All I Need

by Mad Maudlin

Ron remembers what it feels like to be warm. HRH, implied character death

Author: Mad Maudlin
Challenge: One of the Trio unexpectedly leaves Hogwarts for a time, only to come back and finds the other two together.
Title: All I Need
Summary: Ron remembers how it felt to be warm.
Warning: Implied character death
Word Count: 8,880
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Not sure how well I answered the challenge, but I think the results are pretty good. The title is from Linkin Park's "My December," which has absolutely nothing to do with the rest of the fic.

"All I Need"
by Mad Maudlin
for the 2005 Trio FQF

1.

He was cold. He could hear very little, and all he could see were light shapes and dark shapes in a thick gray fog, but he could feel the cold, like his blood was frozen and his skin had turned to ice. He couldn't move, or if he moved he couldn't feel himself do so; he was alone in the fog with the cold and a few fractured memories, some faded and some lined out in fire. Faces. Words. Motion. Sounds. He remembered how it felt to be warm.

When the ice cracked and he felt his jaw move, somewhere far away he thought he heard screaming and tears. He couldn't hear his own voice, but his tongue felt thick and heavy and his lips were stiff. He wondered if they could even understand him.

Cold.

They heard him; he got extra blankets; it didn't really help.

2.

He'd forgotten some things; a lot of things, in fact, like how to read and walk and not piss all over himself when he needed to go to the bathroom. But he remembered important things, like his name, and a few things he could recall so well they seemed more real than the pale walls of the hospital.

You were poisoned, they told him, speaking up so he could hear.

He didn't remember that.

You're a hero.

Nor that.

You saved Harry.

That...

Harry he remembered; Harry was one of the things that he'd never forgotten. Harry's face, Harry's hands, Harry leaning into the wind like he could take off and fly without a broom—these things were clear and bright, clearer than the blurred and foggy shapes of the people around him. He remembered Harry's voice, and when he concentrated he remembered Harry telling him something, not the words, really, just the sound.

You jumped in front of Harry and saved his life. The poison was meant for him.

That didn't seem right, somehow; Harry had always been the one who did the saving.

You're a hero, Ron. Don't you remember?

3.

Ginny came to visit and brought letters from school, the first he'd gotten. "This one's from Hermione," she said, leaning close to the bed, "and these are from Neville and Dean and Luna ...do you remember?"

Hermione, yes: another bright memory, of clouds of hair and a belltone voice and the smell of ink and dust. He looked at Ginny, squinting to discern the shape of her against the fog. "Hermione," he managed to rasp.

She nodded and shuffled the scrolls. "I'll...shall I read it to you?"

"Please."

Dear Ron, I'm so happy you're recovering. Ginny has been keeping us up to date on how you're doing and it sounds like you're coming along quickly. You looked so pale when they took you away and I was so scared and so was Harry but you're getting better and we're ever so relieved. Do as the Healers tell you and don't argue. All my love, Hermione.

He contemplated the letter and sorted out the words, until Ginny asked if he wanted her to read it again. He said yes, and this time tried to imagine Hermione's voice.

When she was done he asked her, "Harry?"

She looked down and said it too soft and too fast, but it sounded like "He didn't write."

Ron shut his eyes and turned his head again. "Cold."

"I'll find you another blanket."

4.

His hearing got better and his vision cleared; after a while the healers said he needed to start learning to care for himself again. So Ron learned to walk with one arm on Bill's neck, he learned to feed himself in messy steps, and he learned to write from the same primers his mother had given them when they were six. Except sometimes the words went swimmy and scrambled, and sometimes the floor or the walls crashed against him like waves, and sometimes his hands shook so violently he couldn't hold a fork or a pen, much less use one properly.

"It's to be expected," they told him. "You're still healing. Give it time."

"Letters?"

"From your sister."

They sent him home eventually, with a walking frame, and Ron wondered how much time they thought he had.

5.

He tied his own shoes for the first time in six months on the same day that Voldemort died forever.

6.

Hogwarts was familiar and strange in dizzying turns, worse than the Burrow had been, but worth suffering. Professor McGonagall lead him down a path he should've known, talking slowly, though his hearing was almost all back.

"Given the circumstances, Mr. Weasley, there's no shame in repeating the year."

"I want to do my NEWTs, Professor."

"I'm not sure you realize how far behind you are."

"Hermione can help me."

They came to the doors of the hospital wing and McGonagall stopped. "We've arranged for you all to have some extra weeks to prepare, on account of...events," she said gravely. "Further exceptions to regular procedure would badly devalue your scores."

Ron tried to sort this out, gave up, and shook his head. "I want to take the exams with the rest of my year, Professor."

"You will have no second chance, if you're not ready." But he shook his head again, and she sighed. "Very well. But you are free to change your mind at any time." And she opened the hospital door.

Harry's bed was at the end of the ward and the curtains around it were thick and forbidding; he stood outside them for several minutes, breathing deeply and cursing his ridiculous nerves before he pushed them aside. It was dimmer on that side, and his eyes wouldn't adjust, so his first impression was a sudden shriek as Hermione nearly bowled him over.

"Oh, Ron, you're back!" she wailed, and for once he was glad for her rib-crushing hugs, because he needed the time to get his balance back.

"I'm back," he said finally, and squeezed her shoulders; she was warm, wonderfully warm, and he could press his face into her billowing hair and feel it all soft and tickly on his lips and cheeks. His nose didn't work too well anymore, but he remembered her smelling like ink and soap and some very faint herbal shampoo. A nice smell; a good memory.

