With Time and Trying

His life is relatively easy to summarize: Ron is born feet first, he eats chocolate frogs with Harry on the train, and then the world ends.

Well, maybe that isn't the best way to sum it up, but he hits all the major points. The world doesn't exactly end -- it's imploded a little and clouds of dust wisp where civilization used to thrive in some towns. He's trying to fit into a sweater that was once too big and the Order hasn't heard from Hermione in weeks, but none of that means their world has exactly ended.

Harry says, "They were all out of frogs," as he pushes the lot of sugar across the table. Ron gets a thumb caught in a hole at the mouth of the sleeve reaching for a fizzing whizbee and a butterbeer.

"It took you long enough," he says, his jaw creaking a bit around the words. He's still not used to speaking again.

"It was difficult to see the road," Harry explains, shrugging and scratching at a stain on his robes. It was difficult to see his way, which means that dust still prickles at the eyes when someone looks up toward the sun and knowing when to take breaths is a game of chance.

Harry takes off his glasses, presses the heel of his hand to his eye. He watches Ron out of the other, says, "The Ministry's having a time. They can't control so much dust."

Slowly, slowly imploding and muggles trust their newspapers that insist the bits of airborne particles are entirely due to unusually high winds coming from the east. The world hasn't ended -- it's still getting there.

The wind does pick up, bits of dirt and other earth nick at the windows. Both Harry and Ron turn their faces toward the patter, and Ron wonders if Hermione has at least had time to wash her hair.

Harry taps his butterbeer, bends forward to blow across the top. The hollow sound echoes in the room.

"She'll be okay," Harry says, and it might not mean they were thinking of the thing. Harry might have been thinking about Ron.

Ron folds his hands. "I'm not worried."

"Well, then what are you these days?"

"I'm kind of -- I'm," and the words catch in his mouth. He circles his jaw just so and feels the bones crack a little more. The tissue is soar, too. He dips a finger in his butterbeer and traces wet letters onto the table.

After the ambush in Hogsmeade, Ron spent a week in St. Mungo's re-growing some bones and mending others. Magic only fixes so much, and after he was released, the Order allowed Ron to stay in one of the rooms at Grimmauld place before going back to school. Remus gives Ron books to practice reading out loud every week. The first day, Harry sat with him as Ron practiced looping "Malfoy" and "kill" on his tongue before he re-learned to pronounce "Weasley."

Ron says again, "I've been feeling -- " and slides his index finger back and forth on the table under the word because he can't seem to say, "queasy."

Reaching over as Ron angles his head, exhaling, Harry places the back of his hand to Ron's neck. He says, "I was going for your forehead," and then bobs his own head idly, counting the seconds. "Are you sick?"

"No," Ron says.

"Are you sure?"

"Not really. You know, I read the first thi -- the first few chapters of Hogwarts, A History."

Harry drops his hand. His palm falls over the word on the wooden table and smears it.

"She'll owl, Ron," he says, wiping his fingers clean on his robes.

"It still hurts some," Ron admits. He stretches his mouth silently, and Harry shifts obviously in his seat, trying not to read his lips. "It still hurts to say her whole name."

Harry shrugs. "I think it's supposed to get easier."

"You think?" Ron's pretty sure Harry only has one or two photos of Sirius, and they're both from before Azkaban, old and somewhat worn. He sometimes sees Harry examining pictures of his family, and Ron always wonders if it makes things any easier for him. He wonders if it makes a difference at all.

The corners of Harry's lips twitch. "So I'm told."

Ron thinks he was in St. Mungo's for a week because that's what he was told when he woke. He doesn't remember what day he went down, but everyone insisted he'd only been unconscious for seven days -- and Hermione wanted to be here when you finally decided to wake, dear, but things are desperate, you know. Some days Ron thinks months have passed. He thinks he was under for days and days: the day Hermione died and the day everyone else received notice, but no one has the heart to tell him.

He reaches across and taps Harry's knuckles. "I said I wasn't worried, Harry."

"I didn't say you were."

