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Chapter Text

“FUCK!!” 

Ron would've gone through every curse and profane word he knew methodically and alphabetically if he had the time. As it was, he was too busy falling to his death to find the exact word that could depict his profound feelings at his current situation. 

For a second, he couldn't tell up from down, arms flailing around wildly, his long ponytail smacking him across his face once, twice, and thrice for good measure. 

His day had started with a raid on the under-rebuilding-process ministry, because of course it had. Normal was subjective when you were the best friend of the boy-who-lived-died-then-lived-again. Apparently Ron was just as prone to being a victim of cosmic bullshit a.k.a. fate as Harry but without the absurd luck that came with that.

So here he was, seconds before his ultimate demise (oh God let him live), hoping against hope to catch something before his hand came in contact with something solid, the edge of the veil, he realised. He tried to push himself forward, the screams deafening whatever Harry was shouting at him from the other side of the door. 

Merlin, it was difficult to see the devastated and horror-stricken face. he thought he heard Hermione, too, but it was impossible because she was at the Grimmauld Place, waiting for him to come back. He managed a step out from the silvery haze that was obscuring his vision before it felt like hundreds of hands latched onto him, dragging him back to beyond the veil. He screamed. 

All he could think of was that he needed Hermione like he needed breathing. He'd promised her he'd come back. He can't make his family suffer again for losing him. One Weasley was enough. Death was one greedy bastard, and Ron wouldn't give him the satisfaction of taking another one so soon. 

He thought of Hermione, disapparated, and blacked out.

Ron found his way back to consciousness rather abruptly, his wrists ached something fierce, and his whole body felt like someone had put it through a wringer. It was a moderately familiar feeling. For a moment, he thought he was still asleep, dreaming, or rather, having a very realistic nightmare. 

He clenched his hands, trying to bring them to his hammering head, but ended up pulling against the rope bound tightly. The pain helped him focus. Pulling him out of his head. He could taste blood. Tasted like metal. He was quite familiar with the taste. Next, he focused on his hearing, and beyond his heavy breathing, he could hear hushed silence.

He was on the floor of what looked like the Kitchen in Grimmauld Place. Good, he made it. But why was he tied up? Slowly, he rolled over so he was on his stomach before bringing his knees under his torso to sit up. It was quite difficult with his hands tied behind his back. 

Strands of red hair escaped his ponytail, flopping onto his face. Even with limited vision, he could see several pairs of oddly familiar boots and various wand ends pointed to his kneeling self. He gave a startled yelp as he was suddenly lifted off the ground with a levitation spell. It thankfully pulled his hair back, uncovering his eyes and allowing him to look at his captures. 

His eyes widened as he came face-to-face with Alaster Moody. Ron didn't even get a chance to voice his confusion before he was flung down rather forcefully on a chair. He, involuntarily, closed his eyes and let out a grunt at the impact. Ouch! He felt that in his spine because his butt had little to no cushion. Sometimes Weasley genetics were a literal pain in the ass.

He opened his eyes and looked around the room. Moody stood there, with his wand pointed at Ron's face. Behind him were the stern faces of Sirius, Lupin, and Tonks. Bill stood toward the back, arms crossed over his chest, his expression guarded. Ron just stared at them, mouth hanging open. Dumbledore, with his ridiculous robes and equally ridiculous beard, stood to Moody’s right.  It was like he was back in the summer before Fifth Year. The tension in the room was palpable, their eyes sharp with suspicion. 

Moody tapped the end of his wand under Ron's chin, lifting his face a little. 

“Who the hell are you? And how did you get past the Fidelius?” 

Ron looked around the room full of people with something akin to horror and morbid fascination. Some standing up, some halfway out of their seats. All of them looked at him with suspicion. 

"Your name, boy!" Moody, who was supposed to be dead, demanded. 

“I am afraid we're short on time, Moody. Bring out the Veritaserum.” Dumbledore, who was supposed to be, at least, as dead as Moody, spoke gently, breaking through Ron’s shocked state.

“Now, wait a minute!” Ron leaned to the side to look behind the man. His gaze fell on his oldest brother. 

“Bill! What the fuck is going on?! Why the hell am I tied up?” Bill's eyes widened dramatically as if he wasn't expecting Ron to call him out. There was no recognition in those warm brown eyes. Ron's heart sank. Was this some kind of morbid joke? Even the twins wouldn't dare try this kind of stunt, especially since Fred was gone and George had always been the gentler of the two. 