Hermione pulled back and grinned at him. "Ginny said you were coming up for a visit, Harry will be so pleased, or he would be, he's sort of asleep, but I can wake him up, he'll be so happy, come here—" She dragged him to the bed, and Ron got his first good look at Harry, a pale bump under pale sheets. Hermione conjured a chair next to hers and leaned over the bed, brushing black hair off Harry's white face. "Harry? Wake up. You've got a visitor..."

Ron held his breath, though he wasn't sure why.

Harry stirred, twitched, blinked sleepily. His eyes were still that shocking green, and that was somewhat reassuring, that he hadn't faded out completely. He squinted at Hermione, then smiled weakly, and wrapped his thin pale fingers around her hand. "Hey."

Hermione's smile got broader. "Hey yourself." Ron watched her squeeze Harry's fingers, gently, though even that slight pressure looked like it might snap them. "Look who's here."

Hermione pointed at him with the hand not in Harry's, and Harry squinted across the dim divide. Ron took a step closer, hoping he came into better focus, and cleared his throat. "Hey, mate."

Harry stared at him for so long that Ron wondered if he'd been forgotten, put out of mind while he was out of sight. He watched the green eyes squint for a moment, blink, go wide. Then Harry dropped Hermione's fingers and started pushing at the mattress, trying to sit up. "Ron," he said, barely in a whisper, but it sounded like music all the same.

Hermione clucked her tongue, and helped him up, rearranging the pillows to support him. "He came up for a visit, just like Ginny said."

"Not a visit," Ron said, because it was the only thing he could think to say with the way Harry was staring at him, and the inexplicable crawly feeling in his own guts. "I'm—I came up to sit the NEWTs. With the rest of you."

Hermione blinked at him, but didn't hesitate to sit next to Harry on the edge of the bed, one hand on his shoulder. "You're—well, that's wonderful, Ron, but are you sure that's a good idea? You missed so much..."

"I want to," he said firmly.

"I see." Hermione looked at him, then broke into another bright grin. "It'll be wonderful having you back." Ron felt himself grin back and looked away, wondering why he felt so shy.

Then Harry said, "You look..." but didn't finish, and Ron remembered why. He touched his hair self-consciously, then his face.

"It's...it was a side effect," he said.

They both nodded, sitting on the bed together, and him in the chair, and he felt silence settling between them dig in deep, grow barbs and thorns. He studied them out of the edge of his vision, the thinness of Harry's face and the stubble that shaded his jaw; the dark smudges under Hermione's eyes and the tangles that needed to be brushed from her hair; the way their hands touched gently on top of the sheets, then wove together in a pattern of fingers that looked very, very, well-rehearsed. There was a little crease between Hermione's eyes, and she was looked back and forth, and back and forth between the silent boys, as Harry stared and Ron averted his eyes. Harry started to open his mouth to say something, and Ron opened his mouth to stop him, because he knew it and he didn't want to hear it. It was obvious and it was inevitable and he couldn't quite deal with it yet.

"W—"

"D—"

The curtains burst aside with a clatter, and the sudden flare of light made Ron's eyes burn. Madame Pomfrey's voice: "Well, it's nice to see you awake, Mr. Potter. It's time for your afternoon treatment."

It was Hermione who said "Yes, Madame Pomfrey," and took Ron's hand. He let himself be pulled to his feet while he blinked away the spots, and slowly made out the nurse with a tray full of potions holding the curtain aside. And Hermione bending over the bed to kiss Harry, oh so chastely, square on the lips.

Ron hurried out, so quickly he got dizzy and had to lean on a bed. He didn't want to turn around when her felt Hermione touch his shoulder. "Ron, are you—?"

"I'm fine," he said. "Fine." He squinted in the brightness of the ward. "You...I didn't know."

"I thought you did."

"You didn't write."

She flinched. "I'm sorry. I thought...I thought Ginny would mention it."

He nodded. Of course. Because they'd had more important things to do. Out of sight and out of mind. "Congratulations," he said, surprised he could do it so calmly. "I—I need to unpack."

7.

He looked at himself in the mirror that night, after enduring the welcome and jokes of his housemates and friends.

Hair: still fiery red but flecked and streaked with white. A lot of it had fallen out, they said, because of the poison, and this was how it had grown back. It made him look old, older than his parents, older than even he felt.

Chest: thin, hollow, so that if he sucked in his breath he could poke his fingers up under his ribs. The healers had prescribed exercise, but he didn't know what they meant him to do when he still could lose his balance standing still. There was a livid mark near his armpit where they'd had to cut out the poisoned dart (they said), the dart he had (according to stories) intercepted, thus (allegedly) saving the life of the Boy Who Lived. It ached a little sometimes, though it was meant to be healed.

Face: thin and freckled and rough. The poison had opened some fierce sores, and the marks were still dark on his cheeks and forehead and nose. His teeth had fallen out, too, according to the twins, but the healers had put them back in so he really couldn't tell. He shaved every day so the white stubble wouldn't show on his jaw.

Eyes: It was funny, but he couldn't remember what color his eyes had been. He supposed he'd never paid that much attention; funny that he could lose something so personal, such a big part of himself. Now they were gray, almost colorless, from the action of the poison. He could see again, or well enough, but there were a few things the healers hadn't been able to put right. Not that it really mattered, either way.

