After the war, coming home was hard.

Ron paused on the doorstep of the Burrow, silently preparing himself to knock on the door. Inside he could hear his mother cooking, idly chatting away with his dad as they waited for the remaining members of his family to arrive. Years before, they had picked him up at the station with Fred, George, and Ginny. In those days he thought that the look of joy in their eyes as they saw him coming home was more than enough to make up for the homesick nights that he sometimes suffered through at Hogwarts. The homesick nights never left him, but now he felt homesick for a place that no longer existed.

Apart from Arthur and Molly's chatter the Burrow was silent. And that fact seemed to poke at a piece of Ron that had died months ago.

He took a deep breath, knowing that it was finally time to bite the bullet and alert his parents to his presence. He lifted a fist towards the door, shuddering at the hollow sound that followed, and at how unfamiliar his own hand seemed to him. After a split second he could hear muted steps approaching the other side of the door, and he barely had time to brace himself before he was being squeezed to death by his mother on the doorstep of his childhood home.

"Oh, come in dear," she said, patting at his arm in a somewhat worried fashion as she ushered him inside, "I thought you'd never get here. Your dad was just about to go out looking for you—that clock has been telling me that you were 'home' for ages."

Ron winced. He had forgotten about his mother's famous clock. "I dunno, mum," he lied, "I'd only just got here."

His mother looked him over skeptically, and Ron noticed that the worried look from before had not quite left her face. "Never mind," she said, straightening up a bit, "That thing was bound to start messing up at one point or another. Come into the kitchen, your dad can't wait to see you."

They made their way into the kitchen and Ron joined his father at the table. "Hey, dad," he said, cringing at how cold his voice sounded. He wasn't angry—he loved his dad. He just felt out of place. He was so different, and a sinking pit inside of his stomach was telling him that he never should have come home at all.

"Your father was just telling us about his day at the ministry," Molly said, making her way to the stove. A big, steel pot was lying on the flames, sending wafts of something meaty towards Ron's nose. "Kingsley has been discussing some sort of official memorial for those who died at the Battle of Hogwarts." Had he not been her son, he would not have noticed her voice catch at the end of the sentence. Ron did not want to think about it. He forced what he was sure was a wretched smile, giving his mother a nod.

She cleared her throat, turning back to the stove. "Harry's been over, you know. Hermione too." She turned to face him for a second, but he looked away, "They miss you, you know."

This conversation was getting worse and worse. Ron grunted.

His mother continued, "Ron, they don't know what they've done wrong."

Ron looked up abruptly, his face was burning and he could no longer feel his ears. "Mum, they know they've done nothing wrong."

She gave him a stern look, "They don't, Ronald. I know that times have been tough, but they've been hard on all of us. You can't just move off and hide in some apartment Merlin knows where…"

"I'm not hiding…"

"Oh, and what would you call it, then?" His mother's face was as red as his, and she was facing him directly now, her stirring spoon dripping the contents of the metal pot onto the floor.

"Molly," his dad warned from his seat at the table, looking cautiously at both Ron and his wife. "Molly, he's only just back. Give it a rest."

His mom bristled but dropped the subject, looking dejectedly at the floor. "Oh, Merlin," she sighed, seeing the mess of soup below her. "Scourgify," she hissed, turning back around at focusing her attention on the metal pot that was now in front of her.