The sprinkle of dust against the window breaks the silence between them. Harry doesn't move his head this time, but Ron can sense him counting the seconds. He imagines that Harry always keeps a continuous count and the numbers have already surpassed two million. Ron imagines Harry mouths the numbers when he's nervous to track how long he's been fighting for a purpose. He counts and doesn't give up when situations seem too bleak because he knows how much time and effort he's put into succeeding already. Ron pictures this and jealousy gnaws at his nerves, because he still can't quite manage to tell anyone how old he is again, yet.

Harry spreads his fingers, Ron's falling between the open spaces. Ron watches their hands and thinks that if Hermione is dead, then it's another thing he and Harry have in common.

"I hate that I can't help. I hate -- being here all the time," Ron says.

Harry smiles feebly. "You sound like Sirius."

"Yeah, well..."

"You'll get back out there with us -- "

"Stop, Harry!" Ron pounded tight fists into the table, rattling the sweets and the butterbeer. He pushes the chair back and paces frantically. "Stop being so bloody reassuring, stop -- there's a war, Harry. People are dying! Tell me about that; don't just come here every other day with you candies like you don't have more important things to do, like. Like you're not in constant danger."

"All right!" Harry retorts, startled, and his brow furrow with his won irritation. "Fine, Ron, what do you want to hear?"

"Tell me why no one thinks I should sit in during the meetings! Tell me why people walk on eggshells whenever I'm around." Ron padded back over to the table, palms against the surface and body leaning in until he loomed over Harry. "Tell me why you won't just let me know that Hermione's dead."

"What? Ron!"

Ron whispers, pleading, "Harry..."

Harry removes his glasses. Using his robes, he wipes the lenses clean. The small task is an excuse to avoid eye contact, Ron knows, but he doesn't object. Harry says, carefully, "We can't give up hope, Ron."

And there isn't even a faucet leaking in the house for one of them to focus on, nothing around to use in order to pretend they aren't entirely consumed in this conversation. Dust outside, silence inside -- only Ron and Harry and scattered junk food.

Somewhere, the panic of the wizarding world swells steadily. Ron doesn't clear his throat. "But what if I already have."

Harry places his fingertips to his temple. He breathes evenly, in, out, in and out. Ron collects himself, this time clearing his voice before speaking.

"Was it my mother?" he asks. "Did she say she thought it would be better for me not to be involved for a while, to rest in peace? Because she would also like for me to be eleven years old again, back when none of this was happening, Harry, but some things just don't work that way."

"Ron..."

"Keep at it, Harry. Say my name more. Throw Hermione's in, too, maybe she's co -- she'll co -- " Ron pushes a hand through his hair. He tugs at it, frustrated, because he can feel the sentence scratching at his throat and his mouth stubbornly locks around the consonants and vowels. "Hermione Gr -- she'll co -- "

Harry stands up the moment Ron shoots a fist at the wall. He aims the next hit at a window, glass shattering around his skin. Harry grabs his arm, spins Ron to him.

"Me, all right?" Harry says, holding tightly to Ron's shoulders. Ron shakes almost imperceptibly in his clothing, furious. "Not Molly -- me."

Ron ineffectually tries to shrug off Harry. He stutters a little over his rage, his indignation and gives up. Harry interjects. "Keeping you out was my idea. I can't -- I don't -- "

Ron stops pushing at Harry (at his forearms, his shoulders, his neck) and digs his thumb into the curve of skin under Harry's jaw. He presses, experimentally, Harry's quick heartbeat pulsing under skin. Ron kisses him. Mouth parted and warm, and Ron imagines Harry tastes his scars.

"Four weeks since her last owl," Harry whispers after a moment. His glasses are dusty around the edges.

Speaking just as quietly, Ron winces through the sharp grind of letters. "Granger. Hermione Granger." He speaks this mostly to himself. "We need her to owl, Harry."

"Yeah." Harry is calm. Ron can almost feel the sting of glass specks in his own flesh.

"I'm worried," he confesses slowly.

Harry says, "Me, too."