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People still stare at Ron as he walks through Diagon Alley and through Hogsmeade and--every once in a while--through the ruins on the east side of Hogwarts. He catches whispers occasionally, and fleeting glances as people pass him on the street. Everyone wears black robes that remind him of school and Ron can only take so much of things that have always been there. He stares back sometimes, but whenever he glares hard, no one meets his eyes. He only really goes out for supplies—groceries and the like—or sometimes just to walk through the streets, and he never wears black.
Ron prefers the winter. It's crisper and wetter. The cold bites at his arms, through the jumpers that are higher quality now that his mum is able to spend on herself. Ron wishes she would just buy something for her only, and not for the pieces of the family that are left, but every year an owl flies through the window carrying a package that is lumpy and lopsided and unwelcome.
The jumpers are never the same colors as before --ever since Ron told her he didn't like maroon. Practically exploded after he got another one for Christmas, year after year with the same bloody color and it's changed, since then, there's not a Fred or a Charlie or a Ginny who can fully appreciate it, and if he's feeling reasonable and can admit it, he knows that there's not a Harry either. Mum sighed and took the jumper back the year he lost it , but the next Christmas there was an aging owl tapping on the window holding a bright blue jumper in its talons.
He tried to get rid of Christmas traditions altogether because he just feels guilty celebrating when other people who deserve to be celebrating it aren't. But there's only so much Ron can fix, and if he can avoid maroon then he'll take that and suffer through the holidays quietly.
Ron wears green today, a shock of color pulsing out against the mottled white and gray that clings to the bricks in deep London and in back alleys. A touch of spring and the past in a place where most people miss neither. Ron longs for the spring and summer and fall when he's in the midst of the sleet that mushes on the sidewalk in dark puddles. He doesn't admit it, but he wants things to grow back and flourish and die, because if he did say it then that would be betrayal. Things aren't supposed to change; they're supposed to be the same, together and whole. Ron doesn't relax until things turn cold and clammy, like a giant corpse spreading itself out over the land. He can't be himself unless he's walking on the dead.
…
Ron could hear Harry breathing heavily, standing beside him that night after the Triwizard Tournament. There wasn't much to say, but Ron remembered watching as Harry screamed and looked around, wild-eyed and panting, dirt caked on his face and his hair sticking up in sweaty chunks. Harry looked as if he had been rolling along the maze instead of running through it, and Ron had one moment of intense jealousy. There was no reason for it, Ron tried to convince himself that it was stupid--who would want to get nearly beaten to death by a dragon or a mermaid or whatever else? But he couldn't help it, and Ron was there above the field as Harry stared bleakly around.
Then he caught sight of Cedric. “Thank god.” He muttered and Hermione shot him a confused and slightly horrified look. “At least we've got Harry.”
Harry snuck out of the hospital ward later, and stood over Ron’s bed. “You’re here,” Harry said and moved his arm to touch the bed covers. Ron gave him a weak smile and Harry leaned forward. “He’s dead, Ron. I killed him.”
Ron felt as though a piece of cotton had gotten lodged in his throat and begun to grow. “Harry.” Ron swallowed. “That’s not true.”
His arms were open and waiting for Harry to lean down; it was all he could do. Harry smelled like medicinal potions and his hands were damp. He buried his head in Ron’s neck, and Ron shivered. “I killed him.” Harry took a shaky breath and his fingers clenched against Ron’s shoulders, “I killed him and--Ron, god--I’ll kill you, too.”
But Ron didn't die, not that night, not ever, and he could have told Harry that was never going to be the case, except his hands were pulling Harry’s head closer and they tumbled back against Ron’s headboard. They landed upside-down on the bed with Harry’s hand under Ron’s shirt and Ron’s hands reaching below Harry’s pants and mouths pressed together--not so much kissing as it was lips moving and gasping into the other.
