Quidditch League, Falmouth Falcons Captain: Write about Ron's relationship with Harry
Word Count: 1369
Note: Voldemort wins!au
Ron shivered in the cell he was confined in, clutching his bare arms with his dirty hands. It had been months, maybe even years—he'd lost track of time—since he'd seen daylight. Here, day and night passed in much the same way, until the two became indistinguishable.
He wasn't left to die here, though some days he wished he was. Someone shoved a bowl of sloppy gruel through the flap in his door once a day, followed by a cup of dirty water if he was lucky. Even though Ron would tell himself that he wasn't going to eat their food, he was usually so hungry and desperate that he seemed unable to stop himself from grabbing the bowl and lifting it to lips, eating greedily. His will to live always outweighed his stubbornness.
Ron had been taken, along with most of his friends and family, as soon as Hagrid had been forced to lay Harry's cold, dead body on the ground. Everything had happened in a blur of chaos and confusion—Harry couldn't be dead—with people rushing and screaming, spells flying around like rogue fireworks. Hermione's scream had struck him the loudest. Ron had lunged towards her, but Bellatrix was already sucking her into Side-Along Apparition before he could grab her. He watched as McGonagall was struck in the chest with a jet of luminous green light, and heard his mother cry out as another of her children was murdered.
Ron never got to find out which of his siblings was killed. He only saw his mother slumped over the body, before he was also pulled into Apparition, and then promptly thrown into this cell.
Familiar cries and shouts filled the cells in the hours following Ron's incarceration, but he never saw another person. He was sure Hermione would be locked up here somewhere with him, along with Neville and Luna, and possibly Ginny. A Death Eater had whispered through his door once that Ron and his friends were too criminal to kill; the Dark Lord wanted to see them suffer.
This was never supposed to happen. Voldemort was never supposed to win. It was always supposed to be Harry.
...
Harry looked small in the hospital bed, with his leg strapped up and his arm in a sling. Despite it not being that long since he'd single-handedly managed to vanquish Professor Quirrell, he was looking pretty chipper as he dug through the stack of sweets in front of him.
"I thought you were done for," Ron told him, swallowing a mouthful of Bertie Bott's Beans without even checking the colors. "I'm glad you're okay."
Harry grinned back at him, his green eyes sparkling behind his spectacles. "It'll take more than Quirrell's moldy old turban to get rid of me."
Ron returned the grin, nodding. "Yeah," he agreed, tossing a Chocolate Frog at Harry. "I'm glad for that."
...
Ron felt tears prickle his eyes as he thought of Harry. Though he tried to keep himself distracted, his thoughts so often turned to Harry. Harry would have been able to get out. Harry wouldn't have even ended up in this situation. Harry would have been able to find a way to end this ongoing nightmare by now.
But Harry is dead, a small voice inside Ron whispered. Harry couldn't defeat him.
If Harry couldn't defeat Voldemort, how could Ron ever hope to escape this hell and save his friends and family?
...
"If I don't make it out of the Ministry tonight and he wins, you have to promise me you'll continue and do whatever you can to stop him," Harry said quietly to Ron, out of earshot of Hermione. They'd just landed in London, ready to go into the Ministry and save Sirius.
"Don't be stupid," Ron muttered. "Of course you'll get out. You're Harry Potter."
Harry nudged Ron with his elbow. "I'm being serious. There's no one else."
Ron nodded. "Of course, mate. I doubt there'll be an issue though. It'll take more than moldy old Voldy to take you down."
The shadow of a grin passed over Harry's face, and they headed into the Ministry. It was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by fierce determination and a hint of fear. "Let's go, then."
...
Tears poured down Ron's face. He was surprised he was hydrated enough to cry, but here he was. A lump burned at the back of his throat, and he longed to choke out the sobs that wracked him, but Death Eaters loitered around every corner of the prison. He wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of knowing he was crying.
He heard a stirring somewhere outside his cell, and shrunk back into the corner, grinding the heels of his palms into his watery eyes. There was a fumbling with the lock, and suddenly the door burst open. Ron squinted, trying to see who was there - it had been so long since he'd seen past the door of his cage.
"Get up," came a familiar low whisper. "Hurry."
Ron scrambled to his feet, and his intruder held her wand up. A glow illuminated her face, and relief flooded Ron as he realized it was Hermione. She was dirty and bloodied, and her once vibrant curly hair was hacked short and unevenly. She was dressed in rags and had scars on her face and arms.
She didn't look like Hermione, but Ron supposed he didn't quite look like himself anymore, either. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his own reflection.
…
"You love her, don't you?" Harry asked as he and Ron walked along the shore at Shell Cottage.
Ron almost laughed. A war was going on, they had spent the last few months as fugitives, and it was only a matter of time before the inevitable happened, yet Harry was asking him about something so simple as his feelings for Hermione.
"What?" Harry raised his brows, studying Ron with an amused curiosity.
"I dunno. Shouldn't we be talking about how you're going to defeat moldy old—" Ron paused, frowning. He didn't know if the Taboo on Voldemort's name would extend to nicknames, and he didn't want to risk it. "Well… You know."
"That's been all we've talked about for too long," Harry said with a shrug. "Figured you wouldn't mind a subject change."
Ron chuckled, nudging his best friend playfully. How long had it been since they had talked about anything so everyday, so normal? His lips quirked into a small smile. Moments like this were so rare these days, and he knew he needed to cherish them.
"Yeah," he admitted at last, shifting his gaze to where Hermione and Bill stood, chatting as they gathered firewood. "I love her."
...
"W-what's going on?" he croaked hoarsely. His voice sounded odd, so raw and strained
"I managed to escape, but we haven't got long," Hermione whispered. "I disarmed and Stunned Alecto Carrow when she came into my cell. We need to go, now."
Ron staggered to his feet, his joints cracking with the effort. "Okay," he murmured. "I'm ready."
...
Ron couldn't remember if Harry's words were real or from a dream. He seemed so real: his dark hair looked soft enough to touch, his hands clutched his tightly, the light bounced off the frames of his glasses.
"If you get caught by him, you'll get out." Harry was smiling, and Ron realised he was dressed head to toe in white. It hurt his eyes a little. "You'll always get out. The light always wins."
"But what if I'm trapped, Harry," Ron replied, his voice quiet as a mouse. "I can't help people like you do. I can't be you."
"You don't need to be me, you just need to be you," Harry continued, and he grinned. "Just remember: It'll take more than moldy old Voldy to defeat you."
…
Ron lingered in the doorway of his cell, his heart racing painfully. "For Harry," he whispered before picking up his pace and catching up to Hermione.
If he were still here, Harry would fight, and Ron refused to give up and dishonor his best friend's memory.
Harry was gone, but not even moldy old Voldy could his legacy or the revolution that it sparked.