He had other scars on his body, some he remembered and some he didn't, recent and old. Some were beneath the surface, like the ones that made his joints ache or his hands shake or the words in his head scatter and melt. He had never been handsome; now he was worse. But he was alive, and so was Harry. And they were happy. Without him.

Dean and Neville came upstairs and Ron buttoned his pyjamas, then pulled on an old jumper and an extra pair of socks. Neville frowned at him. "It's the middle of summer, Ron," he said.

"I'm cold," Ron muttered, and pulled the duvet up over his head.

8.

Before breakfast that morning he went back to see Harry and found Hermione sleeping on an extra bed. She stirred when he tried to slip by, but didn't wake, and he couldn't decide whether to be grateful.

Harry was awake already, though, and blinking without enthusiasm at a bowl of porridge. "Hullo," Ron said. He didn't come closer than the edge of the curtains.

"Hullo," Harry said. He glanced up at Ron and cringed a little before looking away quickly. He poked his spoon into his porridge, and it stuck perpendicular to the tray. "Did you, er, sleep all right?"

"Yeah." Ron looked at the chair next to the bed, Hermione's chair, and didn't sit. "D'you know she's—?"

"Yeah," Harry said quickly. "I know."

"Just checking."

They watched the spoon slowly sink to the edge of the bowl.

"I want to ask you something," Ron said finally, forcing each word out past his own pride.

Harry really cringed then, and a light pink blush began to creep up his neck. "Sure."

"I want to know the truth."

"Go ahead."

He took a deep breath. "Did I—I mean—in the hospital they told me I saved you."

Harry looked up sharply and blinked at him for a moment, mouth hanging open just a sliver. "What?"

"In the hospital," Ron hurried on, "and my parents, and—I don't remember, things, a lot of things, from before the...from before. And in the hospital they said I was a hero, but I...don't...remember..."

Harry pushed his tray down the bed and pulled his knees up, looking less upset and more wary. "What are you asking?"

"Did I really save you?"

"Don't you think you would've?"

No, Ron wanted to yell, that was the point; he would do anything for Harry, even die. He would suffer this poison ten times over if it spared Harry a hangnail. But Harry was the one who did the saving, and Ron was the bystander, more often than not in the way. "The healers called me a hero. That...doesn't sound right."

Harry laughed, a sort of bitter painful laugh Ron remembered a little too well. "Since when did you become so modest?"

"What really happened, Harry?"

"You did." He didn't meet Ron's eyes, but he sounded honest, and Ron trusted Harry never to lie to him, not about something this important. "You took that dart for me."

"Jumped in front of you an all?"

"No." Harry's voice seemed to catch a bit. "You were guarding my back."

That sounded better, he supposed, but still not quite right. Maybe it would never seem real. But there was one other question Ron needed to ask, and after this one he didn't think it'd be quite so bad. "I'm supposed to go back to classes today, you know."

"Sounds like fun."

"Do you know my schedule?"

9.

"Well, you knew you had loads to catch up on."

"Not...not this much."

"Do you still want to do it?"

"I want to try."

The library was full of other seventh-year students revising, and the way they stared made Ron's skin crawl. Hermione dropped a stack of books in front of him. "One class at a time. This is Charms."

"I have to read all that?" he asked. Maybe he ought to just repeat the year then.

"Not all of it—here, I've marked pages—" Hermione passed him her notes, and he skimmed them, thankful that her handwriting was large and clear. Harry's diagram of Ron's schedule had been nearly illegible, but he'd been too ashamed to say so. "You can work off my notes, but don't just copy, you need to actually learn this, you know."

"Yes, mum," he grumbled.

Why did that make her smile?

He opened the first book and stared at the page; the printing was small and dense, and the letters seemed to crawl across the page as he watched. He rubbed his eyes; no luck.

"Are you all right?" Hermione asked, quill poised over a piece of paper.

He nodded. "Sure."

She wasn't convinced. "I'm going to make you some flash cards," she said. "Just ask if you need help with anything."

"All right." He looked back at the book. He looked at Hermione. And he put his finger to the page and started to read, one painful word at a time.

10.

When he had dreamed, before, Ron had dreamed of nonsense, silly things that meant nothing and were forgotten almost as soon as he woke. But after he was poisoned his dreams changed, as if his brain were using the hours of rest to sort out the shards of his memories.

So when he went to sleep he remembered just Harry's voice, hushed in a profound silence; but in his dreams he saw Harry in a puddle of moonlight, in pyjamas, in the dormitory. And Harry spoke to him, but he still couldn't understand the words; just Harry's voice, low and rough and desperate. And when he woke, he felt that something important was about to happen, but he had no idea what.

11.

Harry got out the next day, and as he walked the corridors people got out of his way. They veered aside to avoid getting near him; they stopped or backed up altogether so he could get through a tight spot. Ron thought it was funny, but when he tried to make a joke about it the words turned to mush in his mouth. The something of the Some Thing; he knew how the words went together but couldn't think of what they were. Harry didn't seem amused, anyway—he walked straight and face with his head down and his eyes fixed, and his fists jammed in his pockets so hard it seemed like a seam would burst. So Ron stayed silent, walking on Harry's left while Hermione walked on his right, making sure their friend didn't walk into a statue. Harry still looked sick and pale, but Ron was the one who had to stop twice because he was dizzy.

