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Chapter Text

Fred was dead. Fred was dead, and there were Death Eaters at the door, and Harry was missing. Ron felt his stomach turn as he looked at the lines of dead students and Order members. The sounds in the room came to him like he was underwater: screaming wails from those who had lost someone, from his own family. George, who hadn’t let go of Fred yet, shouting and moaning his agony to join the chorus of so many others doing the same, in denial that the other half of his soul was gone. Ron’s eyes flew to his watch.

Time was running out. They’d be coming any minute.

Ron’s feet started moving without his consent. He didn’t know where he was going, but suddenly he was running, leaving his family behind him without another glance, because he couldn’t stand to be there for one more second, couldn’t listen to the screaming anymore. He flew down the corridors, not sure where he was going, but letting himself run. People needed him, Harry needed him, Hermione shouldn’t have to face the battle without the both of them, his family needed him, he should go back to the Great Hall, but he kept running.

He ran, and ran, until he realized that he wasn’t running away from the hall anymore, in fact, he never had been running away from it, he was running toward something. Something was drawing him deeper into the castle than he had ever been before, into rooms he had never seen.

A chime rang throughout the castle. Time was up.

Ron kept running.

He ran through the sounds of the battle starting up again, their echoes reaching him even here, through halls he hadn’t been in for more than a year. He ran, and kept running, until he found it.

The Hogwarts Ward Room.

Only the Headmaster of Hogwarts should be able to locate the Ward Room, it was supposedly impossible for anyone else to find. Yet there he was, Ron Weasley, standing in a room that had been seen by less than a dozen people in the past century.

The sounds of the battle faded as he stepped across the threshold. While most of the castle was made of cobblestones, the Ward Room seemed to all be carved from the very bedrock of the land that Hogwarts stood on. The room was huge, with high ceilings, and stone archways making up the four entrances. Each archway was carved with lifelike statues on the pillars, all made up of the same piece of seamless stone that the rest of the room was.

The archway that Ron stepped through had a lion on one side, so realistic he kept his distance, and he recognized the imposing figure of Godric Griffindor himself on the other side, hands resting on the pommel of his sword.

The other doors were decorated with their respective founders and animals as well, and Ron couldn’t help but feel like all eight of them, founders and animals alike, were watching him as he stepped into the cathedral-like space.

In the center of the room was a huge stone circle made of intricate runes, which were lit up, and cast the only light in the room. In the center of the circle was a standing stone at least six meters tall and three wide, every centimeter filled with more of those intricate runes, though these ones were not alight, but rather seemed drained completely. The wards had failed early on in the battle: it was a miracle Hogwarts was still standing at all.

Ron took careful steps closer to the ward stone, stopping at the edge of the circle. He felt detached from his body, like he was a spirit floating within his body instead of a soul inhabiting it. He watched his feet step over the lit runes, and into the circle.

The ground started to shake. The whole room was shaking, the whole castle, maybe the whole world. Ron fell to his knees, unable to steady himself, still disoriented.

He looked up just in time to see the ward stone fall down on top of him. He accepted the darkness and his death as they came to him. He was grateful that he was done.

A few seconds later, and also six years earlier, Ron Weasley sat straight up in his violently orange bed in his horribly orange childhood bedroom, eleven years old again, and let out a bloodcurdling scream.

Chapter Text

Footsteps. There was someone coming, someone coming to get him and he was running out of time. Ron reached for his magic, desperately trying to fling it at the door to keep it from opening, but it wouldn’t respond to him. It hurt to try to reach for it, like trying to stand on a leg with a pulled muscle.

No magic then. Right.

Ron tried standing, but he was shaking so hard he could barely move, and then they were there, the footsteps had arrived, they were flinging open the door and—

Oh. Ron took a shaky breath, inhaling the smells of nutmeg and cinnamon, she must have been making pastries to go with breakfast, the spices always get caught in her hair when she opens the oven to check them, and let it out with a broken sob.

His mother, for it was his mother, pulled him closer into her arms and made soothing sounds that made something inside his chest unwind and he sobbed even harder, knowing that despite everything he was protected right now. His mother would never let anything happen to him here in her home, and he was home, he was home.
Ron could almost taste the magic wound into every part of the house, magic that would lie dormant and comfortable unless something happened, in which case the house itself would rise up to fight off anyone it had to: his mother’s magic. She was the strongest hedgewitch of her generation, probably the strongest alive, and although modern witches and wizards scoffed at the idea, the magic of a well-kept home was powerful in its own right.

It all added up to one thing: Ron was safe.

He let himself cry a whole war’s worth of tears, didn’t stop crying even when the other footsteps finally arrived and there was a whole crowd in his room asking what was wrong, and was he hurt, and mum, why isn’t he answering? That last question came from a voice that should be gone now, and Ron’s head whipped up to look, shocked out of his grief.

Fred. Well, Fred and George, and the hoard which made up the rest of his family, but mostly Fred. Ron fought his way out of his mother’s grasp, and found the strength to take two running steps and leap off the foot of his bed toward his brother, his brother who should be dead.

“Fred! Fred, Fred, Fred Fred—” He couldn’t stop his brother’s name from spilling out of his lips, and the shock in the room caused by Ron’s sudden display made it the only sound in the space.

“Sorry, little brother, you’re looking for my other half. Freddie, c’mere.”

Ron took a second to compose himself, didn’t let go of the twin he was currently clinging to like a koala. He wiped his face on his brother’s shirt— followed by a sound of disgust and a protest— and then looked up to study his brothers’ faces. Fred, who he was clinging to. Younger than he had been when he— . But definitely Fred all the same. He looked to his right, saw George standing with a smirk and his arms out, ready to take him from Fred, nearly identical to Fred but that was George not Fred, and Ron shook his head and buried it in Fred’s other shoulder, the one he hadn’t wiped his nose on.

“No.” The room froze again.

“No?” The twins asked, their voices identical but he could tell, he could always tell now, their magic felt different. He wondered how it had ever been hard for him.

“No.” He gave Fred a little squeeze. “Fred.” His hand shot out to tap on George’s shoulder. “George.” He could feel their magic getting all startled that he could tell the difference, and he snorted wetly.

“S’not that hard.”

“Okay, little brother” “if you say so.” He nodded into Fred’s shoulder, and kept clinging, though after a short time, he started to shake with the exertion of holding on. He was tired.

“Sit down here, Fred.” His mum pulled Fred, wonderful, too-young, but living Fred, down onto the bed and pulled them both towards her so she could rest a hand on his forehead. She hummed thoughtfully and pulled out her wand to cast some diagnostic spells. Ron let her magic wash over him, warm and worried, basking in the comfort of having his whole family close and caring and safe, most of all they were safe.

He fell asleep again, still clinging to Fred, and wondering if he had died and if so, how did everyone else die and get there, but if they did he didn’t want to know. He just wanted to hold on, for now. To hold on, and to be held on to, and to breathe in a world where he was safe, and his family was there to ensure it.

———————————————————————————————————————————

When he woke up again, he was too warm. He grumbled, and tried to push the blanket off of himself, only for it to chuckle.

“Watch those elbows, you’re going to give me bruises.”

Ron opened his eyes and stared.

“Ron? Oi, anyone in there?” Fred waved his hands in front of Ron’s face and Ron reached out, catching him by the wrists.

“Fred?” He choked out, his voice hoarse from crying.

“Last time I checked, yeah. You gonna let me go this time, or am I going to spend another beautiful summer day with you hanging onto me like a baby niffler hangs on to his first galleon?”

“…. But you’re dead. Wait. I’m dead. Was mum here too? And George? How did they die? What happened? Was it the battle, did Harry ever—”

“Whoa! One minute I’m sitting here on the couch holding my crazy brother, and the next minute I’m dead? What a world. Hey Georgie did you hear him? We’re dead now! Maybe we won’t have to take our OWLs!”

Ron was saved from whatever response George had for that when their mum rushed into the room.

“Ron! You’re awake! Here, sit up, you should eat something, I’ve brought you a nice full breakfast, and you’d better eat everything on that plate, young man! You’re too pale,” she fussed until he was sitting up on the couch and poking at his eggs with much less enthusiasm than normal. He wasn’t hungry, he just wanted to know what was going on! She kept fussing at him until he couldn’t take it anymore.

“MUM! I’m fine! I’m just not hungry.” The chatter in the room stilled.

“Who are you and what have you done with Ron?” Ginny squeaked, and he looked up to find that the whole room was staring at him.

“I just. I’m confused, alright? Can someone please tell me what’s going on? Where’s Harry? And Hermione? Have they not died yet? How did the battle go, is it over? Did we win? And how did you all die? Last I saw it was only Fred, and then I had to go take care of something, I didn’t mean to leave you all! I’m sorry.” He looked down, ashamed.

“Kids, go upstairs, now.” Nobody questioned Molly Weasley when she took on that tone. There was a pregnant pause, before they all moved, and Ron was left in the room with his parents. They moved to sit in front of him.

His mother shared a worried glance with his father before taking his hands.

“Ron, darling, what happened? Why do you think you’re dead?”

“Because I died, mum! And then I woke up in bed, and everyone was here.” His parents shared another look, before his dad spoke up.

“Son, you’re not dead. You had a nightmare, nothing more—”

“Arthur.” His mother was glaring at his father now.

“No, Molly, we would know by now if—”

“Arthur.” He let out a deep breath.

“Okay.” Then softer, “okay.” He turned to Ron. “How much do you know about my grandmother Lysandra?”

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Ron fell back on his pillows, alone for the first time since he had woken up. They thought he was a seer. They thought that everything he had been through, the last six years, had all been some prophetic dream.

Well. He hadn’t told them much, just about the last battle, so they didn’t know it had been six years. They just knew he thought he had died, and so had Fred. Because he had died. And so had Fred.

And then he had woken up, here. In his eleven-year-old body, complete with missing scars and an unpracticed magical core. In the past. Before his first year at Hogwarts, before he had ever even set eyes on Harry Potter or on Hermione for that matter. He took a deep breath.

Knowledge is power. And Ronald Weasley, back in time, had more knowledge than anyone else about what was to come.

It was time to get out his chessboard. He was going to win this war before it even started. But first, he needed a plan.

Chapter Text

Ron growled at his chessboard, frustrated. Planning wasn’t going as well as he had hoped, and his family was getting a little impatient with him. No matter how much they pestered him, though, he refused to say another word about his “vision.”

He pushed the chessboard away after another sleepless night, and headed downstairs only to stop in surprise. It seemed his mother had pulled out the big spells. There, at the kitchen table, were Bill and Charlie.

Ron’s oldest brothers were usually only home for Christmas, and sometimes for brief weekend visits or dinners, before they went back to their busy lives. To see them sitting at breakfast like they hadn’t ever left home sent a pang through Ron’s chest. It felt like so long ago that he was angry at them for leaving him, as a kid he hadn’t been able to handle the fact that Bill, the only person in his family who ever gave Ron any consistent amount of attention, hadn’t been there any more. He knew he should be thinking about Bill’s lack of scars, and how young Charlie looked since he hadn’t grown any facial hair yet, but it seemed there were some emotions that his young body remembered and felt very strongly.

Ron took a breath, and let himself feel the emotions of the child he technically was again, letting them well up in his chest and behind his eyes, before he moved. Perhaps he wouldn’t have done this the first time around, but then again, he used to be so focused on not looking like some stupid kid that he missed out on some opportunities. He wouldn’t waste them again.

He walked up to the breakfast table, and sat down on Bill’s lap, hiding his face in Bill’s chest and ignoring Bill’s startled breath and the way that everyone went quiet.

“Hey Ron,” Bill said, arms automatically coming around his younger brother.

“Hi Bill,” Ron said, letting his voice sound choked up instead of fighting it. He really had missed his brother, and there was nobody around who knew he was an adult, so they weren’t going to judge him for not acting as one.

When it became obvious that they weren’t going to say anything else, that Bill was going to sit there and let Ron hold on to him and just breathe for a minute, the conversations at the table picked back up.

After a good long while of just holding on and listening to his brother’s heart, and burying his face in the smell of old books, and musty rooms, and home, Ron was almost ready to fall asleep. Bill spoke up, then, shaking him a little.

“Come on, little brother, you should eat something.” Ron held on tighter and shook his head. He wasn’t hungry. Every time he tried to eat he would think about all the meals that Harry was missing right now, locked back in that horrible place with his whale of an uncle and his bitch aunt. Harry was probably starving, and it wasn’t even his birthday yet so he didn’t have the hope that his Hogwarts letter would bring. How could Ron eat when he knew that Harry was going without?

“Ron,” Bill’s voice took on the stern tone that had laid down the laws of Ron’s childhood, “you need to eat. You need the fuel. And besides,” his tone lightened up a little, “you’re light enough that a strong gust of wind could blow you away. On a stormy day you wouldn’t even need a broom,” he said, bouncing Ron on his lap a little.

“I’m not hungry,” Ron whispered. The facade he had been putting up for his family was well and truly broken now, he never could hide the way he was feeling from Bill.

“I didn’t ask if you were hungry.” Bill turned Ron around so that he was facing the table, but didn’t make him get out of his lap. There was a warm plate of food waiting for him, and the sight of it made Ron want to cry. He was hungry, he was just also guilty and sad and upset and it was making him nauseous.

“Come on, Ron. If you don’t eat, I’ll feed you.” Ron sighed, and picked up the fork, mechanically working his way through breakfast, and trying not to taste the food or think too hard about Harry. At least he didn’t have to worry about Hermione, too. He knew she was safe and happy. He let thoughts of her fill his head and soon enough he had finished his plate. He put his fork down, and turned back into Bill’s chest.

Bill sighed and stood up, easily lifting Ron with him as he went, and setting him on his hip. Ron knew he was too old for this, even his young body was too old for this, but he didn’t protest, just buried his face in his brother’s neck and let it happen. He was tired, and Bill was in some ways more like a parent to him than his mum or dad ever were, which he knew was too much responsibility to put on Bill, and he knew it was part of the reason he had left right after graduating and gone so far away, but right now he also knew that Bill would go to the ends of the Earth for him. And he was there and warm and Ron wasn’t feeling strong enough to deny himself this comfort.

He was carried upstairs into Bill’s old room, and Bill sat down on the bed, then moved so that Ron was sitting under his arm. He pressed a kiss to Ron’s forehead and Ron almost cried, reminding himself that he absolutely under no circumstances could tell anyone about his first life, no matter what, even Bill. His mind whirled, trying to think about what he would say to explain himself.

“You don’t have to tell me.” Ron’s eyes shot up to meet Bill’s. Bill had his serious-conversation face on.

“But don’t you want to know?” Ron asked, confused enough that his mind stopped coming up with excuses.

Bill sighed again, sounding tired. “What I want, Ron, is for you to be safe and healthy and happy, in that order. Whatever you Saw… I don’t need to know what you Saw. I need to know what you need so that you can be okay.” Ron stared, and felt his eyes start to well up. This was why Bill was so dangerous. He didn’t make you tell him things, he made you want to tell him things, and then you told him, not because he wanted you to tell him, but because you wanted to tell him.

“I don’t know what I need,” Ron said slowly.

“Okay,” Bill said, and made no move to get up or say anything else. Ron hated how much he loved Bill for that. Ron thought about the question.

What did he need? He needed Harry and Hermione to be safe, which meant taking down Voldemort, which probably also meant sneaking around under Dumbledore’s nose, and maybe outright defying him. He needed Fred not to die, he needed the rest of his family not to die, and he needed… he needed a strategy.

“Is anyone in danger right this minute?” Bill asked, interrupting his thoughts.

“Yes.” Fuck. He hadn’t meant to say that.

“Okay. Can you tell me about that?” Ron thought about it. It wasn’t like Bill would be able to do anything for Harry. All it would mean was that Ron wouldn’t be worrying alone, and maybe it would help to talk about it. He nodded, slowly.

“Will you believe me?” He asked, meeting Bill’s eyes again. Claiming anything about Harry Potter would sound outlandish, like a child making up a story. It was very possible that Bill would laugh at him, if he had been anyone else. But it was Bill, so the answer came as expected.

“I’ll believe you. I promise.” Ron nodded. “Okay.”

“Harry Potter is being abused.”

Chapter Text

Bill had been pacing for what seemed like days. Normally he was such a still person, but what Ron had told him about Harry’s living situation had shocked him thoroughly. Ron left him to it, and ignored the rising tension of the rest of his family, who had figured out that whatever Ron told Bill about his vision was bad enough to have this kind of effect on Bill.

He had known when he was telling Bill that he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. Nobody could. He hadn’t given Bill the address, and nobody would believe Bill anyway. His only proof that something was wrong was the word of his younger brother who had an unprecedented vision about the savior of the Wizarding World. It sounded ridiculous. Bill believed him though, and so he paced.

And Ron went back to his planning.

Talking with Bill had helped immensely. Realizing that the only immediate danger was Harry’s relatives— and as horrible as they were, Harry had made it to Hogwarts last time on his own. He wasn’t about to die before Ron set eyes on him. If it was in his power to get Harry out of there, he would, but it wasn’t. He had to focus on what he could control.

He pulled out his chessboard, and went to find Charlie.

Charlie, predictably, was on the roof again. It was his favorite spot, and always had been. He liked to stare up at the sky, and Ron had always wondered if he was imagining the dragons he loved so much flying above him.

Ron set his broom down in the gutter so it wouldn’t roll off, and went to lay down next to him. Then he thought better of it, and decided to straight up go for it and scooted closer so he could rest his head on Charlie’s chest.

Charlie laughed at that, bright and clear, and Ron was struck the way he always was at the Charlie-ness of Charlie. His hand found a place in Ron’s hair, the movement easy, and he didn’t tense or seem to worry one bit. Nothing ever phased Charlie, and he never moved with anything less than a dancer’s grace. Charlie, who talked to raging dragons like they were naughty puppies or kittens, and shrugged off burns and bites as “mischief.” Charlie was charismatic, and beloved for it. Though he had never involved himself in the chaos and fighting of the rest of the family, he never seemed aloof, only removed. Charlie was a safe space, the eye of the Weasley storm, always calmer than anyone had any right to be.

Ron loved and hated him for it.

Charlie wasn’t worried about Ron, because Ron wasn’t Charlie’s problem. Charlie knew that Ron had support, and had an unshakable optimism that everything would work out. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, it was that he didn’t get involved with the acts of caring like everyone else did. At times it was infuriating, made it seem like he really didn’t care at all.

Other times, it meant being able to lay his head on an unburdened chest and have a few moments of normalcy, of peace without the expectation of conversation.

“Hey Charlie?”

Charlie hummed in response, a lazy confirmation sound.

“Could you help me with my chessboard?” Charlie’s head tilted to the side, as he considered the question.

“You want me to play chess with you?” Ron shook his head, just enough for Charlie to feel it, but not enough to disturb his peace.

“No, I was thinking maybe you could help me change it a little bit.” Charlie hummed again, raised his arms above his head and stretched like a lazy cat, then sat up, steadying Ron into a seated position as he did.

“Alright, show me.”

They went back to Ron’s room, which garnered a look of surprise from Bill on their way past, and a raised eyebrow at Ron which he answered with a shake of his head. Bill went back to his pacing.

Ron easily directed Charlie into doing the spellwork he wanted. In the end, he had a normal chessboard, with black and white pieces facing each other, and another half chessboard attached to the side, with red pieces. The black and white pieces seemed unaware of the red pieces. It was perfect.

“Thanks Charlie!” Charlie nodded easily, ruffled Ron’s hair, and strolled out of the room as easily as he had come in. He hadn’t asked any questions, which Ron was thankful for. Charlie was the one who taught him to play chess in the first place, and he would know that a three-way chessboard didn’t look like this one, but a three-way chessboard wasn’t what Ron needed.

Yet. And hopefully ever. He was content with the other players in this game letting him go unnoticed.

He carefully started placing pieces.

The black team was easiest. Seven pawns— the Diary, the Ring, the Locket, the Cup, the Diadem, Naigini, and Quirrel. The King, obvious. Knights, for the Death Eaters. Rooks, his supporters in the Ministry. No bishops, no queen. Only the pawns and king were in play, the other pieces in the “captured” position, standing on the side of the board.
He considered this, then disgustedly added a bishop to represent Peter Pettigrew. He had caught sight of the horrid little rat a few days ago and realized he was still in play, no matter how insignificant he was. He couldn’t be a pawn, because pawns were for horcruxes, and the only other choices were bishop and queen. He certainly wasn’t a queen, Ron would never elevate him to the importance of Harry or Hermione. He wasn’t a bishop either, but it would have to do. Ron vowed to take him off the board as soon as possible.

The white team was a little harder. The King, obvious. Knights, for the Order of the Pheonix, in the “captured” position. Rooks, his supporters in the Ministry. Bishops, one an abstract concept of the power he had in Hogwarts and the other the Hogwarts professors collectively. Pawns, but they weren’t identified yet or in use, save for one— Severus Snape. The White Queen— Harry, in the center of the board, the only piece not lined up with the rest. Vulnerable.

Then the red team. A single piece, a red king. He almost went with a knight, for nostalgia’s sake, but he had to think of himself as their equal. He held power now, knowledge of the future, that they didn’t have.

His Queen, Hermione, and Harry who he would convert to his side too. For just a minute, to make himself feel better, he put them in a row: The Red Queen, The Red King, The White Queen. The way it should be. The life he lost.

He sighed, then returned the White Queen to the center of the board, and the Red Queen to the side. One piece disputed, one not in play yet.

Then he took stock of his other pieces. What would he need, who would he need, to win this war?

Chapter Text

The rest of the summer flew by, as Ron’s plan took form. He didn’t necessarily like his plan, he knew it would be hell, but, well. If he was smart, and careful, he could win this war before it even began. Two years, maximum.

But he would have to die for it.

Not literally, of course. But he needed time to hunt the horcruxes, which meant getting away from school and his overprotective family. The only real solution was to fake his death. Thinking about it made Ron feel sick in the pit of his stomach. His only comfort was that it wasn’t time for that yet.

First, he would have to tackle Hogwarts. He’d need a full year to do it: Quirrel, of course, wouldn’t go after the stone until the end of second term, and it would present a unique opportunity for the whole “dying” part of faking his death.

In the meantime, he could take care of some of the problems at the school. Primarily, Harry, and getting him out of the Dursley household. But also he’d need the Sword of Gryffindor and some basilisk venom to handle the horcruxes, and honestly that overgrown monstrosity needed handling anyway.

And other than that, he needed to get a handle on his magical core. That wouldn’t be too hard, with a proper wand and some exercise, both magical and physical. While he had never had a naturally impressive core like Harry, he was no slouch, especially when he was in good shape.

A good opportunity to get in shape was his nightmares. Ron woke up sweating and shouting more nights than he didn’t, and his parents were getting more and more upset. They’d sat him down for more than one tearful conversation about not trying to deal with everything alone before he started getting a handle on it.

Mainly by working out until he was too tired to dream. And if he did dream, he’d wake up and force his body into motion until it was too tired for fear or anger. It wasn’t necessarily healthy, but Ron was feeling better every day.

On the day that they were supposed to go get their school supplies, Ron announced to the breakfast table “Bill’s old wand won’t work for me, but Mr. Ollivander will let me trade it for one that will.” He hoped. He would talk him around if he didn’t, but the man was passionate enough about making sure that young witches and wizards were properly suited to their wands that he was fairly certain that it wouldn’t be an issue.

His mother looked over at him, concerned. “Did you See—” she started, before his dad cut her off.

“That’s good to know, Ron. Thank you.” He pointedly turned back to the conversation at the table, and Ron remembered that his parents were trying a new strategy lately, which was to make him feel as normal as possible, and not call attention to his “visions.” They were still worrying, of course, they were just doing so quietly.

At the end of the day he did walk away with a new wand, as he had “predicted”. Mr. Ollivander was appalled that he would even think about using someone else’s wand, and when he took Bill’s old wand he seemed to comfort it like it was a child.

“There, there, Legacy wands still sell just as well as new ones. You’ll find yourself another young witch or wizard and I’m sure they’ll keep you for the rest of their lives. Just because you fall out of service to one wizard doesn’t mean you’re done for, dear thing.” Ron was privately convinced that Mr. Ollivander was insane, but he didn’t much mind once his real wand was back in his hand. He had missed it, and having it was a comfort he hadn’t realized he was missing.

That night, Percy, who was in love with his new owl, handed Scabbers off to Ron. “Wouldn’t do to have him eaten alive,” he joked, and Ron laughed a little too hard at the thought. Scabbers was quickly detained in a “habitat” that Ron set up using an old fish tank. He made sure there was no possible way for the traitor to escape without shifting back into his human form, and resolved to leave him in his room as much as possible.

The night before they caught the Hogwarts Express, Ron waited for his siblings to be asleep, and then quietly slipped down the stairs and knocked softly on his parents’ door. When they called him in, he was shaking with emotions. Nerves, fear, pain, sadness. This would be the last time he would see his parents in maybe two whole years.

“Ron?” His father prompted him softly. When it was clear that he wasn’t going to do much more than stand and shake and stare at his feet, his mother gently drew him into a hug, then tucked him into bed between the two of them. He sank into the comfort and let himself mourn. For the next two years. For the trust that he was about to betray. For his parents who would be devastated. For the home he wouldn’t get to come back to.

His parents, soft and kind in the way they had always been, held and hushed him, holding on until he fell into a quiet, peaceful sleep. He woke up the next morning in his own bed, with the echo of a memory of being carried upstairs. His mother’s hand, running through his hair. His father’s kiss on his forehead. Dried tears, wiped from his face.

It was time for strength now, strength and bravery. Ron was ready to be brave, but only time would tell if he would be strong enough.

Chapter Text

Do not stare at him. Do not even think about staring at him. Nothing will make him less likely to be your friend than you gawking at him like an idiot who sees nothing more than his fame. No staring, Ron kept up his mantra as Harry approached his mum to ask how to get onto the train platform. They had taken the muggle entrance, as his mum didn’t trust him or Ginny with the floo yet, and Ron had never been more thankful for it as he caught sight of the skinny little boy who would grow up to be his best mate and one of the two great loves of his life.

He got on the train without incident, and paused outside of the compartment he knew his friend was sitting in alone, just long enough to take a breath, and then walked in.

“Anyone sitting there? Everywhere else is full.”

When Fred and George came in this time to introduce him to Harry, they glanced worried eyes over Ron, the way they had been all summer, and didn’t leave until he rolled his eyes and shot them a smile.

“Sorry, they’re a little overprotective right now. I uh…” he blushed, realizing he had to explain this to Harry, “I had a pretty bad vision this summer and it worried them. I’m a Seer.”

