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Hermione is fussing. Ron watches as she runs around the room, taking out all sorts of vials, jars, bandages... She's just wonderful even at times like this. She's a beauty, even if her clothes are torn and covered in dust, and her curls are still so soft and springy. His own dirty hair gets in his eyes, and he wants to close them even more. But he promised to hold on. Even though he can't feel his legs anymore. It's cold. He feels useless when he can't even help her. He's lying here on the floor of the shelter, just able to keep breathing. He could have done it himself. He wonders if he lost that much blood, or was there a paralyzing spell in that curse? There are black dots in front of his eyes, and his head hurts from lack of oxygen. There's a nasty gurgling in his throat, and he chokes — Hermione lifts him up with trembling but still so strong (how cool she is, after all) hands, afraid of hurting him, and in a more upright position he manages to cough up blood. Hermione sobs in his ear, causing his already weakly beating heart to contract in pain. "Come on, Hermi... we've had worse shit happen to us," he croaks comfortingly, using his most gentle tone he was capable of in this situation. His throat was scratching, making the situation worse with suffocation, and there was this nasty iron taste in his mouth. Hermione wraps one arm around Ron, and the narrow palm of the other is on his soot-covered hair (don't touch it, darling, you'll get dirty), and her bitten lips are pressed to the top of his head in a frankly desperate gesture. "Please, Ron, hold on, not you, I can't do this alone, I'm begging you..." Her panicked whisper cuts into Ron's brain, and he feels particularly sick. As always, he upsets Hermione. What kind of boyfriend is he? Ginny and Neville burst into the room, both covered in mud and blood, but alive and on their feet. Ron is so happy about this that he doesn't even notice how weak he is in Granger's arms. His younger sister's loud voice rang out through the noise in his ears, seemingly asking why Hermione wasn't doing anything at all. If he had the strength, he would be outraged: don't you dare yell at her, she's stressed! She's just perceptive and sees his condition perfectly, all that blood, and hears that gurgling sound in his throat. Clever Hermione already knows that there is nothing to help him, in the end, the curse will finish him off anyway. Ginny swears, gets mad at him, and treats his wounds with trembling hands (but does that really make sense? Hermione had already done this, but it only got worse), and then for some reason she starts crying. Sis, please don't. Ron himself doesn't know why he doesn't feel fear of death, why he is so calm. Probably, everyone experiences this when they die. Or he just didn't have any strength left. Neville says something to him, but he hasn't heard anything for a while. Understanding comes from somewhere: he only has a few minutes left in consciousness. "Take care... of each other... please." Hermione breaks down. She sobs over him, kissing his head, hugging him to her. "I love you," his eyes close. But he opens them again, it seemed, literally in a second. And he feels confused. He... he's at home. He means, he's in the Burrow. For some reason. It seemed to him that their family home had been burned down a year ago, trying to kill George for anti-Voldemort propaganda. Strange... Is this the moment when life flashes before your eyes? He takes a careful breath. It doesn't hurt. It's feels free. Ron sits up, and the bed creaks under him. For some reason, he's naked. Had he ever slept without clothes? Looking at himself, he sees his old scars, and new ones, of course, the last two years have been intense. And how can Hermione love this body? A map of torment and bad memories. He finds his clothes on the bedside table, neatly folded, warm and pleasant to the touch. It's like his mom put it there. Ron hopes she won't cry too much about him. It's not safe for them to fall apart and grieve. A t-shirt, several sizes too big, and worn jeans. He slaps the floor with his bare feet, and is surprised by the silence: it has never been like this in the Burrow, at least not while he lived here (Ron doesn't know if it was this quiet when he was on the run two and a half years ago). Looking out of his room, he discovers that no one is there, and this is even stranger. Should there be something like that in his best memories, which are worth living before he dies? His chest is empty, there's no excitement for some reason, but he still doesn't understand what's going on. Ron freezes at the bottom of the stairs, going down to the ground floor, because he sees a person he didn't expect to see at all, no, well, he probably thought she should appear in the moments at Hogwarts, but... "Professor McGonagall?" His voice breaks involuntarily, and he blinks a few times. "Oh, Mr. Weasley." She's the same as he saw her the day before she was killed. Still, an incredible woman, it's a pity that she preferred to be captured rather than him. Minerva would probably be more useful to the Order, and he wouldn't be sorry to die for someone like her. (he would probably more rather die only for his family, Harry and Hermione, but his family is safe, one died a long time ago almost voluntarily, and the other... well, he died for her after all.) "What are you doing here?" She has an almost maternal smile on her face, so gentle, only Molly is warmer than her. "I'm waiting for you," she replies, and even though McGonagall has been looking up to him for a long time, he always felt like a first-year next to her, as if everything was fine again, there was no war, and he was walking around with