“George! This isn't fucking funny!” He called out just to be sure. Ron struggled against the rope. A sharp pain shot through his left arm, a souvenir from the war, and he stopped. The whole arm spasmed with intense pain as he bit his lips to stop himself from crying out. 

A hand roughly grabbed his hair and jerked his head back. Ron dug his heels in, almost flipping the chair back before someone grabbed his shoulders and straightened him, head still bent back painfully. Kingsley was standing behind him, hands like iron clamps on his shoulders. He hadn't even realised the man was in the room. Moody brought a vial to his lip, and Ron ground his teeth and pressed his lips tightly, struggling against the scarred man's grip in his hair. 

Kingsley lifted one hand from his shoulder and brought it to Ron's jaw, fingers digging into his cheek until he was forced to open his mouth. A strangled sound escaped him before Moody forced three drops down his throat.

Immediately, both sets of hands disappeared, and Ron was left panting, hair falling down his shoulders in disarray. He could hear the rush of blood in his ears. He glared up at his captors. 

“Now then, what is your full name?” There was no point in struggling against the serum, but Ron tried anyway.

“Ronald Billius Weasley.”

The wave of silence was disconcerting.

Chapter Text

“Who sent you?”

“Nobody.”

It had been what felt like hours. Ron was still tied to the chair, the coarse ropes biting into his wrists with each futile twist. The chair creaked beneath him, its uneven legs scraping faintly against the cold stone floor whenever he shifted. His arms ached, his fingers numb from lack of circulation. There was an itch behind his ear he couldn’t scratch, and his stomach was starting to eat itself. Kingsley had left some time ago.

But none of that mattered. His mind was fixed on the seemingly impossible questions. He wasn’t hallucinating. The bite of the rope against his wrist was very real. 

Moody’s magical eye spun wildly, the blue orb twitching and rolling in its socket. His good eye was cold and sharp, fixed on Ron like he could see through his skull. “How’re you alive?” 

Ron spat. “That’s my line, asshole!” His voice came out rougher than he intended, but honestly, he thought it was a fair question. It was a sign the serum was wearing off.

Moody’s gaze sharpened. “Are you part of the Dark Lord’s army?” He said, ignoring Ron’s jab.

Ron resisted the urge to scream. “No! I’m not a Death Eater!” His voice rose with the effort to control his temper. The room swam slightly as he sat up straighter. “I’m a member of the Order!” His eyes darted around the dim kitchen. “Who holds interrogations in the bloody kitchen, by the way? You’d think someone would’ve at least offered tea.”

Moody’s expression didn’t change, but the ropes around Ron’s wrists tightened. He bit his lip to suppress a pained hiss.

“How did you find the location?”

“I disapparated!” Really, it was the third time they’d asked that. “I told you—I’m keyed into the Fidelius!”

It was Dumbledore who spoke next, voice calm and measured. “Are there any other outsiders aware of Grimmauld Place?”

Ron exhaled sharply through his nose. His chest burned from the effort. “As far as I know, the only people who know about Grimmauld Place are the members of the Order.”

“And yet,” Moody said darkly, “you showed up unannounced.”

“Because I. Am. A. Member. Of. The. Order.” Ron bit out each word with clenched teeth. A dull ache had settled behind his eyes, pulsing with every beat of his heart. 

“So you’re not working for the Dark Lord?”

 “NO!” How many times was he going to have to say it? He was ready to throw hands at this point. “Should I write it down for you? Or maybe just scream it into a Pensieve so you lot can replay it whenever you get confused?”

Moody’s magical eye spun, clicking faintly.  “Watch yourself, lad.” 

Ron rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything. The movement made his vision blur for a second—probably because his stomach had started staging a full-on protest. It had been hours since he'd last eaten, and even longer since he'd seen anything that resembled a bed

A hand touched Ron’s shoulder. Firm, steady. Ron turned his head and met Bill’s gaze. His brother’s hand was warm, grounding. Somewhere during the whole ‘interrogation’, Bill had crossed the room to stand behind him. Apparently, admitting under Veritaserum that he really was Ron Weasley was enough to soften Bill —even if the others hadn’t stopped regarding him with suspicion.

