, in how nice of a moment it was, before Sirius had quirked a brow and softly murmured, “When are you going to do something about this, Weasley? That’s my godson, you know.”

Ron had spluttered so badly in response that it made Harry groggily blink himself awake, and that had been reason enough to avoid the question entirely, though Sirius looked like he wanted an answer.

They do get the locket, with some trouble, of course. Ron’s not sure he’ll ever be able to explain the agony burning within him when he gets splinched, He remembers Harry’s frantic voice and Hermione’s shaking hands as she worked to help him, but it’s mostly a blur of confusion and pain until he eventually passes out entirely and everything fades away, leaving him in a restless, dreamless sort of sleep.

When he wakes up, he’s in a tent. He doesn’t know it yet, but this tent is going to be home for a while.

And it’s going to play a role in breaking him.

“Sirius says not to wear it for too long,” Harry tells him, a hand outstretched with his palm up, other hand clutching onto a letter that had to be sent through multiple channels, with multiple owls, before it could reach them somewhat safely. It’s still a risk, they know, but hearing from someone after the past few weeks of staying in a tent, apparating from one forest to the next to stay in hiding as they search and ponder and get absolutely nowhere, feels like a refresher they didn’t realize they needed.

“’Mione already figured that one out,” Ron says, though he maneuvers the locket from around his neck and drops it into Harry’s awaiting palm. “That’s why we’ve been doing shifts with it, isn’t it?”

Harry nods, taking the locket and hanging it around his own neck. “Yeah, but Sirius says to be extra careful with it. Said it likes to target people, get under their skin. I reckon we should do shorter shifts with it until we know for sure that it isn’t trying to target one of us and push us apart.”

Ron glances between green eyes—loves the shade of them, always has. “Not possible, mate,” he says.

He’s wrong.

Merlin, he’s wrong—and he absolutely hates it.

There are many things he regrets, after things explode.

He regrets leaving the very second that he’s gone, regrets it even more so because he doesn’t remember where they were, which forest they had been in, and not knowing means not knowing how to get back. He regrets wearing the locket for longer than he was supposed to, even if he doesn’t regret the reason why: it had been Harry’s turn to wear it but he had been napping, and Ron was supposed to take watch by the tent entrance. It’s so rare for Harry to sleep undisturbed that Ron had assumed he could take the locket’s whispering for another hour or two. He regrets listening to the stupid voice in the back of his head, the foul words and twisted claims of truth that had him gritting his teeth and trying to remind himself it was wrong.

More than anything, though, he regrets what he said.

When the words left his lips, a bitter spat of your parents are dead and you have no family , something awful had crossed Harry’s features, something shattered and broken and betrayed. Despair shined with the tears in his eyes and his posture had slouched into something so crestfallen and heavy that Ron had almost been able to shake away the influence of the locket, had managed to bite down on his tongue but hadn’t been able to keep a hold of it, hadn’t been able to stop himself like he wanted to.

He said it. He said those things, and then he threw the locket, turned around, and left.

Left Harry. Merlin, he left Harry, standing there in the crumbled remains of them.

And he doesn’t know how to get those back.

Sirius Black was never a murdering lunatic. Ron knows that now, even if he didn’t know it back in third year. That doesn’t change the fact that he’s terrifying to face when he’s acting out of protection.

And if there’s anyone that Sirius is protective about, it’s Harry Potter.

“You left,” Sirius deadpans, leveling Ron with a no bullshit kind of look from over the rim of his cup of tea. Ron hunches down on himself at the kitchen table in Grimmauld—the wards had been broken, trying to escape the Ministry and Yaxley managing to catch up with them, but Sirius has spent the months since then rebuilding the place when he hasn’t been working with the Order. Ron’s impressed, he has to admit, because it hadn’t felt lived in before, and now it has a warm sense of safety wafting in the air.

“I left,” Ron murmurs in confirmation. “I didn’t want to, but—the locket, it was in my head, and—”

Sirius holds up a single finger, but that’s enough to bring Ron to a sudden stop, jaw snapping shut with an audible click, eyes downcast and shoulders slumped in defeat. He already knows how badly he’s messed up, knows that it’s the worst time for something like this to happen, as well—hasn’t slept for days while making his way to Grimmauld, because all he sees in his dreams is Hermione getting hurt or Harry dying because Ron isn’t there to help them, because they needed a third person and he left them.

