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A guttural, but muffled scream pierces the quiet of the Burrow and Ron shoots up in bed, hand curled around his wand, his heart pounding a loud beat within his chest. However, the moment he looks to the bed adjacent to his, realization replaces the alarm in his features. Still clutching his wand, he hurries over to the other bed, cursing under his breath as he helplessly watches his best friend thrash within his bed covers, eyes shut tight, turned to his side, whimpering with his face turned into his pillow.
“Muffliato,” Ron mutters, pointing his wand at the bedroom door. He then kneels beside Harry’s bed and set his wand down on the dresser next to it.
Resigning himself for a possible punch to the face, he lays a firm hand on Harry’s shoulder, shaking him. “Harry, you’re okay. It’s just a nightmare. Come on, mate,” he coaxes, voice gentle.
Experience over the last couple of weeks has taught Ron that force or aggression to rouse Harry from his nightmares only results in the aggression being returned back in kind with Harry lashing out as he awakes. So far, Ron’s had a black eye, a bloody nose and a severely bruised backside as a consequence.
Harry continues to writhe within the confines of his bed only further entangling himself within the covers.
“My fault,” Harry chokes out and Ron feels his heart clench.
He tries yet again, shaking Harry once more, raising his voice but still keeping a gentle undertone. “Harry. Harry, wake up.”
His efforts are in vain and something breaks inside Ron as he figures that for Harry to be this caught up within his nightmare, it’s one of the really bad ones. Harry’s been doing so much better the last couple of weeks and it hurts Ron to know that this may set things back.
Knowing that he has no other choice, Ron pins Harry’s arms to his sides (hoping this will stop Harry from giving him yet another black eye or a broken nose) and raises his voice, calling out for his best friend, desperate to pull him out from the depths of his own mind.
“Harr – “ Ron is cut of as Harry abruptly sits up in bed and crashes head on, literally, straight into Ron. A loud crack fills the room as their heads collide and Ron yelps in pain as he tumbles off the bed, clutching at his now smarting forehead.
A string of expletives are uttered under his breath by Ron as he sits up to check on Harry who is now sitting on the edge of his bed, face hidden within his hands, elbows resting on his knees. His breathing is loud and shaky and the small hitches in his breathing immediately make Ron realize that his friend is close to tears.
Ron can count on one hand the amount of times Harry has cried. Neither of them tend to break down very often. For Harry to be this shaken up, it honestly scares Ron a little. He gets to his feet and quietly pads over to Harry’s bed and sits down beside him, silent, knowing the latter will speak once he’s ready.
“Sorry,” Harry whispers after a few minutes.
“For what?”
Harry lets his hands drop to his knees as he stares at Ron with an incredulous expression. “I guess your noggin’ isn’t as thick as I presumed.”
Ron snorts as he smacks Harry lightly across the arm. “Well, seeing as you nearly took out my eye and then almost broke my nose, I’ll just add ‘cracked skull by being head-butted by your best mate’ to the list of hazards of being friends with Harry Potter.”
When his jab startles a chuckle out of Harry, Ron knows he’s on the right track.
“You alright?” he asks after a few more minutes of comfortable silence. Harry seems to have calmed down for the most part; he doesn’t seem on the verge of hyperventilating anymore and while Ron still sees a thin sheen of unshed tears lingering within Harry’s gaze, he seems in control for the most part.
He’s trembling, though. It’s the subtle things that tells Ron Harry’s still tense. The slight upward shrug of his shoulders, the way his hands clench and unclench on his knees every few seconds, the hard set of his jaw, and the fine tremor that Ron can only feel because he’s sitting right next to Harry.
Harry sighs and reaches for his watch, similar to the one Ron owns, gold with stars circling around the face instead of hands. It’s about four a.m., Ron figures, reading the clock face over Harry’s shoulder.
“I need some air,” Harry finally mutters setting the watch back down onto his bedside table and gets to his feet and out the door, leaving it open behind him; a silent invitation for Ron to join him.
Ron glances at Harry’s now vacated spot on the bed, his eyes travelling further up to the headboard where a crudely carved ‘FRED’ stands out in contrast against the dark wood.
Sighing himself, he steps out onto the landing outside the room, slowly shutting the door behind him and following Harry.
His long legs carry him faster toward his friend and soon he’s matching pace with Harry who doesn’t stop until they’re at the boundary of the house, a good distance away, marked only by the wooden fence running all around the perimeter.
Harry settles down near the fence, using it as a backrest and Ron decides to sit diagonally across, cross-legged.
The air around them is cool, a gentle breeze riffling through the unkempt grass. The sky is painted navy, the sun not having shown its presence yet. Harry takes a deep steadying breath and Ron knows that the bedroom must have felt suffocating.
“It’s not your fault,” Ron murmurs.
Harry looks up sharply, eyes clouded in anguish. “Wha – “
“You were talking in your sleep,” Ron explains, shrugging.
Harry looks away, his hands pulling harshly at the blades of grass next to him. “Fred,” he chokes out, unable to say more.
