Other Waters

by Mad Maudlin

10.

Preparing for Ron's imminent arrival felt a bit like preparing for a visit from some important head of state...or possibly a date, which was not a line of thought Harry wanted to spend any amount of time pursuing. He spent Saturday cleaning his flat from top to bottom under the watchful eye of Mrs. Weasley, who seemed to be venting her anxiety about the whole situation through obsessive nitpicking and repeated scouring of the toilet. The better part of the afternoon was spent trying to acquire appropriate furniture for the second bedroom, which he had heretofore been using for miscellaneous storage. The Weasleys donated a bed and chest of drawers from their attic, but since there were few Muggle or magical means to transport them that would neither disturb Harry's neighbors nor take all night, the twins got the bright idea to shove them through the Floo. The bureau made it all right after they shrunk it a bit, but the bed got stuck halfway, and slightly singed.

Mrs. Weasley spent over an hour inspecting the bedroom to ensure it was clean and furnished up to her high standards, and insisted on decorating it with as many of Ron's old posters and pennants as she could fit on the walls. Harry, however, took these down again almost as soon as she'd left. No pressure, he reminded himself, stacking everything neatly on top of the bureau. Let him decide what he wants. The words had quickly become his mantra for anything to do with Ron. Let him decide for himself.

Sunday morning Harry checked and re-checked the tiny second bedroom, and for the first time he was touched with nerves. If Ron didn't start to improve here, if he simply didn't like it...or if he brought up that embarrassing excuse for a kiss—if he asked about that, Harry still wouldn't have any answers for him. Despite thinking about Hermione's words for several days, he couldn't untangle the way he felt—just that thinking of Ron, being around him, made him feel incredibly happy and fiercely protective by turns. And somehow he didn't think Sorry, mate, but you just give me a warm fuzzy feeling would do anything to reassure Ron or improve their friendship. Perhaps if he just didn't say anything, they could both forget about it. Wasn't it Hermione's opinion that he needed to move on? This could be the place to start...

Harry grew increasingly nervous as the clock ticked towards noon, the hour at which Ron would officially be discharged. At quarter to twelve he gave up on all pretenses and Apparated over to the hospital, slipping into the lobby from the street entrance. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were already there, filling out a high stack of discharge papers. They greeted him distractedly as he approached. "You're here a bit early, aren't you, dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked as she filled in Ron's height, weight and Hogwarts house on Form 3094-G.

Harry shrugged awkwardly, feeling out of place. "Better than being late," he mumbled. "Need any help?"

Mr. Weasley looked at Form 532 Schedule Q, slowly ticking his own nose with the end of his quill. "No, no, I think we have it all in hand..." He paused, and sneezed. "It'll just be a minute or two, I'm sure."

"Why don't you go up and let him know we're all here?" Mrs. Weasley suggested, filling in something that looked suspiciously like an astrological chart on the back of a form. "He's probably wondering what's taking so long, the poor boy."

Harry swallowed. "They'll probably bring him downstairs any minute..."

"Not until we've gotten all the paperwork in order," Mr. Weasley said, betraying a bit of frustration. "Go on, I'm sure he'd like to see you."

"Gonna be seeing plenty of me soon," Harry said with a bit of a shrug, but the Weasleys were clearly engrossed by the paperwork, and frankly the thought of lingering down there indefinitely to wait made Harry's stomach churn. He and Ron were going to have to deal with one another anyway; there was no point in delaying the inevitable.

Besides, if this wasn't going to work out, he'd rather find out sooner than later...

Harry made his way up to the Janus Thickey ward and waited outside the doors for what seemed like forever until a trainee Healer let him inside. Most of the beds were still swaddled in curtains—Harry supposed that the patients were allowed a bit of a lie-on on weekends. The trainee led Harry towards Ron's bed, saying in a low voice, "He might be having a nap, we just gave him his lunchtime potions. But he's all packed and ready, or nearly should be..."

"Has he been, y'know, okay?" Harry asked.

The trainee shrugged. "Depends on how you define it. Hasn't improved any that I can see, but he hasn't gotten any worse—slap a Calming Charm on him every couple of hours and he's no trouble at all."

"Right," Harry said, recalling what Neville had said about the Healers treating panic attacks. No wonder Ron wasn't getting any better in here.

The trainee jostled the curtains and peeked in, raising his voice just a bit. "Mr. Weasley?" he said. "You've a visitor."