He knows he deserves to be chewed out, yelled at—whatever Sirius plans, he deserves.

Which is why he’s so shocked when, instead of raising his voice, Sirius merely shakes his head, offers a sympathetic smile, and tells him, “I’ve heard of what the locket can do, Ron. It is… horrible, and powerful, and even the strongest of wills would struggle against it. You mustn’t forget how young you still are, the three of you—I’m sure it feels like you’ve aged decades with everything you have faced, with everything you’re currently facing, but you’re only seventeen, you know. Seventeen year olds aren’t supposed to be as grown up as you are, as… mature, I suppose. The fact that you’ve had the locket in your possession for months without any incident until now is remarkable, honestly. You should be proud.”

“Proud?” Ron can’t help the incredulousness that seeps into his words, morphs his features into something gobsmacked and angry. “I said—I told him that he has no family! I said that to his face, knowing full well that it isn’t true, and I walked away after seeing—seeing the look in his eyes—”

“Ronald,” Sirius interrupts. His tone is stern, but not scolding, instead using that certain parental-adult voice that Ron knows better than to talk over, though he wants to, wary as he watches the sadness develop on Sirius’s features. He shakes his head, smile tight lipped despite its softness. “You two are quite the pair, aren’t you? Always blaming yourselves for these things.”

Frowning, Ron asks, “Who else is there to blame?”

Sirius doesn’t hesitate for even a fraction of a moment. “Voldemort,” he states simply. “He’s the one who created the Horcruxes, isn’t he? He’s the one to blame for all of this. For Lily and James, for Arthur’s attack, for the locket and what it’s made you feel, what it’s made you do. For everything, really.”

“But Voldemort didn’t say those things,” Ron insists. “I said them. Alright? Those words came out of my mouth. Harry stood there and heard me say them. Don’t you get it?” Huffing out a haggard sigh, Ron slumps back in his seat, eyes watery. “He’s going to hate me, Sirius. This isn’t… this isn’t fixable. You can’t say those things and expect to be forgiven for them. I can’t do that.”

“The two of you really are hopeless,” Sirius chuckles, shaking his head slightly, eyes alight. “Harry’s hurting, I can’t deny that—the words, though not yours, are bound to hurt. But he’ll forgive you, Ron. If there’s anything I can say withabsolute certainty, it’s that Harry will never be able to hate you. He loves you too much to hate you, and he’ll know you didn’t mean what you said. My bets are on him missing you more than anything else. Probably worried out of his mind wondering if you’re alright.”

Ron presses his lips together into a firm line. He hates the fact that Sirius is right.

“The way I see it,” Sirius continues, “you have two choices. You can stay here—and believe me, as much as I discourage this option, I won’t force you to leave—or you can find your way back to them.”

And Ron knows which one he wants to choose, but… “How do I do that? How do I find them?”

A grin pulling at his lips, Sirius counters the question to ask, “What did Dumbledore leave you again?”

He doesn’t register the cold.

It’s the last thing on his list of priorities, really, how cold the water is, because all he can focus on is the fact that Harry had been in that water only moments before, that Harry had been drowning, the locket had been choking him and, had Ron not been here at just the right moment, he could have—

“You could have died,” Ron breathes, the sword of Godric Gryffindor falling to the snow from limp, shaking fingers, the shattered remains of the locket quiet and cold on the rock they lay on. His eyes are locked on Harry, unable to move away, taking in all of him, all at once, trying to note any injuries, any changes, all the familiarities and the differences, everything that he can. “You could have died, Harry.”

While Ron is focused on the mortality of the boy who lived, Harry seems focused on not falling apart, though he’s visibly trembling from the cold and his skin is pale and he’s clearly not been eating much if the skeletal curve of his cheekbones is anything to go by. He clenches his jaw and crosses his arms over his chest, looks down at the snow and grumbles out, “Don’t say it like that if you don’t really care.”

“Don’t care?” Ron’s jaw quite literally drops, eyes blowing wide. “Of course I bloody care!”

Harry doesn’t look up, but his eyes narrow into slits. “You don’t get to leave,” he says, spitting out the word leave like it’s some kind of curse, “and then come back and say you care. You can’t do that.”

