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Things Said and Unsaid | ||||
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Category: Post-DH/AB Characters:None Genres: Angst, Drama Warnings: Mild Language Story is Complete Rating: G Reviews: 7 Summary: The War is over but some wounds remain untreated. After Harry and Ron’s argument during the Deathly Hallows, Harry needs to know whether he can still rely on his friend to help him heal. Hitcount: Story Total: 1554 Disclaimer: Harry Potter Publishing Rights © J.K.R. Note the opinions in this story are my own and in no way represent the owners of this site. This story subject to copyright law under transformative use. No compensation is made for this work. Author's Notes: This one-shot takes place at the Burrow, a few months after the Final Battle. Harry has been supporting Ron after Fred’s death and now needs some help in return. Before that can happen, the air between the two friends must be cleared of certain things that have been said and left unsaid... |
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‘Harry felt a corrosive hatred towards Ron: something had broken between them.’ Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - Chapter 15, Page 252. *** ‘Ron…?’ Harry said quietly, before hesitating. His eyes were remote but deeply intent, as though seeing something far off but crucially important. Rain pattered on the roof of the Burrow’s creaking shed and the world outside its small window was bleached grey. ‘What?’ Ron asked. He glanced up briefly from the tattered wooden countertop in front of him, blank-faced and distracted, still sorting through muggle items labelled for repair by his father. ‘That night in the tent…before you left -’ Harry hesitated again, looking uneasy. ‘I wish you hadn’t said the things you did.’ The words, carefully and deliberately placed, fell heavily into the small humid room. Ron looked away quickly. Harry noted the speed of his reaction, his lack of questioning; his friend had obviously not forgotten their confrontation either. ‘It was just a stupid fight, Harry,’ Ron mumbled defensively, ‘and it’s over. I came back, didn’t I? Saved you, found the Sword, destroyed the horcrux?’ Harry said nothing. Ron shifted uncomfortably, feeling wary and wrong-footed. His day had been comfortingly simple and predictable before this sudden and unexpected turn in their conversation. Since the Battle, Harry had so rarely initiated any sort of confrontation - he had barely spoken at all, other than to provide comfort to others grieving. The sudden change caused unease to trickle down Ron’s spine. ‘You know that I didn’t mean the things I said, mate,’ he tried again. ‘I was angry. The horcrux was messing with my head, and with no food and the endless cold and that bloody tent… I just snapped, you know?’ Harry was watching him intently now, coiled tight and unmoving. There was something stirring in his eyes; rising emotions that his friend could not recognise. ‘Why bring this up now anyway?’ Ron asked, his tone darkened by his defensiveness. ‘It doesn’t matter anymore, does it? We won and it’s over. All that rubbish is in the past now - done with…right?’ As he spoke, he realised that he was afraid of the answer to his own question. A tense silence stretched out between the two men. Ron broke it first, impelled by his growing discomfort. The tips of his ears glowed red and tension tugged at his mouth. ‘Jesus Harry, say something! Why bring it up if you don’t want to talk about it -’ ‘Of course I don’t want to talk about it!’ Harry erupted, paling in fury and distress. ‘I don’t want to talk about anything! I wouldn’t have brought it up if I could help it…’ He took a long, shaking breath. His expression was still furious but his eyes unbearably sad. ‘Do you remember what you said about me? About your family…and mine?’ Ron flushed brighter, anger rising to his defence in the face of his increasing shame. His voice raised reflexively and he slammed a palm down on the counter beside him. ‘Of course I bloody do, you don’t have to hash it all out again! I already said I was sorry!’ Harry’s eyes widened dangerously. ‘That was before you said that the fight didn’t mean anything,’ he countered, ‘and that you only said what you did because you were hungry!’ ‘I didn’t mean in that way! I just meant that I wasn’t thinking straight, was I? It was a fight - I was talking rubbish. It was that bloody horcrux! You know it affected me worse than you -’ ‘You only wore that locket for a few hours at a time! Do you really think that you can use that excuse with me now, knowing what we do?’ Harry was breathing heavily, body shaking with barely-suppressed anger and bitter disappointment. ‘I WAS a horcrux, Ron! I had a piece of HIM inside me my whole life - tainting everything…And then he was in my head, making me feel what he felt, making me watch as he tortured and murdered…you can’t even imagine what it felt like…’ Harry was no longer seeing Ron. He no longer felt the comfort of being at the Burrow, despite the piles of Arthur’s odd muggle trinkets spread around him and the jug of Molly’s lemonade placed thoughtfully by the shed door. He was caught again in visions of distant terrors. With the same inner certainty he had felt so often during the War, he knew now that he could not escape them alone. ‘Despite all that, Ron, I never tried to be cruel to you. What you said in that tent - you made me hate you…I wanted you to know the truth, just for a second, to feel what I do every bloody day. All the pain, anger, fear…and always trying to hide it all from everyone - I’d never wish my life on anyone, but you made me want to force it on you, to make you feel it, to make you understand…just for a second…’ Harry trailed off, knuckles white and straining against the wooden countertop, shoulders rigid. His eyes were fixed down, glazed over with anguish. Ron stood stunned, his eyes creased in distress and his freckles dark on his paling face. Damp wind whistled eerily through the shed’s crocked eaves and around the two of them. Harry spoke again, quieter now. His voice was suddenly wearier than Ron had ever heard it. He sounded exhausted - beaten. More than that, he sounded desperately sad. ‘I need you to understand. I can’t…I just can’t do this anymore, dealing with the mess in my head alone. Not now that the War’s over - not now that I don’t have a reason to push it all down or pretend anymore.’ Harry paused and steeled himself. ‘What you said - that I have no family to worry about…it was true for a long time, Ron. You and Hermione…I can’t expect you to know what it was like for me growing up, before Hogwarts. I guess I forget sometimes that you don’t, that your childhoods were so different from mine.’ Harry’s gaze turned to the small window. Rain continued to pelt the shed’s tarnished roof. ‘I was angry too, when we fought. I was terrified of failing and frustrated with you for complaining all the time. I was already used to hunger, discomfort, always being on guard…so enduring them on our search wasn’t so bad. I should have realised it was different for you.’ Harry paused again and Ron realised that he was holding his breath. He let it out slowly, unwilling to break whatever rare spell was causing Harry to speak so openly. ‘At Privet Drive…things were bad, Ron. I was there for so long, as far back as I could remember, and there was no hope, no way out, nothing for me. I used to dream that there was - that someone would come and save me. An unknown relation…or my parents, alive again…’ Harry trailed off, lost monetarily in the memories of a despairing child. When he spoke again, his voice was cold and hard. ‘Eventually I stopped waiting for a miracle. I didn’t give up; I just couldn’t remember what a better life felt like. I had always been, and always would be, the freak under the stairs that no one cared about. I saw love…but never felt it…’ Harry’s voice cracked under the weight of his admission. Grief and regret lay heavy between the two men. Ron ached to reach out to his friend but did not know how to comfort him. ‘…and then I got my Hogwarts letter and suddenly I was sitting in that train compartment heading towards a new world. I was still alone and didn’t expect that to change. But then you walked in and everything was different…and then Hermione and Neville and your family…your mum sending me my first Christmas present, before she’d even met me…and finding Ginny…’ Harry trailed off again, almost overpowered by emotion. Ron was mesmerised, staring at his friend as though trying to finally see something desperately important. ‘You were the first, Ron. The first person I cared about. And you’ve been there through it all…so how could you say that I didn’t care what happened to Ginny or your family?’ ‘Harry, I -’ ‘- everything I’ve done has been for the people I care about - you and Hermione, your family, our friends…I walked into that forest for all of you - died alone, surrounded by Death Eaters, knowing what was going to happen, not defending myself…’ ‘I know that,’ Ron pleaded, ‘I didn’t mean -’ ‘- and you thought it was easier for me because I’d already lost my own family? Because they were “safely out of the way”? You have no idea what it’s like to lose your parents - to watch the people you love die for you again and again…to be completely alone…’ Harry’s voice, which had been shuddering with strain, rose again in anger. ‘You have no idea how it feels, or you would never have said what you did - would never have spoken about my parents that way…used their deaths against me…’ Harry fell silent, unable to continue. Cold shame streamed down the back of Ron’s neck as his eyes, now wet with tears, fell to the floor. ‘You’re right,’ he breathed. He looked back at Harry again, desperate. ‘I don’t know why I said those things. I’m an idiot, Harry, a thoughtless git! I don’t know what got into me…I didn’t mean it, I swear!’ Harry’s shoulders slumped. His anger dissipated as quickly as it had come, seeping away as exhaustion and disappointment overtook him. ‘I can’t do this anymore Ron…can’t keep this up much longer. I just…I’m just so damn tired…’ The admission cost more than Harry expected. His head ached and he felt tears building suddenly behind his eyes. He quickly cleared his throat and turned away. Ron waited, unwilling to interrupt such a rare moment of vulnerability. His friend needed this conversation - to clear the air between them. Ron could see that now and understood it; he himself had always required the swift release of direct confrontation. ‘I just…I thought that you knew,’ Harry admitted quietly, face hidden, ‘…that we were protecting your family together - like I was part of it…but after what you said and what the locket showed you, I realised that you didn’t understand at all.’ Harry cleared his throat, sounding at once very young and very old. ‘I can’t blame you for that, Ron. There’s so much I’ve never told you, that I couldn’t talk about or didn’t want to burden you and Hermione with…but I can’t do it anymore. You can’t help me if you don’t know what I’m feeling, and I think…I think I need your help now.’ Silence fell again, both men lost in thought, reeling from the weight of what had been said and sensing the significance of what was said next. The rain outside had lightened while they spoke, pattering more gently against the shed’s old walls. Harry finally turned back, away from the shadows colouring the room’s dark corners, and met Ron’s eyes directly. His expression was desperate but still guarded, tinged with bitter anger and disappointment. He looked drained and exhausted, with heavy circles under his eyes and deep hollows under his cheekbones. His defensive posture betrayed his uncharacteristic vulnerability. Ron stared back, seeing clearly for the first time the broken part of Harry that they had all chosen to ignore for so long. How had he not noticed before? He was stung by acrid guilt and the sudden piercing awareness that his friend needed help. He knew that he could not have survived Fred’s death without Harry’s support - and now Harry needed him. He swallowed and straightened his back reflexively. ‘Harry…I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry, you know I am. I know that doesn’t fix it…but you’re right. I can’t help you through this if I don’t know exactly what we’re dealing with.’ He paused, then took a risk and lightened his tone. ‘And no offence, mate, but you look like you need the help. You look terrible. Even worse than usual.’ Harry’s lip twitched. Relieved and gratified, Ron continued on, his voice purposeful, eyes fixed vigilantly on his friend. For the first time he was intensely aware that Harry was several months younger than him. ‘After that…we’ll take it one step at a time. You, me and Hermione. We’ll get through this - we always do. And we’ll find a way to understand. Hermione will work out a way if talking doesn’t hack it. Lord knows you’re not the best communicator…’ Ron offered Harry a weak smile, which Harry slowly returned. Ron hesitated, deliberating. Then, mind made up, he leaned forward, face set and determined. ‘Look mate, you’ve got to trust me. Please. I know I screwed up. I know I walked away and I know what it did to you now. But I’m not going to leave again, Harry, I swear. I’m not going to run off when things get tough. I’m stronger now. Just…just trust me like you did before. Please…’ Harry looked away. A memory flitted across his mind; he was twelve, playing quidditch with Ron at the Burrow, weightless and bursting with new and unrestrained joy. He wanted to feel that again. ‘OK.’ He raised his eyes to meet Ron’s. He nodded his head, sensing the need to repeat himself. ‘OK, Ron.’ Ron let out a breath and grinned widely in genuine relief. Harry watched as the grin faded slightly and Ron’s eyes slowly creased with apprehension and the burden of responsibility. Harry offered no words of comfort. He needed to take now; he had nothing left to give. ‘OK…’ Ron began uncertainly. ‘OK, we’re going to get through this.’ His voice became firmer. ‘We’ve won, for crying out loud! And we’ll get through this together - I promise. And if you’re too much of an idiot to believe that I’ll stick around for you, then trust that I’ll stay for Hermione. I got the girl, after all, so neither of you are getting rid of me anytime soon!’ Ron grinned broadly. Harry rolled his eyes for his friend's benefit and let him talk, allowing the words to roll steadily over him. Slowly, tentatively, he began to let go of the crushing weights suffocating him and let his grief creep in. He was going to break soon. He could only trust that his friend would be there when he did. |
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