Work Text:
1991
Harry was not in the least surprised to have been left alone at King’s Cross. Worried- frightened even, if he would let himself admit it- but not surprised. He was used to being left behind at every which place.
He checked his ticket yet again. Platform 9 ¾ shimmered up at him from between his thumbs. His aunt and uncle seemed quite certain it didn’t exist. He looked around once again. Platform 9. Platform 10. He stood directly between the two, staring at the empty space where his platform ought to be. Hedwig screeched impatiently and ruffled her feathers in her cage. People were beginning to stare, walking past and shooting him pointed glances, as though they knew somehow that he did not belong. Harry hated being stared at in the best of times, and after the long weeks preceding, in which his family had refused to acknowledge his presence whatsoever, the sudden attention was stifling. He could feel his skin prickling under the weight of it. He needed to find his platform, and quickly, but it was nowhere to be seen.
Perhaps there had been some clerical error, he thought. Perhaps the ticket was supposed to simply read 9 and the fraction was just a misprint. Or perhaps he had misread it; his round and wiry drugstore glasses made it easier to see, yes, but he still made errors. He looked down again, his hands shaking ever so slightly with anxiety as he held the ticket up closer to his face.
The words did not change.
Harry clenched his jaw. Gripping the ticket tight in one hand and pushing his cart ahead of him, he made his way over to platform 9. He stopped just outside the platform and looked around for anyone resembling the wizards he had met in the hidden market all those weeks ago.
He could see none. Or, at the very least, could identify none. Over the last few weeks, his time spent learning about the Wizarding World with Hagrid had begun to seem like a strange dream; a fantasy his Aunt and Uncle had played along with- or at the very least ignored- just to let it all crash down around him now. He brought a thumb to his mouth, chewing at his nail. It was a disgusting habit, he knew. Petunia would have smacked him for it, but Petunia was not around now. It helped him to think when he was stressed, and Harry was currently very stressed.
What if he had made up the whole thing? No. That couldn’t be- he still had Hedwig; he couldn’t have imagined it. But then, what if there really had been some mistake? Not with the ticket, but with Harry. What if he wasn’t the famous wizard everyone seemed to think? What if Hagrid had spent one day with him and realized that he was, after all, just Harry? Perhaps the platform could only be seen by the magically inclined, and Harry simply wasn’t? Surely someone would have alerted him, sent along a letter to tell him they had gotten the whole thing mixed up, wouldn’t they? Then again, perhaps not. Why waste the paper sending along another letter, when they had already wasted so much just finding him in the first place?
He could feel his breathing speed up at the prospect. It made sense. Harry had never been anything special in his life. It was far more believable that there had been some mix up with the mail, or a misfiled paperwork, or even that this had been some elaborate joke, than that Harry had somehow inherited some amazing and magical legacy overnight. Wasn’t it?
Harry tried not to let the disappointment overwhelm him. He should have seen this coming, after all. He fought hard against the urge to cry. He was going to have to find his way back to the Dursley’s house eventually, and things were likely to be much worse for him if he showed up tear-stained. Crying was strictly against the rules. It would be hard enough to convince them to let him back in as it was, after everything he had put them through these past few weeks, however unintentionally. He ached, just to think of how he might be punished now that his Aunt and Uncle no longer had to worry he might magic them both into animals. He would be moved back into the cupboard for sure.
Harry could feel his fragile grip on his composure slipping. Then it happened.
“-Packed with muggles of course-” The voice, a woman’s voice, punctured Harry’s thoughts, almost knocking the wind from him. He swiveled around, desperate to see who had said that word . The place really was packed. Harry’s heart pounded. How was he to find the source of the voice in the crowd?
“Now, what’s that platform number?” A large family caught his eye: strangely dressed and piled high with trunks and knick knacks. A woman- the mother?- led them quickly down the aisle.
“Nine and three-quarters,” came a reply from the small girl at her side.
Harry’s heart leapt into his throat at the sound. Forgetting himself for a moment, he hurried after the family with all his might. He stumbled to a clumsy stop just short and watched with wide eyes as one of the boys- tall with bright red hair- ran straight into the barrier between platforms 9 and 10. Harry blinked and the boy disappeared.
Then another boy followed the first, seeming to disappear into the barrier between platforms. It was nothing short of incredible- magic. Harry could feel himself shaking again, this time with excitement. It was possible the letters hadn’t been a mistake after all! All he had to do was get through the barrier as those boys had. But how? He had no idea how to use magic in any intentional way, and he certainly didn’t want to make anyone mad by asking questions before he had even arrived at Hogwarts.
Harry anxiously chewed his thumb.
He could give up and go home to the Dursleys. Except, no- he couldn’t. Now that he knew Platform 9 ¾ was real, he simply couldn’t bare to turn his back on it.
He could risk figuring out the magic for himself, but he had no idea how to go about doing so. The thought of getting it wrong and being stuck on the platform left him cold.
There was really only one option.
Harry mustered up every ounce of his will and pushed his cart closer to the family.
“Excuse me?”
The woman turned to look at him, seeming surprised by the interruption. Under her gaze, Harry’s courage failed him. His voice stuck in his throat, he glanced from the woman to the wall and back, trying to figure out some way to ask what he needed to ask without getting into too much trouble.Then the most incredible thing happened: She smiled. Harry felt the warmth of it in his stomach. He hadn’t even had to ask his question; she already guessed him to be a first year, and introduced him to her son.
Ron turned at the sound of his name, and smiled a wide grin. If anyone were to ask him, that was the moment Harry’s life changed. Not the tall chatty wizards, not diagon alley, not Hagrid giving Dudley a tail. But this moment: a gangly boy smiling down at him and running with him, side by side, toward a brick wall.
--
2000
What happened behind the scenes, back when they were all at school was no one’s business, as far as Ron was concerned. He kept his secrets well. People never much expected him to be a keeper of secrets; He was the dopey, lanky kid. The punchline. Ron had never worn seriousness well for long. But whatever he was, Ron was loyal. He wasn’t stupid, or careless, despite what the world might think. Not when it came to what was important, and certainly not when it came to Harry- at least not anymore.
Ron knew, and understood, far more than he let on. So when Hedwig flew in through his window one Sunday morning with a note on her leg reading “I told her. Some of it. I think I might have fucked this up. ” Ron didn’t need to ask what it meant. And when Ginny appeared a few hours later, looking distraught and angry, he was waiting for her by the flu.
“You knew.” Her eyes flashed the way they always did when she had worked herself up.
“Hey Ginny,” Ron responded, already tired. “Want to sit?”
Ron was seated in one of the big arm chairs in his living room. Hermione had left for the day, though he couldn’t quite remember what it was she had to do on a Sunday morning.
“No, I do not want to sit ,” Ginny all but spat, but she sat anyway.
“You knew,” she said again. Her eyes scanned his face as though the answers she wanted could be found somewhere in the lines around his eyes. “I know you knew. There’s no way you didn’t know. You should have told me-”
“That's bull and you know it,” Ron countered. Ginny stared hard, and he held her gaze. “It wasn’t my secret to tell.”
She stared for a long while, and he didn’t look away. He watched as the anger slowly dissipated, an expression Ron didn’t recognize taking its place. She slumped back in her seat and rubbed her eyes.
