Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

  Fred Weasley is dead.

  He's dead, Hermione and Harry are missing, and Ron is utterly alone. Death Eaters were outside, and Hogwarts was in pieces.

  Ron felt his stomach turn and knew he couldn't handle this. Cries and wails filled with grief and agony ran out around them, the lines of dead students and order members seeming to only grow.

  He couldn't bear to look at George— who had yet to let go of Fred. His cries distinct to Ron's ears despite there being so many others crying out with the same grief and sorrow for their own loved ones.

  Fred Weasley is dead. George has lost his other half. 

  But there was no time to mourn. Time was running out, and with Harry and Hermione missing, it was up to Ron to run things. He had to keep things going, to make sure that those Death Eaters would harm no one else. He owed it, for their sake. 

  Molly Weasley was dead. She died saving her only daughter. 

  Ron's feet were moving without his consent. He ran and he ran, letting his body take him where he needed to go. Hall after hall, stair after stair. He ran, not knowing where he was going but knowing he had to be there.

  Percy and Ginny are dead. Hunted down by a group of Death Eaters not long after Molly's passing.

  There was a door. He ran faster and faster, reaching out and—

  Bill is already long gone. Killed by Greyback. 

  Ron screamed as excruciating pain wracked through his entire body. The door swung open, and all Ron could see through blurred vision was bright white light. 

  Charlie had been killed by the one thing he loved the most. Dragons. 

  He screamed again, something metallic filling his senses. He was moving again, but it wasn't him. Ron was being dragged into the light, his screams of pain growing louder. His head was pounding, his limbs violently jerking and trembling. 

  Ron was alone. Utterly alone. Out of nine Weasley's, all were dead but only six had stopped breathing.

  "We have been waiting for you." A voice, one and a million at the same time hissed, pulling Ron closer and closer. "Accept us, let us in." 

  But Ron couldn't focus all he could do was scream in nothing short of agony. 

  "We will not hurt them. You will save them, with our guidance. Let us in, let us guide you home."

  It was pointless to resist. The moments the words were spoken, one's vision faded to black, just as the pain did. His body grew cold within a matter of minutes, and his blood stained the once pristine, bright room. Ronald Billius Weasley would remain there forever, never found nor forgotten. His body would rot, never to be found until fate opens its doors to someone new. 

Seven had stopped breathing. 

Grief took the remaining two.

Eight souls in the hands of death

The sixth rebirthed. 

Seven

Seven 

Seven. 

_______________________

  The next time 'Ron' woke up, he was surrounded by walls of burnt orange. He was seven years old, and something was wrong. It weighed on his body, making it far more heavy than it should be.

 Ron lay in his bed, staring up at the tilted roof with eyes far older than his body. 

  "Mum.." He mumbled, voice hoarse as if it had never been used before. He coughed, forcing himself to sit up. "Mum, mum.." 

  It's still dark out, that much Ron can tell. He slid out of bed, just barely managing to hold himself up. He stumbled out of the room and gripped the railing on the stairs. Down. That's where he needed to go. One step at a time, one foot in front of the other. 

  Ron made it down a few sets, feeling like he had no control over his balance. He kept mumbling, it seemed to bring him back to reality. Ron was awake. He's here, he can see and he can breathe, but something is wrong. 

  He makes it down another flight of stairs, but before he can move again, a hand is very cautiously placed on his shoulder. Ron paused but didn't look up at who it was, not having the strength to.

 "Ron?" The voice was male, so quiet and filled with concern. Ron blinked, and then he blinked again. 

  "Ring." Was what Ron mumbled, and distantly, he felt his feet leave the ground. He was gently pressed against something warm. It made Ron blink. Safe, he thought. Safe. 

  He was being carried somewhere, that he knew. A few slow blinks later and he was back in a room. It wasn't the one with walls of burnt orange. It was bigger, that's all he knew. 

  "Come on, Ronnie, just get some rest, alright? You shouldn't be up walking." The voice spoke again, and that's when Ron made the slow realization that he was lying on something soft, staring up at whoever was speaking.  

  "Ring," Ron mumbled again, feeling as if he was miles away from his own body. "Ring." He blinked, and the face above him was filled with grief. 