There was a soft cough somewhere to their right, and a hastily spoken silencing charm, but they didn't notice because Harry was breaking down and Ron was doing all he could to keep him together.
…
Hermione still visits him, but not as often as she used to. She staggers out of the fireplace, hands splayed in front of her and her hair flying everywhere. Everyone falls out of his floo because of a tilt in the floor that Ron needs to get fixed, but he won’t. He gets up and brings a chair to the kitchen table, and they sit. Hermione stares at him and taps her fingers on her leg, but Ron can't focus because she is wearing the same thing that they used to wear. Gold and crimson mixed together and slung around her neck bring back unpleasant memories, and Ron suddenly wishes that he had his floo blocked off.
“I brought you a present.” Hermione gestures to the rectangular-shaped thing next to her. Ron glances down. He hadn't even noticed she had something with her; the scarf throws him off. She raises her eyebrows and picks up the package. “I don't know if it's the same quality as what you buy—you've got such a good eye, you know. When you developed a taste for art, I have no idea. All you ever read were quidditch magazines with Har—”
“I'm sure it'll be fine.” Ron reaches for it and knows what it is. The package is nothing like his mum’s; this one is all sharp lines and clean paper smudged with a little soot. There’s no bow or tag, just “For Ron” written in the middle in loopy cursive.
The paper falls away and the painting shimmers to life. “It’s a lake.” Ron says in a dead voice.
Hermione leans in and points down. Her hair and her breath brushes against his cheek, and Ron inhales the scent of ink and dust from the years of research that have ingrained themselves into her skin. “No, see.” She lets her fingers brush the lake. “There…in the reflection.”
Ron peers closer. Underneath the ripples, a castle rises out from the picture. The more Ron stares, the clearer and more focused the castle becomes. Around the reflection, fish swim and birds fly both intermingled because of the water and the sky, and then Ron makes a startled gasp because for a split-second he thought there might have been a dragon flitting around, but it’s not. It’s a monster in the lake.
He glances up and Hermione is grinning. Her eyes are sparkling and she looks like she wants Ron to say It’s brilliant, thanks so much, but he can only get up and go to his wall of paintings and cast a sticking charm so that it fits next to the others.
He stares at it, and looks over the wall. Castles of all different sizes and colors and origins are spread out over the canvases. Ron could spend hours, has spent hours just looking at the paintings. Hermione comes to the living room and smiles at his fireplace. “It’s peaceful, don’t you think so, Ron? It’s nice to know that you've got peace somewhere. If only you’d talk about it, and not bottle it up, but never mind all that. Isn't the painting perfect?”
Ron knows that she got all that “talk it out” rubbish from some psychology book somewhere in her studies to become a nurse at St. Mungo’s. But she’s wrong, in any case. The paintings are never peaceful, and if she was smart she could see that. There are no people in the pictures, yet beyond the castles’ gates, over near the windows, flying between the towers, there’s something staring at him.
“I wish you’d just tell me what happened, you know. I told you that I could understand the truth.” Hermione puts a hand on Ron’s shoulder. “You don’t have to protect me; I won’t blame you.” Ron remains silent and Hermione squeezes him a little tighter. “How can I tell them the rumors aren't true, when you can’t even tell me what actually happened?”
“I've told you,” Ron says. The collar of his jumper prickles at his neck; spring feels like its coming early this year, but it’s only the ash and flame from the floo.
“You've left something out, then, because it’s imposs--”
“I've told you,” Ron repeats. “Everything.” Hermione falls into an irritated silence. He can hardly bear it when the weather becomes too hot to wear the jumpers out as they cling and scratch his skin. He pulls the fabric away from his body and stares at the castles until Hermione mutters a goodbye and disappears.