Harry heard Ron grunt something vaguely, and the trainee stepped aside for him. Inside the curtains, he could see that Mrs. Weasley had once again done her work: another vase of daffodils decorated the nightstand, and a few photographs were tacked to the walls, with small holes showing where others had already been taken down. Ron, though dressed, was curled on the bed on his side, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, with a heavy suitcase at his feet. He looked like he'd gained a fair amount of weight back, and his hair and beard were properly trimmed, but his face still had that carefully blank expression that he showed in public and something about his pose made him look—vulnerable. Fragile. Sad.

Until he looked up and saw Harry, that is, and then he smiled—actually smiled. Harry's heart did a bit of a double-step. Cut that out, he told himself. "Hey, mate," he said awkwardly.

"Hey," Ron said; his voice was still thick with sleep. He sat up against the headboards and drew his knees up, not in a self-protecting gesture, but just enough to make room for Harry to sit down. "Come to fetch me home?"

"Not exactly," Harry said. "Didn't Madame Saxifrage tell you?"

Ron shrugged, and yawned. "Just said I was getting discharged."

Now or never, then. "She—she actually thinks that the Burrow was too stressful for you," Harry said quickly, "so—so you're going home with me. Erm. For a while."

Ron blinked several times, looking lost and confused. "With you?"

"With me." Harry swallowed. "If you want to."

Ron was silent for so long that Harry became positive Ron was going to reject him—no, no, that wasn't right at all, it wouldn't have anything to do with him personally, just with his flat. Or maybe it would be personal, if Ron was now afraid of being jumped on and snogged at any moment. If Ron no longer trusted him. But Ron suddenly nodded and said, "Yeah. Yeah, okay," in a surprisingly firm voice.

"It's okay?"

"Yeah." Ron flashed him another weak smile. "Weren't we going to flat together anyway, after everything else?"

Harry nodded, remembering. "We were both going to be Aurors," he said, as his anxiety gave way to a different kind of discomfort.

Ron nodded, and shrugged. "Reckon getting it half-right isn't too shabby."

The trainee stuck his head back into the curtains and cleared his throat. "Mr. Weasley, you're free to go now. I understand your parents are waiting in the lobby..."

So Ron sluggishly put on his shoes while Harry helped him gather the last of his things, and the three of them—Harry, Ron, and the trainee Healer—went down to the lobby in a group. They found Mr. and Mrs. Weasley at the desk, filling in a few final pieces of paperwork, but they both looked up and smiled when they noticed Ron's approach. Mrs. Weasley turned to meet her son, but she didn't hug him—Harry could tell from the jerky little half-step she made that she had stopped herself at the last minute. Instead she took his hand and squeezed it. "Hello, dear, how are you feeling?"

Ron shrugged. "Sleepy. Lots of potions."

"Did the Healers tell you that you're going to stay with Harry for a while?"

"I told him," Harry said as Ron nodded.

"Good, good." Mr. Weasley signed the last long scroll with a bit of a flourish and handed it back to the witch at the desk. "That's it, then," he said cheerfully. "Come along, Ron, let's go get you settled."

-/--/--/-

Ron's parents hung around for most of the afternoon, not doing anything in particular. Harry thought he could sort of understand why—being told you were a bad environment for your son was only slightly better than a kick in the teeth—but he was still relieved when they finally found their way home late in the afternoon. Mrs. Weasley left behind a large cauldron of stew, which by Harry's estimates would probably feed both him and Ron for the rest of the week, and cautioned him to make sure Ron ate properly—"And it wouldn't hurt to put some weight on yourself as well," she added, "and remind Ron that he can call us any time, we're just over the Floo, if her needs anything at all."

"I will, Mrs. Weasley," Harry said. "Don't worry about it."

She stared at him for a moment, then suddenly hugged him fiercely. "Take care of him, Harry," she whispered into his shoulder.

Harry patted her awkwardly on the back, looking to Mr. Weasley for help; he just held Mrs. Weasley's cloak and stood back, out of the way. "Of course I will," Harry said. "He's my friend."

Mrs. Weasley pulled away and wiped her eyes; Mr. Weasley passed her a handkerchief. "Of course you will," she repeated. "You're a good boy. You're both good boys..."

"Thank you for doing this for him, Harry," Mr. Weasley said earnestly. "I don't necessarily agree with Madame Saxifrage, but...we really do appreciate your willingness to help."

Harry shrugged, and shook Mr. Weasley's hand. "He's my friend," he repeated uselessly. I'd do anything for him.