  "Oh, Ronnie.." A hand was in his hair and something warm briefly pressed against his forehead. "Go back to sleep. I'll be here, I'll always be here." The words were comforting, and Ron found himself slipping away from himself, eyes closing once again.

  Float. Ron thought. And float he did. 

  As Ron finally fell back asleep, Bill Weasley took a shuddering breath and stepped outside his room. He sobbed quietly, head in his hands and shoulders shaking. The dull, glazed eyes of his baby brother haunted his mind, pulling apart the little strands of composure he had left.

 You didn't deserve it, Bill thought fiercely. You didn't deserve what those bastards did to you. 

  And that thought haunted every single single member of the Weasley family

  War was never kind, but it had been the most cruel to Ronald Weasley.

Chapter Text

Some days, Molly found it nearly impossible to look at her youngest son. This struggle did not arise from disgust or hatred; rather, it stemmed from a deep, gnawing guilt that enveloped her like a shadow. It was a feeling she could not dismiss or brush aside; instead, it felt like a raw wound—wide open and filled with a turbulent mix of guilt, sorrow, and profound mourning for a son who, against all odds, was still alive.

On other days, this wound might scab over, temporarily covered by intense emotions like anger. However, this anger was not directed at her son; it was aimed squarely at those responsible for his suffering. This fierce anger allowed her to push aside her sorrow, igniting a protective fire within her that every mother knows. It was a fierce and unyielding love that surged to the forefront, enabling her to momentarily set her pain aside. Even when the scab of her emotions itched incessantly, she found the strength to ignore it. Molly was resilient and determined to shield her children from further harm, and sometimes that meant protecting them from herself.

Despite it all, there were good days. Days when everyone would smile and laugh, enjoying the food on the table without any heaviness in the air. Molly cherished those days. They filled her with warmth, knowing that the family was wounded but not broken. She learned to smile when the twins pulled off another prank but would quickly scold them for it. She learned to be less upset when Bill and Charlie talked about curse-breaking and dragons, even though she felt that traveling across the world was far less safe than getting a job in the Ministry. She encouraged Percy, who was nervous about starting Hogwarts this upcoming year, reassuring him that everything would be okay. Molly understood what her son was worried about, but bless his heart, that wasn't his concern; he should be focusing on school. She also made it a point to spend time with her daughter, even if it was just baking in the kitchen or knitting in the living room. Ginevra mostly spent time with her older brothers, especially the twins, but Molly always made time for her, just as she did with the rest of her children.

On the good days, Molly would head up to the bedroom below the attic with a bowl of steaming hot soup in her hands. She would sit next to her youngest son and feed him one spoonful at a time, telling him stories—big or small—about days at the Burrow. Some days, Bill, who had taken on a more parental role with Ron as the years passed, would join her. Most days, Ron was quiet, with vacant eyes and a flat expression. However, if they were lucky, there would be moments when Ron would mumble—a single word like "Mum" or "Dad," which the healers had assured them was normal.

"When a patient is in this state, the brain clings to a happy memory or person. Especially when they are as young as your son, the patient will often remember their parents—"

But then, things changed. Over the course of a week, Ron—her baby—went from lying in bed to standing and walking. The healers at St. Mungo's were ecstatic about the news, and so was the family. This improvement meant that his mind was recovering, which was something no one had expected. Not only that, but her son had started speaking more. After some tests, it was concluded that the damage inflicted on her son was suddenly being undone—at least enough for him to regain some motor function. By some miracle, Ron was healing . For the first time in three years, Molly Weasley could fully convince herself that she wasn't just grasping at straws. There was hope, and that was all Molly needed.

A little bit of hope.

_____________________

Bill Weasley is not a father. 

At the tender age of sixteen—on the cusp of seventeen—Bill finds himself teetering on the edge of adulthood. As the eldest of seven lively children, he bears a unique blend of responsibility and freedom. While he doesn’t have to step into a parental role all the time, a sense of duty often nudges him, especially when his well-meaning parents struggle to keep up with the whirlwind of chaos created by his six-spirited siblings. 