Ron watched Harry in the bathroom after that. Six months was a long time, measured in bodies; even thin and pale and bruised, Harry had broader shoulders than Ron remembered, and a new line of hair from his navel. He didn't remember Harry shaving, either, but now he did, with an old-fashioned straight razor that looked sharp enough to kill. Ron watched him shave and pretended he wasn't; he looked at the scars on his own body, and wondered if Harry was watching him.

"How was studying last night?" Harry asked. The bathroom had a funny echo that made him sound like somebody else.

Ron shrugged and dragged his safety razor down his face. It had taken him all night to read five pages. "It was all right."

"You going to study again tonight?"

It was a loaded question, but Ron didn't know why. "I am. Hermione can come if she wants."

"Just wondering."

Harry disappeared after classes, though, and Hermione found Ron in the library. He listened to her explain the Transfiguration text and pretended not to notice the redness in her eyes or the salty tracks on the sides of her face.

12.

And it continued like that for a while.

13.

Studying in the library again, and Ron's eyes were about to cross, and he wondered if they'd hurt less if they did. He had to keep stopping because the text went all swimmy and gray, but he had to finish this reading tonight if he wanted any hope of sticking to the schedule Hermione had made him. Who would ever have thought he'd try to follow one of her revising schedules?

But he couldn't; his eyes hurt too much, and the pain was spreading out into one hell of a headache, filling up the spaces behind his temples and the middle of his forehead. He dropped the book and rubbed his eyes, feeling them tear up, feeling them burn. Maybe he couldn't do his NEWTs this year. Maybe he shouldn't even bother.

"Ron?"

He looked up through a watery blur. Hermione was standing over him, looking concerned. "Hey," he said, blinking so it wouldn't look like he'd been crying.

"How are you doing?" she asked and put her hand on his shoulder. It was warm, even though his robes and shirt and jumper. "Have you finished reading for Defense yet?"

He wanted to say something sarcastic or funny or nonchalant, but he couldn't find the words; instead he rubbed his eyes and tried not to let his shoulders slump. "Not yet."

"How far are you?" She leaned over, so her hair brushed his face.

"Um...this page." He pointed at the left-hand one.

"How far down?"

He made himself look, but he couldn't possible follow those little words, couldn't possible draw meaning out of them. "I don't know."

"Oh, Ron." He felt Hermione rub his shoulders and his neck with her warm little hands. It felt good, and that made him feel vaguely guilty. "Is it just your eyes?" she asked. "Or can't you read it at all?"

"Yes. No. I don't know."

She squeezed "You should've told me."

"I didn't—I wanted to try." He took a deep breath and shrugged her off. "I still want to try."

Hermione sat down, not in her usual seat on the other side of the Great Wall of Textbooks, but right next to him, on his right. She laid one of her hands over his and hissed. "You're freezing."

"Sorry."

"Here." Hermione pulled the book over so it rested between them both. "What did you leave off on?"

"Umm..." Ron racked his brain. "Blocking curses. The differences between a shielding charm and a...a..." The word failed him. "Between scuto and..." Damn it, why couldn't he think?

She understood, though; she nodded, and scanned the page. "All right. Listen carefully. 'A shielding charm, incantation protego, is effective against most kinds of jinxes...'"

Ron shut his eyes and braced his head in his hands, and Hermione read him the entire chapter. He wasn't sure he learned much about blocking curses, but he remembered an awful lot about her.

14.

"Let's go flying," Harry said after Charms. He sounded determined, though he didn't look up from his shoes, and though his shoulders were square he rocked on his feet like a sapling in the middle of a storm.

Ron should've been parked in the library for another three hours, but he took one look at Hermione and knew how they were spending the afternoon. "Sure," he said.

"I'll come, too," she said quickly.

Harry shrugged without looking. "If you want."

They dumped their books and grabbed their brooms, and marched out onto the Quidditch pitch in the sunlight. Ron wasn't sure he could still sit a broom properly, but for Harry he would try. Hermione borrowed Ginny's broom and nearly had to jog to keep up with the boys' longer legs. Harry kicked off without looking behind them, and with a deep breath and a prayer Ron mounted his Cleansweep and followed. Not high, not at first; it took a few minutes to assure himself he wasn't about to crash. Harry had soared straight up, and Hermione followed more slowly, clinging to the broom with a terrible grip. Ron rose to meet them, and for a while lazy circles above the castle grounds occupied most of his thoughts.

Then he got an idea, one that seemed too perfect to pass up on such a sunny day: he rose until he was flying just below Harry, and a little to the left. He reached up slowly and tugged on Harry's foot, not hard enough to unseat him or even make him wobble, but hard enough to get his attention. The moment Harry looked down at him, frowning, Ron smiled. "You're it."

He took off, and after a heartbeat Harry followed, with a laugh.

The game didn't last long; Hermione was no match for either of them, so once she became "it" they hardly had to work to keep away. Harry let her get close and then spun away, executing a tight, graceful turn that sent him sailing to the other side of the pitch. Ron rose up next to him, grinning, while Hermione struggled to find him, then catch up. "Nice one, mate."

"Thanks." But then Harry's eyes focused on something beyond Hermione, and his voice changed, getting rougher. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"What...how much do you remember?"

Ron frowned, groping for the words to explain it. "Most things," he finally said, "only a lot of them are...are in pieces, and they don't fit together yet, and some of them I don't think ever will."

