A/N: This is a bit all over the place with silliness and angst and all kinds of stuff but oh well. It might be worth reading 'Thirty Hours' before or after this, which is not something I thought I'd ever say before a chapter of Sunday. Anyway, I am prouder of this disclaimer than I am of anything I've ever done ever and I wish I was joking about this.

Disclaimer: This is a story all about how Ron's life got flipped, turned upside down

Now I'd like to take a minute, just sit right there, as I justify ripping off the Prince of Bel-Air

*DANCE BREAK*

Iiiiiiin the West Country, born and raised, writing stories is how JKR spent most of her days,

Harry Potter, Cas Vacancy and even Beedle the Bard,

And when she had time, the odd b-day card

When a couple of writers, not a single fuck they gived,

Started writing fanfic about the boy who lived.

HalfASlug got in one little lawsuit and trembled in fear,

Started crying "J.K Rowling owns everything you recognise here."

It was on heavy feet that Ron made his way upstairs. With Hermione at one of her fancy work dinners and the kids at Hogwarts, there was no one to greet him. He didn't mind all that much. After all, he had only been to the pub with Harry for a couple, it wasn't like he'd been away for weeks, but it still would have been nice to come home to a house flooded with light, warmth and laughter.

As he entered the bedroom, Ron noticed how unusually messy it was. One of the wardrobe doors was open, there were several of Hermione's dress robes hanging up around the place and the bed was unmade, the duvet, balled up in the middle of the mattress. Ron chuckled, remembering the last minute crisis Hermione had had while deciding what to wear. He was no use, seeing as he thought she looked great in everything, but she had to take into account when she had last worn each item, if the colour was too 'loud' for this event and whether she would be taken seriously. The last one was the funniest to Ron. She was one of the most respected people in the ministry and, if that wasn't enough, she was second in command of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and nobody wanted to get on the wrong side of them.

Normally Ron would go with her to these things even though he hated them. They had got better once they had stopped being some kind of celebrity couple and people would stare obviously at them, but they were still incredibly dull. He'd lost count of the amount of times Hermione had had to nudge him awake. Still, with him there, Hermione was always calmer, more collected. Well, she was still liable to go into a meltdown if she had to make a speech, but Ron could cool her down.

Tonight, however, she had elected to take one of the promising office juniors in his stead in the hopes of giving him some experience and making useful connections. Ron supposed he should have been worried about his wife going to a dinner with a twenty year old, but having met the twenty year old in question, he wasn't so worried. He was like a cross between Percy and Pig with terrible skin.

Ron unbuttoned his shirt and threw it behind him somewhere. Something like guilt niggled him as he remembered that he had promised to tidy the bedroom up before Hermione got home, but he figured she'd be too tired to notice. What was one more shirt anyway? A quick survey of the bedroom floor told him that Hermione certainly would notice, but he could deal with that tomorrow. It was when Ron began to wonder if Hermione would wake him or wait to shout at him in the morning that the full length mirror by the dressing table caught his eye. He shuffled over to it and squinted at it as his eyes adjusted to the still-dark room.

Even in the half-light, Ron could still them. There, just above his ears. Two, small patched of grey hair. He ran his fingers through it, revealing more of them, and pouted slightly. Really, he should count himself lucky that his hair was light to start with. You could barely see them until there was a sizable patch, unlike Harry whose greys stood out against his jet black mop. Even Hermione's were visible. Well, they would have been if she hadn't started dying her hair. At first she had tried to hide it from him and had been upset when he found out anyway. Ron could still remember her crying because she thought he'd leave her and being unable to stop laughing at the thought. This had resulted in having the bottle of dye thrown at him. He didn't take it personally though. It wasn't long after she had had Hugo and the pregnancy hormones were still fighting strong. Crying and throwing things was basically what she did all day anyway.

Ron took care to rearrange his hair so the grey patches were as invisible as possible and found himself incredibly grateful that it was still thick enough to grow longer. If he had inherited his dad's receding hairline like Percy had he would have been screwed.