Charlie's old wand and endlessly eating chocolate frogs. Unfortunately, there is no such feeling next to mom or dad. Because Ron feels responsible. He has to protect his parents, that's right, he's been worried about their safety since he was seventeen. Probably because of this, he was especially drawn to his former dean and teacher: for this warm feeling of smallness, for memories of carelessness. "Why you?" And why here? He looks around his house, as familiar, as bright and cozy as he remembers it. "Where is my family?" "As always, you ask a lot of questions, Mr. Weasley," the woman grins and takes his hand, "let's get this straight, young man." Ron smiles at her in spite of himself, hearing such a familiar stern and kind note in her voice, and she seemed unable to restrain herself from smiling back. "You're dead, as you might already understand," Minerva says bitterly, and he would like to tell her that it's nothing to be upset about (he's still interested in his own almost frightening calmness about his death), but McGonagall interrupts him with one look, and continues: "However not completely." Ron blinks. "What do you mean?" "These," she waves her hand, referring to the Burrow, "are not your memories. But this is the most important place for you. Your home." There is warmth in her eyes, but he feels confused, the question about her first sentence is still spinning in his head. That it's not over yet. "I don't understand.." he whispers, and the woman gently squeezes his hand. "Quiet, Mr. Weasley. I haven't finished yet," she says matter-of-factly, as if he had interrupted her lecture in class, and for some reason this calms him down, "you died, unfortunately, this is a fact. But you're at a crossroads." Ron feels like he's trying to understand the ancient runes again in order to write an essay and get at least "acceptable." "You're hanging between life and death," she explains. "You either keep fighting, or you can retire." Even before he fully comprehended McGonagall's words, the answer appeared in his head: "fight". He groaned in frustration and exhaustion at his own desires. "But how? Such a curse flew into me... not to be envious," he chuckles. "Did you die painfully?" Minerva asked sadly, and he winces at the pain in her eyes. "No. Well, it hurt at first, of course, but then it got better," he really wants her not to get upset. McGonagall shook her head, pursing her lips, but then sighed and gathered herself, returning to a more important topic. "Not everyone is given that choice, Ronald," she rarely uses his name, which makes him listen to her even more carefully, "You should think about it carefully. Because if you come back, you'll have to take on a lot of responsibility." Something told him that we were talking about really serious things, although he didn't understand what exactly. Well, he already had a lot of responsibilities during his lifetime, but isn't Minerva talking about something more? "You can fix everything," she whispers, seeing the mute question in his eyes. "How?" he doesn't understand. They had been trying to turn things around for the past two years, but even Hermione was starting to feel desperate, their situation was worse than in nineteen ninety-eight, when they were hiding all over the country. How could Ron, resurrected, fix anything? "You will receive great power and advantages," McGonagall says mysteriously, and morally adds, "But, I remind you, it also means a lot of responsibility." "What kind of power is that? What are the advantages?" he still didn't understand what she was talking about.. Minerva doesn't answer him. Ge decides not to keep asking, although he probably should have. But he decides to follow the advice and consider the possibility well. He has the answer in ten minutes. More precisely, he realized that when he thinks about it, he comes to the same decision, and there is no point in dragging it out. "How do I get back?" The professor is smiling at him, and there's a strange mixture of sympathy and pride on her face. "All you need is a wish." Ron blinks again, uncomprehendingly, but this time he doesn't ask any questions. More precisely, he decides to choose another one to ask. "Why me?" The woman is silent for a while, and then gently strokes his shoulder, calming either him or herself. "I've been asking myself this question since nineteen ninety-one, Mr. Weasley," Minerva chuckles, "Why you, Mr. Potter, and Miss Granger. Always where there's trouble. When I found out from your parents that you were on the run, I understood." Her eyes are clouded with a haze of thoughtfulness, and Ron doesn't dare interrupt her. "You know, the prophecy only talks about Harry — even Dumbledore used to think so. But Mr. Longbottom also fitted him, and after all, he's practically the head of the Order now, he's our new banner of resistance. What is not the new "chosen one"?" Minerva smiles wryly, "And you and Miss Granger always accompanied the "chosen one", no matter who he was: Potter or Longbottom. You are doing everything and even more to help him defeat evil and defeat Voldemort." She looks into his eyes, and for some reason it makes his heart sink. "I'm sure if Miss Granger had died before you, she would have been standing here," Ron swallows at the thought, "and she would have been given this choice just like you. Or if Mr. Longbottom had died, I am also sure that he would have appeared at the crossroads. It's just that you're obviously less careful than they are." Ron chuckles at her last comment, but this speech sticks in his head. He hopes that he won't forget anything when he gets back, because he wants to think about it. "I think you're just as chosen as everyone thinks Harry is," Minerva says almost in a whisper, "You