…
Maroon was something that brought him to the dorms, to school, back to Hogwarts and castles that weren't looming in the distance and threatening. In the midst of the war, Harry had taken to eliminating color altogether from his wardrobe. Black, dark green, dark blue were easier to blend in, and the faded marks from too many scourgify spells trying to get rid of blood made Harry look as though someone had begun to erase him. Parts of his pants were frayed--they hadn't brought that many extra sets of clothing to Grimmauld Place--and they had been told to guard their magic against detection. Adults didn't make it to Grimmauld Place all that often. Everyone was fighting a war and content with the knowledge that at least some of the children were safe in a place where no one could find them.
The Gryffindor ties they had brought with them hung above the sink for days at a time. Every once in a while, one of them would get dressed in his best outfit and imitate one of the teachers at the Head Table. It wasn't a fun game, but there was little else they could do to entertain themselves while researching horcruxes. Harry could impersonate Snape to a rather frightening degree by the end of the month. Hermione never participated, rolling her eyes and scoffing at them, so Ron ended up doing McGonagall more often than not, although his best by far was Hagrid.
One night Hermione found a bottle of firewhiskey in a hidden compartment underneath a cabinet. They had all gotten terrifically smashed, and even Hermione joined in the impersonations, doing Trelawney of all people, and eventually they began to stumble upstairs to their bedrooms. Hermione flopped onto her bed, and Ron grabbed a hold of Harry’s arm, pulling him towards their room.
Harry tripped and grabbed onto a bedpost, falling into Ron and they landed on their sides. Ron’s fingers felt numb and sloppy, but he fumbled at the tie and robes until they were both naked from the waist up, with Ron staying in character, muttering “ ‘Allo ‘Arry” under his breath and Harry tried to stifle his laughter with a half-hearted attempt at “Two hundred points from Gryffindor!”
They both passed out with their trousers on, arms wrapped around each other and legs intertwined, having not gotten further than a few wet kisses. Ron woke up that morning when Hermione opened the door and saw them both. She sighed and shut the door without saying anything else and only raised her eyebrows once during lunch.
…
It’s been four years since Voldemort died, and Ron has had the same job as when he left Hogwarts. There was never a question of changing jobs, Harry had this job with him and Ron will continue to go to work and help catch dark wizards and do everything he can to get rid of evil. Every day he wakes up and goes to his office; settles in his chair; stares at his paperwork. He used to get more calls into the field but now people assume he deserves a quiet life, that he wants to sit behind a desk.
He doesn't, but Ron avoids complaining.
George owls him on his lunch break and invites him over for Christmas dinner, Mum really misses him, and can’t he just breathe a little, meditate or something--get out of the dank apartment with all those bloody castle paintings and visit; everyone has suffered as well, you don’t have to be alone. Ron owls back writing, “No, too busy, nearing a breakthrough with the report on the Final Battle.”
The owl returns without a response and it hoots mournfully, staring at Ron for a few minutes before flying off again. Ron can see the note George didn't write. He’s gone, Ron. You need to let go.
…
Once, after being caught in the middle of a Death Eater attack in Muggle London, Ron had apparated home as fast as he could. He assumed Hermione had done the same and gone to her parents, but Harry had followed him and popped in a second later on the grass to his right. They both glanced at the Burrow up ahead, and began to walk across the yard. The front door opened and Fred appeared, standing and waiting for them to come inside.
“Fred! He’s here! All this time he’s been here. I’m going to bloody throttle him for leaving.” Ron began to rush forward but Harry grabbed his cloak and pulled him backwards.
“That’s not Fred,” Harry said in a low voice.
Ron glanced back towards the house. “Of course it is. George is back at Hogwarts and--”
“No, Ron.” Harry tugged harder. “Whoever that is, it’s not Fred. Not anymore.”
Fred began to beckon them towards the Burrow, and Ron stepped backwards. “You’re being paranoid.”