“Oh.” Harry looked confused, and Ron grinned, endeared by the look on his face.

“That means sometimes I get visions about the future and stuff. I knew you’d be here. And I knew you wouldn’t like it if I talked about how famous you are and all that. And I know you would probably actually eat the corned beef sandwiches my mum packed for me, since I’m not going to. She always forgets I don’t like corned beef.”

Harry was looking a little stunned, and Ron laughed a little, and passed him the sandwich. “Friends?”

Harry grinned, and took it. “Yeah, okay. Friends.”

Their conversation went similarly this time around, with Ron asking about Harry’s muggle family, and Harry asking about growing up with magic. They talked about Quidditch until the trolley came around, and Harry bought sweets to share again and Ron explained all the different kinds until Neville knocked on the door, looking for Trevor.

“Oh. Well you could always ask a prefect to summon him for you, you know,” Ron said, this time. He gave Neville directions to the prefect’s compartment, and Neville thanked him and went on his way. Ron had to fight not to hold his breath waiting for the next knock.

“Has anyone seen a toad? Neville’s lost one.” And they were there, both of them, these tiny, fragile versions of his best friends. Full of hope and wonder at the magical world they had just stepped into, and oh no he was staring.

“Do I have something on my face?” she asked, and then Harry was saying “are you having a vision?” She looked intrigued.

“Oh! Are you a Seer? That’s a really rare talent, you know. They say there are only two or three Seers born into any generation of wizards at a time. I read about it in Wizarding Weird: A Muggleborn’s Guide to Magical Inheritance. I left that one at home though.” She looked at Ron. “Well go on, then. What did you See?”

He sighed, then gave her a small truth. “You really would be better suited for Ravenclaw, but I’m glad you’ll be in Gryffindor with me anyway. We could be really good friends, I think.” Hermione’s eyes brightened, and she looked pleased.

“I wanted to be in Gryffindor anyway. It sounds like the best, by far. I hear Dumbledore himself was in it. Anyway, I’m Hermione, Hermione Granger.” She stuck her hand out for Ron to shake, and he shook it.

“Ron Weasley, and this is Harry.” Harry got up and held his hand out too.

“Harry Potter.”

“Are you really?”

And they were off.

They got in the boats with the other first years, and this time Hermione sat with them. It seemed like Ron’s declaration that she would be his friend had made her determined to stay close by, which he definitely wouldn’t complain about. And besides, she had confessed to him once that when she first came to Hogwarts she was terrified that she wouldn’t fit in or have any friends. He was glad to be able to give her the gift of his friendship so early: this time around he’d make sure she felt more sure of herself.

Ron was taken by surprise when the boats passed into the Hogwarts wards. He was sure he hadn’t been able to feel them like this the first time around. They washed over him comfortingly, and he could tell that Hogwarts itself was bidding them all welcome. It made him smile, slightly. When the castle came into view, whole and grand as it had ever been, something in his chest relaxed. Last time he had been there….

Well. He would try not to think of it. It was in one piece now, and that was what mattered. He wouldn’t let Hogwarts fall again, anyway. The war would never touch this place like it had last time.

He felt a little off-kilter, and the minutes flashed by in images: walking up to the castle. The house ghosts. McGonagall, looking young in a way he hadn’t realized she had ever lost. The great hall, Hermione whispering about the ceiling. He stopped himself from mouthing her words along with her “I read about it in Hogwarts: A History.”

The sorting hat’s song, cheerful now, without any big warnings.

Hermione, sorted into Gryffindor, beaming at Ron before going to take her place. Harry, with all the whispers about him, fighting with the hat again. Ron wondered if Malfoy would ever realize that he had skewed the war against himself by putting Harry off being sorted into Slytherin with his general prat-like behavior and snobby attitude.

“Weasley, Ronald!” Ron snapped back into reality, and walked up to the front, putting the hat on his head.

“Well, now. This is unexpected, isn’t it?” the hat said in his head. Ron had to fight back a snort. Unexpected didn’t cover the half of it.

“No, I suppose it doesn’t. There are some people here who want to talk with you, you know. They’ve been whispering about you. I suppose it all makes much more sense now.” Ron was caught off guard. Someone else knew about the future he came from? That would set his chessboard strategy off entirely. He might even need to add a fourth player!

“Now now, it’s nothing as drastic as all that. They’re ghosts, lad. The only stakes they had in your war were the ways it effected Hogwarts and its’ students. They won’t get in your way. Actually, I think they might help you.” Intriguing.

Ron realized that he had become a hat stall now, the whole hall waiting impatiently for the last student to be sorted. “We should probably get on with this,” he thought at the hat, “but thank you for the heads up.”

“Ah, yes I suppose we should. You know you could easily fit into any one of these houses, right? You’d fit just as well in Slytherin as you would Hufflepuff or Gryffindor. And you’d easily be a Ravenclaw if you decided to apply yourself.” Ron mentally rolled his eyes. The hat knew very well where he belonged. He had wielded the Sword of Godric Gryffindor himself, and it had fit in his hand like it was made for him, an extension of his arm. If the hat put him anywhere else, he would lose all faith entirely in its’ ability to sort students with any sort of accuracy.

“Well no need to get rude about it. Very well,” and then out loud “GRYFFINDOR!” The hat was taken off his head, but unexpectedly spoke again, out loud.

“If you’re ever up for it, I’d love to see if you could beat me in a game of chess. It gets rather boring every year between sortings.” The whole hall paused, having never heard the hat say anything to the students before.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll see about coming to visit with my chess set, sometime.” He said.

“A fantastic idea,” said Dumbledore, cutting in. “And might I add that I had no clue our dear Sorting Hat could play chess! I may challenge him to a game or two myself! Now, run along Mr. Weasley, to your house.” He did, to the applause of the Gryffindor house, and the proud grins of his brothers, and sat next to Harry and Hermione as Dumbledore gave his short welcome speech and the tables filled with food.

Ron ate his fill, knowing that Harry was next to him now, doing the same. He almost missed the relieved glances of his brothers, meeting each other’s eyes, but when he clocked them he shrugged it off easily. He was sorry to have worried them, but really, it was so much easier to eat when he knew Harry wasn’t out there starving.

He went to bed that night thinking over what the hat had revealed to him. Who were these mysterious ghosts who wanted to meet him? And how would he know where to find them, anyway?

Sleep came easily enough though, soothed by the quiet sounds of Harry breathing in the bed beside him and the not-so-quiet sounds of Seamus, who was snoring like a dragon as he would every night for the whole of the seven years they spent sharing a dorm.

Chapter Text

When it came right down to it, Ron had no idea how to find whatever ghosts wanted to speak with him. Even if he did, he wasn’t sure he could get any time alone to go do so yet: he’d have to get the Marauder’s Map off of the twins first. He mentally kicked himself for forgetting to grab it before school started. It would have been so much easier to get it if he didn’t have to sneak into their dorm. He shuddered, thinking about what kind of pranks they set up to make sure nobody went in there. He’d have to do some careful planning to get it: maybe he could grab it when they had it on them?

Then again, he thought, he was going to have to break into Dumbledore’s office sooner or later, so it would be good practice.

On top of that, he didn’t want to leave Harry alone just yet, or Hermione for that matter. As much as he knew they were relatively safe, he was still feeling the effects of the war— it was second nature to keep them close. Even now, laying in bed in his dorm with Harry in the next bed over, it felt odd for Hermione to be so far away. Odd, and unsafe. Ron reached out to feel the soothing warmth of the Hogwarts Wards and tried to relax.

Less than a day with them and he was already getting too attached. He reminded himself that he would have to leave them at the end of the year. It didn’t help.

Ron got up, tired of laying in bed and thinking in circles, and got dressed. The sun was just rising, breakfast wouldn’t start for another three hours at least. He wondered if there were rules about how early you could leave the common rooms— he had never gotten up early enough for it to be relevant, and he wasn’t exactly the best prefect there had ever been. He gave a mental shrug. Nobody was going to give a first year a detention on their first day.

He thought about heading out to the grounds for a run, but thought better of it. Scotland was cold in September, and he was still small: when he had died, he had enough height and muscle that he had usually run warm. He had forgotten what it was to always be cold. He hadn’t missed it.

Instead of the grounds, he made his way to an empty classroom not far from the common room— a favorite make-out spot of many of the older years— and started on his workout, while composing letters in his head.

Dear Mum and Dad,

I got sorted into Gryffindor, not that anyone thought I’d go anywhere else, and things are going good so far — hmm. How would he have written this if he were really eleven? He scrapped it and started over.

Dear Mum and Dad, ….. He paused, then added

and Ginny, to the end.

How are things at home? I hope things aren’t too boring without me. I got sorted into Gryfindor— the Hat and I really got along! He invited me to play chess with him sometime in front of everyone, and Dumbledore said it was a good idea. I met my best friends on the train.

… why not?

I Saw a lot about them this summer, and they both know I’m a Seer but they didn’t get all weird about it which is good.

Now Ginny, don’t freak out, but my best mate is Harry Potter. No, I’m not lying. He’s really nice, but do you think you can send along some of my old cast-offs? He’s smaller than I am and he’s wearing clothes that are way too big for him— I’m worried about him getting cold this winter.

Maybe that was a bit much. Too adult? He scrapped the last bit, and tried again.

He’s really nice, but he knew nothing about Quidditch. Can you imagine not knowing about Quidditch? Anyway, at least he’s interested, unlike Hermione— that’s my other best friend, Hermione Granger, she’s the smartest person I’ve ever met. Everyone’s going to call her the brightest witch of our generation someday. I don’t mind her being smart, though, cause she’s also really cool.

Mum, do you think you could send me some of my old jumpers? Only, Harry is smaller than I am and it’s a bit cold in the castle, and he didn’t bring any layers except his robes.

Dad, you’d really like both Harry and Hermione, they both grew up in muggle households. I bet they’d tell you all about telephones—

Wait. He’d better say that wrong, Hermione hadn’t drilled it into his head yet.

— about phellytones and rubber ducks if you wanted. Better.

Gin, you wouldn’t believe the view from the Gryffindor tower. The windows look right out onto the Quidditch Pitch. I bet if we had omnoculars we could spy on the other teams! I can’t wait until you get here, you’re going to love it.

Anyway, I should get going because everyone’s going to wake up soon and I don’t want to miss breakfast. The food here is amazing— but not as good as mum’s of course!

Love,

Ron.

He recited it a few times in his head, until he was sure he could write it perfectly when he got back, and then started one to Bill.

Dear Bill,

Harry got here just fine, and he doesn’t look like he’s hurt too bad either. I’m going to do my best to get him to tell people about his guardians soon, but it might take me a while. I haven’t had any other bad visions yet, but I’m worried that the ones I had about Harry and Hermione will make them feel weird about me. It’s not my fault I know them so well before I even met them! They’ve been fine about it so far, but I don’t expect that to last.

It’s easier to eat now. I know you were worried about that, but now Harry’s with me and he’s got food, so I’m not so nauseous thinking about him being hungry. The food here is great, so I’m not going hungry either!

Thanks for coming home this summer. I know you don’t like it there much anymore, and I know mom strong-armed you into showing up, but it was good you were there. I love you.

Ron.

It was a little too honest, maybe, but Ron didn’t care. Bill was on his side, and he knew it. Besides, he would worry if Ron didn’t say anything about his emotions at all.

Ron finished his workout, continuing to recite the letters to himself, and went back to the tower. He had to wake up the Fat Lady to get back in because it was still early, and it was just as annoying as it had always been to get her attention. He couldn’t go back up into the dorm yet to get his things because he didn’t want to wake up the others, so he sat in front of the common room fire and wrote his letters out quickly. When he was done, he put them to the side and stared into the fire, tapping his fingers, and feeling a bit weird to be doing nothing.

Suddenly, across the room, there was a noise as a portrait opened— it was the passageway to Professor McGonagall’s quarters. She stepped out just as Ron glanced over and he accidentally caught her eye. Her look of shock faded quickly, replaced by a rather catlike curiosity. Ron fought a smile— he was never close with his Head of House, but he was incredibly fond of her, as strict as she was. She had the same kind of protective fury that his mother had, but it was tempered by her strict self-control and disciplinarian spirit.

“Good morning, professor,” Ron offered, quietly.

“Good morning Mr. Weasley,” she said, coming to sit on the couch across from him.
“What are you doing up so early?”

“I always wake up early, professor.” She studied him for a moment, before giving a dubious hum in response.

She seemed to remember what she came in for and raised her wand, pointing it at the bulletin board next to the exit and casting a quick spell. A piece of parchment appeared, with what Ron knew to be her office hours on it, as well as another listing the house rules. Satisfied, she turned back to him and peered at him consideringly, before waving it again.

A full spread of tea and biscuits appeared on the table between them.

“Cup of tea, Mr. Weasley?”

“Thank you, professor,” he said, and made himself a cup the way he liked it— extra sweet, no cream. He waited to drink as she poured her own cup, and then sipped at his tea, quietly. His thoughts wandered back to Harry and Hermione, as they often did. Hermione would wrinkle her nose up at his tea and warn him about ruining his teeth, no matter how many times he told her there were spells for that. Harry would drink his tea plain unless Ron made it for him: two sugars, extra cream, and a bit of cinnamon if it was on hand, no matter what kind of tea it was. Ridiculous, and not to Ron’s taste at all, but it would make Harry’s shoulders relax at that first sip, and the corners of his lips would quirk up, and Ron would lean forward and—

And Harry was still eleven. There will be none of that for quite some time, thank you, brain, Ron reminded himself.

“Knut for your thoughts, Mr. Weasley?” Ron startled, and looked back at McGonagall, who was looking at him with concern.

“It’s nothing, Professor.” She raised an eyebrow.

“You will find, Mr. Weasley, that I am a very difficult woman to lie to.” She put her cup down on her saucer and leaned back. “As your Head of House, it is my job to make sure you are taken care of here at Hogwarts. If you have any concerns, I am very happy to listen.”

She looked him up and down, then continued, “especially if those concerns involve nightmares so horrible you sweat through your clothes.”

Ron looked down at himself and realized that he had worked up a considerable sweat during his workout and was still quite damp. He wrinkled his nose, then registered what she had said and quickly answered— “Oh! Oh, no, professor, I got up to work out.”

She gave him a flat look. “A full workout, before,” she checked her watch, “six in the morning, Mr. Weasley?”

He nodded. “I couldn’t sleep, professor. Like I said, I get up early.” She gave another hum, clearly unconvinced.

“It’s only natural to be… nervous, on your first night in a new place. Perhaps you’re worried about your classes? Or about making friends?” She probed.

Ron blinked at her, owlishly. In his first life, she had never paid this close attention to him. No adult ever had, really. He wasn’t sure how to respond to her concern.

“Er. No, professor. I really am fine.” He met her gaze. “I’m not nervous about classes, and I already have friends here. And my brothers.”

“Are you worried that you have to live up to them, somehow?” She asked. Ron laughed.

“No.” In his first life, of course, the answer had been very different. But honestly, the way things had turned out, the war had put more responsibility on him than it ever had on his brothers. Or at least a different kind. He didn’t need the kind of notoriety found at school— and if he could avoid it in the real world he’d likely be a lot happier.

He realized, though, that she wasn’t going to be appeased until he gave her some kind of an answer. Then it hit him.

“Truthfully, professor, I’m worried about Neville.” She blinked, surprised.

“He’s using his dad’s wand, you know? And since his dad’s still alive…” wands never answered fully to other wizards when their owners were alive, unless they had been won. And even if it had been, the wand didn’t suit Neville at all.

McGonagall nodded. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Mr. Weasley,” she said.

“And might I say that I got a very interesting letter from your mother a few weeks ago regarding your… particular gifts. If there ever is anything troubling you,” she looked him directly in the eye “you are welcome to tell me so. I will do what I can, to the best of my ability.” Ron’s heart fell.

For a moment, he had thought that maybe in his last life he just never caught her attention because they were never alone together like this. But the truth was uglier. She was only paying attention because she thought he was a Seer. It wasn’t anything to do with him, just with some fictional gift she thought he had. He pushed away the hurt and disappointment. He had craved attention in his first life, but he would have rather continued to have none than to have this proof that he had never deserved the attention for who he was. He was only worth the attention now for what he could do.

It didn’t matter. Ron knew who he was, and what he was worth. He just wished there was someone around to see it. He thought wistfully of Harry and Hermione again, as they had been, and pushed that thought away, too. There was too much to do to get caught up in stupid insecurities.

“Thank you, professor,” he said, and he finished his tea, before getting up. He needed a shower and a change of clothes before breakfast. It was time to start his first day of first year. Again.

Dear Merlin, this was going to be a headache.

Chapter Text

Ron fell into bed, wondering how things had gone so wrong, so quickly. He pulled his curtains closed. “Lumos,” he whispered, and got out his chess board, placing the pieces by the light of his wand as they had been before, and contemplating his day.

First, McGonagall.

He pulled out a white pawn, and placed it in the starting position for the white team on the side closest to the red team. She wasn’t his pawn, but she could be influenced if necessary.

He remembered their conversation that morning. She was sympathetic, but no doubt had her own agenda. An agenda, but also three full-time jobs, Ron thought, and winced. Whether she would move in his favor at his influence was debatable, but honestly she probably wouldn’t make any moves at all. Last time, she had been forced to move when Dumbledore had died, but it had taken that kind of extreme for her to get involved in the first place.

He sighed, wishing that she would at least move to protect Harry, but hoping she never had to again, and picked up another piece.

The other white pawn on the board.

Snape.

———————————————————————————————————————————

Ron blamed Harry’s luck for the fact that their first class on Monday morning was potions.

He could only blame himself for not keeping his mouth shut.

Before they had gone into the class that morning, he had warned them about Snape.

“Seriously, he’s not interested in being fair or in answering your questions.” He moved his gaze from Hermione to Harry. “He’s going to pick on us because we’re in Gryffindor, and he’s going to single you out because he used to fight with your dad.” The two of them nodded.
“The other professors will be better, just.” He sighed, “try not to let him get to you.” More nods, and Harry reached out to clap him on the shoulder.

“He can say what he likes. I’m sure I’ve heard worse. And hey,” he said, flashing a grin, “at least he’s not allowed to hit us, right?” He flashed Ron a smirk that he could tell was more bravado than real confidence, and stepped into the classroom.
Ron took a deep breath and followed, holding the door for Hermione and Neville before walking inside. He surreptitiously guided the two to a desk together— hopefully Hermione’s natural brilliance would keep Neville from another unfortunate potions incident— and took the seat next to Harry.

Things went almost word for word the way they had last time. Snape billowed in, all disdain and hostility, and targeted Harry with pointless questions that he had no hope of knowing, questions which weren’t even relevant to the first year curriculum. Thankfully Hermione kept her hand down and Harry didn’t mouth off. Ron bit his tongue and waited for it to end.

But then— Snape pulled a chair over to the front of their desk, and sat down. “For your information,” he started, leaning forward to loom over Harry, and before he could continue, Ron moved on reflex to put Harry behind him and was left staring Snape directly in the eye before he could think.

There were snickers from the rest of the class, but only for a second, as Snape froze where he was and stopped talking.

“Mister Weasley.” He said, drawing the words out. “What, do you think, you’re doing? Perhaps you believed that I would strike Mr. Potter? A monster, am I?”

“I think, professor, that you should back up.” Ron said, feeling as though he wasn’t fully in control of his actions.

“Excuse me?”

“I said, professor, that you should back. up.” Ron said, and pulled his wand into a ready position. Snape studied him for a moment, and then stood up.

“Detention, Mr. Weasley. Eight o-clock.” He flicked his wand towards the front of the room, where the answers to his questions wrote themselves on the chalkboard.
“Copy this down. Now.” He turned, and stalked away.

Ron let out a breath, and holstered his wand. “Oh. And twenty-five points from Gryffindor, Mr. Weasley, for pulling a wand on a teacher. The next time you pull a wand on someone, I suggest you be prepared to use it.”

There was muttering from the rest of the room, but a glare from Snape stopped it immediately. Ron didn’t care anyway, just slipped his hand into Harry's, needing the contact. Harry let him, and gave it two quick squeezes before moving away again. The tension drained from Ron’s body, and he got to copying down his notes.

Snape didn’t so much as glance in their direction for the rest of the period.

Defense was only marginally easier.

Ron arrived early, having walked with Harry, Hermione, and Neville straight to class— he mentally kicked himself for not pretending to be lost like everyone else— and quickly took a seat at the back of the classroom, despite Hermione’s nudging. Harry sat down next to him and Hermione spared them both an eye-roll before flouncing towards a seat in the front. Neville took his place on the other side of Harry, but Ron hardly noticed.

He was too busy biting down on a grin. That— the eye-roll followed by the quick turn, frizzy hair whirling around her head, the slightly too-long steps she took afterward— that was Hermione in perfect form. He had seen that look on her hundreds of times through the years, and he always had to fight to keep himself from smiling like an idiot when she did it.

Harry nudged him out of his thoughts with a raised eyebrow and Ron shot him a reassuring look that faltered as soon as he saw the man walking through the door.

Oh, fuck. He had known Quirrel would be there but, well. He had forgotten that he was currently sharing a body with you-know-who. That was certainly unsettling.
Ron wondered how nobody else noticed. It was like the back of Quirrel’s head was oozing dark magic into the air, leaving a horrid trail wherever it went. He was glad he had chosen to sit so far away— it was disgusting and unsettling.

Beside him, Harry’s hand flew to his scar.

“Alright, mate?” he whispered, underneath the sound of Quirrel’s stuttering introduction. Harry nodded, and stopped touching it, but he was squinting in the way Ron knew was his way of fighting off a massive headache.

Ron didn’t bother paying attention to the lesson. For one, listening to Quirrel would give anyone a headache, curse scar or no. For two, he already knew everything that would be covered in beginner’s defense. He wasn’t a prodigy or anything, but defense had always been one of his strongest subjects, and he wasn’t actually eleven anyway.

Instead, Ron pretended to read his textbook, while trying to use wandless and wordless magic to flip the pages. It wasn’t going very well. He could make his notes write themselves, if he focused hard enough, but somehow that was easier. It wasn’t that he couldn’t move the pages— he just had a hard time only moving one at a time. Precision, that’s your issue, he told himself, and focused harder. By the end of the period, both Ron and Harry were sporting massive headaches, though for different reasons, and when they left, Ron immediately grabbed Harry’s wrist and tugged him along in the direction of the hospital wing.

“Where are we going?” Neville asked, trying to slow them down long enough for Hermione to catch up. Ron slowed only marginally.

“Hospital wing. We’ll meet you at lunch,” he said, and shot a wave to Hermione. Neville walked back to join her, and Ron went to continue, but felt Harry pull away. He turned back and blinked at Harry, raising his eyebrows questioningly.

“Why are we going to the hospital wing? I’m not hurt,” he said, shuffling his feet.

“Oh. I just figured maybe you could use a pain potion. You’ve been squinting for the last forty-five minutes. Also, I want one, too. The smell of garlic in there was horrid, I can still feel it in my eyeballs,” he said, shooting Harry a grin. Harry hesitantly matched his smile, before grabbing Ron’s hand and gesturing for him to continue.

Ron nodded, and started walking again, feeling very aware of Harry’s hand in his own.

They made it to the hospital wing in record time and were met with the unimpressed gaze of Madam Pomfrey. Ron put on his best innocent-first-year look, and smiled at her.

“Hello, you must be Healer Pomfrey! I’m Ron Weasley, and this is Harry. We were wondering if we could maybe have something for our headaches?” he asked, as sweetly as he could. Her face softened, just a little.

“Oh, I’m not a Healer, dear, just a mediwitch, so that’s Madam Pomfrey to you. Come in, sit. Headaches, you say?”

“Yes, Madam Pomfrey. We just came from defense, and Professor Quirrel’s classroom smells really strongly of garlic. I think he must be afraid of vampires, which is weird because everyone knows they can’t get into Hogwarts.” He said, and then paused like an insecure first year would. “… right?”

She huffed a laugh. “Right you are, dear. Nothing as dark as that could get past the wards, not to worry.” She handed him a pain reliever, and he took it, gratefully.

“Was it the garlic that made your head hurt too, Harry?” Ron prodded.

Harry took the bait, and shook his head. Ron privately crowed in triumph.

“No, I think the pain came from my scar,” he said. Madam Pomfrey raised her eyebrows, curiously.

“Well then,” she said. “Lets have a look. Come lay on this bed, there’s a lad. Now I’m going to do a quick scan, alright?” She waved a wand over his head, and looked carefully at the floating colors and symbols that showed up above him.

“Hmmm. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with your scar, specifically.” She squinted at him. “When did you last visit an oculist?”

“A what?” Harry looked perplexed.

“An eye-healer, dear.” His confusion cleared.

“Uh, I don’t think I’ve ever been.” She shook her head.

“Nonsense, you must have! Where else would you have gotten your glasses?”

“They were in the donations bin at my school,” he said, quietly. Madam Pomfrey went quiet.

“Well, then. I’ll set you up an appointment, shall I? I’ll let your Head of House know when it is, and she’ll take you. For now,” she said, and handed him a dose of pain potion, “take this, and come back if you have any more trouble.” Harry drank it quickly, and sighed in relief.

“Thank you Madam Pomfrey,” they chorused together, and they left for lunch.

To Ron’s dismay, the twins had made it to the table first, and they had heard all about what had happened with Snape. They greeted him with a round of applause.

“On his first day!” “His first class, even!” “We could not be prouder, Ron.” “Seriously, that’s brilliant!” “So what happened?” “Did you really hex him?” “Because people are saying you hexed him!” Ron sighed and pinched his nose, letting them pull him to the seat between them. Fred started ruffling his hair vigorously with both hands, and George was still applauding. They only stopped when Percy snapped.

“Oh honestly! You shouldn’t encourage his behavior! He shouldn’t be hexing his teachers, it’s disrespectful, irresponsible, and—”

Ron finally managed to shove Fred’s hands away.

“I didn’t hex him! And I didn’t even pull my wand until he didn’t back up after I asked him to!”

“Told him to, more like,” Harry said, giggling at the twins’ antics. Ron shot him a playful glare.

“Not helping, mate.” Harry raised his hands in a mock-surrender, still laughing.

“Wait so you really” “pulled a wand on him?” Ron nodded miserably. He had done that, yes. He didn’t know what had possessed him to, but he had definitely done it. George studied his face a little and nudged him.

“It’s alright, Ron. Nobody in Gryffindor is going to hold it against you.” “Yeah,” Fred chimed in, “everyone knows Snape’s a miserable git. I’m sure he deserved way worse than that. He—”

“What did he do, anyway?” Percy said, cutting in. Ron felt his face heat up, and Harry started giggling again. He let his forehead fall to the table.