and Hermione have the key roles too. Don't think that you are unimportant and it doesn't cost you anything to die. The fact that we are standing here confirms this." Ron is breathing heavily, feeling an incomprehensible lump in his throat, but he nods. He understands what she's talking about. He will have some power and some advantages when he returns, and whatever they are, he shouldn't die before he is absolutely sure of defeating Voldemort. "Can I hug you?" Ron suddenly says in a strangled voice, looking at the professor, and he suddenly realizes why his heart is beating so violently in his chest: "I'm scared." "Of course, Ron," McGonagall softens and stretches out her arms, wrapping her arms around the guy and gently pressing him to her. He really feels better when she strokes his back, the almost maternal warmth calms him down, so he closes his eyes, burying his nose in her partially gray hair. He opens them a second later, and the sounds of the world come crashing down on him out of the blue. He woke up in his room again, but now he's dressed, the professor is nowhere near, and such a typical noise of life for the Burrow almost deafens him. Ron doesn't immediately realize that he is breathing, that he can hear birds outside the window, as well as footsteps outside the door, cheerful voices on the ground floor... I am resurrected, he thought incredulously, and let out a nervous laugh. He feels his body in places where there were fatal injuries and the flesh was rotting alive under the influence of the curse, but everything is in perfect order, and the clothes feel good on the skin, albeit a little worn. His head is buzzing with a convulsive pile of thoughts and questions, and he is breathing with difficulty, as if he has woken up from a nightmare. But looking at one point, he wonders the main thing: why did he woke up in the Burrow? Why the hell the Burrow? Okay, at a crossroads, it's kind of like magic and games of his subconscious (Minerva said that after death he woke up in the most important place for himself), but... He looks at his hands, automatically wanting to check that all parts of his body are really working, and realizes what his palms look... too small. And clean: calluses, small wounds, and most importantly, those long curly scars from the tapes of thoughts — all this is gone. Ron jumps out of bed and runs to the small old mirror that he remembered always being on his desk. A scared little boy was looking at him in the reflection... he himself. He looked exactly like he was when he was eleven or twelve, and Ron touches his cheeks, tugs at his clean, short red hair, seeing a healthy complexion, intense blue eyes, and freckles... He's a child. He's... It's a strange thought, but considering that Hermione told him about time-turners, and basically this whole resurrection situation, it's not that impossible. It's only now that he catches a pleasant, familiar, but forgotten smell that was at home every morning when his mother was cooking breakfast. His room is small, but most importantly his own and separate, exactly the same as it was at that age. There was a stack of second-hand textbooks on the table, muggle magazines for children and teenagers that his father and twins had given him, a pile of paper and parchments, some written in notes that Ron could no longer remember anything about. His things are in disarray in the room, and there's a whole mountain of dirty ones in the corner — he remembered doing this, until dirt started to annoy him around the age of fifteen. After looking at the calendar, he finally gets his bearings: it's August nineteen ninety-one. And somewhere behind the wall, his mother's voice, so clear and cheerful that he didn't even recognize it at first. So he's in the past. Not only was he resurrected (of course, he doesn't know who, well, definitely not Professor McGonagall, maybe some higher magical powers), literally the last nine years of his life were canceled, and... and now he understands what power and advantages Minerva told him about, because he remembers those very well the years that had just been simply erased. Now he knows everything that is going to happen in the future. Now he can fix something.
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Ron looks around his own room, feeling like a guest. what a strange feeling, as if all this didn't belong to him — and in general, this carefree period seemed to be in another life. He was used to it getting worse every year, with more and more anxiety and fears, and more and more nervous tics. The war "officially" began only in nineteen ninety-five, but Ron, being influenced by the Slytherin's Locket and lost in his thoughts, realized that he, Harry and Hermione had been living in a military regime since their first year. It was so depressing, especially when combined with an obsessive fear for the lives of loved ones and a vile sense of hopelessness. The prospect of going through it all over again was frankly frightening. He almost regretted his decision. Almost. But then did he remember Hermione's sobs, Neville's determined face, Ginny's pursed lips, and... and the deaths, so many deaths that Ron was afraid to wonder how many people he knew were still alive. Harry's body in the arms of a sobbing, hostage Hagrid. Well, first he had to calm down because he suddenly couldn't breathe anymore. In general, Ron knew how to deal with panic, but he wished Hermione were there, her gentle hands in his hair, comforting kisses on his cheeks... The thought that he would meet her on the train on the first of September had a surprisingly good effect on him. And the fact that he would also meet Harry there, alive, was pleased him. He crawled out of his room only two hours after he