A/N: Hey y'all! This was written for Hogwarts. This is… angsty Ron that turns into hurt/comfort… sorry? For QL's Truth or Dare: inspiration The Starless Sea. Took that to mean hopelessness, the feeling of being stranded... yeah.

Word Count: 1507

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Those rights go to JK Rowling.

WARNINGS: Grieving, canonical character death

Enjoy!

Ron put his head in his hands and tried to get a grip on himself. This wasn't how he'd imagined the end of the war at all; somehow, everything was supposed to fix itself after Voldemort was dead. For some stupid reason, he hadn't factored in the grief or the listlessness that he felt now.

He hadn't factored in his brother's death.

On scrubbed a hand over his freckled face and tried to focus on his firewhiskey. Rosmerta had dropped it on his table free of charge, and Ron wished he could take advantage of the gift… but he couldn't.

Fred had been smiling. His laughter was frozen on his face—and burned into Ron's mind, because no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much time passed, he couldn't banish that image from his mind. The rest of his family… could. Or were more successful than he was. They all missed Fred, but eight months had gone by since that battle… they were moving forwards. Even George had reopened his shop.

Ron hadn't heard much from Percy, but even he seemed to be coping better—with more alcohol than before the war, but better.

But Ron was still stuck in that corridor, watching the wall come down on his brother.

"Mind if I sit here?"

Ron looked up, startled, and saw Hermione standing on the other side of his table. "Oh," he muttered. "Er, yeah."

She pulled out a chair and sat down, her dark eyes fixed worriedly on her boyfriend. Ron felt hot with shame; he hadn't been there for her like he should have been. This pain shouldn't still feel so raw. He should be like Bill, who was expanding his family—Victoire was due soon. He should be like Charlie, who found a good career in Britain to be closer to his family. He should be like George, who was dedicating himself to honoring Fred's memory, not mourning it.

But instead he was at the Three Broomsticks, hiding from the people who cared about him and replaying that horrific night over and over in his head, wondering if there was anything he could do about it.

Hermione reached out a hand and ran her fingers down Ron's arm. Her dark skin was warm to the touch, and it grounded him better than firewhiskey could. "Ron," she murmured, "talk to me, please. What's going on?"

Ron looked away, but he didn't move away from her touch. "Nothing new," he admitted. "Just—I don't know what's wrong with me, Hermione. I can't stop seeing him—seeing when—" He cut himself off and closed his eyes tightly as the grief tried to overwhelm him.

"Ron," Hermione whispered, "that's okay. You're not supposed to keep up with everyone else, you're supposed to do this at your own pace. So you can heal."

Logically, he knew she was right. But it was still so difficult to accept that he wasn't being left behind. He reached out a hand to her, not quite knowing what it was he was asking for…

But Hermione knew. She pulled her chair closer to him and placed an arm around his shoulders. Her dark-skinned hand came to rest on his pale cheek, and she leaned in to kiss him chastely. "Give yourself some more credit, Ron," she whispered. "It's not wrong to miss him."

To his horror, tears welled up in his blue eyes. Normally when he felt the urge to cry he could escape into an empty classroom or a deserted corridor, but there was no escaping here. He wiped violently at his blue eyes with the palm of his hand, embarrassed. "Bloody hell. Sorry, 'Mione."

"Don't be sorry." Hermione moved her hand from his cheek to the back of his head and pulled him closer until his head was resting on her shoulder. "It's okay to cry, Ron."

"Yeah, but…" Ron closed his eyes. "I'm sick of doing it," he answered honestly. "So sick of it, Hermione."

She was silent for a long time before she eventually responded. "I know."

There were people in the pub staring at them—there were always people staring, after their role in the war became known—but Ron didn't care this time. He didn't have enough energy to care. What mattered in that moment was that he was being held by Hermione.

He relished her warmth for a bit longer before pulling away. "I love you," he murmured. He was so grateful that she'd come, that she was still here for him, but he didn't know how to express that other than saying, "Thank you, Hermione."

She smiled easily and pecked him on the cheek. "Of course. Come on, let's go back to the castle." She eyed the bottle of firewhiskey. "I think that's enough alcohol for now."

Ron sighed, but he knew she was right. Without finishing the bottle, he stood and followed her out of the pub.

"Hermione told me you've been feeling down."

Ron looked up from his homework—his History of Magic essay was due in an hour (it really had been a mistake to let Hermione talk him into repeating his seventh year)—and narrowed his eyes at his sister. "Elaborate."

Ginny sighed and invited herself into his dorm room, her long red braid swinging as she moved. She jumped onto the bed beside Ron, upsetting his parchment and ink. "It's killing me," she said, "to see you so upset. What happened to Fred wasn't your fault, Ron."

"I never said it was!" Ron protested hotly, his ears burning. Merlin, he was so sick of trying to explain that. "I just think that I didn't—that there should have been a way I could have…" He trailed off, unable to find the right words. "It could have ended better."

"That's not what I remember," Ginny whispered. "It's not, Ron. I wasn't there, but I"—her breath hitched— "know that he was dead before the wall stopped falling. There was no way he could have survived."

She wiped roughly at her eyes, much the same way Ron had done the previous day. His stomach plummeted with guilt at having made his sister so upset. He reached over and pulled her into a one-armed hug. They stayed like that for a minute, just breathing and… and remembering.

"I miss it when you smile," Ginny said suddenly. She sounded angry. "Dammit, Ron. I miss your stupid jokes and comments and misplaced protective tendencies."

He blinked. "Er—"

"And I know that I can't force that to come back—but I just can't stand seeing you so miserable. It's like you're just going through the motions, and you've never done that in your life. You've always put so much life into everything you do."

Ron understood why she was upset. Truly, he did. But as much as he wanted to be the person he'd been before the war, he just couldn't be. Maybe he could come close one day. But that day was not today, and he told Ginny as much.

She buried her head against his neck and muttered, "I know." She was sympathetic. Her arms wrapped around him in a powerful hug, and he'd be lying if he said that it felt a bit too tight after a moment.

Patting her shoulder awkwardly, Ron cleared his throat. "Right, well, I have an essay due in… about thirty minutes now."

Ginny sat up and released him, to his relief, but peered at him closely. "You'll come to me or Hermione if you need us, right?" Her brown eyes were intense as they stared Ron down. "I don't want you thinking that this is something you have to face alone."

"Right," Ron said a bit sheepishly. "Right, I will. And Ginny?"

"Hmm?"

He opened and closed his mouth, searching for a way to express what he was feeling; he'd never been good at that. "Thank you," he settled on.

Ginny smirked and rolled her eyes a little. "Sure thing. Take care, Ron." She jumped off the bed and was out the door in seconds, but not before she flashed him one more smile over her shoulder.

Ron leaned back and stared at the door after she'd closed it. A swell of gratitude for his younger sister rose within him. A small smile crossed his features briefly.

It still wasn't perfect; he missed Fred constantly, like an ache that would never heal. But now he knew that it was okay not to be completely healed yet.

He glanced over to the bedside table, his eyes falling on a framed photograph of the family vacation the Weasleys had taken before his third year at school. Hermione had long since charmed Peter Pettigrew, then known as Scabbers, out of the picture, so the only pang Ron felt when looking at it was the sorrow when he saw Fred's grinning face.

Maybe he'd speak with George today, ask how he'd managed to turn this grief into something else. And then maybe… maybe he'd visit Fred.

It wasn't perfect. It wasn't a permanent fix. But it was a start.