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1.
They're all chatting by the fire, wrapped in blankets and pajamas. It's well past bedtime for most students their age, and the common room is deserted. Instead of sitting on the couches or plush armchairs, the three curl on the rug, as close to the fire as they can be safely. Ron sits near a table, back pressed against it to observe his friends.
Beside him, Harry is on his back. On Harry's other side is Harmione, criss-cross with her back less straight than usual, a sign of her relaxing.
They've got sweets scattered between the three of them, as well as a few rolls and pastries. It's not much, but to their eleven year old bodies, it's practically a feast. Their conversation runs along, continuing well into the night and morning. They don't have classes tomorrow, so they reckon they can do with one night of slacking off. Surprisingly, they didn't even have to convince Hermione to join them once they mentioned it was a Friday and they'd all have more than enough time over the weekend for homework.
A little after two, Ron makes a joke and is met with one laugh instead of two. Peering over, he sees Harry passed out, glasses riding up over his forehead. He reaches out, taking them from his face and folding them before setting them up on the table he was leaning against.
He shifts Harry's blanket, covering his exposed skin and pajamas, and watches as Harry curls into the touch when he accidentally bushes his hand against the shorter boy's shoulder. He does it again, longer this time, and it's as though a pin has been pulled in Harry's muscles. His face relaxes, seeming younger than Ron has ever seen him look.
Mind made up, he shifts as quietly as he can, lying down beside Harry. He throws his blanket over them both, because Harry gets colder easier than he does. After a moment, on Harry's other side, Hermione shifts to join them on the floor. As her head rests on Harry's chest, she shoots Ron a look of knowing adoration. Ron acknowledges it but doesn't say anything, choosing instead to close his eyes.
2.
In the hospital wing for the second time that year and the fourth time in the last two, Ron feels restless. He shifts uselessly in his wooden chair, uncaring as it squeaks. Beside him, Harry lets him move, knowing he needs to more than he can stop. Ron doesn't want to look at Hermione. He doesn't want to see her lying there, unmoving and helpless.
He does anyway, body stilling as it does every time he rememorises her still figure, her scared face, her frozen hand. He reaches out, brushing a hand through her hair. He doesn't know if she can feel it or not, but he hopes she can. If she can, and she's scared and helpless and alone in her head, unable to move, he hopes to give her a small piece of comfort.
After curfew, Harry heads to the common room. He understands; Harry has been receiving enough flack for the chamber, so to be caught after hours at this point would be nothing short of suicide. He understands, but he doesn't leave himself. Instead, he stays put, sitting by Hermione's side.
Ten minutes into the silence, his fingers get caught in a knot. Brushing through it, he hopes it didn't hurt her. Standing, he shuffles silently to the storage closet in the back of the infirmary, rooting through pajamas and sheets until he finds what he's looking for— a hairbrush.
It isn't a lot, because she can't bend at the waist for him to reach the back of her head, but he brushes out the parts he can reach. He starts from the bottom, recalling time after time as his mum would remind Ginny when she would complain about wind knots after a broom ride. It's slow work, but he grows still under the movement, brushing Hermione's hair.
He doesn't notice as Madam Pomfrey exits her office to see why there's still a visitor after hours. He doesn't notice how she stops, slightly, to watch him caring for her. Madam Pomfrey retreats, coming back with a pair of pajamas and a soft smile before returning to her office, and eventually, her bedroom.
Ron changes into the pajamas, but he doesn't take a different bed. Instead, he settles onto his chair, resting his head in his arms, propped on Hermione's mattress. It's uncomfortable and he'll feel it in the morning, but he can't fathom sleeping anywhere else right now.
3.
When Harry passes out on the train, it's the scariest moment Ron's been in in a while, even considering the chamber of secrets the year previous. It's unnerving to hear him mumble in his foggy state, and even more so when he sees how closed off Harry gets at learning no one else fainted.
He makes a note in his head when Professor Lupin gives him chocolate (eat it, you'll feel better), telling himself to stock up when he goes to Hogsmeade.