woke up (resurrected, he corrected himself mockingly), and trying to walk as quietly as possible, he listened to the sounds of the house, his heart was beating so fast that he almost felt sick. It had been so long since he had heard so much insouciance here... As he crept along the corridor, all his senses were alert, so he immediately caught a rustle somewhere nearby, and, fortunately, wasn't so scared when the twins jumped out in front of his nose. "Good morning, little brother!" "You're late today.." "Couldn't sleep from anticipation?" "Relax, the first of September is only tomor–" Fred didn't have time to finish, because Ron jumped up and crashed right into his older brother, hugging him tightly, burying his face in his clothes and inhaling such a familiar smell. His eyes stung involuntarily, and his soul blossomed so much that he was ready to soar with happiness. He's really in the past. The twins looked so young that Ron almost didn't recognize them. They're thirteen now. They have just entered the third year, they don't even think about their own store yet, they are so light and silly, their jokes are just childish pranks. George has both ears in place, no scars on his face, and Fred is alive... "Uh..." The boys looked at each other, both of them didn't understand why the younger one was behaving like this. They were even more confused by Ron's words, which were slightly muffled by Fred's clothes. "I love you very much," he murmured, saying the words he had wanted to convey to the elder ever since he had looked into his dead face in the battle for Hogwarts. "Uh.. love you too?" he answers quite confusedly, and awkwardly hugs back. "Ronnie, what's the matter with you?" George leans over to him, and even though he's trying to annoy him with a stupid nickname, Ron realizes that they're just trying to distract him. "Did you have a nightmare?" Under the nervous grin of the elder, he takes a deep breath, pulling himself together. Idiot. He fell apart and scared the brothers. He reluctantly pulls away from Fred, and sniffs, but notes that, fortunately, he still didn't cry. Although he really wanted to just burst into tears right now, squeezing his older brother in his arms, and refusing to let him go. "Yes," he nods, deciding that George has unknowingly come up with a good excuse for him, "I just... I had a dream that you disappeared," Ron says evasively, turning to Fred, sounding uncertain, trying to come up with something truthful, "I've never dreamed of something like this before. So it became kind of... well.." "Mom asked us to wake you up, because it's already breakfast," the older one suddenly says, whom he didn't want to let out of his hands, "We'll be waiting for you downstairs." The twins exchange confused glances again, and Ron realizes that they decided to drop the subject because they are too embarrassed by his behavior, and he is grateful to them. "Yeah, I was just on my way to the kitchen." He watches them go down the stairs, and he can't take his eyes off the way Fred moves: it seems unreal to him. The fact that his brother is breathing, talking, able to walk and do something. That he's so young and bright, his hair is light red, and his eyes don't even seem brown, but almost amber. Or so Ron sees it. Tears come to his eyes, he purses his lips, and really hopes that he won't burst into tears at a random, inopportune moment. His heart breaks, he so wanted to see him again, to talk at least once, to tell Fred how much he loves him... ever since he lost both his older brother and his best friend in one day, Ron has made it a habit to tell everyone he cares about that he loves them. He became too afraid of not making it. He also began to avoid quarrels by hook or by crook, after George hysterically told him that he had quarreled with his twin just half an hour before he.. The last words to each other were so angry, full of resentment, and it was already impossible to apologize — Fred would never hear or say anything again. More precisely, it was like this in a previous life. Fred is here now, alive and young. Ron will definitely protect him. Fred had no right to die so early. Wiping his eyes with his hand and taking several deep breaths to calm down and pull himself together, Ron walked stiffly to the stairs to go down and finally see the family in (almost) full assembly. He freezes at the foot, and stays in this small shadow to look at his family for a while before they notice him. Mom, as before, fussed in the kitchen, she loved to cook herself, practically without using magic or house-elfs, and this always made the food seem special. She is energetic, runs back and forth, and her voice is strong and confident when she turns to someone to give an assignment. Molly looks healthy, she mixes up the twins only by accident when her thoughts are elsewhere, and doesn't call George Fred in a slight state of loss of sanity, while he cannot find the strength to correct their mother when she is like this. (he doesn't want to think about the fact that in his previous life, after learning about his death, mother would be even more mentally damaged. He doesn't want her to cry for him, but she will, and she will get worse. He wouldn't let that happen to her this time.) Father was sitting at the table reading the newspaper, and of course he always had a trace of fatigue, because he worked a lot, but now, in comparison, he seemed fresh and cheerful. Arthur laughed and smiled at some silly headlines or anecdotes, actively communicated with the children, and didn't walk everywhere like a pale shadow behind his wife, fearing that her clarity of consciousness was about to slip away, and she might unknowingly harm herself. Dad's eyes shone with interest as he talked about