"What's Another Weasley More Or Less?"

[hedwigs-bane.livejournal.com]

Title: "What's Another Weasley More Or Less?"
Author: hedwigs_bane 
Beta: star54kar
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Harry, Ron (but not paired)
Word Count:4,883

Written for the weasley_fest, which star54kar  ran so well, and just concluded with the reveals of the authors.  She and I both agreed that this story should appear here after the reveals, and so here it is, for those who missed it over there (and shame on you!  Shame!).

What's Another Weasley, More or Less?

 

            Arthur Weasley settled himself into his favorite armchair, set his glass on the side table and charmed the embers in the fireplace to blaze brightly. Though it was late August, Arthur always enjoyed a roaring fire.  There was something so homey about it that filled him with warmth, even if its heat was blocked by a Shield Charm. In a world where the cold winds of danger had again begun to blow, his home, the Burrow, provided a safe shelter from the rising storm.

 

            The house wasn't much, he knew, but it was a home, mostly due to the efforts of his wife Molly. He had never been able to give her all that she deserved, but not once since they'd been married had she complained. Well, not about his meager income, at any rate. Her complaints (which were numerous, now he came to think of it) revolved more around garden gnomes, Arthur's long work hours and the various jokes and tricks perpetrated by his twin fourteen year old sons, George and Fred.

 

            Arthur smiled, as he always did when he thought of the twins. To call them incorrigible was to damn with faint praise. In their own rather twisted way, they were quite brilliant. If they could only be convinced to apply as much effort to their schoolwork as they did to their wheezes, they could probably surpass Percy in O.W.L.'s and N.E.W.T.'s when the time came.

 

            Percy. Now there was an enigma. Had he not been there to watch his third son grow up, Arthur might have wondered who'd raised Percy, or how he'd managed to remain as focused and ambitious as he was. Charlie and Bill, his older brothers, were both adventurers, which terrified Molly, who seemed to actively try to forget that one was chasing dragons and the other was breaking curses for Gringotts. Between them and his mercurial younger twin brothers, it seemed nearly impossible that Percy could have turned out as bookish and proper as he was. Arthur loved Percy, of course, and admired the bespectacled youth's sense of responsibility, but he couldn't help wishing that he'd learn to take things a bit less seriously. Even Ron, the youngest son and favorite target of the twins sometimes cruel, but never mean spirited, practical jokes, had managed to develop a healthy sense of humour, perhaps as a coping mechanism.

 

            Of all his son's, Arthur felt Ron was the easiest to understand. Being the youngest boy had had both positive and negative effects on the twelve year old, though he seemed to incorporate even the negatives in such a way that they benefited, rather than tarnished, his still developing personality. He certainly shared a bit of his older brothers' guile and fearlessness, mostly in attempts to keep up, to not seem like the "baby". From the time he could walk, Ron would take almost any risk to prove himself, always climbing too high, running too recklessly, jumping too far, all in an effort to win the approval of his siblings.

 

            Ginny, the youngest of their children and the only Weasley daughter, suffered from this dynamic in much the same way Ron struggled so hard to avoid. She was constantly being told she was too little or too "girly" to be included in whatever dangerous sport her brothers had dreamt up on any given day. Perhaps because he was closest in age, Ron, after having earlier joined in the twins' refusal to include Ginny, would later spend long hours with her, even playing with dolls if that was the activity she chose. This nurturing nature was what Arthur admired most about his youngest son, and where his mother's influence was most manifested.

 

            Molly doted on Ron, as a mother will with her youngest son, and was always quick to take the twins to task for each scratch, cut, sprain and broken bone he suffered, either as a direct result of their playful antics, or simply Ron's own determination to not be seen as "too little" to be included. Ron bristled against Molly's attentions, but from them he seemed learn a loving concern towards those closest to him. However, like his mother, Ron's anger could appear quickly, and not just a bit frighteningly.

 

            While still barely more than a toddler, when displays of uncontrolled magic were common among wizarding children, Ron's were the most destructive of all the Weasley boys. The Burrow had undergone several impromptu remodelings due to the devastation wrought by his quick temper. In short order it became clear that the twins' provocations of their little brother didn't end when the lights went out. Four times their shared bedroom had had to be rebuilt after it had been blasted or burned beyond recognition, events which always left the twins laughing and Ron crying. Finally, desperate to be able to sleep through the night with a reasonable chance of still having a roof over their heads the next morning, Molly and Arthur had transformed the attic into a separate bedroom for Ron.

