(Remember, these boys are not mine. I love them dearly, but I had no part in their creation whatsoever. I'm just a person who takes them and makes JK Rowling claw her hair out and say, "Darn you, that's not what my characters are supposed to be doing, you bad slash writer, you!")

Ron didn't know what to do.

It had been nearly a month since that disastrous event at the Ministry of Magic. Twenty-seven days since he had hopped on a thestral and flown for who knows how far without ever seeing his mount. Nearly 648 hours since they had entered and reentered all those rooms. It had been almost 38,880 minutes since Sirius had died.

Yet Ron still didn't know what to do.

He kept quiet at first. Harry wasn't ready to talk, or so Hermione said. They needed to give him space; they needed to give him time; he was under lots of emotional stress, Ron, and I'd expect you to know that.

So Ron kept quiet when Harry came to visit that summer. It wasn't like he had to work at it; Harry mostly kept quiet, too. Sure, there were times when they flew over the lake with the summer sun hot on their backs and the wind in their faces that felt almost like normal. Harry would laugh and look back at Ron as his Firebolt outstripped Ron's Cleansweep. Ron would marvel at the simple joy Harry found in flying, the joy Harry found in doing nothing but soaring around and around in wide, looping arcs, and he would think everything would be okay again.

But the nights were different.

On Harry's third night at The Burrow, Ron realized he wouldn't be sleeping straight through the night anymore. Gone were the days of happy snores and dreams of chocolate éclairs. His own nightmares woke him first, but then he could never fall back asleep. Harry was always tossing and turning on the camp bed, and Ron would hear him mumbling in his sleep.

Ron didn't know what to do the first time it happened, so he tried letting Harry get through the dream. He sat in the blue moonlight and watched as Harry twitched under his blankets. Drops of sweat dripped slowly down his face, and his mouth kept forming a word over and over: Sirius, Sirius, Sirius, Ron realized.

The next night, Ron still didn't know what to do, so he tried waking Harry. Instead of helping, it seemed to make the dream worse; Harry began to shudder violently under his blankets. He didn't stop for an hour. As the days passed, Ron learned that Harry would shake for one hour and seventeen minutes if touched. Ron stopped touching Harry.

So when Ron counted to fifty-two minutes and twenty-nine seconds on the twenty-seventh night since— Well, Ron couldn't take it anymore. He was sick of not knowing what to do. He was tired of watching Harry relive his nightmare every night. He just couldn't take it anymore.

Ron lightly leapt over the clutter on his floor and stood next to Harry's bed. He wondered briefly if Harry would object, but he shoved the thought aside and bent over. He carefully disentangled Harry from the twisted, sweat-soaked blankets and picked him up. Harry was alarmingly light and far too easy to carry back to the bright orange bed.

Slowly, gently, Ron eased Harry onto the sheets. He hesitated and then climbed in next to him. He awkwardly wrapped his arms around his friend and pulled him close. He froze as Harry stirred. His heart began to pound when Harry's eyes cracked opened. How could he explain this? But Harry didn't seem to need an explanation. He simply closed his eyes and buried his face in Ron's neck. A soft, contented sigh drifted upwards as Harry fell back asleep.

Ron hugged Harry tighter and began to fall asleep himself. He realized as his eyes slowly flickered shut that maybe he did know what to do after all.

A cool breeze drifted in through the window, an owl hooted in the distance, and the boys slept.