AN: In this story, Ron and Hermione get together between their 5th and 6th year and Harry is not on good terms with either of them. These characters are OOC, by the way.

Disclaimer: This is not exactly a light hearted fluffy fic. It goes through them dealing with each others' lives, body issues, family, personal issues, mental health, and how they improve the lives they've been forced into.

For once, when Harry spat out, "This is all Hermione's fault", Ron actually couldn't find fault with his logic.

Because... the thing is, it was kind of all Hermione's fault. He'd been thinking that himself on the walk over to potions—that he really needed to figure out some new ways to tell Hermione that sometimes her craziest ideas were actually just crazy, and this was one of those times.

Things between them were good. He was happy, and he was pretty sure that for once she was happy. He'd learned from last year; that summer was going to be one thing and when school started again, he really needed to work on not being such a prat all the time, doing his work, the team, and everything like that, and it was getting easier with every passing day to just actually pay attention to the words coming out of her mouth.

Maybe because she was using less of them, but whatever. They'd both grown as people last year. Anyway, the point of it was that he is now actually listening to her, and generally tries to do what she asked him to, unless it was totally crazy, and this is how he'd ended up where he was now.

"I'm worried about Harry," she'd said, while sitting in the library, two days earlier.

Okay, maybe he hadn't been paying attention, but she'd let him watch it and was flipping through a quidditch magazine or something at the same time.

"Why?" he'd asked, pausing mid page turn, because Hermione's shortest sentences always led to the longest conversations; again, something he learned the hard way.

"He's just—" Hermione had said, with a frown and her forehead crinkled. "He seems very isolated. He doesn't have quidditch anymore, and he doesn't have you or a lot of people anymore, and I'm still not entirely sure if he actually has any friends."

"Depends on what week it is," he'd said, with a shrug, before looking at her curiously. "Anyway. What's your point?"

Hermione had said nothing for a long moment, and then finally had looked up at him and said, "He's really lonely, Ron, and that's a little bit my fault."

"Okay, don't be ridiculous; like, if he doesn't have any friends, no offense, but that's obviously a personal problem, and we stopped being friends because I wanted to be with you and he had a problem with that, not because you made me or whatever," he'd said, and then pressed a kiss to her head. "You're sweet, but like—really. It's Harry."

"It's Harry."

Hermione had taken another deep breath before saying, "He looks like he's perpetually on the verge of tears and nobody wants to see a boy that pretty cry during the DA meetings."

"Oh, you think he's pretty? Oh so this is about the DA and quidditch," he'd said, with a laugh. "That makes a lot more sense."

"Are you implying that I'm selfish?"

"No, just that you have no reasons to give a crap about how Harry is doing because he's like, not our friend anymore," he'd pointed out.

She'd shifted a little and put her hand on his arm and had then said, "Ron, it's always the people who lash out at us the most who need our help the most. Look at Draco."

"Don't mention that death eater, okay. I still can't believe—" Ron had muttered, before just dropping it and shaking his head.

"You're a good person," Hermione had said, shifting onto her knees and then sliding onto his lap, and—okay. See, this was why he was working on listening more this time around; it came with its own reward system. "And a good friend. You have grown, when we weren't together, and I just think..."

He'd licked his lips for a moment and then had focused on her eyes again; there had been a sort of pleading look in them, like she was going to ask something that she knew he wouldn't like, and she was totally going to get it anyway because—she'd had that little smile on her face that promised a good make-out session.

"What, Hermione?"

"Try to be a friend to him. For the team and the DA, if not just for me. Okay?" she'd asked, almost in a whisper, and before he could protest, had run her knuckles through his hair and kissed him.

It had been really unfair, actually, because he had had every intention of pointing out that Harry probably didn't want to be friends with someone—and yeah, even in the midst of a super hot kiss, that still kind of had made him cringe—but then Hermione had done that little sighing thing before settling in closer, and—

"Okay," he'd mumbled against her lips, and she'd smiled widely before kissing him again.

The thing is: things were so much better, and if Harry hadn't killed him in the last few months of their sixth year, offering to listen to him was probably not going to get him in mortal danger this year either. Especially compared to their previous years.

