The Way That a River

Ron turns over in his bed. The night is mostly quiet, but he can hear his mother pacing downstairs, unable to sleep. He watches the posters on the walls. All of the bright orange Chudley Cannons players are asleep on their broomsticks in midair. Floating, like something in a dream. He wishes it could be a dream, for then he could wake up.

He hasn't been sleeping either, not really, and any semblance of such disappears when he hears Harry groan quietly.

"Harry," he whispers.

No response. Harry's palm is pressed into his forehead, and his teeth are gritted even in sleep, as though he could clamp down on the moment with his jaws and stop it. Ron wonders if he should wake Harry; if he does, Harry's nightmare will stop, but if he doesn't, Harry might remember more of his dream. Harry never underestimates his dreams now. Not after last year. Sometimes Harry's dreams and pains are the Aurors' only hints that Voldemort is planning murder.

Harry groans again. Ron pulls back his hand, gently. The scar is livid even in the dark.

"Harry," he starts, but Harry's green eyes fly open and Ron pulls back involuntarily. Harry's eyes are luminescent, looking as though the Killing Curse was captured in their depths. Ron doesn't want to think about the curse, because then he'd imagine his father's body, falling to the floor-

"Ron- what is it?" Harry asks cautiously, peering up with those eyes that echo death, eyes that could kill Ron.

Ron shakes his head. "N-nothing, Harry. I thought you were having another nightmare, and I..."

Harry sighs. "Just a normal bad dream." He turns over to look at Ron. "You weren't sleeping again. At least one of us should get sleep once in a while. You know, your mum's probably awake downstairs. You could..."

Ron shakes his head quickly. It hurts worse to see her; her pain amplifies his own, and he feels that if he talks to her, together their anguish will topple the Burrow.

"No, Bill and Charlie are up with her."

Ron quickly returns to his bed. Harry nods. Ron can hear it in the rustling of blankets and linens.

"Good night..." Harry whispers. Ron allows sleep to take him away.

~*~

Two hours later, Ron awakes with a start. Harry's tossing and turning again, sodden with sweat and with both hands covering his forehead. Ron's torn. Finally, unwilling either to leave Harry or wake him, he climbs into bed next to Harry. Harry's arms are moving, so Ron keeps to one side. He's glad Harry's eyes are still closed, so he won't have to think of the green glow. Why couldn't Ron's father have lived? Why was it Harry? What was so special?

Ron's afraid to go downstairs anymore. He stays in his room most of the day. Occasionally he goes outside to fly with Harry, or his brothers, but they don't talk much amongst themselves. Sometimes Harry has to stop or land, because he's blinded by the pain in his scar. Other times he wakes screaming from sleep. Ron is drawn to Harry in the way that a river is drawn to the sea. He'll drown his own hurt and fears in Harry's deeper ones. It's a pain that dissolves and assimilates his, unlike his family's pain, which is a tributary to his river. When Ron's not in denial, he's angry.

He's angry at the Death Eaters. He's angry at the Ministry, for insisting that it's still safe to continue raids, denying that Voldemort has returned until they tripped on their own lies and fell into a crisis. He's angry with his father. Angry with his father for listening to the Ministry and ignoring his mother, thinking he was up to the raid even though he knew the danger. Angry with his mother for having a broken heart, because she should hold them together.

Harry's struggling; Ron reaches for Harry's forehead to see if it's a real dream or a vision. With a hiss, he pulls his hand back; the scar burns. His fingers sting from the touch. It's never been so hot before. He glances down to make sure he hasn't disturbed Harry. Harry's eyes are sealed so tightly that a frown divides his forehead.

Ron curls himself behind Harry, chest pressed to back. If he can just hold on to him, things will be normal. Harry won't choke him with sympathy or tell him to talk about it. Harry has his own memories of the Killing Curse, his own memories of green light and rushing death, his own losses. Harry never changes. A strand of hair tickles Ron's nose. He combs Harry's messy hair flat with his long fingers, feeling the radiant heat from Harry's scar as his hand passes Harry's forehead. Harry's gone very quiet and still.

"Harry," he says softly. "Harry, wake up." The scar is cooling off. Ron thinks of melted wax. Ron doesn't want to be alone. Is it selfish to wake Harry up? No, no, he's just checking to make sure Harry's okay. He shakes Harry's shoulder, and Harry sits upright with a gasp. Ron watches the rapid rise and fall of Harry's chest, the flutter of his throat at each breath, the deceleration into normal respiration.

Harry looks at Ron, and Ron's glad for once that Harry's eyes are full of their own light. He sees the emptiness within them.

Ron scoots closer to Harry and wraps his arms tightly around his best friend.

"I'm sorry," he mutters, both to Harry and his family, though Harry wouldn't know that. Harry is still. He doesn't know what to do with a hug. Ron leaves his arms around Harry and tries to keep breathing. A few heartbeats drag along, and Harry shakily raises his arms and puts them around Ron's. Ron exhales. Harry does need him. Harry does want him.

Nervous and shaking a little, but whether from grief or nerves, he doesn't know, Ron lowers them down to the mattress. He tucks Harry against his chest, and lets his forehead press against Harry's. They breathe in rhythm. For a time, he looks into Harry's hollow stare and wonders what, if anything, Harry sees in his. Perhaps a reflection of Harry's own. Ron wonders how deep the reflection runs, and hugs Harry hard. It's reciprocated. The knot eases in his gut. The embrace, the hollow eyes, the sound of his mother's pacing downstairs all serve to tip him over the edge, and his consciousness flees into sleep.

~*~

Morning. The light is shining into Harry's eyes, softening the green to an innocent shade. He's still next to Harry, with his arm over Harry's shoulder. Harry is looking at him.

"'Lo," Harry says. Ron mumbles something in reply, unsure of his welcome.

Harry squeezes Ron's hand. "Er, thanks, Ron... It... helped, last night," he admits. It helped Ron, too, but he wouldn't admit it.

Ron shrugs.

"My mum does it." Did it. Not often, not anymore. He remembers his mother holding Harry last summer, rocking him on the hospital bed after the Triwizard Tournament had ended. Who will rock her?

"Your mum could use one from you, too," Harry yawns, and looks pointedly at Ron.

"I know." How to face her, when her eyes are emptier than Harry's? But Harry's here for him, and he should be there for her. Perhaps the sea of Harry's dilemmas is enough to swallow all of their problems.

"Let's go downstairs and help her with breakfast."

As they slip out of bed and stand in rumpled pajamas, Harry puts his arm through the crook of Ron's elbow. Ron thinks they both might make it.