“I know. I do. I just-” Ginny let out a long sigh, the heels of her palms still pressed hard against her eyes. They sat in silence for a long while, the air heavy with what neither knew how to say. Ginny was the first to break it.
“I should have known, though,” She admitted. “Shouldn’t I?”
“He was good at hiding it.” Ginny shook her head.
“No, he wasn’t,” she said. “I just thought… No. I didn’t- I didn’t want to think…”
“That people were capable of that sort of thing?”
“Not to Harry.”
Ron sighed. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t comfort her, couldn’t take her hand and carry her out of her guilt. He had his own share of regrets when it came to Harry Potter. Ron loved his little sister, but he couldn’t bring himself to give her what she wanted. Ron had been living with this, knowing what he knew, since he was twelve. He had been through every justification, and come up short. We were just kids. Someone older should have noticed. It must be something else. People don’t do that sort of thing, they couldn’t. Not to Harry.
In the later years, he thought he might have found some way to get Harry out for good. He had been safe enough staying at the Burrow, safe enough- at least for a while- at the quidditch tournament, safe enough at Black’s manner. But year after year he watched Harry step off the train, watch him trudge, head tucked low, toward the wretched muggles he called family. The thought made him sick.
“We really failed him, didn’t we?” Ginny’s voice was strangely soft in a way Ron rarely heard. It was the voice she used to talk about the worse parts of the war. It was the voice she used for Fred. She looked to Ron; he shrugged.
“We did our best,” he told her. “But, yeah, in some ways I guess we did.” In all the ways that mattered, he thought.
“We can’t just make it right.” It wasn’t really a question.
“No.” It wasn’t really an answer.
Ron knew all of this was fresh for Ginny. A new wound she was trying to piece together. But Ron was already exhausted. He had this conversation with himself every day.
“Why are you here, Ginny?” He asked. The question was harsh, but there was no bite in his voice. Ginny opened her mouth as if to respond, but seemed to think better of it. Instead she stood, gave him one last unreadable look, and apparated out of the room, leaving Ron to his silence.
--
1992
Most of the time, Ron liked being the exception to Harry’s rules. Harry had a lot of rules, and they weren’t the same as most people’s. Harry had no qualms breaking curfew to explore the castle or wandering deep into the Forbidden Forest or outsmarting traps to face you-know-who . The kinds of things that gave Ron pause seemed to bounce right off the Boy Who Lived. By all accounts, Harry was the bravest kid he knew; the bravest kid most anyone knew.
Harry’s rules were subtler than that. Stranger. Harry didn’t hold eye contact unless he had to. Harry kept his voice low. Harry liked his privacy. Harry never raised his hand in class, and he didn’t ask questions. Harry hated to be touched.
It didn’t take too long for Ron to realize he existed outside most of these. Ron was the only exception for a long while. Harry came to include Hermione and Hagrid in short bursts, boldly questioning Hagrid about Fluffy and allowing Hermione to invade his space to read over his homework, but Ron could tell the lines Hermione and Hagrid couldn’t cross- even if they were oblivious.
That was not to say Harry’s lines were always obvious. It took Ron a good month at least to realize how Harry stiffened whenever Ron threw an arm across his shoulders or pat him on the back, or when their arms would brush walking down the hallway. Harry never flinched- it was never so blatant. Instead, he would simply still. Go rigid. He wouldn’t stop walking or move away, but his face would go perfectly calm. Not calm- neutral. Unreadable. And then just as quickly he would be fine.
It took almost the whole first year for Ron to realize Harry had stopped stilling- when it came to Ron, at least. They had been sitting up in the common room, reading and occasionally talking. They had been huddled up in front of the fire, close enough that when Ron shifted to turn a page, his shoulder bumped against Harry’s. Harry had tensed, just for a moment, but then, instead of waiting for Ron to move away as he usually might, Harry had leaned into the touch- slowly, as though he expected Ron to pull away. Of course, Ron didn’t, and Harry eventually relaxed against Ron’s side. Neither of them mentioned it, but they sat like that- arm pressed against arm- until Percy noticed the light and chased them up the stairs for bed.
After that, it was like Harry had a whole new set of rules, just for the two of them. Harry’s questions were still few and far between, but he didn’t stutter when he was asking Ron. When they sat on the same side of the bench, Harry would sit just close enough their legs could touch. He was strangely careful about it. Anytime he moved close, even to offer Ron a hand up from the grass, he was deliberate. Slow. As though giving Ron time- expecting him- to reject the offer. As a response, Ron spent the end of the year being as careless as possible. He would throw his arm around Harry’s shoulders when they walked between classes, or prop an elbow on his shoulder to rest when they stood around. Harry was short, which made that easy. These were small gestures- the bare minimum in Ron’s family. Still, every time, Harry would grin like he couldn’t be happier, and Ron would feel like he was flying.
So mostly, Ron loved being the exception. To Harry, if no one else, Ron was someone special, someone worth trusting, someone he could let in. When Harry was around, Ron was instantly amazing; Superhero to the superhero of the wizarding world.
Still, there were things Ron would rather not know. Every time Harry talked about his home life, something ate away at Ron from the inside. Something he couldn’t quite place. Ron hadn’t really believed Harry that first day on the train, when he claimed to never get presents or new clothes. He had appreciated the connection, but assumed Harry was just making him feel better. It had worked at the time, but to be fair- this was Harry Potter, and everyone got presents. Besides, the perfectly tailored robe he had donned for their sorting definitely was not a hand-me-down.
But then there was that first Christmas: the total awe in Harry’s face, and how he had gone so quiet after pulling the sweater Ron’s mother had made him over his head Ron had felt suddenly self conscious. But Harry didn’t laugh or scoff or roll his eyes, as Ron thought he might. Instead, he had wrapped his arms tight around the fabric and smiled that smile, like Ron was someone heroic.
No one’s ever made me anything before. Harry had smiled as he said it, but it set those quiet alarms off in the pit of Ron’s stomach.
It was the same feeling he had when he and Harry ate together the first few months of school. Watching Harry, Ron finally understood his mother’s worry he would make himself sick eating like that. It wasn’t too troubling, really. After all, Ron ate as fast and as much as he could most of the time. They were growing boys, after all, as his dad would say. Still, it itched at at him.
The itch never quite went away. The last time Ron had seen him, Harry had promised all his popularity disappeared with the wizarding world. Meeting Harry’s uncle, even for that brief moment, Ron didn’t doubt it. Still, Harry had promised to write. Instead Ron was met with weeks and weeks of silence. He sent so many letters he thought his hand should have cramped up and fallen off, but every time, Errol returned with an empty beak. At first it was simply disappointing. Then Ron started getting mad- started demanding a reason Harry wouldn’t reply in his letters. Then the worry set in. Harry hadn’t sent any letters to Hermione either, but even if she was excluded, it was strange for him to shut Ron out. That itch burned in the pit of Ron’s stomach.
So he rallied his brothers, and they set out for a rescue.