But then Ron’s gaze drifted to Bill’s face—and his brow creased. He’d noticed something was off before, but it only hit him now what the hell was wrong. No scars. His skin was smooth, untouched. The thought made Ron’s shoulders stiffen again. He would very much liked to be informed whatever the fuck was going on before he lost his mind.

They’d questioned him over and over again. He was ready to tear his hair out. His left arm had gone completely numb. The magic in the house felt familiar with the dark and foreboding atmosphere that accompanied the cold. It made him shudder involuntarily. And the cold in the room was starting to creep beneath his skin. Ron hadn't missed the feeling since he'd cleaned out the whole mansion with Harry and Hermione right after the war. 

“I think that's enough,” Bill said finally, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife wrapped in silk. “I’d agree, Alastor.” Dumbledore’s voice was calm. His blue eyes, sharp despite their softness, flicked toward Moody. “I believe Mr. Weasley has answered enough questions for tonight.”

Moody’s eye twitched. His hand tightened around his wand—then he stepped back with a low grunt. Ron exhaled slowly, letting the tension drain from his shoulders. Gaze flicking across the room — and finally, finally, he had the chance to really look at everyone.

They were standing far off in the other corner of the room. But all within hearing range. And they were all looking right back at him.

It wasn’t subtle, either. The weight of their combined scrutiny was enough to make Ron’s skin crawl. Sirius was perched on the edge of the table, one leg dangling off the side. He wasn’t even trying to hide the way he was watching Ron—grey eyes alight with curiosity sparking behind the lazy amusement.

 Lupin, seated nearby, wore that thoughtful expression Ron remembered from his school days—the kind that meant he was piecing things together. Tonks was lounging across a rickety chair, spinning her wand between her fingers, though her gaze kept drifting back to Ron, brows furrowed.

Nice to see you again. By the way, I was at your funeral .?

Dumbledore stepped forward and pointed his wand at him. It took every ounce of willpower in him not to yelp in fright, but he didn't manage to stop himself from closing his eyes and flinching back, jerking Bill's hand off of his shoulder. No one in their right mind would want Dumbledore’s wand pointed at them.

But nothing happened instead, he felt the ropes loosen around his wrist and fall away. This time he couldn't hold back a pained hiss. It felt like thousands of pins and needles stabbing into his arms and shoulders as he tried to bring them in front of him. He gritted his teeth against the agonizing burning in his left shoulder and managed to rest his hands in his lap. 

He felt breathless and a little light-headed from the effort. Head hanging low and hair slipping from the sad excuse of the ponytail. Bill, Dumbledore, and Moody waited patiently for him to compose himself. Ever since the clash at the Ministry in his fifth year, his arms had been plagued by a dull ache that flared into sharp, twisting jolts with the slightest overexertion, as if the muscles themselves resented any effort to push past their limits.

The room was dimly lit, only a few flickering candles casting long, restless shadows across the stone walls. The air was thick with the scent of old wood and the faint, musty bite of damp stone. His stomach twisted uncomfortably — not just from the tension. The gnawing hunger and thirst left him feeling shaky, slightly off balance.

“Ronald,” he looked up, eyes narrowed. His gaze drifted toward the others—toward faces that shouldn’t have been there. Or couldn’t have been there. This was the first time any of them had called him by his name instead of “boy” and “lad”. “How exactly did you come to be here?” Dumbledore’s voice was mild, but there was a quiet gravity beneath it. He lifted a hand just as Ron opened his mouth, a gentle but unmistakable gesture for silence. “No need to rush, my boy,” he said, his blue eyes glinting behind his half-moon glasses. “Rather, I would like to know—what, precisely, were you doing before you arrived?”

Ron paused. Thinking. The Veritaserum had worn off, and he was under no obligation to answer. But he needed answers as well, and that meant playing along—at least for now. His gaze flicked toward Dumbledore, then to Moody’s spinning eye, then to Bill, now standing in front of him to his right. Fine. He could give them something—just enough to get some answers in return.

“I will tell you what I can. But in return, you’ll answer my questions.” 

He pushed himself to his feet, the chair scraping harshly against the stone floor. His legs were stiff, circulation slow to return, his knees wobbled slightly, threatening to betray him. Straightening up, he hoped his dignity was holding up better than his legs. If nothing else, he was not going to give them the satisfaction of seeing him fall apart. He swore to Merlin, if he collapsed right now in front of all of them, he might actually die of humiliation. 