muggles again, describing the new unusual devices he had seen at his work. He didn't seem empty and exhausted, sitting in gloomy silence, he didn't communicate with dry phrases on duty, his "love you, dear" in response to Molly's concern was filled with sincerity. Percy actively communicated with their father, trying to find out as many details as possible about his work at the ministry. He is fifteen, and premature gray hair hasn't yet touched his red curls, his face is smooth and there are no wrinkles or a short scar from a cut on his lip. He has a stubborn, sharp look, not clouded by grief and guilt — that he didn't save Fred, didn't have time to push him away, didn't cover him in the end. He wasn't yet disappointed in his work, his dreams and his life, he wasn't drowning in uncertainty because he didn't know how he could help the Order, he wasn't sitting at home looking after their parents, drowning in a sense of personal uselessness. He has goals and desires, a career plan, and he's determined to get what he wants. Ginny is so small. She's short and thin, with a round baby face, big eyes and soft straight hair. She's still so naive, believes in beautiful princes and considers Harry Potter to be some kind of fairy-tale hero who defeated the villain and saved everyone, and will definitely pay attention to her when she goes to Hogwarts. True innocence, despite her innate stubbornness and quick temper. She doesn't have that steel and determined strength in her gaze yet, and she's not ready to sacrifice her safety or even her life to protect other people and wizards. His little, fragile sister is still unable to literally control military units, direct operations, and carry out the dead and wounded from the battlefield with iron endurance. Ron swallows hard, closes his eyes and counts down to twenty, steadying his breathing, wiping tears from his eyes again. Okay, he hadn't realized until that moment how hard it would be for him to just look at the people around him, so happy and alive... "Ron! Why are you taking so long, get to the table quickly!" Molly notices him, puts her hands on her hips, frowns a little. Exhaling, he forces himself to walk, and finally sits down at the table. The familiar surroundings and pleasant smells, the warm light coming through the windows — all this makes his heart sink, but he ignores it, starting to eat in silence. He also doesn't pay attention to the twins' glances in his direction. "Ron, why did you get up so late today? Don't tell me you've been reading those stupid magazines late again!" mom says, slightly grumpily, putting a glass of homemade lemonade in front of him. "Darling, what are you doing again, he's worried. After all, what a day tomorrow is!" dad stood up for him gently, and Ron wasn't sure he could control his voice, so he buried his face in his plate, pretending to be guilty. "At Hogwarts, classes start at eight in the morning! I already get complaints in every letter about absenteeism from the first classes," immediately a stern look cuts into the twins, who make the most innocent faces. "Why are you pushing them in the morning, Molly?" in response to her husband's joking tone, she rolls her eyes and waves her hand, but doesn't continue. Afterwards, Ron expected silence at the table, which he had gotten used to, but some conversations about nothing (maybe he would have joined earlier when he was really eleven, but now these topics seem so unimportant to him) continued, everyone had something to say, something to complement, and it all merged into a general unintelligible buzzing in his head. He couldn't figure out if he wanted to eat at all: his stomach was obviously empty, he (or rather, his body) probably hadn't eaten since yesterday, but from all those thoughts and emotions that turned his soul inside out, food was the last thing he thought about now. However, this will definitely arouse suspicion: he remembered Hermione's words that it was still unusual for her to see that Ron ate little, because he used to eat almost for three. He's already behaving too atypically for his little version. He puts a spoon in his mouth almost reluctantly, forcing himself not to think about what he's eating, just let it fly into his stomach and satisfy the needs of the body. That's basically how he'd been eating since they'd gone on the run, and the thought of enjoying a meal had somehow slipped his mind. "What's the matter with you?" Ron blinks, and slowly raises his head to his older brother: Percy is frowning at him, and carefully examines his face, looking for signs of something. Of course, the picky smart guy noticed that something was wrong with him, because he didn't pounce on his portion with the same enthusiasm. "It's fine," Ron muttered out of habit, unable to think of an excuse for himself. He had been thinking so much for the past two and a half hours, ever since he realized his sudden time travel, that he even had a slight headache. "You don't want to eat?" his brother asks cautiously, as if he doubts such a possibility himself. Ron thinks about asking for a second portion, even if he doesn't want to: he doesn't want to draw the family's attention to his behavior too much. He's not sure he can keep quiet about the truth if they start asking, and he won't blurt out something along the lines of "I saw you die in Percy's arms, Fred." "I want to," he says, not looking at the older one, and Percy purses his lips. For some reason, he suddenly remembered that there had been awkwardness between them back then. Rhe age difference became noticeable, affecting their relationship, and some kind of vague gap had been growing between them ever since his brother entered Hogwarts, staying at home two months a year. Also, considering