At least, that had been the theory—but despite living in the same quarters Harry had been hard to find, following that conversation and Hermione's note that he was going to talk to him. Sure, he was in the library, but in the back row with a book, really not looking like he was open to anyone sitting next to him; and they didn't have any classes together because Harry had turned into some secret nerd genius or something over the summer, so—that left dinner, which was way too public, and trapping him after classes.

He wasn't like Hermione, who would probably figure out his movements immediately and like, make a list of them or something, so he failed to find him on Wednesday and only ran into him on accident on Thursday; Romilda Vane was muttering something about being willing to take up an extra credit in Slughorn's potions if she was going to have him in her class and—yeah, Harry took potions, so that was as good a bet as any.

There was only one light on at the back of the classroom when he got there, and he opened the door gently because—things totally could explode in that place. It was why he wished he was better at potions, because it was better than other subjects now. He had no idea, actually.

Harry looked up when the door clicked shut behind him and then said, a little snidely, "Are you lost?"

"Looking for you, actually," he said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his letterman and slowly walking over to her. "Why are you here after classes?"

"Extra credit," he said, and pushed his goggles up onto his forehead. "Why are you looking for me? Was I off during quidditch practice yesterday? Did Hermione send you over to come and interrogate me?"

He sighed. "No, actually. She's worried about you, and so am I."

"Really," Harry said, flatly, still looking at his textbook. He was close enough now to realize that whatever he was working on smelled pretty damn terrible, and—

"Shouldn't you be like, getting supervised? In case you blow everything up."

He shrugged. "Slughorn stepped out to talk to another student. It's not my first time, so—"

Okay, so—he'd actually thought that Hermione was just being Hermione when she'd first said something about Harry being in trouble, but the idea of Harry repeatedly needing extra credit was not completely unusual but his work ethic over the past year had completely changed.

"Mate—are you okay?" he asked again.

"You know, that's the kind of question that I would've loved to hear come out of your mouth... six months ago, before we stopped being friends."

He lowered his head to the desk and watched as Harry scribbled down some more notes, and then said, "I'm sorry. I was a total prat. I should've—I don't know."

"Told me sooner?"

"I didn't want to make everything worse—"

"Tell everyone to back off. I'm fine, and even if I wasn't, it's none of your business."

"Harry—it's not that I don't care about you, it's that—"

"Yeah, you care about your relationship with her more," Harry said, sharply now, before looking away from him.

"You're not over it."

"No, I am, but I can't believe you're standing here telling me that you care about me when the entire time you were supposed to be my friend." He didn't finish.

He didn't know what to say to that, because it's not like it wasn't true. On some level, at least.

"Just go, Ron," he finally just mumbled, and—that's when he got a first good look at his face, and how exhausted he looked.

"No," he said, and then moved over to the other side of the table. "You're right. I was the worst friend ever to you, and I mean, maybe you think that that was just revenge about everything, but—that screwed your life up more than mine. It wasn't. I was just confused, and I'm sorry that it was all so messed up. But—I want to be your friend."

"Why?" he asked, measuring some blue stuff and pouring it into the mixture bubbling above the burner. "Really, Ron, I'm going to need a reason."

He didn't say anything for a long moment, and then, when the glass vial above the burner actually started sizzling a little, said, "Because everyone else is afraid of getting close to you, but I'm not, and you need a friend."

His voice was weirdly thick when he looked at him and said, "So now I'm a pity project. That's just great. As if—"

"Harry, just stop it," he said, and then looked over at his notes. "We don't have to talk about anything, okay. I can help you with this or whatever, and then we can hang out and maybe in a while from now..."

"I can't believe this is happening," he murmured, but slid his notepad over anyway, which was probably the saddest thing he'd ever seen him do.

"What are you doing?" he asked, when they both just stared at the bubbling liquid above the burner, which was slowly turning magenta.

"I'd explain, but I'd have to catch you up on about three years of classes and—"

"Okay, but is it supposed to be turning that color."

Harry hesitated for a moment and then flipped back through his notes. "No; it's supposed to be clear."

"Did I like distract you or—"

He gave Ron a dismissive look. "Gee, you think? Yes. Of course you did, though I also think there might've been residue of something else in the cauldron that I'm using... which—"

"Um," Ron said, when the mixture went from magenta to bright red. "I don't know about potions, but in comics, when things turn that color, it's usually because they're going to explode."

