ron's nightmares
Ron Weasley had always been the one to make things lighter, to inject a sense of humor into the darkest of moments. It was his way of coping with the chaos that seemed to swirl around them constantly. But now, as he sat by Harry’s bedside once more, his usual sense of humor felt like a distant memory, as though it had been swept away by the weight of everything that had happened. Harry, pale and feverish, barely seemed to notice that Ron was there. His eyes were closed, his breath shallow, and the faint tremors that wracked his body left Ron feeling helpless.
Ron’s own heart was heavy, more than it had ever been. The nightmares had started the night after the battle, and they hadn’t let up since. Every night, without fail, they came—violent, chaotic dreams that ripped him from a fitful sleep and plunged him straight back into the horrors of war. The images of his brother Fred, lifeless and still, the screams of the dying, the crack of spells and the sight of Harry falling… they all replayed over and over again, tormenting him in the darkness. The dreams felt more real than anything else—so real that Ron often woke up with his heart pounding, his hands slick with sweat, his body trembling like he’d been running for miles.
He hadn’t told anyone about the nightmares, not yet. How could he? Harry was so sick, so fragile now, and Ginny… Ginny was trying so hard to hold everything together. Ron didn’t want to burden anyone further with his own demons. Besides, who would want to hear about his fears? About the fear that the battle had only been a prelude, that what lay ahead was something even worse than death. What if he was going to lose Harry? What if the war hadn’t just taken his brother, but his best friend, too?
The thought of it was unbearable, but Ron couldn’t seem to stop it from creeping into his mind. Every time he looked at Harry, lying there, pale and weak, the fear would grip him anew, making his heart race, his hands shake. He hated feeling this way, hated the panic that bubbled up inside him when he saw the signs of Harry’s illness—the way his fever spiked every few hours, the way he barely responded when they tried to talk to him, the way his skin had turned clammy and cold.
"I can’t lose him," Ron muttered softly under his breath, not sure if he was talking to Harry, to himself, or to anyone who might be listening. The words felt like a prayer, a desperate wish that everything would go back to the way it was before. When they were all together, when things felt more certain, when they were still kids who could laugh and argue and fight over trivial things, instead of dealing with this endless cycle of death, loss, and fear.
Ron wiped his face with the back of his hand, his breath coming out in a shaky sigh. He couldn’t stop thinking about the things that haunted him, the images from the battle that had been seared into his mind. The explosion that took Fred’s life, the way his brother’s face had looked—so serene, so still, as though he were merely sleeping. The sight of him lying in that cold, lifeless state. The blood, the screams, the overwhelming sense of helplessness that had followed him through every corner of the battle.
He hadn’t had time to grieve Fred. There hadn’t been time for any of them. Not when Harry was still out there, fighting, not when the battle was raging all around them. They had to keep going, keep fighting, because that was what Fred would have wanted. That was what they all would have wanted. But now, in the quiet of the Burrow, in the moments when the war felt like a distant memory, the grief surged back, sharper than ever.
Ron ran a hand through his hair, feeling the weight of it all press down on him. He should be doing more. He should be helping Harry, helping Ginny, helping Hermione, instead of sitting here, helpless and unsure. But every time he tried to focus, the nightmares would creep back into his mind, pulling him under like quicksand. It felt as if they were closing in on him, suffocating him with every passing day.
Every night, the same dream came to him. He would be running through the fog of the battlefield, shouting Fred’s name, but the fog would thicken, and he couldn’t find him. And then, in the distance, he would see a body—Fred’s body, limp and unmoving. And no matter how fast he ran, he couldn’t reach him. He’d wake up then, heart hammering, chest tight, gasping for breath as if the air had been stolen from his lungs.
Sometimes, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Harry wasn’t going to make it. That somehow, all of them had survived the war only to face something worse: the slow death of a friend, the loss of someone they had fought for, someone they had loved like a brother.
His fingers clenched into fists as he sat by Harry’s side. He could still hear Fred’s voice in his head, the way his brother had always known just how to make him laugh. “Oi, Ron, you’re as useless as a pair of rubber boots on a rainy day,” Fred had said more times than Ron could count. Fred had always been there, a constant presence, a voice of reason, a voice of humor. But now, he was gone. And Harry… Harry was slipping away, too.
“Please,” Ron whispered, his voice breaking as he looked down at his best friend, so pale and fragile. “You can’t leave us too. You can’t… You can’t leave me.”
A soft knock on the door pulled Ron from his thoughts, and he looked up to see Hermione standing in the doorway, her face pale and drawn, her eyes tired but steady.
“How’s he doing?” Hermione asked softly, stepping inside and taking a seat next to him.
Ron shook his head, unable to find the words. “Not good,” he muttered. “He’s… he’s not getting better, Hermione.”
Hermione’s face fell as she took Harry’s hand, her thumb gently brushing over his skin. She didn’t say anything at first, her eyes lingering on Harry’s fevered form, as if willing him to wake up, to respond, to somehow pull through. But she didn’t need to speak. The silence between them was enough. The silence that said everything: they were all so tired. Tired of fighting, tired of losing people they loved, tired of the never-ending war that had been waged both outside and within.
Ron leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving Harry. The nightmares were bad enough, but this—this was worse. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold on. He didn’t know how much longer any of them could.
But he knew one thing for certain. They couldn’t lose Harry. Not now. Not after everything they’d been through.
“I’m not going to let him go,” Ron muttered, almost to himself, but Hermione heard him, and she nodded, her hand tightening around Harry’s.
“I know,” she said, her voice steady despite the tears that welled in her eyes. “None of us will.”