He lets Harry brood during the feast, pulling him away from a confrontation with Draco. He lets the boy moodily stalk forward, grumbling the password to the Fat Lady. He even lets him slam his truck shut unnecessarily loud when grabbing his pajamas, because Dean and Seamus and Neville are all still downstairs and won't be bothered by it.
He folds Harry's blankets back when the shorter boy heads to the bathroom to change. Even though they're both boys, Harry has always had reservations about letting Ron see his skin. He pulls a small bag of sweets from his truck, setting it on the bed before climbing under the blankets. Hedwig hoots softly by the window, unwilling to head to her post in the owlery until the next morning, as she does every year. Ron knows she and Harry have a bond that even he and Harry will never have, and it's sweet to know she wants to keep looking out for him.
When Harry returns, he pauses briefly at Ron sitting in his bed before turning to Ron's bed. He's about to climb in when Ron protests, beckoning him over. Confused, Harry settles under the blankets as well, shoulder to shoulder with Ron.
Ron opens the bag of sweets, pulling out a small bar of chocolate. He passes it over without words, taking a second one out and biting into it. They munch silently for a while, content to snack and not say a word. Eventually, Harry grows curious about the bag and riffles through it before pulling out a box of jellybeans.
An hour later, all five dorm mates are sharing jellybeans and making sounds out of their ears and like animals, and Ron glances at Harry, pleased with the smile on his face.
4.
All his life, Ron has been the unseen brother. The youngest, the worst, the one never picked. When it seems like Harry has done the same, his whole world collapses.
He doesn't speak to Harry for weeks. It hurts, and he keeps Hermione close because he can't bear to lose her too. She's still friends with Harry, and he longs to soak in his friendship by proxy, even if he's still hurt and upset.
Watching the first task of the tournament feels like getting his insides ripped to shreds. Ron has never felt more wrong, useless, stupid in his life. Of course Harry didn't leave him. Of course Harry never meant to do this. His best friend just has the worst luck he's ever seen.
They lose sight of him for a while when his broom exits the arena. Dumbledore conjures a projection of Hogwarts in the form of a map, and they all watch a small Harry-like dot zoom across the surface, followed by a dragon shaped dot. They twist and turn, and then Harry's dot stops near Ravenclaw tower. The conclusions floating through Ron's brain are endless. He stopped mid-air, he's on the roof, he fell and his body is below the tower. Each thought is more horrifying than the last, and he wills Harry to move, to prove he's not done.
He does, and Ron feels the most relief he's ever felt in his life.
Afterwards, in the common room, when he and Harry have tentatively made up, he watches the boy make his rounds. Everyone is celebrating, gossiping, trying to figure out what on Earth that egg means. And through it all, Ron watches Harry make rounds, saying thanks and hellos, but he can't hear a word of it. Over the drowning noise of the party, all Ron can focus on is the way Harry limps as he walks, the way he shifts to keep weight off both feet, one at a time. He watches as Harry shifts his robes, wincing almost imperceptibly when they touch his skin.
He doesn't mention it in front of people, knowing Harry hates the attention, so he waits until the party is winding down and most everyone has left. There are a few seventh years on cleanup duty left in the common room, along with himself and Harry. They make eye contact and head for the stairs together.
In their dorm, Ron lets Harry find his pajamas before grabbing his wrist as gently as possible and tugging him into the bathroom. He locks the door and slowly eases Harry's robe off before Harry can object.
Still in his sportswear, Ron debates whether to risk making him raise his arms or just cutting the shirt off. When Harry winces, harder this time, at the rustling of fabric on skin, he makes up his mind.
His wand is steadier than its ever been as he mutters a cutting charm. Harry, sat on the toilet, watches dimly as the fabric falls away in straps, leaving him bare and chilled. Ron doesn't gasp or lament as he takes in the burns along his shoulders and arms and torso, but he does grow upset as he takes in the rest of him. Though almost unnoticeable, there are light, shimmery scars covering his torso and, when he asks Harry to turn, also his back. Shaped like small squares with small ticks in the centre, Ron is fairly certain he knows what they're from. He's only met Harry's uncle twice, but he also knows he's not a nice man.