It was a little more than worrying, to see Harry’s face peeking out from behind steel bars. There was a short moment of relief, when Ron realized Harry hadn’t been ignoring him. Then Vernon’s voice boomed down the hall and reality chased the relief away. It was downright terrifying to watch Harry’s uncle dangle halfway out the window with his hand in a death grip around Harry’s ankle, yelling profanities.
It took the better part of an hour for Harry to stop shaking. Even still, he couldn't stop smiling. He glanced at Ron now and again with that hero-struck look that tugged at Ron’s chest.
Harry fielded their questions with his strange honesty. Ron didn’t think he had ever actually heard Harry lie, but he was good at sidestepping questions he didn’t want to answer, or laughing his way through stories that didn’t seem all that funny to Ron. Like how he’d been locked in the room for weeks. How his Aunt hadn’t been feeding him much, and his Uncle’s promise that he would never return to school- or leave his room, for that matter. Ron felt quietly proud they had managed to prove him wrong.
Despite how they had found him, Harry was in good spirits the whole flight to the Burrow. He laughed at the twin’s jokes like he’d never laughed before. With his chest of belongings shoved into one seat, Harry sat close against Ron’s side. Once his shakes had subsided, an exhaustion settled in. Harry seemed determined to fight it off, shaking himself every once in awhile as he nodded along to the twins’ stories, but it was a long flight to the Burrow. By the time they were most of the way there, Harry was leaning heavily against Ron, eyelids drooping and face content.
As they descended towards the driveway, dawn creeping up over the horizon, Harry’s demeanor changed. Ron probably wouldn’t have noticed if they hadn’t been sitting arm to arm, but as it was, he could feel Harry tense beside him as he stared at the house. Harry sat up straighter and took quiet, deep breaths.
They slipped inside, hopeful they had made it home before anyone woke. Standing in the middle of the kitchen, Harry fell into that odd, deep silence Ron might have remembered from Christmas. Once again, Ron could feel his face flush with nerves. From what Ron had seen of the muggle’s house, it wasn’t the most welcoming of places, but it was certainly nicer than Ron’s own.
“It’s not much,” he admitted. “But it’s home.”
He waited for Harry to pass judgement or scoff at him, but he oughtn’t have worried. Harry turned to him with that look in his eyes, like Ron was something superhuman, and Ron felt his heart skip into double time.
“It’s brilliant.” Ron could read the honesty on Harry’s face, and grinned back.
Of course, they couldn’t actually have been so lucky as to have completed the mission without getting caught. Their mother hurried into the kitchen at the sound of voices, looking more livid than Ron had ever seen her. Beside him, Harry went still.
Ron did his best to explain the situation, but his mother was unbearable when she was worried. At some point, she must have caught sight of Harry’s face, because her rant slowed. Ron knew she was seeing without looking back: Harry’s expression unreadable, his head ducked just enough to keep anyone from catching his eye. She assured him he wasn’t in any trouble, and Harry nodded quickly without a word. Molly pursed her lips and sent them all off to get dressed for the day.
Harry stayed quiet until they made it up to Ron’s room. The moment they stepped inside, however, his face lit up. He drank in the Cannons posters and gryffindor colors, and the last of Ron’s anxiety over bringing Harry home slipped away. Ron was already dressed, so after helping Harry settle into the room a little, he left him to change and went downstairs.
Breakfast was ready by the time Harry reentered the kitchen. His clothes, at least a few sizes too big, hung awkwardly on his frame. Ron flashed back to that first day on the train and felt quietly guilty for thinking Harry had lied about his hand-me-downs. At least Ron’s fit him alright. Harry looked self conscious for a moment, standing in the entry, so Ron kicked the chair closest to him out a little ways from the table in an invitation to sit down. Harry gratefully accepted.
None of Ron’s family commented on Harry’s clothes. His ravenous style of eating seemed to fit right in with Fred and George keeping pace, so Ron ignored the feeling in his stomach and dug in as well. The meal buzzed with good natured conversations. Arthur asked benign questions about muggle life, which Harry answered with enthusiasm, if a bit of hesitation. No one mentioned the bars on his window. When they had finished, Harry tried to help clear away the dishes, but Molly shooed him from the kitchen and outside to play with everyone else.
The rest of the day was a blur in the best way. They sparred quidditch matches and laughed until their sides hurt. After dinner Harry and Ron sat side by side in the living room. Ron relayed everything that had happened during summer so far while they flipped through the sports section of a recent paper. Harry leaned, quietly content, against Ron’s side. They stayed up as late as they could, until Molly noticed their eyelids drooping and sent them both off to bed.
Up in the room, Ron started changing almost immediately. He was exhausted and half ready to collapse into bed in nothing but his boxers with the summer heat pouring in from the open window. Harry stood on the opposite side of the bed, his hands twisting in his shirt. Ron mentally kicked himself. That was another of Harry’s rules: he never changed in front of anyone. At school, Harry would take his clothes, close the curtains around his bed, and change in peace. Harry liked his privacy, and Ron had never questioned it. Now, though, there were no curtains.
Ron cleared his throat, and began to say “The bathroom is down-” at the same time as Harry took in a deep breath and pulled his shirt over his head.
There were things Ron would rather not know.
Harry didn’t look up at him the whole time he finished changing. Ron tried and failed not to stare. Ron always knew Harry was thin, but Ron had chalked it up to genetics- Ron was gangly, himself, afterall. Seeing him like this, though, it was clear there was something more going on. It wasn’t like Harry was emaciated. Ron could see the outlines of his ribs, his sharp shoulder bones, but just barely. Harry didn’t look like he was starving by any means, but, exposed like this, for the first time Harry’s skinny nature looked intentional.
The bruises were a whole other matter. They were hidden beneath an old, baggy sleeping shirt before Ron had the chance to fully process them, but Ron knew what they meant. His brain kicked into overdrive; a white panic at the back of his throat.
“Harry-” he began. The look Harry shot him cut him off. There was a beat of quiet and then:
“It looks worse right now than it is, really.” Harry’s voice was so low Ron almost couldn’t hear him. His eyes searched Ron’s face for a moment then turned down. “Please don't say anything.”
“Harry- I. This is- we- someone has to know about this. We can’t just-”
Harry’s mouth pulled down at the corners, and for a moment there was a flash of the electric anger Ron so rarely saw. It was always there- that anger. White and hot. Ron hadn’t known where it came from before, and Harry hid it well, even if he was open about everything else, but it was always just beneath the surface.
“Someone already knows,” he said. Then, before Ron could ask, “Dumbledore knows.”
Ron wanted to argue, to tell Harry there was no way Dumbledore knew about this, and let him stay in that house. But there was no room for argument in Harry’s face. The anger had disappeared as quickly as it came, but in its place was a sharp expression Ron didn’t recognize. Harry held Ron’s gaze, as though daring him to call Harry a liar. Ron didn’t have it in him.
“I won’t say anything if you don’t want me to,” he said finally. “But I really think we should-”
“Thank you,” Harry cut in, and he turned to put his dirty clothes into a section of his chest. Ron worked his jaw, trying to come up with something to say, but words failed him. Instead, he climbed onto his bed, and sat cross-legged until Harry was finished.
“Where- er, where do I sleep?” Harry asked finally.