Harry looked at him with that intensity that made Ron's heart race, but otherwise his face was expressionless. "Do you remember last Christmas?" he asked softly, very blandly.

Ron licked his lips and concentrated. "I think so," he said, slowly. "We stayed here, and Hermione gave us those hats, and—and Ginny had that miserable cold—"

Harry's expression didn't change, but his fists clenched on the broomstick, and something in his eyes flickered and went dark. Ron groped for more details, for more memories, because there was something Harry wanted to hear, but for the life of him he couldn't think what it was, and it seemed very important to give Harry the answer he was looking for.

But in the next instant Harry was gone, soaring up and up and up in a tight spiral, leaving him. Ron panicked and tried to follow, shouting Harry's name. He didn't know what he'd said wrong, he didn't know what he'd been meant to say, but he needed to find out or apologize or something because he needed Harry to be okay. He went up, and up, pushing his broom faster the further his friend's back slipped away, leaning low over the handle and reaching with one arm for the twigs that he couldn't quite catch. He was so intent on catching up he didn't notice the colored stars in his eyes, not until the first wave of dizziness hit. He tried to level off and stop, but everything was tilting, and it was all he could to keep his grip—

And then something hit his side, hard, the only thing that kept him from toppling down to the grass. He clung to his support and felt a trembling shape pressed against his body, clinging back, while he waited for the earth and sky to sort themselves out. When he could open his eyes again, he turned his head and there was Harry's, it was Harry he was leaning on, arms entwined, and the inexplicable familiarity of it hit him like a train.

But then Harry's expression switched to rage from anxiety and pushed Ron away—not hard, not enough to unseat him, but hard enough to make a statement. "What the hell were you doing?" he demanded. "What the hell did you think you were doing?"

"I just got dizzy," he stammered, still confused. "I—you seemed—I wanted to—"

"You stupid ass," Harry snarled, "flying like that, you knew you could've fallen, you could've been killed—"

"I was trying to catch up to you," he said.

Harry flinched like he'd been hit and released Ron's arm. He didn't say anything, just gripped his own broom and dove, landing hard and nearly running back towards the castle. Ron watched him and cursed himself, his sickness, his stupidity. He shouldn't have even bothered, he should've left it all up to Hermione...

But she was climbing up to see him, not chasing Harry back inside. He tentatively dipped his broom down to meet her. "All you all right?" she asked, wobbling a little as she reached for him.

"I'm fine," he said quickly, "I just got dizzy."

"You nearly fell."

"Really, I hadn't noticed." She flinched. "Sorry."

She shook her head. "Don't worry. I'm used to it."

From Harry? he wanted to ask, but he couldn't. They didn't talk about that around each other. "Did something happen over Christmas?" he asked instead, because it was the next most important thing.

She frowned. "Nothing that really stands out—what happened, anyway? Why did Harry take off like that?"

He peered over the edge of the stands; at that distance, things got a little fuzzy, but he could make out a little figure with a broomstick plodding across the grounds. Or maybe he was imagining one. "I don't remember."

14.

So he asked Ginny. He didn't tell her why, just asked her what she remembered about Christmas.

"Well, Hermione made everyone those horrible hats, and I was really sick almost the whole holiday, and Neville gave me that locket but I had to tell him I didn't like him like that, so Luna ended up trying to set him up with Susan Bones, but Susan liked Anthony Goldstein then, so she said..."

He asked Neville, as the only other boy in their dormitory who had stayed.

"Well...uh...I sort of...I tried to ask y-your sister out but she said she didn't like me...and you tried to teach me to play chess...and Hermione gave everyone, um, hats...and Sally-Ann Perkins and Susan Bones tried to duel in the Great Hall on Boxing Day..."

He asked Luna.

"Well, Hermione gave me that lovely tea cozy, and there was a sighting of a Triple-Tongued Tree Whump in Badcaster..."

He eventually asked Hermione again, and she frowned at him over the Great Wall of Books and told him he should concentrate on reading. Then she thought about it. "Well, I know I made everyone a hat because I didn't have enough wizard money to shop for presents, and Ginny was sick, and Neville asked her out...and that was when Sally-Ann Perkins started dating Anthony Goldstein..." She shrugged. "I can't think of anything important enough to upset Harry like that."

"You're sure?" he asked.

"Positive."

He sighed and fought through another page of reading before his eyes wouldn't focus anymore; then Hermione came around the side and read to him some while he tried his best to take notes. When it got close enough to dinner she marked the page and patted his hand. "I think we've done enough of Charms for tonight."

"Thank God."

He tried to rub his eyes, but Hermione wouldn't let go of his one hand; instead she squeezed it a little and looked at it. "I don't understand why your hands are always so cold."

"Side effect," he mumbled. He tried to pull it back.

But Hermione folded his big knobby hand between hers and held it, rubbing his fingers until the blood began to flow and he absorbed the warmth of her skin. Ron watched, and tried to breathe normally, and willed his pulse to behave itself and slow. And when she stopped, her cheeks were flaming pink, and she didn't seem comfortable looking up.

"We should get to dinner."

"Yeah."

They sat across from Harry, and for once Ron thanked God that he hardly looked up while he ate, and slipped out early without saying hardly a word. The rest of the evening he kept his hand in his pocket, or folded near his heart, to savor the warmth while it lasted.

15.