Percy's eternal nerdy behavior, with which he seemed to have been born, and his enlarged ego when he received the prefect badge, little Ron, who was jealous and lazy about his studies, was even pushed away from the elder. But now he no longer cares about envy, achievements and attempts to surpass his brothers: his head was full of thoughts about the future, terrible memories, as well as attempts to structure a series of events in order to develop a strategy on how to save loved ones and somehow twist to kill the damn Voldemort. Hermione told him that he was an excellent strategist, and he used to believe that because his Hermi was always right. Percy suddenly stood up from the table, and Ron blinked in surprise. And he didn't understand: It was him again who was so lost in thought that he missed how the elder had finished his breakfast, or he had... offended? Well, he doesn't know why he should be offended, but surely it didn't seem to him that he really got up too abruptly and restlessly? He turns his head at the giggling twins, and realizes that they've probably been teasing their brother about something again. He exhales, mentally cursing at his elders, and rages at his own nervousness. He needs to relax somehow, behave more naturally. But, of course, he understands that the near future will definitely be difficult for him: looking into the faces of dead or morally broken people isn't like worry about quidditch and exams. "Ron, do you want me to read to you?" After breakfast, his younger sister looks at him with those big eyes, and for a second he even holds his breath. He had completely forgotten about it: in general, Ginny had stopped doing this since she entered her second year. Reading aloud while Ron listened to her was a kind of performance for his sister, she loved the attention to herself. And he just had nothing to do, and the younger one's voice is pleasant when she's not shouting or acting up. "I do," he replies, and his heart melts and contracts at the same time when she smiles at him. In general, the whole day was a blur for him. There were so many thoughts that he didn't even doubt that he would not be able to sleep, and there was nowhere to get the dreamless sleep potion. Spending time with his family seemed like a blessing and moral torture at the same time — he missed his family so much when they were so cheerful and active, but on the other hand, the memories of what might happen to them in the future made his heart bleed and his lungs refuse to work. Sitting in his room, Ron looked at Charlie's old magic wand, which he had been given "by inheritance." Second-year memories flash through his mind, failures in magic, and so on. Nowadays, he hardly needs a wand for simple spells: he has mastered the ability to conjure without its help very well, having started studying back in nineteen ninety-seven, when he almost lost his leading hand after splitting, and then his mother and George taught him. It was worth doing non-verbal magic, Ron decided. Fred could help him, he's definitely good at it, considering that he's been doing it since childhood. (Ron remembers even years later how his toy turned into a fucking spider monster, and he was three!) There's a knock on his door, and considering that this person is waiting for his permission, Ron immediately realizes who it is. "Come in, Percy!" The older one comes in and smiles at him, which he just can't help but respond to. Warmth spreads in his chest at the sight of his brother, he literally reacted like this to every member of the family all day as soon as he saw them. As if to confirm that these weren't his deathbed delusions — they were all real, they were here... "Ron, listen, I know you're upset that mom didn't buy you an owl," Percy says, rubbing his neck and holding his other hand behind his back. He blinked. Wow, and he didn't even remember... Oh, the older one probably took his behavior at the table as an insult because he refused to buy a pet. Well, that's good. "I can't give you Hermes," he continues in a seriously guilty tone, frowning, and Ron mentally chuckles, remembering that Percy didn't even let their mother take his owl, "But I can give you someone else..." Ron took a deep breath, suddenly realizing what, or rather who, he was talking about. He pursed his lips and involuntarily clenched his fists, looking at his brother showing him the rodent in his palm. He even had the corner of his eyebrow twitching as soon as he saw him. Damn rat. "Scabbers," Percy reminds him, smiling and stroking the animal's small furry head with his thumb, and Ron's chest tightens in disgust. Feeling the piercing gaze of the boy's blue eyes, the rat freezes for a second, and then turns around and climbs up curlyhead's arm to his shoulder, to which Ron cannot restrain a contemptuous grin. "He doesn't seem to like me," he says with forced amusement, and Percy reads this as an ongoing grudge. "Come on, Scabbers may be old, but he's a good pet," he convinces him, shaking his head, "Look how obedient he is." Damn cowardly traitor. Ron winces, he wants this rat to not dare to touch his brother anymore, so he stands up and, standing on tiptoe (at this age Percy is taller than him), grabs Scabbers in a slightly sharp movement, taking him in his arms, despite the fact that the rodent clings to the clothes of the previous owner with its claws, and then scratches his palms. Percy blinks in surprise. "Okay, it's better than nothing, right?" he grumbles and smiles tightly, while the elder raises one eyebrow, sighing tiredly. "You'll like him," he assures, seeing the tension in the younger's shoulders and wondering if he's really that offended. After all, Bill, Charlie, and the twins didn't have pets either... "I don't doubt it." Shaking his head, Percy leaves the room. Ron practically throws Pettigrew away, not wanting to hold him in his arms any longer than necessary, and he's just lucky that he fell on the soft carpet and not on the floor. He snorts contemptuously at the rat and grabs his pajamas to go to the bathroom: he's definitely not going to change clothes in front of a man in the guise of a rat.