“We can share the bed,” Ron replied. Harry’s expression changed to something Ron couldn’t quite interpret so Ron charged on. “Or I can make you a bed with pillows and stuff on the floor. It is pretty warm to share anyway.”
Harry nodded and let Ron help him line up pillows into a makeshift bed. Their arms brushed in the process and for the first time since that day in the common room, Harry stiffened. Ron tried not to notice, tried not to feel like he’d lost something important, and failed. He was careful to keep his hands to himself as the covered the pillows with a sheet and set out an extra blanket.
They settled into their respective beds and Ron turned out the lights, but he had never felt less like sleeping in his life. His mind buzzed with a thousand questions he didn’t know how to ask. He didn’t want to deal with this. He wanted to run down the hall and tell his parents everything. He wanted to let Molly hold him around his shoulders while Arthur talked to the authorities. He wanted there to be authorities. He wanted to know what Harry meant when he said Dumbledore knew what was going on. He couldn’t believe that was true, but the look on Harry’s face was undeniable. He wanted to ask his parents how that was possible. He didn’t want all of last year to click into place. He didn’t want it to make sense. He wanted to wake up and find out he had dreamed this whole day, even the good parts. He wanted to go back to before when he thought Harry was just ignoring his mail- except he hadn’t really believed that, had he? Even before he knew, some part of him knew. What Ron really wanted was to do something, anything. He had never felt less superhuman in his life. But now he had a promise to keep. He stayed in his bed.
Harry broke the silence first.
“It’s not always like this,” he said. He spoke barely above a whisper, but Ron heard him clearly. It did nothing to ease the knot in his chest, but he was glad to hear Harry say anything at all. “There was trouble a few days ago and I got it pretty good, but they don’t always hit me, y’know? Mostly they just ignore me, and that’s not so bad.”
Ron rolled onto his side. He thought about the noise in his house. He thought about how forgotten he could feel with all his brothers around him, even with his parents doing their best to keep him included. He thought about his hand-me-down’s and Harry’s and how thin Harry had looked and the bars on his window. He thought being just ignored sounded pretty bad to him. He told harry as much and didn’t receive a response.
The quiet stretched for so long Ron thought maybe Harry had fallen asleep. Then Harry asked, “You really won’t say anything?”
“I said I won’t,” Ron replied. “But I still think we should, Harry. It’s not right. An adult maybe could do something about it.”
“They won’t,” Harry said, with so much certainty Ron wondered if Harry hadn’t tried it before. The thought left Ron cold. Then softly: “They’ll just look at me different.”
Ron thought about that. What if Harry had tried to tell someone and nothing had come of it? Or what if someone had gotten involved and failed and made things worse? Could Ron make things worse by telling? If Dumbledore really knew what was going on, and Harry seemed certain he did, and he did nothing- was there anyone they could tell? Would any of it make a difference?
“They won’t.” Ron promised. “I won’t.” He felt guilt churning inside him, but he wasn’t sure what he was guilty of. Not figuring it out sooner, maybe. Or deciding not to say a thing about it.
Harry didn’t respond to that either, but Ron could feel some of the tension leak out of the air. He still wasn’t sure he had made the right choice, but he couldn’t think on it anymore tonight. He closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep.
Ron woke several hours later to the sound of Harry leaving. After a year of rooming together at school, Ron was used to Harry sneaking out at odd hours, usually to study. That was another of Harry’s quirks- if not a strict rule. Harry rarely studied during the day, unless they were working on a project or someone made him. It drove Hermione mad that he refused to focus when they gathered in the library. She was certain he was trying to fail, but Harry’s marks were consistent. Only Ron knew about Harry’s late night study sessions, and only because he’d once woken to find Harry’s bed empty and snuck down the stairs to find the Boy Who Lived tucked up at one of the tables, pouring over a book with only the light of a dim lumos spell and a dying fire keeping him company.
Ron stayed up awhile listening, but Harry didn’t return. When Ron woke again, sunlight was streaming in from the open window, making Harry’s empty place all the more obvious. Ron laid in bed a few minutes longer than necessary, trying not to think about the events of the night before, then rolled over and let his feet carry him down the stairs and into the kitchen.
Harry was at the stove. Ron stood in the doorway for a moment as the rest of his family crowded the kitchen with all the life of a Burrow summer morning. Fred and George were tossing something back and forth while the table set itself, plates flying past Arthur as he read the morning paper. Percy sat at the other end of the table calling out the twins had better knock that off . Ginny, beside him, was very obviously avoiding looking toward Harry. Ron didn’t share her inhibition, watching Harry manually flip eggs over in a pan muggle-style.
“Oh! Ron, you’re awake!” Molly called from the other side of the room. Ron couldn’t be sure from where he stood, but he thought maybe he saw Harry’s shoulders tense at the sound of Ron’s name.
“Harry offered to help out with breakfast, isn’t that sweet? He’s an early riser, this one! Harry, dear, these look wonderful. Now, why don’t you go join Ron at the table,” Molly instructed. She put a hand on his shoulder to turn him from the stove. Ron just watched. If Harry froze under her touch, it was imperceptible. The smile on his face- half embarrassed- as he looked up at Molly’s praise, was plain as day. Once again the loss from last night washed over Ron, a sharp pang of jealousy on its heels. At breakfast, Harry took up the seat next to Ron’s, but he kept a careful distance between them. When Ron went up to change, Harry didn’t follow. He watched Ron start toward the stairs and then turned wide eyes to the kitchen as it cleaned itself.
To anyone on the outside, they would have appeared to carry on with the rest of the day quite normally. Harry mostly followed after whatever Ron wanted to do, and Ron was happy to see some of the tension ease out of Harry’s shoulders. They helped degnome the garden and flew around the yard for hours. Ron knew, however, that things were different. He made an effort to keep his hands to himself and Harry kept his careful distance.
At night, Harry changed quickly, but he changed in Ron’s bedroom. Ron tried to count it as a victory, since Harry knew where the bathroom was now. But the way Harry refused to meet his eyes, and how he sank onto the pillows on the floor without so much as a word kept Ron’s stomach churning. Again, they fell asleep late. Again, Ron woke before the sun to the quiet sound of Harry moving about, and again he rewoke in the morning to empty pillows.
By the end of the week, Ron was exhausted. He didn’t know how to fix whatever it was he had broken between them, but he needed to fix it more than he had ever needed anything else. He hadn’t really realized how far their friendship had come, but now he ached with the loss of whatever it was that had made them special. He felt they were back at square one.
The fifth day of Harry’s stay, Ron made up his mind. If they were back at square one, he would rebuild them. He’d rebuild them over and over if he had to. Anything to put that look back in Harry’s eyes. There were things Ron didn’t want to know, but he wanted even less to be left with the rest of the world on the outside.
The duo finished de-gnoming the garden, part of their daily ritual at this point. Harry was staring off at the tip of the fence, where he had just thrown the last gnome, smiling and slightly breathless from the effort. Ron hesitated for a moment, then reached a hand out to clap it lightly against Harry’s shoulder.
“C’mon, let’s go get our brooms!” He exclaimed, ignoring the strange look that took over Harry’s features. It was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by a broad grin, and Harry followed him back up to the house.