“He was rude to Harry, and then he tried getting in his face,” Hermione informed them. “Ron told him to step back, and pulled his wand when he didn’t.” Ron felt his ears burn. Stupid reflexes. Harry hadn’t even flinched when Snape had gotten close, but Ron had reacted like he had anyway. The urge to get between Harry and whatever danger was in front of him seemed to kick in no matter how small the threat.

Honestly, he told himself, you know Snape isn’t a threat. He’s one of Dumbledore’s pawns, he’s a spy. He would never actually hurt Harry. He’s trying to protect him, actually. No amount of reasoning with himself would undo the past, though, and he endured more teasing for the rest of the meal, hoping that the rest of his day would be a little easier.

At 8pm sharp, Ron knocked on the door to the Potions classroom. The door swung open, and he cautiously stepped inside.

He had spent all of Magical Theory and the rest of the evening trying to mentally prepare himself for this, but now he could tell it hadn’t helped. His hands shook— not because he was afraid of Snape, but because he was afraid of himself. He couldn’t trust his own reactions when he was angry. He needed to stay calm.

Snape was sitting at the front of the classroom, grading papers. He nodded to the desk, where there were potions ingredients that needed preparing. Ron mentally sighed in relief. At least it wasn’t dirty cauldrons to scrub.
He got to work, quietly slicing and mincing and gutting and skinning, and soon fell into a rhythm. It was interrupted when he was about three-quarters of the way through the ingredients.

“Well, Mr. Weasley?” Ron glanced up. Snape wasn’t looking at him, hadn’t moved from his papers.

“Well what, sir?” he asked, carefully keeping his voice neutral.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself? An apology, perhaps, for drawing your wand on me and disrupting my class?” Ron took a deep breath.

“No, sir.” He heard Snape’s quill stop, but he kept his head down and focused on his work. Snape stood up, moved toward him, pulled out a chair, and sat down across from him, a perfect mirror of that morning.

Ron didn’t look up. He kept working, making sure to keep his cuts evenly-spaced and not slowing down or showing any kind of fear. Unfortunately, he ran out of ingredients before Snape spoke again.

“Hmm. Well. Then perhaps you would like to explain yourself. That was… quite the reaction.” Snape’s gaze was heavy but Ron still didn’t meet it. Snape reached out and took the knife from Ron’s hand, placing it down gently on the desk.

“Look at me.” Ron set his jaw, and looked up. He met Snape’s eye, pulling his occlumency shields tight, but felt no intrusion into his mind.

“You will explain your outburst, or you will face detention every night until you do.” Ron smirked.

“Then I will see you tomorrow, professor.” Snape raised one eyebrow, and studied him for a long moment.

“Very well. Until tomorrow, Mr. Weasley,” he said, and waved his wand. The potions ingredients settled themselves into their bottles, and the work station started cleaning itself.

Ron stood, washed his hands, and left.

———————————————————————————————————————————

Ron turned the pawn in his hand. He was going to have to be very, very careful in his next few moves.

He returned it to its place on the board, thought for a second, and then turned it. Its gaze was now firmly directed towards the Red King. He studied it for a few seconds, cast a spell to save the positions of the pieces on the board, and then put it away.

He crawled into bed, and quietly whispered “Nox.”

Seamus, from the next bed over, snored louder.

Chapter Text

The next day passed more quickly, hurried along by the fact that their only classes were Charms and History of Magic— which Ron was determined not to sleep through. While everyone else was having a nap— except Hermione, who could focus on the growth rate of a single blade of grass, provided a professor had told her to first— he was going to learn something about Wizarding History.

Literally anything would do. He was determined not to waste an hour a week doing nothing this time around. And history was supposed to be important, right? If Binns wouldn’t teach him, he would teach himself.

The little voice in Ron’s head that sounded like Hermione was very impressed with him.

He set off towards the library after class was over. Harry and Neville decided to tag along to do their Charms homework, which Ron had completed in the first ten minutes of History, and Hermione was ecstatic at the idea of a group study session. Ron smiled fondly as she talked their ears off about what kind of books she wanted to find, and enjoyed having his friends close.

Somehow, Neville had become fully integrated into their little group of friends. It hadn’t happened last time, but Ron was glad to have him there. He remembered Neville as he had been during that last battle and cast a glance at him. There was fire in him somewhere, he just needed the right cause.
And the right wand, of course. He reassured himself with the thought that Professor McGonagall had only found out about the issue with Neville’s wand yesterday, and would probably take him for a new one over the weekend. He couldn’t wait for his friend to realize that he wasn’t bad at magic, he was just never given the tools to succeed.

“Alright, Ron?” Ron blinked, realizing he had spaced out talking to Neville.

“Fine, mate,” he said, shaking his head. Hermione and Harry both shot him a glance, and Harry pulled them to the side of the corridor. He lowered his voice.

“Did you just have another vision?” Neville started at the words, and stared at Ron in shock.

“You’re a seer?” he asked, in an awestruck whisper. Ron winced at the look, and nodded.

“Well?” Asked Hermione, expectantly. Ron swallowed nervously, and thought hard. He nodded.

“Tomorrow we’ve got our first flying lesson,” he said, then hesitated. He didn’t want to stop Harry from making it onto the Quiddich team, but he also didn’t want Neville to break his wrist again. Harry enjoyed being on the team, but— well. He would also be an easy target up in the air. It had happened more than once, and would probably happen again this year if Ron didn’t change anything.

But Harry loved Quiddich more than anything.

“You don’t have to say, Ron,” Neville said, seriously. “Even if it is about me, you don’t have to say if you don’t want to.”

Ron sighed, and dropped his shoulders. Neville was a good friend, but more than that, he was an eleven-year-old kid. The part of his brain that was still thinking like an adult kicked in and Ron knew that there was no way he could sit by and let Neville get hurt tomorrow. There had to be another way to get Harry on the team.

“I just don’t know if we can change it, even if I did tell you,” he warned. “You’re going to fall off your broom and hurt your wrist, Neville.” Neville went pale, and Ron could almost see him take a blow to his confidence. He quickly elaborated.

“It’s not your fault, mate. It’s the school brooms, they’ve got minds of their own, ruddy old things.” He patted Neville on the shoulder.

“Well,” Hermione cut in, “there has to be some kind of spell to stop him from getting hurt, right? Don’t they use any in Quiddich to keep people from hurting themselves?”

Ron snorted, and shook his head. “It wouldn’t be any fun if it wasn’t so dangerous,” he said, then turned thoughtful. “But I guess there are spells they use to catch someone once they’re falling.” The slowing charm, notably. They taught it in second year.

“If they exist, they’ll be in the library,” Hermione said, matter-of-factly and started walking again. The boys exchanged an amused glance, and followed her. As they walked, Neville fell into step beside Ron.

“So, uh. Who else knows about the whole…” He reached up and tapped under his eye. Ron laughed inwardly, thinking about how odd it was that he was sharing a fake secret to cover up a real one.

“My family knows. And McGonagall. Harry and Hermione found out on the train.” Neville’s eyes widened.

“That’s it?!” Ron nodded.

“Thats like, a really big secret then.” He looked a bit unsure.

“Yeah. But I trust you, Nev.” His eyes got wider, though Ron wasn’t sure how that was possible.

“Why would you trust me? You’ve known me less than three days!”

“Yeah. But you’re one of the good ones, mate. Trust me, I know,” he said, then repeated Neville’s gesture, tapping under his own eye. Neville abruptly stopped walking in shock, falling behind for a few seconds, before catching up.

“You’ve had… about me? Really?” Harry chimed in, then.

“I think he’s had them about all of us. He had an extra quill ready for Dean today when he lit his on fire in Charms. And all the food he passes to me at dinner turns out to be things I really like.” Ron blinked. He thought he’d been more subtle than that, but apparently not.

“And he already knows where everything is, too,” Hermione said, opening one of the huge library doors with a little effort, and holding it for them. Ron tipped an imaginary hat to her as he walked past, and delighted in the fond eye-roll he got in return. He walked them to an empty study station and set his bag down, activating the silencing bubble around it, so that when they sat down they could talk aloud (and privately) without bothering anyone.

“Just how many visions have you had, Ron?” Neville asked, looking awestruck. Ron shrugged, and shot him a wink before making his way over to the shelves.

He had some books to find.

Ron very quickly realized he had no clue what he was doing. He strolled through the numerous bookshelves, trying to make sense of what order they were in. They were generally grouped by subject, he knew, but beyond that it got a little more difficult. He let out a frustrated breath, and then jumped as a hand fell on his shoulder.

“Need a little help there, Ron?” Ron calmed his breathing. It was just Percy, he was safe, but he was a little thrown off by the fact that his guard had dropped. He shook himself, and pledged to pay more attention.

“Hey, Perce.” He hadn’t seen much of Percy since he had come back. When Ron came from, Percy had still been on odd terms with the rest of the family, and it was a little difficult to separate the man who worked for the ministry from the version of his brother that stood in front of him, who hadn’t done any of that yet.

As much as he had been hurt by the decisions Percy had made— and as annoying as he had always seemed— he had definitely missed this version of his brother. He was a little over-bearing, but he took after their mum that way. And if anything serious ever happened to Ron, or Ginny, or even the twins, he knew that Percy would be there in a heartbeat.

“Ron?” The hand on his shoulder squeezed a bit, and Ron looked up, meeting Percy’s eye. He raised an eyebrow. Ron shook his head. One fake vision was enough for the day, thanks.

“How does the library even work, Percy? It doesn’t make any sense!” Percy grinned and huffed out a laugh.

“There’s a bit of a learning curve, but it all does make sense once you get used to it, I promise. I think it’s a bit intentional, honestly. If you can’t find the book you want, you can’t check it out. If Pince never had to let another student take a book from the library, I’m sure she’d be over the moon about it.” He grinned at Ron, before taking him over to a poster on the wall.

“Here,” he said, “look at this. See these numbers?” Ron nodded. “Well they match up to the numbers on the shelves. Most libraries would have numbers on all the books, too, but Pince likes to make it hard on herself. Re-shelving these things is a nightmare.” Ron nodded, and skimmed the list, a little lost. History was from 900 to 1000, but how were you supposed to find what you wanted within all the history books?

“Slow down, Ron,” Percy said, interrupting Ron’s thoughts. “We’re not done, yet. Did you find the right section?”

Ron nodded. “History,” he said, then pointed to the chart and said “900.”

Percy nodded, “Good. Okay, so now we find the right section.” He let Ron lead them over to the History section, and then took him to the side of the bookshelf.

“See here? This chart is for all of the sections within the 900s. So if you wanted to look at the History of the Wizengamot, that would be 926, right?” he said, pointing it out. Ron stared at the chart, a little overwhelmed.

“So what kind of History are you looking for, anyway?” Percy asked, looking down at Ron. It was odd to be looking up at his brother again— no growth spurt, yet, Ron thought idly, then focused on the question.

“I don’t know? I just don’t want to leave school and not know anything about history because Binns is so dull.” Percy blinked a few times, then a slow grin spread over his face.

“That’s very mature of you, Ron. Here, I think I know what you’re looking for.”

He lead Ron over to a bookshelf marked 907, and crouched down, pulling out a leather-bound book, and handing it over.

“Here. This one’s pretty good— it’s part of a series, see?” He gestured to a number of similar-looking books. “There are fourteen of them, one per semester for seven years. They cover everything up until about forty years ago. For more recent history, you’ll have to look at something more targeted.” He gestured to another set of books, each with a different embossed title. An Introduction to British Wizarding Warfare, sat alongside The Ministry of Miscalculations: Minister Minchum’s Messes and the Wizarding War in Britain and The International & The British Wizarding Wars: A Comparative Analysis.

Ron took it all in, and nodded absently, looking down at the book in his hands. It was quite thick for what was only supposed to be a semester of work. Did he really want to devote so much time to this when he ought to be working on his plan? And he’d only be at school for a year anyway…
Then again, it wasn’t like he didn’t have the time for just one book. He had most of a year to kill, after all, and his classes were easy to the point of being tear-jerkingly boring. Surely he’d have time for this in lessons when he’d inevitably finished his work early. But was he really the kind of person to bring an unrelated textbook into his lessons, the kind of person who studied when they didn’t have to? He certainly hadn’t been before.

“Alright, Ron?” Ron looked up at Percy, and words seemed to fall out of his mouth without his say-so.

“Do you think I’m smart enough for this?” He heard himself the moment after he said it, and blushed deeply. He hadn’t meant for that kind of insecurity to slip out in front of someone, and besides that he knew he was smart. Maybe not the kind of smart that reads books for fun, but smart enough. He looked up to see Percy’s shocked expression fade into something more understanding and comforting.

“I think you’re plenty smart, Ron. And hey,” he jostled him a little, knocking his elbow into Ron’s arm, “if you don’t understand something, I’ve already read that one, so I can help, yeah? You don’t…” He paused, swallowed, and looked Ron in the eye, a little more earnestly. “You don’t have to deal with things alone.” It wasn’t hard to catch the double meaning in that.

Ron smiled up at his brother. He meant well, Ron knew, but he had no idea how wrong he was. In this time, the only person carrying a whole war’s worth of memories, he was exceedingly, and cripplingly, alone.

He appreciated the comfort, nonetheless.

“Thanks, Percy,” he said, and then let himself move to lean his forehead against his brother’s chest for a moment, trying desperately to soak in some of that support. Somehow, being told he wasn’t alone— and knowing it wasn’t true— had made him feel lonelier. He felt Percy take a startled, quiet breath in, and then bring his hand up to rest on Ron’s shoulder. He had never done this kind of thing with Percy, really. Maybe he should have. They took a slow breath like that, together, and then Ron pulled away, clearing his throat.

“Thanks, Perce,” he said, and then gestured a bit with his book, and walked away, feeling Percy’s concerned gaze heat up the back of his neck every step of the way.

Great, he thought. Another worried brother keeping an eye on me. He really needed to learn to control his brain-to-mouth filter.

He returned to the table and his friends when he had composed himself, after stopping briefly in the Charms section to pull out a 2nd year textbook, and making sure it had the slowing charm in it.

“Found it,” he said, startling the others from their discussion. He opened the book and the others leaned over it, studying it intently. Arresto Momentum it read— the Slowing Charm.

“It’s a second-year charm, but it shouldn’t be that hard. I bet Flitwick would teach it to us if— ”

“If we told him that you were a Seer, maybe,” Hermione cut in, with a scathing glance. Ron deflated a bit. More people knowing meant more of a chance that the Hogwarts rumor mill would find out, and then he’d be gawked at as much as Harry was. They had enough stares as it was, Ron wasn’t ready to give up his relative anonymity yet.

Neville spoke up after a moment’s silence.

“You said McGonagall knows, right?” The others looked to Ron and he nodded, confirming it.

“Well we’ll have her teach us, then.” Harry said.

“She doesn’t have office hours on Tuesdays,” Hermione said, a little sadly.

“Surely she’d help if we explained, though, right?” Harry said nervously, looking at Neville with concern.

“It’s alright, guys.” Neville said. “I don’t mind getting a little hurt to keep Ron’s secret. It’s only my wrist, anyway, not my neck.”

Ron was shaking his head as soon as Neville spoke.

“No way. We’ll figure it out. I can ask one of my brothers, if I have to. I bet Percy would teach me,” he said, then wrinkled his nose. He didn’t really want to give Percy any more opportunity to fuss over him today. “Or the twins,” he amended.

“Well if we’re going to learn this spell by tomorrow, we’d better start now!” said Hermione, determinedly. “We need to get good enough at it to catch Neville, and we’ll have to work our way up from light things, first. According to The Standard Book of Spells: Grade 1, heavier objects take more magical energy and focus to move than lighter ones. I read it in Chapter 7, when she talks about the Levitation Charm. It’s fascinating, really. Here, you can have a look if you want,” she said, and started pulling the aforementioned book out of her bag. Ron chuckled a little.

“We believe you, Hermione. Let’s see if Fred and George are around.” Ron grabbed his bag and went to the desk to check the books out as the others grabbed their things. Thankfully Madam Pince was absorbed in her work, so the interaction wasn’t as harrowing as usual. They left for the common room, everyone trailing behind Ron as usual, except, of course, Hermione. Ron was convinced she had been born knowing the way from the Gryffindor tower to the library and back by heart.

They hadn’t spent long in the library— it was still an hour or to until lunch— so the common room was mostly deserted. A few of the upperclassmen were having a rather heated snog in one corner, but they were easy enough to ignore.

They sat near the fire and Ron pulled out the Charms book again. Hermione reached for it and he easily let her, watching as she opened it, intent on giving it another read-through, searching for anything she might have missed. Harry and Neville settled in around her, peering at it over her shoulders.

“I’ll go see if Fred and George are in their room,” Ron said, and got up, heading up the stairs and passing his own room on the way to the third year dorms. The door was open, and the room was empty. Messy, but empty.

Ron had a thought. “Accio Marauder’s Map” he whispered, waving his wand.

Nothing happened. Of course. Couldn’t be that easy, he thought, and stepped into the room.

He did a few quick detection spells that he knew from the war and managed to avoid some nasty surprises that had been littered around the room as he made his way over to what was clearly Fred and George’s domain. They had turned their beds to sit perpendicular to the others in the room, occupying opposite corners and sitting with their headboards against the far wall. Between them, the floor-space looked like a war-zone. The desks had been pushed together, back to back, forming a makeshift work-table, and there was a full cauldron beside it, bubbling ominously.

Ron decided he really didn’t want to know what they were up to, and set his wand flat on the palm of his hand. “Point me Marauder’s Map.”

His wand lifted up, then rotated in the air above his hand like a three-dimensional compass, turning to point towards the bed by the outside wall. He cautiously walked through the room, avoiding touching anything. A piece of empty parchment was sitting innocuously atop the messy blankets, and Ron’s wand pointed straight to it. He released the spell and cast one more diagnostic charm, searching for anything the twins might have in store for thieves, but it seemed like he was in the clear.

He reached for it, hesitantly grabbing it and freezing for a moment before turning around and making to leave.

A voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Well, well, well. Who have we here?”

Chapter Text

Ron turned to look at the voice, and then blinked a few times.

Of course the twins had extra eyes around the castle. They had allies nobody even thought about, let alone looked for.

“Well? It’s obvious you’re one of their brothers. Who do I have the honor of catching in the act, hmmm?” said the portrait— an older man with a goatee, wearing some light armor. Ron blinked again, and then answered.

“I’m Ron, Ron Weasley. And you are?” The portrait looked delighted.

“Are you really? They’ve been talking about you, you know. I’m Sir Oraclitus Spheer, a pleasure to meet you.”

“Fred and George have been talking about me?” Ron asked wearily, glancing at the bubbling cauldron with a little more trepidation.

“Well, yes. I was talking about the ghosts, though, lad. They want to meet with you, which is absurd. They haven’t ever wanted to meet with anyone before, not even the headmasters! Keep to themselves, mostly. But your brothers, too, yeah.” The portrait nodded over at the potion “that’s not for you, though. Not to worry.”

Ron let out a breath, and laughed at that. “Which ghosts are you talking about? And where can I find them?” The portrait looked at him patronizingly.

“Who else, young man? The founders of course!” Ron’s mouth fell open.

“The founders are ghosts? How come nobody’s ever seen them before?” Sir Spheer sighed, and moved to sit down on the edge of his picture frame, as though he was sitting just on the other side of a window.

“Well, they’re not exactly ghosts. They’re more like… a series of sentient memories dressed up to look like themselves. A complicated bit of spellwork, tied to the castle’s foundation. They didn’t exactly trust the school to run itself after they were gone, wanted to make sure there were some… versions of themselves to look after things. But they don’t get out, much. They tend to stay out of everyone’s way.” Ron took a few moments to process this.

The founders themselves.

He thought back to the incident in the Ward Room that had started his journey into the past. The statues had seemed to be watching him, alive in some odd way, though they had never moved.

He could make a guess at what the Founders wanted to talk to him about.

“You should seek them out, lad. They won’t come to you, you know. They’re too important. Why you got an audience with them is well beyond me.” The knight stood.

“What were you doing in here, anyway? Looking for something, were you?”

Ron very seriously didn’t call attention to the parchment in his hand, which had fallen to his side. He stayed still, deliberately quelling the instinct to hide it behind his leg. Moving it now would draw the eye, he knew.

“It’s nothing important,” he said. “Do you mind not telling them that I was here, maybe? Please?” He tried to look younger than he felt.

“Hmmm. That depends on your answer to my question, young man.” Ron’s mind spun for a good excuse as he looked down at his shoes, and he decided to go for the innocent, home-sick first-year option.

“I was going to borrow a jumper. Except I couldn’t find one.” The portrait looked him up and down, suspiciously.

“And what’s wrong with your own clothes, child?” Ron willed himself to blush, thinking about that time he had walked in on Luna with another girl to force a bit of color into his ears.

“There’s nothing wrong with them,” he said, putting a little defensiveness into his tone, and then rubbed at his arm. “They just… I just wanted to wear one of theirs for a while, okay? Don’t worry about it.” He sighed, and looked down at his shoes again. “It doesn’t matter if they know, anyway,” he mumbled, and then said “Forget it. I’ll just go grab one of Percy’s.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man soften. “None of that, now, lad. I’m sure your brothers won’t mind you grabbing a jumper.”

He gestured towards the bed. “There’s one underneath there, I think.” Ron went and found it, quickly slipping the map into his pocket as he pulled his outer robe off, along with his own burgandy jumper, and pulled the green jumper on. It was so long that it almost covered his knees, but at least the color was more flattering than his own.

Sir Spheer looked at him in a fond and slightly patronizing way, and shot him a wink. “They won’t miss it, I’m sure. And I won’t tell them if you don’t. Just take care not to let them see you in it, hmm?”

Ron grinned up at the portrait, trying not to let too much of his inner triumph shine through. He had the map! And his brothers would be none the wiser about his little trip, so long as he covered his tracks well enough. He pulled his robe back on over it, and picked up his discarded jumper.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, genuinely. The portrait may have been a snitch for the twins, but he didn’t seem all that bad. More than that, he’d given Ron some vital information that he’d been missing. He shook his head as he quickly left the room. The founders. Who would have thought?

Ron strode back into the common room and over to his friends, who seemed to be arguing.

“I don’t know about this,” Neville was saying, hesitantly.

“Well it can’t be that hard,” said Harry, holding a balled up sock in one hand and his wand in the other. Ron glanced down. Harry was wearing one shoe, his other foot bare.

“It’s a second year spell, Harry. We’ve only had one Charms class, and we haven’t even—” Harry made to throw the sock into the air, but Ron threw his jumper at the back of Harry’s head before he could. It hit him gently, and the three of them startled.

“Couldn’t find Fred and George,” he said, coming around the couch to sit across from them. “Found this, though,” he said, indicating the new jumper he was wearing.

Hermione took one look at him and snorted.

“You look like you’re wearing a dress,” she said. Ron scowled at her, playfully.

“Yeah, well.” He gestured to the maroon jumper that Harry was holding. “Go on, mate, maroon will look better on you than on me.”

Harry’s face went from confused to slightly shocked. He met Ron’s eyes. Ron raised an eyebrow and nodded at it.

“Well? Let’s see it, then.” Harry held the sweater almost reverently, then quickly shed his outer robes so he could put it on. He popped his head through the neck hole and his hair stood on end with the static. Ron grinned fondly.

“Told you,” he said, then looked at the book. “Did you get anywhere with this?” They shook their heads.

“Not much to get, really,” Neville said. “Either you can cast it or you can’t, and we can’t find out if we can until we try. But…”

Hermione cut in. “I practiced some spells before school, but they were all first year charms. We probably shouldn’t try this without a teacher. It could be dangerous!” Ron grinned.

“What’s the worst that can happen, we’ll fail to catch a sock? C’mon, ‘Mione, it’ll be fine.” Hermione looked a little worried, but nodded.

Ron raised his wand and Harry made to throw the sock again, but before they could attempt the spell, the Fat Lady’s portrait swung open, and Percy walked in. He took in the group— Ron, wearing a huge green jumper and pointing his wand at Harry, who was wearing Ron’s jumper and only one shoe, looking like he was about to throw a sock ball at him; Neville and Hermione huddled together and braced behind a second-year charms textbook that they had propped up on one knee each. He blinked.

“Right.” He came over and sat next to Ron, sending a pointed glance at his wand until he lowered it, and at Harry’s bare foot. Harry flushed.

“What’s all this then?” The four of them exchanged a glance. Neville caught Ron’s eye and made the gesture that had very quickly been established as a hand signal for “visions” and raised his eyebrows.

“Yeah, Percy knows I’m a Seer,” Ron confirmed aloud. Percy’s look turned a little more alarmed. He turned to make direct eye-contact with Ron.

“What’s going on, Ronald?” Ron sighed and went to explain.

“We have flying class tomorrow, and Neville’s broom is going to go crazy. He’s going to fall off it and break his wrist. We’re trying to learn the Slowing Charm so we can stop him from getting hurt, but it’s a second year spell, and we haven’t even really started casting charms yet in class. We were going to try anyway, though.” Percy nodded his understanding, looking thoughtful.

“Well. While I commend you for wanting to keep Neville safe, you’re definitely going about it in the wrong way.” The group sagged, feeling defeated.

“Your magical cores aren’t practiced enough to catch a whole person yet. The Slowing Charm is taught in second year, yes, but it’s revisited in the fifth year curriculum. Before that, you shouldn’t try to catch anything heavier than a schoolbook,” he said, matter-of-factly.

Ron furrowed his eyebrows, confused. After all, it had been in first year that Harry had used the Hovering Charm to levitate the troll’s club, and he’d done that without much trouble. He worded his question carefully.

“But we learn the Hovering charm this year, and we’ll be able to lift heavier things than books with it, right?” Percy gave him a small smile, and nodded.

“Yes, but that won’t help you now, either. When something is falling, it’s actually…” he hesitated. “Think of it like this. Falling things, for all intents and purposes, are heavier than the same things when they’re sitting still. It’s the same way that someone getting hit with a bludger from a few centimeters away isn’t going to feel it much, but when it’s thrown from a few meters, it has enough force to knock them off their broom.” Ron felt a little stupid for not thinking about that, but shook it off quickly and nodded. The group sat somberly, nobody wanting to look at Neville.

“It’s alright, guys. I already said I don’t mind,” Neville said quietly. “Thanks for trying.” Percy’s eyebrows rose and he looked at Neville.

“Hold on. I said you’re going about it wrong, not that there’s nothing you can do! What time is your flying class tomorrow?” He asked.

