In honour of Ron Weasley's birthday, I decided to post a fic based on a prompt that's been on the back burner for a while now. It will go from the end of fifth year to the end of the second wizarding war. Final pairings are undecided for the most part, but will start off HHr.

Prologue

Ronald Bilius Weasley smiled as he patted the shoulder of his youngest son. He would be going to Hogwarts next year, off to join his sister. But not today. Today Hugo would be saying goodbye to his friends. And so would he.

She would be back by Christmas, he told himself, trying not to cry. She had grown up so quickly. He couldn't help but compare her to her mother. They looked almost identical, if only for the famous Weasley-red hair, and the abundance of freckles. Apart from that, Rose was almost a mirror image of a young Hermione Granger, studious nature and all. Even now, waiting eagerly for the train to depart, she was nose-deep in a book. Probably reading through the syllabus already.

Whilst Rose certainly took after her mother, Hugo was undoubtedly his son, similar to how Albus could have easily been mistaken for a young Harry. It seemed that the Weasley gene had yet to truly overcome Harry's contribution—he and Ginny still argued over whether young Lily Luna took after her mother or her paternal grandmother.

Lily also had to wait an extra year before she got her turn at Hogwarts. Now with both of her brothers gone up to school, the old Potter would probably be a lot emptier. Ron reminded himself to discuss arranging a playdate for Hugo and Lily in the near future, only to realise that Hermione had probably already done so. Always one step ahead of him.

Still, he could hardly complain, considering all that she had done. Running for Minister for Magic, helping him run the household, all whilst giving him two beautiful children. He still wasn't anything much, just a lowly temp in his dad's office, but he was getting there.

He couldn't help but smile as the train whistled and squealed into life. The joyous faces of his daughter and nephews beamed back at him, waving as they were carried away to a new adventure.

There hadn't been any mention of Voldemort in almost nineteen years.

All was well.

.

.

.

He was well. Quite well, in fact. Better than he was yesterday, he might be making a recovery. But he's still not responding, Hermione. We have no idea what those things did to him. What if... I just want him to wake up. He will, Harry. I'm sure he will.

It's all my fault.

It's not. We went with you. That was our choice. He will get better, Harry. It'll just take a bit of time.

I hope so.

"Wha…?"

Ron opened his eyes.

Bright, blinding light. Morning light, pouring in through the ornate windows that stretched up to the rafters. He was lying in bed, a soft pillow supporting his head, and a weight sitting on the right, bending the mattress. He blinked.

He was in the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts. How was he here? He was just at King's Cross.

He turned, spotting a couple sitting together on the side of the cot. Black hair and brown hair, both wild and untamed. She was rubbing her hand along his back, whispering something to him, right into his ear.

It was Harry and Hermione. His friends, dressed in their Gryffindor robes. Ron hadn't seen them wear those in years.

"Guys?"

The two jumped, turning around to face him. Their faces were so much younger. Hermione's skin was soft and smooth, the faint wrinkles in her forehead were missing, as was Harry's scar, the one that he had got on an Auror raid, just above his cheekbone.

"Ron!" Harry gasped, his face alight with relief. "Are you okay?"

"What…" Ron struggled to think of the right question. "What's going on? Where's Hugo?"

Harry's face contorted in confusion.

"Hugo?"

Ron stared at Harry's dumbfounded face, his heart beating out of his chest.

"Yeah, Hugo," he repeated. "And Rose? Are they alright?"

"Rose? Do we—do we know a Rose?"

Ron felt his hands ball into fists, the memory of his daughter's face flying to the forefront of his mind.

"Rose," Ron insisted through gritted teeth. "My—What's going on? I was just in King's Cross!"

"Ron," Hermione began, taking his hand from atop the blanket covering his duvet, "How much do you remember?"

"Of what?" Ron asked.

Hermione shook her head.

"Okay, wrong question. Do you remember us breaking into the Ministry?"

Ron cast his mind back, before the final battle, before Fred's death, before his first kiss with Hermione, before Dumbledore's death, right back to the end of fifth year.

"Yeah," he nodded. "Course I remember that. We rode there on Thestrals after you two took care of Umbridge and we found the prophecy. Then... then we were ambushed by Death Eaters and we had to fight our way out. I got hit by a curse, I think, and I summoned a brain. And then I..."

But he could barely remember the rest. All he had was the feeling of tendrils sliding up over his arms and choking the life out of him. He felt them contracted against his throat, squeezing his head to an almost painful degree until… then nothing. How did he escape? He must have, he saw Sirius die, the Order coming to the rescue, and then everything after. Fudge, he saw Voldemort's return. And then they were back at school, and back on the train and the Burrow...

His memories were blurring at the edges. The more he tried to pick them apart, the more they seemed to dissipate in his head.

"Ron?"

He looked up into the anxious eyes of his best friend.

"What's going on?"

"You've been in a coma," Harry replied, "For nearly a week. Ever since we got back from the Ministry. We managed to get that brain off of you, but we couldn't get you to wake up. We weren't sure if you were ever going to wake up. I thought I'd lost you. We've been visiting you every day, just to see if you..."

"A coma?" Ron parroted, too shocked to even think. "So...but..."

A thousand memories shot through his head. Proposing to Hermione, their wedding, his daughter's birth, her first steps, her first word, his son's eyes opening for the first time. Except, it all seemed off now. Thinking about them, they felt less like memories than old, fractured photographs.

His eyes turned to Harry and Hermione, the pair of them, standing closer together than he had ever seen them. Their hands were linked tightly, their fingers intertwined. There was no ring on Hermione's hand. Neither was there one on Harry's.

Ron felt the air leave his lungs, and the fight left his muscles. He dropped back onto the bed, staring up at the rafters.

It wasn't real. None of it was real. His perfect life, his children, his wife. It was all gone.

The one thing he thought was his for sure was lost forever.

The original prompt can be found on r/HPFanfiction here: /g8ygtv/in_which_ronald_weasley_wakes_up/