Yet, Bill possesses a laid-back demeanor that allows him to navigate this tumultuous household with ease and charm. He enjoys being the cool big brother, ready to lend a hand when necessary without overshadowing the others. He’s not one to seize control at every turn; rather, he takes comfort in letting Charlie, his capable brother, take charge when the situation calls for it. 

The one exception in this dynamic is Ron. 

While Bill recognizes that it isn’t his role to constantly monitor his baby brother, the weight of their shared history hangs heavily on his shoulders. Their parents pour their hearts into parenting, but Bill often feels a gnawing fear that it isn’t enough. Ever since that fateful night three years ago, the Burrow has lived under a shroud of silence and tension that wasn’t there before. Bill was there, and the events of that night linger vividly in his memory—the anguish and terror etched into his mind like a vivid nightmare. Ron had been attacked, almost ruthlessly taken from them by the hands of Death Eaters. In a time when the war had officially ended, no one expected such brutality to resurface.

  But that haunting memory remains, casting a long shadow over their lives.

"You want to argue with me? Give me the boy!"

"NO! Not my son- not my son!"

"Silence, blood traitor! Tell us where the ring is! We know you have it!"

"We don't know! Please, let our son go!"

"Liars! Liars!"

"We aren't lying! Please-"

"CRUCIO!"

The first red light hit Ron square in the chest. His cries had turned into agonizing wails. Bill remembers his parents going pale and looking horrified. He remembers them still trying to fight- to reach Ron- despite being beaten and injured with spells. It was pointless, however, as the moment they tried another "CRUCIO!"  hit Ron again. And again. They didn't stop and Bill- who was with the rest of the siblings bound by a spell could only watch in horror as their brother was tortured until he could no longer scream.

Bill didn't know how much time passed, and he didn't know how many red lights he had seen before there was more shouting, and the familiar Auror's robes came into his view. Even when he could move, he didn't, he just cried. He cried, the piercing screams of his baby brother replaying in his mind over and over. At that moment, he wasn't cool, older brother Bill. He was a thirteen-year-old who had just watched his three-year-old brother get tortured. A week, seven days, before Ron's fourth birthday he experienced trauma not even most grown adult wizards had gone through. 

To say the least, the next few months were gloomy. Despite it being summer, no Weasley was in a good mood. Weeks were spent at the hospital, and even when they were home, there wasn't much talking. Mom cried a lot, while Dad was always at work or at the hospital. He looked worse each time Bill saw him.

 His siblings were not much better. Charlie, Percy, and Ginny, who were closest to Ron at the time, were practically inconsolable. Ginny was just a baby, so Bill could only do so much to comfort her, but Charlie, who was only eleven, and Percy, who was nearly as tearful as Mom, were struggling. The twins were also a crying mess and refused to be separated, even at the dinner table. Bill did everything he could, but even he was at his wit's end. 

That school year, Bill and Charlie went off to Hogwarts after many arguments with their parents. After reaching an agreement for weekly updates, the two of them begrudgingly packed their bags and took the train. The updates helped both of them, even if the news didn’t change: “He’s alive, but still out of it,” was what their parents said. 'Out of it' meant that Ron was still undergoing treatment and was not coherent enough to do anything.

The news didn’t change until after Bill's fifth year. 

“We can take him home,” Mom said, her words choked, and her cheeks stained with tear tracks. “Ronnie can come home permanently.”

 At first, Bill was over the moon with the news. His baby brother could finally come home, which was good! Wasn’t it? Looking back, that joy lasted only a week before the harsh realization hit him. Patients with his brother's condition were supposed to have permanent care at the hospital. Ron wasn’t supposed to be coming home. The only reason for suddenly bringing him home would be... 

Because he didn’t have much time left. 

The truth hit Bill like a bludger. He immediately went to his parents, demanding answers. Why hadn’t they told him or his siblings? Were they really going to wait until after his little brother died to say anything? All he received in response was their sobs. Bill realized just how hard this must be for them. He was losing a brother, but his parents were losing a child. 

From that moment on, he took it upon himself to step up. He accompanied his mom to Ron's room, which had been painted a burnt orange and filled with Chudley Cannons merchandise, after Charlie told everyone that it was Ron's favorite team.

