Chapter Text
1. I had a vision that I was someone's child once and—
1995
Ron remembers the day he met Harry Potter, better than he remembers most essential facts about his own life. It's not common to claim such a thing, he was five after all. But when he closes his eyes, and calls the memory forth, it feels like he's back there again, in their small living room, and it's his birthday. He can smell the sweet slightly burned sugar glaze coating his cake, can hear his siblings and the children from the village running around in some game of tag, and he can feel his heart all over the place, as he's fiddling with his birthday hat.
He could barely contain his excitement because The boy who lived was coming to his birthday party, and that somehow exceeded the limits of his childish perception of reality. Because Harry Potter was bigger than life. A myth. He and Ginny loved hearing bedtime stories about him and not only was he real, he was there, at Ron's Birthday.
It almost felt like a gift. Ron never had much that was authentically his own. Most of what he owned were hand-me-downs, most of his parents' attention focused on his younger sister, whose one-year age gap with Ron really robbed him of a peaceful childhood. So this birthday was his and his only. Really special because his family couldn't afford to throw birthday parties every single year. It had to count.
There was a catch, Ron's parents had warned him and the other kids, Harry Potter was coming to the party, but he didn't know he was Harry Potter. Well, he knew, he just didn't know he was famous. He was Ron's age. Only five.
Ron had found that hard to believe, how could a hero not know that he was extraordinary? How could he not realise the godly magical powers that oozed out of his veins, enabling him to defeat a dark lord as a baby? It seemed ridiculous, like his parents were lying.
Ron only had to take one look at him to be convinced.
This kid had no idea who he was and what he'd done. He was plastered against a man's side, clutching a dog plushie, and quietly sniffing as Ron's mother pulled at his cheek and dotted over him. Ron spied on the interaction with wide eyes, his gaze stitched to the lightning bolt scar on the boy's forehead, running down one brow. He noted the red-rimmed eyes and the shuffling and he knew, yeah. This boy had no idea who he was. He was just a five-year-old.
“—if he causes any undue trouble, please don't hesitate to firecall—” the man was telling Ron's Mother. His voice had a soft posh lilt to it, his hand firmly settled over Harry Potter's head, his hair looked incredibly soft, curling near the ends into soft waves; a huge contrast to the Weasley fizzy ginger heads. The boy too, had soft messy hair, sticking all over the place. They looked strangely alike, the man and Harry Potter. Dark hair, green eyes, the same intensity in their gazes. They were both the most beautiful people Ron had ever seen in all his five years of existing on this earth.
When the man accompanying him left—with an oddly heavy sense of reluctance—Harry Potter tottered to the living room, ignored all the ruckus and young children running amok around him, and curled up in the nearest seat, using his plushie as a shield. His strategy to look as small as possible worked flawlessly. The other children, even the older ones, were too occupied with the werewolf tag game to even take notice of him.
But Ron saw him.
Harry Potter looked terrified. Ron remembers now that he'd climbed off his own seat, dodged past Ginny, almost knocking him over, being chased by the twins. Ron grabbed the nearest crisp bowl, somewhat heavy to his gangly toddler self, and made his way to Harry Potter.
“What's your name, kid?” he asked, even though he knew. He knew all about him. He slept most nights thinking about Harry Potter and imagining he was Harry Potter and wishing he could meet Harry Potter…and here he was.
“Harry,” Harry replied, maudlin and small, “This is my Paddie. He protects me.”
“He's cool!” Ron hopped on the seat next to the timid boy, “I'm Ron! Today's my birthday! There's a troll in my room, wanna see?”
And Harry uncurled with wide wary eyes, staring down at Ron's extended hand. Ron waited patiently, grinning at the boy and trying not to die of nervousness. The Harry Potter sniffed one last time, and grabbed his hand with a slight trembling, “Yes please.”
Harry now stands by the foot of his bed silently. As he does most nights. Ron's learned to tell, just by the heaviness of the boy's gaze on his sleeping figure. No matter how many times they've talked about this, Harry seems stubbornly set on not waking Ron up at night, and instead opts to stand by his bed like a psychopath instead.
He looks like he did all those years ago, his shoulders tense, his hair sticking up, his nose and scar slightly red. He cringes when he sees Ron awake and observing him in the dark, but doesn't move back into his own bed.
Ron shifts back to make room and Harry mutely slips under the covers, smashing his face against Ron's chest with a hitch to his breath. He doesn't cry, he never does when he wakes up. But he never talks either. It's a very fragile balance between trying not to disturb the others in their dorms, and not breaking down himself.
He mostly fails. Seamus wakes up most nights, silently staring at them from his own bed with a funny look on his face. It's too dark to tell whether his face harbours amusement or ridicule, but Ron isn't bothered to distinguish between the two as long as he doesn't bug Harry about it. He glares at Seamus watching them tonight too, quickly nods his chin at the boy to go back to sleep and reaches over Harry's body to draw their curtains close.
“Was it the same dream again?” Ron mutters into his friend's hair, holding him just a bit more tightly.
“Yes.”
“It's okay. Just a dream, mate. Let's sleep.”
“Okay.”
Ron tries not to shudder or curl into himself from guilt. He can remember every single detail about the night Harry was taken too. If only, he always thinks, if only he'd looked after Harry like he'd promised himself. If only he hadn't been wallowing in his own misery. He didn't even notice Harry was taken.
Now he cannot let the boy out of his sight even for a moment. He and Hermione both.
“Now, I know you're lying,” he groans into the boy's ear, closing his own eyes, “You say okay, but you never sleep. Come on, close your eyes, we have charms first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Ron?”
“Hmm?”
“Nothing.”
But Ron knows, with Harry James Potter it always is something. And something heartbreakingly monumental and big that's trapped in the boy's chest, begging to be let out.
Even though it's always the same dream.