“I left,” Ron says, “because of that.” He flings a hand out to gesture at the broken locket. “I didn’t leave because of you, and I wanted to come back as soon as I was gone, but I didn’t know how. And I know damn well that I’ve proven how much I care, so don’t—don’t act as if I suddenly stopped.”

“How am I supposed to act, then?” Harry questions, finally looking up—looking at Ron.

Ron splutters for a moment, trying to grapple for the words, before settling on a half assed exclamation of, “Like you don’t want me to leave again! Like—I don’t know, like you’re happy to see me, or something. I had an entire apology ready and I haven’t even gotten to say it yet because you were drowning and now you’re acting as if I’m the last person you’d want to see! Should I just go, then?”

It’s—too far, maybe, but it’s a genuine question. Ron had been so sure that, angry as he has every right to be, Harry would still want him here, would want him to come back, but Harry’s only looked at him once since Ron pulled him out of the water (twice, if he counts the scathing glare that was just redirected towards him only a moment ago) and it’s making him wonder if he was wrong. If Sirius was wrong.

But the moment that Ron’s words are out there, Harry’s glare drops into something vulnerable. Sad.

“No,” he murmurs, barely even a whisper, the wind having to carry the sound to Ron’s ears. Even then, it’s hard to understand what he’s saying. “No, I—I don’t want you to go, Ron. I’d never—”

He stops. Swallows the lump in his throat.

“I could never want you to leave,” he finally settles on saying. “I just—I thought you wanted to go.”

Something clogs up in Ron’s throat, and he shakes his head, the action slow yet precise, making sure to keep his eyes locked with Harry’s as he responds with, “Merlin, Harry. Why would I want to leave you?”

Harry stares at him for what feels like a long time, fingers twitching at his side, damp hair a drying mess atop his head, glasses smudged to all hell and crooked on the slope of his nose, clothes wet and wrinkled and askew. He’s a right mess, sure, but Ron doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything more beautiful, doesn’t think he ever will. Hears it, echoing in his head, when Hermione had said, You love him.

Hears it just as loud, if not louder, when she told him, And he loves you, too.

“The locket,” Ron says—croaks, more like it, voice coming out in an unintentional rasp, though he doesn’t bother clearing his throat to fix it, feeling as though doing so may make his words come across as ingenuine or false. “The things it made me think, the things it told me, it… I tried to fight it, Harry, I swear to you that I did. Almost managed to break through, too, right before I left, but it got in my head and it stayed there, and it—Blimey, I wish more than anything that I could go back and stay, but—”

“But it’s already done,” Harry cuts in. Steps forward, hesitant and unsure, then does so again when Ron doesn’t so much as blink in response. His features are open and expressive, voice tinging on something similar to hopeful as he says, “I’m—upset, obviously, that you left, but I—I knew, then, and I know now, too, that it wasn’t really you. It just—hurt more, I suppose, because it was you that did it. It felt like you were the one saying those things, even if it wasn’t, and—and—it’s done, yeah? You’re back now. Right?”

“I’m back now.” Ron steps forward, too. “I don’t—I’m not leaving again. Alright?”

Another step from Harry. “You’re sure?”

Ron hesitates, then says, “I can’t promise that nothing will be able to make me leave, but I can swear that, if I have any choice in the matter, then I’m not going to go anywhere. I’m going to be here. With you.”

Harry’s lips quirk. “And Hermione. Didn’t forget about her, did you?”

“Never will, but—but she isn’t you, yeah?”

The small smile falls, and Harry stares once more, calculative and careful and brimming with hope. “She isn’t you, either,” he eventually says, his voice so soft, it makes Ron’s chest ache. “Yeah?”

Though his mouth feels, suddenly, quite dry, Ron’s able to reply with a little, “Yeah,” without an issue.

It’s not all he wants to say, but the words he had planned out fail him, dying on the back of his tongue and putting pressure against the backs of his teeth. He doesn’t know where to go from here, but he doesn’t want to leave it at that, either—can’t just walk back to the tent and call it a day. Sure, that’s what he usually does, lets the conversation drift once it seems most fitting rather than pressing for more, because he’s been of the mindset that, should anything… progress, perhaps, then it should do so naturally.

