The Boy Who Lived

Acceptance and Hope

Yes, Ron thought Harry was definitely in denial about the bigger picture, just looking at the details because they were easier to deal with. He knew why too. If Harry had a long list of unending things to sort out, well, that was it in a nutshell; he never had to accept the bloody big dickladle that he owned a castle and was a Lord, not just of the Potter line but the Black line too. And all those other names too, all stopping with him.

Denial. Just like when Ron had focused on only stopping that bloody Quaffle from getting through the goal hoops because then he didn't have to think about the fact that he'd run out on Mione, again. Or that Harry had probably slept with her in his absence, after all, he knew how close they both were... and he wasn't that stupid... It didn't bare thinking about, it was better if he kept those thoughts buried deep because they would eat him up, again. Because he knew Mione wasn't a virgin the first time they slept together which meant it was either Viktor Krum or Harry or both... Mind you, he'd slept with Lavender so he knew he didn't have a leg to stand on... And after running away again, well, it didn't bear thinking about. Still, this was Harry, his bestfriend... and his Mione... It wasn't as if he had a right to say anything... It still hurt though...

Stick to the certainty of soulmates and making it right...

Ron shook his head sadly. Denial. He'd talked about it with his therapist. His way of coping after the war had been denial: that none of it had happened, not really; that they hadn't nearly died year in, year out at Hogwarts, supposedly the safest place in Britain; that some madman hadn't handpicked Harry as his mortal enemy and then dragged Ron and Mione into the mix, just for being Harry's bestfriends; that a mad bitch hadn't carved cruel words into Mione's beautiful skin, permanently scarring her, just because she had Muggle parents, only now Harry was saying that Mione's bloodline was probably connected to one of the Sacred Twenty-Eights and Mione was probably their last descendant. It was all so fucked up. And then there had been a monstrous and hideous and fucking scary battle. And they'd lost Fred...

The image rose in his mind, unbidden. An image he'd suppressed for so long. An image of Fred, laid out on the dirty, rubble-laden floor in the Great Hall and Percy, pale-faced, crying, unable to let go of Fred's hand... And George hugging Ron tightly before Ron pulled away and fell to the floor, sobbing, clutching at Fred, not wanting to believe it... still not wanting to believe he was gone...

So many deaths, but Fred... why did it have to be Fred...?

He wilted into an old leather armchair, tucked away in the library alcove where he was stacking books and he cried. For the first time since the war, he cried. Great silent fat tears rolling uncontrollably down his cheeks. He hadn't even cried at Fred's funeral, at any of the funerals they went to. He had felt so numb for so long. He wondered what had finally triggered him. Whatever it was, it felt like a dam had burst...

Oh... Fred... It wasn't fucking fair...

He was glad mum was busy elsewhere, she'd barely left him alone since he'd told her how he'd made an absolute fuckcluster of it all and that he was in therapy. And since they'd come to Beaumont, she practically followed him into every corner, fussing and worrying over him. He was surprised she didn't sit on his lap when he took a shit in the morning, just to make sure he was coping with the strain of wiping his own arse.

'Ronald?' Hebe asked in a gentle voice. 'Shall I get your mother?'

He snorted through his tears, 'fuck no!'

She raised a disapproving eyebrow at his language but didn't say anything. Nor did she move away.

'She'll cart me off to the Janus Thickey Ward,' Ron smiled weakly through his tears. 'I was just thinking about all this, about the changes we've been through since we met when we were eleven. I was thinking about my brother, Fred...'