Harry’s mouth set in a grim line. He pushed Ron behind him, muttering petrificus totalus under his breath, and then turned towards the Burrow and began to shout out a spell. High, cackling laughter began to emanate from the house and the Dark Mark started to shimmer above them both. Incendio! echoed around Ron and he stared up, unable to shut his eyes as his home started to burn to the ground. Through it all, Fred just stood there, a blank look on his face, until he was at last engulfed in flames, skin blistering and hair turning black until Harry ended the spell on Ron and he could look away. Harry’s hand fell to his side and his wand almost slipped out of his fingers.
“Inferius.” Harry said, as if that made everything perfect again.
“No, Harry.” Ron pushed himself off of the ground and began to walk towards the garden. “That isn't--that’s not going to do anything now. You couldn't have known. You didn't know. What if it was imperio? What if he was still alive? You might have just killed him--”
“Ron! Don’t you think I THOUGHT of that?” Harry grabbed Ron’s shoulder and spun him around. “Don’t you understand how much I wish it wasn't true, how it wasn't Fred, how there might be something else to do, but there wasn't, and I had to do it. I had to.”
“Fred.” Ron shut his eyes but he could still smell burning wood. He could still hear the crackling of the fire and feel the heat of it on his face. “And Charlie and Ginny and Dean and Neville and Parvati and…”
Harry pulled Ron into a hug, and Ron flexed his fingers, wanting to punch or strangle something and Harry seemed to know that because he suddenly shoved Ron, hard; pushed him towards the hill where they had set up a table once for dinner. Ron stumbled backwards and yanked the glasses off of Harry’s head, dropping them on the ground before kneeing Harry in the stomach.
They fought, Ron pulling and clawing at Harry and ripping into his clothes, and Harry tried to block punches and every once in a while threw one back at Ron. In the end, they were both panting on the ground, sitting away from each other and staring at the remains of the Burrow.
About thirty minutes later, Hermione apparated next to him and tapped him on the shoulder. “Ron,” she said. “There are two places left.” He didn't respond and she sighed. “Your mum is worried. We have to get back to school.”
The Burrow didn't change the longer Ron stared at it, and Harry was still facing away from him with his shoulders hunched around his ears, and it really wasn't his fault. There were black marks in a circle around the house, signs that Harry had contained the spell and everything harmful inside. The smoke swirled around, a whirlpool with nowhere to escape.
There was nothing else for it, Fred was gone and Ron glared at the sky as the Dark Mark slowly disappeared.
…
The day Voldemort fell, Harry, Ron and Hermione were staying in the Shrieking Shack. They had been run out of Grimmauld place and Hogwarts was suffering weekly attacks; the passageway from the Whomping Willow to the shack had collapsed in various places due to an increasing amount of breached wards and battles done on the grounds of Hogwarts.
They all stayed in the basement--Hermione practicing wand moves on both hands just in case, and Ron staring at the basement entrance, Harry staring at the house entrance--with the occasional explosion in Hogsmeade making the walls shake.
“We have to go.” Harry said suddenly, interrupting Hermione mid swish.
Ron’s glance didn't waver from the door. “Where to?”
“Down the pathway. Now.”
Hermione turned, her eyebrows crinkled in confusion. “There is no pathway, Harry. There’s nowhere to go.”
Harry exploded like he used to before the war and it made Ron flinch. “Listen, do you two get visions from Voldemort telling you how Hogwarts is being defeated right this instant? No? Well, then, I guess I’m the only one!”
“There’s no need to be sarcastic--” Hermione began.
“YES THERE IS! I've told you visions before, and your hesitation has killed people. We have to be there now so let’s go.” Hermione gasped, a hurt sort of noise and Ron nearly slugged him, but Harry took a deep breath and apologized, looking down at the floor miserably and pressing his hand against his scar.
Hermione stared for a moment and then made an irritated huffing sound; she stomped over to the passage and they all moved in, shoulders bumping each other as if the invisibility cloak were draped over them. Ron grasped Harry’s shoulder and Hermione’s arm and Hermione reached behind her and grabbed Harry’s hand as well, and they pushed forward, falling down the decimated tunnel, the trap door slamming above them, dirt falling down and landing in everyone’s hair. It got in Ron’s eyes and he cursed, dropping his hands and losing contact with Harry and Hermione, and he rubbed the back of his hands against his face.
