The Sugar Quill
Author: Chime  Story: When You Dream  Chapter: default
The distribution of this story is for personal use only. Any other form of distribution is prohibited without the consent of the author.

When You Dream
When you Dream

With life just begun, my sleeping new son
Has eyes that roll back in his head
They flutter and dart, he slows down his heart
And pictures a world past his bed
It's hard to believe
As I watch you breathe
Your mind drifts and weaves

No matter how many years passed, Ron would never quite understand how he had been a part of something so perfect and miraculous. He had discovered that you could be as experienced as Dumbledore and still never know the answers to the questions that puzzled you most. A century later after the birth of his son, concealed behind the stone gargoyle in his office, Ron would reflect on his child, cherishing the time they had spent together, and the time they would again spend together when it was time to join his family in the afterwards.

But now, before the days of tranquility, before the days of acceptance in the wizarding world, before the days of his office, he was content to ponder the child lying in the cradle before him. At twenty-six, Ron had never seen something so amazing – and he had seen a lot in his years. It had been only days since this miracle – and his son could be called nothing else - had happened, and in the chaos of the aftermath he hadn’t been able to properly look at his son, to think about how wonderful life could sometimes choose to be.

Suddenly, it didn’t particularly matter that Voldemort was still out there, somewhere, somehow. Through his own sacrifice, Harry had been able to force Voldemort back to his living dead state, this time of his own will. When Voldemort had gone, it had been a life for a life (perhaps, Ron thought, a death for a death), just as before. Ron knew it was temporary, just as it had been the time before – except that all of the wizarding world accepted the idea this time. There were no illusions about Voldemort’s continued influence in the wizarding world, and this time even the Ministry acknowledged that the potential for him to return existed.

None of this, however, mattered to Ron right now.

When you dream,
What do you dream about?
When you dream,
What do you dream about?
Do you dream about music or mathematics
Or planets to far for the eye?
Do you dream about Jesus or quantum mechanics
Or angels who sing lullabies?

The birth had been long and painful for Hermione, and for a few heart-stopping minutes, the mediwizards had feared for her life. For a fleeting moment, Ron had been forced to think of a life without the woman who was his world. He had been slumped, devastated by the possibility of the future, in an uncomfortable hospital chair when the news had come – she was going to be fine. Ron didn’t know if he’d be able to live without her, especially if her death was a consequence of such an act of love – that of giving birth to their first child.

To their only child.

“How”, he thought again, “could something so perfect have bits of me in him?”

Ron had never adored any child as he loved James. Not George’s little girl Molly, or Bill’s two sons, or Percy’s four children. Only now could he fathom why his father would be willing to sire so many children, why his mother would be willing to bear them.

It was a shame he would be the only child Ron would ever have.

It was a shame that he would be forced to raise him alone, when Hermione died in an accident at the Ministry five years later.

It was a shame that Ron didn’t know that in twenty-four years, eight months, and six days, Voldemort would be totally and irrevocably destroyed.

It was a shame, most would say, that Ron didn’t know that the child he was now watching would be the man to do it.

His fontanelle pulses with lives the he's lived
With memories he'll learn to ignore
And when it closed, he already knows
He's forgotten all he knew before
But when sleep sets in
History beings
But the future will win

The man-child stirred, and though Ron would never know it, images of an argument in a far away time and place blossomed in front of the boys eyes, still blue in his infancy. The echo of memory bounced around his head, distant. “Oh yeah? What’s that?” a boy asked. “Next time there’s a ball”, the girl replied, “ask me before someone else does, and not as a last resort.” The boy flushed, and the memory began to fade as he stuttered a reply. I know better than to get into that thought another boy who was long dead. I just got back on good terms with Ron…. But I think she’s right.

Over the next months, the child’s eyes would fade to an inexplicable green, bright and cheery, though his swatch of red hair would only grow and grow, keeping it’s bright sunset color.

Ron missed Harry with every passing day. Everyone had thought he would be the one to destroy Voldemort, but his sacrifice had only accomplished what his mothers had, years before. Nearly a quarter of a century after his death, however, the child that was his godson – though he would never meet him – would do what he couldn’t. All throughout his childhood, Ron would tell James about Harry. Not the Famous Harry Potter, but Harry who Ron loved with all his heart, Harry who had seen to it that the child of his best friends would have a peaceful childhood- Harry who had seen more than any child should see, who had done more then any man should have to. Years passing, these would be the times that James would reflect upon with his father, and the times that would ultimately make him realize what had be done.

James filled the empty, gaping void that Harry had once occupied.

But none of this mattered to a twenty-six year old Ron. For now, he was content to watch his child, whose small chest rose and fell gently. For now, he was content to hear to his wife’s peaceful sleeping breaths.

When you dream,
What do you dream about?
When you dream,
What do you dream about?
Are they colour or black and white,
Yiddish or English
Or languages not yet conceived?
Are they silent or boisterous?
Do you hear noises just
Loud enough to be perceived?
Do you hear Del Shannon's “Runaway” playing
On transistor radio waves?
With so little experience
Your mind not yet cognizant
Are you wise beyond your few days?

As Ron turned to his bed the infant sighed, and somewhere inside his dreams, the child watched his two best friends wave goodbye to him from Platform nine and three-quarters, holding hands and grinning.
Soon, Sirius would be picking him up.

Perhaps he’d come visit the Burrow again this summer.

When you dream,
What do you dream about?
When you dream,
What do you dream about?

A/N: Muchly thanks to my beta reader, Yolanda. She’s so good to me! Also, thanks to the Barenaked Ladies, one of my favorite bands. The song used in this story is called “When You Dream”, and is from the album stunt. The lyrics were copied directly off the booklet, so some of them spellings (such as “fontanelle”, which Yolanda pointed out is also correct as “fontanel”) may be different, as the band is native to Canada. I love reviews, by the way... hint hint?
Write a review! PLEASE NOTE: The purpose of reviewing a story or piece of art at the Sugar Quill is to provide comments that will be useful to the author/artist. We encourage you to put a bit of thought into your review before posting. Please be thoughtful and considerate, even if you have legitimate criticism of a story or artwork. (You may click here to read other reviews of this work).
* = Required fields
*Sugar Quill Forums username:
*Sugar Quill Forums password:
If you do not have a Sugar Quill Forums username, please register. Bear in mind that it may take up to 72 hours for your account to be approved. Thank you for your patience!
The Sugar Quill was created by Zsenya and Arabella. For questions, please send us an Owl!

-- Powered by SQ3 : Coded by David : Design by James --