“Quarter to four,” Hermione answered. Percy nodded.

“Well, that’s fine then. I don’t have any classes after lunch, so I’ll tag along. I’m great with a Cushioning Charm, I learned it last year. Accio,” he said, summoning the book from Neville and Hermione’s hands. He caught it, then threw it up in the air. Pointing at the ground beneath it, he cast “Molliare!” The book slowed when it reached the ground, coming to a gentle stop. It didn’t even make a sound.

Neville let out a sigh of relief, and Harry and Hermione both grinned at Percy. Ron leaned into his brother’s side, also relieved. Of course he could have caught Neville himself, but it would be hard to explain why a first year could cast at the level of a fifth-year. He wasn’t even upset at the inevitable teasing that would happen when he showed up to a lesson with his big brother tagging along. It was worth it. And now he had time to worry about how to get Harry on to the Quiddich team, too.

“Thanks, Perce.” Percy smiled, and ruffled Ron’s hair, before shooting a spell in his direction. The jumper he was wearing shrunk until it fit right.

“‘Course, Ron.” He stood up, picking the book off the floor and handing it back to Hermione. “I’ll meet you all at lunch tomorrow and we can walk together to your flying class.”

As he walked away, he said, over his shoulder “Put your sock on, Harry. You’ll catch cold.” Harry blushed, and did, pulling his shoe back on as well, not bothering to untie it first.

“Right, then. Homework?” Hermione asked brightly, pulling out her bag. Ron and Harry exchanged a glance, but Neville was already pulling out his Charms work, and Harry shrugged and moved to pull his out, too.

Ron put the second-year Charms textbook back in his bag, exchanging it for the History book. He took a breath, settled into a more comfortable position, and opened it.

Ghosts and plans could wait until after lunch. For now, he was determined to indulge in the opportunity to sit quietly with his friends. It felt like it had been years since he last had the chance to fully relax, and he knew that moments like this were fleeting. He’d enjoy every second of it he could get.

Chapter Text

Ron had trouble putting his book down when it was time for lunch. He had known a little bit about wizarding history, but he hadn’t ever really thought about it in-depth like this before. What struck him was that it wasn’t just boring lists of wars and such like Binns had let on about it being.

It was all strategy. Leaders throughout history pulling out their own chessboards and going head to head with each other. In early wizarding history, those leaders were the heads of the muggle catholic church and, surprisingly, the founders themselves.

Everyone knew that the Statute of Secrecy was put into place to protect magic users from witch hunts, but Hogwarts was founded well before it was put in place. The founders had been desperately trying to save as many children as they could, had been teaching them magic because they needed to be able to fight and survive in a world where they were feared and hunted.

And it had worked! Obviously it had worked, because enough magic users had survived to set up a wizarding government, and to create a whole society and hide it from the muggle world.

And of all the founders, Ron realized, it was Salazar Slytherin who was the best chess master. He may have hated muggles, but the idea that he had hated muggle-borns was a fallacy propagated by the legacy of hatred for them within the Slytherin house. But Slytherin himself had been trying to keep the school safe.

It had been a sound strategic position. Ron was horrified by the thought, but he knew he wasn’t wrong. When so many students were being slaughtered, not bringing any in from the non-magical world meant less opportunities for religious zealots to follow them to the school. When looking from a larger point of view, it made sense.

But what he hadn’t realized, which the other founders had, was that all he was doing was dividing the magical community. He had created prejudice when he was trying for practicality. And more than that, there was no way that Gryffindor, a fierce warrior, would ever be able to hear about a child who was in danger and not do anything about it. No way that any of them could look a magical child in the eye and turn them away from safety, no matter the circumstances of their birth.

It was somehow depressing to realize that the foundations of blood purity, the most divisive issue in the modern wizarding world, were all well-intended. Of course Salazar Slytherin was in the wrong, but he hadn’t been the monster everyone made him out to be. Everyone just lacked basic context— context which could be found in the first ten minutes of cracking a beginner’s history book. If people knew about this, if it were actually taught in school… the impacts of that could be world-changing after just a few generations. If it had been taught in Voldemort’s time, who knows if he could ever have rallied support on the basis of blood-purity?

Sadly, that wasn’t the world Ron lived in.

Ron gazed across the Great Hall towards the Slytherin table. The whole war started here, with the prominent divide between the Slytherins and the rest of the students. It seemed so trivial.

And he had contributed to carrying it on, hadn’t he? With every fight he had with Draco Malfoy and his goons, every time he had spit insults across the room, he had been carrying out the legacy of a century worth of prejudice. And as soon as he graduated, it would flip in the other direction, as the Slytherins moved up in society and everyone else moved down.

Ron suddenly hated Binns with everything he had.

“Ron?” He looked up to find that Neville, Harry, Hermione, and all three of his brothers were staring at him. He looked down. He had been sitting in front of an empty plate, holding his fork so tightly that his knuckles were white, and staring at the Slytherin table. Oops. He cleared his throat, awkwardly.

“Fine. I’m fine,” he said, and moved to put some Shepherd’s Pie onto his plate.

“You sure?” “Nobody’s been messing with you, have they?” “Because we can take care of that for you, you know.” “We’d absolutely love to take care of that for you!” Fred and George were looking ever-so-slightly murderous, glaring at the Slytherin table.

“Nobody’s done anything to me,” he said. The others exchanged glances, and Harry looked at him and deliberately wiped his eye with two quick motions, keeping the rhythm of Neville’s gesture. Ron sighed and nodded.

“Nothing like that, though. I was just spacing out, I didn’t mean to stare at them.” The others looked a little doubtful, but dropped it. They all went back to their conversations, but he could tell they were keeping an eye on him.

His brothers all visibly relaxed when he started eating, and he had to fight a snort. Worry warts.

He ate quickly, then said. “So I’ve got another detention with Snape tonight, don’t wait up for me Harry.” The conversations stopped again.

“Another one?” “What did you do this time?”
“That can’t be fair!”
The twins and Hermione all seemed to speak at the same time.

“It’s fine, I deserved it, honestly.” Harry looked confused.

“But you didn’t really mean to threaten him in class, I could tell. And anyway one detention should be enough, right?” Ron huffed a bit of a laugh, and reached a hand up to run it nervously through his hair.

“Yeah, but uh. He asked me if I wanted to apologize, and I said no. He didn’t seem to like that. And now he’s going to keep me in detention indefinitely until I do.”

“You refused to apologize? Ronald! I know he’s awful, but you really do have to respect him anyway, he is your professor.”

“Respect has to be earned, Perce. As far as I’m concerned, I don’t mind spending my time in detention. I’m probably going to keep challenging him in class anyway, and there’s not much he can do to me that’s worse than indefinite detentions, right?”

“He can take points!” Hermione protested.

“I’ll earn them back in other classes, it’ll be fine.” He finished his slice of Shepherd’s pie and grabbed a few sausage rolls.

“Anyway, I have things to do. I’ll see you all later, yeah?” He stood, not giving them any chance to reply, and left the hall.

It was ghost time.

Okay. Maybe it wasn’t ghost time. Try as Ron might, he couldn’t seem to make his way back to the Ward Room. He had been wandering around for a few hours, now, checking the Map as he went for any clues, and it was useless.

He had no idea where he was supposed to go. It would make sense for it to be down in the lower levels of the castle, but he had combed over every inch, and it just wasn’t there. Or if it was, it was well hidden.

He had one last idea. He made his way to the seventh floor corridor, and started pacing. I seek an audience with the founders, he thought clearly.

The door to the Room of Requirement appeared. Ron took a breath, and opened it. He stepped in.

It was an empty room. There were four chairs— decorated almost to the point that they looked like thrones— and nothing else. No tapestries on the walls, no rug on the floor.

No ghosts of the founders, waiting for him.

Ron looked around. Maybe this was some kind of test. “Hello?” He asked, hesitantly. His voice echoed a little against the stone of the walls. He looked up— either the ceiling was enchanted like the great hall, or there was none. It was a chilly day, overcast, but the room wasn’t cold, nor was it windy.

It was a little unsettling though, in a way that made Ron want to shiver. He checked his watch. It was a quarter past four. He had time.

Conjuring a plain chair for himself, he sat down on it in front of the four chairs and pulled his history book back out. He may as well read while he waited. He was re-absorbed into it quickly— thinking in the back of his mind that if this was how Hermione felt whenever she cracked a book open, he could understand why she did it so often. He started reading about the early days of the school— Peeves had been a resident since the school had been founded!— and let the time pass, indicated only by the movement of the sun above him.

It was peaceful.

“Are you enjoying your book, Traveler?” Asked a woman’s voice. Ron hummed.

“Did you know that Nearly-Headless Nick died before the Statute of Secrecy was in place? Muggle Royalty kept magic users on staff back then, even though witch hunts have been happening since, like, 330 B.C. And he didn’t even die at Hogwarts! I wonder why his ghost is here, I should ask him,” Ron said, thinking out loud.

“I believe he came back because it was the last place he truly felt at home,” she replied. “He was hired straight out of school, you know, because he had ties to the Tudor family through his mother.”

“Really?” Ron asked, finally looking up. He came face to face with the ghost of a dark haired woman, tall and slender, dressed in a long blue and silver gown. His eyes widened.

“I mean, uh. Hi,” he said, lamely. That was Rowena Ravenclaw. He was talking to the Rowena Ravenclaw. He had set out to find the founders, but honestly he hadn’t been prepared to actually meet them!

She laughed warmly. “Hello, Mr. Weasley. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She curtsied. Ron stood, knocking his chair backwards, and bowed.

“You as well, um, ma’am?” He squeaked. Another laugh, this time from behind her.

“There’s no need to be afraid, child,” came a voice that reminded him oddly of his mother. He looked over to see another woman, in muted robes that were almost more tan than yellow. She was round in a way that made Ron think that she would give amazing hugs. She smiled at him in a comforting way, that made him feel a little better. She took her seat on one of the chairs, between two men.

On her left, a bald man with a black goatee, who raised an eyebrow at him and nodded in greeting. On her right, a huge man with almost as much of a mane of hair as Hagrid, only it was bright red, and incredibly well groomed. He shot Ron a huge smile.

“Good to meet you, lad!” he said, in a deep, rumbling voice. Ron could tell that if he ever shouted it would boom throughout the room like thunder.

“You too, sir. I mean… Professor?” he asked, a little lost at how to address them.

“Oh it has been a while since we taught,” sighed Helga Hufflepuff. “I do so miss teaching.”

“Professor will do, child.” Said Rowena, and went to take her seat. Ron righted his chair and sat, too. He took a deep breath.

“You wanted to see me, professors?” He asked, bravely.

Salazar inclined his head. “Indeed. We have much to talk about, young man. Let us begin with why we decided to send you back, and work from there, hmm?”

Ron barely made it to his detention on time. He had missed dinner, but he wasn’t upset about it. New information was worth its weight in gold— and a conversation with the founders was worth more than that by far.

He had a lot to think about. He walked into the Potions classroom, and started preparing ingredients without waiting for instructions. They were all laid out the same way they had been the day before.

“We are incredibly sorry about the manner in which we brought you back. We understand that dying is incredibly distressing. If there had been another option, we would have taken it,” Helga had said, as if he even cared about dying when it had given him the opportunity to save his brother— and so many other people. He had said as much to them, and Godric had smiled.

“Didn’t I tell you he wouldn’t mind it? He is far too brave to be afraid of dying. Not an ounce of cowardice in this one,” he had said, seeming proud. Salazar had rolled his eyes at that, but had worn a small, fond smile.

“Well,” Ron had replied, “If it had been death by spiders that would have been a little different,” and had delighted in the group’s laughter at that.

“Did that sprig of dittany offend you in some way, Mr. Weasley?” Snape asked, cutting through Ron’s musings. Ron looked down to see that the herb he was supposed to be shredding was ruined, in pieces too small to be useful. He blushed.

“My apologies, sir. I wasn’t paying attention.” Snape raised an eyebrow.

“Clearly.” He raised his wand and vanished the mess in front of Ron, then sat across from him as he had the day before.

“Obviously there is something on your mind. Perhaps we could revisit our conversation about what prompted you to… act out in class yesterday.” Ron glanced up at him, before starting to shred the next sprig of dittany more carefully.

“Act out, professor?” he asked neutrally.

“I believe you know exactly what I am referencing Mr. Weasley. Unless you make it a habit to draw your wand on all of your professors,” he drawled, slowly.

“Only the ones threatening Harry, professor.” Snape leaned back, the only indication of his surprise.

“Have you convinced yourself that I meant to do harm to Mr. Potter?” he asked after a moment’s pause.

“You may not have meant to do harm, sir, but you did nonetheless harm him. You singled him out in front of everyone, bringing attention to his fame. Everyone knows he’s famous because his parents deaths— so you brought attention, on his first class of his first day— to the fact that he’s an orphan, as well. Then you mocked him for his lack of knowledge, despite the fact that he grew up as a muggle, so he only had a few months to learn anything about the wizarding world. You could have asked anyone who was brought up by wizards those questions, and they would have been able to answer them, but you didn’t. You made him feel stupid, and look stupid in front of his peers. What’s more than that, you then decided you would intrude his physical space, which is entirely inappropriate and threatening behavior. That’s on top of the hostile learning environment you’ve created for everyone who isn’t in Slytherin house.” He set down the last of the herbs, finished with his work, and looked Snape in the eye.

“How many students have you turned away from potions? How many aspiring potioneers have been hampered by your refusal to give them sufficient motivation to do well— or by making sure that this classroom is the last place they could possibly find enjoyment and relaxation while crafting potions? How many students, whether good at potions or not, have dropped your class in their upper years, even if they’re interested, because they don’t want to spend any more time around you?” Ron stood, leaving Snape stunned in his seat.

He quickly washed his hands and turned towards the door. “I don’t intend to apologize to you for my actions. I will see you tomorrow, professor.” With that, he left, feeling the sense of triumph he had for standing up to Snape fade into horror that he had given himself away.

He had been meaning to turn Snape’s attention away from himself. He had just been too caught in the high of his meeting with the founders to act with the caution he had planned to.

Damn.

Well, at least it had felt good in the moment. The memory of Snape’s face, stricken at what he had said, echoed in his mind. He smiled a little. There was that, at least.

He made his way up to the Gryffindor tower, and found Percy waiting for him in the empty common room, holding a full plate of food. One look at his face had Ron sitting down without question and picking up his fork.

“Did you see something, again? You can’t just stop eating every time you see something upsetting, Ron,” Percy said, quietly. Ron shook his head.

“Sorry, Perce. It won’t happen again.” Percy’s mouth thinned, but he let it go.

“See that it doesn’t.” Ron ate in silence for a while, Percy pretending to read but very obviously not turning any pages, watching to make sure that Ron was really finishing his food.

“Hey Percy? You’re friends with Oliver Wood, right?” Percy nodded.

“Yeah, why?”

“You should ask him to come with us to flying practice tomorrow. He’s going to want to be there.” Percy blinked a few times, then nodded.

“I’ll let him know.” That was one problem solved. If Ron could get Oliver to see Harry on a broom, he’d be on the team in a heartbeat.

“Thanks,” he said, and put his fork down on his empty plate. Percy nodded and vanished them.

“Bed.” He said, pulling Ron to his feet and putting an arm around his shoulders. He walked Ron to his door and saw him in before continuing up the stairs. Ron sighed. He really needed to stop worrying Percy. At this point, he may as well be living back at home with his Mum.

As he climbed into bed, and settled down into his pillows with a stomach full of warm food, he had to admit to himself that it wasn’t that bad.

Chapter Text

Ron bolted upright, covered in sweat, wand at the ready. He took a deep breath, and cursed at himself.

He had missed his workout yesterday. He hadn’t been tired enough when he went to bed. That was a mistake, clearly. He opened his curtains quietly and started rifling through his trunk for a change of clothes, when a small voice asked “Ron?”

He started, and turned. Harry was sitting up, too. Ron sighed. He had hoped that his friend would be nightmare-free in this life. He dropped his clothes and moved over to Harry’s bed, slipping in next to him and pulling the curtains closed around them.

“Lumos” he said, and the tip of his wand lit up. Harry’s face was awestruck for a second at the unfamiliar spell, but no matter his expression, it was clear that he had been crying.

“Nightmares too, Harry?” Ron whispered. Harry wiped at his face with his sleeve and nodded. Ron put an arm around his shoulder, comfortingly. He felt Harry tense, then lean in ever-so-slightly. Ron’s chest suddenly hurt with the onslaught of feelings— here was Harry, trusting him, after knowing him for so little time. It was like the feeling you got when a bird landed on your shoulder— you had to stay still, try not to breathe too deeply, and not let on how affected you were, or it would leave.

Ron desperately tried to compose himself. It took a few moments. Eventually he quietly cleared his throat.

“I always work out after I have a nightmare. It helps me, sometimes. You can join me if you want?” Harry looked a little skeptical. Ron shrugged, jostling Harry a little with the movement.
“You don’t have to. But it helps to work out every day. If you’re exhausted when you go to bed, you might not dream as much. That’s how it works for me, anyway.” Harry nodded, but made no move to get up.

Ron didn’t move either. He’d stay here all day if that’s what Harry needed. After a few minutes, Harry stretched a little, knocked his shoulder lightly into Ron’s chest, and slipped out of bed. “Nox” Ron whispered, and slipped out after him.

The two dressed a little hurriedly in the dark, before heading down the stairs to the common room. It was empty, as expected for the early hour of— Ron checked the time and winced— half four in the morning.

“C’mon,” he said, and lead Harry to the empty classroom he had worked out in on the first day. He started stretching, and Harry followed his lead silently. They made their way through stretches, and push-ups, and sit-ups, and laps around the room until they were both ready to collapse. They headed back to the common room— to the annoyance of the Fat Lady— and grabbed some water, drinking greedily, before collapsing on one of the couches together.

Somehow Harry ended up with his head in Ron’s lap, and that feeling overwhelmed him again, but he tamped down on it. He ran a hand through Harry’s sweaty hair, and wasn’t as grossed-out as he knew he should be.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asked, quietly. Harry shook his head.

“You?” Ron repeated the gesture. They sat in silence together, taking in the hot fire and letting the sweat cool on their skin as their breathing evened out.

“Oh Merlin, that’s cute.” “Someone grab Ron’s brothers, they’ll want to see—” “Shh! Don’t wake them up!” Ron groaned and pressed further into the warmth surrounding him. An arm around him tightened, and the body against him sighed, deeply and contentedly, before going still. The voices stopped as he moved, but came back a few moments later.

“Okay, everyone,” “show’s over.” “Everyone knows firsties are cute,” “but give them a little room, yeah?” Ron sighed at the twins’ voices. They were here, taking care of whatever the voices wanted, so Ron could go back to sleep.

A hand made its way into Ron’s hair, and another to his shoulder.

“Hey there, littlest brother—” “Wakey-wakey!” “While we understand wanting to catch the attention of girls” “this isn’t the kind of attention you want.” “Unless you want every girl in the tower to look at you like a lost crup” “in which case, you’re doing great!” Ron hummed at the voices, but tried to shake off the insistent hand shaking him.

Then Harry moved in front of him, and Ron was wide awake. “Hmm?” asked Harry. “Did we fall asleep?” Ron internally cooed at his best friend’s sleepy voice.

“You sure did, Harrykins!” “But people are getting up now, so” “Up-and-at-em!”

Ron sighed and untangled himself from Harry, running a hand through his hair as he sat up. He stretched a little, rubbing at his eyes, before opening them. There were six or seven upper year girls watching them, alongside Fred and George, who were grinning maniacally.

Ron winced. Not the right kind of attention, indeed. He felt like an animal in a zoo. He shook Harry until he sat up too, then stood, pulling Harry up behind him.

“Morning, sleepyheads,” Fred and George chorused together, grins not dropping for a second.

“Morning, dickheads,” Ron returned, and pulled Harry past them, starting up the stairs into their common room and ignoring the gasps of mock-offense.

“Why Ronnikins!” “If mother heard you say such a thing, she’d—” Ron closed the door on their voices, sighing with relief. They’d made it to their dorm safely.

He couldn’t believe they had fallen asleep on the couch!

He couldn’t believe that he had slept through cuddle-time with Harry! He giggled a little at the thought, caught Harry’s eye, and the two burst into laughter. The groggy voices of Seamus and Dean raised in complaint, but Ron couldn’t care less.

“Well. That’s one way to start the morning,” he said, still giggling a little.

It was, in fact, a great way to start the morning. With breakfast arrived the mail— two letters, one from Bill, and one from his parents— and a package that he had Percy shrink for him so he could tuck it into his bag. That would be the clothes for Harry that he had asked his mum to send along.

“Don’t you want to know what it is?” Neville asked, a little bemused. Ron grinned and tapped under his eye, earning fond grins from Harry and his brothers. Hermione shook her head, but she was smiling too.

His good mood lasted well through breakfast and Transfiguration, and wasn’t even killed by Herbology. It was cold enough outside that walking across the grounds to the greenhouses was a chore, but after that was a free period before lunch. Harry, Ron, and Hermione left Neville in the greenhouses— he wanted some extra time to talk with Professor Sprout— and headed to the great hall a little early.

The food wasn’t even on the tables, yet, but the hall was delightfully warm. They spent some time on their homework, chatting aimlessly all the while, until food appeared on the tables and other students started to trickle into the hall.

Neville was one of the earliest, and as they all began to eat, Ron caught his eye. Suddenly all his cheer left him.

They had flying class next period. What if Percy didn’t catch Neville in time? What if Oliver decided not to show up, and Harry didn’t make it onto the team? What if Madam Hooch sent the older students away?

Ron felt a little ill. He set down his fork, and was immediately met with a not-so-subtle stare from Percy. He sighed, but made no move to pick it back up.

“There’s no need to be worried about flying, Hermione.” Percy said, a little loudly, as if in the middle of a conversation that he didn’t mind people overhearing. “Most magical households have their kids on brooms before they’re even properly walking. There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he continued.

Hermione, bless her, caught on quickly.

“I don’t know, Percy. There’s going to be twenty-two students in the air, and only one teacher. What happens if more than one of us falls at a time? Or if we’re across the Quiddich Pitch when something happens?”

“That’s a good point,” said Neville. “And I don’t know how to fly, either. My gran always told me that proper wizards keep their feet firmly on the ground when I asked about it,” he said, a little miserably.

Percy shot a look across the table to Oliver Wood, who he had waved over when he had sat down.

“Haven’t you got a free period next, Oliver? Maybe you could go fly around with the firsties, scout out any new talent,” he suggested. He turned back to Hermione.

“Oliver here is the Gryffindor House Quidditch Captain.” Oliver nodded over to Hermione, and glanced between the four first-years, who all looked appropriately worried.

“I don’t mind tagging along,” he said cheerfully. Then “Hey Johnson! Want to go supervise the firsties’ flying lesson next period?” Angelina Johnson piped up from down the table.

“Sure, why not?”

“Weasleys?” He asked, looking over at the twins. They shook their heads, sadly.

“Sorry Ollie,” “We’ve got Transfiguration.” “Can’t skip McGonagall’s class” “you know how she is about that.” Oliver nodded, before getting up and going down the table towards where Katie Bell was talking animatedly with Alicia Spinnet.

Ron stared in their direction. This had gotten a little out of hand. What would happen if half the Gryffindor team showed up to a flying lesson with the Slytherins? Would it be seen as hostile? Merlin, would they cause fights?

“See Hermione? Perfectly safe. Lots of experienced fliers around,” Percy said, making eye-contact with Ron. “I’ll even go myself, if it’ll make you feel better.” Hermione nodded enthusiastically and Ron had to fight back a groan.

Madam Hooch would probably like the horde of upper years interrupting her flying lesson about as much as a bludger to the face— but at least it wouldn’t be boring.

Somehow, the Slytherin team had caught wind of what was going on. Whereas most of the Gryffindor team had shown up, all of the Slytherin team had— in uniform, no less.

Madam Hooch looked like she was trying to strangle them all with her mind.

After a lengthy conversation with both teams and much angry hand-waving and posturing from all three parties, the teams were sent to sit on opposite sides of the field in the viewing boxes. They glared at each other as the first years stood in a line far below. The atmosphere was incredibly tense.

No, this wasn’t at all what Ron had been going for.

They went through the basics of holding the broom just fine, the line of first years barely daring to speak a word, darting their eyes back and forth between the two teams in the boxes above.

Then came the moment.

They mounted their brooms. Neville, nervous, kicked off a second too early. His broom went crazy as he desperately tried to control it— Ron saw Percy in the stands raise his wand and then—

Oliver Wood was shooting across the field like his broom was on fire, grabbing a hold of the handle in front of Neville and forcing it to still in the air. Neville was breathing heavily and clutching his broom for dear life.

Oliver eased them down to the ground, and Ron let out a breath. Neville was fine— no harm done.

There were cheers from the Gryffindor stand— “Nice job, Captain!” and “Attaboy Ollie!” — and jeers from the Slytherin, the whole team making fun of Neville. Neville himself was as white as a sheet, but he was grinning, and sent a thumbs up to Ron and the others as Madam Hooch ran across the field to meet him and Oliver where they had touched down.

They took a short break, after that, as Hooch got Oliver and Marcus Flint to check all of the school brooms for wear and tear. The two of them were efficient at first, flying each one in a short loop around a goalpost and back, but as they went on got more and more competitive. By the end they were purely showing off— doing all kinds of tricks that were both unnecessary and time consuming.

It took long enough that the first years almost didn’t get the chance to get back on the brooms again. Madam Hooch canceled the rest of the lesson, and told the first years that if they were comfortable enough flying, they were welcome to use the brooms for the last fifteen minutes of class, but that everyone else could consider the class adjourned until the next week.

Ron pulled Harry towards a broom. Harry seemed hesitant, but let Ron pull him along.

“C’mon. You’re going to love it, I promise.” Harry looked at Ron searchingly, but then nodded. They mounted their brooms and took off.

They were only five or six meters off the ground when Harry started laughing. It was a joyful noise, one that Ron hadn’t heard often in the years of their friendship. It wasn’t the muffled, self-conscious laughter he had come to know, it was a loud, free, exited noise.

Something loosened in Ron’s chest. Even if this didn’t work, even if nothing went according to plan, he could sneak Harry out in the mornings and they’d fly around the grounds. He’d do whatever it took to keep Harry this happy.

Ron pulled Neville’s Remembrall out of his pocket. He had snatched it that morning, willing to do whatever it took for this moment. He came to a stop, high above the field, and held it up for Harry to see.

“Is that Neville’s—?” Harry asked before Ron cut in with a “Catch!” and dropped it.