Ron did his best to keep it up, but it felt weird. Unnatural. Where they had flowed perfectly only a few days ago, Ron felt like he was forcing things. He was almost ready to give up, at least for now. Harry would come to him again. Eventually. He hoped.
It was late that night. They were alone in the living room, sprawled out on the floor. Ron was flipping through another quidditch article. Harry was reading through one of their textbooks from last year Ron had never bothered to so much as glance at, taking notes for an essay they had due at the start of the term. Ron decided to give it one last go. Trying to seem casual, he rolled up into a sitting position, easily crossing the careful inches between him and Harry in the motion. He sat so his leg just barely brushed Harry’s arm where Harry crouched low over the book. There was plenty of room to play it off as an accident if Harry seemed uncomfortable.
Harry tensed the moment their skin made contact. He turned to look at Ron, his face holding that same unreadable emotion from the morning. He searched Ron’s face- for what, Ron didn’t know. Whatever he found, it must have been the right thing, because in the next moment, Harry relaxed. He sat up straighter, pulling the book off the floor and into his lap, and carefully- slowly- leaned back against the front of the sofa and into Ron’s side. Victory and relief warred inside Ron. He wanted to jump to his feet, to yell, to explain to someone that he had done it - whatever it was he had done.
Instead he leaned back against Harry and both returned to their reading. Ron rambled on about the quidditch stats he found, and Harry nodded along, but they suddenly didn’t feel so important. Contentment was a sleeping draught of its own, and before long both boys were yawning. They clambered up the stairs to Ron’s bedroom.
The two chatted amicably on their way into the room, but silence fell as they changed clothes. Ron did his best not to stare, as usual, and- as usual- failed. Harry pretended not to notice, though Ron was sure he could feel his gaze. When they had finished, Harry began putting away his clothes, and Ron pulled back the covers on his bed.
“Why do you-” Harry began suddenly, interrupting the quiet of their usual routine. He cut himself off with an audible click of his teeth, and looked down at his dirty clothes as though they were suddenly fascinating. Ron waited for him to finish, but Harry kept quiet. After a long moment, Ron turned back to throw his own clothes in the hamper.
“We’re still friends,” Harry’s voice came from behind him. “Like how we were- before.”
It wasn’t exactly a question, but when Ron turned back, Harry’s face was searching. The air between them felt somehow much heavier than it had before, and Ron got the feeling whatever he said now would be exceptionally important.
“‘Course we’re friends, mate,” Ron answered lamely, not knowing what else to say. Harry looked at Ron. His green eyes were sharp and guarded, they held Ron’s gaze as though he could see right through him. Then Harry nodded, the hard look leaving his face. In its place was a softer kind of quiet that left Ron feeling out of sorts. Harry didn’t say anything else as they finished getting ready for bed; Ron didn’t know how to break the silence.
A few hours later, Ron woke as he had become accustomed to, to the sound of Harry leaving. Ron considered letting him go. He was tired, and he wasn't certain he could get any more out of Harry tonight. But he had made so much progress, he refused to go back now.
“Where do you go this late?” He asked, his voice rough with sleep. He sat up, rubbing at eyes. Harry’s silhouette at the foot of the bed froze. There was a pause, and for a moment Ron thought he might not get an answer. But Harry always answered Ron’s questions, eventually.
“I sit outside sometimes, or in the living room. I’m not sneaking around.”
“What are you doing?”
“Just… Sitting, I guess.”
“Why?” Again, Harry’s answering silence seemed to drag on forever. Ron knew Harry was debating whether to answer him at all. A small part of him wished Harry would just make up his mind either way, so Ron could go back to sleep. The bigger, better part of him was ready to wait there all night if it meant Harry would tell him the truth.
“I can’t sleep,” Harry said, finally. It was hardly an answer- Ron had figured out as much himself by now. He waited for Harry to elaborate.
“I have… bad dreams,” Harry continued after a while, his voice so soft Ron almost didn’t hear him. “Sometimes real bad.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” Ron asked. When Harry didn’t respond, Ron shifted over to the far side of his bed. “Come on then.”
“What?” Harry responded lamely.
“You can’t just sit alone in my backyard every time you have a bad dream. When I had nightmares as a kid, I used to sleep with my mum, but I don’t think you wanna do that, yeah? So this is the next best thing, I guess. Come on.” Ron pulled back the corner of the sheet opposite him, and patted the bed for show. Harry took another of his long pauses. Even through the dark of the room, Ron could feel the weight of Harry’s stare. His heart beat in his chest. Ron realized he had just indirectly referred to himself as Harry’s mother, and he could feel the embarrassment of that heating his face. Part of him expected Harry to laugh or to leave. The rest of him knew better.
The moment passed and Harry approached Ron’s bed. He climbed up onto it, sitting up straight, across from Ron. He didn’t lay down, but he pulled his glasses off and placed them on the nightstand.
“If it bothers you that I leave, I can just-”
“Lay down, idiot, you’re sleeping here,” Ron cut Harry off, lightly tugging him down until they lay side by side. Harry didn’t relax, but he didn’t pull away either. Ron left one hand on Harry’s arm. They lay like that for a long while: Harry tense, and Ron trying to relax enough for both of them, their faces barely visible in the dim moonlight.
“So... do you wanna talk about it?” Ron asked again, when it became obvious Harry wasn’t going to say anything.
“I don’t… know,” Harry responded, softly. “It doesn’t always make a lot of sense. When it’s daytime, they don’t seem that scary at all, mostly. Sometimes they do. Sometimes it’s the chess game and you’re hurt, or sometimes I’m falling off my broom. Sometimes it’s professor Quirrell and his face is burning and it’s so real, I can smell it. I can hear him screaming again, y’know? Sometimes it’s m-. Er, well, sometimes they don’t make any sense at all, and I’ll think about them in the morning and they’re not even kind of scary. But at night they still-” he paused.
“Freak you out?” Ron provided. He heard, more than saw, Harry nod.
“I guess I don’t really like to go back to sleep, after that.”
“So instead you wander around my house at three in the morning? Why didn’t you say something?” Ron asked.
He felt Harry shrug in response, but the ever-present itch his stomach told him he knew the answer. He did his best not to mind Harry had thought he wouldn’t care. He mostly succeeded.
“Well it’s easier to sleep after a bad dream if you don’t do it alone,” Ron told him. Harry laughed, quietly. It made Ron feel a little embarrassed, but the sound wasn’t mocking. It was the same laugh Harry used to talk about his muggles- like he was playing along with a joke that really wasn’t funny.
“You don’t have to let me sleep here,” he said. “I can-”
“It’s okay.” Ron stopped him. “There’s plenty of room. You shouldn’t sleep alone after a nightmare.”
They should have nicknamed Harry, The Boy Who Stared; he was the master of meaningful pauses. Ron could barely see his eyes in the dim lighting, but he could feel them burning into his own.
Then, all at once, as though Ron had unwittingly flipped some switch, Harry relaxed.
“Thanks,” he said, and rolled slowly onto his back. The movement left Ron’s hand on Harry’s stomach, just where his ribs began. He tried not to notice how Harry felt thin, laying like that. Instead, he focused on how Harry’s stomach rose and fell with his breathing. On his back, Harry filled more of the bed. Ron hadn’t moved that far to the other side of it initially, and now the two were all but flush against one another.