Moody’s magical eye clicked toward him, and Tonks’ gaze sharpened. Lupin’s brow lifted slightly. Ron squared his shoulders, muscles tight with lingering discomfort, but he held his ground.

Very well,” Dumbledore said, giving him a small, almost imperceptible nod. 

“We were handling a raid—Death Eater remnants trying to sneak into the Department of Mysteries. It broke into an all-out fight. I was in the death chamber along with-” He cut himself off. No need to give them any more information than strictly necessary. He rubbed a hand over his face, fingers dragging through his hair.

“Anyways, I remember being pushed to the Veil…”  he trailed off unsure how to continue. 

Lupin’s brow furrowed. Sirius leaned forward slightly. Slowly, the others began to close in, forming a loose circle around him. Tonks drifted closer, Sirius unfolded from the table with lazy ease, and Lupin stepped into the edge of his peripheral vision.b Ron’s gaze drifted toward Dumbledore. The old wizard’s expression remained calm, but his eyes tracked every movement.

“And?” the headmaster prompted.

Ron’s mouth tightened. “And I fell,” he said quietly. “Got dragged through.” His hand twitched at the memory of those phantom hands clutching at him, pulling him down into the unknown. He clenched his fist involuntarily, feeling the echo of that unseen grip. “I disapparated just before I hit the other side. I live here…. The Grimmaul Place, so it was where I planned to apparate to….but apparently something went wrong.” Understatement of the year.

Tonks frowned. “You disapparated from inside the Veil?”

Ron couldn’t blame her for the disbelief in her tone—he wouldn’t have believed himself either. “Yeah…”

“But that’s….. Impossible,” Lupin said, thoughtfully.

He shrugged. “Welcome to my life.”

“Hmm,” “Hm.” Dumbledore’s eyes glinted behind his half-moon glasses, thoughtful. “And what year did this… raid take place?”

Ron’s brows pulled together. “1999. Just after my birthday.”

The silence that followed was deafening. He had a feeling where this was about to go. Ron wasn’t unfamiliar with time mishaps. Especially with the Time Turners becoming more common. He’d handled two cases involving students trapping themselves in a time loop thanks to the irresponsible use of Time-Turners. But nothing like this. The longest recorded time jump was a month. But….

Ron’s gaze swept the room. Everyone was watching him with the same expression—carefully blank, with that creeping undercurrent of disbelief. All of them inexplicably alive. This wasn’t a small jump—it was years.

“Ron,” Bill said carefully, his voice low. “It’s 1994.”

Ron’s chest tightened painfully. Five years .

“That’s not—” Ron shook his head sharply. The edges of his vision blurred for a moment. He blinked hard, forcing himself to focus. “That’s not possible.” But then again, he’d known that the only way to justify the presence of the dead by his side was either that he was hallucinating or that he’d traveled impossibly far back into the past.

“And yet,” Dumbledore said mildly, “here you are.” 

Five years. He looked at the others. The faces around him… they were younger. Lupin’s face wasn’t lined the way it should have been. Tonks’ hair was bubblegum pink, bright, and messy—careless in a way that suggested innocence she shouldn’t have anymore. Sirius looked like he’d actually had a full meal within the last decade. Even Moody…his scars weren’t as deep. Honestly, it was a bit unfair how much better they all looked.

The world spun again, faster this time, and Bill’s hand darted out to steady him. Ron yanked his shoulder away instinctively, a burst of pride flaring inside him, refusing to let anyone see how close he was to crumbling.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, his voice hoarse from exhaustion, his teeth gritting against the vulnerability gnawing at him

“You’re not,” Bill said quietly, his brow furrowing in concern. It was so easy to read in his voice—this wasn’t the Bill who was fighting a war. This was the Bill who was still fresh-faced, unscarred. It made Ron feel like he was the one with all the wear and tear.

“Perhaps some food, and rest, would be a wise start.” Dumbledore’s eyes gleamed faintly. 

Ron’s jaw tightened. He hated the vulnerability creeping beneath his skin, hated how unsteady he felt. But his limbs were aching, his chest was tight, and his head was beginning to spin. The only thing worse than being interrogated was passing out in the middle of it.

“…Yeah,” he admitted finally, the word barely above a breath.

Sirius pushed off the table. “I’ll get something.”