Harry moved so fast Ron could barely believe his eyes. No matter how many times he saw Harry do this, it never got old. It was enchanting to watch from the air, and Ron angled his broom to get a better sight of it— his best friend, moving into a dive that was incredibly dangerous in a way that looked like he was operating fully on instinct. He was catching up to the ball, but he was also nearing the ground.

Fifteen meters.

Eight meters.

Two meters— Ron bit his lip and fought not to close his eyes. Harry could do this— this is what Harry had been born to do— and

Yes! Ron threw his hands up in the air with a “WHOOP!” as Harry caught the Remembrall in his hand and pulled out of the dive with so much force that he had to roll upside-down to compensate for it, and he moved back up into the air neatly. The Gryffindor viewing box had exploded with noise— and Ron flew down to meet his friend near the ground.

He grinned, and started to say “well done, Harry” before his friend caught his eye. Harry’s expression went from elated to furious.

“What was that, Ron?!” He said pointedly, in a dangerously quiet voice. Ron sighed and went to take the Remembrall from Harry. Harry gave it to him, but his expression didn’t get less upset— he pinched his lips together, angry.

“You’ll see, Harry. Just give it a second,” Ron said, and walked over to Neville.

“Sorry for taking this, mate. It was important,” he said, handing it back. Neville’s eyebrows furrowed, but then he tapped underneath one eye, and Ron nodded. His expression cleared.

“It’s alright. I don’t mind, really.” Ron stuck out his hand, and Neville shook it easily. Harry looked on, still fuming.

“That wasn’t right, Ron,” he said quietly, and then Oliver Wood was beside them. He was shouting, and pulling Harry into a hug, before stepping back and taking him by the shoulders.

“Beautiful! An absolutely gorgeous dive! Must have been well over fifty feet and you pulled out of it like it was nothing! Was that your first time on a broom, Potter?” Harry looked stunned, but nodded.

Ron grinned. Everything was as it should be.

Well, everything for his friends, that is. Ron found himself outside the potions classroom again, thinking back on the day before. It had been a mistake to talk to Snape like that, and now he had to deal with the consequences.

At least Harry and Neville had both forgiven him— though Harry seemed mostly too stunned to keep holding on to anger— and he had letters from home to read when he got back to bed, so that was something to live for. He took a deep breath, and opened the door.

There were no ingredients sitting on the table this time. It was just Snape, sitting at a desk. The chair opposite to him pulled itself out with a wave of Snape’s wand.

Ron had seen dragons less intimidating. He swallowed, and took a seat.

Chapter Text

“Sit.”

Ron sat. He made a concerted effort to still his body and to calm his mind— show no fear, he told himself. He focused on keeping his breathing even in the long silence that followed.

“In my ten years of teaching, I have never had a student die or be permanently maimed in my classroom.” He made eye contact with Ron. “Tell me, Mr. Weasley, do you know what the most dangerous thing in my classroom is right now?”

Ron looked around. His eyes moved through the various potions ingredients on shelves behind glass which lined the inner wall. The puffer-fish livers, perhaps? They were incredibly toxic, kept in sealed containers in a locked cabinet. If you had to use one, you needed to keep a modified bubble-head charm around the ingredients at all times— even accidental contact with the skin could kill you. The Snargaluff pods maybe? But they weren’t dangerous in and of themselves, it was harvesting them that was so deadly— or the Erumpant Horns? They had the tendency to explode if handled wrong, and were incredibly difficult to work with. Or…

“The Venomous Tentacula leaves?” he asked, hesitantly.

The corner of Snape’s lips turned up as he shook his head.

“You, Mr. Weasley.” Ron blinked a few times, then furrowed his brow.

“I don’t understand, Professor.” Snape gave a hum.

“Did you know, that there are eighty-six different lethal combinations of first-year potions ingredients? Most are harmless unless ingested, but many explode violently, or produce noxious fumes. And yet I am expected to place them into the hands of children who do not understand the danger they are in— and that they put others in.”

He gave Ron a second to process that. Then he leaned forward to meet Ron’s eyes directly.

“I am not a forgiving teacher. I am an exacting man, I use fear to manage my classroom, and I make myself generally…” he smirked “unpleasant… to be around. But I have never allowed a child to come to grievous harm in my class. Question my methods if you will, Mr. Weasley, but the average magical school has one death per every hundred and fifty students every. year. That included Hogwarts before my appointment.”

Ron was stunned into silence. He needed to look at some records. If Snape was telling the truth… maybe nobody gave him enough credit. Except… he furrowed his brow.

“That doesn’t explain why you targeted Harry, Professor,” he said.

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t it?” He asked, almost casually. “Mr. Potter is not the first student I have given that speech to, Mr. Weasley. If you believe I have targeted him specifically for some reason—”

“That’s bullshit!” Ron said. “You bully him because he looks like his dad who was your bully when you were at Hogwarts! You don’t treat any other student with the same level of hatred that you do Harry!”

Snape sat back with a satisfied smile.

“Is that so, Mr. Weasley?” Ron froze. Oh shit. He had just… Snape had been lying. He had known Snape was lying, and he hadn’t been able to resist calling him out on it, not now that Snape was treating him like an equal for the first time in his life, and allowing him to air his grievances, and explaining himself— and now he had completely blown it. Ron looked down.

“No.” He said, quietly. “It’s not.”

“Not yet, I presume,” Snape finished. Ron nodded miserably.

“You reacted the way you did to me on Monday because you have Seen things about me that unnerve you.” He said. He wasn’t asking. Ron nodded again.

“Are you aware, Mr. Weasley, that the future is not set in stone? What you See, what you have Seen, are possibilities. They are not cosmic truths. And they are certainly no excuse to disrespect your professors for things that they have not done yet, and may never do. I trust that we will not need to have this conversation again?”

“Yes, Professor. I mean, no, Professor.” Ron felt the pit of his stomach sink deeper and deeper. “How did you know?” he whispered, unable to stop himself.

“You have not been entirely discreet while conversing with your friends, Mr. Weasley,” Snape said, almost kindly. “You were overheard on the train. Some of my older snakes alerted me to the possibility that very night.” Ron nodded, absently.

On the train. He had been messing up since the train. He couldn’t believe himself. Some strategist he was. He looked back up at Snape and found that he was being studied. Ron realized what he was looking for.

“I haven’t told Harry about you and his mum, if that’s what you want to know. Or about how you swore to protect him and all that. And I don’t need to, really.” He said quietly. Snape had spoken to Ron like an equal, earlier. He had earned a little respect in return.

Snape went white, but nodded. “Your discretion is appreciated, Mr. Weasley.” He said tightly. He stood up, and made to leave, but Ron blurted out the question on his mind before he could leave.

“Was that your only lie, Professor? That you don’t treat Harry differently than anyone else? All the other stuff— the eighty-six ways for first year potions ingredients to kill you, and about potions classes being so dangerous— was that all true?”

Snape paused, back to Ron. “It was,” he said, simply.

“Oh.” Said Ron. And then, “Thank you, Professor.” Snape didn’t turn around, but nodded. “Er. Do you want to see me tomorrow, or…”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Weasley,” he said, and disappeared into his office. Ron took a deep breath and stood, feeling like he had been hit with a rogue confundus charm. Still reeling from that conversation, he made his way back to the tower, quickly.

The detention hadn’t taken as much time as usual, and everyone was still awake. Ron took a minute to let the familiar chaos of the common room wash over him, releasing the tension in his shoulders. What was done, was done. Snape had likely reported that he was a Seer to Dumbledore, but Ron had expected that it would come out eventually. He hadn’t been planning on it happening so quickly, but it wasn’t the end of the world.

Nobody knew about the time-traveling, after all, so he still had the tactical advantage.

He moved over to Percy and had him unshrink the parcel in his bag, getting a hair-ruffle for his troubles, before Percy returned to his book. Ron went up to his dorm.

Harry was there, reading a book. It was about Quiddich, Ron noted, and he grinned. Day one and his friend was already head-over-heels in love with the sport. Good.

He put the parcel on his bed, and quickly changed into pajamas before he pulled out the letters. He opened the one from home first.

Dear Ronald,

We are so proud of you for making it into Gryffindor! Things are fine here, don’t you worry about us. It is so wonderful that you’re making friends so quickly, dear. I’m sure that if they’re the right sort, they won’t ever “get weird” about your gifts, Ronald. Your gift is a part of you, and if they like you, they’ll have to like that too.
Ginny wants to know if Harry Potter has really fought a dragon before, and if he was really trained by Dumbledore himself. We’ve told her that the stories they write about him are nonsense, but she won’t hear it from us. Maybe you can convince her.
I’m sure you’ve taught him all about Quidditch by now— and if Hermione doesn’t enjoy Quidditch, maybe you can play chess with her. If she’s as brilliant as you say, she may be able to keep up with you.
I’ve sent along those jumpers you asked for, and some old pajamas too— you’ll have to tell him to wear them under his trousers when it gets cold, and don’t forget to do that too, young man! Madam Pomfrey has enough to deal with without you getting ill.
Your father wants you to ask your friends if they harvest their own electricity or if they buy it from the store. He would also like to know about rubber ducks, since you mentioned it. What exactly is their function?
Ginny has decided to save up to buy her own pair of omnoculars for school next year to spy on the Quidditch teams with you— or to make them if she can. Your father took her to the library for a book on them, but it’s slow-going so far. You’ve set the two of them on a little project together. They’re not making much progress, but they seem to be having fun and they’re staying out of my hair for the most part.
I’m off now, to the shops. Little Luna is coming over from next door for a few days as her father heads to Siberia— something about fluttering hornbees I think, though I don’t think I have that quite right. I want to have her favorites cooked for tonight. It really is shameful that her father keeps leaving her all on her own, the poor thing.
We love you so very much, dear. Stay warm, and don’t mouth off to your professors— don’t think I didn’t hear about your detention, young man.

All our love,

Mum.

P.S., Sorry for the late reply, Charlie was using the owl yesterday. His portkey to Romania was confiscated— a bureaucratic mix-up of some sort. He had to send a letter to his boss for a new one, but it meant a few more days having him home. He sends his love, too, by the way.

Ron smiled to himself, feeling a little of his mother’s residual magic on the page. His chest ached a little, for a moment, but he ignored it, putting down the letter and picking up the package.

As expected, it had two home-knit jumpers inside it, along with four pairs of pajama pants that were worn to the point that they were perfectly soft. She had also sent along a few tee-shirts, each charmed black, though he could tell that they had used to be his horribly orange Chudley Cannons shirts by the slightly-lighter patches in the front where the decals had been.

“Hey, Harry?” Ron said, interrupting his friend’s reading. He didn’t know how, exactly he wanted to do this, but it was best to just get it done.

“Yeah, Ron?” Ron shuffled his feet a little, and handed over the package.

“From my mum. You uh, you don’t have to say anything. Just take them, yeah?” Harry held up each item as he slowly went through the box, face expressionless. Ron got more nervous with each second.

“My mum says to wear the pajamas underneath your trousers. I do the same, it keeps you warm, you know? I know they’re not much, but I figured—”

“Ron?” He swallowed. He knew Harry didn’t like feeling like he was a charity-case or like people were pitying him. He hoped he hadn’t made his friend angry again. That would make it twice in one day, and he really hadn’t meant to…

“Yeah?” Harry looked over, and Ron could see that he was holding back tears.

“Thanks,” he said, simply.

Ron nodded, and cleared his throat. “‘Course, mate.” They stood for a second, looking at each other, before Harry turned back to the clothes and started putting them away, almost reverently.

Ron cleared his throat one more time, trying to erase the lump there, and turned back to his bed, where there was one more letter waiting for him from Bill.

He crawled into bed, then opened it.

Dear Ron,

I’m so glad to hear that you and Harry are both doing alright. You shouldn’t push him too far too fast, alright? It’s pretty common for people to break down as soon as they feel safe for the first time— let him get used to Hogwarts and his new situation first, yeah?
Don’t worry too much about Harry and Hermione feeling weird about your visions— you’re borrowing trouble, little brother. There’s no reason to spend too much time focusing on something you have no control over— focus on being a good friend, and I’m sure they’ll appreciate you as you are. If not, that’s their problem, and they’re not worth your time anyway. As far as I’m concerned, you’re too cool for them anyway, yeah?
I’m glad you’re eating. Please keep eating. I know you were worried about Harry, but you really scared everyone. You scared me. And when you need me, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. I’d spend a hundred summers sitting in a smelly bog if that’s where you needed me to be, and I’d thank you for the opportunity. I’m in your corner, Ron, always. Don’t forget it.
I love you too. Write me again soon, alright? Or I’ll come visit the school to see you myself, and embarrass you in front of everyone while I’m at it.

Bill.

Ron was crying. He tried to take a couple of deep breaths, but it took a few minutes before he could fully compose his breathing. He turned his face into the pillow, trying to muffle his tears.

He missed Bill. Feeling Bill’s love for him on the page was too much after such a difficult day. He had really messed up, with Snape, and he was feeling so much more homesick knowing that he wouldn’t be going home for a few years, and everything was just. Difficult.

Beside him, someone cleared their throat. Ron sat up, quickly wiping his face, and looked over to see Harry standing awkwardly by the bed.

“Yeah?” Ron asked, voice hoarse. Harry opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. He got a determined look on his face, and Ron saw him take a deep breath. He climbed onto Ron’s bed and hesitantly dropped his arm on Ron’s shoulders. He was stiff as if he was expecting to be pushed away.

Ron blinked in shock. Harry certainly hadn’t been this tactile last time around— or at least, not so quickly. He wasn’t about to complain though. He tucked himself closer against his friend, burying his face in Harry’s shoulder. Harry relaxed a little.

They stayed like that for a few long minutes, before the door opened. Neville walked in, took one look at them and came to stand at the foot of the bed.

“Is everything alright?” He asked, quietly. He looked a little nervous. Ron was too tired to deal with his hesitance, and reached out an arm to Neville, silently demanding more cuddles. Neville didn’t move for a moment, but then Ron shifted to look at him, and whatever Neville saw on his face alarmed him enough that he quickly moved to join them.

Ron sighed, and leaned into his friends’ arms, gratefully. Neville ran warm, which Ron was grateful for, but he was a little like Harry— stiff, in the way that said maybe he didn’t get enough hugs to know what he was doing. Ron sniffed a little, and snuggled closer. He hoped he could help Neville, too.

“Was it a vision?” Neville asked Harry, above Ron’s head. Ron felt Harry shrug.

“No.” Ron answered after a second. “Just. Snape found out. And I think maybe most of Slytherin knows, too. They heard us on the train,” he said, a little miserably. He felt both of the boys startle, then pull him closer.

“I don’t want everyone to know,” he said, in a smaller voice. Neville’s hand came up to run through his hair, a little clumsily.

“Whatever happens, we’ll handle it,” Harry said, confidently. “You won’t have to deal with it alone. And I bet Fred and George will prank anyone who makes you uncomfortable.”

“If Percy doesn’t glare them into submission first,” Neville said under his breath, startling a giggle out of Ron. He pulled back to look at Neville, shocked.

Neville blushed, but held his ground. “What? Your brother’s a little scary, Ron,” he said. Ron tried to think of Percy as scary, and failed miserably. Suddenly he wanted his brothers more than anything. He pushed back into the hug, and let out a little sob.

“Ron?” Neville asked, panicked. “I didn’t mean to upset you, I— ” Ron shook his head.

“I just really miss my brothers,” he said, quietly. Harry detached himself from the hug, and left the common room at almost a sprint, before Ron could think to say anything about it.

He let Neville hold him until they heard footsteps coming up the stairs. He pulled away, slightly, to see Fred and George, shoving each other as they both tried to get into the room as quickly as possible, shortly followed by Percy. They were all across the room in seconds, and Neville only just managed to get out of the way before he was the center of a Weasley-pile.

Ron felt something inside him break. This was hard. He had been at Hogwarts for all of three days now, and his plans were already going poorly, and he had only himself to blame. On top of that, the founders had set up an impossible task for him, his friends weren’t the same people they used to be, nobody was the same as they used to be, and he was feeling all his emotions like he was actually eleven years old, which he supposed he technically was, now. He shook with the force of his sobs, letting his brothers move him until he was pressed between them, laying down on the bed.

They tried to calm him down, talking in low, soothing, worried voices, but despite their best efforts, Ron cried himself to sleep in their arms.

Chapter Text

Ron managed to sleep through the night. He had hazy memories of being disturbed at some point, of a few voices speaking over his head, but he had quickly fallen back into the warm, comfortable realm of sleep.

When he woke up, he realized he had been moved. He took a few moments to look around himself, and almost immediately recognized that he was in the hospital wing. The curtain was drawn around his bed, and he could hear voices having a quiet, but quite animated argument.

He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but his parents were definitely here. So was Bill. He sighed, and lay back on the pillows.

He felt like he had been wrung out. His chest didn’t hurt as badly as it had before, but the feeling had been replaced by a kind of numbness. Whatever this was— whatever intervention his family had no doubt planned, he wanted no part in it. He could already tell this would be exhausting.

The side of the curtain pulled open, and Fred stuck his head in. He looked Ron in the eye, then said “No, he’s still asleep mum. Is it okay if I sit with him for a bit?”

“Oh, Georgie. Of course you can,” she said, sounding teared up. Ron wrinkled his nose when she got his name wrong, and Fred’s mouth quirked up a bit. He sat down in the chair beside the bed, pulled out his wand, and cast a silencing ward.

“I am so, so sorry,” he said, looking like he meant it. Ron sat up and stretched a bit, then quirked his eyebrow at Fred.

“I mean, this all got out of our control. We were just trying to let you sleep through astronomy, and Percy thought you’d be upset if Professor Sinistra thought you were skipping. So he went and got McGonagall, and told her what happened. And she brought you straight here, wouldn’t take no for an answer. And then Pomfrey sent a flu call out to Mum, and Mum showed up with Dad and Bill. They all think you had a traumatic vision, Bill’s out there trying to talk Mum out of pulling you out of school.” Fred ran his hand through his hair as he spoke. He looked exhausted, like he’d been up all night. He probably had.

Ron pursed his lips. This was… not ideal.

A small voice in his head told him that this was what he got for being such a crybaby. He should have just sucked it up and got on with it. He tamped down on that voice, but it left a sour feeling in his stomach.

“It’s… it’s fine, I guess,” he said, quietly. “She won’t really pull me out of school, will she?”

Fred hesitated. “I don’t know, Ron. She seemed pretty set on it.”

Ron raised his eyebrows. “So what, I can’t be homesick for a few minutes? She’s blowing this way out of proportion!” Fred pulled a sympathetic face, but seemed hesitant.

“What?!” Ron snapped. Fred sighed.

“Well, it’s just. It’s not just last night, is it? You wake up a few weeks ago thinking I’m dead, and since then you’ve had a complete personality change. You stopped eating—”

“—I’m eating now!”

“—you start clinging to everyone in sight, you aren’t playing snap or chess with anyone— or trying to trade your Chocolate Frog Cards— it’s like you’ve dropped all of your hobbies! You barely talk to anyone, you space out all the time, even your vocabulary changed! We’d think you were possessed, but you can tell George and I apart now, which no stranger would be able to do, and you haven’t forgotten anything important!” Fred released a long breath. “You’ve changed, Ron. We’d have to be complete bloody idiots not to notice.”

Ron stared for a minute, then realized his jaw had dropped at some point. He snapped it shut.

Had he really been so bad at this, right from the start? First he finds out that his status as a Seer wasn’t as secret as he had thought, and now he could barely convince his family that he wasn’t some stranger? He looked down.

Fred cleared his throat. “Right,” he said. “I only came in here to give you some warning of what you’re walking into. Just… I don’t know Ron, figure out what you need so we can help you.” He canceled the silencing ward.

“Mum! He’s waking up!” he called. A second later, the curtain was pulled aside and he was met with five more worried faces.

“Ronnie! Oh, love, how are you feeling? Are you warm enough? Do you want some water?” His mum was a whirlwind, pressing the back of her palm to his forehead and pulling out her wand to cast some diagnostic spells.

She was interrupted by a pointed cough.

“I believe that’s my job, Mrs. Weasley,” Madam Pomfrey said. She moved over to Ron and cast her own diagnostic spells.

“You’re a little dehydrated, but otherwise in good shape,” she said. She handed him a glass of water.
“You’ll drink that whole thing, young man. And another with breakfast, am I understood?” He nodded, taking it and draining it as quickly as he could.

He’d rather avoid getting on the wrong side of Madam Pomfrey. She softened a bit, looking satisfied at his quick obedience.

“Alright, then. I’ll give you lot the room,” she said, and cast a privacy ward around the general area for them, stepping quietly away into her office.

For a moment, nobody said anything. Then his Mum moved to speak, but Bill got there first. He moved to sit on the end of Ron’s bed.

“You’ve been having a rough go of it, haven’t you, bud?” He asked gently. If Ron hadn’t cried all his tears the night before, the soft tone might have brought them out now. As it was, he just looked down at his hands and nodded. Bill waited for him to say something, but when he didn’t, he continued.

“In your letter, you made it sound like things were going well. Did something happen?”

“Obviously something happened, Bill!” George cut in, harshly. “Weeks ago, something happened, and he won’t tell us what.” Ron’s eyes moved over to his brother’s face for a moment, then back to his hands. George looked incredibly cross. Ron fought back a wince.

“That’s quite enough of that,” his mum said, sending a warning look at him. “We aren’t upset, dear,” she said to Ron, more gently. “We just want to know what’s wrong so we can help. Can you tell us what’s wrong, please, Ronnie? For mummy?” She was pleading with him. Oh god, his mother was begging him to tell her what was wrong and he absolutely could not tell her.

It took everything in him to swallow down the lump in his throat. When he replied, it was soft, but firm. “Sorry, mum.” She turned her face into his dad’s shoulder. Great. He had made her cry.

Ron Weasley, everyone: son of the year.

Bill drew his attention away from his self loathing. “Is there anyone you can tell, Ron? Anyone at all?” Ron considered it.

He remembered his conversation with the founders.

“I think I can get Dumbledore to help with the Horcruxes, but I’m not sure. Last time he faced them he died, and we’re going to need him. The war got a lot harder to fight without him,” Ron said.

He had spent the past forty-five minutes outlining his various plans to the Founders. They gave great feedback— somehow he had missed, in his plans, that the Diary would have to be taken out of play before next summer. He had planned on grabbing it after he left Hogwarts, but he would have to move very, very quickly. Getting into Malfoy Manor would be a problem— one he would have to think very carefully about.

Professor Slytherin looked contemplative. “This plan of yours. You have put it into place in order to spare Harry Potter from his fate, yes?” Ron nodded, unsure of where he was going.

“Then you should not trust Albus Dumbledore with your knowledge.” Ron blinked, confusedly.

“I’m not following,” he said.

“Well, in the first time-line, he seemed all too happy to send Mr. Potter to his death.” Ron furrowed his brow.

“That’s not true. He did everything he could for Harry.” Slytherin raised a brow.

“Did he? From what you’ve told me, he repeatedly and intentionally put Mr. Potter in danger. Instead of sharing his information with his Order of the Pheonix and sending teams to take out the horcruxes, he only gave it to Mr. Potter. He bestowed on Mr. Potter the burden of glorious purpose; and Mr. Potter, raised to involve himself recklessly in life-threatening situations, was ready to risk his life on this… quest of his.”

“No. No, he didn’t know if there were spies in the Order. He could only really trust Harry to—”

“Oh do grow up. It wasn’t about trust. He put Mr. Potter in a position where he could either be hunted down and killed horrifically or win the war with his own wand. If Albus Dumbledore truly cared about saving Mr. Potter’s life, he would have changed his name and had him sent him over to the continent to be raised in relative safety instead of dropping him on a doorstep in England.” Slytherin’s tone was scathing.

Ron wasn’t convinced. He didn’t want to believe this— Dumbledore was a good person, he knew it.

“He had to put Harry with his relatives, there was a spell for blood protection,” he said. His voice sounded almost pleading, even to his own ears.

“As if blood wards cannot be transfered through a blood adoption. No, Mr. Weasley, Harry Potter could have been removed from the battlefield. It would be the sound strategic decision— Lord Voldemort would have spent valuable time and resources trying to find someone who was simply not there. The only strategic reason to keep Harry Potter involved in the war was to use him. He was a weapon, is a weapon to the headmaster, and you would do well to remember it.”

Ron felt ill. He tried to fight the logic, but it made a horrible kind of sense. He didn’t say anything.

“I will reiterate that we have not brought you back in order to save your friend. I still believe the most reliable solution would be to let things play out as they did originally as you work on the castle’s wards. So long as the castle never falls, the future of wizarding-kind in the British Isles is preserved.”

Ron shot a glare at him. “Yeah, that’s not happening. I’m not about to let everyone die again. I can take care of you-know-who before the next war even starts. And since I can, I’d be a monster not to.” He sighed. “I think that if Dumbledore knew what I knew, he’d help me save Harry.”

Salazar hummed. “If you say so.”

“I don’t know, Bill. I don’t think that it’s a good idea,” Ron said, chewing on his lip. Bill gave him the time to think it over, not saying anything, but keeping his full focus on Ron so that nobody else cut in.

“There might be someone, but… I don’t know. He… I don’t know, Bill, it makes things unpredictable. Some things are better kept quiet until they can be handled,” he murmured.

“Ron. I don’t know what makes you think that you’re the only one who can handle whatever this is, but you need to tell someone. It’s obvious that you’re not doing well. Who can we call, Ron? Who can help you?”

Ron sighed.

“I’ll talk with Professor Dumbledore, if he has the time,” he said, hoping he was making the right choice. At the very least, he would be able to test whether or not Dumbledore was trustworthy fairly easily. And if his family thought that the headmaster was helping, they wouldn’t try to make him leave Hogwarts.

He wished, for a minute, that he had the chance to start over again. To wake up again that first morning with all the knowledge he had now for a third, better run. He quickly discarded the thought, though. Not only was it impossible, it was also a line of thought he didn’t want to get caught up in too deeply. If he thought there was any chance at a third try, he might get sloppy. And besides, he wasn’t about to willingly send Harry and Hermione away, even if they’d never know about it.

He felt better with them around. Knowing that they were safe— especially Harry— was the only reason he could do the things he was planning on doing.

He kept that idea close to him as he dressed and was quietly escorted up to the Headmaster’s office. For Harry. For Hermione.

He was sure people had done harder things for love, but if they had, he couldn’t think of them.

