Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition - Round 9. Prompts used were: S/he's too quiet these days, "Look, it doesn't matter – forget it, okay?"

Hindsight is a funny thing.

It lets you look upon the past, shining a bright light on every action, every mistake you made. It didn't judge, didn't do anything. Yet it birthed thoughts of 'what if' and 'if only', and sometimes those were the most dangerous of all.

In hindsight, it was naïve to think they would all get out of the war unscathed.

-X-

It began some couple months after the Battle of Hogwarts. That was what the Wizarding World was calling it now, and rewritten history books had filled shelves upon shelves in Flourish and Blotts for weeks. They were all recovering then, trying to piece together the broken bits and get them to fit.

Perhaps it's wrong to say it started then. No, it had started far before that, before either she or Harry or the Weasley's had looked enough to take notice of it. At that time, Hermione had recently come back from bringing her parents' home from Australia. She had laughed and cried and touched them to make sure they were real and not just a figment of her imagination. They were alive and well, and had been untouched during their war. Yet as much as she loved them, she knew their relationship wouldn't, and couldn't be the same again. She had seen war, seen what it did to people. She would never be able to go back to being their innocent little girl again, and she knew it would unnerve them to see such a change.

Ron had been behind her the whole time, her anchor while undoing the spell she had cast on them. Hermione had nervously introduced them, unsure of their reaction. All her worry was for nothing though. He had been exceedingly confident and charming, and her parents were immediately taken with him.

Thinking back, that had probably been her first sign. But she had filed it away as nothing more than an oddity.

And then the oddities started piling up, one on top of the other. Memory loss. He couldn't remember what he did or said sometimes, causing numerous arguments to start between them. Mood swings. He would go from cheerful to outright furious in minutes, and she didn't know where it was coming from. Sometimes his pupils would dilate rapidly, and he would clutch at her, terror obvious on his face. Sometimes he would just sit and stare out the window, unresponsive, one hand absently tracing the scar where the brain latched onto him in the Department of Mysteries.

It was worrying, to say the least. Hermione wasn't sure whether to confront him about it and risk another argument, or leave it. It was another couple of days before she made her decision.

"He's too quiet these days," Hermione murmured quietly to herself, justifying herself.

Squaring her shoulders, she headed up the stairs to Ron's room in the attic. Hesitating just a moment, she knocked gently once, twice.

No response.

Hermione frowned, all uncertainty disappearing from her. She pushed the door open fully, mouth and mind preparing to deliver a stern talking to at Ron. Then, all thoughts flew from her mind as she registered the sight in front of her. She hurriedly rushed into the room, seeing the tell-tale signs of a panic attack. He was clutching the bed sheets so hard his knuckles were turning white, and his chest was moving rapidly up and down, eyes darting around the room.

Hermione slipped by his side, rubbing a hand in circles on his back. She leaned down, murmuring nonsensical words in his ears as she embraced him. She didn't know how long they spent in that position. Her legs were stiff as he slowly started to calm down, relaxing into her.

Then, he started crying. They were whimpering sobs, a terrible keening sound coming out of him as he buried his face into his shoulder. Hermione heart lurched worryingly as she held him, allowing him to release all his pent up emotions. It was as he lifted his head to face her that she really let her concern show on her face.

"What's wrong, Ron? You can tell me," she said gently.

He simply watched her, face unreadable. He slumped his posture, head resting on her shoulder again.

"I… it's stupid, really. Sometimes I black out randomly, and I can't remember stuff, and it's like there's someone always watching over my shoulder! I don't.. I don't know what to do Hermione."

Hermione rested her own hands lightly against his waist, mind spinning furiously now that she had something to work with. It wasn't much, true, but she wanted to help as much as she could. Perhaps he was suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder? It wasn't uncommon, especially after the Battle of Hogwarts. And the symptoms seemed to match, although she would need to do more research.

"Ron," she said, lifting his face up. "I think… you might be suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. It's a mental condition that often occurs after a traumitizing event. How long has this been going on?"

"Look, it doesn't matter – forget it, okay?"

She gave him a stern glance. "Ron."

He sighed, shifting uncomfortably.

