Chapter 2
Ron wakes up screaming.
His death hadn’t been glorious, or even dramatic. No, he was one in hundreds of bodies that littered the Hogwarts grounds, a mere number in the staggering death toll. The spell hit him before he even knew what was happening, before Hermione even noticed him slip from her grasp.
He wakes up throwing the covers off of him, reaching for a wand that isn’t there. But he’s not in Hogwarts, and he’s far from the battle that had been raging on not moments ago. He’s… at home. struggling under the nauseating orange bed sheets that he’d remembered to be far more ragged.
“Ron?” George’s head peaks through his door— or maybe Fred’s? But it couldn’t be, and anyway his ear is still attached— and his voice is tinged with worry. An identical face pushes through the doorway. No missing ear. Neither one of them dead.
But that’s not true, because he had seen it. He’d seen the color drained from Fred’s face, felt his hand cold and stiff.
“What’s the matter with you?” This one’s Fred— he’d always been quicker to catch onto these kinds of things. Ron takes one look at his face, years younger, and fuller, and alive, somehow, blessedly alive.
“Fred,” Ron breathes, barely above a whisper, and before he knows it he’s hurling himself into Fred’s arms, nearly knocking him and George over in the process, but none of that matters because it’s Fred, and he’s alive and warm and there’s not a single spec of dirt or blood on his cheeks. “Fred!”
There’s footsteps now, frantic, and his mother is there, closely followed by the rest of his family. Hadn’t they been fighting, just moments ago? He hides his face in Fred’s shoulder and tries very hard to stop shaking.
“What’s wrong with him, mum?” Ginny’s voice comes out high and wary, scared not in the haunted way she’d been before, but in an uncertain, childish way. Ron realizes, with a jolt, that he’s younger, too; he’s shorter than the twins again, and small enough to hide in Fred’s arms.
He peeks out to see his whole family watching him, concern written all over their faces. Ginny’s face is round and her cheeks are still rosy with youth, and his mother’s hair isn’t nearly as gray as it once was, the wrinkles around her brows having smoothed over. Percy, too, looks younger, not nearly as burdened.
He’s in the past. Which sounds impossible, but it’s happened before. Then again, the hours that Hermione’s Time Turner had given them in their third year has nothing on the years he’d gone back.
“I… had a nightmare,” he mumbles, because everyone is looking at him expectantly, and what else is he supposed to say? That he’d died in war and come back years later, where everything was still okay?
(Speaking of which— he still isn’t quite sure when this is, leaving for a rather disorienting situation.)
“This is nice and all, Ronniekins, but you’ve got the wrong twin. That over there’s Fred.” This, however, is only confirmation that he’s got the right twin; Fred and George only ever called themselves by the other’s name.
“Stop that,” Ron snaps, and only clings to Fred tighter. He’s seventeen and far too old to be hiding in his big brother’s arms like a baby, but the war had proven to him how quickly any moment like this could be taken away. And anyway, they don’t need to know the truth.
“Huh.” He and George share a look of bemusement, before adding, with a grin, “You know, Ron, I think your Hogwarts envelope came in the mail today, if you care.”
It’s supposed to make him feel better. And if he were eleven, it would cheer him up, so he rubs his eyes and tries to smile. “Really? Can I see?”
“Oh! Oh! I’ll get it!” Ginny’s already bounding down the stairs, definitely more excited at the prospect than he is. He wills himself not to cry anymore, if only to relieve the tension in the room. At least now he knows when this is.
The summer that passes by is a blur, a combination of both ease and incredible difficulty. Gone are the nights spent on watch duty, or the long days on the move. He has as much food as he needs on the table, every day, without even having to steal for it, unless you count fighting Ginny for the last cookie.
He’s not a soldier anymore. Not at risk of dying with every turn. But it still follows him. Every night, he steals his father’s wand to cast a quick Muffliato on his bedroom, so it’s not an alarm when he wakes up screaming, which happens far more often than it probably should.
But quite possibly the worst part about it is the absence of Harry and Hermione by his side. Every mealtime he thinks of Harry, left hungry at Pivot drive, and whenever his dad rambles on about the rubber duck and the phellytones, he thinks of Hermione and the little Polaroid she kept on her, with her parents smiling big and motionless.