"Don't be ridicul—" Harry started saying, before the mixture flared hot yellow, and Merlin it smelled bad.

"Okay, let's—move away," he said, and when he just stood there, watching as the glass started to shake, he reached for his arm and tugged on it.

"Seriously, Harry, we're not going to be able to like stop it in time and the glass is going to explode everywhere, I don't want you to get hurt—"

"That's really funny, Ron; where was all this concern when you were trampling all over my existence last year?" he snapped at him, his eyes still fixed on the small cauldron and the way that the glass was starting to produce a low ringing noise.

"Oh, come on, just because I wasn't a great friend doesn't mean I want to see you hospitalized, and besides—"

"God, why are you even here?" he finally snapped at Ron, sounding exasperated. "If you really think that I'm so awful, why would you even come talk to me?"

"Because my girlfriend is a good person who for, I don't even know what reason, she thinks you deserve another chance, okay."

"Oh, so this is about Hermione," Harry spat out, bitterly. "Of course it is. Everything is always about Hermione. Well guess what, Ron? I'm not going to stand here and let you insult me and ruin my assignment just so you can get laid later this week—"

"Whatever; I don't even know why I bother, or why she does. She's right about you, you know. You're nothing but a—"

Ron was pretty sure he was going to say prat, but when his eyes blinked open again, the word felt completely wrong. Like—maybe he shouldn't be saying things like that, ever again, or maybe like—his tongue just didn't want to make that sound. At all.

His eyes felt heavy; heavier than normal. Like there was something weighing down his eyelids, and he rubbed at them for a moment before sitting up.

That's when the weirdest things happened:

He realized his legs were shorter.

Wait, what?

No—obviously he had longer legs, because he was a Weasley and also—

He just somehow had Harry's legs attached to him, which—Merlin, what a freak accident. His first instinct was to call Seamus and tell him, and then he wondered if Harry's legs could even support his body, because he was kind of huge and Harry was a few inches shorter and—

Somewhere to the left of him, someone groaned, and even though the room was covered in smoke and he could barely even make out Harry's legs in front of him, he sort of blindly crawled over in that direction anyway. He tried to speak, but all that came out was some coughing—and then he realized that the sprinklers were going off and he was soaking wet as well as bruised and covered in glass, and—

Another groan, and then some shifting, and finally, a deep, "What just happened?"

Wait.

He coughed again, and then managed a quick, "Say something else", which came out—oh Merlin, since when did his voice sound like that?

It was deadly silent for a long moment, and then he heard it again; his own voice, going, "Ron? Are you—"

"Oh," he said.

The sprinklers finally doused out most of the burning wood in the classroom, and the smoke was starting to lift, and that's when he came face to face with himself, bleeding lightly from the cheek, and looking so shell-shocked that it was almost funny. He wondered, for a moment, if he frequently looked this stupid, except then his face blinked and he could almost see Harry focusing behind it—

And then his eyes rolled back in her head and he passed out.

"Ouch," he said, when his head knocked into the back end of a stool on his way down—except he couldn't feel it, and instead was just stuck crawling the rest of the way over and cradling his own head in his lap, until Harry woke up again.

It happened a few seconds later, and he watched as his own eyes fluttered open—slowly and girlishly, and then his mouth set and he watched as Harry said, "We're dreaming. Right? This is exactly the kind of crazy thing that I used to dream about at the Dursleys, and—"

He pinched the skin on his own arm, hard, and Harry bit out a, "What are you doing" before rubbing at the spot; then, he pinched the skin on Harry's arm, and watched as it bruised crazily within a few moments.

"Yeah, we're not dreaming," he finally mumbled; and mumbling sounded really weird in Harry's voice. "Uh. I think we swapped bodies. Somehow."

"That's not possible," he countered, before counting the reasons why off on his fingers, and as he was going, he couldn't help but laugh. "Ron, for God's sake—"

"Sorry, it's just that I'm pretty sure that's the smartest I've ever sounded. You know. In—"

Harry frowned at him. "You're hysterical."

