Hey, don't know if you're still doing the things you said prompts but if so 11. things you said when you were drunk? :)

A/N: Thanks for the prompt! I’m posting this today for Ron’s birthday even though it’s not birthday-related… hope you like it!

Word Count: 1,898

Warning: Discussion of injuries.

when you were drunk

Ron was just so used to bad news at this point. Already prone to anxiety, his nerves had essentially fried over the past year, and now he simply expected that what could go wrong, would. His family was in hiding. Voldemort had the Elder Wand. Bellatrix had taken Hermione, not him - and though they’d escaped, they had lost Dobby in the process. Bill and Fleur could no longer go to work at Gringotts, couldn’t even leave the bounds of the Fidelius Charm, and with so many houseguests, it was just a matter of time before Shell Cottage ran out of food. The world was ending, and - Harry’s absurd plan notwithstanding - there was so little hope in sight. Most mornings, Ron awoke in a sleeping bag on his brother’s sitting room floor, amazed to still have air in his lungs.

So when Lupin had burst through the door to the cottage on the twenty-eighth of April, Ron’s stomach had sunk like a stone. Someone was dead, surely, or kidnapped. Or perhaps Hogwarts was on fire, or Voldemort had found them and was on his way. Members of the Order didn’t usually come charging through doors unannounced with good news.

Except… it had been good news. Tonks had had the baby, and she was fine. And the baby was fine. And Lupin was happy. He’d appointed Harry as godfather as though that fight at Grimmauld Place had never happened. As bottles of wine emerged from cupboards, uncorking themselves and patiently waiting to fill goblets, Ron had simply watched the scene unfold from his seat at the kitchen table, relief gushing through him with such strength that his limbs felt weak.

It was Hermione who handed him a glass, their fingers brushing as he accepted it.

“Thanks,” he said, smiling up at her. Her eyes met his, and God, it was all he wanted, to touch her, to reach out and pull her into his arms, to kiss her and not care about anything else.

But that, too, seemed like another thing that would go horribly wrong upon attempt, so he contented himself with a stolen glance at her as she settled into the chair beside him. He was surely still allowed to admire her, wasn’t he, and be grateful that she was still alive, that her muscles were regaining strength with every passing day and that her mind was as razor-sharp as it had always been. At least he had that left. At least he had her at all.

As Lupin, his audience rapt, told the story of little Teddy’s birth - evidently, Tonks’ hair had been constantly changing color the entire time during her delivery - Hermione extended her legs in front of her, under the table. Her toes brushed against the side of Ron’s ankle, but she didn’t jerk back, and neither did he, and soon she had set the arches of her feet on the tops of his, as though he were some sort of footrest. As though this was a perfectly normal thing for them to be doing. As though they were some sort of couple or something.

Ron took a gulp of red wine and tried to fix his attention back onto Lupin - he really was happy for him - but he was only aware of Hermione. Whenever he was with her, everything else seemed to recede into the background, irrelevant when compared with her.

He let himself look over at her again. A pretty flush had crept into her cheeks, and a tendril of hair was curling at her temple; Ron had the near-irresistible urge to brush it behind her ear.

“Hey,” Ron whispered, not wanting to interrupt the very detailed description of Teddy Lupin’s first set of tiny wizarding robes. Hermione turned toward him; her lips were tinged with purple. “How much wine have you had?”

She shrugged, a little spark of mischief in her eyes, then picked up the bottle sitting on the table and upended it into Ron’s glass. The last little splash remaining into the bottle went into her own glass.

“You’re twice my size,” she whispered back. “You can handle it.”

Actually, he wasn’t sure if he could. He hadn’t eaten much at dinner, thanks to his unending worry over the food supply at Shell Cottage, and the wine had gone right to his head.

But he thought, for once in his life, that he wouldn’t argue with her.

“I don’t know about twice your size.” All right, so maybe he’d argue a little. “C’mere, let’s compare.”

He pressed his palm flat against the table, and she immediately aligned her hand on his. This was already better than expected; he thought they’d compare side-by-side, and her skin was pleasantly warm and smooth against his.

“See?” She pressed the tips of her fingers down onto his, just below the first knuckle, and involuntarily Ron hissed. “What? What did I-“

“No, nothing,” he said quickly, but Hermione, unconvinced, took his hand between both of hers to study it. “Seriously, it’s fine-“

“It’s not fine.” She ran the pad of her thumb gently down the length of his middle finger. The abrasions on his knuckles had finally scabbed over, though here and there were bits that remained raw and angry, even weeks later. “Are these scrapes still bothering you?”