When Bill was up there, he would listen as Mom told stories while feeding him potion-laced soup (the potion was supposed to put Ron's mind at ease, whatever that meant). She would tell him everything—the date, the weather, and how things were going at the Burrow. Bill would sometimes chime in, making small comments or sharing a story about something at Hogwarts. He never really responded fully, but the occasional mumble from Ron made things feel a little brighter. Those quiet words eased Bill's mind because his brother wasn't dead—not yet.

 About a year later, Ron started to move again. It was sudden. One day he was lying in bed as usual, and the next he was standing by his bed. Dad almost fainted that morning. After a visit to St. Mungo's, however, they were both in high spirits. 

"He's healing," Dad informed everyone, a large smile on his face. "Our Ronnie is a fighter. Such a fighter..." 

The news brought genuine joy back to the Burrow. From then on, each family member spent more time in Ron's room, chatting, playing, and hoping. It went unsaid, but everyone shared the same thought: He'll recover; he has to. 

It was even better when Ron started walking. Everyone wore smiles almost all day, and often, a sibling or two would be around Ron to make sure he didn’t bump into anything or fall—Bill included. Bill was there most of the time. He knew it might seem overbearing, but he had been doing it for so long that he couldn’t just stop. Besides, what if Ron fell and none of the other siblings caught him? Bill couldn’t risk that, not ever. 

So, when Bill caught Ron walking down the stairs that night, he hurried over, worried something might happen. It was great that his brother was walking, but it was too dangerous at that hour.

 “Ring,” Ron mumbled, his voice hoarse and distant. Bill suppressed a wince, picking Ron up and holding him against his hip. Ron had been saying "Ring" a lot recently, and each time, all Bill could think about was how the Death Eaters had talked about a ring years ago.

 “Come on, Ronnie. Just get some rest, alright?” Bill said as they entered his room. He placed Ron on the bed near the wall and, for safety, laid a spare pillow there as well. “You shouldn’t be up walking.” 

“Ring,” Ron mumbled again, repeating it. Bill’s face twisted as he looked at his brother's pale, sickly face. In moments like this, he was reminded of how young Ron was, and even if he recovered, he would never be a normal kid—the chance at that was stolen from him before he could ever live it. 

“Oh, Ronnie…” Bill swallowed hard. This never got easier, no matter how many times he faced it. Brushing Ron's hair off his forehead, he leaned down and gave his baby brother a small kiss. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be here.” He stood up, willing himself not to cry. “I’ll always be here.” 

 Once he was sure Ron had fallen asleep, Bill stepped outside. Up close, Ron looked a minute away from death. No matter how old he got, it was a sight he could barely handle, even with the news that Ron was getting better in some ways. So, he cried quietly so as not to wake anyone. The image of Ron’s dull, dazed eyes burned into his mind permanently. Ron's body could still move, but his eyes looked lifeless. His baby brother didn’t deserve this; he should have been running around with the rest of his siblings. But he couldn’t, and Bill didn’t know if Ron ever would. 

He didn’t deserve this. His baby brother didn’t deserve what had happened to him.  

That night, Bill went to bed late, with Ron by his side, sleeping soundly. The morning would bring a new day, and Bill knew he had to be put together then. It was his job as the eldest son. 

_______________ 

He was woken up by something shaking him. “Bill?” 

Bill opened his blurry eyes, immediately trying to turn away and go back to sleep. It was bright out, but he was still tired. 

“Bill.” The voice huffed, sounding a bit annoyed. With a grumble, Bill complied, opening his eyes again and turning toward the voice. When his vision cleared, his heart nearly stopped.

 Sitting on the bed was his youngest brother, hair tousled from sleep, blue eyes clear and staring right at him. “Ron?” Bill asked, his eyes widening. Was this a dream? He sat up, reaching out to feel Ron's face. Ron looked confused at the gesture and tried to push Bill's hand away, but Bill pressed harder, keeping it on Ron’s cheek. 

“Oi!” his baby brother huffed, looking puzzled, as if he wasn’t quite sure what he was seeing. “What’s wrong with you—”  

This is real. Bill’s breath hitched, too many emotions flooding him at once. He opened his mouth to speak, but another voice beat him to it.

