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For a few seconds, Ron was sure that he’d choose to stay.
He was sure that he would get to look Lucius in the eye and dare him to take his son away from where he belonged. That he would turn up his nose at Voldemort himself and tell him that they were staying right where they stood. That he would hold his hand as the chaos rained down around them, deranged and damaged but together.
He heard gravel shift behind him, and his heart skipped a beat.
Footsteps slowly made their way towards where he was standing, and his heartbeat got so fast he could feel it in his throat. His blood was rushing, roaring so loudly in his ears that it nearly drowned everything else out. He couldn't believe it, he chose to not believe it. There was hope. There was always hope. Ron would always choose hope over all else.
He’d survived so much already, they both had. They could survive more. They could brave this.
He watched Draco pass him, crossing the invisible barrier into no man’s land, and his resolve nearly shattered.
They used to spend their weekends together. He’d sit cross-legged on Draco’s bed in his dorm as the taller boy told grandiose stories about how he’d tell his father to shove it, pacing back and forth while dramatically waving his hands about. They'd sneak into the empty potions classroom so he could teach Ron how to brew a proper sleeping draught for his nightmares. Ron would cut some ingredients wrong and Draco would shoo him away, prattling on about how Granger had the audacity to hinder her own abilities by choosing to have Ron as her partner in class and he should be grateful that she lets him within ten feet of her during the school day.
He used to hold Draco as he sobbed, his body violently shaking in the aftermath of witnessing what no child should have to witness. Draco held him as he fell to pieces, body melting and bending and pooling into a disgusting puddle of pathetic tears on the floor.
He didn't kill Dumbledore. He didn't reveal Harry’s identity at the manor. He gave Ron information for years. He didn’t fight with the Death Eaters just hours- minutes ago. He healed his muggleborn classmates, he shoved them off towards empty dark corridors where they could flee.
He made his bed. Why didn't he lay in it?
They had dreamed of a world better than this. They deserved a word better than this. Ron wanted to be mad. He wanted to scream at him, just like he'd done when they first started this… Whatever they had together. They'd fought tooth and nail against each other, sinking their claws into whatever vulnerable piece of flesh they could find. But now, he felt empty.
He felt betrayed. He desperately wanted to be angry, because otherwise he was terrified that he’d be stuck feeling this wretched sense of incorrigible despondency for the rest of his life.
Hermione grabbed his shoulder, tugged him backwards. She knew, she always knew. He told her, of course he told her. She was his best friend, the only person he could trust to get it and be there for him. Harry was- He was different. But he couldn't bear to even start thinking about him with his dead body so close, yet somehow so astonishingly far away.
She yanked him back again, and he didn't even realize that he'd taken a step. She hissed at him to calm down, to not let his anger get the better of him, but it came out warbled and strained. They couldn't think about Harry, not yet. She was struggling, and he couldn't help her.
Because he felt so empty.
He wished he felt angry.
He wished Draco would turn around.
Just to look at them, look at him. Maybe he'd change his mind, maybe he had some master plan, maybe he'd get scared. Anything that Ron could latch onto, any reason why he’d abandon them all like this. At the moment where he could prove he was something more.
The future had barely happened yet, but Ron already felt robbed of what they could now never have. They had talked about children once. Drunk on some firewhisky that Fred had smuggled in on the Christmas holidays a few years back, shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh sitting on the steps of the astronomy tower at some Godforsaken hour of the morning. They'd agreed that Draco would be an awful father, and Ron would be a brilliant one, so it'd all just even out in the end. Ron was so stupid too, letting himself imagine what kind of home they'd build. Where they'd work, who they'd see on weekends, where they'd vacation. Who their kid would look like, who they'd take after. Laying in his bed at night staring at the ceiling, cheeks cold due to the brazen wind but tongue still warm and buzzing from the taste of alcohol. It was silly, he knew he was being daft, but he thought it was harmless.
It wasn't harmless when Draco left him.
It certainly wasn't harmless when the Dark Lord embraced him like his own spawn, welcoming him back to where he apparently belonged. Ron supposed he did. He belonged there now. Draco didn't have much of a choice growing up, having the family he did and living where he had to. But he had chosen right before, and it didn't seem like he would again.
Ron felt that familiar heat begin to pool in his lower belly, but it didn't feel as right as it usually did. Being angry usually meant being safe, he felt protected by the heavy weight of his resentment. Yet now he felt sick, like he could topple over at any moment. The nausea twisted up through him, planting its roots in his bones. The anger didn't make him feel grounded anymore, it was weighing him down. Pulling and pulling and pulling, until he was lost in the shifting waves of animosity and enmity.
When Draco finally reached his parents, he turned around. He looked like he didn't know what he was doing. His face seemed like it was attempting to be neutral, except for the grimace that was twisting his lower face into an ugly expression. Behind his eyes though, he looked shocked. Desperate. That made Ron feel even worse.
He’d given up so much for Draco, he'd stuck his neck out to the Order on his behalf, he'd validated every murky moral decision he'd made in recent years. He would've pulled Draco out of the Manor with his bare hands, if he let him. He would've died for him. He loved him. And after all that, after all they'd been through together - He would crawl right back to what he hated the most, just because he was asked to. He probably didn't even realize that he'd betrayed Ron until he was halfway across the battlefield.
Ron felt it. That grief, that treachery, that vexation.
Neville stepped forward, time moved on. Hermione’s hand dropped to his own, and he held onto her like his life depended on it. It probably did. His stare didn't leave Draco until everyone started to run, and those gray eyes never met his. Harry’s body dropped from Hagrid’s arms, and Ron finally let himself move. He had something else to live for.