“No, no, it’s fine-“

“I wonder if there’s any dittany left-“

“Dittany isn’t going to help,” said Ron before he could stop himself. The wine was definitely kicking in.

“Then what-“

“Oh, no, no, thank you,” came Lupin’s voice from the end of the table, and Ron saw him politely declining another goblet of wine. “No, I must be getting back, they’ll start to worry-“

And the matter of Ron’s aching hands was dropped, at least for the time being, in favor of seeing Lupin off and helping tidy up the kitchen after the festivities. With Harry roped into a conversation with Bill - and one that didn’t sound terribly fun, from the sound of their voices - Ron and Hermione retreated to the safety of the sitting room, where a fire crackled in the hearth. Emboldened by the wine, and grateful that they were actually alone, Ron found himself sitting much more closely beside Hermione on the sofa than he would have done with anyone else.

“Let me see your hands again,” she demanded, angling toward him so that her knee rested atop his thigh.

“See?” He held his hands up, palms out. “There they are. All in one piece.”

He actually doubted that last bit, but the wine didn’t have him that far gone yet.

“Mmhmm,” she said skeptically. “Then make a fist right now.”

Looking her directly in the eye in an attempt at defiance, Ron slowly curled the fingers of his right hand toward his palm, only to find that they stopped halfway there, too stiff and swollen to move.

“Ron!” Hermione’s face bore a mixture of half-indignance, half-horror. “What happened?!”

He hadn’t considered it before, but he supposed she wouldn’t know. There had been so much going on in the immediate aftermath of Malfoy Manor, and Ron had been so focused on Hermione’s recovery, that he had hardly given a thought to his own injuries. And looking back, he thought he should have known better than to pound on concrete walls and try wandless Apparition, but he’d lost control of himself. For once in his life, he hadn’t had a strategy. He hadn’t been able to see three, four, five, ten moves in advance. All he’d seen was the girl he loved being dragged away by the hair, and himself, powerless to stop it.

“They’re just sore, is all,” he replied, tipping more wine into his mouth.

“Sore from what, exactly?”

“Well - it’s not easy planning a bank robbery, is it?” At Hermione’s glare, he relented. “It’s just from - from the Malfoys’.”

“Oh.” Hermione cast her eyes down at the point where their legs overlapped. “I suppose we’ve never really talked about what-“ She swallowed. “What they did when they took you.”

“It’s my fault,” Ron blurted out, regret and guilt bubbling up inside him like acid. “What happened, it’s all my fault.”

Because he hadn’t done enough, hadn’t been enough. Because instead of actually using his head and figuring out a way to save Hermione, he’d lost it entirely, pounding on cement walls as if that made any sense, as if he could use the force of his rage to burst through and get to her. Because he had dropped his wand when Bellatrix told him to, instead of fighting.

Because he’d left.

“No, it isn’t.” Hermione reached for him, her hand hovering millimeters above his, before reconsidering and resting her hand on his arm. Her fingertips brushed over the ligature marks on his wrists, relics from the brief time during which he was bound to Harry in that cellar. “None of it was your fault - if I remember correctly, and I know that I do, Harry was the one who triggered the Taboo, that’s how it all started.”

“But I failed you.” He could barely get the words out. “I should have done more, I - I should have made her take me instead-“

“She was never going to take you,” said Hermione, her voice quiet yet matter-of-fact. “It was always going to be me, because of who I am. What I am.”

“It should have been me.”

Ron didn’t have to look up to know that shock and confusion was registering on Hermione’s face.

“It should have been no one-“

“It should have been me. Out all of us, it should have - I mean, I’m the one who-“

“Don’t.” The force in her voice was enough to make his head snap up. “Don’t you dare say you deserved it. No one deserves to be tortured.”

At his core, he agreed with her: there was not a soul alive, save maybe Voldemort or Bellatrix Lestrange, who deserved an Unforgivable Curse cast upon them. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that it would have been a form of penance, almost, to the friends that he had so deeply wronged all those months ago. He didn’t want to be the one who always got the easier end of the deal, and he definitely didn’t want to be the one using up all of the healing potions when Hermione had been through so much more.