 “Ronnie?” Both heads turned to see their mother standing there, mouth slack and eyes wide in disbelief.

 “Mum?” Ron answered, sounding more confused than before. “Mum, what’s wr—oomph!”

Ron had practically been tackled in a bear hug. A moment later, Bill joined in, holding him tightly and breathing in the reality that Ron—his baby brother—was finally here. By some miracle, his baby brother had truly returned, and Bill was determined never to let him go again.

“What is happening?” Ron mumbled, his expression one of pure, unadulterated confusion. But neither person justified him with an answer, only hugging him tighter. 

Chapter Text

When Ron wakes up, he's confused.

He's supposed to be dead.
No—he is.

When he was dragged into the white, when the excruciating pain hit, he expected death. It felt like being stabbed by thousands of red-hot blades, each one twisting deeper after the first puncture. It was the kind of agony no wizard—certainly not Ronald Weasley—could possibly wake up from.

So when he opened his eyes to find himself in a bed, staring at an unfamiliar ceiling, he froze.

And when he tried to move, the soreness that gripped his body snapped him wide awake.

Is this what being a corpse feels like? Ron thought bitterly. But then the pickling pain in every joint and the pounding in his skull made him want to lie back down and disappear under the blankets.

Okay, maybe not, he concluded. Feels more like a Nundu rolled all over me. I’m prickly all over... And corpses don’t feel anything, right?

He might’ve pondered that thought longer, but his head hurt too much.

With effort, Ron managed to sit up, ashamed at how difficult it was. He’d fought in a war—but couldn’t handle this? If both twins were alive, they'd never let him live it down.

He took a deep breath and looked around. The room was surprisingly clean: mint-green walls, a single window with blue curtains, and a shelf holding various items he couldn’t name. The door was open, revealing a hallway with a wooden railing.

I’ve been here, Ron thought. That much he knew. His brow furrowed as he squinted into the sunlight streaming through the window. It stung his eyes, but he forced himself to focus.

Think, Ron. Think.

He blinked, scanned the room again, then blinked harder. His mind raced but offered no answers. Whatever memory he was trying to grasp sat heavy on the edge of his awareness, just out of reach.

He looked down.

And lost his breath.

Lying beside him—peacefully asleep—was a sixteen-year-old version of his eldest brother.

Bill. The name filled him with a moment of relief… but only for a moment. Because the Bill he remembered was older. Grown. Scarred.

This wasn’t him.

It can’t be, Ron told himself, eyes locked on the sleeping figure.

He stared. For how long, he wasn’t sure. But he stared hard—thinking, blinking, frowning—as memories of his brother played through his head like a chant.

Bill, Bill, Bill.
“Mr. and Mrs. Weasley...”
Bill, Bill, Bill.
“...Your son...”
Bill, Bill, Bill.
“Killed by a Death Eater.”
Bill, Bill, Bill.
“...Fenrir Greyback...”

Ron blinked, and the memory slipped back into the shadows. He looked again at the boy's freckled face. He counted every dot, desperate to prove to himself that this wasn’t his brother. That it couldn’t be.

It didn’t help.

So Ron did something stupid. Something potentially dangerous.

He shook the man.

No response.

He frowned and shook harder.

“Bill?” he said.

The man—Fake Bill?—stirred, and Ron’s throat tightened, ready for a fight.

This is it, he thought. It can’t be him...

But instead of reacting with violence, the man simply rolled over, mumbling nonsense.

Are you kidding me?

For a second, Ron forgot how serious this all was. Frustration flared in his aching bones. Who was this guy, pretending to be his brother, kidnapping him, and now ignoring him?

“Bill,” he huffed again. The name felt wrong on his tongue, like a betrayal. But what else could he call this ginger-haired stranger?

Surprisingly, the man groaned and turned over. And Ron would have noticed how familiar those eyes were—if his heart weren’t pounding in his throat.

Brilliant, Weasley, he cursed himself. You’ve just woken up your kidnapper.

But instead of attacking, the man just stared. Mouth agape. Shocked.