Every night, he stares up at his ceiling and tries, desperately, to fall asleep without the sound of their breathing nearby. And it’s torture. The distance seems to stretch like an impossible chasm between them.
Harry had told them, before, what the Dursleys’ house was like. On those long nights in the Gryffindor commons room, huddled up close to the fireplace, Harry used to whisper horrible stories as though it were an admittance of guilt. While Hermione would get silent and teary eyed, Ron seethed with righteous anger. That was his best mate in those stories, and Harry hadn’t done a thing to deserve what had happened to him.
To think he’s suffering that same fate now, while Ron sits perfectly comfortable in his safe, loving home, is downright torturous at best.
“Ron, dear,” his mother startles him from his thoughts one day at dinner, a sort of desperate strain in her voice. “Aren’t you hungry? I made your favorite.”
He looks down to a full plate. More than he’d ever eaten on any given night on the run, which he really shouldn’t be thinking about anymore; that life is long behind him.
It’s also far more than he knows Harry is getting right now. A little voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Hermione is telling him that he really should just eat, Ron. And he misses her, and he misses them both like a phantom limb. And he’d thought that the weight in his chest would go away after it was all over, but it’s only ever gotten worse, and he can’t quite remember a time where it was just normal.
“Ron?” Everyone at the table is watching him now. Even Fred and George have gotten quiet. He can’t pretend to be eleven years old and carefree, at least not tonight. Tonight is impossibly suffocating in a way only two people would ever understand. And, well, he isn’t even sure they would anymore.
“I’m really tired, Mum,” he feigns a yawn and pushes his plate back. “Can I save this for tomorrow?”
“Of course, dear, but—“
“Right, then,” he stands up a little too suddenly, but makes up for it with a toothy grin. “‘Night, Mum!”
He can feel their eyes on the back of his head as he bounds up the steps. But no matter, because the tightly wound tension in his shoulders is already easing into a bone deep exhaustion.
He finds himself staring at his chess board, not particularly enthralled in the game, but rather by his own thoughts.
The first time, the war had ended in death. So much of it. He thinks of sitting next to that damned radio every night, praying to whatever deity exists out there that they wouldn’t hear a familiar name. He thinks of the nights they did hear someone they recognized, how Harry pointedly avoided their gaze and Hermione’s face got all pale. He thinks of the bodies he’d stepped around for those hours of the battle he’d been alive for.
And he can’t let that happen again. He won’t. Ron Weasley has seven years to stop this war before it can even begin. It’s an impossible task, especially for an eleven— or seventeen? It’s complicated, he supposes— year old, but Ron is nothing if not a strategist.
Six Horcruxes. The dairy, they’d take care of in their second year. After rescuing Sirius, they’d find Slytherin’s locket in Grimmauld Place. As for Hufflepuff’s—
“Ronald?” Somehow, he doesn’t hear the footsteps and nearly jumps out of his skin when his door creaks open to Percy’s apologetic form standing just outside. Internally, he chastises himself for letting his guard down in such a way, despite the safety he knows the Burrow provides. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to give you a scare.”
“It’s alright,” he whispers, eyes trained on the chess board in front of him. It’s weird to have Percy at home again. Not necessarily bad; he’d never forget the way his mother cried in his absence. But every once in a while, Ron thought of what he’d be doing years in the future, and can it be helped that he’s a little resentful?
Percy walks right up and sits opposite of him, as though it were that easy.
Maybe it is that easy. Being normal. Speaking to your family like there isn’t years of distance between you and them. Not being horribly codependent on your two best friends. Maybe he’d do well to remember that.
“Mum’s worried, you know.” I’m worried too, is left unsaid, hanging trepidatious in the air between them. Ron, anxious for something to do with his hands, starts to rearrange the chess pieces.
“I know.”
“And, you know— sometimes it helps to… talk about these things?” Percy suggests, looking very much like he’d rather be holed up in his room than here trying to pry information out of Ron.
But he’s trying. Which is more than his past self could say. (Then again, Ron had never been very observant as a child.)
“I’m scared,” he admits, inadvertently curling in on himself. He’s desperate for someone to understand. “I thought Fred died.”
But he hopes Percy never understands this. He hopes none of them ever understand what it’s like to look around at your brothers, so young and fragile and free, and know that it’s your responsibility to fix this.
