A Watch to Keep

Sometime during fifth year, Ron begins staying awake at night until Harry sleeps. Lying on his side, the heavy curtains open between their beds, Ron watches: for twisting and turning and pain, for the night journey he knows Harry shouldn't take.

There are scars on his arms by the end of term, proof that he should have watched a little better, tried a little harder, slept a little less.

Ron thinks he should be glad for hot, sticky nights in a room all alone. But there's no-one to sit vigil in that Muggle house, and he knows it; by the end of July he's tired from worrying into the dark.

The day Harry finally comes to stay, Ron doesn't hug and fuss and feed like his mother, like Hermione. Doesn't do much, really, besides show Harry his bed by the window, hand him next year's books, offer up a game of chess.

That night the room is bathed in moonlight; that night, when the dreams come, he's ready.

Ron crosses the room in two strides and perches on the other bed. Harry is tossing from side to side, and maybe this was the wrong place to have him sleep, he's in danger of cracking his head on the wall.

"Wake up, mate, wake up," Ron says, over and over, shaking the other boy's shoulder.

Harry sits up suddenly, his breathing loud and broken, his eyes wide.

"It's okay," Ron says, but Harry turns away, still trembling, to press his head against the cool windowpane.

Ron watches for a moment, helpless, before he has an idea. He retrieves a glass from beside his bed, then gently pulls Harry away from the window. "Here," Ron whispers, cupping a hand to Harry's forehead, an ice cube tucked in his palm.

Harry gasps. "Thank you," he croaks, then pushes his fingers underneath Ron's, trying to hold the ice himself.

"Don't be silly," Ron says, more roughly than he intends, "you'll drop it."

And Ron's right; Harry is still shaking like mad, and he gives in, slumping against Ron for support.

Ron rubs the ice slowly over Harry's brow; it's far too hot, as if Harry has a fever, as if some illness is eating him from the inside out. Ron wishes that were so, that it was a cold, or flu, and wonders how long anyone's mind can stand something like this before shutting down entirely.

"What," he asks quietly, "what was it this time?"

Harry shrugs, his shoulder moving against Ron's chest, and it's a moment before he speaks. "Don't know," he says, starting to laugh, and Ron winces, because it's not a happy sound, not a normal one, "maybe he lost a sock in the wash or something. Doesn't take much, anymore."

Ron doesn't know what to say - he hasn't, for a long time now. He settles for gripping Harry's shoulder, hard, even though he knows it's not enough.

The last sliver of ice finally turns to water, trickling down Harry's face, and Ron drops his hand. He's about to reach for the sheet so that his friend can dry off when Harry turns his head and burrows into Ron's neck.

Ron squeaks. "Cold -"

"I know," Harry replies, his voice laced with sleep and a smile.

Ron's just reaching for more ice, ready to exact revenge with a well-placed cube or two, when Harry yawns and his eyes flutter closed. He freezes. If Harry's going sleep, hopefully well, then Ron's not going to stop him.

He thinks this should feel weird, and Ron doesn't want to imagine what Fred and George would say, if they turned up now, to see his best friend sleeping almost in his arms. But it doesn't, and Ron lets go of that worry, it's nothing compared to everything else going wrong around them.

He can watch better from here, after all.