Something shuffled in the distance and Harry stiffened. “They’re behind us,” whispered Hermione. Ron glanced over his shoulder. “They’ve caught on.” She shoved him forward, and Ron fell into Harry and tripped over increasingly bigger rocks.
“Go on,” She nudged them again. “You have to get to Hogwarts, and I can hide well. I can stall them.”
Ron blinked and tried to quell the rising hysteria. “No, Hermione, we can’t leave--”
“Come on, Ron.” Harry looked at her for a long moment before turning away. “She’s right. We have to go.”
“Have you two lost your bloody minds? We shouldn't be alone, we shouldn't be separated, we should go together because--”
A loud bang sounded, and Hermione backed away from them, muttering “Go go go” under her breath and Harry pulled Ron along by his sleeve, and Ron couldn't decide between wrenching away and helping his best friend, or going along with Harry. He pressed closer to Harry when he heard Hermione say, “Goodbye.”
They ran as fast as they could, tripping over the stones and holes that peppered the ground, and fell into a heap behind a rather large rock where the passageway had disintegrated completely, leaving a view of sky and flashing yellow and green of curses flying above. Harry put his hands behind Ron’s neck, pushing their foreheads together. There were hot, panting breaths against his lips and Ron tried to lean forward and kiss Harry, but Harry pulled back. “I’m here. I’ll be here, I swear I will. Don’t…don’t think I’ll leave because I won’t--I won’t--I swear.”
Then Ron did pull Harry closer and they kissed and he held on to Harry, fingers clenching tighter into the sides of his neck and holding Harry’s face still. A dull thudding began in the pit of Ron’s stomach, growing and traveling up his throat and he broke away from Harry and gasped out, “Let’s go. They can hold Hogwarts for right now. We can leave it and--” Ron stopped abruptly and remembered Hermione fighting behind them. “Never mind.”
Harry stood and helped Ron up, and they both looked out of the passage and saw the battle a little further up, a little past a weakly twitching Whomping Willow, and they were behind the line of Death Eaters that were surrounding the castle. “It’s time to leave, Ron.”
The fight seemed to go faster when Harry jumped in, people falling and screaming and groaning in greater frequency and in time to the curses flying out of his wand. Eventually there was a pathway cut into the lines of the Death Eaters and Voldemort came into view. Snape was on the right hand side, sneering, and Voldemort looked as if a grin had begun to form on his snakelike face.
Voldemort jerked his head slightly and Snape nodded and turned towards Ron. It felt as if all the breath had left Ron’s body as Snape raised his wand.
Harry appeared by Ron’s shoulder and Voldemort broke into a wide smile. Snape wavered for a moment before everyone moved at the same time. Ron focused on saving Harry and sent a blasting curse back towards the pair. Snape turned as if in shock and hastily set up a shield which sent the curse bouncing back. Ron tried to duck out of the way but was sent flying into another section of the collapsed passageway. Above him, he could see the singed leaves of the Willow shudder and flinch in the breeze.
Stunned, Ron lay there until he returned to his senses and could reach out for his wand. Voices were shouting and Voldemort growled out, “I should have known” before Snape began to scream. Ron could barely move without a rush of blood pounding through his head and throwing him off balance even more, but he frantically searched the grounds for his wand or just something that would help turn the battle. He saw it beyond a rock and hurriedly grabbed for it when Harry shouted out Avada Kedavra at the same moment, or perhaps a little before Voldemort yelled the same thing. There was a brief, sudden cry before everything cut off and all Ron could hear was Snape moaning over and over, “My eyes, my eyes.”
