That night Ron dreamed.
They were in 12 Grimmauld Place. It was dark outside and even though the lamps were lit inside somber shadows filled the corners and menaced the ceilings of the room.
Hermione had a huge tome open on her lap, her eyes tightly focused on the text. Her wayward hair was tied but that didn't stop stray strands from falling in her face and needing to be distractedly swept away. Harry sat motionless, staring into the fire, his face still tired and lined from Dumbledore's funeral. He looked so far away and Ron could feel the old fear that he was moving away from them all and there was nothing they could do to keep him here and safe.
"Fancy a game of chess?" Ron heard his own voice, the false cheeriness he'd brutally injected into it, the way it wavered no matter how hard he tried to keep it upbeat.
Harry shrugged in response, not seeming able to summon enough energy to speak or even to turn and look at him. Hermione didn't even look up.
"How about a bit of a slap and tickle, then?" He knew his face was red and he didn't care. He'd do anything for a response.
He didn't even hear Hermione's shocked "Ron!" because Harry's head jerked around, a million emotions racing across his face. Ron met his gaze and grinned. He could only hope that Harry only saw the cheekiness and not the desperation that was roiling in his stomach.
They stared at each other for an eternal moment until a snort burst out of Harry against his will. Suddenly he was laughing, tears streaming down his face. Ron felt every muscle in his body loosen and he was laughing too, laughing so hard that he was sure his stomach was going to come right up out of his mouth.
He wiped his eyes and looked at Hermione. "Boys." She muttered with a roll of her eyes but she was smiling like she hadn't in a long time.
Ron woke with a start, laughter caught in his throat. The room slowly came into focus as his eyes adjusted to the dark. Everything was quiet except for the branch that occasionally scratched at the window. He could feel Hermione's a warmth from where she was curled up on the other side of the bed.
His eyes burned and he turned over. He stared at the wall, his eyes tracking what he could make out of the patterns in the grain of the wood from the dim light that came in from the lamps on Diagon. He laid like that until the room started to lighten and Hermione began to stir, his eyes open and dry.