Chapter Text

Ron hadn’t been in the Headmaster’s office many times before, but he would always remember meeting Fawkes for the first time. He had been so striking to Ron, then, and mysterious. Even now, he was keenly aware of the pheonix’s presence: Fawkes was soothing to be around, and managed to calm Ron’s anxiety with his soft trill of greeting.

“Ah, Weasleys. Do come in,” Dumbledore said softly. Fred, George, and Percy had all been persuaded to leave for breakfast, but their parents and Bill had walked Ron up to the office. They filed into the room, taking the seats that Dumbledore conjured up for them with a wave of his wand. Ron didn’t sit, instead he walked over to Fawkes, drawn by how powerful and full of solace and light his magic felt.

He held a hand out, cautiously, and Fawkes immediately rubbed his head over it, affectionately. Ron hardly dared to breathe, in awe of the beautiful bird. He very carefully pet along the feathers of his crest, and Fawkes gave a low croon. Ron’s chest loosened at the sound.

“Ah. It seems that Fawkes is fond of you. I have always found him to be an excellent judge of character.”

Ron looked over at Dumbledore. “He’s amazing,” Ron said, reverently. “Does he always feel like that?”

The man raised his eyebrows. “And how does he feel to you, Mr. Weasley?” Ron took a moment to gather his thoughts.

“Like… like staring into the fireplace at home and knowing that nothing bad can ever happen to you there.” He blinked a few times. “It’s making me a little tired, actually,” he said, fighting a yawn. Dumbledore smiled, eyes twinkling.

“It seems, young Mr. Weasley, that you have more than one rare gift.” Ron furrowed his eyebrows, but Dumbledore didn’t elaborate. “I believe you wanted to speak with me?” Ron nodded, and looked at his family. They didn’t seem like they were going to move any time soon.

He hummed. “Do you have a chess set here, sir?” Dumbledore smiled and waved his wand. On the table in front of him a beautiful chess set appeared, carved in black and white marble. It reminded Ron of the set he had faced in his real first year. He took the seat across from Dumbledore.

He considered the board, and carefully moved the pieces. He didn’t need to tell Dumbledore about the horcruxes to make him useful. There were other issues that he could help with, things he could take off of Ron’s plate.

Namely, the wards. This called for a new, much less sophisticated setup.

He set the white king in the center of the board, and placed the queen next to it. The King would be Hogwarts, and the Queen would be the Internal Wards, in the Ward Room. He put the rooks and bishops in a square around them: these were the four External Wards that the founders had told him about. They wouldn’t tell him where all of them were, or how to locate and fix them. They insisted that he only needed to know about one at a time, and when he fixed one they would tell him about the next one.

Irritating, but fair. They were putting a lot of trust in Ron.

He placed all the black pieces at random around the outside of the board, facing the inner square. Then, thinking for a second, he placed a few white pawns on the board. One for the forbidden forest and one for the black lake.

He looked up at Dumbledore to make sure he was paying attention. He was looking at the board with great interest. Ron’s family were, too, but that was fine. Honestly, he could probably get this done without letting them know what was going on.

“An interesting arrangement,” Dumbledore said, after a moment. “I presume this has something to do with something you have Seen?” Ron felt his family bristle, but he had already known that Dumbledore would know he was a Seer. This was a confirmation, but it was hardly necessary. Ron nodded.

“And you cannot, or will not, tell me more in present company?” He guessed. Ron hummed.

“These pieces are falling apart,” he said, pointing to the rooks and the bishops. “And if they fail, then this piece will fall apart,” he said, pointing to the Queen.

“And the King will fall?” Dumbledore asked, seemingly more to himself than Ron. Ron nodded anyway.

“This army,” Dumbledore said, indicating the black pieces, “are they an immediate danger?” Ron hesitated, then shook his head.

“No. It’ll happen in my seventh year.” But then he thought for a second, and selected a black pawn.

“But this is happening right now,” he said, and placed it inside the square made by the rooks and the bishops. “And it’s a problem.”

Dumbledore nodded, as if he was confirming that he understood what was going on.

“Do you know where these are?” he asked, indicating the rooks and bishops. Ron tilted his head.

“I know where one of them is. But I’d have to show you. And fixing it is going to be really hard,” he said. Dumbeldore nodded. Ron continued. “And after we fix one I’ll be able to find the next one. And when we’ve fixed these four, I’ll be able to find the Queen and that will be even harder to fix.”

The headmaster seemed to get lost in thought for a moment, looking over each piece on the board, before sitting back. “Well,” he said, finally, “this certainly is important information, Mr. Weasley. I am very grateful you have brought this problem to me. Rest assured I will do everything in my power to make this right.”

“I’m sorry, what just happened?” Ron’s dad said, cutting in. His mum hushed him.

“We don’t need to know, dear, so long as Ron has the support he needs,” she said. “Whatever this is, Headmaster, it has been worrying our Ron badly. It’s having quite an effect on him,” she said, a little tearily.

“I’d imagine it would,” Dumbledore said. “This is a very serious matter.” He turned to Ron.

“Is there some reason you don’t want to speak aloud about the problem here?” he asked, seriously. Ron pursed his lips and thought.

“I think this part might be okay to talk about, but not everywhere.” He pointed to the black pawn and said, “not while he’s here.” Dumbledore nodded.

“Well. Your professors and I are well aware of this figure,” he said, “and we have put certain safeguards in place to ensure he does not succeed. Until then, this office is incredibly secure, you have no need to worry about that.” Ron sighed and nodded.

“Very well,” Dumbledore said. “This is about the Hogwarts wards, yes?” Ron nodded, and heard his family gasp. “Why don’t you tell us what you Saw?” he said kindly.

Ron let the last battle play over in his head, and shuddered. He needed to describe it in images, but not make it too obvious that he had knowledge about what they meant.

“There was an army, attacking Hogwarts,” he started, slowly. Dumbledore nodded encouragingly. “They had, there were…” he took a deep breath and started again. “We sent all the younger students away, but some of the older ones stayed to fight with the Professors. Everyone was in the great hall, getting organized when…” he swallowed, deciding not to talk about Voldemort’s announcement about giving up Harry.

He cleared his throat and continued. “Groups were organized, to go to the towers. Everyone was firing out the windows, it took a long time for them to break in to the castle itself. When they did…” he remembered Fred, laying cold on the floor.

“People died. So many people died,” he whispered. He looked up and met Dumbledore’s eyes. “I saw it happen. I was there when it happened. My brother died and I couldn’t stop it, and nobody could do anything about it, because we had to keep fighting,” he said, feeling hot tears start running down his face.

“And then I had to go. I was in the Ward Room when the wards failed completely. The stone fell, and I died too,” he said, quietly. He looked down.

“Ron,” Bill whispered, choking on his name in horror. Ron looked up at Dumbledore who looked somber, but calm.

There was movement from behind Ron and he turned just in time to watch the end of Fawkes’ flight as he came to rest on Ron’s shoulder. He crooned a low tune and started preening Ron’s hair with his beak. A wave of calm washed over Ron, and the ache in his chest got a little easier to handle. He let out a breath and raised his hand to pet the bird’s feathers.

“Thanks, Fawkes,” he whispered.

“I cannot imagine how difficult things have been for you, Mr. Weasley. Visions are a heavy burden to bear, and not one I would wish on anyone,” Dumbledore said, sounding old and quite tired. “However, none of the things you have seen need come to pass. This weight that you carry is one you carry for the world— without your Sight we would have no warning.”

He motioned back to the chessboard.

“You have information that we can act on,” he said. “And act we will. We will act quickly, but we will ensure that this is done right. The sooner it is done, the better you will feel, I’m sure,” he said, twinkle returning to his eyes.

Ron took a deep breath, and nodded. “Right,” he said. “I can take you to the first place, but not until…” he thought hard. “What day is the equinox this year?” He asked. That was the closest significant date, he was sure.

“The twenty-third, I believe,” Dumbledore said. “A Monday.”

“I can take you there on the twenty-third, then. At dusk.”

“A powerful time,” the Headmaster said. Ron nodded.

“Very well, Mr. Weasley. Is there anything I need to obtain before then?” Ron thought about it, and picked up a rook.

“The first one is in the forbidden forest,” he said, “so we’ll have to be careful. And we should probably bring along Professor Babbling, unless you’re really good at ancient runes.”

“Hmm. I’ll have a conversation with her, then. Do you have any idea what we’ll be looking for, my boy?” Ron nodded.

“The first one’s a well,” he said.

Dumbledore hummed. “Interesting,” he said. Then, “Well. I believe you have been excused from classes today. Unfortunately, we seem to have talked through breakfast. Why don’t you spend some time with your family. I trust you remember where the kitchens are, Mr. Weasley?” He said, raising an eyebrow at Bill. Bill went a little red, but nodded.

“Yes, Headmaster.” The old man sent another smile in Ron’s direction, and stood.

“If you will excuse me, gentleman, I believe I have a trip to make to the library to find some books on Runes. One is never too old to learn something new, yes?” They all stood quickly after him, his parents thanking the headmaster profusely.

Ron felt Bill’s eyes on him as he carefully walked over to Fawkes’ perch and let him step off of his shoulder. He gave him one last pet, which Fawkes snuggled into, and then turned away.

The phoenix trilled a farewell song at him that brought a smile to Ron’s face. He was suddenly glad to be working with Dumbledore. At the very least, he would get the opportunity to see Fawkes more often. His soul felt lighter for having been here— whether it was solely the bird or finally being able to talk about his experiences (in a way that wasn’t purely analytical as it had been with the founders) he didn’t know. Either way, he felt much better now than he had that morning.

They made their way down to the kitchen, awkwardly, and got some breakfast from the house elves, who were more than happy to feed them. It was a silent breakfast, as they didn’t want to discuss anything in the presence of the elves. His family made sure he ate two large plates of food, and practically glared him into drinking three glasses of water before they left, Ron walking away feeling a little bloated.

“Well,” his dad said, after they left the kitchen. “Where to?” Ron grinned, and started walking, leading the way to the seventh floor. He started pacing back and forth, not answering any of his family’s questions, until the door appeared.

“Welcome to the Room of Requirement,” Ron said, pushing the door open. The room was welcoming, looking like an odd version of the Weasley’s living room but made with slightly different furniture, which Ron knew came from around the castle.

“What is this place?” Bill breathed, momentarily distracted from his worrying.

“It’s the Room of Requirement. It’s also called the Come and Go room. If you think really hard about what kind of a space you need while walking back and forth in the corridor, the castle makes a room,” Ron said, grinning at his reaction.

“Well,” his mum said, settling into one of the couches. “It certainly seems to be the right place for a conversation. Is it… is it safe to talk here? About…?” Ron nodded.

“Yeah, mum, it’s fine. He’s not here right now.” She nodded, looking a little lost.

“So,” Ron said, after a bit of an awkward silence.

“So.” Bill said, picking up the loose thread of conversation when it became clear that no one else knew where to start. “You didn’t tell Dumbledore everything.” His parents looked at him sharply at that.

“What do you mean, Bill?” Asked his father, worriedly. Ron hated to see his dad worried. His mum worried about everything, but it wasn’t normally in his dad’s nature.

“I mean, that Ron has had other visions than that one. At least one more, that he told me about,” he said, catching Ron’s eye meaningfully.

“That’s not my secret to tell,” he said. Bill pursed his lips, and went to speak, but Ron cut in. “It’s not your secret to tell either, Bill,” he warned. “I only told you because I was worried. And everything’s okay right now. I’m working on making sure it’ll be fine later, too, alright?”

Bill didn’t look satisfied. “You keep trying to solve things on your own, Ron. You have to remember that you don’t need to. And besides that, it’s not your job to! You’re eleven, for Merlin’s sake! You don’t need to be worrying about—” Ron shot him a glare before he could keep going.

“Not your secret,” he said, firmly. “And he’d never forgive me if that came out, alright? I told you, it’ll be fine. I’m not worried about it anymore.” He wasn’t. He had a plan. It wasn’t a great plan, but it would work.

“Right,” Bill said, sighing. He ran a hand through his hair.

“I really do think you should at least tell mum and dad,” he said. He looked at his parents, and thought about the storm that his mum would kick up if she knew about Harry’s relatives.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said. His mum looked like she was about to start crying again.

“Ronnie, you know you can tell us anything,” she said. “I promise we won’t be mad at you, dear.” Ron smiled at her.

“I know, mum. But it’s not about you being mad. I just don’t think if you knew you would be able not to do anything about it. And it would hurt you a lot to know. And if you did something about it, it would be really clear that I betrayed my friend’s trust, and I don’t think you’d be able to do anything that would work, anyway. It’d all get messy really fast,” he said, sadly.

His mum studied his face for a long moment then pulled out her wand.

“I, Molly Weasley, do hereby swear on my magic,—”

“Mum!” Ron interrupted, horrified, but she continued, louder.

“— not to, under any circumstances, act upon or reveal in any way to anyone the confidential information shared with me by my son, Ronald Bilius Weasley, on this day and in this room, unless he gives me explicit verbal or written permission to do so, until the time of either his death or my own.” Her magic flared for a minute, and a white light glowed from the top, signaling that the vow had taken. If she broke it, she would lose her magic.

She looked him directly in the eye.

“Now, what exactly is going on, Ronald?”

Chapter Text

Ron stared at his mother in shock. He went over the wording of that vow again. Could he risk it?
Not to, under any circumstances, act upon or reveal in any way to anyone… unless he gives me explicit verbal or written permission to do so…

He could. He could tell his mother. He almost burst into relieved tears right then and there, but he remembered himself and looked to his dad and to Bill.

“I… if you can match that vow, I’ll tell you all everything, I swear,” he said. He tried not to beg them to with all his might. It was a heavy thing, making a magical vow, and he would never pressure someone into that. He had no doubt his face said everything he was trying to suppress, though, because Bill took one look at him and matched the vow, word for word.

“I, William Arthur Weasley, do hereby swear on my magic not to, under any circumstances, act upon or reveal in any way to anyone the confidential information shared with me by Ronald Bilius Weasley on this day and in this room without his explicit verbal or written permission until the time of either his death or my own,” he said solemnly, but quickly. Ron felt Bill’s magic confirm the vow like a breeze of hot air rushing by his face.

He hadn’t even hesitated. Ron swallowed, trying to keep the tears in his eyes from spilling, and looked to his father, who was looking very somber. He met Ron’s eyes, and sat forward.

“Ron. I can’t make this vow on my magic, because I’m the keeper of the family magic, and as the head of the family it’s my responsibility not to put that in danger. But I will take the vow nonetheless,” he said, and raised his wand.

“I, Arthur Septimus Weasley, do hereby swear on my life”—

Ron felt like he had been punched in the gut. He would have protested, but he had no words, he just reached out and touched his father’s arm.

“Not to, under any circumstances, act upon or reveal in any way to anyone the confidential information shared with me by my son, Ronald Bilius Weasley, on this day and in this room, without his explicit verbal or written permission, until the time of either my death or his own.”

That was it. Ron burst into tears, and threw himself into his dad’s arms as he felt the vow take. His dad caught him, easily, and pressed him closer, hushing him. He could feel himself shaking, and he knew he ought to be horrified by what they had all just done for him, but all he could feel was relieved and grateful.

He felt his mother press in next to his father, holding him between them. He sat back, and hiccuped, wiping his face.

“Thank you, I don’t… you have no idea,” he said, laughing a little in awe. “You don’t know how relieved I am.”

His mum ran a hand through his hair, and he felt his dad press a kiss to his forehead. He got off of his father’s lap, blushing a little, and sat down properly. “I… I hardly know where to start,” he whispered. Bill slid a little closer to him, resting his arm across the back of the couch above his shoulders in silent support.

“The first thing you need to know is that I’m not a Seer. I’m a time-traveler.”

———————————————————————————————————————————

“And then I ran away,” he said, voice choked up. He had been speaking for a long time now, uninterrupted. He had told them everything— from the beginning with the troll and Quirrelmort to the Battle of Hogwarts and Fred’s death. “And I didn’t know why at first, but I was being pulled by something. I ended up in the Hogwarts Wards room. And the wards were failing. I walked over and the stone fell on me… and then I woke up in my bed, eleven years old again.”

He fell quiet. It had been a long story, and he had been staring at his hands for almost all of it. He had felt his family go through the stages of shock and triumph and grief with him as he wove the story. He didn’t need to see their faces. The room was quiet now, the loudest kind of quiet Ron had ever felt. He took a few breaths in and out, before looking up to see how they were processing it.

His mum, predictably, was weeping silently, pressed close to his dad. His dad’s mouth was pressed into a thin line. There were dried tear tracks on his face. He was so still Ron thought he might have turned to stone.

Bill had moved during the story, first to hold Ron tighter, and then away so he could sit with his forearms on his knees, head dropped into his hands.

“You all remember how that went,” Ron said quietly. “I started putting a plan together that week. And when I came to Hogwarts, the Hat told me that there were some ghosts here, looking for me. I uh…” He swallowed. “I found them eventually. It was the founders. They told me about the wards, which is what I was telling Dumbledore about. I figure he’s the best one to help me handle that. But the rest of it… well Professor Slytherin said that the Headmaster is too busy with the big picture of the war to care if Harry lives or dies… and I agree, I think. It makes sense.”

His family was still silent.

“I have a plan, though, this time. I won’t let anyone die like that, again, I promise. It won’t happen this time,” he said, determinedly.

“Ron,” Bill whispered.

“I mean it,” Ron said fervently. “I promise, I won’t let them die,” he swore.

“Ron.” Bill said again more firmly, sitting up to look at him. Ron licked his lips nervously.

“Yeah?”

“Just. Give us a minute. That’s… that’s a lot,” he said, blinking quickly. Ron could see now that his brother had been crying, too. He nodded and stood, deciding he’d go to the kitchen area to fetch himself some water and give them a minute, but his mum’s hand caught his wrist in an iron grip as he started moving past her. He looked over, and her face was white.

She pulled him close, until he was curled up in her lap, and held on to him like he was her lifeline, rocking him back and forth with her face pressed into his hair. He leaned in to the contact like he was starving for it.

His mum was here, and she knew. And so did his dad and Bill. They knew— and they knew him again, in a way he hadn’t realized he was missing. He let her hold on, and his family pressed in around them.

They breathed like that, together, for a while.

It took some time, but eventually they all composed themselves. Ron went to fetch everyone some water, and they all sat back again.

“You mentioned a plan?” Bill asked, hoarsely. Ron winced.

“You’re really not going to like it,” he said, honestly.

“I don’t like any of this,” he heard his dad mumble.

“Well,” Ron said. “I have to take care of the Horcruxes, right? So first I’m going to have to steal the Sword of Gryffindor—”

“You’re going to what?!” His mum said, explosively. “Ronald Bilius—”

“Mum if you can’t handle that bit, you’re really not going to be able to handle the rest of this.” She pinched her lips, face white.

“You realize that you’d be stealing from Dumbledore’s office?” Asked Bill, incredulously.

“That’s why I have this,” Ron said, and pulled out the map. Bill squinted.

“Is that—?”

“The Marauder’s Map, yeah. Nicked it off of Fred and George a couple days ago,” he said. “It’ll let me know when the office is empty. The portraits are on my side and Fawkes seems to like me anyway, it’ll be fine.”

“It’ll be fine,” his father mumbled under his breath. “Oh, I’ll just pop in to one of the most well-guarded places in Britain. It’ll be fine.”

Ron ignored his muttering.

“Then I have to use it to kill the Basilisk—”

“No!” His mum snapped, “Absolutely not! If you even think about—”

“You can’t stop me, mum.” He cut in, with an apologetic smile, “remember? Anyway I told you you wouldn’t like it.” She snapped her jaw shut, but looked increasingly murderous.

“And then I’ll take care of the Diadem here in Hogwarts. After that it gets messy,” he said, and hesitated.

“Oh then it gets messy” his father said, continuing his quiet breakdown.

“This is the part you’re not going to like, by the way,” he said to them. “I need time to go hunt down the other Horcruxes. So at the end of the year, when Harry is supposed to face Quirrel and You-Know-Who, I’m going to get there first. And when I do, I’m going to make him drink a polyjuice potion to look like me, and kill him so I can fake my death and go take care of them.”

All three of them snapped their heads up to stare at him in shock. Then they all started in at once, like a bomb exploding.

“Absolutely not!” “That’s a horrible idea, Ronald!” “You were going to let us think you were dead?!”

At Bill’s question, they all stilled and looked at him expectantly. Ron looked down, and nodded.

“How dare you?!” his mother started in. His father crumpled in on himself, saying nothing. He couldn’t focus on either of them, though, too busy looking at Bill, who’s magic felt as if he had just been hit with a stunner to the chest. He met Ron’s eyes and Ron was almost physically moved by the hurt he saw there.

“I don’t… I can’t even look at you right now,” Bill said, and stood, walking to the other side of the room, where he started kicking angrily at the furniture.

“Why?” His father asked, cutting through his mum’s rant. She fell silent.

“I can’t do what I need to do at Hogwarts. And no one will be looking for a dead eleven-year-old if they catch on to what’s happening. I need the time.” His mum shook his head, looking disgusted with him.

“It’ll only take me a year, at most,” he said quietly. “This summer I’ll have to get Sirius out of Azkaban— I was going to ask him to help me. I think he would, if I explained I was doing it for Harry. And he’s my only way into the Black Vault to get the Cup and the Locket. That only leaves the Diary, which I need to get before Mr. Malfoy can slip it to Ginny this summer, and then the ring. It’ll be so much more simple now that I know what we’re looking for and where everything will be.”

“Did you just gloss over the fact that you’re going to try to break into Azkaban, you stupid twat?” Bill called from the other side of the room.

“I don’t have to break into Azkaban, remember? I have Peter Pettigrew sitting in my dorm upstairs right now. I just have to send him to the right people,” Ron replied, calmly.

Bill went back to cursing and taking out his rage on the furniture. Ron left him to it.

“And why can’t you go to Dumbledore with this?” his mum asked, in an icy tone. “He could swear not to get Harry involved,” she said.

“He wouldn’t, mum. He thinks he knows best what’s going on, I wouldn’t be able to make him swear before I told him everything.” He took a deep breath, and let it out. “No. I’m not telling Dumbledore,” he said, solidifying it to himself. She pinched her lips, and looked away.

There was a pit in his stomach. He had never seen his mother this angry, not even at Percy when he was working for the Minister during the war.

“No.” She said, and stood. “I don’t care if I lose my magic, I’m going to Dumbledore, right now.” In a flash, Ron was standing in front of her, with his wand raised in her face. She froze.

“I can’t let you do that, mum. I’ll obliviate you here and now if I have to,” he said, quietly. “I did worse, during the war.”

“Ron!” His father shouted, enraged, but Ron didn’t let him speak, just continued.

“This is bigger than us. It’s the whole war, and I can end it before it even starts,” he said. “I’m doing this, and you won’t stop me.” He held eye-contact with his mother, letting her know how serious he was about this. He watched the ice in her eyes melt, and then she broke, collapsing into tears. His wand fell as his dad caught her, glaring at Ron.

“I think we need some time to process everything,” his dad said, stonily. “We’ll come by to talk some more this weekend, or have you around to the house, I’ll sort it all with Dumbledore.” Ron nodded, tightly. As they walked out of the room, his dad paused. “If you think this is over, that we’re going to let you do this alone, you’re out of your fucking mind,” he said, without turning around. They left.

Ron wished the earth would swallow him whole. He had known that they wouldn’t like his plan. He hadn’t thought they would hate him for it.

Just then, Bill spoke up from the other side of the room. He had stopped breaking furniture a while, since, and was just standing still, looking at the ground.

“I love you, Ron.” He said, quietly. Ron drew in a surprised, shuddering breath, trying not to cry.

“I love you too,” he croaked.

“Please don’t do this,” Bill said, turning to Ron. His eyes were pleading. “Please, Ron. Don’t do this.” Ron swallowed, letting the tears fall.

“I have to,” he said. Bill nodded tightly and turned, leaving the room. Ron fell to his knees, alone, and broke.

Chapter Text

Bill walked out of the room, head spinning.

His little brother, a war veteran. It made him want to throw up. And he was still fighting the war, was planning on fighting it alone. Bill counted out a few breaths until he could be sure he wasn’t going to have a panic attack and then stepped into the corridors.

There he met his parents, who were arguing in hushed tones.

“— go straight upstairs and tell him. I’d rather live as a squib then—”
“—can’t do that Molly! You know what that would mean for our family. We’re already struggling enough. Prejudice against Squibs is everywhere, I could lose my job, we could lose our home—”
“He’s my baby! I’m going, and you aren’t stopping me.” He watched his mother start walking away, leaving his father in a huff, and made the only choice he could.

He aimed the wand at the back of his mother’s head. “Obliviate,” he said, and took the last few hours of her life away from her, forever. His father turned around in shocked horror, and Bill knew, he knew his dad would rather die than keep this kind of secret from his wife, so he turned his wand at his father.

“Bill,” his father said, eyes horrified and pleading.

“Obliviate,” he said again, choking on the word. His father didn’t move to put up a fight at all. He watched them for a few minutes, and then they woke up a bit.

“Mom, dad?” he asked, quietly. They both blinked, coming to.

“What? How did we get up here, dear?”

“We were…” he choked down tears, forced his face into something pleasant. “We just finished telling Ron how proud we were of him for telling Dumbledore about his visions. Ron had to go to class, though. You were about to leave, but I wanted to go talk with Professor Babbling for a moment, see if I can be any help. I face a lot of odd wards on the job, you know,” he said.

“Oh! Of course. Well. We’d better get going, then,” his mum said, then walked over to pull him into a hug. “You take care, darling. I’ll see you soon,” she said, pressing a kiss to his cheek as if he hadn’t just made the most horrifying choice of his life. His dad came over and patted his shoulder, pulling him into a half hug.

“You should come by this weekend, if you have the time,” he said. “Ginny and I would love your help with the omnoculars.” Bill nodded trying hard to fight tears. His father pulled back a little and searched his face.

“Are you alright, Billy?” he asked, worriedly.

Bill cleared his throat, and nodded. “Just worried about Ron. It’s difficult not being with him all the time,” he said. Both his parents visibly softened.

“Oh, darling. He’ll be alright, you’ll see. You can’t hold his hand his whole life, no matter how much you want to,” his mother said. She took his hand in hers pointedly, smiling with her eyes. She gave him a quick pat on the cheek, and his dad gave him one last smile, and they left.

Bill turned around and walked back to the Room of Requirement. He needed to tell Ron what had happened, what he had done. He paused in front of the door, not wanting to have to say it out loud. He had just committed a serious crime for Ron.