 

            Gazing into the depths of the fire, Arthur felt another wave of warmth wash through him as he saw each of his children's' faces in the flames. He was not rich in terms of gold or possessions, but he had more than any wizard he knew. If there remained anything to wish for, it was that he could somehow keep his family safe from the growing threat now looming over them all.

 

            He trusted Albus Dumbledore enough to believe that Voldemort was, even now, trying to find a way to return to power. As they'd done before, Arthur and Molly had vowed to help in any way they could, and the first thing Dumbledore had asked of them was to help protect and care for the son of James and Lily Potter. Arthur turned his glance toward the ceiling, as if his eyes could penetrate the intervening three stories to allow him to seen the slight, raven-haired boy, now sleeping on a camp bed in Ron's attic bedroom.

 

            The very thought that someone as evil and hateful as Voldemort would actually want to kill such a young, unassuming lad as Harry Potter filled Arthur with an anger he seldom felt. He could, in fact, only feel more anger if it was a member of his own family who was directly threatened by Voldemort's designs. Perhaps things would have been different if James and Lily had not been killed. Perhaps Harry could have been prepared for what he seemed destined to face, maybe even trained from a younger age to defend himself, or at least even have been told that he was a wizard.

                                                                                                                     

            Instead, Dumbledore had ensconced the infant Harry with his mother's sister, in a home without magic and without love. The one person in the entire wizarding world who deserved to know the most had been told the least. The one wizard who most needed to be surrounded by a caring family had instead been subject to neglect, ridicule and abuse. Arthur's anger rose again as he thought of the Dursleys, surely the most horrid of all the Muggles he'd ever met, or even heard of.

 

            He and Molly would have happily taken responsibility for raising Harry after his parents' deaths. He was enough of a father to know how not to coddle the Boy Who Lived, while not subjecting him to the sort of misuse he'd known on Privet Drive. Dumbledore's arguments about protections afforded the boy by living where his mother's blood dwelt seemed trivial in comparison with what he'd witnessed that evening.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

            Dinner that night was a typical Weasley affair. Arthur had arrived late from the Ministry (once again) to find Fred, George, Ginny, Ron and Harry in the middle of their meal, Molly having chosen to wait on them until Arthur finally came home. He took his place at the head of the table, and smiled as Molly placed a plate full of roasted lamb, potatoes and sprouts on the table before him, before squeezing onto the bench next to George with her own plate.

 

            Harry was regaling the assemblage with tales of Dudley Dursley, his obese, and rather thick, cousin. This was unusual, inasmuch as Harry didn't talk much about his life in Little Whinging, almost as if trying to forget about it as much as he could. Still, it was nice to hear him actually laughing about at least some aspects of it.

 

            "… and when he sat on the swing, the whole thing just collapsed around him! Not just the swing, either, but the whole frame just folded up and came crashing down!" The conclusion of Harry's story was met with gales of laughter from everyone but Molly, who looked concerned.

 

            "I hope he wasn't hurt," Molly said sincerely.

 

            "Who in the hell cares?!" George laughed heartily.

 

            "Yeah," Fred concurred. "Deserved what he got, the fat bas—"

 

            "You watch your language, both of you!" Molly shouted, though her warning did little to quell the jocularity of the moment. "There's a big bar of soap right there at the kitchen sink that you two could share for pudding!"

 

            Her threat, of course, served only to add to the collective merriment of the moment, Ron and Harry seemingly most amused by Molly's attempt at a reprimand. Perhaps because she suddenly envisioned her twin sons eating soap for afters, or because her threat hadn't been that serious to start with, she too joined in the laughter, though with a bit more reserve, in order to retain a note of disapproval she no doubt assumed was expected of her.

 

            The rest of the evening meal passed quite pleasantly, with high spirits and frequent laughter. It wasn't until pudding had been served and consumed that the mood of everyone present changed dramatically.

