1Tired of being what you want me to be
Feeling so faithless, lost under the surface
Don't know what you're expecting of me
Put under the pressure of walking in your shoes
Over the last year or so, Ronald Weasley had perfected the arts of lying, pretending, and deceiving. It was sort of sad, really, that no one had been able to realize this. But that was how good of an actor he was.
He sat at the dinner table with his family, Harry, and Hermione as he did every day of the summer vacation. He did his phony little laugh, he plastered on the plastic smile, and wore those long-sleeved shirts that hid everything so well. Yes, Ron Weasley was quite the actor.
He listened as the family congratulated Hermione on her ten 'Outstanding' O.W.L.'s, as his father rambled on about the going-ons of the Ministry, how Bill and Charlie had successfully inducted nine foreign wizards into the Order, how Percy (who had come back to the Weasley's with a heartfelt apology) had been made the Junior Undersecretary to Rufus Scrimgeour, how Fred and George were doing extremely successful business with their joke shop, and how Ginny had been made prefect. The thoughts repulsed him.
Ron took a spoonful of his mashed potatoes, then, as no one watched, nonverbally cast the disappearing charm on the spoon. He did this every so often until his plate was clean.
"Hey, Ron, are you okay?" Hermione asked, looking at him concernedly. "You look rather pale."
"Wha-Oh, yeah, yeah I'm fine." Another fake smile was plastered on his face, though no one noticed.
"Hey Ron! Fred, George, Ginny, Charlie, and I are gonna go play Quidditch in the paddock. You joining us or what?"
"Yeah, sure. Just gimme a sec, okay?" He mumbled. Quietly, he slipped off upstairs to his attic bedroom.
Caught in the undertow, just caught in the undertow
Every step that I take is another mistake to you
Caught in the undertow, just caught in the undertow
I've become so numb, I can't feel you there
I've become so tired, so much more aware
I'm becoming this, all I want to do
Is be more like me and be less like you.
He slammed the door, locked it, and cast silencing charms on his walls. "Dammit!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, kicking the vacant rat cage that once held Scabbers. He threw a vial at his wall; upon impact, it shattered against his desk.
He grabbed one of the pieces and roughly sawed into his pale skin, crossing over webs and mazes that formed a multicolored picture on his arms, legs, stomach, anywhere he could reach. Blood unfurled from every scratch, every scratch dug deep. His once white, purple, and red arms turned crimson.
He collapsed on his bed, too dizzy to even consider going to play Quidditch with the others. He watched his arms as the blood dripped and dripped until finally the blood caked over. Sighing, he fell asleep under the covers, in too much pain to think.
Can't you see that you're smothering me
Holding too tightly, afraid to loose control
Cause everything that you thought I would be
Has fallen apart right in front of you
The next morning, Ron awoke to find the cot next to his vacant and the sleeves of his arms bloodstained. He pulled it off, and like so many other shirts, tossed it into the trash can. He pulled on a pair of jeans and a green long sleeved shirt and joined his family and friends for breakfast.
Charlie looked at him. "Hey, where were you last night, Ron?"
"I fell asleep," he shot at him. Fred and George exchanged a look, then-
"Aw, did ickle Ronniekins have too much to eat? Someone need to burp him?"
"Shut up!" Ron yelled at them. He was already irritated and tired from the strain of his emotions.
"Temper, temper," George chided.
"Ron," Percy spoke up. "It was rather foolish of you to miss that practice. I mean, who knows how much longer you'll have to practice during the summer? Once you get back to school, you'll be focusing all your time and energy-I hope-into your studies that you won't have too much time to practice if you want to make the team this year. You need all the practice you can get now so that when the season comes around, you'll be prepared."
Ron threw down his fork and knife. "Cripes, what is it with you people? I was tired, I missed a bloody game of Quidditch, is that a crime?" he said loudly.
Everyone was silent. "Percy does have a point, you know." Bill said.
That was the final straw. He stormed off from the kitchen in a fury, all but one missing the tears that were starting to fall from his eyes.
Caught in the undertow, just caught in the undertow
Every step that I take is another mistake to you
Caught in the undertow, just caught in the undertow
And every second I waste is more than I can take
I've become so numb, I can't feel you there
I've become so tired, so much more aware
I'm becoming this, all I want to do
Is be more like me and be less like you
Ron ran into the small bathroom. He hated himself. He could never do anything right, he would never live up to anyone's expectations. He just wasn't good enough. Everyone outdid him, he was never at the top. For once he wanted to be, he wanted to be the best at something. He didn't deserve to have any of the friends or family he had.
He heard footsteps on the stairs, and he quickly turned on the shower. A voice emanated from outside the door. "Ron...are you going to be okay?" a girls' voice said.
"Yeah," he said gruffly, "I'm just gonna take a shower okay?"
"Okay, but I'm there if you need to talk," Hermione replied.
From a cupboard near the sink, Ron pulled out a huge knife. He ran it up and down, side to side, along his arms until the blood pooled off in rivers down his fingers and onto the cold tile floor. He slashed at his stomach, chest, arms, legs, feet, hands, anywhere he could reach just so the blood would flow out.
Slice. That was for Harry.
Slice. That was for Hermione.
Slice. That was for his parents.
Slice. That was for Bill.
Slice. That was for Charlie.
Slice. That was for Percy.
Slice. That was for Fred and George.
Slice. That was for Ginny.
Slice. That was for everyone.
The ground came up to meet his head as a head of bushy, brown hair noticed the blood seeping under the door frame and burst into the bathroom.
And I know I may end up failing too
But I know you were once like me
With someone disappointed in you
His eyes opened. He was warm and cozy in his bed...wait. Ron wasn't supposed to be in his bed. He looked up at a pair of brown eyes that looked back at him sadly. He quickly averted their gaze.
"Why did you do it Ron?"
The question was spoken sharply but quietly. "You wouldn't understand, Hermione," he told her roughly, turning onto his side.
"I bet I would understand, Ron." she replied simply. He turned back over abruptly, glaring into her eyes.
"No," he said with extreme force. "You wouldn't, so stop acting like you do and stop trying to help because I don't need help."
"Ron, you do need-"
"SHUT UP!" He roared. "Shut up, okay? You-you don't know what it's like, being a failure to your entire family, being looked down upon every day! You don't know what it's like to have to live in the shadows of your two best friends who outshine you in everything! You don't have to go day after day miserable because you know that you aren't worth anything and that there will always be someone better and more important than you!"
He lost all his willpower to fight, and he allowed himself to drop into her arms and sob. She encircled her arms around him as he wept painfully into her shoulder. "Ron...I understand better than anyone."
He looked up at her, pain glaring out from his eyes and tears still down his cheeks. "Prove it."
She performed a complex little movement with her wand, and her arms were suddenly surrounded by a red glow which melted off. Ron's jaw dropped. Her arms had become his, only the scratches were different, carved and etched with a woman's grace and timidity. Some were deep and brutal, others shallow and light. There were scars of every color, cuts of every shape, scratches going in every direction. "I gave into it too, Ron," she told him, tears flowing down her own cheeks. "It's taken me over, and I can't win my soul back."
I've become so numb, I can't feel you there
I've become so tired, so much more aware
I'm becoming this, all I want to do
Is be more like me and be less like you.
Two weeks later, the headline of the Daily Prophet:
BEST FRIENDS OF THE BOY WHO LIVED COMMIT SUICIDE: POTTER'S WILL TO DEFEAT HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED DESTROYED?