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Ron bites his lip, constantly looking around. For some reason, some kind of special anxiety covers him, the fluttering in his chest irritates and his fingers tremble from it. His gait is so tense, like he's going to be executed, even though it's just another first of September. It's good that his family regards this as the usual excitement before Hogwarts. But, from the moment they stepped into the train station, he couldn't stop himself from turning his head every seven seconds in the hope of spotting familiar faces (who is he kidding, of course he's trying to spot them), which Fred even giggles at, that Ron would break his neck at this rate. He wants to see them so much that he feels a little sick and has an illogical desire to escape, because he will probably do something very stupid on emotion. They were already standing in front of the pillars, Percy ran through first, the twins behind him, and Ron felt outright self-loathing simply for not remembering when the hell Potter was supposed to appear, because he knew for sure that they had met earlier than on the train (but the acquaintance in the compartment was even too clear in his head), but when?... "Excuse me.." Everything inside is shrinking, and his heart is beating faster, almost to the point of pain. Ron tries to hold back his ragged breaths, which literally makes him stand and suffocate at the sight of Harry, but he doesn't care about his condition right now, because here he is, his best friend, alive, so small, thin and confused... He's embarrassed about having to ask for help, worried about the barrier, all the magic around is something new, unfamiliar, but so interesting... He completely ignored the conversation between his mom and Harry, but when he ran off into the column, he was finally released. For some reason, his head felt empty in an instant, and for a few seconds he couldn't even feel his body (and for a moment he was afraid that he was going to faint), but then the noise around him penetrated his ears again, his mother's warm hand rested on his shoulder, and she hurried him on, smiling supportingly. All he could give her in return was a crooked smile, and a shaky: "it's okay." When her loving kiss on his temple didn't calm him down, Ron felt guilty for his overly raging emotions, but he definitely couldn't focus on it right now, his brain was gradually starting to clog up with other convulsive thoughts. He was frankly shaking as he walked almost on tiptoe along the carriage, ignoring absolutely everything around him, thinking only of one thing... "Y-you don't mind?" His voice was trembling treacherously, and he clutched at the damn door, trying to mentally get himself in order. He didn't want to panic in front of eleven-year-old Harry. "No, of course, sit down." Ron can't stop himself. He felt like he was going to die if he didn't touch him right now, hug him, hold him close. He only managed to squeak, opening his eyes in shock, when a red-haired, unfamiliar boy suddenly wrapped his arms around him, practically falling on top of him, slightly pinning him to the upholstered seats and burying his face in his shoulder. Ron clutched his fingers into the fabric of Harry's clothes, feeling his chest constrict, his nose sting, he listens to his breathing (Merlin, he's really breathing), and in a second, absolutely all the memories that can flash through his head. And.. and that look of his. "I have to do this, Ron." The motionless body, the triumph of the Death Eaters. You don't owe anyone anything. The old rage, which had seemed impotent before, now became his incentive. His best friend had been obligated to save this damn ungrateful world almost from birth, deprived of absolutely everything, forced to voluntarily surrender into the clutches of Voldemort... Ron lived through some losses with Harry and couldn't come together himself, freaking out about his traumas in response, and after some, he just dealt with a nervous, stressed-out Potter, and felt trapped in a cage because he couldn't blame his friend for his condition (after all, it really wasn't Harry's fault), but there seemed to be no way to help, he just watched as the war slowly took his brother to pieces, without regret. And it caused so much hopelessness and despair that any strength was lost. Ron won't let him suffer so much this time, he won't let him go into battle alone, he won't... He counts down to five, and then forces himself to pull away, sitting next to him. "I'm sorry, I just..." Ron sighs. Well, that's right, he did the stupidest thing, being emotional. He must be sighing in a particularly unhappy way, because Harry's hand is suddenly on his shoulder, and he's stroking it... "Is everything okay?" He looks confused (of course, it's not every day that strangers hug you!), but in his green eyes there is concern, sympathy for another boy who, from his perspective, clearly feels emotionally unwell (however, Ron really felt bad, Harry always accurately read his condition). "I'm sorry," Ron repeats his apologies, looking away and mentally counting to five more before coming up with an excuse, "This is my first time going to Hogwarts. It's hard in an unfamiliar place... And all that, you know?" Harry is now stroking his back, awkwardly but with a strange glint in his eyes, nodding actively. He