 

            "Oh well," Molly sighed resignedly but not regretfully. "I suppose it's time to clear away." As if on cue, Harry rose and began collecting plates into a stack. Again and again he had been told that he wasn't expected to help with the washing up, and again and again he had politely waved away the objections, insisting that it was the least he could do to repay the Weasleys for their hospitality and Molly for her excellent cooking. After a fortnight, they'd stopped trying to deter him. Arthur knew, from what little Harry had said about it, that the task of washing up at the Dursley household most often fell to him, and so he seemed quite content to do it for people he truly liked.

 

            Arthur cringed a bit as he watched Harry lift a poorly balanced stack of plates from the table. He'd seen his wife do it hundreds of times, but she was always aided by magic. Without it, Harry's attempt to reach the sink with his burden was doomed to failure. However, before he could voice his concerns, or draw his own wand to stabilize the stack, the inevitable happened.

 

            With an almighty crash, six of the seven plates Harry had been balancing fell to the floor and shattered into countless pieces, while several forks and knives bounced across the wooden floor.

 

            "God, I'm sorry!" Harry said quickly, loudly and breathlessly, looking at Molly with a pale face and terrified eyes. "I'm so sorry!"

 

            "It's quite all right, Harry love," Molly said indulgently. "It's easily taken of."

 

            As if he hadn't heard her at all, Harry looked like a petrified fawn as his eyes flicked between Molly and Arthur. Realizing he was shaking, Arthur stood up quickly and walked around the table to where Harry stood trembling. Intending to put a reassuring arm around his shoulder, Arthur reached out toward Harry. With even more fear than before, Harry flinched, took two steps back and raised his arms as if to defend himself, dropping the seventh plate in the process.

 

            In that moment, livid, white-hot, burning anger rose in Arthur Weasley. It was not, of course, directed at Harry Potter. It was, instead, directed at a man he'd never even seen, and yet came as close to hating as he had any human being. Given the chance, he felt sure that, at that moment, he could have easily used a Cruciatus Curse on Vernon Dursley.

 

            Clearly, such accidents were not easily overlooked at Number Four Privet Drive. There would be no affectionate voice there to assure Harry that the loss of a few plates was of little importance. There would be no instant forgiveness of Harry's lack of foresight in trying to do too much at once, or appreciation of his eagerness to perform a task. There would only be rebukes and, as evidenced by Harry's cowering, physical retribution.

 

            Weighing his desire to offer comfort against Harry's obvious terror, Arthur took a step back, bent down until his face was level with Harry's, and said, "Harry, it's all right. A few simple Reparo's, and everything will be fine."

 

            As Harry lowered his arms to look at Arthur, his face betrayed a multitude of thoughts and emotions. The fear hadn't completely faded, but it had been partially replaced by embarrassment, as if Harry had revealed something of himself that he'd tried hard to hide, and was angry with himself for his failure to do so.

 

            Before he had a chance to offer any other conciliatory words or gestures, Arthur was given reason to be as proud of his children as he'd ever been.

 

            "Well done, Harry!" George said, standing and applauding. "That's the dishes done then!"

 

            "Couldn't have done better myself," Fred joined in cheerfully. "I've always said these things are better left to the women, anyway."

 

            "Oi!" shouted Ginny, who barely ever spoke aloud in Harry's presence. "Don't go congratulating him on being as ham-handed as you two! There isn't a plate in the house that one of you hasn't broken at least three times!"

 

            "You see, Harry," Molly said kindly. "We're quite used to this sort of thing. Don't you give it another moment's thought."

 

            "Yeah, mate," Ron said bracingly, clapping a friendly, though gentle, hand on Harry's shoulder. "I think after this, you're off the hook for clearing the table, anyway. C'mon, we'll go up to my room and have a game of chess, yeah?"

 

            "That's a good idea," Arthur said, making it a point to hide what he was feeling as he smiled at Harry. "You've helped with the dishes every night since you've been here, and you've earned a night off. Ginny and the twins will take over tonight."

 

            "Yeah, we'll… wait. WHAT?" Fred said in sudden shock.

 

            "You're joking!" George added his voice to the protest. "What about Ron? When's the last time he…"

 

            "Ron has a guest to entertain," Molly said imperiously. "And it won't hurt you two to have a taste of what I have to do around here every night."

