Diem Ex Die

There were moments when it seemed that nothing about Harry had changed. They were few and far between, and only ever sort of sideways -- Ron would hear a sigh and out of the corner of his eye he'd see Harry blowing his fringe up out of his eyes the way he'd always done. But then he'd get up to make lunch and he'd turn the gas ring on by hand and it made Ron's throat hurt; all that was left of the real Harry was the body, with its muscle memory and its bad vision and the scar on its forehead.

According to Hermione, he was 'fragile' -- his head injury had left him wounded and scared, of course, and his mind was blank, impressionable like a baby's. But that wasn't right at all, Ron thought; Harry could speak, and he could read, and it was safe to let him handle fire. Only he couldn't remember anything about magic (about real magic -- but he remembered enough to be surprised it was real), or a single person he'd ever met in his life. He had to trust them when they told him his own name.

It wasn't that Ron resented being there. Granted, he was bored just about out of his wits. There was literally nothing to do besides read and wait for news to come from Dumbledore or Hermione or Snape. Nobody else knew where they were, assuming there was anybody else left, and Snape wouldn't go giving anyone at all that information (not their friends, not Ron's family) even knowing they could never repeat it. But they were busy, Dumbledore and Hermione and Snape, what with fighting the Death Eaters who didn't know enough to pack it in when their leader was gone, so news from them was infrequent at best. They might at least have hidden Harry in a place with a hidden garden, as well, so if nothing else they could go outside.

On the other hand, Ron knew he was safe, which was more than a lot of people could count on. For one terrible moment he caught himself thinking it was high time being Harry Potter's best friend kept him out of danger for a change.

The trouble was, Harry knew full well that he'd forgotten everything. He knew Ron was there to take care of him because he couldn't be trusted to use a wand. He knew he was an icon in the community, and that more than anything else that was what his life was worth. He knew Ron had years and years of memories that he didn't have, and he hated it. Ron remembered the eleven-year-old Harry having been quietly stunned and alarmed that people (everyone, it seemed, everyone in the world) knew so much about him when he knew so little. Now, the adult Harry was less surprised but vastly more frustrated that everyone knew everything and he knew nothing.

"They said we were best friends?" Harry had just spent twenty minutes hurling things round the kitchen and sobbing while dinner overcooked -- in response, Ron realized, to his own casual use of magic on his way out of the room.

"Well -- yes."

"You. Do you ... miss me?"

God. Ron blinked and concentrated on trying to say something reassuring -- but all he had was the fact that they hadn't seen much of each other lately, and this brain-damaged Harry was too clever for that. Did you miss me then, he asked, and when Ron said yes, of course he had, Harry said But not like you miss me now.

Ron didn't want to trouble Harry with how much he missed him -- mainly because, as he kept reminding himself, it wasn't really Harry, not in any of the ways that mattered. When Hermione came to visit, though, the secret sort of slipped out. "I have to live every day," he said, his voice dangerously close to breaking, before he remembered that Harry was still in the room, "with this ... this ghost, who just doesn't fucking understand, doesn't remember us --"

He'd always loved Harry, and had managed -- just -- to hide how it'd hurt him the times it seemed Harry didn't love him as much, or didn't even seem to know or care. (Ron had lost track of the number of people Harry shagged, and every single one of them had bothered him for some reason.) Didn't it just figure that Harry finally understood, now that it was the only thing he did understand, now that it was all wrong.

Harry thought they had been lovers, thought that was why Ron was upset that he didn't remember, came to him and wanted to be with him; and Ron would once have given quite a bit to have Harry in his arms instead of who knew who else's, especially if it meant Harry loved him -- but this wasn't Harry. It was a misguided stranger in Harry's body, and Ron tried to tell him they hadn't ever, they weren't, but Harry was on his knees with Ron's cock in his mouth. And Ron did miss him; he did love him. And he wanted to die.

Comments always welcome!