A stab of fear worms its way into Ron’s heart, the image of Fred lying pale and motionless on plain white sheets assaulting his mind. “He’s alive,” he grounds out.
Harry must have heard the edge in his tone because he looks wary when he looks back at Ron.
Ron berates himself mentally. He isn’t angry at Harry. That isn’t the source of his anger. “Harry, he’s alive. He’ll pull through. He’ll wake up. He has to. George will kill him if he doesn’t,” Ron adds half-heartedly, a shadow of a smile upon his face.
George has been a right wreck and hasn’t left Fred’s bedside for anything more than to scarf down two meals a day. Even now, Ron images him sitting vigilant beside his comatose twin at St Mungo's. They’ve barely seen George at home for the past three months now.
“He’d be more than just alive if Rookwood hadn’t escaped,” Harry says, rubbing absently at his left shoulder, leaving bits of dirt and grass clinging onto his night clothes. As much as Ron would like to say otherwise, he knows Harry’s right. It’s Rookwood’s (so far unidentified) curse that’s left Fred in an unresponsive state, fighting for his life every single day, breathing; but only just.
He’s hanging on by a thread and both Harry and Ron know it, afraid of when the thread will finally snap.
Harry and Ron had started their Auror training a week after the war had ended, responding to letters sent to them by Kingsley himself, asking if they’d like to join. It had been a no-brainer for the both of them. A good chunk of the D.A. joined as well, including Neville, following in his parents footsteps. Hermione had politely refused and if Ron was being honest with himself, he’d been relieved. He’d rather have Hermione safe at home versus out in the thick of danger tracking down escaped Death Eaters.
It’s been three months, they both have their official Auror Trainee robes and badges and under the leadership of Gawain Robards, the Head of the Auror Department and Williamson, the senior most Auror under Robards, both seem well on their way to becoming steadfast Aurors.
Or so, most of the wizarding world seems to think, Ron muses.
It had been two months since Rookwood escaped. It had been an even worse blow as Harry had been the one assigned to bring him in, working under the mentorship of Auror Williamson while Ron had been tasked to tracking down Travers while working alongside Auror Proudfoot.
Ron remembers seeing a harried and mildly injured Williamson hurry into the Auror Department while he and Proudfoot had been poring over potential Death Eater hideouts, eliminating ones they’d already searched. Williamson had gone directly into Robards office, only to come out seconds later and beckon for Ron to join him.
He remembers the feeling of dread that had engulfed him as Williamson had explained how Rookwood had managed to evade capture, how Harry had taken the brunt of a curse meant for Williamson.
Ron would never forget how it felt seeing his friend writhe in pain for three days, in St Mungos until the healers had finally figured out the curse and reversed it. Harry has yet another scar to add to his collection, a gnarly gash over his left shoulder, the only reminder of the botched operation.
“Harry, you saved Will’s life. Hell, you’re lucky that curse had a localized effect. You and I both know that if that curse would have hit you anywhere near your heart, the pain would have killed you.”
“In my dream, Fred didn’t -,” Harry cuts himself off, as if refusing to even think of the possibility. “Ron, none of the healers can seem to figure out what’s wrong with Fred and the only thing we know is that it was Rookwood’s curse that did it. What if we’re too late? What if – “
“Harry, stop,” Ron interrupts. “I get it, okay? But mate, if anyone can do this, it’s you. Besides, you’re not alone. You’ve got Williamson, you’ve got me and you’ve got the whole bloody Auror Department on your side.”
Harry rolls his eyes, smiling.
“Harry, you destroyed Horcruxes and single-handedly dueled Voldemort and won,” Ron says, simply like it explains everything.
Harry scoffs. “You make me sound a lot cooler than I am.”
Ron grins. “A wise man once told me that stuff like this always sounds a lot cooler than it is,” Ron ducks as Harry throws a fist full of dirt and broken grass blades at him.
“We’ll get him,” Ron assures, and while he knows it’s an empty promise, that he’s just as terrified as Harry is about losing Fred, about being too late, he makes sure it doesn’t show.
Harry nods and Ron can see him relaxing ever so slightly, the tense set of his shoulders dropping just a smidge.
“Can we head back in now? I’m hungry,” Ron adds sheepishly as his stomach growls loudly.
Harry laughs as he gets to his feet, helping Ron up as well. “You’re a pig.”
“Says the warthog that devoured the whole freaking container of treacle tart the other day,” Ron snaps back.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever, Pig.”
“Warthog.”
The two banter back and forth until they reach the kitchen of the Burrow. Ron helps make breakfast while Harry sets the table for the rest of the family, knowing a few who will rouse early in time for work.
They’ll have to head in for work in a couple hours as well. While Ron dislikes the research and paperwork aspect of being an Auror, albeit still a trainee, he knows he’s chosen the right career path as he looks over at his best friend.
Whatever lays ahead for them, good or bad, there’s one thing he’s absolutely sure about. He’ll always have Harry’s back.
END