Still, he doesn't mention them as he begins working his way through the burns with the small aid-kit in the bathroom. There's a low grade burn salve that will tide them over until he can either convince Harry to see Madam Pomfrey or he can sneak in and steal the supplies himself. He doesn't wrap them, because his mum told him once that wounds need air to heal. If he learns later that he should, he will, but for now, he trusts his mum.
Harry remains worryingly compliant through the whole thing. Ron worries it's because he's trying to make up for before, but that would be silly because the only one who needed to beg for forgiveness was he himself. When he's done, he hesitates before leaning in near a patch of unblemished skin on his collar and pressing a soft kiss to the skin. His dad had raised him on the notion that kisses made any wound heal faster, and while he knows it was untrue now, he hopes it will ring true just this once.
5.
He refrains from using every name he knows and every curse his mum tells him to never use when Hermione lifts Harry's hand to the light. Scratched into his skin (into his skin) are five little words in the same chicken scratch that Harry himself writes in. The statement in itself is a lie, because Harry hasn't lied about anything in the five years he's known him, not for anything that matters.
When Hermione stirs a bowl of murtlap for him, he accios his bag of sweets from his trunk. He could go and grab them, but he doesn't want to leave Harry's side for even a moment. He pulls out a chocolate and unwraps it, handing it to the boy as his hand is set in the bowl. Whether it's the sweet or the medicine, he isn't sure, but Harry's shoulders relax just a hair. His head comes to rest against the back of the couch, book lying forgotten in his lap.
Ron reaches over to take it, bookmarking the page and setting it with the rest of his schoolwork. They should have known, when Harry was so dedicated suddenly to his studies and seemed to never talk about himself even more, even more than he usually didn't, that he was hiding something. Ron supposes the message scrawled into his skin (his skin, Merlin) isn't entirely false after all. He'd been lying by omission to them for weeks, and in his book, that was just as bad, given the circumstances.
He refrains from saying all of this, however, in favour of reaching up to run his hand through Harry's hair, against the couch. The simple movement relaxes him further, and his eyes slip shut. Ron's shared a room with him long enough to know when he's asleep or not, but he still does his best to keep quiet just in case.
He receives the same look from Hermione, over Harry's shoulder, as he did four years ago. He ignores it once more, letting the silence and the crackling fire lure Harry further in until his breathing finally deepens. It's rare anymore that he ever sees Harry as anything less than serious and stressed, and he can't blame him in the slightest. It hurts to see his friend hurting, but he hopes just being there, like he is now, is enough.
6.
The Burrow is unusually silent. It's barely four in the morning, and all the other residents are asleep. Ron feels wide awake, still on edge after hearing Harry's anguished scream before flying awake with enough force to give himself a headache.
He'd pulled the boy downstairs, unwilling to let him sit in his stewing suffering. Ever alert to their steps, Hermione and Ginny's door had cracked open, and wordlessly, Hermione followed them down, rubbing sleep from her eyes and pulling her hair into a loose braid.
He sits Harry at the small nook table nestled into the wall in the kitchen. Hermione sits beside him, head leaning onto his shoulder, which seems to comfort him slightly. He doesn't sit, instead heading to rummage through the cupboards before finding a few teabags.
He pulls down three mugs as he finds his voice, speaking about nothing and everything. Hermione follows suit, voice rough from sleep but still gentle. He warms the water in the kettle on the stove, leaning with a hip against the counter, facing them.
Rolling his sleeves up, Ron remembers why he doesn't wear anything more than a t-shirt to bed anymore. He hadn't noticed before that he was baking, so warm it was hard to move compared to the cool kitchen.
He hears Harry's voice, soft and unsure and so devastatingly sad, but he hears it, and it's enough. He laughs when Harry jokes and nods to his questions. Harry isn't the same anymore, not since Sirius, but sometimes the old Harry shined through. Not tonight, though, not this meek and downcast version. But Ron decides he loves this Harry just as much as all the others, because at his core, he was still always going to be Harry.