He dreamed again, and this time he groped for details, half-conscious, desperate. But all he could see was Harry in the moonlight, his smudged and needy eyes, the parted curtain; all he could hear was the raw edge in Harry's voice, not the words that he said. Fragments, shards that might not ever fit together. It was driving him mad.

He watched Harry shave in the morning and thought about it all. He thought he could remember Christmas, and most of the days after, though the ones leaving up to the attack were rather foggy and fractured. There were some things he knew he had forgotten, because he could feel the blank spot where he knew the memory, the information, ought to be. But what if he had forgotten something so thoroughly there was no blank, just a continuous void? Was that the same as never having known it in the first place? Would he even be aware it was forgotten?

What color had his eyes been before?

He watched Harry shave and rinse the soap from his razor, and felt the tension spiral in in his chest and gut. Harry had told him something over Christmas. Ron had forgotten. Maybe he'd forgotten worse or bigger things because of the poison, but he shouldn't have forgotten this, because Harry had trusted him, because it had been important...but Ron had forgotten. He had saved Harry's life and failed him anyway. Now that sounded more like his life.

16.

"Let me see what you've written down."

"I've written down everything you said!"

"Let me see it."

"Look, Hermione, I'm telling you, I never learned this stuff—"

"We had it just last year!"

"Well I don't remember."

Hermione looked up from Ron's notes, and her shoulders sagged. "I'm sorry," she said a bit stiffly. "Let's go over it again."

Ron picked up his wand with his jaw clenched. It wasn't his fault Hermione had come into the library angrier every evening—the NEWTs were bearing down on them, he was badly unprepared, and their study sessions were going longer and more desperate. And Harry had been disappearing more often than ever, even skipping two classes in the past week, never saying why.

Well, Ron could guess why; but he didn't know what he could do about it. He'd already messed things up for Harry enough.

So he erased his notes and started again, and tried to listen to Hermione this time. Really listen. But the words got all muddled and she was talking too fast and she didn't let him get a question in—he wrote down what he heard and tried to keep up and waited. And then she snatched his paper away and read it again and wailed. "Ron, this doesn't even make sense!"

"I'm sorry!"

"Do you at least understand the theory?"

"I think Snape's trying to sabotage us," he said, throwing down his quill. "Putting stuff on the exam he never even covered—"

"He did so cover this, now pay attention!"

"I'm tired!" he roared. "We've been at this for hours!"

"Come on, Ron, it's not that difficult."

"Maybe not for you."

"It shouldn't be for you either!"

He pushed away from the table and glared at his feet. "I give up. I quit"

"You're just not trying!" she shouted, and then burst into tears.

Ron didn't know what to do—he never had—but he wasn't sure he could take an insult from a hysterical woman. He stepped around the table and patted her back, and sat down when she just kept on sobbing. It was a good thing the library was nearly empty this hour—Madame Pince probably would've thrown them out for moistening school property or something. He rubbed Hermione's back, and when that didn't help he stretched his arm around her shoulders and squeezed. "Hermione," he said. "Don't—please—" The words, where were the words for this sort of thing? Had he ever know them?

She sniffled thickly and leaned into his arm. "I'm sorry," she said, "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it."

"I know," he said, and brushed back her hair.

"It's just—he's so stupid," she wailed. "He won't talk to me, he won't explain anything, I've tried, I try to make him talk about it, believe me...there was so much blood, Ron, he was just covered in it, but he won't talk to anyone and I don't know what to do."

"Maybe he doesn't need to talk," Ron said. "Maybe he just needs to be alone for a bit."

"B-but I'm his girlfriend," she said weakly.

It was the first time any of them had dared utter the word. Ron swallowed the lump in his throat. "Maybe—maybe you can't—"

She sobbed again. "I thought—when you got hurt and they thought you might die he did this, he just folded up on himself, and I didn't know what else to do so I kissed him, and he got better for a while," she almost whispered. "But he won't even look at me now, he won't let me t-touch him, and I'm s-s-scared..."

"Scared of what?"

She screwed her eyes shut. "Scared he's going to leave. Scared he's going to...oh, Ron, what's wrong with me? Why can't I help him?"

He stroked her hair, realized he had been stroking her hair, because it was soft and frizzy and he thought he could faintly smell her herbal shampoo. "It's not your fault," he said.

"I f-feel so...helpless..."

Ron hugged her, and she was warm all over, and he was almost positive he was smelling her shampoo; she sniffled a little more on his shoulder but seemed to have stopped really crying. He held her and petted her hair, and gave her a handkerchief so she could blow her nose. And he really should have let go, then, because she had stopped crying and she belonged to Harry and whatever else he'd screwed up, he didn't want to ruin this for them.

Instead he kissed her; kissed her hair, and then her forehead, and then her cheeks and her nose and then her mouth. He kissed her, and more than that, she kissed back, clumsy and needy and close in his arms. Something about this felt easy, almost familiar, but still strangely new and fresh and exciting. Even if her face was salt-wet and her upper lip had a little snot on it, it was good and pleasant and warm.

And he pushed her away.

"No."

"No."

"We can't."

"Not to Harry."

They looked at each other in silence for a while.

Ron swallowed. "I think we both need a break."

"Yes," she nodded. "I think we're done for the evening."

But he couldn't help walking a little too close, couldn't help brushing their fingers a bit. He went to his dormitory and got into bed, and couldn't help thinking about the smell of her hair and the softness and strength of her mouth, of her hands. He put on extra socks and long underwear and dug out his extra sheets, but he couldn't help thinking about how when he'd been holding her, he'd been warm.