Panicking now, Ron grabbed hold to the roots that were on the walls of the tunnel and began to pull himself towards the air. The dirt gave way under his fingers, and Ron scrabbled up, finally reaching grass and solid ground before he lay gasping under the still tree. Snape was off to the side, looking disoriented and horrific with blood dripping down his face and dotting the soil below him. One hand was pressing into his eyes and the other was reaching around and grasping blindly for something. Voldemort lay prone, silent and ashen, a few feet away from Snape.
“Harry?” Ron glanced around and found nothing near him. A hand reached out of the passageway, and his heart leapt in his chest, then Hermione’s bushy hair appeared and Ron swallowed. He searched the grounds, the sky, even grabbed Snape to ask what had happened.
Snape just groaned weakly and clawed at the bloody holes where the eyes had been. Ron dropped him on the ground.
He could see the castle in the distance but there was no trace of Harry.
Something brushed against his arm and Ron spun around, fist raised, but stopped at Hermione’s wide eyes. “Ron?” She tilted her head to the side and looked behind him. “What happened? Where’s Harry? Is Voldemort--oh.” Hermione’s wand hand twitched.
“He was just here.” Ron looked up at the castle again. The sky was clear and bright blue, clouds evaporating in the sun and the landscape an amazing green. “He was just here.”
…
There’s a man who everyone swears is the best at what he does, and since Ron has money to burn now that he’s got that war-hero pension, he hires the man. It took a lot of research, a lot of contemplating and a lot of staring at the paintings, but the final decision was made when he realized there was absolutely nothing moving from behind the towers.
The fish and birds had even stopped circling the lake.
The guy comes in through the door, soft around the middle and with a paintbrush tucked behind his ear, and gives a low whistle at the wall of paintings Ron has opposite his floo. “All of ‘em?” The guy says, and Ron hesitantly nods.
“But be careful. This is my only--” Ron coughs and puts a chair in the corner of the room. “This is my only collection.”
The man nods--pulling his paintbrush out--and Ron sits facing the castles. A whirring noise echoes off the ceiling, and the paintbrush starts to glow. “Now listen,” the man says as he taps his hands on his thigh. “I don’t make mistakes but if you aren't happy with my work, there’s no way to undo it. Even if you move the paintings apart, they are still going to be connected.”
Ron nods and the man heads to the far left and begins to paint. It takes hours and three tea breaks, but it gets finished and the man steps back to admire his work. “It’s there, see?” He points at the lower-left hand corner of all the paintings where identical tiny, golden dots sit. “All that’s left is the word. You sure about this?”
“Yeah,” Ron says. “They were missing something.”
The painter mutters the spell and all the dots began to shimmer and move towards the center, merging into one and hovering in the middle of the first painting that Ron ever got. After a few moments and zero movement from the dot, Ron begins to fidget in his chair. “Will it move? Or is it just going to sit there forever?”
Throwing an annoyed look over his shoulder, the man sniffs in an injured sort of way. “Look, the behavior of the object in the painting is the exact way it behaves in reality. It’s a guarantee.”
“But the only reason a snitch behaves that way is when it’s been ca--”
“No refunds,” The man puts his paintbrush behind his ear and heads towards the door, grumbling under his breath. “Never satisfied; never a thanks.”
The door shuts and Ron is left alone the room, staring at the stationary snitch. The more he stares at it, the less it looks like it’s hovering and the more it reminds him of the way it would look, were it bobbing in a fist. Ron’s not close enough to tell, but he thinks the wings aren't moving; that the snitch has stopped completely. A few minutes go by and the snitch makes a sharp movement up and waves from side to side, before stopping again--like someone has just won the event of a lifetime--but he can’t be sure. Ron can’t be sure at all, there’s too many what ifs and there’s no way to figure out if he’s hallucinating. He’s read somewhere that if you stare too long at a point you’ll start to see the opposite of what is there, and maybe he’s imagining things. Ron has to check and he gets up and moves towards the wall; reaching out to the paintings. But before he gets within touching distance, the snitch takes off and doesn't stop moving ever again.