Ron allowed himself to breathe.
In, out.
In, out.
He had just closed the door to the guest room at Shell Cottage, leaving Fleur alone to tend to Hermione. Or rather, she had shooed him out, saying she needed to examine Hermione more carefully. He hadn't gotten it at first and refused to leave, but when Fleur glared at him and said, "Zat means no boys!" he had gotten pink in the face and raced out in a hurry.
Now, out in the hallway, he sucked in the sea air gratefully. Feeling like he'd been deprived of oxygen for weeks, Ron wanted to gulp it, to swallow it down. But he forced himself to inhale slowly, and he trembled. The enormity of what he, Harry, and Hermione had just gone through vibrated through him like a November chill. After all those other times they had been nearly finished, this one seemed like so much worse.
For starters, nobody had actually been hurt before.
If Ron had allowed himself to admit it, he would have wondered so much earlier how nobody but Harry ever managed to be really hurt. Okay, there was that time at the Ministry where everyone had been slightly injured, but nobody had come that close to death before.
Okay, so that was a lie too. Everyone's lives had been in grave peril at the Ministry. So why was this so different?
And suddenly, the answer came to him.
It wasn't why. It was who. Hermione had been picked because she was Muggle-born. She was tortured for information, sure. But Ron couldn't shake the feeling that Bellatrix had crucio-ed away with relish too. Relish that a Muggle-born currently experienced pain greater than a thousand needles could produce.
Hermione's cries of agony, her shrill screams and uncontrollable sobbing plagued Ron's mind. Never having been hit by the cruiciatus curse, he could never begin to imagine what she'd gone through. But it was torture to him to see that knife at her throat, or to hold her limp, quivering body and fear the worst.
The shell of suspended tension around him burst. Cupping his forehead in his right hand, Ron quite unexpectedly felt like crying. That was ridiculous. Besides Ginny or Mum, when was the last time a Weasley had cried? Never, that's when.
He leaned against the wall and slowly sunk to the ground. I need to get back outside, he thought. Harry needs me. Hermione's in good hands. As he made to stand up, Bill rushed up the narrow steps. His brother looked at him, eyes questioning, and Ron responded with a sort of half shrug and a side glance at the floor.
"Hermione will be fine." He said, and Bill nodded curtly. Ron quickly wiped his face with his arm, hoping Bill could not see the tears he was attempting to conceal. He wasn't ashamed; in fact, those few tears provided a sort of release for him, liquid emotion that reminded him of his own humanity. But he didn't want Bill feeling sorry for him either.
He had no sooner lowered his tear-stained sleeve when he found himself in his brother's arms. One quick squeeze and he was released. Ron smiled tiredly at Bill while his brother gave him a final clap on the shoulder. Then he breathed in, breathed out, and walked out to help Harry.