But Harry was drowning. Ron left because of an evil locket that told him he had no reason to stay.

Naturally is taking too long in his book. They may be running out of time.

“Harry—” Ron falters, trying to untangle his tongue and takes another step closer. Harry doesn’t move, simply stares, that wide eyed vulnerable look crossing his features. Ron wets his lower lip, takes yet another step forward, leaving them within arm’s reach of one another. “I… I missed you, you know?”

“Yeah,” Harry mutters. “Yeah, I missed you, too.”

Ron shakes his head, brows furrowing. “But I— missed you. I still feel like I miss you and you’re standing right in front of me. It’s—I mean, I don’t know how to—how to say it, but I missed you. More than…” he trails off, wants to reach out but isn’t sure if he should. “I missed you more than a best mate should.”

It’s a terrifying, terrifying admission, no matter the fact that Hermione and Sirius have both told him that Harry loves him, too. There’s a chance that they’re wrong, even if it isn’t likely. There’s an even bigger chance that Harry loving him might not be enough after Ron said what he said and did what he did. Maybe, had Ron tried to have this conversation before leaving, it would have worked, no problem. Maybe it’s going to be harder now, because maybe—maybe Harry won’t want to love him. Not anymore, at least.

After all, why would he want to love Ron, of all people? Ron, who abandoned him at the start of the Triwizard Tournament. Who left him, stranded him and Hermione, and is trying to return like he deserves to be welcomed back at all. Ron—who promised himself, when they first met, and more forcefully after they made amends after the first task of the tournament, to never, ever be the cause for Harry’s pain. Ron, who took that promise and tore it to shreds with four simple words— you have no family —and then left.

But Harry doesn’t look like someone who’s about to lash out or turn Ron down. Instead, he darts his tongue out to wet his lower lip, keeps his eyes steady on Ron as he asks, “Is that a bad thing?”

Ron pauses, unsure, and slowly says, “If you think it is.”

“I don’t,” Harry tells him. “I don’t think it’s a bad thing, because I… I missed you like that, too.”

“You…” Ron has to stop, his heart feeling lodged in his throat as it thunders rapidly, shakes his rib cage and makes his fingers tremble where they curl into his palms. It’s still cold—it’s freezing, really, snow on the ground, their clothes still damp, hair drying against foreheads—yet Ron feels inexplicably warm, roasting under his soaking layers of clothes. Still, he shivers. “You know what I mean, right?”

Harry glances down, up again, takes Ron in from head to toe, and then he steps forward, closes what little space is left of them, puts them chest to chest and has Harry angling his head back to keep their eyes locked, sea green looking into shimmering blue, and he says, “Tell me if I’ve got it wrong.”

And then—then, they’re kissing.

In retrospect, it isn’t really all that pleasant. Their lips are chapped and cold and Harry’s are slightly spit slick from licking his lower lip only moments before, but it’s—it’s Harry, and it’s Ron, and it’s them, and it’s perfect. Blimey, it’s more perfect than Ron could have ever imagined, and he melts into it like the warmest embrace, the most comforting hug, unfurls his shaking fists and raises trembling fingers to curl along the slope of Harry’s jaw, the curve of his cheeks, feels their noses nudge and brush together because the moment their lips part they’re both leaning back for more, and more, and more, and more.

Somewhere behind Ron, the sword lays, momentarily forgotten, in the snow. Behind Harry, the locket, an empty vessel for something that had been horrible and vile, now surrounded by shattered pieces, harmless. In the middle of them, Ron and Harry, Harry and Ron, kissing, kissing, and kissing some more.

Once he knows he’s allowed to kiss Harry, it becomes increasingly hard to stop.

Kisses him after they’re captured and put in the locked cellar of Bellatrix’s home, because he had been so worried but Harry is okay, more or less. Kisses away his tears when they have to bury Dobby, though Harry doesn’t even acknowledge that he’s crying, features so vacant and blank that it’s scary, just a bit. Kisses him again before they leave for Gringotts and after they manage to escape.

Whenever he can, wherever it’s possible, Ron kisses him.

