Ron knows you can't hold onto and bring back every memory but he tries sometimes. He closes his eyes and lets his mind fix onto a face or a voice. The images come quickly after that, tumbling on each other until Ron feels full: fed with a thousand shocks and blasts and laughter from the twins' inexhaustible supply of tricks, a feast of mum's cooking the night they come home from school, summer afternoons with skin turning red and hot or winter mornings with snow burn down his back from the eighth snowball he hadn・t managed to dodge.
During first year, Ron waited month after month for homesickness to overtake him, but it never came with its feelings of loneliness. All he had to do was close his eyes and reach for all the good his mind could carry and he would know everything was fine. It's never failed him.
For the last few months Ron always pulls the same image forward first, the three of them gathered around a low table in the common room, space only for the three of them because any gaps are filled with cushions and books and things that belong to them.
In his mind he always sees Hermione with her head ducked low over another book, usually large and leather bound and musty smelling from the library - and a determined look on her sharp face. Ron used to be sure that when if he flipped the book closed (just to annoy her sometimes, rather than being curious) Hermione would slide one finger to try and keep hold of her page, and he would find the cover to be of some book he would never read for fun. These days it's more likely that Hermione isn't indulging in a hobby but reading for Harry's sake, because she thinks it may be research that keeps him safe and with them a little longer.
The only time Hermione pays attention to him, the way he sees it with his eyes closed, the way things always have been, is when she looks up briefly from whatever she's reading to lean over Harry sitting between them, giving him a frustrated smile while brushing away the dirt on his cheek that he hadn't ever realised was there. Or to pick at the ever-present lint on the shoulders of his jumper, careful not to dislodge any loose threads because they know it has to last him all year. She can also straighten the skew of his robes with one efficient tug, and she's the one to brush the leaves from his back with a gentle touch after he falls off his broomstick, punctuating her lecture about being careful with the laughter in her eyes.
Whereas Ron distils every moment he has with Harry to memories of chess games they play on late into the night. These are times he doesn't have to share, because even with other people around he never feels Harry's attention drifting from him, his friend's smile a small gratifying spotlight warm like hot chocolate sliding down his throat. If he squeezes his eyes tighter he can almost hear their muffled laughter in the dimming room as Ron's pieces trample Harry's into the board for the fourth game in a row. Harry never minds, and concedes defeat each time with the same happy grin.
With the set packed away, Harry always slings one arm around Ron's waist lightly as they head up the stairs to their dorm. Ron's gone over that memory many times now, but he supposes Harry's just being a mate. It would be hard for him to put his arm around Ron's shoulders after all, because Ron hasn't stopped growing while Harry blushes every time another Gryffindor crows that little Dennis Creevey could soon be taller than him. Ron doesn't mind. It feels nice to not have to adjust for that awkward height difference, to have that steadying pull to Harry's side instead.
The reality is, he and Harry haven・t played a game of chess, nor sat and talked and laughed, just the two of them, for a while now. The reality is, Hermione・s watching him again, and he knows because he・s been looking the other way for just as long. The reality is, the O.W.Ls are less than a month away and it's no longer the worse thing they have to face before the year is out, if the worry on Harry's face is anything to go by.
Right now though, Harry is bent over his third roll of parchment for the night. There are bags under his eyes and Ron wants to just grab his hand and lead him back to their dorm to get some proper sleep. He knows they have to do well in these upcoming tests - his mother's pointed comments in her almost daily owls are silent howlers on that subject - but he find himself scared that Harry will work himself to death, until he remembers that he's thinking about the Boy Who Lived and it's hardly going to be schoolwork that's going to kill him.
But it doesn't stop bothering Ron, because it's not like he has any great deeds of his own to consider, no great burden to shoulder. He sits and glares down at his own work, a three scroll essay due in two days that no closer to being finished for all the reading he's been trying to do. He's startled when he looks up for a break, for the light of the lantern by his side is casting grotesque shadows and across the table Hermione's eyes seem to glow at him.
Maybe it's the stress getting to him, but tonight as never before, he stares back defiantly. She holds, calm and determined still, and Ron feels his will almost weaken beneath the force of her. They stay that way for some frozen moments until Ron can't help but look to Harry between them, wondering if Harry is puzzled by the uneasy air of silence, wondering if and maybe hoping he's finally worked it out. But in some fitting way the other boy hasn't even noticed, still scratching slowly away at his page with his messy handwriting.
Ron looks back then, but it's been long enough, and clear. Hermione falters, her eyes dipping to land on the table in front of her, strangely blank of work. She picks up her quill, and opens the largest heaviest book on the table carefully, eyes sliding over the words fluidly. Ron sits up out of his suddenly uncomfortable slouch, feeling the tension in his shoulders and back. He yawns and reaches up with long arms in a stretch, feet kicking out under the table. They knock accidentally against Hermione's shin but she doesn・t look up, and she doesn't say a word.