Part 1 - Cocoon
Ron rushed about his bedroom in a panic. He was running late for his Friday night out with his mates. Just as he grabbed his wand and his wallet, he heard the clear "pop" of Apparation in his front room.
"Ron."
He stood stock still. He couldn't believe it. Harry. His heart began thumping against his ribcage and his breathing became laboured. He hadn't seen Harry or Hermione in the five years since…. He shook his head. He didn't want to think about that…now or ever. He was through with them. He'd thought he'd made that much clear.
"Ron, I know you're here."
He grumbled and pursed his lips. What the bloody hell does he want? He walked with purpose to the front room to confront his former best mate.
"Fucking hell, Harry! What are you bleedin' doin' here?! And how in Merlin's name did you Apparate into my flat?"
"You'd be surprised what I'm capable of." Harry looked pale. His tone was flat and his expression was stern. His clothes were hanging off him…as if he'd lost a great deal of weight recently. His hair was even messier than Ron remembered and his face was gaunt.
"Would I? I don't reckon any shit you pull would come as a surprise to me. Get out of here. Now. I'm late for dinner."
Harry was in obvious distress. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, apparently steeling himself for this conversation. When he opened his eyes, Ron nearly stepped back. Harry's eyes were dark with determination.
"I'm not leaving, Ron. And you're going to be late. Deal with it. I have something to say to you…something to…," he hesitated, "ask of you. I'm not leaving here until I've said my peace."
Ron sighed in anger and frustration. He knew better than to think that he would be able to stop Harry once he set his mind to something. "What the fuck do you want, then? And be quick about it," he spat.
Harry swallowed. "Hermione…," his voice caught on the name, as if it cost him something to speak it out loud. "She wants to see you. She needs to see you. I came here to bring you back with me…to talk to her."
Ron snorted. "You what?! You're raving mad if you think I'm going to your goddamn perfect house where you live out your goddamn perfect life to see your goddamn perfect…," he started to stutter, in search of just the right insults, "bl, blithering, s-stubborn, barmy, arrogant, s-selfish…," and then he sunk as low as he deemed appropriate, "buck-toothed, gnarly-haired, mad as a hatter…wife!"
Harry was clearly angered by his words, but Ron didn't give a toss. He was in shock. He couldn't believe his ears. She wanted to see him. What the fuck for?
"I said all I had to say to you pair five years ago. I thought I'd made that clear. If you're here to tell me that she wants me to be a godfather to your snot-nosed spawn, then you can go fuck yourself. There's nothing…."
Harry moved toward him in anger, but stopped just short of arm's length away. He was clenching and unclenching his fists. "MY SPAWN…," he shouted and stopped. Gritting his teeth, he continued, "My spawn, as you so kindly refer to my daughter, is six months old, Ron. She's set for godparents, thank you very much." Harry turned away and breathed deeply again.
"You can insult her all you want, Ron, but I know it's a load of bollocks. I know you still love her; I know that's why you say those things. Because you're trying to convince yourself you don't. Please yourself, Ron, but don't insult my intelligence." He turned back and shot a disgusted look Ron's way. "Course, your way of proving it to her leaves a bit to be desired. I know it was you that sent back the baby announcement ripped in shreds. I told her not to bother sending you one, but she insisted. Said if we never reached out, you'd never get past this." He snorted, then his expression turned serious again. "She cried for a week, Ron. A week. Does that get you going, you sick son of a bitch? Tearing her up inside? Is that what you live for these days? Hurting good people who only ever cared for you?" Harry's look of disgust melted into resignation.
Ron's voice quivered a bit, but he wasn't sure why. "You're as barking as she is if you think…."
"Shut it! Shut your gob! I will not listen to you disrespect her any more! I'm not here to listen to the woes of Ron Weasley. You're coming back to Godric's Hollow with me one way or another," he said as he fingered his wand.
"Fuck you. Fuck you, Harry Fucking Potter! Who the fuck do you think you are, anyway? God's gift to wizardkind?" Ron approached Harry with a look of utter loathing on his face, spitting fire. "You got rid of Voldemort and you won however many Quidditch Cups and girls drop their knickers for you and gold falls into your lap and you'd think that would be enough for you, but…no."