17.

It turned out it didn't matter much either way. In the morning, Harry was gone.

Ron noticed when he awoke that Harry's bed was made and the sheets were cold. He noticed that Harry didn't come to breakfast, but he was preoccupied with sitting across from Hermione. They were so busy pretending they had slept well and hadn't kissed, and at least in Ron's case that he didn't want to do it again, they both almost failed to notice his absence.

They couldn't overlook it in first period Potions, however. One snide comment from Snape and they were out the door, Hermione dragging Ron by his sleeve as she rattled off a list of places to look. They spent the first period searching the grounds, but even as prefects they couldn't just skip out on classes. Madame Pomfrey hadn't seen him and he wasn't in the Room of Requirment, or, if he was, they couldn't frame their requirements the right way to find him. After that they had to go to Charms, which was interrupted by a ten-minute lecture from McGonagall in the corridor about discipline and rules and respecting their faculty, even when it was Snape.

"But Harry's missing, Professor," Hermione said.

McGonagall went very still. "That is still no excuse."

They searched the grounds during their lunch period, even poking around the shattered stump of the Whomping Willow, but there was no sign of him anywhere. The afternoon was spent fidgeting through Transfiguration, and after that they were summoned to a special prefect's meeting. Harry still hadn't been seen and McGonagall was ordering a formal search.

Twenty-four prefects and the Head Boy and Girl couldn't find so much as a strand of black hair.

18.

"It's pointless anyway," Hermione said later in the Common Room, with a quiver in her voice. Lots of people had joined the search after dinner, but nothing had turned up, not a trace. "If he's wearing that bloody cloak, we could be standing right next to him and not see a thing..."

Ron's brain fired. Something about the cloak. Something important. "Hermione," he blurted, "What about the, the..." Damn it, not now...

She looked at him, and so did Ginny and Neville, and then suddenly half of Gryffindor was staring at him, waiting for him to get a word out. Not that there was any pressure. "The what?" Hermione prompted breathlessly. "Ron, what is it?"

He shook his head, grabbed her wrist, and charged up the boy's staircase. He got dizzy halfway up and nearly fell, but Hermione braced him and kept dragging him up even when he wasn't sure which way that was. They staggered through the dormitory door, and Ron threw open Harry's trunk. No cloak, but buried in the corner under jumpers and underwear and socks, pressed in the pages of an old photo album and unseen for years—

"The Marauder's Map," Hermione sighed, and helped Ron wrestle it out. "Of course."

He thrust his wand at the cracked parchment and stared for one horrible moment before he remembered what to swear. He ignored the litany of dead names at the top of the page and focused on the castle and grounds as they were shaped by the crawling lines, looking, searching, for the name he needed to see—

"He's not here," Hermione moaned. "He's not at Hogwarts."

"No—" He was here, he had to be here, it had to be all right. "Hermione, the, the, the room, it's not on this map. The Rr...the Room of..."

"We already looked there—"

"Then look again."

He shoved the Map at her and she almost fell over, and stared at him. "A-aren't you coming?"

No, because he'd already fouled things up enough. "You're his girlfriend," he muttered.

"You're our best friend."

"I let him down," he said, staring at his hands, "I forgot...whatever."

Hermione made a sound like a boiling kettle. "Ron, that's not your fault and you know it! And Harry should, and if he's pig-headed enough to think—" She bit down on the words, then tugged on his sleeve. "Let's go."

Ron went.

They raced to the Room and paced in front of its door. He wasn't sure what Hermione was thinking, but Ron repeated in his head, I have to find Harry. I have to talk to Harry. Three times, back and forth, then he popped open the door and stepped into an empty, rather cold and unpleasant room. There was no fire in the hearth and no rugs on the floor, just a big bare window filled with the light of the rising moon. They stepped inside and shut the door behind them.

"Harry," Ron said as firmly as he could, "we know you're here."

A slight echo, then silence. That didn't mean anything.

Hermione took a few steps past him, towards the light. "Harry?" she called softly. "Harry, talk to us, please."

Ron looked at the rectangle of light on the floor, and something tickled his memory. Harry's voice, Harry's desperate eyes. The recurring dream. He stepped forward, softly, and swept his hands through the air at waist level, until he felt a breath of warmth in the midst of the chill. He groped at the empty air until his fingers found slick fabric, and yanked it aside.

Harry sat on the floor with his knees drawn up, and his razor.

Nobody moved for a minute, nobody breathed, and then Harry suddenly hurled the razor into the shadows and buried his face in his knees. Hermione ran to him, wrapping her arms around him, and Ron took a step back, just outside the rectangle of light. He did nothing but watch as Hermione rubbed Harry's back and arms and face, until he uncurled and leaned against her, in her arms. They were perfect together, like that, and he backed away towards the door. If Hermione hadn't glared at him with the intensity of a basilisk, he would've left entirely; he didn't belong here, and he didn't want to see it.

"I wasn't really going to do it," Harry said suddenly, softly.

"You weren't?"

"I thought about it." Ron watched him shift against Hermione, try to curl closer, but she was smaller than him and couldn't support his weight that way. "I thought I should...but I couldn't do it." He chuckled bitterly. "If I'd wanted to die, I already missed my best chance."

Hermione squeezed him close as best she could. "Harry, talk to me. Please. Talk to us."

He shook his head, though, and pulled away. "You wouldn't understand."

