Things clicked, every now and then. Something would trigger, and memories would go racing through his brain in flashes and flickers of helpless emotions and hopeless images. It was draining and happening more and more frequently, but Ron never mentioned it to anyone. Not to Hermione when they sat at their desks in the Auror's office of the Ministry, shifting papers and sharing mugs of coffee at eight o'clock at night while working late. Not to Draco when they were out on the field investigating rumors of Dark artifacts in a less-than-reputable wizarding establishment in downtown London, (with which Draco was, of course, always familar). Not to Ginny when they were having dinner with their fussing mother and retired, telephone-tinkering father, arguing over who was going to do the dishes as though they were children again. Not to Neville or Seamus or Lupin or the other many number of people who would either worry over it or just not understand at all.
How does one look into the eyes of those who lived with fear and betrayal like an unwanted bed partner for years, and dredge up the things that they, nowdays, preferred to pretend hadn't happened in the first place? Voldemort (hell, even Ron still had a hard time saying that name, and he'd faced him) was dead. The Death Eaters were ruined. But no one spoke about them. The white elephant, the fairy tale people wanted their children to believe was simply not true. All because it kept the fear away, and it kept them blind to anything that might ever happen to them again.
Ron thought of Harry.
Everything had changed so much. Harry wasn't in the papers anymore. Harry didn't work with the Aurors. Ron hadn't seen Harry in years. They didn't talk, not really, although Ron owled occasionally, randomly, and sometimes, if he was lucky, Harry owled him back. Ron had too much to say about his bustling, shaken puzzle of a life, and Harry had nothing to say, other than that he was happy for Ron. Hermione admitted to owling him regularly as well with little results, and Draco had even gone as far as to try to visit Harry once, but he refused to talk about it, bristling anytime anyone brought it up. He was disturbed by it, quite obviously, which didn't do anything to help squelch Ron's worry when he considered his former best mate.
He thought, perhaps, that that was what had shaken everyone most. Not what the War had done to Harry, because Harry had still been himself then. Stressed, frightened, rigid, and paranoid, but himself. In there, somewhere, anyway. But after it...
God, after it.
Ron still woke up sometimes with yellow light blinking behind his eyelids and feeling that buzz of piercing, painful static running through him. The spell Harry had used to kill Voldemort was meant to take Harry's life, and use that power to kill Voldemort. Instead, it had absorbed Voldemort's life and tried to kill Harry with it. Dumbledore had explained it when Ron was still at the hospital recovering, but he'd understood very little of it. Something in the blood Harry and Voldemort shared had caused the spell to reverse. That, Hermione had explained to him later as she'd tucked St. Mungo's voilently purple blankets around him until his legs couldn't move, wasn't all that unusual, considering blood spells tended warp other spells frequently. What had been miraculous, as usual, was that Harry had survived the rebound - the echo of the spell.
No one was really sure why he had, even now, after all the research the Aurors had done to try to understand it. Many suggested it was the same spell - the one from Lily Potter all those years ago - that had saved Harry yet again, but Ron was skeptical. That spell had lost its power long ago, especially after Voldemort had taken some of Harry into himself. At least in his opinion. No, that answer had been too simple. Ron was half-inclined to think that even if Harry had accepted his death that night he had a desire to live just to spite those who thought he wouldn't. Harry's will was like that. He really used to be that strong.
Used to be.
Ron could remember the flash of yellow. It had felt evil and raw. Voldemort's life, then. No wonder.
It all had seemed rather tentative and grand to him then. Very real, of course, but perhaps something that wasn't meant to be explained. Now he wasn't so sure. Now he wished he'd gotten more answers from Dumbledore before he'd died. He wished he'd gotten more answers from Harry before he'd turned himself to seclusion.
Through it all, Harry remained a disappointment to everyone but perhaps Ron and Dumbledore. The public were let down; Harry refused to let himself become their hero. Hermione and the Weasleys were let down; Harry shut them out, for whatever reason. The Aurors were let down; not only did Harry refuse to join their ranks, but he'd also declined their pleas to let the Ministry study him.
Study him, like he was a specimen. Ron had understood when Harry had declined. He was sure he would have too. Harry was wrecked, and not what he used to be. The War, the spell that had backfired even as it worked, had taken some of the human from Harry. In exchange, he was given the curse of officially being the strongest wizard to ever live. It was the last thing he would have wanted, and Ron knew that. They all knew that.
To be Harry, now, couldn't be easy. Worse than it used to be. Worse than when they were in school and Draco would spend half his days quoting nauseatingly untrue or twisted articles about Harry from The Daily Prophet, and worse than when the students would spend all their time wondering and pointing and scowling at The Boy Who Lived. Worse now than when people simply thought that Harry Potter was a looney and a freak and a tragic hero.
Worse now because Harry really was a looney, a freak, and a tragic hero.