When they had finally gone, Harry decided to check in on how well Ron was getting settled. Ron had holed up in his new room early on, claiming residual fatigue from the potions, and Harry was careful to knock, just in case—no need to startle him. Somewhat to his surprise, Ron called out, "Yeah?" which Harry took as permission to go inside.

Ron was sitting on the bed, staring at the opposite wall, where he'd hung a single photograph. It took Harry a moment to recognize it as the same photograph he himself had sitting on his nightstand: himself, Ron, Ginny and Hermione gathered in the common room, right before the end of sixth year and the beginning of...well, everything else. He cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable. "Er. All right, Ron?"

"Yeah," Ron said after a heartbeat. "Are they gone?"

"Yeah." Harry hesitated, then asked, "Where'd you find that?"

"The photo?" Ron shrugged. "It was in the scrapbook. Reckon Hermione got it mixed up with some other stuff and slipped it in on accident."

Part of Harry doubted that Hermione did anything accidentally, especially given the way her photographic alter-ego and the Ron in the picture were looking at each other. He remembered what she'd said a few days earlier, and felt a curious sort of sadness: so much had changed since those days, so much had been lost...his photographic self grabbed picture-Ginny about the shoulders and gave the camera a silly grin, sending her into a fit of giggles. It felt like he was watching a scene from someone else's life.

Ron stood and picked up another poster off the end of the bed, breaking Harry out of his reverie. "Give me hand hanging some of these up, will you?" he asked, carefully examining a creased corner.

"Sure—you want to hang all these?"

"Nah, just a couple..."

So they hung up posters the rest of the afternoon, and afterwards ate the stew sitting in on the couch, in front of the telly. Harry wasn't really certain what they were watching—some sort of a science fiction show from America—but Ron didn't ask more than a few cursory questions as he hunched over his plate. He did, however, have a second helping of the stew, and Harry tried not to read anything in particular into that.

-/--/--/-

The next morning Harry left Ron a note reminding him where everything was and when he'd get off work, and just before he Disapparated he gave into temptation to peek into the second bedroom. Ron was hopelessly tangled in the sheets and curled into as tiny a ball as his frame allowed, but sleeping calmly; the way he gripped the pillow was actually sort of cute.

Harry made certain to leave before that line of thought could progress any further.

He settled into his desk and began working through the morning's assignments—a stack of intercepted owl post that reach halfway up the cubical wall. The handwriting of the witch who'd sent them was so impossibly tiny and crabbed that it took almost all Harry's concentration to make out what was being said, let alone detect any codes or subterfuge spells. His nose was practically touching the parchment when he heard a loud cough behind him, and when he looked up he heard his own neck crack loudly.

With his glasses off he could scarcely see three feet in front of his face, but he had no trouble identifying his visitor by hair color alone. "'Lo, Tonks," he said. "Something come up?"

"Wotcher, Harry. Nah, just wanted to see how things were."

Harry rubbed his eyes and put his glasses back on. "Everything's fine with me. You?"

"Fine, fine...you know, if you keep reading like that your glasses will be the size of fishbowls by the time you're thirty." She conjured a large magnifying glass with an ornate wooden handle. "Try this, yeah?"

"Thanks," Harry said, wondering why he hadn't thought of it first.

Tonks hung around for a few moments longer, then asked again, "So everything's good?"

"Yeah, pretty much..."

"At home?"

"Er...yeah."

"Ron doing well?"

Harry frowned at her, cottoning on. "Did Kingsley send you?" he asked.

She sighed. "Yes and no. Look, the hospital notified us that Ron was leaving, and where he was leaving for—Kingsley asked them to."

Harry crossed his arms over his chest. "And what's Kingsley think of it?"

Tonks cracked a small smile. "Officially? He's got no opinion."

"Officially."

"'Cause him telling me in the breakroom that you're the one to handle Ron if anyone can, that isn't official-like."

Harry blinked at her. "He...he said what?"

"Well, not in so many words," Tonks said casually, "you know how he can be—but that's what he meant."

It was such an abrupt turn-around that for a moment Harry wondered if Tonks was just trying to cheer him up, or smooth things over in the office. But then Harry remembered that this was Kingsley—he was nothing if not practical. Aurors had training in how to handle violent or disturbed suspects, so if Ron did have another episode, Harry was best-qualified to deal with it—presuming he wasn't caught flat-footed again, as he had the night after the barbecue. "Thanks," Harry said, "I guess."