remembers for sure that this was not how they met in their first life, but... as it happened. "I'm Ron," he says in a more even voice, and can even force himself to look at Harry, "Ron Weasley." He looks at how emotions change on the face of his old-new friend, and the same feelings come over his heart as when he couldn't believe that Fred was really moving and breathing. "And I'm Harry Potter." Ron then deliberately hinted at his poverty by pulling out these stupid sandwiches that he didn't like at that age, well, because he remembered that day perfectly, and yes, he selfishly wanted to feel this kindness, good-naturedness and generosity of Harry towards himself. Did anyone have the right to condemn him? He talked to him, and almost, just for a moment, he forgot that there were one supposed to join them soon. And when he decides to brag about again, but this time not just some simple spell, but real wandless magic, while grinning darkly at the rat who senses a trick - oh, he's not going to feel sorry for Pettigrew until he figures out what to do with him and, in general, with all this drama between Harry's parents and their friends. Maybe he'll deliberately feed it to Hermione's cat when she buys it. He just makes the rodent fly over his lap and start spinning (well, a small shake is not so terrible), and the green eyes sparkle with sincere childish admiration when suddenly the compartment door opens, startling them both, and Ron loses concentration, causing the rat to fall to the floor. That's where he belongs, Weasley thinks vindictively, and then looks up. "Did you do magic without a magic wand?!" Hermione's high-pitched voice is almost choked with shock. Ron can't control his facial expression: he breaks into a silly smile and drowns. He had forgotten how charming she was as a child: her eyes were so big, brown with an amber tint, her hair was fluffy, soft and elastic, her lips were stubbornly pursed, and her features were round and cute. She was beautiful, and he wanted to hug her so much. She's so small that there is only one desire: to protect, not to let her get hurt. And yet, just a little bit, pride rises in his chest that he was able to impress Hermione, even with a simple spell, when she is just a child. "Yeah. Do you want me to teach you?" actually, it just came out of his mouth. He picked up the rat, clutching its body in his fingers so that it wouldn't dare to approach his friend and his Hermione. "But it's a skill that requires a lot of skill! Not all adult wizards can do magic without their wands," she says excitedly, sitting down across from them, her sharp gaze directed at Ron's hands. He feels the corner of his eyebrow twitch a couple of times. From Granger's comments, all the inner pride disappeared somewhere, and it was replaced by next realization that he was a jerk: demonstrating strong magic that an eleven-year-old simply couldn't wield, just like that? No, Weasley, are you completely stupid? The last thought flashed through his head in the voice of an adult Hermione, when she looked at him so disapprovingly as soon as he did something stupid or dangerous (or both at the same time). How he missed her brains here. And Harry's intuition, his ability to know when and what to say. He exhales softly: they're here. It's just that they're small and don't know anything at all. "My older brother taught me," Ron replied, surprisingly not turning off the conversation while he was lost in his thoughts. Hermione's eyebrows furrow, but after thinking about it, she nods. And then, she resolutely introduces herself, immediately asking for their names. So we've met, he thought happily. "Is it hard to learn this?" Harry broke into the conversation uncertainly, he still had no idea how difficult it was to control and direct magic without a wand, but he understood from their dialogue that Ron was clearly doing something incredible. "Yes," the redhead answers honestly, "It took me almost three years to get the simplest thing." "It takes a lot of self-control and concentration," the girl says, watching her new acquaintances with interest (Ron recognized that gleam in her eyes!) "I'm just amazed. You don't just get it! In three years! So when you started, you were eight??" Ron smiles at her. Despite the fact that he screwed up, on the whole, he was even pleased that they were interested in him: actually, when he finally managed to sleep for an hour, he had a nightmare that he would do something wrong at the second time and Hermione and Harry would not be friends with him.. It seemed to mean something worse than the end of the world, and he almost talked himself into throwing a tantrum and not going to the train station on September first, ignoring any consequences. But, remembering the story of the forest, the tent and the escape from responsibility, he also gives himself mental kicks, as soon as the panic has let go. They were even a little late because of him, and Ron was nervous about it too, although this was overlaid by the painful anticipation of the first-second meeting. The ground falls out from under his feet when McGonagall meets them, the first-year students, and, firstly, he carefully doesn't look at the faces of the people around him. And secondly... professor looks younger. Her face is not yet distorted by constant fatigue and fear for students, there are fewer wrinkles in her adult features, and her gaze is stern, but deep in them lies the same maternal warmth, her love for each of her students... and in past life, Ron saw how she was wounded in the side, blood gushed onto the wall and she asked him to hide. And later he will have to look at Dumbledore, and Snape, and Dean, Lavender, Fay, and then Cedric, Draco, Padma... This year will be... difficult.