Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Rating: R

Summary: Post-hogwarts. the battle wounds are everlasting, and Ron finds that the only thing worse then dying in the war is living after it... I am no longer a person, I am a whisper of a person a shell of what once was... Drugs/cutting/anorexia etc. When the trio has to meet up again can they save each other from the depression each of them suffers from?

A/N: The first chapter is pretty tame it's mainly to introduce Ron's character, and how he is perceived by those around him, in the later chapters it gets a little "thicker" hence the R rating.

The Whispers



Part One




He's hollow, a hollow of a person, a shell, a whisper. Just as he's saved the world as we know it, he's lost himself and for that My breath hitches in my chest and seems to be stuck.

It happens often, lack of oxygen, they explain, saying I take too few breaths and breath too shallowly, or maybe just hold my breath without realizing it, they accompany it with suppressed emotions. As if emotions are just floating around and get occasionally stuck in my lungs. Counseling they say, is a good way to fix it, but I won't go.

"That's just not going to work for me Leslie," I say throwing on my best good-natured smile.

"Well, Mr. Weasley, there's really no other way to fix it, it won't go away until you face your problems and work through them," She replies in perfect Medi-witch routine. I lean forward wiping an imaginary hair off her cheek.

"That potion you gave me last time, the one that clears out your thoughts that made the chest pain go away, and the headaches," I say casually. She shrinks underneath my hand and turns slightly pink.

"Well, Mr. Weasley, that's a potion we only give when the pain is debilitating, and only if it's a purely medical case-"

"A broken heart isn't considered medical?" I ask the pitch of my voice dropping slightly as my body falls nearer to the blonde witch bellow me. She puts her hand up and pushes it against my chest as if to push me away but at contact it goes slack.

"I could get in a lot of trouble if they find out-"

"Like, fired?" I ask. She nods her blue eyes big and clear.

"Well, I can't ask you to do something that could get you fired," I stand back up and run a hand through my hair, "Guess I'll just go then-"

"Mr. Weasley-"

"Call me Ron,"

"Ron, um, I think, actually that they might have neglected one test, and, well, your condition could still be medical, I suppose," She stops abruptly as if realizing what she's saying and I walk towards her an almost sincerely grateful look on my face, almost.

"Well, Leslie, I can't ask... If it's too much of a hassle-"

"Not at all, I'll write you a prescription," her little pale hands shake as she scribbles out he prescription and hands it to me. I let my hand rest to long against her as I take it from her and her cheeks go pink. "After all," she continues as I put on my coat, "you're Ron Weasley. I mean it's the least I can do, considering all you've done for the wizarding world."

Vomit burns my throat but I manage a smile before shrugging in that good-natured way people seem to expect from me.

"If you still have chest pains," She begins grabbing another scrap of paper and scribbling something down, "This is my Flat address, if it's bad, you could... Just stop by, I just went to a seminar on relaxation charms and...Well I have a muggle phone line too so here's that number..."

"Thanks," I say taking the paper, and shoving it into my pocket. I shred it into little pieces as I sit in my flat waiting. Waiting for nothing really, like I need a sign telling me it's ok to tip the bottle of potion back and take a long drink, a long drink to help push away all the bad thoughts clouding my mind. Pigwidgeon flies through my window and drops an envelope on my table. I lean forward picking it up, it doesn't say anything on the front except a quickly scrawled "Ron" I balance the envelope on my hand a second before opening it.

Ron,
Something bad has happened, and mum's too ill to write, so I suppose I'm the messenger. I don't know how to say it nicely, so I'll just write it, Percy died. Suicide. You have to come home; you have to come home now. Please.

Love,

Ginny



I curse softly, the perfect sign. I tip back and the liquid is dull sliding down my throat my head swims as I start floating, up, up, up, away from all the hate, all the pain. A whisper floating through life watching my mortal body suffer, and not caring. Never caring.

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