“I know that,” he relented finally. “Doesn’t mean I don’t still blame myself.”

She gave his forearm a light squeeze. “I forgave you a long time ago, you know. Harry and I both did. I wish you would just forgive yourself.”

Ron felt his head swim, but not from the wine still in his bloodstream. He hadn’t considered that she might fully forgive him, that his worst transgression wouldn’t always be a stain on their friendship. That maybe not all was lost.

“I s’pose I could give it a go,” he said, corners of his lips twitching.

“And while you’re doing that, we’re going to do something about those hands of yours,” said Hermione decisively as she stood. “I’m going to get the Skele-Gro.”

“Skele - my bones aren’t missing-“

“It has healing properties too.” Shaking her head in exasperation, she strode out of the room, though not before tossing him a smile over her shoulder.

The good things, he thought, were even better when he didn’t expect them.

request: ron weasley finding himself waking up in his younger self's body + "Harry might have forgiven you, named his sons after you two, but I'm not Harry and I'll make sure he will have a life beyond your plans"

He goes to bed a man and awakens aboy.

Ron Weasley is thirty years old. Hehas fought a war and survived it, too; he’s loved and lost and loved again,he’s buried one brother and sired two children and he’s—lived. The evidence ofthis is all around him, in the ache of his bones and the premature gray streakinghis hair. It’s in the tired smiles he and Hermione will share on the days thatstill—still, even now, even yearslater—rest heavy on their souls with loss.

When he slips underneath the covers it’swith the warm weight of his wife by his side and the knowledge his children arejust a room over. He shuts off the lights with a weary wave of his wand andcloses his eyes with a soft sigh. Hermione grabs his hand beneath the sheets andher fingers are warm. She squeezes his hand. He smiles, soft, and squeezesback. He falls asleep with her hand in his.

Ron awakens from his sleep a childof eleven years, with gangly limbs and unscarred skin and no body lying besidehim. He wakes up alone, young, and scared—falls straight out of bed into a heapon the floor, threadbare blankets twisted around him, his brothers snoringacross the room. His hands are smooth and soft, free of calluses. The hair onhis head is thick and a brilliant red, no gray in sight. His bones do not ache.His eyesight is as strong as it ever was.

Ron awakens into a world he outgrewyears and years ago—and screams.

-

At first he is inconsolable, and no whisperedwords of comfort from his mother can calm him. She is too young and he is toosmall, and the sight of her starts the angry helpless tears anew, griefclogging his throat.

At first Ron mourns, mourns the lossof the future they all bled to create. He mourns his wife, his children. Hisfriends. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but Ron has lived too long not tolisten to instinct, and he knows—he won’t be going home. He won’t be goingback. He’s lost them all.

That’s when the sorrow turns torage.

Ron is old. Old at thirty, true, buthasn’t he earned the right? Haven’t they all? He’s betrayed and been betrayed,he’s bled a thousand times and lost so much—friends, family, innocence. Hischildhood was a warzone and he’s spent the last twenty years making sure hischildren never grew up the same way. His life wasn’t always happy but it isbetter, it’s bright. It’s his.

So how dare they, whoever they are,whoever is responsible—how dare they take that from him. He fought for thathappy ending, his brother died for it, and the rest of them nearly followed.How dare they dishonor that sacrifice. How dare they take Ron from a time ofpeace and place him right back into the bloodbath.

How dare they.

-

He spends nearly a week in thisstate, caught between rage and sorrow, tottering back and forth between thetwo. His family has noticed, and he can tell by their worried glances that he’sstarting to freak them out. Even the twins are acting…. Far nicer than Ronremembers them to be, but that certainly doesn’t help—Ron can’t look Fred orGeorge in the eye, and every time Percy places a hand on his shoulder heflinches.

He’s a mess. He knows it, they knowit. One week back in the past and he’s already screwed up.

In the end, it is his mother’sdesperate tactic of using his upcoming year at Hogwarts to try and cheer him upthat snaps him out of his stupor. Hogwarts. Harry, Hermione, Luna, Neville. Warand blood and friendship and –

Ron has three weeks until he boardsthe train, three weeks until the year that changes everything is kick-startedinto motion.

Ron thinks of war and blood andbrothers who died too early. He thinks of Harry, tired and old even at seventeen,blood crusted on his cheek. Hermione, eyes flinty, shoulders set back as sheprepares to fight for her life. He thinks of Luna caged in the Malfoy cellarand Neville as he slayed the snake, and he thinks—

No. He knows.