 

            "But… but," Fred sputtered. "Harry's OUR guest too! We're the one's who took the car and…"

 

            "Yes! Let's talk about the car!" Molly erupted, clearly invigorated by thoughts of a punishment not yet administered.

 

            "Oh, bad move, Fred," George moaned, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose.

 

            "Ron. Harry," Arthur said quickly. "I think now would be a good time for that chess match."

 

            Harry looked at him, though the fear in his eyes had changed to something more like sympathy for what the twins were about to endure. At the pressure Ron seemed to be exerting on his shoulder, Harry turned and he and Ron walked out of the kitchen. They'd made it to the foot of the stairs before Harry turned around.

 

            "Mrs. Weasley, I really am sorry," he said.

 

            "Don't be stupid, dear," Molly replied cheerily. "There's nothing for you to feel sorry about."

 

            "Thank you," Harry smiled bravely at her, and then turned to Arthur. "And thank you, Mr. Weasley."

 

            Arthur's first instinct was to insist that he'd done nothing deserving of Harry's gratitude, but he quickly thought better of it, and simply said, "You're entirely welcome, Harry." Harry gave him a closed-lipped but meaningful smile before he and Ron began ascending the stairs.

 

~~~~~~~~~~

 

            "Dad?"

 

            Arthur continued to watch his youngest son escort Harry up the stairs for a second or two longer before he realized that what he was really looking at were smoldering embers. His reminiscences of the post-dinner events now faded like the flames that had, apparently, died away without his notice.

 

            Turning to look over his shoulder, he saw Ron looking back at him, his face drawn with worry. He pulled his watch from the pocket of his dressing gown to discover that the new day was already an hour and forty minutes old.

 

            "Ron, what are you doing up at this hour?"

 

            "Couldn't sleep," Ron said quietly. "You're up pretty late, too."

 

            "I was just…" Suddenly realizing he wasn't entirely sure what was keeping sleep at bay, Arthur said, "It's your mother's snoring." He was pleased that his lie had managed to elicit a chuckle from Ron.

 

            "Yeah, keeps the ghoul awake sometimes," Ron jibed. "Dad," he continued, all humour fleeing from his face, "can we talk?"

 

            "Always," Arthur smiled. "Would you like to sit with me? You used to love sharing my chair, but I guess you're getting too old for—"

 

            "Okay, budge over."

 

            Arthur was somewhat amazed that Ron would actually accept his invitation to join him in the same chair. They hadn't sat together that way since Ron was nine years old. "Oh my, you are getting big," he noted as Ron sat half on him and half on the chair cushion. Though only twelve, Ron was already every bit as tall as his mother, and would soon be able to stand eye to eye with Arthur. "There you go," Arthur said as Ron settled in. "Comfortable?"

 

            "'M'fine."

 

            "So, how's Harry?" Arthur asked, still disturbed by the broken dinnerware incident that he'd just been replaying in his mind.

 

            "He's sleeping," Ron said into Arthur's chest. "Making loads of noise, though."

 

            "Noise?"

 

            "Yeah," Ron nodded slightly. "Mumbling and like that. Flipping around a lot, too."

 

            "He must have a lot on his mind, bless 'im," Arthur reasoned, not doubting for a moment that Harry had plenty of thoughts to disrupt his sleep.

 

            "Dad," Ron said, leaning back so that he could look Arthur in the eye. "Could Harry come and live here with us?"

 

            It was a moment that Arthur had been expecting, though not quite so soon. He had thought he'd have until later in the day to prepare his responses, when the broken plate incident, and Harry's resultant terror, was less fresh in his mind. Setting that vision aside, he focused instead on Albus Dumbledore's explanation, the one he always used when Molly asked the same question that Ron had just proffered.   It wasn't difficult, as he and his wife had already discussed the issue again several hours before.

 

            Attempting to fortify himself with a deep breath, Arthur returned Ron's penetrating stare and in his eyes saw Molly's. It wasn't so much a matter of physical resemblance, inasmuch as the shape and colour of Ron's eyes were definitely like Arthur’s own. In was, rather, the flash of determination he saw in those lapis blue orbs that reminded Arthur of his wife, that same conviction as when she was certain she’d found the perfect answer to a troublesome question. Oh, she was an expert at affecting a pleading tone, but Arthur only had to look into those deep, brown eyes to know that her plea was actually a demand to see the common sense behind her appeal.

 