"Just because I'm in your body doesn't mean you can call me hysterical like I'm some girl, okay—"

"No, I mean, you're suffering from hysteria. And I think I'm in shock." He took a deep breath, and his face contorted right before he snapped, "Damn it, Ron. I was just doing some make-up work because I missed class this Tuesday, and now look at us."

"Yeah. It's crazy," he added, glancing at his face—his face—and the slow trickle of blood seeping from the cut there.

"We... need to get out of here and need to figure out what we're going to do." Harry bit his lip for a second; it looked really weird, but then shook his head and groaned. "We can't tell anyone. Not now-"

He squeezed Harry's shoulder. "Slow down for a second, okay? Like, geez. I'm in your body, let's just... think. And stuff."

They were silent for a second, until Harry made a frustrated noise and glared at him, hard.

"This is all Hermione's fault. I hope you know that," he spat out the best she could, in Ron's "Yeah, I guess it kind of is. Well, whatever. Bitching about her isn't going to help us right now. You have a cut on my face. I should get the first aid kit and—"

That's when the door burst open and Professor Slughorn barreled in.

"Oh, thank God, you're all right," he breathed, coming to a screeching halt in front of them. "Ron? What are you doing here?"

Harry looked at him really pointedly; he didn't get it, initially, until he mouthed, talk to him.

"Ron was just dropping off some homework for me," he said, awkwardly, relaxing a little when the crease between his own eyebrows faded and Harry looked relieved.

"Yeah, and then stuff like, blew up," Harry added, after a moment.

He almost glared at him, except—that's pretty much how he would've put it. Maybe without the 'like', though; did he actually use that word like that, like he was some fifteen year old girl?

"What happened?" Slughorn asked.

Ron took a deep breath and prayed that a vague explanation would do, because thanks to not having potions this year and apparently being too stupid for an actual explanation, he had no idea. "The mixture combined funny; um, it didn't go clear, but instead went purple and then red and then yellow and—"

Slughorn leaned down and stared into his eyes. "Oh, just like I thought. You're concussed."

"I am?" he repeated.

"Yeah, your eyes are a little glassy" Harry said, next to him.

Slughorn looked between them. "I'll let Madam Pomfrey know immediately. I am having you both sent to the hospital wing. Don't touch anything and don't move, okay?"

It was Harry who started laughing, and then stopped abruptly, looking up at him with a miserable expression.

"You think this is temporary?" he asked. "This has to be temporary, right? We'll wake up tomorrow and things will be fine."

"Uh, I really hope so, because—mate, I'm in your body," he said. This situation sucked.

"And I have plans with Hermione tonight, and there is a game this week and—"

Harry inhaled sharply and shook his head, his face relaxing into the movement funnily. "We really need to figure out how to undo this. Before people figure out that something's wrong."

Harry looked at him with an unreadable look—it's funny, he was still so Harry even though he had his face. "You're not sleeping in my bed."

"Uh, unless we figure out how to undo this like, right now, things could get worse" he said, and then sighed.

"Right," he said. "Hermione is expecting me in the library, if you want to cancel tonight."

"Like she's not going to come up and check on you if she finds out you've been in some sort of potions accident," Harry muttered.

Ron looked at him for a long moment. "That's not a bad thing, you know. That she cares. About me, or about any of us."

Harry sighed deeply and sat up. "Yeah, whatever. Excuse me for not really caring all that much about your relationship right now."

"Well, you better start caring, because it's your relationship now," Ron said, wondering when exactly he'd gotten this cranky—it seemed to come naturally, though, to just mull over things. Maybe that was Harry's brain, which—whatever.

They sat silently, listening to footsteps in the background, and then when they became louder, Harry turned around and reached for his hand. "I'm sorry. I'm being unreasonable. This is messed up for both of us, and—"

"It's okay. I mean. If I had to be a someone else for a while or whatever, I would be okay as you, so—"

He did notice that Harry kept hold of his arm while they were ushered out of the building, and only let go when they made their way into the hospital wing.

He just closed his eyes and said, "My head hurts", hoping that that would give him an easy way out for now. "Of course it does, Harry but it's okay,"

Right.

Harry.

an: I am just trying this out. I am not sure if I will continue after this chapter or not, or if I will take it down.