A/N: This is my very first fanfic, and I'm nervous, so please review! I hope you like it, and I know it starts out dark, but it DOES get better :)

Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the Harry Potter franchise, and make no profit from this story.

Ron could feel himself slipping into the familiar haze of brandy-induced stupor he'd become so accustomed to. His eyes, partially closed, went in and out of focus as he gazed around the sitting room of the small house where he and Hermione lived. Magically suspended candles cast looming shadows around the stuffy, dark room, throwing into sharp relief empty bottles strewn about the floor, piles of food-caked plates teetering dangerously on every available surface, and Ron's own worn face and violently red hair prematurely streaked with grey. A week's worth of dust coated the surfaces. Ron had not found the energy to clean with Hermione gone. Though she came home on weekends, Hermione worked during the weeks at Hogwarts. Come to think of it, she should've been home by now...

It now seemed a lifetime ago it was discovered that Madam Pince had not survived the Battle of Hogwarts, and in the ensuing push to piece the school back together, Hermione volunteered to take over librarian duties until they'd found a suitable replacement. It turned out, as Hermione had been through every book in the library at least twice, that she was immediately deemed best for the position, and a rather drastic improvement to Madam Pince's waspish disposition. She enthusiastically accepted the job (the only objection came from Argus Filch, the Hogwarts caretaker, who had long been suspected amongst students as having been sweet on Madam Pince, and was understood to have objected on principle), and had been working there ever since.

Reminiscing, Ron sunk deeper into his usual overstuffed chair by the fireplace, which sat cold and empty. No matter how he tried to rally and find some new source of motivation to get his life back on track, he knew he was steadily sliding further and further away from happiness. It had been happening for some time, but he could never really admit it to anyone, least of all to himself. His limbs felt heavier with the passing minutes, his mind foggier. Deep down, Ron knew that alcohol wasn't an effective coping strategy, but it was certainly easier than facing his current reality.

Fred's death had impacted the Weasley family in an irreversible way, though afterward they made great strides to go through the motions of healthy and productive grieving. They were learning how to be a family again. Percy was perhaps the most willing to offer a shoulder to cry on, no doubt trying to make up for lost time when he had estranged himself from his family while working at the Ministry under Bartemius Crouch Sr.

The Weasleys did not mourn alone; families up and down the country were rent with grief after the Battle of Hogwarts. Many had to rediscover trust and love and belonging, even forging new and sometimes unlikely connections to help heal. For the most part, Fred's surviving family and friends held fast to one another for support. The process had brought them closer than ever before, but it was long after the dust had settled on the ramparts of Hogwarts before the family managed to find some semblance of stability. Until recently, they had been doing better—Ron and Hermione had even wed the previous April.

They'd been surrounded by friends and loved ones in a simple, sweet ceremony in the same soft, grassy yard on the Weasleys' property where Bill and Fleur had married—though Ron and Hermione got to have a full reception afterward, the only interruptions being the odd eccentric comment from Luna and the occasional outburst from the increasingly senile, yet unnervingly vivacious, Aunt Muriel. Planning for the wedding had given the family something positive to focus on, and there were moments when everything seemed normal, even carefree, again.

At one point, quiet laughter had gone around the Weasleys' dinner table as, upstairs, Hermione loudly argued with Ron about why their wedding theme couldn't be the Chudley Cannons' color scheme ("Ron, I don't care if you always pictured yourself getting married in a Chudley Cannons jersey, if you want to go looking like a flaming pumpkin, you can just go marry yourself!") They finally decided on lilac and cream, and Hermione compromised with orange carnations as accents on the wedding party. They'd also imported striking orange and yellow Monarch butterflies that flitted in between the guests' gilded chairs and about the garden. Fred's portrait had been set to the left of the wedding party, grinning cheekily at all the guests, and occasionally sneaking a rude gesture. And although expressions flickered bittersweet when they caught sight of Fred's winking face, Ron and Hermione's wedding marked a turning point for the family. Despite all the pain they had endured in the three years since Fred's death, they were all reminded that the intensity of their grief had been rooted in their deep ability to love, and that through that love would they find resilience.

It was George's suicide a year later, however, that plunged the Weasley family into a deeper despair than any they had known, and had driven Ron to his current state. It turned out that George had never fully recovered from losing his twin, although he became very good at hiding it. Though George never was quite as goofy again as before Fred's death, he eventually returned to the joke shop they'd started together, and had seemed to be doing much better. But three months ago, the rest of the family awoke with a start to Mrs. Weasley's hysterical screaming.

They rushed, pyjama-clad, to her aid, imagining some menacing intruder or attacker, and found her in the twins' old bedroom, collapsed at the foot of George's bed. There, so peaceful he could have been sleeping, lay George's body, an empty bottle of unlabeled potion beside him. Clutched in his arms was the portrait of Fred that had been at Ron's wedding, but now two identical faces, with three ears between them, grinned out at them from inside the portrait frame.

"I hope you can find it in your hearts someday to forgive me. In the meantime, I'll be making all kinds of trouble with Fred up there, so don't you worry about me," read the note lying next to him. George's messy writing went on to explain that he never had and never would achieve peace over Fred's death, as the rest of the family had seemed to. To spare them more pain, he'd adeptly learned to hide his agony. But his grief had gotten the better of him, and so he had made the difficult decision to finally give himself lasting relief. It was signed simply, "all my love, George," and that was it.

The following weeks were a hazy, painful blur. Ron couldn't remember when he had started drinking, though he thought it was shortly after they buried George next to Fred. In fact, he tried not to remember at all. Ron drained the last of his brandy and let his empty glass fall to the floor, where it clinked loudly against the bottles there. Ron started to drift into yet another drunken daze, but was shaken awake by loud pounding at the door.