Ron hums, pouring the kettle into the three mugs, sleeve falling slightly at the movement. Hermione kicks Harry's shin under the table, rolling her eyes but laughing anyway, and Ron laughs too, stirring four cubes of sugar into the first mug, one into the second with milk, and milk with a dash of cinnamon to the third. He carries the first two over, setting them in front of Harry and Hermione respectively before turning for the third one. He takes a sip, nodding at the taste. Before taking his seat, he lightly taps the rim of Harry's mug, reminding him to drink, that he can and should, that he's allowed to. Harry does, thanking him for the tea in a hoarse breath.
He replies with you're welcome, because he means so much more than that. You're welcome to cry and you're always welcome here and you're allowed to take up space and not be a burden and you're allowed to need us sometimes too. But he just settles for a soft smile accompanying his words instead, because Harry has never been receptive to verbal comforts. Instead, he shows him, by pointedly sipping his tea and giving him another smile and joking with him even though he's tired enough to fall asleep at the table right then and there.
But it's worth it, because it's Harry, and he knows it will always be worth it.
7.
She tells him it's not a good idea, that though her hair is untamable, she still values it. He reminds her that someone had to have been cutting the seven Weasley children's hair for the last ten years. She relents and stops moving, leaning her back against the chair. Ron moves in, running a hand over her roots, getting a feel for the texture.
It's been a while since he'd done her hair. He hasn't touched it in the last five years for more than a passing stroke or to tuck it back into place when the wind was high.
He isn't the best muggle, but he's had practise, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy the slow, menial movements of muggle activity sometimes.
It's not a big chop, just some ends and a bit of length to make it more manageable in the woods. As he cuts, Ron and Harry chat lightly. Harry is lying in bed, staring at the bunk above him, rolling his snitch between his hands. They speak about everything but what is happening, what could be happening, what has already happened. Ron asks if Harry ever convinced Ginny to write him more poetry. Harry tells a story about Dumbledore, filled with jelly beans and humour. Hermione giggles and adds a few bits, but remains mostly still to ensure the life of her hair.
When he's finished, he takes a step back to admire her hair for a moment. It reaches her shoulder blades, still thick and curly and wild, but softer now. There's a few less layers, something he'd taken liberty with and hoped she wouldn't mind. He runs his fingers through it once, getting rid of excess hairs before handing her the small mirror shard from Harry's bag. She examines herself in it for a long moment before deciding she loves it. It's not the best haircut she's ever had by a long shot, but it's manageable now, and she recognises the effort he's put in to making her life a little bit easier.
He thinks, if nothing else, she might appreciate the thought he put into it, into learning a muggle skill as a pureblood wizard, just to make a few lives that much easier.
(She does.)
7.5.
Nothing will ever be the same did he do enough did he ever tell him he loved him did he brew his tea right every time was he a good friend did Harry ever feel like enough did he ever feel loved
The list goes on, drowning out Voldemort's speech. He watches the limp body in Hagrid's arms, willing it (him) to move, just like when he was fourteen and angry but so, so afraid. He ran again, deserted his best friend again, and this time, somehow, it got him killed.
There would be no more tea, no more naps that he'd be grateful for, to see the relaxation finally take over his features, no shared jokes between the three of them, no more moments of pining uselessly as he just laughed at them, no more chocolate to fix his ailments. Harry was dead, and there was nothing Ron could do to fix it this time.
He might've seen the body (his body) twitch slightly as Neville stepped up, absorbed in flames and silvery blade and might, but it was hard to tell. But he prays he isn't making it up.
8.
In the boys’ dormitory, two snores surround him. To his left, Hermione is curled into his side, hand permanently locked in his since they kissed like she didn't know how to let go. To his right, Harry lay slumped uncomfortably in a sitting position, body fallen sideways over the pillows. All three share one bed, too wounded and scared and sad and worried to separate right now.
He tries to not think about the mass grave downstairs, the people tending to the dead and the wounded. It'll be someone's job to move the bodies, the casualties of a war that could have been prevented. He tries not to wonder who's job it'll be to move Fred's body. He hopes, selfishly, that his dad has to. He doesn't trust anyone else to handle him with the care he deserves.