Chapter Text

An hour later, Ron sat stiffly at the worn wooden table, a half-eaten sandwich and a cup of lukewarm tea sitting in front of him. He hadn’t touched either in a while. The food had helped steady him somewhat. 

In hindsight, he really should’ve asked Dumbledore how he could get back before the old man left. Tonks and Lupin left a minute later. A copy of Prophet with ‘SCENES OF TERROR AT THE QUIDITCH WORLD CUP. by Rita Skeeter.’ sat on his table. Now he could understand why everyone was in such a hurry, why Kingsley had shoved the Veritasirum down his throat before he had a chance to open his mouth.

Bill and Sirius were still there. But they’d both left him alone in the kitchen. He could hear hushed whispers coming in from the open door that led to the stairs into the entrance hall, across from which was the living room. But he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Ron’s memory of this time wasn’t very clear. He’d been lost in his own head at the time, too focused on everything he didn’t have to appreciate what he did.

He remembered feeling small, like he was always standing in someone else’s shadow, never quite enough on his own. And yeah, looking back now—older, sharper, with war-worn clarity—he could see how utterly pathetic he’d been. Drowning in resentment, insecurity gnawing at him like a splinter left to fester. He'd thrown himself into anger, because at least that was better than the terrifying feeling of how utterly replaceable he was in the grand scheme of things. And maybe, deep down, he’d been dreading that one day, Harry would realize it too.

Ron’s gaze drifted toward the darkened window, where a thin thread of sunlight seeped through the cracks in the heavy curtains. His mind wouldn’t settle. The sharp edge of disbelief had dulled, leaving behind the cold weight of realization.

Five years. Five years back.

He inhaled deeply, fingers tapping restlessly against the table. Thankfully, they’d returned his wand. Though only after they’d slapped a plethora of anti-apparition and tracking runes on his body. He could make out the faint golden shine from beneath the black sleeve where Bill had written out ruins on his wrist. He remembered the way his older brother had flinched in surprise at the scars that littered his arms from the brain. It was one of the reasons he’d taken to wearing turtlenecks with long sleeves, now that he could afford his own clothes. The scar across his neck was particularly nasty. 

He was turning over details, sorting through memories — whatever he remembered from his fourth year. He remembered playing chess with Bill at the Burrow the morning Skeeter’s article came in. There had been some talk about Couldrons? Had he misremembered?

He didn’t remember any of this happening. If this was the past— his past—then he should remember it. He should remember an older version of himself crashing into fourth year, upending everything, sending ripples through time. But he didn’t. No distant memories were resurfacing, no buried recollections clicking into place.

Which meant… what, exactly?

That he had somehow broken the cycle? That the future he had come from no longer existed? Or worse—that it had never existed at all? His stomach clenched. If he was truly in his past, then his presence should have always been a part of it. But it wasn’t. Nothing had changed back then—no inexplicable warnings, no strange new variables.

This could only mean that he wasn’t in his past. This was somewhere else. Ron exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. His head hurt just trying to untangle the mess. He wasn’t built for this—time paradoxes, alternate timelines, whatever the hell this was.

This was exactly the kind of thing he wished Hermione were here for. She’d probably have a theory within minutes—charts, footnotes, a whole bloody dissertation ready to go. She’d talk herself in circles until she landed on something that made sense, and he could just nod along and pretend to understand half of it.

Instead, he was stuck working it out on his own, and the only conclusion he kept coming back to was that he didn’t remember any of this happening. Which meant either he was right— or the future he’d left behind was already gone.

“Ron?” Bill’s voice snapped him out of his own head. There was a bundle of clothes in his arms. 

“Don’t suppose you could lecture me on the finer points of cosmic fuckery, could you?” He rubbed the back of his neck. Bill blinked at him, clearly caught off guard. His mouth opened as if to speak, but the words seemed to stall, like he'd suddenly forgotten how to string them together. Ron watched as his older brother —not much older now—stared at him with a strange, almost haunted look. “Never mind.”

Sirius, who had been leaning against the doorframe, shot him an amused look, letting out a low chuckle, the sound vibrating through the tension in the room. Despite himself, Ron’s lips twitched, and Bill relaxed a little. It wasn't a joke, though. Bill might be the closest thing Ron had to someone who could help him. Other than Dumbledore, but Ron doubted the man would make himself available so soon. School would start next week. And then there was the whole mess from the attack to sort out. 