“You’re sure this is-” Before Harry could finish his sentence, Ron rolled onto his stomach. He was partially on top of Harry’s shoulder now, his arm fully thrown across Harry’s middle. Harry swallowed the end of his question and shifted slightly into Ron.
They lay like that well into the night. Harry still, but relaxed. Ron listening to his breathing as it evened out, and slowed, as Harry fell asleep.
When Ron woke in the morning, sweating in the early summer heat, Harry was still in the bed beside him. He was awake, watching something- possibly Errol- flit around outside the window. Ron had spread out in the night, one of his legs thrown casually over both of Harry’s, one arm still draped across Harry’s chest.
Ron collected himself slowly, feeling warm in a way that was soft and unrelated to the morning’s heat. Harry had stayed, the whole night through. He had believed Ron would listen about his nightmares, believed it was okay to stay. Ron knew it wasn’t much, but in that moment, on that morning, it felt like enough.
---
2000
A few hours after Ginny left, Hedwig flew in another letter asking Ron to meet at a local pub that evening. Ron had expected as much. He waited around as late as he could, then left Hermione a note on the fridge and left.
Ron found him sitting in their usual spot: a booth tucked away, back in the farthest corner. Harry looked a mess. Ron felt the same. There was already a pitcher of beer in the middle of the table, and a clean glass, magically frosted, set out for Ron.
The booth was one of those rounded-off kinds where the seat wrapped all the way around the table in a half-circle, certainly meant to seat a larger party than two. This place never quite got crowded enough for that to matter, though. That was one of the reasons they liked it so much. Now that the staff was used to them, it was one of the few places in the Wizarding World the Golden Trio could go out and still have some semblance of privacy. Harry was perched on the very edge of one side, leaving as much space as possible around the rest of the table. Ron took it as the sign it was- to give Harry his room- and sat just shy of the center. Harry fidgeted, rolling his mostly-full glass absently between his hands. Condensation gathered in puddles on the table as the it moved, and evaporated.
Ron downed his first glass in a matter of seconds. He was sipping at his third before either of them spoke.
“She completely freaked out,” Harry said, staring down at the pint between his palms.
“Did she?” Ron asked, knocking back a gulp of his own. Two beers was hardly enough to make him feel anything these days. And since Harry was paying, he felt no remorse chasing after a much heavier buzz before delving into this conversation.
Harry sighed, heavy.
“No,” he admitted, then dropped his head into his hand. “I don’t know. One minute we’re fine. She- well, you know, we- well, we were dealing or whatever, and fell asleep, and I thought things were maybe gonna be okay, y’know?. But when I woke up she was just gone.”
Harry lifted himself up long enough to take a long swallow of his drink.
“She came back a few hours later like nothing had happened. I mean I’m glad nothing’s, you know, changed, I guess. But-”
“But something has changed,” Ron guessed. Harry nodded.
“I told her- well, only the basics I guess. I don’t really know.” Harry rubbed at his eyes. Ron wondered absently if Harry had been sleeping much, or at all. He guessed probably not. Ron could relate. ”Things are weird all of a sudden. She took it better than I’d expected. She always takes everything better than I expect, but she was still… upset. Which I get. She wanted to talk it all out, you know? But I can’t. I told her, but I can’t do anything more than that. I- I don’t want to remember any of that shit. I’m out; that part of my life is over. I knew we were going to have to talk about… things, eventually. But I never meant for- fuck. I’m supposed to be doing better. Damn it!”
Harry slammed a hand loudly against the table, his anger, familiar and electric, everywhere and gone in a single instant. Distantly, Ron remembered why this was their favorite bar- no one so much as glanced in their direction.
“Harry-” Ron started, turning his attention back. Harry shook his head.
“I think I might have really fucked things up this time.”
“You two are together now, mate,” Ron reminded him, lifting one shoulder in a half-shrug as he lifted the glass to his mouth. “Either she can handle it, or she can’t.”
Harry shot him a look.
“It’s not that simple,” Harry said.
“It sort of is.”
Harry didn’t respond. Ron finished his pint in one long swig and started filling it up again. There was only enough left in the pitcher for half. He quietly resented Harry, just a little, for not purchasing a self-refilling pitcher in the first place. He didn’t exactly want to be here, talking about Harry and Ginny and their relationship . The whole ordeal was uncomfortable at best, and with Harry acting so estranged, Ron felt even more on edge than usual.
Harry had fallen into one of his silences. Ron worked on catching the bartender’s eye while Harry sorted through whatever it was he wanted to say. He got her attention after a minute and held up the empty pitcher. She nodded and moved behind the bar to start filling another.
“You think I’m being unfair,” Harry said finally, as the pitcher on the table flickered and was replaced by one newly filled. Ron shrugged, pouring his glass.
“Dunno, mate,” he replied. He took a sip. “Sounds like you think so.”
Harry looked away. He stared at a wall across the way, still except for his breathing- the rise and fall of his shoulders- and his thumb which tapped an agitated beat against his pint. Ron could feel Harry building toward something, and wished he would just get it out already.
Truth be told, he wanted Harry to explode. He wanted that sudden, fleeting static, the thick of the air, the wild, painful, electric look in Harry’s eyes. He wanted to watch Harry lose control.
Harry trusted more people now. Just barely. But he kept his anger in check. After their fifth year, Harry became terrified of his own rage- how it was always constant, how he could lash out, how he might hurt someone else. So he started tempering it- no, smothering it was more like. It was something he had always done, to some extent. Even as children, Ron knew how angry Harry was, almost all the time. Even in their happiest moments, even when he was laughing, that anger was there- hidden just beneath the surface.
But it got worse after that year. Where once Harry had been able to vent, to be visibly angry- even if only in short bursts, even if he could only do it when they were alone- Ron now only caught glimpses. Flashes Harry wouldn’t acknowledge; most of the time he couldn’t even meet Ron’s eyes, when it happened.
Like now. Harry continued to stare off at the wall and Ron knew he was fighting to keep the anger at bay. He could feel the tinge of it in the air, how it made the hair on his arm stand on edge. There were two possible outcomes now: either Harry would succeed in his mission to push the feeling down, or he wouldn’t.
Ron knew he should wait for Harry to decide on his own. It’s what a good friend would do- sit and wait Harry out. But Ron was finally starting to feel the effects of the alcohol. And he was tired of waiting.
“C’mon mate, out with it,” he said.
The pint in Harry’s hand shattered. It felt a bit like victory to Ron, even as he flinched away from the glass. The sound turned a few heads- someone at the far end whoop- ed in celebration, like they often did when something was dropped. The bartender gave them a disapproving glance, but didn’t approach their table.
“You know what, Ron? You’re right,” Harry said. He was still facing the far wall. His hand was bleeding lightly from a small cut on his palm that Ron couldn’t see. He flexed it as he spoke. “She handled it great. She was fucking fantastic- like she always is. Like this was something I should have told her from day one- ‘cause she can handle finding out.”