Tonks sat on the corner of the desk and lowered her voice a bit. "'Course, he also said he'd not sure if he'll ever be able to finish debriefing him..."

Harry flinched. "I get it, yeah."

"I know you've already taken your licks for that..."

Harry sighed and rubbed his eyes. "I just...look, Ron wants to continue if Kingsley does, and I suppose I...get to put up with it."

Tonks raised her eyebrows. "That's big of you, Harry. Almost objective, even."

"Ha, ha, ha," Harry said dourly. "Go ahead and let Kingsley know I've learned my lesson. Consider me recused and all that."

"Harry, I'm shocked," Tonks said, one hand flying to cover her heart. "You think I only came here to rub in a scolding you already took? I thought you knew me better than that."

"You said Kingsley sent you..."

"Yeah, but not for that." She hopped off the desk and leaned her elbows on it, bracing her hand on her chin. "I came because I thought it'd cheer you up to hear what Kingsley doesn't officially think."

"Which it did," Harry said. "Sort of."

"Only sort of?"

"Well, let's say it doesn't do anything to disprove my theory that Kingsley is slowly turning into Mad-Eye."

Tonks snorted. "I'll just tell him that, yes?"

"No no no—I just got back on his good side, didn't I?"

"Yes," Tonks said, "which brings me to point two—I also came because Kingsley wants to know whether you think Ron's up to another round of debriefing."

Harry blinked at her, again. She raised her eyebrows at him. "Excuse me?"

"He wants to know—they didn't get particularly far last time, see, so Kingsley's decided to hold off on another round until he knows it won't be a repeat performance. And you're the Ron expert here, yeah?"

"What do you mean, expert?"

"Well, you seem to get along with him better than anyone else dose right now..." Tonks dropped her voice. "And if you don't mind me saying it, you get along better with him than you do anyone else."

Harry felt his cheeks go red—was he that bloody obvious? "So we're mates," he said briskly. "Since when does that mean I have to report on him to my supervisor?"

"Kingsley wants to do his job properly without harming Ron any more than he already has been," Tonks said, "and he's asking for your help. If you're willing to do it."

Harry thought it over for a moment. "Have I really got a choice?"

"Well, he is staying in your flat, so I suppose you could barricade the door..."

Harry rubbed his eyes and sighed. He supposed he should look on the bright side—at least Kingsley was showing some kind of concern for Ron's well-being. Though it put Harry in an awful sort of bind...which, he realized, may have been exactly the point. "Look, tell Kingsley I'll let him—or you, I guess—I'll let whoever know," Harry said finally. "Ron's just moved in, I don't know if the hospital did him any good or not."

"Gotcha," Tonks said. "Trials aren't going to be for months, so it's not like there a rush—he's got all the time he needs. Wotcher, mate."

"See ya," Harry said vaguely.

Tonks popped out, then stuck her head around the edge of the cubicle. "And Harry? Good luck. To both of you."

"Thanks."

Harry had plenty of food for thought the rest of the day, quite aside from the task at hand, though he did make an appreciable dent in the stack. That evening he stopped off at a baker's and found a loaf of bread to go with Mrs. Weasley's leftover stew, and tried to tell himself that it didn't have anything to do with Ron—he just liked fresh bread, was all, it wasn't anything special. He Apparated to the roof of his building and entered the flat by the door, figuring it would startle Ron less; he wasn't entirely sure what to expect when he walked in, to be honest. Ron has seemed to be doing all right the day before, but he had still been under the influence of the hospital's sleeping potions and calming charms. How had he fared with a whole day to his own devices—not alone, because Harry had no doubt that Mrs. Weasley had stopped by at least once already—but nevertheless on his own?

Harry slipped into the flat and called out. He heard a vague grunt from the direction of the television. Poking his head around the corner, he saw Ron perched on the couch, transfixed by what appeared to be a Welsh-language soap opera of some sort. Harry hadn't even been aware that he got Welsh stations, but ever since he charmed the television to pick up Sky channels he hadn't always been able to predict its behavior.

"All right, Ron?" he asked.

Ron nodded, clutching a cushion to his chest. "Yeah, fine."

"Er...what is this?"

"No idea," Ron said, "but I reckon that bloke in the red jumper's been shagged the other bloke's wife—or maybe his sister—and they're about to—oh, look, there they go." A fight had erupted on the screen, accompanied by much incomprehensible shouting.

Harry took in the scene for a moment, then cleared his throat. "I'll just heat up the leftovers, then, shall I?"

"Sounds brilliant."