            "Ron," Arthur said, struggling to not be convinced by the argument Ron's eyes spoke so eloquently. "You've no idea how much I wish he could. But, no. I'm afraid Harry has to live with the Dursleys."

 

            "But why?!" Ron demanded, sitting back even further, his face reddening with rising anger. "They starve him there, Dad! And they lock him in his room, and there's bars on his window!"

 

            "I know that, Ron," Arthur said as softly as he could while fighting to contain his own anger with the Dursleys.

 

            "So why can't he live here?" Ron asked imploringly. "I don't mind sharing my room, and I don't have to eat so much either, and—"

 

            "Ron, you have to trust me when I tell you that Harry has to go back to Little Whinging every summer." Ron's face showed nothing like trust as he glared back at his father. Defiance was written in the very freckles that seemed to cascade from the bridge of his nose onto his cheeks.

 

            "Even though they hit him?" Ron spat out, as if playing his trump. "They do, y'know! I heard him. He talks in his sleep and he says, 'Don't hit me. I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to', and stuff like that. And before, when he dropped those plates, I think he thought you were going to hit him, too!"

 

            There was no "thinking" about it as far as Arthur was concerned. Harry had fully expected to be beaten, and no one who had seen him cringe could doubt it. He was sure that, if he'd been functioning on anything other than instinct, Harry would never have believed Arthur would lay a finger on him in anger. Still, his conditioned response was all the proof Arthur needed that such punishments were not uncommon in the Dursley house.

 

            It didn't help matters that he had just been thinking about the same thing before Ron had interrupted his reminiscences. Arthur would never claim to be a model father, and he was painfully aware of all that he hadn't been able to give his children. But he had striven to provide a home in which they would always feel safe and loved. To have a young boy living under his roof who had no such place, no such family and no such father rankled in Arthur. It was as if all his best instincts were of no use to him where Harry Potter was concerned, having to leave someone he cared about in such a situation.

 

            He'd only actually met Harry Potter several weeks before, but in that short time he'd come to understand quite quickly why he and Ron were such fast friends. Despite his fame, Harry was a quiet, unassuming boy. This was understandable, considering his upbringing. He probably did best in the Dursley house when he made himself as inconspicuous as possible. Whereas Ron barely ever had an unspoken emotion, Harry played things close to the vest, so that more than a few times during the past fortnight, Arthur had found himself staring at Harry, wondering just what went on behind those brilliant, emerald-green eyes.

 

            "I think you might be right, Ron," Arthur finally said, mostly because he thought it unfair to lie at that moment. He stroked Ron's hair and said the next thought in his heart. "He's lucky to have you as a friend." As he knew would happen, he felt Ron snort derisively into his chest.

 

            "I'm rubbish," Ron countered. "I can't really help him. I was just lucky that he let me sit in his compartment on the train. If anyone else had known who he was, there wouldn't have been room for a nit in there."

 

            "That's why he's lucky," Arthur reasoned. "You didn't really know who he was, but you sat with him anyway. No one else did, did they? You were a friend to him when a friend was what he needed most."

 

            "You make it sound like I did something special," Ron scoffed. "Everywhere else was full, that's all."

 

            "I'll bet that if you were to ask Harry about it, he'd see it differently," Arthur smiled, though he knew Ron couldn't see his face. "Never underestimate the power of friendship, Ron. It can help you through some of the worst times of your life."

 

            "It's not helping him now, though, is it?" Ron asked, his voice gruff with anger and another, more potent, emotion.

 

            "He's here, isn't he?" Arthur offered. "I know stealing my car was the twins' idea, but I'm guessing it was motivated by your insistence that Harry needed to be rescued. Somehow you knew it, even though you hadn't heard from him at all."

 

            Ron, who didn't seem interested in either disputing or pursuing the current subject, suddenly asked, "Did you know Harry's mum and dad?"

 