He hopes it conveys what they haven’t yet said—what he’s too afraid to say, terrified it may shatter the very fabric of the world and warp reality into something unfamiliar and unknown, something impossible to navigate when added on top of all this mess. He loves Harry, he does—Merlin, he thinks he’s been in love since they were twelve years old and Harry had grinned at him, grateful and sheepish, after Ron scraped some of his own breakfast onto Harry’s plate—but now isn’t the right time to say it.

To some—to Hermione, really—it seems like the perfect time, and for other people, it probably would be. Their lives are on the line, after all, on a day to day basis. They’re in the middle of a war. For some people, for most people, maybe, that would make this the best time to say it, before they may lose the chance to, but… Ron doesn’t want the first time he says it to be out of fear. He doesn’t want to hear Harry say those words because he thinks they won’t make it until the end of the week.

When he says it—when he hears it—he wants it to be a moment of peace. Of joy. Of raw, genuine love.

He waits to say it, but he hopes that, with every kiss he gives, Harry knows what he means.

“The Basilisk,” Harry repeats—breathes it out with a look of awe, staring at Ron with a wide, toothy sort of grin. “That’s brilliant, Ron! I have to—but you should go, yeah? You and ‘Mione, you can go get the Basilisk fang, and we can—we can meet here, after? Figure out what to do next?”

The war is in full effect. Hogwarts is being attacked, crumbling around them with explosions and spells and bodies crumpling at their feet, but how to end it is in sight. They have a plan. It’s messy, it’s last minute, and it may not work, but it’s a plan, and if they can do it, maybe they can win. Maybe this can be over, and Ron will be able to tell Harry the words stuck on the back of his tongue. He swallows them down for now, thinks to himself, You can tell him soon, and instead nods once and says, “Alright.”

“Be careful,” Hermione tells Harry, pressing a kiss to his cheek and clutching onto Ron’s wrist.

“You, too,” Harry tells them—grabs Ron by the collar of his shirt, kisses him once, quick, and lets go.

Soon, Ron reminds himself—and then he walks away.

Ron’s knee is bouncing uncontrollably as he sits on the steps, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, teeth grinding together and a ringing in his ears. It’s been over fifteen minutes since him and Hermione returned from the Chamber of Secrets, since they took a seat and started waiting, and he wants to insist that Harry’s just caught up in something, that he’s on the way, but—but he’s so scared of the mere idea that he could be wrong. That Harry isn’t on the way, because he might be—he could be—

Footsteps come from behind them, and Ron is leaping to his feet before he even realizes he’s moving, spinning around with wide eyes and his heart lodged in his throat, and he sees Harry slowly walking towards them, looking… looking awful, really. Like the weight of the world has doubled on his shoulders, his skin ashy and pale, bruises littered across wherever Ron can see, dirt and sweat and grime. And, in stripes down his cheeks, perfectly clear skin. Tears, Ron realizes. He was crying.

“I thought.” Ron struggles to speak, but he forces himself to, anyway. “I thought you went to the forest.”

“That’s where I’m headed now,” Harry says, his tone bland and vacant and empty. He shoulders past Ron, walks by Hermione, as if they aren’t even there. As if he doesn’t really see them.

Ron turns, lungs battling to expand with his sharp, sudden inhale. “What?! You can’t—”

Life sparks within Harry once again, so sudden and striking that it’s almost terrifying to watch, as Harry spins around to glares at Ron and spits out, “I have to! Don’t you get it? I have to. I—I have no choice!”

“You always have a choice,” Ron tells him.

Harry clenches his jaw, shakes his head, and stares down at the floor. “Not this time,” he says.

Though Ron isn’t quite sure when Hermione got to her feet, he doesn’t startle when she appears by his side, reaching out to grasp Harry by the wrist, something awful and understanding in her eyes, even as denial battles over her features. “Tell us,” she says, hushed and broken. “Tell us what you know.”

For a long time, Harry doesn’t move, doesn’t seem to even breathe, chest stuttering over failed attempts at inhales, rattling around forced breaths that sound more painful than anything else. The fight bleeds out of him, sends his shoulders slumping and eyes gathering more tears that he tries to blink away. When he eventually looks up again, meeting Hermione’s eyes before looking over to hold Ron’s gaze, there’s a horrible acceptance there that’s so much worse than anything Ron had seen before, when Ron had told him that he wouldn’t let him die, had promised it, to Harry and to himself. His voice is a croaky, rasped out mess of defeat and despair and so many other things, but all he says is, “I’m a Horcrux, too.”