He hoped his brother was happy. He brushed the sour thought away. He knew Ron wouldn’t be happy for this. But his brother was a soldier, now. From what he had told them, he knew the value of doing what had to be done, even if it hurt. Even if it was wrong.

Bill took one last steadying breath, and went back inside.

Ron was laying in a fetal position on the floor, sobbing, when he heard the door open. He was standing in a flash, wand at the ready. He wasn’t expecting Bill to walk in, looking as though someone had died. He lowered his wand.

They stared at each other for a moment.

“I…” Bill said, seemingly trying to hold back tears. “I just obliviated Mum and Dad,” he said, and the tears fell. Ron’s jaw dropped, and he walked over to Bill, pulling him into a hug. Bill fell to his knees and Ron went with him, pressing as close as he could.

“What happened?” Ron asked, quietly.

“Mum, she— Mum was going to go to Dumbledore and lose her magic,” he said. “Dad was trying to talk her out of it, but he couldn’t and I just… I cast, right at her back. And then I knew Dad wouldn’t be able to keep it from her and I… I had to—, Ron, I had to…” his words came out through sobs.

Ron held his brother tightly. He was stunned. He had known that Bill was on his side, had always wanted what was best for him, but he hadn’t expected that he would take it this far.

“Bill,” Ron said, a little helplessly, “Bill—”

“Don’t you dare thank me,” Bill said. “Never for that,” he said. He looked as though he was going to be ill, and Ron moved out of the way just in time for him to vomit all over the floor.

“I’m a monster,” he said, quietly, sobbing and retching. Ron waved his wand, easily vanishing the mess, and pulled Bill towards himself. He held on as Bill shook, and started exaggerating his breathing, making it slow and calm.

After a while, Bill matched it. A few minutes full of silent tears later, he pulled back and roughly wiped his hand over his eyes.

“You’re not a monster, Bill.” Ron said, emphatically. “You did what you had to do. It wasn’t pretty, but in the long run, you saved lives.” Bill seemed to search his face.

“You really believe that,” he said. It wasn’t a question. Ron nodded anyway.

“Yeah, Bill. I do. I have to believe that everything I do is to save them. Otherwise I wouldn’t be able to get out of bed in the morning.” He gave a self-deprecating smile and added “I hardly can anyway.”

Bill nodded.

“So what now?” he asked, after a long moment.

“Now you go back to work. I’ve told you my plan, and nothing about it has changed,” Ron said.

“No,” Bill said. “No, I’m here to help, Ron. Whatever you need. You don’t have to do this alone. I know I seemed mad before, and I was, but it’s… I don’t want you to have to do all of this on your own,” he said again. “I can help.”

Ron smiled, a little sadly. “You’re a good brother, Bill. If there’s anything you can do, I’ll let you know. But you really should go. There’s nothing you can do to help me here at Hogwarts. I have it handled.”

“Crying yourself to sleep hardly seems like having it handled,” Bill argued, a little desperately.

“Talking about it all helped,” Ron said. “And besides, I had just had a pretty spectacularly bad day, what with Snape and everything.”

Bill pinched his lips together. He didn’t like it. Ron must have read it on his face, because he added “It’s not like you could stay at Hogwarts anyway. Even if you didn’t have a real job, you’re not a student here anymore, you can’t just hang around.”

Bill sighed. Ron had him there, and he knew it.

“Fine.” He said. “But I want updates. I want to know how you’re doing, and this time I wan the truth.” His tone left no room for arguments, but Ron didn’t want to, anyway.

“Fine. But we’ll need a way to talk to each other that can’t be intercepted. Have you ever heard of a two-way mirror?” He asked.

Bill nodded. “I’ll buy some and send you one by owl,” he said immediately. Ron smiled at his brother.

“Thanks, Bill,” he said, putting all the meaning he could into the words.

“Fuck,” Bill breathed, dropping his head into his hands. “I thought I told you not to thank me.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. The apology rang the same way the thanks had, and Bill groaned.

“You’re not,” he said. “But. I get it. Just… be careful, Ron. If you end up dead because of this, and I stopped Mum and Dad from getting you help…” he swallowed. “I wouldn’t be able to live with that, Ron. I’d march to the nearest pensive, pull all my memories out and send them to Dumbledore, and then go find a nice quiet way to die.”

Ron felt the guilt boil in his stomach. His brother shouldn’t have to feel this way.

“If you want,” he said quietly, “I could obliviate you, too. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to handle any of this. I really can take care of it.”

Bill looked horrified. “NO! No, Ron, I would rather know, I would always rather know.” He grabbed Ron’s hand tightly, and looked him in the eyes. “You don’t have to carry this alone. I’m here, Ron.”

Tension leaked out of Ron like water through a sieve. It was so selfish of him, but having Bill in the know made him feel better. Less lonely, at least. And Bill believed in him, too— obviously believed in him enough to… do what he had done. If he hadn’t believed that Ron could handle this, he wouldn’t have done it.

That was enough to keep him going. More than enough.

But….

“Do you think they still loved me?” he asked, quietly. “When they walked away, earlier?” He heard Bill take in a startled breath.

“Look at me, Ron,” he said firmly. Ron hesitated, then did. There was steel in his brother’s eyes.

“There is nothing, nothing, that you could ever do that would make mum and dad love you any less. The reason they were upset with you was because they were afraid for you. They didn’t want you to get hurt or killed. Mum was willing to give up her magic to keep you safe, and Dad was ready to let her. He only put up a little bit of a fight, you know. I’ve seen them when they’re really at odds, and that wasn’t it. He would have done it himself, if he could have.”

He held Ron’s gaze the entire time he talked, even though his eyes shone with tears. He really believed what he was saying, and Ron knew it. He let the words chase away the shadows that had been clinging to the inside of his ribs, and warm him up a little. He nodded, looking down at his hands.

“And what’s more, I know they were proud of you.” Ron looked back up in shock. That look hadn’t left Bill’s eyes. “They were proud of the man you were in the stories you told them, the man that you are. You’re so brave, Ron. You’re doing something that nobody else in the world can do, and you haven’t even thought for a second about passing it off to somebody else or leaving to go where things are easier. You’re a good man. And I’m so, so proud to be your brother. And mum and dad were proud of you, too,” he said.

Ron could feel tears running down his face, and he idly wondered how many tears a person could cry before they ran out. He couldn’t ignore Bill’s words for long, though, and he let his head fall forward, on to Bill’s chest.

“Thank you,” Ron said, brokenly. Bill pulled him closer, and they spent a few minutes in quiet comfort together.

Suddenly, Ron was tired all the way down to his bones. He was quickly finding that emotions were exhausting. He let out a yawn, and Bill chuckled a little.

“Great savior of the world, tiny little body,” he said, bringing a little much-needed levity to the moment.

“Hey,” Ron protested, but he was giggling. His brother stood, picking Ron up in his arms, and started carrying him out of the room.

“Bill! Put me down!” he said, but he wasn’t putting up much of a fight.

“Why? Everyone’s in classes anyway,” he said. “Besides, I think maybe we should get you back to your dorm. Clearly you need a nap.” Ron sighed and pressed into his hold, letting himself be carried through the halls to the Gryffindor tower.

The Fat Lady didn’t bat an eyelash at the two of them, seemingly bored as Ron gave her the password and they went into the common room.

Waiting for them were Percy, Fred, and George.

“Ron!” they all said, standing. He blinked and they were there, fussing over him.

“Is he alright? What happened?”
“He could walk on his own this morning,” “what did you do to him?”

Bill chuckled. “As far as I know, none of you were excused from classes today,” he said lightly. The twins made faces at him.

“This is more important than class, Bill,” Percy said with a frown. Ron’s heart swelled at hearing those words from his brother. He knew that Percy loved him, but it was still nice to hear it sometimes.

“He’s fine, just tired. Lots of emotions,” Bill said, not letting Ron talk. Ron didn’t try to anyway, just leaned his head further into his brother’s chest.

The others sighed in relief.

“Well, come on, then,” George said brightly. “Let’s go put the baby to bed.”

They went up the stairs to Ron’s dorm and Bill cast a quick spell on the bed, expanding it so it would fit more of them. He put Ron on the bed, and Ron was quickly smushed between the twins, Percy sitting at the head of the bed and putting his hand in Ron’s hair. Bill laughed, and tugged the blankets up off of the messy floor, tucking the four of them in.

“Alright, you three. Don’t let him skip any meals, alright? And he needs to drink lots of water for the next few days, he’s dehydrated.” They all nodded seriously and pressed in closer. Bill leaned down and pressed a kiss to each of his brother’s foreheads.

“I’ve got to go now,” he said, “but I’ll write.” Ron barely heard the words, already half asleep. He felt Bill’s magic walking away though, and he let out a whine. Bill moved back to the bed and his hand replaced Percy’s, running through Ron’s hair.

“It’s okay, little brother. We’ll talk soon. Sleep.” Ron sighed and let the world fade away from around him, falling into a thankfully dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

The thing about missing classes, for Ron, was that it really, really didn’t matter. He was hard-pressed to convince Hermione of that, though, so he found himself sitting in his pajamas in the common room listening to her animatedly re-teach three classes to him. It was a nice enough afternoon, but Ron couldn’t shake the numbness he was feeling.

Hermione must have been able to tell that he wasn’t paying attention, because eventually she just handed him a piece of parchment with all of the relevant reading and homework on it, and left him be. He sat staring at the fireplace for a long time, feeling as though his body was made of static.

At some point his brothers put food in front of him, and he ate automatically under their supervision, otherwise unmoving. He could tell that he was worrying everyone, but he wasn’t sure how to shake himself out of the mood he was in. He didn’t want to think, or feel, about anything that had happened in the last few days. It was all so fast, so… spur-of-the-moment.

He knew himself well enough to know that he didn’t have the best track record with making decisions quickly. It was best to stick to the plan.

The plan. It had changed, of course. There were new factors in play.

Dumbledore obviously was a big one. He could be trusted with the Hogwarts Wards, as blind as he was to Quirrelmort. But could he be trusted to help with the next bit? Professor Slytherin had seemed to think he couldn’t, and although he didn’t have the same perspective of the man that Ron did, he was an incredible strategist. It would be foolish to just ignore his warning.

Then there was Bill. Bill, who was supposed to have his parents to talk about all this with, but who had sacrificed his morals for Ron’s plan. For the greater good according to Ron, which Bill didn’t even believe in.

His faith in Ron was staggering.

He could be an incredible asset, too: he was smart, he was an experienced curse-breaker, but… he had also never seen war. He was inexperienced with the cruel realities of wartime. Would he be able to handle things when Ron’s plan started playing out? Would he be able to look Ron in the eyes when he became a murderer in this life and killed Quirrel?

Ron shuddered, and went back to that numb place.

Best not to think about it.

Friday morning came too quickly. Ron had eventually done his homework, mindlessly, and been hustled through a meal and into bed by his brothers. He woke up still feeling somehow off— like he was outside of his body controlling it, instead of inside of it, living.

With Friday morning came double potions with the Slytherins.

It would be the first time he had seen Snape since they had come to some kind of understanding in detention, and his first class with the man since the incident. He wasn’t looking forward to it.

Surprisingly, though, nothing happened. Hermione and Neville continued to work together, on the far side of the room from the Slytherins, so there were no accidental explosions or noxious gases. The Slytherins were snide and cruel, but it was the behavior of children, and easy enough to ignore. It had nothing on the kind of cruelty that Ron had seen.

Snape himself was restrained— he didn’t toss a single word in Harry’s direction, nor in Ron’s. After the first hour of relative peace, Ron managed to relax into the process of potions, working with Harry easily to complete their classwork. He retreated into that numb place in his mind, and let his body go through the motions on its own.

Potions was their only class of the day, but somehow he was dragged along with Harry, Hermione, and Neville that afternoon to Hagrid’s cottage for tea.

They were halfway through the walk down before he realized that Neville had been pulling him by the hand the whole time. What’s more, Ron didn’t know if he had spoken a single word that day that didn’t have to do with class. It was unsettling, but easy to dismiss.

He had done this before. It didn’t require much thought.

He had been wrong. From the second they had gotten into Hagrid’s, he had been watching Ron curiously. Ron couldn’t seem to drum up enough energy to care, though. It was like his chest was hollow— an empty cauldron.

“Spend half me life chasin away your twin brothers from the forest,” Hagrid was saying. “Yer brother Charlie, though, ‘e was great wi’ animals. Had a standing invitation to join me on rounds when I went through, ye know. D’ye like animals yersel there, Ron?” He snapped his huge fingers, and Fang got up and put his head in Ron’s lap.

Ron stared. Fang slobbered a bit, and licked his hand, messily. Ron wiped his hand off in Fang’s fur, but the great dog took it as affection, and leaned into the movement. Ron couldn’t bring himself to stop petting him, after that.

Harry suddenly spoke up. “Hagrid! That Gringotts break-in happened on my birthday! It might have happened when we were there!”

Oh, right. Ron thought. The Sorcerer’s Stone. I suppose I’ll have to help with the mystery again. He heard the sound of the newspaper as Harry shuffled it around so he could read the whole article.

“Ron?” Neville asked, quietly. He looked up. Fang’s head was a warm, heavy, comforting weight in his lap.

“Alright?” Ron blinked a few times at his friend, then nodded. He went back to petting Fang.

“Fine.” He said, quietly. “Thanks, Neville.” A few minutes later, they all started to get up, and Ron realized that they were going to head back to the castle for dinner. He almost cried at the thought of moving. Fang was panting happily, eyes closed as Ron pet the smooth fur between his eyes.

“Er, why don’t ye stay behind a minute there, Ron? Ye can help me feed Fang,” Hagrid said. Ron looked up, meeting Hagrid’s eyes for the first time. There was an understanding there that he hadn’t expected. He froze for a minute.

He always forgot how observant Hagrid was.

“Ron?” Harry asked, squeezing his shoulder. Ron cleared his throat.

“You go on without me, mate. I’ll see you at dinner,” he said. He made no move to get up.

“I’ll walk ‘im back up when we’re done, Harry,” Hagrid said brightly. “No need te worry.” Harry nodded, and joined Hermione and Neville outside. Ron could hear them talking loudly about the break-in as they walked away. Hagrid bustled around the room, and finally put a fresh, huge cup of tea in front of Ron.

“Well, now,” he said, sitting down again with a great sigh. “Ye sit there as long as ye need to, Ron,” he said, voice warm. “Fang and I don’t mind the company.” He then pulled out his knitting— the needles each longer than Ron’s forearm, and silently got to work on something vaguely sock-shaped.

A few minutes passed. Ron kept petting Fang, focusing on the softness of his fur. He was a little greasy, and he smelled, but Ron didn’t mind. A drop of water fell on Fang’s fur and Ron quickly wiped it away.

Hagrid didn’t say anything about it, and neither did Ron. It was quiet— the sound of the knitting needles clacking and Fang’s heavy breath moved together in a strange rhythm, filling the space. Even the fire seemed to crackle in time with the two.

Ron’s mug let off a strong, herbal smell— he had never bothered to remove the tea bag and it was far over-steeped by now— that was soothing. More water fell, and Fang snuffled and shifted closer until he was leaning heavily against the front of Ron’s legs, pushing his face into Ron’s stomach.

Slowly, he came back to himself. First it was his breathing— it was him breathing now, not breathing happening to his body, and then he was in control of his hands. They moved at his command instead of automatically. He settled back into his body, finding himself stiff at sitting still. He shifted, and looked around.

His tea had gone cold, and Hagrid had now knit well past the heel of the sock, up into the leg. He looked up at Ron at the movement.

“Better, lad?” he asked, eyes kind. Ron nodded, a little awkwardly. He flushed, realizing that he had been sitting there, motionless, for hours.

“Sorry,” he said quietly. “You probably had more important things to do with your evening.”

Hagrid’s responding look made Ron feel transparent.

“Ye’ve got nothin teh be sorry fer, Ron. I’m always glad for th’ company. An’ ye spoiled Fang rotten, ye did. He ‘n I’d love teh have ye back, anytime yeh need,” he smiled, putting a large hand on Ron’s shoulder. “Th’ house is never locked up. Ye can let yersel’ in if I’m no’ here and wait fer me to get back. I never go far.”

Ron felt more tears run down his face at the man’s kindness, and went to wipe them away, but Fang moved quickly, putting his front paws on Ron’s knees and bending his head down to lick at his face.

Ron couldn’t help but laugh, delighted, as he tried valiantly to cover his face and escape the dog’s wet tongue. Hagrid pulled him down by his collar, and Ron grinned at the dog, wiping his face, but uncaring that he was now covered in dog slobber.

“Thanks,” he said, reaching out and ruffling the dog’s ears so they flopped around. Fang gave him a doggy grin, and Ron looked up at Hagrid, shyly, hoping the man understood it wasn’t just the dog he was thanking.

The man’s eyes were shining.

“Alrigh’ then,” he said, after a moment. “We should get ye up to dinner, or I’ll never hear the end of it from yer friends.” Ron stood, feeling more in control of himself than he had for days.

“Can I still feed Fang?” he asked, hopefully.

Hagrid let out a big, booming laugh in response. “Course ye can!” he said, and went to grab the meat.

When Ron showed up to dinner, smelling a bit like dog, but grinning from ear to ear, he noticed his friends and his brothers sharing a relieved look. He really did want to try not to worry them so much, but the past few days had been a lot to handle.

Well. Maybe he could try to have a normal weekend. That shouldn’t be too hard: he had nothing planned. He couldn’t work on the warding problem until the twenty-third, which was still two-and-a-half weeks away. The basilisk problem had to wait until he had the sword of Gryffindor, which could honestly wait. Ron needed to settle in, a bit. Take the time to breathe. None of the Horcruxes could be dealt with until after the basilisk— and there was only the one at Hogwarts anyway, not counting Quirrelmort.

The only current problem was making sure that Harry, Neville, and Hermione stayed on schedule with the Sorcerer’s stone.

Well. There were other problems, too. Keeping his name out of everyone’s mouths, for one— he needed to keep an eye on the Rumor-Mill. Then there was the divide between the Slytherins and everyone else— he needed to make sure that he didn’t add to it. So far it hadn’t been difficult, but, then again, Draco Malfoy hadn’t really been in top form with his taunting. He did little things to purposefully irritate them, sure, but Ron was making a point of ignoring him. So far, the others had followed his lead.

But looking at everything all together, there was nothing he needed to handle in the next few days. He knew Neville would be pulled away to get a new wand this weekend, and Harry would be pulled away to get glasses, but Ron had nothing to fill his days with— he didn’t even have homework.

He ate his dinner, thoughtfully, thinking about what to do. There was always the history book Percy had given him, though he was loathe to spend all weekend reading. He could go talk to some more ghosts and portraits— they were more interesting than Ron had expected them to be.

How did he spend his weekends the first time? Probably mostly asleep, or lazing around, to be honest. There had been Quidditch, when he was on the team, and the odd game of chess or exploding snap. But he hadn’t really made use of the time when he was a kid.

He hadn’t had anything like free time in years. He’d always been on the move— fighting or running or planning or researching. At most, sitting around and worrying about Harry, or his family when he had been on the run.

What did relaxing look like, after all that?

“Someone’s thinking a little too hard,” an arm flung itself over his shoulders and knuckles came up to rap on his head, gently.

“Cut it out, George,” Ron said, huffing a laugh. He didn’t put up much of a struggle, though. Instead he leaned a little into the hold, and felt George tighten his arm affectionately in response for a second.

“Well?” “What’re you thinking about?” “A girl?” “A boy?” They leered at Ron.

“A sharp knife,” he replied sarcastically, “and an alibi.” The twins laughed uproariously, and Fred reached over Neville’s head to ruffle Ron’s hair. He pushed the hand away, and huffed.

“Anyone have plans for the weekend?” He asked the table generally. Maybe they’d have something to do.

“The great welcome-back bash, obviously!” Lee Jordan spoke up.

“Didn’t you already have one, the night we got here?” Hermione asked, sarcastically.

“Was that what that noise was?” Seamus piped in from down the table. “I thought that there was an army of trolls invading the common room!”

“Like anyone could hear them over your snoring,” Ron replied. The table laughed.

“That was just a preview to the real-thing,” Fred said, answering Hermione’s question.

“Yeah, this one will be much better,” George said. “Trust us,” they said together. Ron suddenly got the feeling that the last place in the world he wanted to be this weekend was the Gryffindor common room.

Sure, he enjoyed a few parties in his time, but there was no way any of his siblings would let an eleven-year-old drink, and he was too young to be making out with anyone anyway. Plus it would be loud, and full of people.

Indefensible, his mind whispered. Lots of wands, no keeping track of them all at once.

“Well I plan on spending time in the library,” Hermione said. Ron shot her a fond smile.

“Course you do,” he said, grinning. “Neville?”

“Dunno. I was just gonna tag on with whatever you lot do, honestly,” he said, shrugging.

“Harry?”

“We could explore the grounds? Or the castle?” he suggested. Ron tilted his head. There were a few fun things to do around the castle, yeah.

“You’re thinking about places to show us, aren’t you,” Harry said, looking at Ron’s face with a grin.

Ron scratched the back of his head a little self-consciously, but grinned back.

“Why would Ron know his way around the castle, already?” Lee Jordan asked, confused.

“It’s ‘cause he’s a Seer, I heard,” said Kenneth Towler, from next to him.

Ron’s blood ran cold.

“Shut the fuck up, Towler,” Fred said, viciously.

“‘S true then, is it? Wouldn’t react that way if it weren’t,” the twit said, with a triumphant smirk on his face.

“You had better watch your fucking back, Towler,” George said, leveling him a glare, with a glint in his eye.

The whole table held its breath for a long moment. Towler looked down at his plate, away from the twins’ intense gazes.

“… so who’s getting the booze for the party?” Angelina asked, a little pointedly. The conversation didn’t pick back up, but Ron shot her a grateful look. He owed that girl chocolate, for sure.

“Listen, up. Anyone who says one word about any of this is putting a personal target on their back for the rest of their time at Hogwarts,” Fred said. He spoke quietly, but his voice carried. There were nods from the rest of the table, and Ron felt himself relax a little.

“I could get it if nobody else wants to?” Alicia Spinnet said. “It’s not that hard to sneak out. I’d want a few people to help carry everything back, though. And we’ll pool donations to buy it off of Rosmerta.”

There was muttering, but eventually the table went back to normal enough that Ron felt like he could breathe.

His “secret” was like a game of snap, now. At some point, the cards would explode. All he could do was hope that the explosion wasn’t too devastating for him when it came.

He reached out and grabbed George’s hand under the table and gave it a squeeze partly in thanks, but also because it helped ground him— he didn’t want to let himself go all numb again.

He determinedly thought about where he would take everyone this weekend. Maybe he’d show them the old alchemy classroom, or the way up into the clock tower, or con his way into the prefects bathroom.

He was going to have a nice, relaxing weekend if it killed him. The world could wait until Monday.

Somewhere in front of a fireplace in Romania, in a tiny run-down flat, Bill was sitting next to Charlie with his head in his hands.

“I swore an Unbreakable Vow. I can’t tell you what’s going on. But I need to get drunk, and I’m probably going to cry, and maybe destroy some things.” Charlie put his arm around Bill’s shoulders, and summoned a tumbler full of amber liquid from a nearby shelf.

“Here. Don’t drink too fast, it’s strong stuff. Anything you can talk about?”

Bill hesitated, and thought for a moment.

“I wish we had been better for Ron, when he was growing up. He thinks he has to do everything alone.” Charlie let out a sigh, familiar with this conversation.

“We were kids, Bill. It wasn’t our job to raise him.” Bill snorted.

“To having to do too much, too young,” he said, and drank deeply. He winced, but managed to keep it down.

Charlie took the tumbler from his hand. “To being just as strong as we needed to be, and far stronger than we should have been,” he said, and took his own sip, before handing it back.

They were silent, for a few moments, passing the mead back and forth between themselves.

“You can’t keep parenting them, Billy. You’ve got to be a person for yourself, to live your own life.”

“And what? Not get involved? It isn’t as easy for me as it is for you.”

Charlie snorted. “It’s not easy. It’s not supposed to be easy. It just isn’t my job, or yours.”

“It has to be somebody’s. And I’m the only one who can do it right now.” Charlie shook his head.

“Your funeral,” he said, unwilling to pick up the age-old argument.

It won’t be, though, will it? Bill thought. It’ll be Ron’s funeral. The idea made him nauseous.

He took another drink.

Chapter Text

By some miracle, nothing happened to ruin their weekend.

Saturday morning, Professor McGonagall took Neville and Harry out, and Ron and Hermione spent that time sitting in companionable silence in the library.

Ron was surprised by how nice it was to just sit and read beside her. If he had known what this was like the first time around, he might have tried harder to find a book to be interested in. When they got up for lunch, Ron felt like his shoulders had relaxed and everything was moving more slowly and peacefully. Then again, maybe it was due to Hermione’s company— her magic was usually quiet and calm, simmering slightly with bubbles of curiosity, and comforting enough to feel like background noise to him. It was almost like listening to the sound of the sea, but with his magic.


They met Harry and Neville in the great hall, both grinning almost ear to ear. Neville immediately started talking about Olivander’s and the way spells just seemed to work for him now, when they hadn’t before. He levitated his goblet slightly off the table, and Ron could practically watch his confidence growing.

Harry, on the other hand, was staring at everything from the castle, to the portraits, to the people. Later that day, Ron caught him staring at himself in the mirror in the loo. He didn’t say anything, just grinned and clapped him on the shoulder before leaving him be. 
He did make a point, though, to drag everyone up to the clock tower so that Harry could take in the view of Hogwarts from there — the look on his face was one that Ron committed to memory. He looked like the child he was supposed to be: full of wonder and curiosity, without the burden of a war on his shoulders. His magic swirled up joyfully around him, and Ron basked in the feeling for as long as he could. He convinced Hermione and Neville that it was a good place to study, and the four spent a long evening there, delightedly shouting along with the bells whenever they sounded.

When it was about to get dark, he pulled his friends from their work, over to the clock-face window. The sky was awash with orange and pink, and he couldn’t help but stare at the look on Harry’s face. It was a beautiful sunset, by anyone’s standard, but it was also probably the first sunset Harry had ever really seen. Harry pulled himself away long enough to glance at Ron, catching his stare. He smiled, a little self consciously.

“Did you See this? Did you get Madam Pomfrey to notice that I needed new glasses so this could happen?” he asked, quietly.

Ron shook his head. “No,” he said. “I didn’t know this would happen. But I wanted to show you, anyway. I just thought you’d like it, is all.” He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling it heat up.

Harry nodded thoughtfully and turned to look out the window again.

“Thanks,” he said, after a long moment. Ron nodded again, though Harry wasn’t looking at him, and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing slightly.