            "I did," Arthur answered automatically. "We were in the Or— that is, we met years ago when You Know Who was very powerful. Harry's parents were very brave, Ron. Did you know they faced You Know Who three times before… well, you know what happened. I suspect that's where Harry gets his bravery."

 

            "It's not fair," Ron said softly. "We all have each other. We have you and Mum. Harry doesn't have anybody. Nobody who cares about him, anyway."

 

            "Oh, that's far from true, Ron," Arthur assured his troubled son. "There are many people who care for Harry. There's Professor Dumbledore, and Hagrid, and your Mum and me… and there's you, Ron."

 

            "Yeah," Ron huffed quietly. "But we're just mates. It's not like we're brothers or anything."

 

            "Isn't it?" Arthur asked. "Then can you tell me why your mother and I were called to Hogwarts last June to find both you and Harry lying in the hospital wing?" Arthur knew he'd won a point when Ron seemed to have no answer, but he dared to push things just a bit further. "Do you remember how you felt?"

 

            "Well, yeah," Ron said, obviously trying to sound casual. "I was worried. Nothing weird about that."

 

            "Ronald!" Arthur chortled at Ron's reluctance to admit his true feelings. "You were absolutely terrified! You wouldn't eat and you wouldn't leave until Madam Pomfrey convinced you that Harry would be all right, and just needed more rest. Do you remember what you did next?"

 

            "I… no," Ron conceded.

 

            "You tore through more than half the Chocolate Frogs the other students had sent Harry as tokens of esteem. Your mother finally had to drag you from the room and force you to eat a proper meal." Arthur's chortle become a more audible chuckle as he added, "I don't think your mother ever came so close to admitting defeat as she did when she tried to drag you from Harry's bedside. Now, if you call very nearly defying the will of Molly Weasley 'just being a mate', then I'll say it again, Harry is extremely lucky to have you as a friend."

 

            Ron breathed a deep sigh, which soon developed into an extravagant yawn.

 

            "It's very late," Arthur said lovingly. "Do you think you might be able to sleep now?"

 

            "Yeah, I think so," Ron said wearily. "How 'bout you?"

 

            "Yes," Arthur replied as Ron raised himself from his chest. "I think I could manage a few hours." He winced a bit as Ron's knobby knee pressed into his thigh as he climbed out of the chair. "I'll just finish my drink and then go to bed. Goodnight, son."

 

            "G'night, Dad," Ron grinned and then turned and walked towards the stairs. Before he began his ascent, he turned and said, "Dad?"

 

            "Yes, Ron?"

 

            "I wish me and Harry really were brothers, 'cause then he'd have a really brilliant dad."

 

            Arthur felt his eyes begin to well immediately, stunned as he was by the unexpected and deeply moving compliment. While it was true that Ron's emotions were anything but guarded, normally the ones he expressed most were anger, humour or frustration. This spontaneous expression of love and affection was a bit unique.

 

            "Well, Ron," he replied, consciously willing his voice not to crack, "I promise you that, while he's here with us, I will treat him just like I treat you, your brothers and your sister."

 

            "Yeah, that'd be all right, I suppose," Ron said in a serious tone, which was belied a second later by the smirk that raised the right side of his mouth. "Maybe ask Mum not to do that, though. He's got enough problems already without her shouting at him." Not waiting for a reply, Ron turned and climbed the stairs.

 

            Arthur smiled broadly as he watched Ron's bare feet disappearing at the first landing. Looking back into the dying embers, he again felt a wave of warmth flow through him. Through their combined efforts, he and Molly had managed to raise remarkable children. Ron's obvious love for Harry was the latest evidence of that (though he'd never have dreamt of putting it that way to Ron). Though he felt it a bit premature to claim such feelings himself, Arthur could claim a true fondness for the small, skinny, raven-haired boy now sleeping in Ron's bedroom. Whatever else he might be, he was still just a boy, and Arthur knew that whatever he and Molly had managed to give to their own children could be readily shared with one more son.

 

            After finishing his modicum of firewhiskey, Arthur sent the glass to the kitchen sink with a wave of his wand. Spelling the oil lamps out, he climbed the stairs. As he did so, he wondered how Dumbledore would feel if he were to pay a short "courtesy visit" to Number Four Privet Drive.