Hermione’s eyes flutter closed, and, for the first time since they were eleven, she looks angry at having been right, at knowing the answer before having to be told. Ron maintains his eye contact with Harry, feels a lump form in his throat and has to force himself to swallow it down. “No,” he says. “No, Harry.”

“When Voldemort…” Harry trails off, shaking his head with a stuttering chest. “When he killed my parents, and he—he tried to kill me but couldn’t… he left part of himself within me, without realizing it. He doesn’t know it, but he created a seventh Horcrux that night, and the only way to kill him—”

“No,” Ron says again, more forcefully, reaching out to cup Harry’s face in his hands and shaking his head, a horrible mass of emptiness and heartbreak churning in his chest. “Not happening, alright? I’m not letting you die. I told you that, didn’t I? And I’m not going back on it, Harry. You’re not dying.”

Harry leans into Ron’s palms, eyes closing, features pained. “I have to,” he whispers. “If I don’t…”

Something awful leeches onto Ron’s pain, has him baring his teeth and demanding, “Why does everyone else have to matter more than you? Why can’t—Why can’t we make sure you get to grow old with me?”

“I’m sorry,” Harry breathes, features crumbling, tears rolling down his cheeks. “I don’t want to die.”

Hearing Harry apologize is striking enough to settle Ron’s anger towards the world, but hearing him admit that he doesn’t want to go, that he wouldn’t, if he didn’t have to, is enough for Ron to understand that he can’t stop this, no matter how badly he wishes he could. So, instead of trying to convince Harry to stay—knowing it’ll be a hopeless thing to try—he settles on saying, “You’re not going alone, then. I—”

Instantly, Harry’s eyes are open, alight with a fierceness so intense that it’s hard to remember that, merely moments before, he was weeping and saying he doesn’t want to die. “You’re not coming with me,” he states, says it like a fact, not an argument or a debate. There’s no wiggle room in his tone, no way for Ron to insist otherwise, to convince him to not go by himself. “You’re staying here, Ron. You’re living. Alright?”

Ron wants to say no, wants to go with Harry, anyway. But, if this is happening, he doesn’t want his last moments with Harry to be ones of arguing. Because of that, he pushes away his urge to fight back and decides on murmuring his painful, agonizing truth. “I won’t be living,” he whispers. “Not without you.”

Harry’s lower lip trembles. He sinks his teeth into it until it stops. “You’ll learn how to,” he says.

“I don’t want to learn,” Ron tells him. “I want you, Harry. Here, and alive, and with me.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispers again. “I’m sorry, Ron.”

He doesn’t want to say it’s okay—none of this is, none of it has been for a very long time—but he also doesn’t want Harry to think it’s him that Ron is upset at. So, he kisses him.

It tastes like bitter acceptance and the saltiness of tears.

Fred is hurt—badly, it seems, but not bad enough to stop himself from asking, “Where’s Harry?”

George looks up and over, hands clasping onto one of Fred’s, both of them pale and small where they are on the floor, the rest of the Weasley’s standing around them, bruised and battered but breathing. Ron looks at them all, wonders if they know the changes that have happened, wonders if they know that Harry isn’t just Harry anymore, that he’s so much more and has been, to Ron, for an incredibly long time.

“He left,” Ron tells them—tells them all, voice rough and cracking. “To the forest.”

Instantly, Molly is holding a shaking hand over her mouth, tears pooling in her eyes. Arthur looks grave and heavy, settles a hand on his wife’s shoulder and guides her into his arms she starts to sob. Ginny looks stricken, clutches onto Luna’s hand and sets her jaw, while Fred and George share a pained look.

Bill settles a hand between Ron’s shoulder blades, looking saddened. “I’m sorry, Ronnie,” he says.

Ron nods once, the action curt. “So am I.”

The only thing worse than having to watch Harry walk away from him is having to watch as Hagrid carries him back. He knows he isn’t the only one there, isn’t the only one watching, grieving, as Voldemort leads his army to the metaphorical— literal —steps of Hogwarts, Hagrid in chains and cradling the limp, pale body of the boy who lived in his arms, against his chest like he’s still trying to protect him, but he can’t be bothered to register anyone else in this moment, in his agony.