Harry stopped to take a deep breath. The static was so thick in that moment it was mesmerizing. Ron had wanted this, but he had forgotten how everywhere Harry’s anger could be. How, even after everything Ron had experienced, after everything he’d seen, even trusting Harry completely, it could still set his heart racing.
He watched, his mind now only slightly fuzzy from the drinks, as Harry continued to flex his hand, to work his jaw, to try to get himself back under control. It didn’t seem to be working. His voice was low and cold when he spoke again. Barely louder than a whisper.
“I am tired of people finding out things about me.” He spoke as if through gritted teeth. “I’m tired of having no choice, no- control. Because I give myself away every time, don’t I? And, god, everyone just needs to know every juicy detail about fucking Harry Potter .”
He spat his own name like it hurt to hold it in his mouth too long. At almost any other time, Ron would have jumped on the opportunity to crack wise about fucking harry potter as a turn of phrase. But he knew if he spoke now, Harry would shut everything off, in that way he does- everywhere then gone- and he was not about to give him a reason.
Almost sober with the shock of having gotten exactly what he wanted, Ron just sat back and watched.
“But even saying that I’m not being fair , now am I?” Harry was shaking now. Ron was almost surprised the electricity in the air wasn’t literally visible. Harry had turned his face from the wall to stare blankly at his hand. A small, thin trail of blood crept its way toward his elbow, but Harry didn’t seem to mind, if he noticed at all.
“Because she’s not like that. And I know she’s not. I know she just wants- fuck. I don’t know what she wants. But it’s certainly not this. Not what I told her. Not what she gets. She wants- she deserves - honesty and- and healing and a whole hell of a lot of other shit I don’t know if I can ever give her. She needs someone who can help her move forward, not someone who is still fucked up over stuff that happened years ago. Not someone who can’t even-”
He cut off, his teeth clicking together in that way they did whenever he decided he’d said enough. He clenched his hands into fists, still shaking with rage, and closed his eyes. He took a few deep breaths, and whispered something under his breath. Then the glass repaired itself, and his shaking stopped, and the static disappeared. Everywhere. Gone.
Ron was disappointed. He did his best not to let it show, but he wanted more. He wanted bigger. He wanted half the pub blown apart if that’s what it took to keep Harry honest with him. Honest in the way he only ever was in stolen moments when they were alone.
But it was over now. The anger gone, they were left with the inevitable regret that followed. Harry was careful, and he hated himself most when he lost control.
“I shouldn’t have asked you to come here,” he said, after a moment. He seemed to be more aware of himself now. He took a napkin and began cleaning up his arm and hand.
Ron rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt.
“You’re an idiot,” he said. Harry laughed lightly, sort of nodding in response.
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” he replied with a small smirk. “But you’re friends with an idiot, so that really says more about you, I’d reckon.”
“Yeah, I am.” Ron placed a hand on Harry’s arm where it now lay on the table. The gesture seemed almost out of place with the somewhat casual tone they had taken.
“Thanks,” Harry said. He glanced up at Ron. “For coming.”
Ron instantly regretted how much he hadn’t wanted to come, and how badly he had wanted to leave. Moments like this were rare. Hard fought. But that was part of the reason Ron hadn’t wanted to be here in the first place. It always felt like a victory in the moment, but that only made it that much harder to go back to the masquerade that was everyday life.
It hurt- to win, only for the cycle to start all over again in a day’s time.
Something must have shown in Ron’s face because Harry looked away, down to Ron’s hand on his arm, and spoke again.
“Look I know you have- it’s late, and you have things to do. And I should go home and sort this all out, but I don’t want- can we not, yet? Could you just-” he cleared his throat “-stay? Just for a little while, I mean.”
He didn’t look up. Ron bit the inside of his cheek. It was going to hurt- bad- to sit like this, like they did in grade school, like things were right between them and getting better, and go back to real life in the morning. It would hurt more than if Ron left now.
But Harry had asked- he had actually asked Ron to say. Ron wasn’t going anywhere.
“Yeah, mate.” He slid a little awkwardly around the table toward Harry and Harry shifted toward him as well, until they were touching. Harry tensed for a fraction of a second, and then relaxed. He leaned back against the booth, sliding down so he could rest his head against the back, and closed his eyes. Ron sighed and took a long gulp of his beer.
---
1993
The start of the summer holiday was always a difficult transition. Harry’s home life was the opposite of his time at Hogwarts in almost every way. The most obvious difference was people tended to like him at Hogwarts, a side effect of the fame he had accrued on the night of his parents death. But there were other differences. The worst of these being the long stretches of boredom at home (something which was never a problem at Hogwarts), and the loneliness which accompanied it.
The summer before his third year was shaping up to be nearly as bad as the last. Harry was rarely allowed to leave his room, and even locked up Harry was on thin ice after Ron’s phone call. Every so often Petunia would let him out to complete whatever chores she didn’t feel up to doing herself, which was a tempered relief. They were usually long and menial tasks- garden work or dishes or scrubbing the grit off the porch- and it was always tricky to navigate being out where the Dursleys could see him and remember he existed. Still, Harry looked forward to them. At least it gave him something to do other than stare at the ceiling.
Today hadn't been so lucky. In fact, things had been quiet for a while. Almost unbearably so. At least this year they left his door unlocked during the day, so he could use the toilet whenever he needed. But that meant no one had to stop by to let him out. Going downstairs without permission was more trouble than any pathetic attempt at conversation he might make would be worth. So he stayed in his room, trying to believe he could actually stop existing if he just pretended long enough, and silently hoped someone would say something, anything, to him when they pushed his dinner in through the cat flap.
The only upside was Harry’s uncle had allowed Hedwig to fly outside at night- to keep her from being so noisy in her cage. That meant she had the chance to escape for a few hours and stretch her wings. The lack of bars also meant Harry could receive letters, so long as they came late enough into the night that his Aunt and Uncle wouldn’t notice. Hermione and Ron wrote him regularly, filling him in on their respective summers- the trips they were taking and the trouble they were getting into or staying out of.
Harry could hardly believe how long they kept the letters up. His responses were almost non-existent, and even when he did write, he had very little of interest to tell. He had managed to smuggle a pen and some paper into his room, but he still had to be careful. If the Dursley’s heard him writing letters, there would be hell to pay. Best case scenario, the bars would be put back on his window. Worst case he and Hedwig would be locked in his cupboard for the rest of the summer. He couldn’t do that to her, no matter how lonely he was. So he maintained his silence. Miraculously, his friends continued to write.
Harry waited for the letters like a man starved, even as he tried his best not to expect them. He loved and hated reading them in equal measure. They were a small break from the boredom- not all the time as it was too risky to take them out of their hiding place during the day, but he would read them over and over again late into the night. They reminded him that there were still people out there who knew his name, who cared if he lived or wasted away in his own bedroom. They eased his loneliness, and they made it so much worse.
Harry missed his friends terribly. And, if was very honest, he was jealous. Disgustingly so. There would be long days when he would have nothing to do but seeth over everyone else’s freedom. Even Hedwig was at least allowed to fly- to leave the room. Harry would give anything- anything - to be traveling the way Hermione and Ron were, in their letters. Hell, he’d give his left arm to be able to study! To be able to do anything at all, to have anyone to talk to- even for a moment.