“I don’t want anyone to die,” he whispers, quiet because his voice will break if it’s anything more. In the corners of his vision, Percy’s face falls.
“Oh, Ron, it was just a dream.” It really wasn’t, but he can appreciate the sentiment. “We’re perfectly safe here at home. Mum makes sure of that. And you’ll be just as safe with us at Hogwarts, okay?”
“Yeah.” Ron manages a strained smile. Percy’s words are even emptier than he realizes, but, well, he’s never truly grown out of needing his brother. “Thanks, Perce.”
“Of course.” Percy reaches to ruffle his hair as he stands up, an affectionate gesture that Ron rarely got from him. Just before leaving, he turns and pauses. “Goodnight, Ron.”
“Goodnight, Percy.”
September 1st could not have come sooner. All around him, Muggles push their way through a crowded King’s Cross. Ginny is tugging on their mother’s sleeve, her mouth moving a mile a minute, and Ron ignores them in favor of looking for Harry.
“Um, excuse me.” That voice has Ron nearly straining his neck with how fast he turns.
There he is. Harry Potter, seven years younger than the last time they’d met. His glasses are still held precariously together with a scrap bit of tape. Ron remembers admiring the ingenuity of it the first time; his mother would have simply put it back together with a wave of her wand.
He’s looking up at Mrs. Weasley, smiling shyly and asking for directions. Ron’s legs are carrying him without his own volition, and then he’s being ushered forward to Harry.
Harry falters then, if only for a fraction of a second, and when he holds out his hand it’s already shaking. Ron wonders, vaguely, if he remembers. But it’s too much to hope for, and Harry’s smiling big now, so that you can see the empty space where one of his teeth is growing in. And he’s waiting.
Ron grasps his hand and tries to match his smile. Mrs Weasley all but pushes him through to Platform 9 ¾, and he loses Harry once more in the crowd.
He finds a lone compartment, in hopes that Harry will come find him, and he doesn’t feel much like talking to anyone else anyway. Fred and George try and fail to bring him out to go look at Lee’s tarantula. Even after facing many more nefarious creatures, Ron could just never get over those spindly little monsters.
Harry does find him, though Ron could’ve sworn he didn’t look nearly as tired, nor as forlorn as this on their first first day.
His suspicions are confirmed when Hermione appears breathless in the doorway, and they unanimously say her name.
She barrels into them, crumpled in their arms, all pretense of normalcy forgotten. And Ron is so, so relieved, because there’s absolutely no way he’d have been able to do this by himself.
Harry whispers something soothing into her ear, and Ron rubs circles into her back, throat too tight for words.
The ride to Hogwarts is the first time in… well, the first time in a very long time that he feels at peace. They stay in that quiet compartment for a long time before going to find Fred and George, who have thankfully already put away the tarantula. They try, unsuccessfully, to get Percy out of the prefect compartment, and eventually settle for sitting with Neville and a few other first years.
“My gran wants me to get Gryffindor, but I think they’re gonna put me in Hufflepuff.” Neville looks glumly down at Trevor. Hermione had helped him look until eventually giving up and summoning him while no one was looking. “What about you guys?”
“One of the older boys told me you’ve got to fight a dragon to get Sorted,” Seamus whispers like it’s a secret. Neville blanches.
“Oh, it’s nothing like that,” Hermione says hurriedly, because Neville looks close to vomiting. “You just put on a hat, and it’ll tell you.”
“Woah,” Lavender’s eyes go wide. Evidently, Hermione’s made a much better impression than the time before. “How’d you know that?”
“Oh! I read about it. In one of our books.” Hermione’s hands fly up to her hair, pressing the strands between her fingers, a nervous gesture that’s so Hermione that it actually aches.
By the time they reach Hogwarts, the sun is already dipping under the Black Lake. Harry, Ron, and Hermione pile onto a single boat, knees pressed close and peering into the water below.
“This is nice,” Hermione whispers and nudges them both. Harry’s breathing slow and deep in a way Ron hadn’t even realized he’d stopped doing.
He grins. This is nice. Sure, they’ve got the entire Wizarding world to save— but right now he’s huddled in a little boat with his best friends, and the cool evening breeze is biting at his fingers, and they can take this night for themselves, surely. One night to be eleven or seventeen or whatever they are now. One night to be Harry and Ron and Hermione, and nothing else besides that.
