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Three weeks had passed since the Battle of Hogwarts. The dead had been buried, the wounded had been tended to, and the castle was already under reconstruction.
Hermione had left immediately after the funerals to retrieve her parents from Australia. She and Harry exchanged letters often, keeping each other updated.
Harry had stayed with the Weasleys all that time. It was the least he could do after the devastating loss of Fred.
Molly and Arthur were inconsolable, but they remained strong for the rest of their children. Percy had come back home, Charlie and Bill came and went, and Ginny stayed by her mother’s side, comforting her as best she could.
George didn’t speak. He was always pale, barely sleeping, barely moving. He only ate because the rest of the family hovered over him, coaxing him through it.
But there was someone else in the shadows — someone Harry noticed wasn’t eating, wasn’t sleeping, and hardly spoke either.
It was Ron.
According to Hermione, Ron was in a sort of shock. At any moment he might come back to himself — and perhaps not in the best way. Harry feared that moment, and at the same time, he wanted it. He didn’t care how it came — he just wanted to see something, anything, from his best friend again.
Ron hadn’t cried at Fred’s funeral. Since then, he’d been nothing more than a ghost of himself. The boy who used to laugh, who joked about everything. The boy Harry had, at some point, fallen in love with — something Ron himself didn’t know.
A month had passed, and even George had begun to improve. He spoke, ate without being prompted, and Harry could’ve sworn he’d seen him smile more than once.
Ron, however, wasn’t getting any better — and that had everyone deeply worried.
Mrs Weasley tried to get him to talk, cooked all his favourite meals, even polished his broom in the hope he might feel like flying. Nothing worked.
Harry was beside himself with worry. Would Ron ever be the same again?
One night, Harry heard Ron bolt upright in bed. His eyes were wide, his mouth set in a thin line, his face paler than ever.
Even in the darkness, without his glasses, Harry could see Ron’s chest rising and falling far too quickly.
Harry jumped out of his bed, shoved his glasses on, and sat beside him at once.
“Ron! Ron, mate! Come on, breathe with me — you’re hyperventilating!” He wrapped an arm around his back, rubbing his chest with the other, trying to calm him, Ron’s heart was pounding so fast Harry thought he might faint. His face was flushing red, his eyes glassy.
Then suddenly, Ron gasped for air as if he’d just come up from underwater — and let out the most piercing scream Harry had heard in a long time, as though it had been torn straight from his core. Violent sobs followed, his legs moving restlessly, caught in the grip of a panic attack, while Harry held him tightly.
“That’s it… let it out, let it out. I’m here. You’re safe. We’re okay.”
The door burst open, and the Weasleys, in their pyjamas, stood there in alarm. Harry gestured that he had it handled, and Mr Weasley immediately understood — urging the others to step back and give Ron space.
Ron’s breakdown lasted over half an hour — harsh sobs, endless tears, broken, incoherent words. Harry didn’t let go once.
When the sobs finally softened into small, shaky breaths, Harry lay back on the bed, still holding him, and Ron went down with him. Harry’s right arm stayed wrapped around his chest, grounding him, while his left rested over him, steady and reassuring.
“You did so well… you’re going to be alright, Ron. You’re going to be alright,” he murmured against his copper hair.
Ron didn’t reply — but he tightened his grip on Harry’s hand, and for him, that was enough.
That night was the first time they shared a bed.
From then on, they decided they wouldn’t sleep apart again.
Ron’s recovery came slowly, surrounded by his family — and especially by Harry. The mind healer had explained that it was a mix of shock, grief, and war-induced trauma that had left him in that state.
He wouldn’t be fully better right away — perhaps not for a long time — but it was something that would take time and care.
Something Harry had plenty of.
And something he would do anything to see through.
That’s why he decided to take Ron to Grimmauld Place. Mrs Weasley hadn’t agreed at first, but Mr Weasley made her see that, for Ron, it might be what he needed. A quieter place to heal. The Burrow held too many memories.
Harry led him to Sirius’s old room — the one they would now share — and Ron stopped short when he saw a new bed placed at the centre.
A large bed.
“Where did that come from?” he asked, his voice rough from lack of use.
“I had it brought in… for both of us.”
“It’s huge.”
“Have you seen how massive you are, Weasley?” Harry replied, grinning.
And for the first time in a while, Harry caught a flicker in those blue eyes he loved so much.
They would be alright.
Not now. Not tomorrow.
But they would be.
Together.
