Mr. Snuffles. That's what he called him. Fred and George had always said it was a stupid name. (Actually, they had said that any prat still carrying a teddy bear could pick a name as silly as he liked, but Ron preferred to think that there was something especially objectionable about the name he had picked.)

He was a soft golden brown (or had been, at any rate, until Charlie had gotten hold of him), and while he only had one button eye left, there was something comforting about the ugliness, as though he were somebody's plump old uncle.

Ron was holding him and reading an illustrated collection of Beedle's stories, his thumb in his mouth. (Yes, it was a babyish habit, but George had picked his nose until he was eight, so he could just shut up.) He leaned forward to turn a page, only taking his eyes off of Mr. Snuffles for a second -

- and the bear was gone. Instead, there was a- a thing there. It was about a foot big and black and hairy and it had too many eyes and someone was screaming somewhere and there was laughing so much laughing coming its teeth-pincers and ohnoMumpleasemakeitgoaway…

"George and Frederick Weasley! What are you doing to Ronald?!" The high-pitched shriek snapped through the air like a whip.

Suddenly, the bear was back, the only hint that it had been something else a lingering smirk on George's - or was it Fred's? - face. He only had a moment to consider the situation, however, before his mother strode back into the kitchen. She eyed him critically, then leaned in closer to inspect his tearstained face, trying to determine if he was hurt. Apparently satisfied, she withdrew with another sharp word to his brothers. Undaunted, they teased "baby Ronald" for the remainder of his time in the kitchen, oblivious to his obliviousness to their taunting.

…

Two weeks later, he still couldn't look at the bear without seeing it. The thing, staring back at him. So one night, while Mum was busy chiding some boy for breaking something (it all tended to blend together), he snuck into the living room. Even though it was summer, there was a healthy fire in the grate. (Molly had been taught that it was best to have a fire going at night in case something wanted boiling.)

Perfect.

Trying not to cry or make any noise, he inched forward, bear held at arm's length. Normally, the glass door in front of the fireplace was enchanted to keep it closed to prying boys' fingers, but tonight, luck was on his side. Struggling a bit with the awkwardly placed lock, he unlatched the front of the door.

He could feel the heat beginning to burn his fingers and stumbled back for a second. Before he could do it, he had to get one last look at the bear.

Its expression was still kind, almost pleading. He wanted to spare it, he really did - but he couldn't look at it without seeing those pincers, that hair, those wriggling legs, that terrified expression looking back out at him from eight eyes.

The silence cost him precious moments. He steeled himself and reached to cast the bear into the fire.

"Ronald Weasley! Wingardium leviosa!"

After retrieving the bear and shutting the flue, she picked him up and threw him over her shoulder.

"This is because of Fred and George, isn't it? Honestly, I don't know why you let them upset you. Well, don't you worry, Ron. I'll put them in their place and we can keep Mr. Snuffles in your room from now on, where they can't get to it. And just to be sure, I'll cast a few charms that'll just dare them to damage it!"

And in her hand, he could see the bear looking up at him, eight eyes flashing.