Ron and Hermione left the hospital wing completely cured three days before the end of term. Hermione kept showing signs of wanting to talk about Sirius, but Ron tended to make 'hushing' noises every time she mentioned his name. [OotP UK, p. 754]
***
"Harry, have you seen my jumper?"
Harry's eyes never stopped following Ron's flurry of activity. It was as hypnotic as it was irritating. Ron moved around the dormitory the same way he always had, only taking up a little more space, reaching a little higher, striding a little farther with each footfall.
When Ron raised a dusty forearm to swipe at his fringe, Harry saw the ghosts of his scars. He forced himself to admit that not everything about Ron was the same as always. Yet it was so easy for him to rustle around, gathering all of his things, as he had done at the end of every term of every year before. It wasn't right for anything to seem so unchanged.
A bit of maroon wool peeked out from under Ron's bed. "There," replied Harry, unwrapping an arm from his knees to point.
Ron spared him a glance while fishing the garment from its hiding place. Harry knew he must look as miserable as he felt, huddled in the foetal position on his bed, chin resting between his knees.
Ron threw the jumper onto the pile in his trunk and eased himself quietly onto Harry's bed. If he hadn't felt so wretched, Harry would feel sorry for Ron having to live with him the past couple of days. He'd appreciated Ron's fending off Hermione's questions, but also knew that Ron wanted to say something useful, something soothing or cheering or sympathetic.
"Hey, mate," was all Ron said now.
"Hey," echoed Harry hollowly.
Harry burrowed his chin a little further between his knees. Ron sat quietly and watched him do it. Across the room, Dean and Seamus hindered their own progress by having an impromptu sock war. Neville caught a pair and ran from the room with it, chased by his two laughing mates.
When they were alone, Ron inched closer to Harry on the bed. He reached a hand toward him, letting it fall ineffectually onto the bedclothes near Harry's foot.
Harry stared at the fading marks among the freckles of his arm for a long time. He wished he knew how to invite Ron's help.
"I -" began Ron, but there was nothing he could say to help, and they both knew it. His mouth fell closed eventually, and he inched his seat toward where his hand had fallen.
Harry closed his eyes. He wanted very much to tell Ron the rest of what was weighing on him: about the prophecy and his preordained role in the war. One thought of Ron, though, and he knew he would do everything in his power to protect him from pain.
When Harry opened his eyes, Ron was very close.
"I'm scared, Harry," he said quietly, never breaking eye-contact.
Harry blinked once, and could think of nothing to say.
"I'm scared," began Ron again, "because it could have been any one of us, that day. We've been in it every year, you more than the rest of us, but we've always come out of it. What if we don't, next time?"
His blue eyes had gone very big. They were all Harry could see.
"Remember First Year, Harry?" he continued. "Remember the mirror, and how I saw myself as Head Boy and all that? Right now, I swear to you, if I looked in that mirror, all I'd see would be you and me, still alive at the end of all of this. That's all I want."
"Ron -"
Ron waited, watching him hopefully, but Harry couldn't think of anything to say.
If this is what Ron wants most, he thought, then I swear I'll kill Voldemort. I'll live for him, if it's what he wants. Harry had been resolved to defeat Voldemort since he'd learned the truth about his parents' death so many years ago, of course, but he'd never been confident about his own fate in the aftermath.
He'd been afraid to think of what would happen to his friends in the war. Especially after losing Sirius, Harry hadn't even let himself consider what might happen to Ron.
Looking down at Ron's oversized, freckled hand, resting so close to his foot on the bed, Harry made a decision.
He took Ron's hand firmly in his, and looked up into those wide, blue eyes.
"If I have anything to say about it, Ron," he told him as steadily as he could manage, "we will both grow to be very old men."
Ron pulled Harry's hand to his chest, and gripped it there. Harry could feel his heart beating wildly against his knuckles, from beneath his cotton t-shirt and firm muscles and the bones beneath them. Ron's eyes were closer than ever.
"That's a promise, then," said Ron. His voice was steady, but Harry saw pleading in his eyes.
Harry nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. "That's a promise," he confirmed.
He hoped, against every fear in his soul, that he could keep it.
***
Their last evening at school arrived; most people had finished packing and were already heading down to the end-of-term leaving feast, but Harry had not even started. [OotP UK, p. 755]