When the Sorting Hat is placed on Ron’s head for a second time, he isn’t nearly as nervous. He’s one of the last few to go; Harry and Hermione are already waiting for him in Gryffindor.
“Quite a situation you’ve found yourself in, eh?” Somehow, Ron isn’t even surprised by the hat’s strange omniscience. “Six Horcruxes. One of whom being the very boy you’d sworn to save.”
We’ll make it work, Ron thinks back stubbornly.
“That’s quite some ambition there.” If he didn’t know better, he might have said there was a smile behind the Sorting Hat’s words. “I never took you for a Slytherin.”
Ron internally groans, and the Hat continues on, this time in a hushed whisper. “You shouldn’t have died. Neither you nor the girl. Still, you’re very lucky to have a second chance. Don’t let this one go.”
Neither you nor the girl. What about Harry? Before he can further question, the word “GRYFFINDOR!” explodes from his head.
“Well done, Ron.” Later, at the feast, Percy claps his shoulder, pleased even though he really hadn’t done anything besides put a hat on his head.
Still, he grins. Hermione and Harry press against him on either side, and Harry eagerly shovels food onto his plate, clearly famished. Across from them, a disgruntled Nearly Headless Nick earns a round of “oohs” and “aahhs” by tugging his head off.
Meanwhile, a gaggle of children, mostly first and second years, but a few older students as well, form around them, desperate to meet the famous Harry Potter.
Immediately, he’s bombarded with questions, ranging from “What’s your favorite color?” to heavy hitters like “Do you remember your parents at all?” Ron’s seconds away from telling them to back off before Harry shoots him a warning look.
“Yes, my scar is real, and no, you can’t touch it, sorry,” Harry tells an overeager Susan Bones before turning back to his food.
Ron glares. “Why do you put up with them, anyway? Seriously, just say the word and I’ll get them to go away.”
Harry merely shrugs. “I’m hoping they’ll leave me alone if I answer all their questions. Besides, they got over it the first time, didn’t they?”
Hermione looks affronted by his flippant mention of their… situation, per say, but the chatter of rambunctious children and the clinking of hundreds of utensils drown them out.
“Ron, you aren’t going to go picking fights with a bunch of children just for being curious,” Hermione sighs. “Even so, Harry, you don’t need to answer all their questions if you’re not comfortable. They’ll get over it.”
Ultimately, Percy herds them off, muttering something disgruntled, and Ron shoots him a grateful smile in return.
Later, after the first years are taken up to Gryffindor tower, Harry and Ron bid Hermione goodnight and separate into their own rooms.
The boys get ready for bed quietly and contented, having had their fill of conversation during dinner. Neville sets a potted plant by his bed, and Ron smiles to remember that it had sat there though all six years.
Then the lights are off, and everyone falls asleep rather quickly, exhausted from a long trip and a hearty meal.
Everyone except Ron. Instead he stares up at the dark ceiling, wide awake. He remains like this for a long, long time.
“Harry?” He’s half expecting not to get an answer. Seamus is snoring on the other side of the room, and across from him Neville’s expression is slack and peaceful.
A wavering voice emerges from somewhere nearby. “She’s fine, Ron. She’s just in the other room.”
They’d slept in that tent together every night for a year. Among the death and tragedy and numbing adrenaline, Ron had grown accustomed to falling asleep to the sound of their breathing. He hasn’t slept the same in a long time. Not having them within arm’s reach just doesn’t feel right.
“Yeah,” he whispers, if only to convince himself. His throat feels very dry. “It’s fine. She’s okay.”
The exchange dies, but he knows Harry’s not asleep yet. He can hear it in his breathing.
Ron’s nearly going to give up with sleep when the door creaks open. In the light stands Hermione, the fabric of her pajamas bunched up in her fist, looking quietly embarrassed.
“I can’t sleep.” Ron realizes, not for the first time, that no one else would ever understand this. A devastatingly lonely sentence.
But Harry and Hermione understand. He watches relief wash over their faces, and well, isn’t that what this is all about? Here, falling asleep with his best friends is a matter of choice rather than circumstance.
It isn’t nearly as lonely here as he once believed.