Ron’s brow furrowed. Why does he look surprised?

A retort was halfway out of his mouth when the fake Bill sat up, reaching toward him.

“Ron?”

Ron flinched, trying to push the hands away, though his arms were too weak.

“Oi! What’s wrong with you—”

“Ronnie?”

The voice came from the doorway. Both heads snapped in that direction.

And for the second time since waking up, Ron forgot how to breathe.

She stood there. Her orange hair was longer now, streaked with silver—but her eyes… God, her eyes were exactly the same. Warm. Searching. Unbelievably alive.

Ron teared up and couldn’t find the strength to wipe the tears away.

“Mum?” The word left him like an exhale he’d been holding his entire life. But even as he said it, confusion clouded his face. Because something didn’t add up.

Before he could blink, he was pulled into a hug—not by one, but two pairs of arms. They held him tightly, their shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

Ron frowned. He couldn’t wrap his head around any of this.

“What is happening?” he mumbled.

The room started to spin.

And then everything went dark.

When he woke up again, he was actually in a hospital.

Shouldn’t I have been here the first time?

Well, probably not. Corpses don’t really belong in a place of healing.

This room was different—too white, too sterile. The walls were bare, the ceiling tiles speckled and ugly, and the only sound was the soft, rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor beside his bed. The scent of antiseptic hit him hard, and the sheets felt like paper.

This time, he knew he was awake. No softness in the lighting, no strange nostalgia or warmth. Just harsh fluorescent lights and a dull pain behind his eyes.

Right. Definitely alive.

Unfortunately.

Ron shifted, wincing at the twinge in his ribs. Everything ached again—less like being trampled by a Nundu and more like he'd been caught in a badly cast Shield Charm explosion. He took a slow breath and looked around.

There were no windows. That unsettled him.

No familiar faces, either.

Not Mum. Not fake-Bill. Just a closed door and the low hum of magic running through the walls.

He sat up a little, ignoring the tangle of glowing tubes and the inventions beeping faster in protest. The gown itched. His skin felt too tight.

How long has it been?

He wasn’t sure if time had passed or if it had rewound somehow. The image of his mother—younger, grayer, impossibly alive—still burned in his mind. Had he imagined her? Hallucinated the whole thing? The fake Bill? The mint-green room?

Was this real, or had that been?

He rubbed his face and let out a tired groan.

“Mr. Weasley?” a voice came through the door.

It opened a second later, revealing a Healer in soft green robes holding a wand and clipboard. She smiled like she didn’t know he’d just clawed his way out of death—or worse.

“You’re awake. That’s good.”

Ron stared.

The Healer walked in, tapping her wand gently against the clipboard. “Vitals look stable. You’ve been in and out for a few days, but your magic seems to be settling again.”

That made him blink. “My… magic?”

“Yes. It’s been fluctuating. Erratic surges, resistance to stabilization charms… not uncommon in traumatic cases, but yours is unusual. We’re still monitoring.” She said it calmly, like she was reading from a textbook.

He narrowed his eyes. “What happened to me?”

Her smile faltered, just slightly. “You were brought in unconscious. Your magical core was nearly depleted—collapsed in on itself, from what we can tell. And there were… signs of time displacement.”

Ron blinked. “Time what?”

“Temporal disruption. Your body has aged normally but certain magical markers indicate…” She paused, studying his expression. “I shouldn’t speculate. You’ll want to speak with the specialists.”

Ron leaned back into the pillows, stunned.

Of course. Time travel. Or soul magic. Or dreams. Or death. Who knew anymore?

His head was spinning again.

“Is my family here?” he asked quietly.

The Healer hesitated. “They were. But they’ve been… rotated out for rest. I’ll notify them you’re awake.”

He nodded numbly.

Were they real? Was it really her? Was that really Bill?

Before he could ask anything else, the Healer smiled again—rehearsed, professional—and turned to leave.

The door closed behind her with a soft click.

Ron was alone again.

He had no clue what was happening. Yesterday–well a few days ago apparently he was dying, but now he was here. Was it time travel? Or was this an hallucination, and he was just a wandering soul in memories that weren’t his own? 