Bill let out a soft sigh before shifting the bundle of clothes in his arms, setting them down on the table beside him. “Look…. R-Ron,” he started, voice gentler and hesitant than he remembered ever being. “Just wash up and rest for a bit, alright? You’ve had a rough night.” Bill had been acting strange. Well, it wasn’t every day you deal with an older version of your youngest brother, but even still. 

“When’s Dumbledore coming back?” Ron asked, he had a lot of questions still. And it would be better if he found a way to go home before throwing this timeline to shits.

Bill blinked, as though he hadn’t expected the question. “We’ll meet him at dinner.”

Sirius spoke up, his eyes flicking between Bill and Ron with an unreadable look. “Come on, kid, I’ll show you your room. You look like you could use a nap.” He jerked his head towards the door, stepping out first.

Ron hesitated for a moment, his gaze lingering on Bill, who was still frowning at his half-eaten breakfast. But the older redhead didn’t look up or follow them, so Ron stood up and followed Sirius out.

The older man moved with his usual easy energy, but there was a noticeable lightness to him now. An excitement Ron didn’t remember. Maybe it was just that things had finally settled, but it felt off, like he was too carefree, too unburdened. Whatever it was, Ron wasn’t sure he could pinpoint it. Whatever. It wasn’t like he would be staying there longer than necessary. 

Sirius led him up to the first floor and down the narrow hall. They stopped at a door on the left—the room he remembered Ginny and Hermione sharing the summer before fifth year. The faint smell of lavender and old wood hung in the air.

“There you go,” Sirius said, opening the door with a casual wave. “Get some rest. You’re safe here, kid.”

Ron nodded, trying to ignore the lingering discomfort.“Oh, and there’s a bathroom right through there,” Sirius added, pointing to the door adjacent to the room. “You’ll be alright?”

“Yeah,” Ron muttered,

Alright, then. I’ll leave you to it.” Sirius gave him a quick smile, and Ron watched him leave, the door clicking shut behind him. He stood there for a moment, the quiet of the room settling in around him.

Ron woke up groggily. His eyelids fluttered as the soft golden light of the evening filtered through the curtains. He blinked, disoriented for a moment, before realizing where he was. Right. Right.

He stretched, letting out a low grunt as his body complained, before rolling onto his side and dropping off the bed in one smooth movement. The clothes Bill got him were still on the bedside table. He’d put off showering until he got at least a couple of hours of sleep. He tapped his wand to cast a Tempus , and the little glowing numbers blinked back at him: 6:30. Brilliant.

He hadn’t expected to sleep this long. With a groan, he rubbed his face and grabbed the clothes and shuffled out of the room.

The bathroom door was shut, and Ron could hear the sound of running water—someone was already in there. He paused, standing at the foot of the stairs and debating his options. Dinner. Shower. Dinner. Shower.

His stomach gave an aggressive rumble, as if to vote loudly for dinner. He raised an eyebrow, trying to weigh the decision seriously. His stomach’s argument was solid, but then—he lifted a tentative sniff under his collar.

"Yeah, nope. That’s a no-go."

His shirt was definitely past its prime, and his hair probably looked like a bird’s nest. He doubted he could get the pony out without cutting a few strands to make it less painful. 

"Who’re you?" The voice came from behind him, sharp and sudden.

Ron’s heart nearly exploded out of his chest as he yelped. Ron’s instincts kicked in, and in a blur of movement, his wand was out, and firing off a hex before he even registered what was happening. The figure barely managed to throw themselves to the floor, dodging the spell by an inch. The hex struck the bathroom door instead, which immediately exploded with a loud bang and crumbled into a splintered mess.

Unfortunately, Ron’s wild spin had cost him his balance. He flailed, feeling gravity win as his foot missed the top stair. Oh, this is how I die. Brilliant! He heard footsteps thundering up the stairs and thankfully, before he could crack his skull open, he felt himself lifted off the ground with a levitation spell, for the second time that day. He landed roughly on his legs atop the starcasese.

He caught sight of the figure crumpled on the floor, black messy hair and round glasses, and didn’t even have the time to process that he‘d almost taken Harry’s head off before a searing pain erupted from his left wrist. He screamed as his legs crumbled beneath him. Heavy footsteps pounded toward him, and then—arms. Strong, solid arms pulled him into a firm chest, and the familiar scent of dragonhide and smoke filled his nose. 

