Masks, by Amity333
Summary: Ten-year-old Ron has been having the worst nightmares. He wouldn't leave Fred's side for weeks after the first. Perhaps that was better, when he'd thought them just dreams. After all, who would believe he'd fought this war twice?
Notes: This work is rated at a high 'T' for some dark / violent themes (non-graphic).
Ron's ten when he first remembers.
He's never had particularly vivid dreams. Yet he'll never forget Fred's pasty white face, bathed in an endless sea of red. But god, how he screams when he sees the eyes, vacant and hollow and nothing like his brother's. For there's no trace of his mischief or mirth, of the spirit that had given him life.
"Ron," a tender voice calls, as a soft hand gently shakes his shoulder. "Ron, wake up, sweetie," his mum coaxes, her face half-obscured by his tears. She cradles him in a comforting hug, and his breaths escape in hiccups and cries. It takes five minutes for him to calm down enough to tell her about his nightmare. The brother in his dream, an identical twin, was still most decidedly Fred. Because George, Ron laments, lived on as a ghost, one half of an ever-broken whole.
She rubs circles on his back, and reassures him that the twins are safe. He doesn't believe her until he sees them himself, spritzing pepper into Percy's tea. For two weeks, he refuses to leave their side. Spiders, he tells them, giant man-eating ones, that trapped me in their web. He was scared of them, once, and arachnophobia is far too easy to fake. A better explanation for ceaseless night terrors than the stench of his loved ones' death.
But the dreams don't stop. His limbs fill with lead. And he watches as his older brother Bill is mutilated by a creature more beast than man. As his dad is struck from behind by a snake only Ron had seen. But Ron can't, won't voice his fears, so brave is he, such a coward. He isn't ten, hasn't been for many years. For he remembers now the battle, Hermione, Harry – his form hanging lifelessly in Hagrid's arms. He sees that vile green curse strike Ginny, before an identical one lands between his eyes. And he forgets, fleeting images flashing in his mind, glimmers of gyrating, glittering gold.
He can't put this on his family, won't let them die. He fears – but Gryffindors shouldn't fear – he'll fail, and all will be for naught. For life is like glass, so easily shattered, into countless sharp and ragged shards. Yet through them each person's potential shines, for kindness, compassion, and courage. And somewhere within him a quiet voice whispers, that perhaps bravery is less a lack of fear, than acting selflessly despite it.
Maybe he's a little different on the train. Bill's just graduated, and Ginny's returned home, and the twins always tease him when he cries. Only they've already gone to find their friends, and Ron's left standing by the very last door. 'Everywhere else is full,' but a lie, and he doubts he can pull it off yet again. Because this is Harry, his once-best mate, and his chest burns every time he pretends.
Yet he still slips on the same mask each morning, an essential element of his dress. He knocks, and has to hold back his tears when he finally sees his old friend's face. "D'you mind if I sit here?" he asks instead, leaning carefully in the doorway. Harry's eyes are cautious, but his smile is sincere, and invites him in just the same.
Ron brings up Quidditch, not quite out of interest, but because it's all that comes to mind. Which Harry knows nothing about, of course, with his magic-hating excuse for an aunt. So he teaches him about the rules and positions, about the World Cup and England's best team. His room's walls are still adorned with Chudley Cannons posters, a nostalgic reminder of this peaceful past. And he laughs mirthlessly, as if the team's next win is still his greatest concern.
There's a knock on the door. A toad, thinks Ron. And he's envious, because Neville can forget – where he last saw Trevor, the majesty of the Thestrals, *grim and ghostly and gaunt. But the boy behind it is far too pale, with slicked-back platinum-blond hair. He nods at Harry, then looks at Ron, who prepares himself for a fight. Not because he wants to start with the git, but because he knows what Malfoys think of Weasleys, and that the snake won't hold back from sharing.
"Good to see you again, Harry," Malfoy instead says, turning to face his friend. Then he hesitates, before extending his hand, not towards Harry, but Ron. "I don't think we've met," he admits with a frown, glancing at Ron's shabby robes. "I'm Draco Malfoy," he states, lifting his gaze, not commenting on their wear.
"Ron Weasley," Ron finally replies, staring at the Slytherin. Then reluctantly, he grasps the boy's cold hand, before pulling away just as swiftly. Because he remembers Malfoy Manor, his friends' screams, the blond's impassive mask. So carefully constructed, like chiselled ice, for Ron wears one just the same. He couldn't – or wouldn't – identify the trio, a boy in Death Eater's robes. A boy, but a man, for the war aged them all, yet now a child again.
"Excuse-me," a girl interjects from the hall. Her hair's even bushier than he remembers, and she's clutching an enormous green tome. "But has anyone seen a toad?"
Ron freezes, frozen fire shooting through his veins. Waves of nausea creep into his stomach – Hermione, not Hermione – and his mouth tastes of molten ash. Malfoy's lips press into a thoughtful line, his expression carefully inscrutable.
"I don't think so, sorry," Harry finally says, breaking the sullen silence. "Have you lost one?"
"Oh, not me, Neville!" the witch exclaims, gesturing to the boy beside her. His face is youthful and round, eyes worried and timid. Too soon, he'd be forced to grow, and the lion would rear its claws. For Ron recalls the Carrows hurling the Cruciatus at those who refused to cast it.
Malfoy raises his eyebrows. "The prefect's carriage is on the other end of the train. I'm sure one of them could cast a summoning charm." His eyes drift over to the anxious boy. "Neville Longbottom?"
Neville frowns. Perhaps he recognizes the git. Who is suspiciously alone, Ron notes with surprise. He'd been with Crabbe and Goyle last time, to be sure. Why hadn't Ron realized before?
His old friend nods warily. Hermione shifts her book. "Sorry," she says. "I never asked your names. I'm Hermione Granger."
"Draco Malfoy," the blond replies, tone conspicuously civil. Nonchalant, he again holds out his hand, which Hermione quickly shakes.
Perhaps the world really had gone to hell. Maybe Ron never truly woke up. Or maybe, he thinks, unease twisting in his gut. Maybe –
Ron was born when he was ten years old. He's been wearing masks his entire life, but his eyes always betray him. And as his meet the Slytherin's sunken grey, he wonders if Malfoy also bore this weight twice.
If you enjoyed, reviews are always appreciated!
Notes:
I've gotten a few reviews saying that this story doesn't seem complete. I appreciate the fact that many of my readers would like to see more. Depending on feedback, I may extend it to a two-shot or three-shot. I feel that this piece also works well as a stand-alone, and I like the way it ends.
If any readers are interested in a multi-chaptered time travel fic with a similar tone, I have another story entitled "True Remembrance" in which Draco and Hermione travel back in time.
Credits:
*These three adjectives are actually taken from the "Thestrals" entry in the Harry Potter Encyclopedia.