"How do you know?"

"You've never—you're not murderers!"

"Murderer?" Hermione echoed. "You—Harry, you don't think really think that, do you?"

"I killed someone," he said. "I planned it and I did it and everyone keeps congratulating me for it."

Hermione shook her head and reached for him; he scooted away, out of the light. "Harry, this was a war," she said desperately. "You had to do it. You had no choice."

"There's always a choice."

"Think of all the people you saved—"

"No!" Harry climbed to his feet, clumsy with haste. "This wasn't about saving anybody! This is about everyone who got hurt, everyone who died because of me! Everyone thought I was this hero, this good person, they followed me—I murdered somebody, in cold blood, and I liked it."

Hermione's jaw dropped, and when she didn't respond right away Harry spun away from her and tried to flee. He ran smack dab into Ron. Ron didn't know whether to be outraged or hurt or shocked or what; he certainly didn't know what to say, or what he even could. He just but himself between Harry and the door, and when Harry struggled Ron pushed him back harder than he'd ever meant to. Harry stumbled a step and landed on his arse in the pale square of moonlight on the floor, looking equal parts mutinous and stunned.

And Hermione was there waiting for him. "Listen to me, Harry Potter," she said, puffed up from temper. "You are not solely responsible for every single person who was hurt or killed in this war. None of this was about you."

"Voldemort wanted to kill me."

"Voldemort wanted to kill lots of people!" Hermione shouted. She grabbed Harry's shoulder and shook it. "Do you think nobody would've fought him if you hadn't been around? Do you think Tonks or Remus or anyone else would've lived forever if he'd won? Do you think I would've survived? Or the Weasleys?"

Harry's eyes were huge, and his mouth hung slack for a moment. "You—people died because of me," he said weakly. "Sirius—"

"Sirius loved you," Hermione said. "We all love you. That's why we protect you, you stupid stubborn—boy! And it's got nothing to do with your being a hero, it's because you're Harry."

"I'm a murderer," he repeated dully.

"Good!"

They all sat and stared for a minute. Harry stared at the floor without blinking, hands curled into fists, and if Ron watched them hard enough he thought they were shaking. Hermione crawled forward; Harry scooted backwards, away from the touch. Before he could escape, Ron took a deep breath and knelt behind him, cutting off escape. Harry was shaking a little, and he nearly jumped out of his skin when Ron put his hands on his shoulders, holding him in that pale patch of light a little longer. Harry tried to shrug him off, but Ron held on, until the smaller boy stopped struggling and sagged against him.

It seemed forever until Harry finally looked up, meeting Hermione's eyes. "You really don't care?"

She smiled a bit wanly. "Harry, I would've gotten upset if you hadn't killed him."

He squeezed his eyes shut and looked down. "I don't think I can do this."

"Do what?" Hermione scooted closer until she was kneeling in front of the boys, and reach out to Harry. "Harry, please, talk..."

"I don't know if I can do this," he blurted. "I don't know if I can be this...this thing everyone wants me to be, because they're congratulating me and they're afraid of me...maybe you don't care, but everyone else does, I can see it when they back away from me, like I'm...contaminated, like they can see the blood..." He pressed his face into his hands and sighed, almost shivering. "I just want to forget everything. I want to go some place where I don't have to think, or feel, or see, or remember..."

Ron moved his hand up to Harry's neck, and for once, the words came fine. "No, you don't, Harry," he said softly. "You don't."

Harry looked up at him like he was seeing Ron's face for the first time, blinked like an idiot. "I don't know what to do," he said desperately.

Ron stared at the moonlight and felt something stir, felt himself remember. He had been here before, only not; this wasn't the dormitory, but he knew the look on Harry's face, the half-shadow and the despair. He didn't remember the original words, but these sounded close enough; and for the first time he had some idea of what was supposed to happen next.

He curled his hand around the back of Harry's neck and kissed him. And remembered.

He remembered this, every part of this. He remembered the way Harry's mouth tasted and the contours of his face. He remembered the way their bodies fit together, the unexpected strength in Harry's hands, the feeling of another heart beating next to his. He remembered when to break off to breathe, and remembered the way Harry sagged against him, finally relaxed, so that his eyelashes brushed the side of Ron's neck.

Ron glanced up at Hermione, saw her face, and realized she didn't remember this at all.

There were no words; there was no time for words. He grabbed her hand and pulled her forward, but she was frozen, staring. He kissed her knuckles and rubbed his face against her fingers, holding her eyes, willing her to understand like she always did. He pressed her hand against Harry's, the one on his shoulder, and kissed Harry's temple. Please.

Harry looked up at Hermione, but there was barely time for him to register fear before she was with them, embracing them, kissing Harry's mouth while one hand twined in Ron's hair. And Ron nuzzled her hair, and smiled, because he really could smell her shampoo.

Hermione broke away and touched Harry's face, and he leaned over so her hand was trapped between his jaw and Ron's shoulder. "We'll help you, Harry," she said. "Just talk to us. Don't hide anymore."

"Okay," he said, and shut his eyes and sighed. "Okay."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

She looked at Ron, and he shrugged, though it jostled them all. He'd promised; they would have to hold him to it. Just not yet, though. Ron shifted Harry's weight until they were both comfortable, and Hermione squirmed until she could rub Harry's back and lean against Ron's shoulder. They kissed and touched and huddled together, and Ron smiled when realized that for the first time in months, he was warm.