He clutched at his arm,  the rune Bill had marked him with burning unbearably. A rough hand cradled the back of his head, pressing him in close, not restraining. Charlie. His brother’s hold was fierce, almost crushing—like the man was clinging to something long lost, afraid that if he loosened his grip even a little, Ron would disappear.

More footsteps hurried up the stairs, these ones lighter than Charlie’s, and someone slammed into them both. 

"Let me—just—hold still—" Bill muttered, reaching for Ron’s sleeve. He yanked it up to deactivate the rune, pressing his fingers to the lines of magic carved into his skin. The burning in his wrist immediately subsided.

He felt Charlie go utterly still, and then the grip tightened—so hard it stole what little breath the pain hadn’t already taken. Ron shifted, trying to pull back, and after a second, the hold loosened. Charlie let him go with a kind of dazed reluctance, eyes locked on Ron’s exposed arm. The scars stood out stark against his skin: fine, spidery lines from the Department of Mysteries, where the brain’s thoughts had wrapped around his arm and from when Hermione’s conjured canaries had torn into him.

“What the fuck did you do to him?”

Charlie’s voice was low and sharp, barely more than a growl. He wrenched Ron’s arm gently but firmly from Bill’s grasp, his hands steady but his jaw tight.

Bill flinched. "I—"

"You put a bloody restraining seal on him!" Charlie spat. "He's your brother, Bill! Not some escaped convict!"

Ron, still catching his breath, managed to croak, “It’s standard protocol.” His voice was rough, but he pushed through the lingering discomfort. “Bill was just doing what he thought was necessary. I technically appeared out of thin air, mate, he took the necessary precautions.”

He looked to his left where Bill crouched beside him. The older man looked stricken, guilt written all over his face. 

“I didn’t actually think you’d attack anyone,” Bill said hoarsely. “But I didn’t take into account that you might react instinctively. That’s on me. I’m so sorry, Ron.”  His voice was tight, his hands rubbing his face in frustration, the nervous twitch in his fingers giving away how anxious he was.

Ron shook his head, “Stop looking like you’ve just condemned me to Azkaban.” He gave a small grin. “You did what you had to. We’re fine.” 

Charlie finally seemed to relax, his grip on Ron loosening as he processed the explanation. The tightness in his face faded, and his eyes softened.  Whatever he was about to say, Ron didn’t register as his eyes fell on Harry. The boy… boy!... lingered near the destroyed door and Ron’s heart lept because Holy Shit!

“Are you alright? Harry!” Harry looked equal parts impressed, concerned, and wary. Bill and Charlie helped him to his feet. “Sorry about that! You just-”

“I’m—yeah, I’m fine. That was... wow.” Harry gestured with his hand to the door. Or lack thereof. His already wild hair was wilder than usual. The length didn’t help and gave him the appearance of a startled demiguise. 

Why was Harry even here? Harry had stayed at the Burrow that summer, hadn’t set foot in Grimmauld Place until fifth year. It didn’t make sense. None of this did. He frowned, tilting his head slightly as he studied the shorter boy. There was something off—a shiftiness to his stance, a hunch to his shoulders that Harry hadn’t carried since second year.

Harry might’ve been as unsure as a blind man in a maze, but he’d still walk like he owned the bloody thing—shoulders squared, chin up, daring the world to push first. This Harry, though, kept his distance, his movements stiff, like he wasn’t quite sure how to fit in. 

“Uhh…” Ron blinked, suddenly aware he’d been staring a bit too long. He quickly broke eye contact, feeling awkward for making the kid uncomfortable. Both Charlie and Bill were watching him from either side, their gazes a mix of curiosity and concern. 

As the awkward silence hung in the air, the sound of footsteps echoed from down the stairs. Sirius appeared, leaning casually against the wall with his trademark grin spreading across his face, like he’d been listening in the whole time — which he probably had.

“You’ve met already, I see,” he said, eyes flicking between the two of them. “Ron, meet Harry.” A touch of pride slipping through the grin. “Brilliant at getting himself into trouble, but somehow still in one piece.”

“This is the guest we told you about,” Sirius said, eyeing him with open curiosity. “Popped up out of nowhere with excellent timing and absolutely no explanation — Ron Weasley, apparently.”

He clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder, then tilted his head toward the hallway. “Now, as much fun as bonding over existential confusion is, dinner’s getting cold — and Kreacher’s already threatened to hex the gravy.”