He lays sideways as well, head resting on Harry's hip, Hermione pulled tighter into his side. In a little while, he'll invite Ginny up, to get her away from the death and fear and sadness. Not yet though, because he's spent so long being selfless and he just needs a moment to be selfish and remind himself that his closest friends are still here. He'll join the cleaning later, offer to take Fred's body himself even though the act might kill him just a little bit. He'll hide from his mum just long enough, too tired to let her worry over him like she is his other six siblings (because she hasn't left Fred's side since the battle ended). He'll do everything he needs to, has to do, in just a little while.
He's barely eighteen, and he never should have had to fight a war. He's been fighting this war since he was eleven, since he offered a small, ragged boy half of his sandwich because he looked like he needed it more even though it was all he had, and his eyes focused on the floor then, on the small platter Kreatcher brought up for them, filled with better sandwiches.
He's too young to fight in a war, but maybe he was meant to. He thinks there could be fate, and destiny, and karma, and he thinks they all somehow led to this moment. He wonders what bad things Remus and Tonks and little Colin Creevy could have done to deserve death. He wonders why he didn't die, when he left, when he deserted his friends. He thinks if anyone deserved to die more, he was probably higher on that list.
The body he's laying on shifts, and he sits up slightly when Harry tries to, to give him room. Harry blearily looks over at him, exhaustion present in his eyes. There's a sparkle in them, though, one Ron had never seen before. His eyes are no longer a deep green, but something lighter, slightly, something more like home. He wonders if Harry will finally be able to relax, now that his body is his own.
Harry frowns at him, at the tear tracks on his face, hot and fresh and new from the last moments of thought, at the tiredness in his face and the emptiness in his eyes. He doesn't say a word, just shifts on the bed, still light and fleeting, still too small for his age, too stunted. With his back against the pillows now, he opens his arms silently. Ron scoots closer, Hermione moving sleepily along with him, not quite asleep but not nearly awake.
One of Harry's legs dangles over the edge of the mattress, and he rests his hand on his knee as his head lands on his thigh. Like this, they're all more comfortable, closer and cuddled and laying in a way that won't be as devastating to their joints, too old for just eighteen.
Harry's hand lands in his hair, cautiously in case of wounds. His fingers, slim and light, trail along his scalp, and he wonders if it feels this nice when he does it for others, for them. He hopes so.
I love you, his voice is raspy and broken, throat sore from screaming and crying and dehydration. Harry barely gives an indication that he heard him, but the small sound from above tells him he's smiling now, if just barely. He's not sure he's ever said it, but he knows now that he has to. He knows he never said it enough to so many people, but he has a second chance, by a miracle, and he takes it. Harry is the boy who lived twice, the man who has seen more than most fully grown wizards would ever even dream to see. In all its terror and heartache and wretchedness, there is a small glimmer of miracle in this, in the fact that Harry survived.
He knows Harry will blame himself. He will wonder why he's alive when no one else is. He will isolate and beat himself up and crumble because he thinks he deserves it. Ron will watch, silent as ever, ready to console him every time. He will curse the Dursleys for ever allowing this miracle of a man to doubt himself, to believe he isn't worth the love he is. He will thank his mum for showing Harry what the love of a mother can look like, and she will tear up and throw her arms around him.
Many things will come soon, too soon, but for now, he needs to know that Harry knows he loves him. He hopes he shows it enough, because Harry has never been good with words, but he needs to say it just this once, so Harry has heard it in all his lifetimes.
He wonders if anyone else has ever told him they love him. He hopes Ginny and Hermione and his mum and dad have. He hopes someone has, anyone, anyone who matters, who means it and doesn't just want his fame and fortune.
Later, he'll find out Dumbledore told him. His own mum told him, when he was a baby facing death and as a man facing it again. He'll learn Sirius never said it, but he always meant it, like it was on the tip of his tongue but he was never sure he was allowed to say it. He'll learn Remus was too scared to, probably, lost in his own self doubt, wondering if he was good enough to offer his love to Harry.
Harry's hand cards through his hair still, and he hopes he knows Ron loves him, has loved him all these years. Not like he loves Hermione, not quite, but something almost more sacred.
Staring at the sandwiches on the floor, crowded by rubble and torn sheets, his eyes flutter before finally shutting.
He thinks he could have dreamed it, but the softest reply hits his ears just as he falls asleep. I love you too.