The more he thought about it, the less it made sense.  

So he decided to do something that would give him some peace: finding out exactly where he was. There were a few problems with that, as in he couldn’t move that far from the bed without alerting the Healers, and his body wasn’t that cooperative with him.

The silence stretched, long and heavy, wrapping around Ron like a second blanket he couldn’t shake off.

He didn’t want to lie here anymore.

Every inch of him ached, but his curiosity—or maybe the panic quietly building in his chest—was stronger. He had to know. Something wasn’t right. None of this was adding up, and the cold, sterile walls weren’t giving any answers.

With a hiss through clenched teeth, Ron pushed the blankets off and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The tile floor was freezing against his bare feet.

“Brilliant,” he muttered, gripping the IV pole like it might anchor him to the present. Or reality. Or whatever this was.

His knees buckled slightly as he stood, and the monitor beside the bed beeped in alarm. He ignored it. If a Healer came running, maybe they could answer a few bloody questions.

The room wasn’t large, but every step felt like a mile. His body felt like it had been wrung out, soaked, and set on fire. Still, he forced himself toward the far wall—where a small sink and cabinet stood beneath a modest-sized mirror.

It took longer than it should have.

He gripped the sink with trembling hands, forcing himself to look up.

And froze.

The person staring back at him was… him. But not the right version.

This Ron looked younger. A lot younger.Pale and sickly, with dark hollows under his eyes and cheekbones that stood out too sharply. His freckles stood out more against the washed-out tone of his skin. His hair was unkempt, sticking out in directions even a good scourgify spell couldn’t justify. God... he looked like a kid.

But what struck him the hardest was the look in his own eyes.

Haunted.

Like someone who had seen too much… or not enough.

He touched the mirror. So did the reflection. No tricks.

“What the hell happened to me?” he whispered.

Time displacement. That’s what the Healer had said. Temporal disruption.

He looked at his hands next. Thinner than he remembered. Less scarred. Less lived-in.

Memories flickered: Bill. Young Bill. A home that shouldn't exist anymore. A version of Mum that wasn’t worn down by the war. Her hair streaked with silver—but her eyes unchanged.

He gripped the edge of the sink tighter.

I’m not in the right time.

It wasn’t just a hallucination. It wasn’t a dream.

He was out of place.

Somehow, some way, he had been pulled—or thrown—into the past. Or maybe something deeper, more broken than that. Time didn’t just skip like this. It ripped. And if he was on the wrong side of the tear…

“Okay,” he muttered to himself, trying to slow his breathing. “Okay, okay. Don’t freak out. You’ve seen worse. Probably.”

But his reflection didn’t look convinced.

His eyes drifted lower—his hospital gown had shifted slightly, revealing faint bruising over his collarbone and neck. Symbols—runes?—were etched faintly into his skin, some glowing with residual magic, others already fading like old ink.

He didn’t recognize them.

But something about them made his stomach twist. Whatever magic had done this to him… it wasn’t natural. And it sure as hell wasn’t Ministry-sanctioned.

The beeping behind him spiked suddenly.

He turned just as the door burst open.

“Mr. Weasley!” A different Healer rushed in this time, followed closely by a second figure in slightly darker robes—older, stern, wand already drawn.

Ron instinctively stepped back from the mirror.

The stern one spoke first. “You’re not supposed to be standing.”

“No kidding,” Ron snapped, sweat beading at his temple. “Where the hell am I? When the hell am I?”

Both Healers exchanged glances—just long enough to confirm something was wrong.

“I knew it,” Ron muttered, voice cracking. “Just bloody say it. I’m in the past, aren’t I?”

The stern Healer stepped forward. “You need to lie down. Now.”

“No. I need answers.” His grip tightened on the IV pole again, using it like a crutch. “What year is it?”

Neither answered.

Ron’s breathing grew shallow. His chest hurt.

“What year?” he snapped again, louder.

Finally, the younger Healer swallowed. “It’s… 1988”

Ron’s heart stopped.

That couldn’t be right. He remembered 1998. Everyone was dead, Hogwarts had crumbled. 

Ten years. Gone.

Or never happened.

“Oh… bloody hell.”