Ron stood inches from Harry, looking down on him and challenging him to deny any of it. "You just had to have her, didn't you? Because I wanted her. Because I could see a life with her. Because she was my alterego. Why else would the big hero settle for a mousy, nagging, know-it-all who wouldn't even put out? That's the only reason, isn't it, Boy Wonder? Have you admitted it to her yet? Five years it's been since we left Hogwarts and you stole her from me. Have you gotten sick of her now that you can't throw it in my face? Tell me, Harry…now that she's squeezed out a sprog, are you done with her? Have you had enough of slipping it to the Mudbl-"
Harry's fist came out of nowhere and sent Ron stumbling backwards into the wall. Even after all these years, he was still surprised at the strength of his scrawny former roommate. His ire and wrath from moments ago were tempered by a feeling of satisfaction at winding Harry up. He smiled silkily and planned his next attack.
Chuckling, he said, "A bit too close to the truth for you, eh mate? Well, I don't want her either, you prick. I don't want your hand-me-downs. As soon as she touched you, I couldn't stand the sight of her. Another fucking fangirl for the great Harry Potter." Ron's ire was growing again. He seethed. "I thought she was better than that. I thought she…." He couldn't finish that thought. His eyes grew glassy, he shut his mouth, and he stared blankly out the window of his bedroom for a moment before he drew his eyes back to his best-friend-turned-rival.
Harry had visibly attempted to keep his cool, but Ron's verbal jabs had hit the mark. He was rattled and Ron could have sworn he even saw tears gathering in his eyes. His aggressive stance gave way; his shoulders sagged and he looked to the ground. There was a palpable decompression in the room.
"So what is it, Harry? Why does Her Royal Flipping Highness want to see me? And why the hell couldn't she come here herself?" Ron stared at Harry, challenging him to give a straight answer. He could continue to be an arse, but what was the point? He just wanted out of this tired old argument.
Harry stared back at Ron, not flinching. "She wants to come to an understanding. Your…absence from our life has never set well with her. It hurts her, not that I expect you care. She wants to set some things straight. Now that we're parents…." Again Harry trailed off, looking wounded and defeated.
Ron rolled his eyes and let out a groan. "I can't fucking believe you wasted my time and yours on Hermione's 'let's all get along' bollocks. It's never gonna happen. You can tell your wife to go kiss a Dementor for all I care. She's a right…."
"She's dying."
"Wh, what?"
"You heard me."
Ron was reeling, moreso than when Harry had punched him. The blood drained from his face. He found he couldn't speak, even if he'd wanted to. There wasn't enough air and the roomed seemed to spin around him. The only thing he could focus on - and he couldn't tear his gaze away - was Harry's face, his eyes. Harry's deep green eyes, which stared right back at him.
In that moment, he felt like a teenage boy once again. More specifically, he felt like the teenage boy who stood waiting for news of his best friend's health as she lay on the verge of death. He had cursed her, blindsiding her with dark magic intended to wound and disable her - his envy the tool that Voldemort had bargained on. He was ripe for the picking and had hurt her badly under the influence of Imperio. The guilt had eaten away at him, gnawing at his soul until he could barely face a day without firewhiskey. It was the only thing that had kept him at Hogwarts for his final month when he found out about them.
She had been closed to dying then, at the end of their last year at Hogwarts. And they'd known this was always a possibility.
"The curse…," he breathed, not even recognizing his own voice.
"Yes." Harry stood resolute.
He hadn't moved a muscle since he'd uttered the words that had shattered Ron's angry façade. The cocoon of hatred and bitterness he'd sewn so carefully over the years…that he'd wrapped himself up in for warmth and comfort…in which he'd carefully buried his rationale and his conscience…it had been laid to waste in a matter of seconds by two simple words. She's dying.
"But…but…," he started but couldn't finish. Harry took over.
"Having Ariana…it was hard on her body. She tried to…well, she…." Harry turned his gaze away, staring into space. Ron saw the gathered tears break free and fall down his face. Harry did nothing to get rid of the wetness that reflected the light on his cheeks. It was the only colour left on Harry's face. He was clearly broken.