They earned their happy ending, onceupon a time. But that future is gone, now, so maybe—maybe this time—

Maybe Ron can find it for them.

Maybe this time, no one has to die.

Ron has three weeks before Hogwarts.Three weeks before the train. Three weeks to save the world.

And Ron may not be the hero, or thechosen one—but he has always, always, been good at strategy.

-

When he steps on the train it’s withfear in his heart and excitement lodged in his throat. The bag looped aroundhis shoulders is filled with roast-beef sandwiches Ron has never liked (butHarry will eat them and so he doesn’t mind), used books, and a hand-me-down wand.But there are also journals, made invisible with illegal spells Hermione slavedover years ago, journals filled with diagrams and plots and important thingsRon cannot afford to forget.

(He hopes, just a little bit, toperhaps buy a pensive. One day. It’s a stupididea, but—is it so wrong for Ron to want to see his children again, even ifonly in his memories?)

Ron steps onto the platform and it’slike stepping into Hogwarts the first time—it’s bustling and loud and alien,almost menacing in its confusion. He sees faces of future enemies and futurefriends alike—Draco Malfoy, sharp features soft with baby fat, sneerill-fitting on his sallow face; Neville Longbottom, shoulders hunched near hisears and toad clenched in shaking hands, no confidence to be found; LavenderBrown, her pretty face glowing, small hoops dangling in her ears, no bloodbeneath her perfectly manicured nails.

It shakes him to the core, andthough Ron is young, now, young and small and as gangly as the rest of them, hefancies himself a stranger. They are so young, all of them, young in body and eyesand soul. It hits Ron right then and there that though he may try, he’ll neversee those brothers- and sisters-in-blood in these children. They’re here beforehim but they’ll never be as he remembers them to be, once upon a future.

He nearly flees onto the train, but thetwins are close behind, their eyes watchful and worried. Still, he cannot meettheir eyes.

“Gotta go,” Ron tells them, beforethey can comment, and then he dashes up the steps and into the corridor. Hewaves out the open door with half-hearted enthusiasm when his family looksback, uncertain. He smiles to put them at ease, and maybe he even means it. Itmakes him feel better, being on the train: the only way to go now is forward.

His mother beams at him, wavingwildly, Ginny bouncing on her heels beside her. For the first time their youngfaces do not fill Ron with grief. Instead, as he waves wildly back, somethingwarmer rises in his chest. Something like hope.

There’s a whole future before him, andRon is ready. All the pieces in place. Voldemort best be ready, because Ron hasbeen playing this game his whole life. He’s not planning on losing now.

Ron wanders the train, careful notto sit down. He’ll have to wait until the train is about to leave to find Harry,and as he glides past the youthful faces of his year-mates he finds himselfsettling. He sees Hermione and smiles at her as bright as he can—it hurts tosee her, but the small smile she gives back leaves him giddy for the rest ofthe trip.

A whistle blows. Ron wanders forward,already knowing where to go.

Harry is at the back, as he alwaysis, leaning against the widow with his eyes half-lidded as he watches. Ronwatches him, too. Sees the shadows under his eyes and the quiet slump of his bonyshoulders and marvels, again, at how young they all are.

He thinks too of Dumbledore, andSnape, and children named after heroes and villains alike. Harry had forgiventhem, but that was years ago, and Ron has never been the hero. Never been allthat good at forgiving.

They’re young, all of them. Justchildren, and that fact is clearer to him now. They are all just children.

He’ll have a life beyond your game of chess, Ron thinks—promises. This time, he’ll be better. He won’tlet himself be blinded by jealousy or necklaces that whisper in the night.He’ll save them all, be the friend he tried to be and this time succeed at it—andthis time when Harry looks back at these years, he’ll have more happy memoriesthan bad ones.

For the future Ron lost, for thefuture he could yet have again—Ron will make sure of it.

He slides back the door and smileswhen bottle-green eyes glance back. A whistle blows loud and piercing. Beneathhis feet, the train begins to move.

“Hi,” Ron says. “Can I sit here?Everywhere else is full.”

Harry nods, slow and careful. Ronsmiles his brightest smile, and for the first time, feels no grief, no fear, noworry.

It’s a new day, a new game, and Ronis ready to play.