"Since… the Department of Mysteries," he said, looking at her wearily. "I'm not mad, Hermione."

She sighed. He had always been stubborn. Deciding to acquiesce to his denial for now, she got up from the floor, pulling up Ron at the same time.

"Come on," she said. "We should get something to eat, then go to the library."

He smiled tiredly, but wryly back at her.

-X-

The symptoms all fit. Dissociation, heavy recollection of the event, emotional numbing, anxiety attacks. She had searched the internet and books and they all pointed to the same thing.

Hermione showed her research to Ron, who although dubious, accepted it without another word. They told the Weasley's a week later, who tearfully acknowledged it as they gave him a comforting hug.

-X-

They had been wrong all along. She had been wrong.

-X-

A month later, she first met him. She had been headed to the Burrow, planning to talk to Ron about going to Hogwarts again. She didn't want to force him, because of his PTSD, but she wanted to discuss it with him first.

Molly let her in, nodding at the stairs.

Hermione thanked her, and headed to his room. She sighed. He wasn't going to get anywhere in the world if all he did was stay in his room. Although she did understand his sentiment. Whenever any of them went out anymore, the whole world's eyes were on them, and it was an unbelievable amount of pressure. She wondered how Harry had dealt with it his entire life.

Knocking on his door, once, twice, she let herself in. Ron was idly sitting on his bed, flipping through an old Quidditch magazine that looked like it was ripping at the seams. She cleared her throat.

Ron didn't even look up.

She strode to the side of his bed, clearing her throat again. "Ron!" she said.

He glanced up at her, eyeing her lazily. "Don't call me that," he said, before returning to his magazine.

Hermione blinked, shocked at his attitude. "What is wrong with you Ron? You're acting all weird!"

"I said, don't call me that." His arm jerked out and slammed again his side table, making a sharp pounding sound. Hermione jumped, staring.

His chest heaved, eyes flashing in anger.

"My name is Drake," he said, voice a pleasant tone despite his previous actions.

"Who are you and what have you done with Ron?" Hermione hissed.

He blinked at her. "I am Ron. Or, I suppose you could say I'm a part of him, he's a part of me. It makes no difference." He shrugged and flipped a page.

Hermione reeled back in shock. His words echoed through her mind rapidly. A part… of Ron? What was that supposed to mean? The realization hit her, and it was like a cold bucket of water was trickling down her back.

Dissociative Identity Disorder.

She had come across it briefly in her research, but she hadn't thought… She took a step forward, almost tempted to shake 'Drake' until he gave her answers. Clutching at the familiar shoulders, she stared intensely into his eyes.

"Er, what are you doing Hermione?" he asked.

Hermione blinked. Then, she collapsed bonelessly to the bed.

"Hermione?"

Hermione laid there for a moment, ignoring Ron and collecting her thoughts. She sat up, facing him.

"Ron," she said seriously. "You don't have PTSD. You have Dissociative Identity Disorder. It's where—"

"I have a fragment of my personality that can come into my consciousness," Ron finished.

She stared. "Wha— how?"

He glanced away, avoiding her eyes. "I… found out a couple days ago. He started talking to me in my head. I thought I was crazy you know." He let out a humourless chuckle. "It's taken me a while to let it sink it."

"Oh, Ron…" Hermione whispered, heart breaking in her chest. She reached over, clinging to him in a tight embrace. "This whole time, I haven't been there for you. I'm so so sorry."

"I know," he said quietly back, holding her. "I know."

-X-

Even now, she wondered if she could've done anything better. She was observant, clever, heralded as the smartest witch of her age. She could have noticed the symptoms, helped him through the experience. But she hadn't. It was the one thing to this day, she still regretted. Thoughts of 'what if' and 'if only' still echoed through her mind sometimes, although she knew it wasn't her fault.

Getting up, she grabbed her bag and popped her head into the living room.

"Drake, could you tell Ron to grab the groceries when he gets back?" she called. "I'm in a hurry."

The man nodded from the couch. "Roger, I'll let him know."

Smiling lightly, she headed out.

So, I used Dissociative Identity Disorder. I hope I didn't get any of the facts wrong, and if I did, please let me know!