RONALD WEASLEY FINDS HIMSELF IN A STATE OF TERROR. It isn't the normal terror, like when he finds a spider in the loo when he's just trying to take a piss in the middle of the night, or when he realizes he's forgotten about a homework assignment five minutes before he's due to go to that class.
This is real, heart-gripping terror. A terror that always lurks at the corners of his mind, that always haunts him in the darkest hours of night, that keeps him from sleeping properly. He feels like he's falling, falling, falling. He can't seem to grasp onto reality, the only real thing in the world the pillow that he currently holds to his chest like a lifeline, cerulean eyes endlessly searching the ceiling for answers.
In and out. In and out.
Shaky breaths stutter through his chapped lips, and he's left wondering when it'll all end. When he won't be waken from slumber with the images of the last few minutes of Fred's life floating about in his mind. When he'll never have to relive the moments of Hermione's torture at Malfoy Manor, never have to hear her echoing screams again. When he'll stop seeing the lifeless form of his best friend in Hagrid's arms.
In and out. In and out.
An almost-habit by now, he turns to look over to the bed a little ways away from his own, just to check and see that Harry's still there. He can see the small figure huddled underneath the burgundy comforter, his back to Ron as he sleeps silently. Although, something's different tonight. Harry's trembling, almost, his body tense, odd choking sounds escaping from his mouth.
He isn't the only one having night-terrors.
Ron swings his pale, freckled legs over the side of the mattress, a hand running through his rust-coloured hair as he rises to his feet. He slowly shuffles over to where Harry lays, a warm hand moving to cup over Harry's back. He's taken Harry by surprise, he can tell, as a sharp inhale is taken by the other boy. His hands fumble for his spectacles, blinking blearily up at Ron. Dark circles have taken up residence underneath Harry's viridian eyes, and he looks so tired.
"You okay, mate?" Ron questions, concerned, as he perches on the edge of Harry's bed.
"I keep seeing them. Everyone who died." Harry's voice is rough with sleep, but he looks wide awake, frightened. "Did I do this to them, Ron? Did I kill them?"
"No." Ron replies, and he takes a small note of how Harry seems to lean into his touch. "It wasn't your fault, Harry. I know that, even though we may remind you of this many times, you're still going to have that survivor's guilt. I understand. I keep seeing Fred dead, y'know? Hermione's torture. Your death. Sometimes I think, maybe if I'd been the one to get hurt or killed instead, things would be different. But they wouldn't. There'd still be a gap in the world, still be people hurting because of a loss."
"Deep." Harry says teasingly, though his laughter sounded weak. "I know you're right, Ron. But it's just . . . it's still so fresh. It's hard to forget something like that, especially since we're back at Hogwarts and all that. This is where it happened, y'know? I can still smell the blood. I can still hear the screams."
"So can I, mate. I lost a brother that night." Ron says quietly, looking away from Harry for a moment. "But hey, at least we can keep each other company, right? We aren't alone."
Harry nodded, but neither of them made a move. Just as Ron was about to get up and head back to his own bed, Harry's hand enclosed around his wrist.
"Would you stay? Just until I go to sleep." Harry looks a bit embarrassed, to be asking such a thing of his best friend.
"Uh . . . sure, yeah. I will." Ron replies, scooting a bit closer to Harry as he began to rub his hand over the other boy's back.
Harry put his glasses aside and laid back down with a quiet sigh, his eyes shutting as he made himself comfortable. He was back asleep within a few minutes, and Ron almost didn't feel like going back to his own bed. But no, this was awkward. He wouldn't want Harry to wake up and see him there. Then they'd both get embarrassed.
Ron gets up and heads back to his bed, watching Harry sleep soundly for a minute or two before turning to lay on his stomach, an arm propped underneath the pillows as he shut his eyes. A small part of him yearned to have Harry next to him, but he quickly stamps it down.
What kind of a best friend would he be if he asked something like that?