Ron doesn’t remember his legs giving out, but he remembers the shockwaves of pain when his knees hit the ground, remembers Hermione kneeling next to him and helping to hold him up.

When Neville speaks, Ron doesn’t hear what he has to say—doesn’t register much of anything, his focus honed in on the boy he loves (and that, he believes, is a much more important title than the boy who lived; even more so now that only one of those titles is still true) and the splintering ache within his chest.

Hermione laughs—bright, bubbly, surprised, happy—when Harry rolls out of Hagrid’s arms— alive —and fumbles to catch the wand that Malfoy throws him as he sprints back to the other side, away from Voldemort, away from his mother and his father, calling out a desperate, “Potter!” when he does.

Part of Ron laughs, too, just as incredulous and overjoyed. The rest of him only weeps in relief.

In the rubbles of the aftermath, there is noise. Voices, mostly—people cheering, thanking Merlin and crying tears of joy over the fact that it’s over, it’s done. Voldemort is really, truly gone. They can rest.

Ron doesn’t join the celebrations just yet, because he’s too busy spinning around, looking left and right, frantic and antsy and desperate, more desperate than he’s ever felt before, seeking out black hair and green eyes and a lightning shaped scar, wanting nothing more than to find him, find him, find him—

And there he is, limping into the courtyard, looking tired and haggard and beaten to all hell, but he’s alive, and he’s breathing, and, despite how rough he looks, he also seems to be lighter than Ron ever remembers seeing him before. A grin pulls at his lips, and it hurts, almost, because he’s sore from all the fighting, tired from thinking he had lost Harry and finding out he hadn’t, and he wants to sleep it off, but he doesn’t want to do it alone. All it takes is a weak push from Fred, who’s leaning heavily against George but still, somehow, managing to stay on his feet, and a look from George, as well as Hermione’s little murmur of, “Go on, Ron,” for him to get moving, pushing through the crowd to get to Harry before anyone else can notice that he’s here, not wanting to lose this reunion to a crowd of people all rushing the hero who saved the day—especially since he knows Harry won’t see himself as that at all.

“Harry,” Ron tries to call, but it comes out strangled, not nearly loud enough to grab his love’s attention. He clears his throat, ducks under someone’s arm, and tries again, louder now. “Harry! Harry!”

Maybe he shouldn’t be shouting, as all it does is draw attention to Harry’s presence, defeating the purpose of not wanting anyone to notice that he’s here, but Ron can’t be bothered to care because he gets to Harry before anyone else can—reaches out just as Harry looks at him with green eyes full of awe and love and joy, sees Harry reach for him, too—and then they clash into each other, arms wrapping around shoulders, hands latching onto hips and waists and clothes, not wanting to let go.

“You’re here,” Ron breathes. “You’re here. Merlin, you’re still here.”

“I love you,” Harry tells him, murmurs it into his ear and burrows into his shoulder and shakes with the moment, the feeling of it all. “I wanted to say it before, but it—it would have felt sad. I didn’t want—”

Ron nods, closes his eyes and holds Harry tighter. “I know,” he says. “I love you, too. So bloody much, it’s a little bit insane, really. Think I’ve been in love with you since we were twelve years old.”

Harry leans back, just enough to smile up at him, tired but here and happy and alive. “I think I’ve loved you since you didn’t treat me oddly on the train. Does that mean I win, then? Since I loved you first?”

“I don’t care,” Ron says honestly—because he doesn’t, really. He feels like he’s won simply by having Harry here to love, and if Harry wants to have the win of loving Ron first then he can have that all that he wants, so long as Ron gets to keep his win, too—gets to keep Harry, here, in his arms, breathing.

It seems as if Harry understands that, because he goes all soft and warm, features becoming open and gentle and loving, brimming with love, overwhelmingly so. “I don’t care, either,” he admits. “I just—”

Ron kisses him, doesn’t care that people are here, looking, watching. Doesn’t care about anything else.

Just Harry and him. Him and Harry. Them, together, as they should be.

(Fred and George wolf whistle behind them. Ron flips them the bird without even breaking away, though Harry must know what he’s doing anyway, because he laughs against Ron’s lips.

It’s the most wonderful feeling that Ron has ever experienced.)