Harry lay awake on the floor of Bill and Fleur's tiny living room, his right shoulder pressed against the back of the couch on which Dean slept and his whole left side separated from Ron's body by only centimeters.
Dean, it seemed, was the only one of the three who had slept a full night in the four days since their arrival; Fleur had complained that she could hear his loud snoring from her bedroom a floor away. Harry, though, could not bring himself to be annoyed: he found the noise more comforting than anything else. Besides, he had shared a dormitory with Dean Thomas for years and was more than familiar with the sounds he made at night. He knew, therefore, that it was not the snoring that kept him awake.
There was no doubt in his mind that if he allowed himself to relax into a deep sleep the nightmares would start.
He knew that Ron had hardly slept either, and suspected that it was for the same reason, although they had not discussed it. Instead, they had just lain side by side on the floor behind Dean's couch, each listening to the other's steady but wakeful breathing, silently waiting out the nights.
But now it had been about an hour since Ron too had begun lightly snoring, fully asleep for the first time since the incident at Malfoy Manor. Harry allowed himself to close his eyes, and with the familiar sounds of sleep on either side of him, he could almost imagine that he was back at Hogwarts in his comfortable four-poster bed. All that was missing was a slightly softer surface…and the sounds of Neville tossing and turning…and the wind that always blew noisily through the tree outside the window….
He did not realize that he had drifted off until he jerked awake suddenly. He felt as though he had been woken by something, some sound or some touch, but as he lay there with his heart pounding he could not detect any disturbance. He had just begun to relax again when he heard it, the sound that he knew must have been what woke him: a quiet gasp from somewhere on his left.
Turning his head, he was surprised to see that Ron, rather than the relaxed position in which he had fallen asleep, was lying with his back to Harry, curled tightly in on himself. A shudder ran through him as Harry watched, and he became stiffer still. Another noise escaped him, this time bordering on a moan.
Harry knew immediately that this was a confirmation of both their predictions about the nightmares and debated whether to wake him. On the one hand, he thought, Ron needed sleep desperately, and would likely be embarrassed and angry if he thought Harry perceived him as too weak to cope alone. On the other hand, though – Ron moaned again and Harry winced in sympathy – Harry knew better than anyone how nightmares could sap so much energy that he felt more tired after waking than he had before falling asleep, and how dreadful it was to wake, drenched in his own sweat, convinced that he was surrounded by Death Eaters – that Ron and Hermione were dying, or already dead – that he had failed and his failure was being paid for by the people he loved –
Ron cried out. Acting without having consciously decided to, Harry sat up and put a hand on his shoulder, shaking him. "Ron," he said urgently, "wake up – Ron –"
Ron jerked away from Harry's touch, breathing very hard. Harry was about to call his name again when Ron suddenly started screaming. Harry dove for his wand and waved it at Dean, muttering, "Muffliato," and did the same in the general direction of the stairs, unsure whether the charm would reach the other inhabitants of Shell Cottage but quite certain that Ron would not appreciate a horde of concerned people bursting into the living room.
Tears slid from Ron's closed eyes as he cried, in a voice ragged from the screaming, "Hermione!" Harry knew that he was hearing Hermione's tortured cries, was imagining Bellatrix holding that knife to her throat, and shook his head as the same images threatened to overwhelm him too.
"Ron!" he said loudly, not daring to touch him again. "Wake up, Ron, you're dreaming – we're at Bill and Fleur's, everyone's okay, Ron –"
"Hermione!" Ron cried again, nearly sobbing now, his whole body shaking. "HERMIONE – no – PLEASE!"
"RON!" Harry roared, and it worked this time. Ron sat up so fast, arms flying out defensively, that he nearly punched Harry. He looked around wildly, gasping for breath, tears streaming down his face, and Harry could see the exact moment when he registered where he was and what had happened: he drew his knees up to his chest and buried his face, angling himself away from Harry, unwilling even now to let his lapse in strength be witnessed by anyone else.
Harry allowed him this illusion of privacy for several minutes, until his body had stopped quaking so violently and his harsh sobs had quieted down somewhat. Then he said, tentatively, "Ron?" He was very aware of his own pounding heart and shaking hands.
He was unsurprised when Ron ignored him and wondered if perhaps he ought to escape to the kitchen, leaving Ron to calm himself in dignified silence and solitude. Yet he found himself unable to tear his gaze away from Ron's shaking form.
Ron was volatile in anger, yes, but in many ways he had always been the steady one: Harry realized as he watched him that it was always Ron who created distractions when he, Harry, was caught up in grief or anxiety; it was always Ron who kept a level head when Hermione was brought to tears. Ron had been there to pick Harry up from rock bottom countless times, it seemed; and yet, Harry had only rarely had the opportunity to do the same in return.
Another hitching sob escaped Ron and Harry felt his own throat constrict with emotion. "Ron…" he murmured, and then before he could change his mind, he scooted over and carefully put an arm around his shoulders.
"Lea' me alone," Ron muttered, voice muffled by his arms, but he made no attempt to throw Harry off.
After a moment's hesitation, Harry said in a low voice, "She could hear you, you know. When…when it was happening."
It was true; Hermione had told him during one of their few moments alone together since arriving at Shell Cottage. "It was what kept me from giving in," she had said, whispering, as if she could not bear to speak of it any more loudly than that; "it reminded me of what I was fighting for." Then, after a moment, she had added almost inaudibly, "Who I was fighting for."
Ron did not respond, but Harry knew that he was listening, and took his lack of protest as a sign to continue. "She loves you so much," he said softly, his voice shaking slightly. He reached his free hand up to wipe away the tears that had sprung unbidden to his eyes. "We…we both do."
Ron let out another sob and shifted under Harry's arm; for a moment, Harry was certain that he had overstepped some boundary, and that Ron was going to pull away. Instead, though, Ron leaned toward him slightly, neither raising his head nor uncurling his knees but letting Harry support just a little bit of his weight. Surprised but gratified, Harry tightened his arm around him.
They sat like that for many long minutes, not speaking, but breathing in and out in rhythm with one another. Eventually, Ron's head came to rest against Harry's shoulder. Harry realized only when his shirt grew damp with tears that Ron was still crying, silently. He pulled him tighter still and leaned his own head down to rest it atop Ron's.
He did not let go of him for the remainder of the night.