Harry’s stomach twisted at the thought of all the papers he had due at the start of the term. He would have to find some way to get his books out of the cupboard under the stairs. If he showed up to Potions with his work undone again , he would never hear the end of it.
Just like your father , Snape would say. As if that were the end of the world; as if it were the worst thing to be. It made Harry sick to think of it- not that it should. In truth, Harry should be used to hearing as much by now. His aunt and uncle were the same. Lazy , they’d say, just like your father . Stupid. Wasteful. Worthless. At least Snape left his mother out of the equation- something that could not be said for the Dursleys. But no matter how many times he heard them, the words killed him inside.
Harry’s parents had not died in a drug-induced car accident, despite what Harry had been told in his early childhood. They had died fighting off Voldemort, the cruelest wizard to ever live. They died protecting Harry. To hear them degraded- because of Harry’s failures, no less- was the worst feeling. Even now, Harry felt his hands shake with rage and shame, just thinking on it.
He closed his eyes tight against the dark room and tried to think of something, anything else.
Since returning to number 4 Privet Drive, it had become nearly impossible to sleep. When Petunia didn’t care to have him cleaning or pruning, he had no tasks with which to expend his energy. On top of that, Harry had grown unaccustomed to sleeping alone. He and Ron had slept in the same bed more nights than not, since that previous summer. And even when in separate beds, they were in the same room and surrounded by others.
No one had hardly so much as touched Harry since he’d left Hogwarts. Hell, even when they hit him it was usually with something other than a hand. There were the rare exceptions- Petunia’s sharp fingers digging into his arm to drag him inside from the yard, or Vernon tossing him into his room by the hair, or Dudley’s fist in his stomach. But it was always short lived. Painful. He could see on their faces how they found him repulsive, how he was a thing to be touched only out of necessity- and even then, only when it would hurt.
So Harry supposed it was partially his own fault, this ache. Most of the time he did everything in his power to stay far out of his family’s reach. Just the thought of their hands on him was enough to make his skin crawl. Harry hated to be touched.
Except that he didn’t.
He blamed Ron for that. Hated him for it, just a little bit. Harry had been fine before- lonely and small and untouched, but fine. It was easy to swallow his want when he knew he could never actually have it. But then there was Ron, who gave him everything. He offered friendship and shared his home and threw his arm around Harry’s shoulders without a second thought.
Harry dreamed about that, sometimes- when he managed to sleep. He would never admit it to anyone, but it was true. When he wasn’t being haunted by nightmares, he was haunted by this. Ron’s arm around his shoulders. Ron’s hand on his chest. The weight of him when he was sleeping.
Harry rolled over in his bed, feeling restless and sick. He pulled the sheet he had waded up beside him closer to his stomach, and tried to convince himself it was someone sleeping beside him. He tried very hard not to imagine that person was Ron, because there were things it was simply unfair to ask another person to be. He couldn’t control his dreams, but he could control his thoughts in moments like these, when his loneliness left him pathetic and searching and half-lost to fantasy.
He felt exposed without the sheet covering him. Not that it was cold. Even with the Dursley’s air conditioning blasting through the house, it wasn’t cold. Harry left his window open for Hedwig and the warm summer air poured into the room. Still, it was an uncomfortable feeling- lying there, uncovered. At Hogwarts he had a heavy duvet, and sometimes even a real body beside him. He had become accustomed to the weight, the warmth- it helped him breathe. Now he had nothing. It was a worthwhile sacrifice, if only barely. It was easier to sleep when there was something beside him. Before, he had been been able to use his pillow. Then an ill-timed nosebleed at the start of the summer had stained the damned thing, and Petunia had taken it away.
So he held tight to the sheet, and tried not to think about how naked he felt, even wearing his shirt and shorts. He tried not to think how many more weeks he had left in his vacation- if he could call it that- because the thought left him slightly hysterical. He tried not to think about anything at all.
His arms met on the opposite side of the bundle, and he rubbed a small pattern with the thumb of one hand onto the back of the other. It was the kind of thing he had watched Petunia do for Dudley when he was upset- a small gesture of comfort. He tried to imaging it was someone else’s hand, someone else’s thumb, someone else’s comfort- and almost succeeded.
He laid like that well into the night. Until his arm went numb, and then until his mind followed suit, and then until dawn threatened to break across the horizon.
He woke again in the still-early morning in the same position he had fallen asleep. Harry always slept almost perfectly still, possibly a side effect from having spent his formative years in the small cupboard. His arm was a strange dead weight beneath him.
He wanted to keep sleeping.
Even with the restlessness a constant thrumming in his bones, even with his heart racing from the nightmare that had awaken him in the first place, Harry wanted to sleep. He preferred every hell his mind could invent for him over laying awake in his room, but it was too late now.
The dream followed him, with his eyes open. He could see Ginny, her body cold on the stone floor of the Chamber. He could see Tom Riddle, but when Harry looked up at him, his face was Harry’s uncle’s face, and he was laughing. He tried to pull the basilisk tooth from his arm, to stab to book and save them, but in the dream his hand goes through it. It goes through everything except Ginny’s body- cold. His own skin going cold.
He sat up on his bed and tried to quell his shaking, as he did most mornings now. He took a few deep breaths and clenched his fists tight, but, like last morning and the one before, and so on since returning to Privet Drive, he couldn’t seem to relax. If he had enough presence of mind for regret, he’d kick himself. He’d been so good at this only a summer ago, but he’d gotten used to having someone there. No, not someone- Ron.
The thought disgusted him. It was bad enough he’d somehow tricked Ron into being his friend- worse that he’d allowed Ron to put himself in danger, not just once, but over and over again on Harry’s behalf. But that danger had always been a side effect of knowing Harry Potter, and Ron made his own choices. At least that danger was for some greater good.
It was a whole other layer of selfish that he’d come to depend on him- to expect , in some part of his mind, for Ron to be there for him, to the point where Harry could no longer calm himself, alone. It was beyond unreasonable, and eventually Ron would realize the weight of Harry’s desperate, clingy nature, and he would leave.
Harry wrapped his arms around himself, and dug his fingers into his sides. That was wrong, he told himself with so much force he almost spoke it aloud. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Ron had already seen all the worst sides of Harry and hadn’t left yet. Maybe it was only a matter of time, but Harry couldn’t think on that now. He simply had to remember to keep himself in check. To temper all the sick, selfish, bad of him with whatever good he could do.
It took him longer than he liked, but eventually Harry calmed down. The shaking stopped. The images receded. Harry worked on tucking away his guilt; it would do him no good to dwell on it now. But it was a difficult feat, with nothing in his almost empty bedroom to distract him.
When Petunia opened his door some time later and demanded Harry begin preparing breakfast, the relief was tidal. He scrambled to his feet and was out the door in seconds. His uncle and cousin still asleep, the kitchen was empty. Alone, but busy, he let himself get lost in the work. The sound and smell of frying bacon, a few minutes later, reminded him of the Burrow. Still alone in the room, Harry wrapped an arm around his middle, and closed his eyes. For a moment, he imagined himself somewhere with noise and color and people who smiled when he entered the room. He imagined himself somewhere safe and warm, somewhere that felt like home.