Harry Potter and the related characters are the sole property of J. K. Rowling. No malicious intent or ill will is meant by using those characters and events in this fictional work.

He's yelling at me for using sectumsepra on him during sixth year, Harry had thought to Hermione, confused. It wasn't Malfoy, it was Ron. All of it. From year one, in the train car, it's all been inverted. Harry blinked, stopping his telepathic conversation with his wife and focused on the blathering Ron was doing. "Sorry," he said outloud, shaking his head and refocusing on the very verbal conversation he was having with Ron Weasley. "What?"

"How'd you do it?" Ron asked, his pale and gaunt face looking up at Harry with weary eyes and dark, sallow lips. "Just tell me how…"

"How I did what?" he asked, right confused. He pushed his round glasses up on his nose, folded his arms, and shrugged. "What are you on about?"

"No, of course you…you wouldn't tell me," Ron sneered. "We've never been friends, have we? You've always come off as too big for britches, you and Malfoy and Granger, wandering around as if you owned the world, as if you were too good for the rest of us." He scoffed and spat at Harry's feet. "King Potter, all hail, since the moment you stepped onto that train, all those years ago."

Harry swallowed, struggling to remind himself that Ron was remembering things that had never happened, not in any honest timeline, anyway. "That's not true. You were just too bitter about the state of your own family, resentful of your position, jealous of others…that's why you were put into Slytherin House, and the rest of your family into Gryffindor. You have a dark heart, Ron, and you never gave any of us a chance." He bit back an emotional cry and squeezed his eyes shut, once again mourning the loss of a friend he once swore he'd never lose. "We could've been friends."

Ron laughed, a bitter chuckle that sounded like the type Lucious Malfoy used to give. "No," he said. "Even if we were, it wouldn't be true friendship. There would always be bad blood between us, for one reason or another, and you know it." His eyes grew dark. "How's your wife?"

"Perfectly fine," Harry said. "Why do you ask?"

Ron shrugged. "Bad dreams in this place. Not that I imagined anything otherwise, just…asking." He took a breath and looked around, the billowy sheathes of the dementors lurking in surrounding shadows. He cringed when he heard the wailing cry of a fellow inmate, the sound of excruciating pain and deep remorse. "See that…that's why I asked you here."

"You want me to nic you a pair of ear-cozies from the shoppe?" Harry asked, a mocking tone in his voice.

Ron shook his head. "No, I…I can't stand them. All the times I gave you Hell for being afraid of them, for fuck's sake, Potter, I'm sorry! They're unbearable!" He shivered as he looked up at Harry again. "I need to…I need to ask for…your forgiveness. Because when they get too close, when they get too damned close…it's your voice I hear, your face I see, it's how I treated you that I relive, over and over, how I almost gave you over to Voldemort the first chance I got, how I was supposed to off Dumbledore and how you still…risked your life for mine." He blinked and shook his head. "I'm not sorry for how it all happened, I still don't like you, and I am never going to kiss your feet like the rest of the bloody imbeciles in the Wizarding World, but I do regret not appreciating what you sacrificed for the rest of us, when you didn't have to." He turned his hollowed eyes upward a Harry. "I appreciate it, now."

Harry was visibly shaken. "Well, um," he stammered. He had forgiven Malfoy for the very same things. Could he forgive Ron? For it all? "Yeah, sure, fine. I forgive you."

"No!" Ron shouted, his face twisting up into a severe expression. "I need real forgiveness," he pleaded.

"Only when you're really sorry," Harry stated, nodding once. "For everything."

Ron, taken quite aback, shook his head. "I see it now," he said, a whisper. "Why, it all makes perfect sense." He backed away from the metal bars and sat in his dark, cold, corner. "You can go. I don't need your forgiveness, after all. I don't need anything from you."

"Oh, Ron," he spoke to himself as he turned away from a former friend, "What have you done?"

He made his way out of the prison, ignoring the head-bows the aurors, guards, and even some prisoners had been giving him along his route. As soon as his face hit cold, night, air, he closed his eyes and apparated home, snapping Hermione to her feet once he'd materialized by her side. "Mother of Merlin, Harry, please," she panted, one hand over her stomach, the other on her chest. She took a calming breath and looked at him. "Are you all right?"

"I'm all right, now," he said, kissing her forehead. Something had fallen into place in the short journey through the air, and his memories had almost righted themselves. Only now, he knew what had really happened, and what he had changed, at the same time. "Where's Malfoy?"

"Guest room," she said, yawning. "Couldn't keep his eyes open, and I don't blame him."

Harry wrapped a hand around her waist and pulled her close. "Where were we, when all this started, love?"

"On the couch," she laughed, "In a state of undress that would certainly make McGonnagal blush."

He grinned and kissed her again. "Shall we pick up from there, then?" he asked, sultrily, backing her up toward the sofa.

"With Draco and Sirius in the house?" she asked, stunned. She allowed Harry to pull her down to him, wrapping her body around his. She moaned softly as she felt her nightclothes pulling themselves away from her body. "Harry," she warned.

"As long as we're quiet, neither of them will…"

A loud, still-masculine yell, from somewhere above their heads, interrupted him. He held Hermione tightly as scrambling, scuffling footsteps grew louder, and then blurry bodies whooshed into the room from the top of the stairs. "Giant spider!" Malfoy shrieked, pointing to the ceiling and hopping up and down. "It was on my face! Potter, you've got a bloody infestation!"

Sirius, standing behind Draco in a plaid set of night robes, shook his head and raised both hands. "Boggart in the closet," he said. "All taken care of, but it managed to scare the daylights out of young Malfoy here before I, um, got rid of it."

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "We had a boggart?" she queried, and then looked toward Harry. "I don't remember ever having…"

"My fault, I'm afraid," another voice spoke, again cutting off her words.

Hermione looked, and her face seemed to expand madly. Her jaw dropped, brows rose, and the color seemed to be sucked out of her skin.

Harry's expression mirrored hers. "Oh, dear God," he intoned breathily. He looked back at Sirius, seeing the purely guilty look on his face, in his eyes. "You can't be serious."

Sirius grinned smugly and shoved both hands into his robe's pockets. "I've never been moreso than right at this moment," he said, and it had so many alternate meaning which all accurately applied. He was himself, with his closest friends, save for one, back in his life, safe, where he felt they'd always belonged. "Rest well, tonight, Harry. Tomorrow…I've got a surprise for the two of you."

Malfoy rubbed the dregs of sleep out of his eyes. "Bloody boggart," he griped. "Was having a damn near perfect dream, you know. Woke to the feeling of fuzzy feet inching their way into my nostrils, have you any idea how that feels, mate?"

"Wasn't real, you know," Harry said, trying not to laugh.

Draco shot him a lewd gesture, earning a harsh gasp from Hermione. "Going baack to bed, and so help me, if my dreams are fully fucked tonight, you're paying for it. Dearly." He waved lazily at Sirius, and again toward Lupin, and dragged himself back up the stairs.

Sirius gave Harry and Hermione sneaky, knowing grins, and then led Lupin, who had no recollection of ever being dead or close to it, up the stairs as well, chuckling to himself as he thought about the joys tomorrow would bring.

He just didn't count on the sorrows.

Peace and Love

Jo