They ate stew and fresh bread in front of the telly, switching to another science fiction show when the soap opera went off, and afterwards they played a few brutal games of chess. Ron was almost silent the whole time, but it was a good sort of silence, in Harry's opinion: he was just listening, not hiding anything. And when he did speak up—

"Is being an Auror really that boring?"

"Well, it's not all midnight raids into Dark enclaves," Harry said, nudging a pawn forward.

"What, do you go after the makers of thin-bottomed cauldrons, too?"

Harry scowled and shoved a pillow at him. "Git."

"Wanker." Ron tucked the pillow behind his back and went on to checkmate Harry in three more moves. "Really, though, what do you do all day?"

So Harry found himself telling Ron about surveillance duty, paperwork, and Calhoun's habit of stealing food out of the breakroom. Ron actually listened, looking thoughtful, but whatever was on his mind, he didn't share it.

-/--/--/-

One day followed another, and Harry was rather proud of himself for being able to keep his promise to Hermione—there was no repeat performance of the kiss, or even the threat of one. It wasn't as if he and Ron were alone together, at least not all the time: Mrs. Weasley came by every day to fuss at them, and she usually brought meals, which filled the fridge faster than they could hope to eat them. Ron never actually avoided talking to his mum, but he never said much, and Mrs. Weasley didn't seem to know how to keep the conversation going.

Another afternoon, Hermione visited with a stack of dusty books in one arm. "Thought you could use the reading material," she told Ron. "It'll give you something to do, at least."

"Got the tellyfizzin," he said with a shrug, "and the wireless."

"If you sit and watch the telly all day your brains will rot out entirely," she informed him, placing the books on the (very clean) kitchen table.

"But if I'm reading all day I'll miss Eastenders," Ron said, perfectly deadpan.

Hermione blinked at him, and laughed almost nervously, as if she wasn't sure it was allowed. When Ron cracked a smile at her, she glanced at Harry, and he shrugged, trying not to say I told you so!

Before Hermione slipped out the door that day, she grabbed Harry's elbow and took him aside. "He looks well," she said warmly. "Really well."

Harry shrugged and looked at his shoes. "Yeah, well. Wish I could claim the credit."

"What about you?" she asked. "Are you...holding up?"

He glared at her. "Yes. I'm fine."

"Are you sure—?"

"Yes."

Because Harry was fine. Really. He and Ron were just like mates, mostly, and things were almost like Harry used to imagine they'd be after the war. They talked and watched television, they played chess and just sort of hung out. And if Harry occasionally felt a surge of more-than-brotherly affection; if he periodically had to step out of the room to maintain his self-control; if he sometimes jumped almost as badly as Ron did when they bumped into one another on accident—it didn't matter. Harry's confused mess of feelings didn't really matter, couldn't matter, because they were mates before anything else, and moreover, he had promised to help Ron in whatever ways he needed. Maybe he'd say something when Ron was better, or at least when he'd started improving—but for now, he had more important things to worry about than a mass of confused feelings he could barely articulate.

Harry was aware, for instance, that Ron still wasn't sleeping well. He had nightmares almost every night after the first—the walls inside the flat weren't that thick, and Harry got used to listening for the telltale noises. Most of the time they weren't the shouting and thrashing kind, just whimpers and vague cries into the darkness. Harry got up and checked every time anyway, just in case. The nights when Ron woke up, he usually sat up and took three quick, deep breaths before looking around in the darkness and shakily calling out. "Harry?"

"Right here, mate." Harry always was.

"Sorry."

"'Salright."

Sometimes Ron lay back down after that, and then Harry would go back to his room. Other times Ron would stumble to the bathroom, and Harry would sit on the couch, waiting for him. Maybe they'd play a bit of chess then, or watch the strange old movies that played on sky TV in the small hours, just until Ron had settled himself again and was ready to go back to sleep. The nights when Ron didn't even wake up, Harry always watched him a moment to make sure he really was asleep, and then went straight back to his room, and he never thought of anything inappropriate. Ever. Really.

They were just mates, for now.

And if Ron sometimes seemed to spend an awful lot of time staring at Harry with that smooth blank expression, or if he seemed a little too engrossed by Harry's rambling work stories, or if—once—groggy and confused after a nightmare in the small hours—if Ron may have grabbed Harry's wrist a bit too tightly and held it a bit too long—well. He was adjusting to a new way of living. He had a lot of things on his mind. It probably didn't mean anything. And Harry would be a fool to think it did.