And when that thought came to Ron, he stepped back, staggering until he felt the wall behind him support his dead weight.
It's what he wanted. It's what he'd dreamed of. It's what he had fantasised about, despite his intermingled feelings of guilt, from fourth year on.
"You've wanted this." Harry's words were cold and accusatory and far too accurate for Ron's taste. "You've wanted to see me falter. To see me fail and flounder and be brought down to my knees. You've desired my downfall, haven't you, Ron? If you looked in the Mirror of Erised any time over the past five years, that's what you'd see. Me. On my knees. Bruised and battered and beaten."
Ron was struggling to breathe, struggling to think, trying to grasp hold of something to pull him out of this living nightmare. Harry walked slowly to him, stopping mere inches from his face.
"Take a good look, Ron," he whispered. "This is what it looks like. You may not see the marks, but don't you worry. These marks…these scars…," he balled his fists and motioned toward his gut, his tears falling down his cheeks, "they hurt to hell and back, Ron. Far worse than any damage brought on by a wand or a fist. And they'll never fade. I'll never be free of them."
Once again Ron tried but failed to turn his eyes away from Harry's gaze.
"Are you happy now?" Harry sneered. His expression of undeniable torment morphed into a rage that shone through his dark eyes. "I'm sorry, Ron, for all my sins. Shall I confess to you? Doesn't it seem appropriate somehow that you should be my priest? Twisted, but appropriate."
Ron regarded him with a mixture of fear and loathing. He didn't want to be Harry's father confessor. He didn't want to feel the guilt and shame that was worming its way through his veins. He didn't want to feel at all right now. He slid down the wall and stared off into space, attempting to brace himself.
But Harry didn't move. He stood above Ron and stared at the wall, the space where Ron's face had just been, and he bled out loud.
"I'm sorry my parents had to die to protect me. I'm sorry for breaking Aunt Petunia's best vase. I'm sorry I needed expensive glasses. I'm sorry the grass burnt because I laid too much fertiliser." He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry for ever putting my friends in danger. I'm sorry for bringing Voldemort to Hogwarts. I'm sorry for letting Wormtail live. I'm sorry for killing Sirius and Hagrid and Dumbledore with my reactionary temper."
He listed his sins in morbid fashion, chronologically and with no inflection to his voice. Ron knew he'd thought long and hard about this and that sent a chill down his spine.
Harry continued, "I'm sorry that my best friends became bait. I'm sorry that I couldn't stop him from hurting you - either of you. I'm sorry that you think I stole her from you. I'm sorry that knowing me has caused you so much pain. I'm sorry for being blissfully fucking happy for a few years of my pathetic sodding life. I'm sorry for loving someone so deeply that we created life despite our best efforts not to. I'm sorry that my daughter will grow up never knowing her mother. Her beautiful, loving, generous, courageous mo-." At this, he crumbled. He had choked on the last few words and he turned away from Ron, grabbing his stomach and wretching. Ron winced at the sight. Nothing came out of Harry's mouth. He had nothing left to lose.
Taking a moment to gather himself, Harry turned back and took in the sight of Ron. Ron felt Harry studying his features, maybe for the first time that night. Harry stood with his arms crossed loosely over his stomach.
"You have no idea what you threw away. Not me, but her." Harry's voice was hoarse. He was crying and speaking and Ron felt like each word was inflicting its own lethal amount of physical pain on both of them.
Harry sucked in a few sharp breaths and continued. "You have no idea what precious thing you tossed aside. I feel sorry for you, you great prat. You'll never get it back. Not now." He cringed at the truth laid bare.
"Life is a bit of a puzzle, don't you reckon? Voldemort hated me for what he saw as the bad in me…half-breed, son of a Mudblood and a Blood Traitor, do-gooder. You, on the other hand, hate me for the good. But what's the difference, Ron? When it comes down to it, your hatred has defeated me, not his. Perhaps jealousy is more poisonous, more dangerous than malice." He started to walk away. "At least, that's what Hermione says."
Then with a small "pop," Harry was gone.
And Ron wept, shattered by his own humanity.