There was a moment where he thought he’d be fine.
A singular, fleeting moment. Where there was no panic. Where he knew what he needed and he knew how to get it. Where the rise and fall of his chest was not heavy, it was calm.
And then it was over. Then he was kissing her, and there was nothing but the rising unease, the rising gentle thrum of not knowing, as steady as a heartbeat.
When she pulled away, she smiled at him. Though the battle was thrumming above them, all he heard was her. Her.
It happened like a gunshot. And Ron was never again the kid he was before.
-
Through it all, Ron had never seen himself as a brave man. He just went through the motions. He wasn’t one for sweeping declarations or inciting an army. In the end, it was Neville who rallied, who inspired - who did what needed to be done.
And all Ron could do was think of Fred's face.
-
Hermione made him brave.
When she awoke screaming, he had to be brave.
When she scrubbed so viciously at the scar on her arm it began to bleed again, he had to be brave.
He forced himself, with painful private tears. He forced himself to be brave.
-
George was crying again.
Ron steeled himself in public, held himself as tall as he could without breaking in half.
But here, in his childhood bedroom, when he could still hear George crying in the room next to him, he cried too.
George's room, a room that still had two beds in it, one perfectly made and never slept on. Gathering dust. A room that shared a wall with Rons.
Leaning against the wall, Ron tapped a gentle rhythm with two of his knuckles. A quidditch chant, normally stomped in large stadiums, with shouting and streamers.
A rallying cry.
I’m here.
Ron sucked in a breath, trying not to focus on the tears gathering that threatened to fall.
And then he heard George's gently tapped reply.
I’m here.
-
Ron knew that no matter what, he would always be Harry Potter's best friend.
That didn’t mean he was happy about the situation unfolding in front of him.
Ron stood with his arms folded in front of his chest, narrowing his eyes as Ginny wiped some leftover toothpaste off of Harry's bottom lip.
“I swear I just heard you growl.” Hermione mused from beside him, taking a sip of wine.
“I am not growling.” Ron muttered, his beer cold in his hand.
In the late august sunlight, his sister and Harry looked every bit like a couple in their honeymoon phase. Ron hated it.
“Stop staring at them.” Hermione said, “Stare at me instead.”
Ron turned to his right and looked at his girlfriend. “What?”
Although Hermione's hair was braided down her back, a few ringlets were free and framed her face. Ron reached out and played with one of them before tucking it behind her ear. She wore a knowing smile.
“What?” He repeated, gentler this time.
“You and I both know that Harry would never do anything to hurt her.” Hermione said.
“Not knowingly.” Ron bristled. Hermione smiled at him, reached out and put his pale hand in hers. Their hands hung between them, she gently stroked her thumb along the back of his hand, reassuring. Knowing.
Ron rested his forehead against hers, looking into her deep hazel eyes.
“I just don’t want anything bad to happen. Ever again. To any of us.” He said jokingly, although in the same moment, he wished it were true.
He wished he could stop Hermione's nightmares and he wished away those wretched words etched into her skin, he wished he could stop George's tears, wished Ginny and Harry didn’t have to ever leave each other again. He wished everything was different, he wished that Fred was in the garden laughing over a bottle of beer in the sunlight.
Hermione smiled at him, pressed a kiss to his cheek, “Well, here's hoping.”
-
“She doesn’t have - you are the closest thing to a brother she has. So I’m asking you instead.” Ron murmured.
Harry's grin widened, “You are asking my permission to marry Hermione?”
“Yes, you knob.” Ron said, “Well, not permission, more if you think it’s a good idea. But when you propose to Ginny, you will be asking me permission.”
Harry raised his eyebrows, “What will you say?”
“No.”
“Fair enough. I never listen to you anyway.” Harry grinned again, Ron subconsciously following his lead, grinning himself.
“Ron, I’ve known you were in love with Hermione for longer than you have. Of course it’s a good idea.”
“I call bullshit on that. I’ve never seen you look more surprised as you did when you found out.” Ron said.
Harry whacked his arm playfully, “That's very perceptive, for you.”
“I’m full of surprises.”
-
“Hermione Weasley. It has a good ring to it.”
Ron looked up from his work to see his fiance walking through the door to their flat with her backpack in hand.
“Hello to you too.” He said, grinning as she walked over and placed a kiss on his lips. “Only six months to go.”
Hermione sat gently on his knee and placed her arms around his neck.
“I talked to the vicar today and he was asking what the family name will be, and it just made me think about it properly for the first time, that I’m taking your name.” Hermione said gently.
“I didn’t think you’d want to.” Ron murmured quietly.
“What? Why?”
“I thought you might want to keep Granger, because of your parents. I thought you’d want to stay in the family.” Ron said noncommittally. He looked up to see Hermione's brow furrowed, the way it did when she used to pour over textbooks.
“I hadn’t thought about that.” Hermione smiled sadly. “You are my family.”
Ron stroked his hands down her sides, until they rested at her waist. “You can choose whatever name you want to choose.” He leant in to kiss her, softly tightening his grip on her waist. “But our children will have both of our names.”
“Oh?” Hermione raised her eyebrows, and leant in to kiss him again.
-
When Ron Weasley first looked into James Sirius Potter's eyes, he almost had a panic attack.
The baby was so small, so breakable, and so - ginger. Unbelievably ginger, for just a day old. When he looked into James’ eyes, he swore James was taunting him, telling him how unprepared he was to have a tiny little life in his hands. Over all of the cooing, Ron heard James’ gentle breaths and placed his hand ever so gently over his tiny chest. He could feel his heart beating. He was suddenly aware of gentle hands placed around his waist, and Hermione's head resting on his arm.
“He is so tiny.” Ron said, in a voice that didn’t feel like his.
“He is.” She nodded, he could hear the smile in her voice.
The late July sun peeked through the windows of the hospital room as Ron held onto his nephew, all too aware that within a few months the child he’d be holding would be his own.
Ron looked up at the room and saw that everyone was looking at him, at James, at Hermione. His Mother and Father holding each other, at George taking photos, at the small private smile on Harry's face, the tears brimming Ginny's eyes.
Gently he gave James back to his Father and turned back to Hermione.
Seeing the gentle smile creeping onto her face, the long braids in her dark brown hair, the calm breath, in and out. The purple knitted jumper that covered her bump. She raised her eyebrows at him in a gentle question.
He knew he would be okay.