He turned away to see Neville looking between them, and raising his eyebrows. Ron fought a blush and rolled his eyes. Neville’s eyes lit up a little, and a small, teasing smile appeared on his face. Ron groaned internally. Neville was too perceptive for his own good.

What’s worse, he immediately nudged Hermione, who turned from the window. He glanced between Ron and Harry, then waggled his eyebrows suggestively. She looked speculative, and grinned a bit herself. Traitor. Ron stuck out his tongue at them and turned back to Harry.

At the very least, the two of them noticing his crush wasn’t another life or death problem. (What they saw as a crush, anyway. He was very firmly in love with Hermione and Harry, but the time travel had created a very awkward age difference. He was lucky that they were still all the same physical age: he didn’t want them all to be caught on opposite sides of puberty, after all.)
He was content to deal with his feelings for his friends in time, he didn’t need to worry too much about it now. The only option was to take things slowly: he didn’t mind that. He was, after all, going to have to… well. He decided not to think about it just then.

He turned back to Harry, and the view. Soon after, it got dark, and the four friends headed down to dinner. They ended the evening with a game of snap by the common room fireplace, which Ron hadn’t realized how much he had been missing. It was a bonus to see the twins’ relieved looks in his direction: maybe he could get them off his back a bit. Fred had said that they’d noticed him dropping hobbies, after all.

The next day was less full, but equally as relaxed. Towler was admitted to the hospital wing coughing up snitches every few seconds after an incident at breakfast— nobody could prove that the twins had done it, but everyone was very conspicuously not looking at Ron. The word “Seer” didn’t come up once either— Ron was glad for it. Even if it was an open secret among the Gryffindors and Slytherins, nobody was willing to put themselves in the line of fire to talk about it, and they especially weren’t willing to bother him.
He was a bit guilty that he didn’t feel very bad for Towler, but he couldn’t force himself to care very much. Towler had a reputation for being a bit of a bully, anyway, and Madam Pomfrey would be able to fix him up fairly quickly anyway. 

He spent the day on the grounds with his friends, exploring and running around with the restless energy only children have. They stopped in to say hello to Hagrid and Fang, and tagged along with the half-giant to help him a bit with his garden. They got swept up in his explanations, and in helping Fang dig a rather pointless hole in the ground, to Hagrid’s amusement. They went back inside that evening with cold red noses and ears, covered in dirt and exhausted in the satisfied sort of way that comes after playing hard. 
Ron had gotten caught up in the day and hadn’t thought more than briefly about anything important. It was a relief to have a day to feel like a kid— he went to bed after a huge dinner, since they had worked up quite an appetite, and a brief “preview” of the next day’s class materials that evening, courtesy of Hermione.

He woke up early Monday morning, as was his custom, to work out a bit and compose his letters home. To his parents he wrote:

Dear Mum, Dad, and Ginny,

Thanks mum and dad for coming by and checking up on me, and sorry for worrying you. Thanks for the sweaters and stuff also, mum, Harry looks much warmer. 
Ginny, Harry didn’t even know about magic before he came to Hogwarts, can you imagine? He wasn’t trained by Dumbledore one bit, and he definitely hasn’t fought a dragon— not that anyone should. Think about what Charlie would say about fighting dragons! Honestly, Gin, he’s as normal as you and me.
As for Quidditch, he’s a natural! Oliver Wood put him on the Quidditch team after his first time seeing him fly, he’s so good. He’ll be our new seeker!
I’ve asked Hermione and Harry those questions for you dad—

He really had, at dinner last night, when he had been thinking about writing home. The questions had made Harry laugh, and Hermione go into lecture mode, which had a whole section of the table listen in curiously— 

and they say that the electricity comes straight to their houses through something called wires! They pay for it every month depending on how much they use. And rubber ducks are for fun, they go in the bathtubs with kids and float, and keep them entertained while they’re getting clean.
Everything else is going well here, too. I made peace with Professor Snape so you don’t have to worry about me getting into too much trouble anymore. Believe it or not, I think he might be nice, in a really weird kind of way. And things are a lot easier for me after talking to Dumbledore, I think it’s nice not to have to worry about that so much. I feel better having a plan.
Sorry again for worrying you. Promise I’m doing good now, though.

Love you and I’ll write again soon, okay?

Ron.

Next, the hard letter. He had to write to Bill. The idea made him a little queasy, as he thought about what he could possibly say to his brother right now that wouldn’t make things worse or more awkward. He also had to make sure nothing he wrote down was too incriminating, just in case.

He pushed himself in his workout, composing the letter over and over. Eventually he settled on something workable. He didn’t love it, but it was better than nothing.

Dear Bill, he wrote.

I’m hoping by now you’re feeling a little better and more settled. I had a nice, quiet weekend. I’m feeling a lot better after talking with you. My emotions feel a bit quieter and easier to handle.
I know I made things really complicated and hard for you when I told you about my vision, and I’m sorry about that. The offer I made before still stands. You don’t have to know all this if you don’t want to. I wouldn’t blame you. I’m doing better anyway, so I’d make sure you and mum and dad aren’t as worried about me if you did. I’ve got a better handle on things.
Harry got new glasses this weekend. And Neville got a new wand. It’s good that my vision helps me help them, I think. It feels good to be doing something other than waiting for it to be time for me to start acting on the big stuff.
If you do decide not to take that offer, could you send the thing we talked about soon if you can? I miss you.

Thanks. I’m sorry. I love you.

Ron.

The letter felt weird to him, but he sealed it into an envelope and tucked it into his robe pocket with the other one anyway. If he went over it one more time he’d go crazy. That, or scrap the letter entirely and go with just the last line, which was a bit melodramatic, even for Ron.

Nobody was awake when he was finished with his workout, and with transcribing the letters out of his head and onto paper, so he sat around fiddling with his quill, before pulling out another piece of paper and recklessly writing a third letter.

Dear Charlie,

I hope you’re doing good. I dropped a bit of a dragon-shell on Bill a few days ago, so if he hasn’t come to find you, would you check up on him? I’d do it myself but I’m stuck at school.

I’m doing good here. Hagrid talked to me about how you used to hang out with him a lot when you were in school. That’s cool. Harry, Neville, and Hermione — those are my best mates — and I spent some time with him too. He’s really nice, and Fang is the best dog ever.

He thought for a minute about Sirius, but decided it was still true, since Sirius wasn’t technically a dog anyway.

Anyway I love you, don’t let any dragons eat you before I see you next!

Ron.

He sealed that one away and tried not to think about it too hard. Bill and Charlie had always had a kind of symbiotic relationship: if anyone could help Bill without needing to know the details, it would be Charlie. Or Fleur, but she wasn’t exactly in the picture yet.

Ron wrinkled his nose. Fleur was still fifteen to Bill’s twenty. It wasn’t going to be not-creepy for a while. Then again, he was seventeen mentally, and Harry and Hermione were eleven, so he had no room to talk.

He went down to the common room, intent on sending the letters off and then coming back to walk his friends down to breakfast, but when he got down the stairs, he was stopped in his tracks.

Fred and George were sitting in front of the fire, seemingly waiting. When he made his way in, they both looked up.

“Right” they said together. “We want answers,” George started.

Fred continued. “We get that you’re not going to tell us about your visions—”

“—or what happened to make you so different—”

“— but at the very least you can tell us—”

“why you stole the map.”

They were doing that thing where they mirrored each other’s poses and expressions exactly. Ron was caught off guard. Why was it that he always forgot not to underestimate the twins? He grumbled a bit at himself mentally for it, while looking between them and fighting the urge to swallow nervously.

“Uh yeah. About that.” he lost the fight, and swallowed. Fred and George’s smiles sharpened. He deflated a bit, and went to sit down next to them, but the two effortlessly pulled him between them.

“I can explain?”

Chapter Text

“I can explain?”

“By all means” “go ahead.”

Ron let his mind work through it. He absolutely, under no circumstances, could tell Fred and George the truth. Last time he’d done that it had ended in disaster— his mum and dad had lost hours worth of memories, and Bill was emotionally devastated. No. There was no way he’d be telling anyone else anything about the time travel until his plans were all well and done.

So what could he tell Fred and George?

He stalled for time.

“How did you even know I had it?” he asked.

“We didn’t—”
“—but you kindly confirmed it for us.”
“We saw little Harry-kins running around in your sweater—”
“— and what do you know, one of our sweaters is missing too!”
“Both things going missing at once?”
“Probably more than coincidence, right Gred?”
“Definitely more than coincidence, Forge.”
“And when we asked a certain portrait, sure enough—”
“— one homesick little brother did go through our stuff—”
“— played up how innocent and cute he was, too—”
“We couldn’t believe you pulled one over on him!”
“We’re very proud of you for that by the way,”
“Oh, very proud!”
“But that’s beside the point, Forge,”
“Right you are, Gred—”
“We know you have it now, so”
“What do you plan on doing with it?”

So much for having time to think. Being in between the twins and their ‘twin-speak’ was dizzying. He wondered how he hadn’t noticed what their magic was doing when they got like this before. It was like they were constantly tossing a little ball of magic around between them, juggling it in ways only the two of them could keep track of. Focusing on it and the conversation at the same time left no room for him to think about what to say.

He felt his mouth move without his brain’s permission.

“I’m not giving it back. Or the sweater, you know. It’s comfy.” And the fact that it felt like their magic was nice. It gave him a little confidence, feeling like his brothers were standing behind him, hands on his shoulders, backing him up.

Fred and George exchanged glances.

“I think he’s stalling, Forge,” Fred said.
“Definitely stalling, Gred,” came the reply.

Ron groaned and wiped at his face.

“Listen, I know you two are angry, I didn’t forget what you said in the hospital wing. But what are the chances of you just letting this one go?”

“He’s kidding, right?”
“Has to be.”
“You are kidding, Ronnie?”
“We may be worried about you—”
“— but we’re not—”

Ron reached out and caught the little ball of magic, and the twins both stopped, shocked into stillness. He looked at his hand. It looked like a tiny quaffle, but felt like a combination of their magic— like a little firework, the colours all Fred’s and the loud noise all George’s and both of them together the explosion. He tossed it back to Fred, who caught it on instinct. It dissipated as soon as he touched it

“What was that?” George asked, staring at Fred’s hand where it had disappeared.

“Just a bit of magic,” Ron said. “You two throw it around a lot when you’re doing your twinspeak thing.”

They stared at him. After a few seconds of astonished silence, they started back up.

“Okay, we’re going to ignore that and think about it more later,” George said, trying to steer the conversation back on track.

“Right.” Fred said, obviously shaking himself a bit to clear his head.

“Listen, can we talk about this somewhere else, maybe?” Ron asked. “People are going to come down soon and I’d really rather not talk about some of this stuff where they could be listening in.” He eyed the portraits in the common room, all of whom were either asleep or pretending to be.

He got up and started walking, and smirked as he noticed them immediately follow. He made his way down the corridors to the owlry, stopping to mail his letters, and then to a secluded spot in the West Tower. It was an unused classroom, long abandoned and without any portraits, presumably because, like the rest of the west tower, it had no glass in the windows, and was left completely open to the elements.

He sat with his back to the wall underneath one of the windows, on the slightly damp, cold stone. Fred and George followed his lead, but sat facing him.

“Right,” he said. “Remember that morning when I woke up and thought you were dead?”

They shared a glance.

“Not exactly something you forget, is it?” George asked, quietly. They had lost a little of their usual levity, and it was slightly unsettling to Ron, who had rarely ever seen them look this somber, even during the war.

“That was your first vision, right?” Fred asked. “You screamed like you were dying, and then you were quiet for days, and wouldn’t eat or anything.” Ron nodded.

“Yeah. I had a vision about a battle,” he said. “A big one. Here, at Hogwarts.”

He met Fred’s eyes. “You died. In the battle.” Fred swallowed, and nodded.

“We… we went out together, right?” George asked, in a hoarse, quiet voice. Ron looked at him. He looked like he was clinging desperately to the thought. He slowly shook his head.

George’s face drained of colour instantly, and his hand shot out to clutch at Fred’s arm. Fred didn’t move to comfort him, just kept looking straight at Ron.

“When?” he asked, more steadily than Ron had expected him to sound.

“My seventh year. It’s not going to happen this time, though.” He shifted forward a bit, trying desperately to convey his sincerity.

“That’s why I need the map. The Hogwarts Wards didn’t hold up during the battle— they’re not even working that well right now. When I went up to talk to Dumbledore it was because he and I are going to try to fix the wards. When we fix them, nothing will ever be able to get in here, and there will be a safe space to keep everyone. The battle won’t ever happen at Hogwarts, and Fred, you won’t die.”

The two exchanged a look, Fred’s hand came up to rest on top of George’s, still in a white-knuckled grip on his arm.

“Ron,” Fred said, then swallowed. “Ron, just because it doesn’t happen here at Hogwarts, that doesn’t mean it won’t happen at all.”

Ron winced internally. He couldn’t exactly explain that he had a plan for that without giving himself away.

“I know.” He said, matching Fred’s quiet tone. “But if I change enough things for the better, maybe it won’t get that bad. And I’m starting with the wards. And then whatever else I See, I’ll make plans for that, too.”

He gave a little attempt at a smile. “And if all else fails, I’ll ship you off to France to live with Bill’s future wife.”

“Bill’s going to get married?”
“Didn’t think he had that in him—”
“— we thought he was married to his job!”

Ron smirked. “Not for another six years and a bit. But yeah.” Actually, he didn’t know if that was true. Would the tri-wizard tournament even happen if Barty Crouch Jr. didn’t arrange for it to? Would they even meet this time around?

He waved the thought off. He’d make sure they met somehow. Fleur made Bill happy, and he’d find a way to make sure they had their chance together. It could hardly be more difficult than winning a war on his own as an eleven-year-old.

The moment of levity passed.

“Ron… have you told anyone else but Dumbledore about all this?” George asked, quietly. “Not that I don’t trust him to handle it, but—”
“—if there’s a battle, people should know, and have time to prepare.” Fred said, finishing the thought, nodding thoughtfully.

“Mum and Dad and Bill all know. But if we tell too many people, it’ll get out of hand. There are spies everywhere. Right now, Dumbledore and I are working on the wards because it’s the right thing to do, and he’s worried about my vision, but he isn’t listening about the problems that are already in the castle. He thinks he has things handled, but really he’s going to end up letting it all get bad.” He paused and thought for a moment.

“Although, we could warn people about the troll.” Fred blinked at him for a second, then responded after a beat.

“Explain.”

“It’s not going to be a problem until Halloween, but someone’s going to let a troll loose in the corridors during the feast. If the wards were working, that kind of thing wouldn’t be able to happen.”

“You can keep the map. And the sweater,” George said, and stood up suddenly, letting go of Fred’s arm, and turning to leave.

“Woah, Georgie. Hold up, brother-mine, what’s going on?” Fred stood too, moving quickly to put himself between him and the door.

Ron couldn’t see George’s face from where he was sitting, but his magic felt turbulent.

“What’s going on?” George’s voice was incredulous. “You’re going to die, Fred, and I’m not, and we’re just going to skip over that to talk about trolls and wards?”

Ron and Fred spoke at the same time.
“He’s not going to die.”
“I’m not going to die.”

George didn’t say anything, just started to move past Fred, but he stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“I’m not leaving you, Georgie. We’ll figure it out, okay?”

“Sure, Fred.” George said. He didn’t sound convinced, but this time when he tried to leave, Fred let him go.

Fred turned to look at Ron, eyes worried. Ron tried a smile, but it came out more like a grimace.

“For what it’s worth, I really won’t let you die, Fred.”

“If I do, it won’t be your fault. You know that, right? Just because you See things happen before they do doesn’t mean you’re responsible for those things.”

Ron let out a sad chuckle. He was definitely responsible for those things. He was responsible for the fate of the entire wizarding world at this point, nevermind just his brother.

“Sure, Fred. Thanks.”

“I mean it.”

“I know. Go find George, he needs you.” Ron stood up, stretching a bit to get blood flow back into his sore limbs. “I’m off to breakfast anyway.”

“Right.” Fred took a deep breath, seemed to steel himself, then forced his face into a smile. It was remarkable, like watching him put on a mask. One second he was having an emotional crisis, the next he was grinning like he was on top of the world. Ron wondered how often he covered up his emotions like that, and felt vaguely ill thinking about it.

He set that grin on Ron. “Go into our room without permission again and we’ll fill your bed with spiders.”

He didn’t stop to hear Ron’s response, just walked away briskly, leaving him alone in the chilly room. Ron shuddered, and took a moment to compose himself. If he showed up to breakfast looking emotional again, there was a good chance Percy would go full mother-hen on him.

He took a deep breath, and left the room. Breakfast awaited.

And then potions, first thing. Ron groaned to himself. Mondays.

Chapter Text

Ron must have a terminal disease. Terminal inability to keep his mouth shut. That was the only explanation for this kind of thing, really.

The potions classroom was silent in the wake of Ron’s question, several students openly gaping at him. It had been silent beforehand too— they were preparing ingredients for the next class, when they’d be brewing the cure for boils. Snape had called for silence the minute they stepped into the classroom, seemingly in a bad mood— though perhaps, Ron’s adult mind whispered, he’s just tired. Maybe he doesn’t care for having a class full of eleven-year-olds first thing Monday morning.

“Would you care to repeat that, Mr. Weasley?” Snape asked tersely, not looking up from the papers he was grading.

“Sorry, Professor. I didn’t mean to say that out loud,” Ron said, wincing a bit. Snape glanced up to give him a sharp look.

“Repeat your question, Mr. Weasley.”

Ron took a deep breath.

“I was just wondering about why we prepare potions ingredients the way we do, sir. Why does it matter if something is powdered versus minced? Or even put in whole? Doesn’t the potion kind of absorb the whole ingredient anyway, no matter how you put it in there? And how did anyone find out how the ingredient should be prepared in the first place? Did they just try a bunch of different combinations until they figured it out? That would have taken ages! I don’t understand, Professor.”

Terminal. Terminal can’t-stop-talking disease. He knew he was blushing fiercely, he was sure it was going to kill him, if Snape didn’t first, for speaking out of turn.

He looked up to find that Snape was studying him, his face unreadable.

“Five points to Gryffindor for asking intelligent questions.” Ron blinked. What?

“And ten points from Gryffindor for speaking out of turn.” Ron could feel the shock echoing about the room in everyone’s magic. It would have been distracting if he wasn’t so focused on the world being the wrong way up.

Was Snape being nice to him? He stared at the man, who had pulled out a small piece of parchment and was writing on it. Snape stood.

“Next week, you will give a presentation to your class on the answers to your questions.” He put the parchment in front of Ron, who looked down. It was a list of books, with chapter names after them. Ron looked up again, and met the professor’s eyes.

There was a glint there that almost seemed pleased. The rest of his expression was as sour as always. Ron looked back down at the list, after a moment of uncomfortable eye contact, and Snape went back to his desk, resuming his grading.

The room was silent for almost a minute before Snape spoke once more.

“Well? Don’t you all have something to be doing?” The room snapped back into movement, students going back to their grinding and chopping.

Ron was still stuck in shock, staring at the parchment in his hand disbelievingly, before Harry bumped their shoulders together. He shook himself, and got back to work.

They had only had two defense classes so far, and Ron was already looking forward to killing Quirrelmort. The man was worse than useless— it was impossible to learn anything in the presence of the black oozing aura of you-know-who’s magic. It was slimy and suffocating and reminded Ron of long days in tents, fighting with his friends, and being hunted.

He wanted out of that classroom. He couldn’t think about anything else when he was there, and it was taking him back to that dark, emotionally turbulent place that he’d been wallowing in on and off since he had found himself back at eleven again.

About halfway through the class he raised his hand. He hated to leave his friends alone in the presence of that thing, but—

“Y-y-yes, M-mister W-Weasley?”

“May I go to the Hospital wing, professor? I don’t feel well.” Harry immediately stood up.

“I’ll take him, Professor.” He didn’t wait for a reply, just packed their notes, slung Ron’s bag over his shoulder, and grabbed his arm, dragging him out of the room.

“What happened, are you okay?” As soon as the door was closed behind them and they were in the hall, Harry was holding him by the shoulders, looking him over.

“You do look a bit pale, let’s get you—” Ron shrugged him off and started walking, Harry anxiously keeping pace with him.

“I’m fine, Harry. Didn’t mean to worry you. Quirrel just makes my head hurt, I hate his lessons.” Ron said apologetically.

“I know what you mean.” Harry said sympathetically. Ron wondered if he actually did. Harry might not know what he was looking at, but Quirrel and his parasite had a disgusting magical aura. He could understand why that made Harry’s scar hurt.

They made it to the hospital wing and Madam Pomfrey was immediately checking him over.

“Again, Mr. Weasley? What is it this time? Exhaustion again, or another traumatic vision?”

Ron looked around nervously. Pomfrey scoffed and caught his eye.

“As if I would let anyone overhear your private medical information, Mr Weasley. Honestly. I’m a professional.”

Ron hadn’t been aware that his seer status was in his medical file, but he supposed it made sense.

“No, Madam Pomfrey, we’re just in from defence again. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to sit through his class without feeling sick,” Ron said. “His magic gives me a headache.”

She paused, clearly not expecting that.

“Did you say you can feel his magic, young man?” Ron looked at her and nodded, confused.

“Can you feel everyone’s magic? Do they have to be casting a spell for that or can you feel mine just now?” she asked.

“Um, I can feel them all the time. Yours feels like a numbing charm, it’s sort of hot and cold at once in a tingly way? And kind of calming.” She blinked a few times.

“I see,” she said. “Come sit down, Mr. Weasley, Mr. Potter.” she lead them past the beds and into a small office, gesturing for them to sit down on the couch as she moved to settle into the chair across from it.

“How long have you been able to feel people’s magic, Mr. Weasley?” Madam Pomfrey asked, seemingly focused on the topic. Ron was beginning to have an idea of what was going on, but he was still stuck in denial.

Surely everyone could feel magic, right?

… right?

“Forever I think?” Ron said. But that wasn’t true, was it? He had only started to feel it once he had come back in time. Before that he could feel the effects of the horcruxes, but he hadn’t been able to feel the horcruxes themselves. And he had never been able to tell Fred and George apart before either, had he?

“Actually no. I think it started when the visions did,” he said. “But it felt so natural that I thought I had been doing it all along.”

She nodded. “Well. That is indeed interesting. Most people who have a mage sense have it from birth, but I suppose if the manifestation of your visions had a significant enough effect on your magical core, it may have removed a block there.”

“I had a block on my magical core?” Ron asked, horrified. Madam Pomfrey quelled his outburst with a look.

“Not one anyone else imposed, young man. It would have been self-defensive. Children often keep themselves from abilities they’re not ready for yet. It happens all the time, but usually it goes unnoticed. Someone could go their whole life without knowing they had a mage sense, or were, say, a seer like yourself, or a metamorphagus.”

Ron blinked a few times, processing this.

“What’s a mage sense?” Harry asked, reminding Ron that his friend was there too. He reached out and grabbed Harry’s hand, trying to ground himself. Harry squeezed it reassuringly.

“It means that Ron has an extra sense. Whereas everyone else has the primary senses— touch, taste, sight, hearing, smell, and a basic sense of magic, Ron has one more. The most common mage sense is mage sight, which allows people to see auras, but I did meet someone once who could taste magic.”

“Which one does Ron have?” Harry asked, looking worriedly at Ron.

“I don’t think mine is normal,” Ron said, miserably. He missed the days when he was jealous of Harry for being special. He’d reached his quota of special-ness and gone right over the line. He didn’t want to be this different.

“I can feel other people’s magic with my magic,” he said. “Sometimes I’ll see it but not like an aura, it’s more like that’s the way my magic is interpreting it. Like how Seamus’s magic always smells a little smoky to me, but I’m not really smelling it? It’s hard to explain,” he said, shrinking in on himself.

“Whoa.” Harry said, and Ron looked over cautiously. Harry’s eyes were full of awe. “That’s wicked." Ron’s chest loosened a bit.

Pomfrey snorted. “Quite.” she said. “It seems like you have what’s called true mage sense, Mr. Weasley. It’s a very rare gift. Merlin himself had it, they say, and so did Helga Hufflepuff.”

That was going to take some processing.

“If your mage sense is bothering you so much in defence class, that presents an issue. Wait here,” she said, and walked through a door into what Ron presumed was her quarters.

She came out a few moments later.

“Your head of house is on her way, dears.” Ron groaned internally, but knew there was nothing he could do to avoid this. He should have just sucked it up and made it through class.

Hold on.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “If my mage sense isn’t normal, and it’s the reason I’m having trouble in defence, why does Harry always get headaches too?”

Madam Pomfrey blinked.

“Hm. That is a good question.” She turned to look at Harry, who was now squirming beside him. “I assumed your glasses would help with your headaches. Have you been having any trouble with them?”

“No ma’am,” Harry said, shaking his head. “I can see better than I ever have in my life!” he said excitedly.

“But you’re still getting headaches,” she said, thoughtfully.

“Only in defence,” Ron piped up.

“And it’s my scar that hurts, not my head,” Harry added. She narrowed her eyes and cast some more diagnosis spells on Harry, which seemed to come up clear.

“Alright. I’d like to run a more complete scan, if that’s alright with you, Mr. Potter,” she said. “I don’t like that you’re having pain in your scar. That shouldn’t be happening.” Harry looked a bit nervous about this.

Ron couldn’t be happier. There was no way Harry was getting out of this. A full scan would reveal the abuse he had been facing, and then he wouldn’t have to go back to the Dursleys. And it was all happening far ahead of schedule, too!

Maybe Mondays weren’t so bad after all.

Chapter Text

Hey folks! I'm about to get back to this story after a literal year. If I hadn't been inundated with comments, I likely never would have returned to it. I wrote myself into a bit of a corner, and then life happened a lot. But I'm going to start a rewrite and I'd like opinions: should I rework the chapters and edit what is here, or should I post the edited chapters as a new story? There will be some pretty major changes, but a lot of the beginning material will be lightly edited but mostly left alone. So, opinions? Edit or Post New, which do you all prefer?

I'm sorry I haven't replied to all the comments-- you are all amazing and the reason I haven't given up on this story, but with the momentum I have I can either write the story or respond to everyone, and I'm fairly sure I know which you lot would prefer. So let me know what you think and expect updates soon-- the writing bug finally bit me again.

EDIT: It was fairly unanimous, so I'm in process of posting the new fic as the second work in this series. Thanks for coming along on the journey, everyone!

2ND EDIT: New fic is posted, after a bit of hassle. See you over there!