Chapter Text
Ron awoke with a start to the sound of a kettle whistling, eyes upturned towards the rungs of the bunk above him. The smells of stale, damp canvas mixing in with the cold sharp bite of pine needles from the forest outside. He squeezed his eyes shut again, willing his mind to transport him back to the Burrow, his home- where the smell of his mothers cooking and the joyful chaotic noise of his family served as the best morning alarm a person could possibly need. For 30 seconds it worked. He was almost happy, imagining the bacon, eggs and sausages that he’d wolf down. Fighting over the last piece of toast with his brother while his mother would preen and titter fondly over their antics. He’d never really cared much for his mother and her fussing. But it had served him well, mums precious youngest boy and best friend of the chosen one.
Then the darkness and shadow drifted into his mind, stemming from the cold heavy locket that had been resting on his chest since they’d snatched it out of the ministry. Tendrils of negativity rushing through his mind slowly darknening and twisting his happy thoughts settling like a heavy weight on his chest. There would be no joy today, no warm and cozy breakfast. There hadn’t been proper food in weeks, no cosy bed and certainly no sense of safety.
“Do you want tea?” Her soft voice murmured, gentle and quiet. Caring. But it wasn’t directed towards him and sourness settled in his gut. Of course, he isn’t the priority, the chosen one. His inner shadow sneered at the thought. Their chosen hero, saviour and warrior of the light. If people could see him now, with 10 day old torn clothing, thin from lack of food, hair sticking out wildly and deep circles under his eyes. Hardly the makings of a hero. Yet he got all of the care and attention. As if Ron wasn’t sitting here with a torn and shredded arm. As if Ron hadn’t almost bled out on a muddy forest floor for them.
Ron turned his head slightly, just enough to see Hermione’s silhouette beyond the tent flap, her hair a familiar frizzy halo as she spoke to Harry in that low, urgent cadence she reserved for him alone. Her thin frame hunched over two mugs, as she poured tea. No third mug for Ron, ever the forgotten one. She didn’t slow her words for Harry. She didn’t soften them, didn’t explain twice. She trusted him and assumed his understanding, his worth. With Ron, it was always different. Careful pauses. Overly patient tones. Sometimes impatient and irritated. As though she were guiding a child through something fragile and sharp, afraid he’d cut himself if left alone. The bitterness curdled into something darker, heavier, and the locket burned warmly against his chest. Why look at Harry like that. Why lean toward him, and share those quiet, intimate plans. She was meant to be his and had always been his. He’d earned through years of standing beside her, through loyalty she never truly repaid. In this chaos, in this broken world, she was the one thing he deserved. Not as an equal. As proof. As his possession. As something he could finally hold, command, and never be spoken down to by again.
They had been on the run for weeks. Sneaking around under a cloak that barely fit over them. Dodging agents of the dark who were hunting them so savagely it felt like a reckoning. Scavenging for food, if you could call dried berries and the odd mushroom food. Sharing 1 scrambled egg between three of them because she was too much of a prude to steal more than one from the first human dwelling they’d seen in two weeks. It was laughable really. All of this suffering and nothing to show for it. Their mission was pointless, impossible to complete. They had no leads, no direction and certainly no way of defeating the dark that had swallowed the country whole.
They had thought their mission was destined to succeed. The golden trio, able to overcome any and all obstacles. Hermione, the brains of the operation, the all knowing oracle that would keep them on the right path, get them out of tight spots with the vast amounts of knowledge gleaned from hours pouring over dusty books. Harry, the chosen one. Ron scoffed inwardly. The hero that would persevere against the dark Lord. The one who would fight him off and remove him from the world. And then there was Ron… the sidekick? The best friend? The dog that followed in the wake of the two darlings of land, picking up the scraps.
Through the thin wall, he could hear them, Harry and Hermione with their voices pitched low, careful, conspiratorial. Planning without him again. Always without him. His fingers twitched, curling into the blanket, and he felt the locket pulse faintly, a slow, deliberate thrum that matched the sudden heat in his veins. They thought he slept. They thought him harmless. Useless. His only purpose to splinch himself so that they could escape from the ministry in a plan doomed to fail. Their toy soldier who would bleed for them.
He let their murmurs wash over him, catching fragments, something about spells, places, doubts about what came next. Hermione correcting Harry, gently, endlessly. Harry listening, nodding, accepting. Ron’s mouth twisted. They never questioned her. Never questioned him. And why would they? One was brilliant, the other destined. What was he, then? Muscle without purpose. Loyalty without reward. He imagined standing up, imagined the way their heads would turn in surprise if he spoke with certainty, if he told them where to go, what to do, how to win. The thought sent a sharp, intoxicating thrill through him. The locket warmed, almost approvingly, as if it too could see the truth.
For the first time, Ron didn’t push the feeling away. He let it settle, heavy and satisfying, like a crown lowered onto his brow. Power, the locket seemed to murmur not in words, but in certainty. Power was what they lacked. Power was what he lacked. Or had lacked, until now. He lay there smiling faintly in the dark, listening to his friends plan their doomed path, and wondered how long it would take them to realize they had been following the wrong leader all along. Well, Ron puffed his chest out and released a cloud of cold misty air into the air. Things would have to change. They would need to listen. And if they didn’t, he’d have to think of his next steps carefully.