In fact, compared to a couple of his brothers, Ron had to admit that the aging process had been kind to him. He twisted slightly and noted that he could still see his ribs. Although he had always been a rake and the only way they wouldn't be visible was if they were removed. There was the small matter of his stomach. Much to Ginny's amusement, years of gluttony had finally caught up with Ron in the form a slight pot belly. On anyone else it wouldn't have been noticeable, but on Ron he looked a bit pregnant if he wore certain tops. Hermione loved it as well, but Ron guessed that because it was a giant 'I told you so' after years of telling him to watch his diet.

Scowling, Ron poked it and watched his stomach wobble a little. It wasn't like the rest of him was flabby or he was in bad shape. Actually, thanks to years of Auror training, he was still pretty fit. While his chest wasn't as defined as it had been when he was in his twenties, he was still fairly toned. He placed his hand above one of his pecs, pulled the muscle up a little before letting it drop.

It jiggled a little bit more than he remembered it doing. Still, at least man-boobs weren't as far south as Hermione's. Although he supposed actually having real boobs and birthing two kids didn't help. And they weren't even that bad either, as he had constantly told her since Rose had been born. It seemed that the older they got, the more they found was wrong with their bodies that the other one didn't really care about. Ron wasn't sure if he dreaded or looked forward to the day that he had more hair coming out of his nose than on his head.

Figuring he might as well get into bed and wait for Hermione, Ron unbuckled his belt, shoved his boxers and jeans off at the same time and kicked them across the room. It was another pet peeve of Hermione's but if he was going to get in trouble he might as well do it properly. Eventually his socks were flung away and Ron was left naked in front of the mirror. He wanted to move, to crawl under the covers and forget about work tomorrow, but something kept him there.

Before he was sure what he was doing, Ron was inspecting his legs. To him they were just legs. All blokes' legs looked the same, but Hermione always complimented his thighs for some reason. It baffled him. How could thighs be sexy? Well, Hermione's were but they were Hermione's. It was a whole different ball game when body parts were attached to Hermione. It gave them an unfair advantage.

Ron turned awkwardly so that he could sort of see his arse in his reflection. It wasn't a bad arse, really. It had served him well, anyway. In the dull light, Ron could just make out the small scar from when he had bent down to pick up a spoon a two year old Hugo had thrown across the kitchen. Hugo had wanted the spoon to stay there and had accidentally made the toaster explode, causing a bit of shrapnel to hit Ron on the backside. There was probably a way to magic the scar away, but Ron couldn't quite face asking anyone about it. Plus Hermione always ran her finger over it when she saw it and any excuse for Hermione to touch his arse was a good thing.

There weren't many blokes in their late-thirties that could claim that their wives still wanted them like they did when they were younger, Ron thought. He couldn't blame her, really, he added, smirking and glancing down at Not-So-Little Little Ron. Yep, where other blokes hit middle age like a brick wall, Ron was proud to say that he wasn't doing too badly. To prove his point to himself, he flexed his arms and smiled at the muscle definition there.

"Not bad at all," he whispered under his breath as he brought both arms up into another pose.

Letting his still ever present immaturity take over, Ron laced his fingers behind his head and struck a pose that he thought he might have seen in a magazine, dropping one hip and pulling and overly serious expression. Suddenly Ron was very grateful that the house had been empty when he got home and started dancing a little bit. It wasn't long before the slight hip wiggles had morphed into fully fledged thrusts and gyrations. He started humming some fuck awful song he heard on the radio that morning as his fist pumped into the air.

Ron knew that he must look insane, but life was too serious sometimes and these things were bound to happen. Besides, his moves weren't all that bad. Well, Rose always refused to be in the same room with him if he started dancing, but she had the same reaction to him kissing Hermione and he was great at that.

Just as Ron performed a daring, mid-air spin, he heard it: a snort of laughter from the bed.

Ron jumped about four foot in the air, tried to turn back around and crashed into the wardrobe, causing the snort to become a shriek.

"C-c-can't believe," Hermione rasped from under the covers, "I l-let you f-f-father my ch-ch-children!"

His face surely glowing red with embarrassment, Ron staggered to his feet and scowled at his wife, doubled over, gasping and howling with laughter on the bed.

"All right, all right," he mumbled. "Don't act like you don't do it."

"No!" she wheezed between guffaws, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Ron crossed arms in a dignified manner. "You just wanted to ogle me."

Hermione wiped her eyes and coughed a few times. "I was actually wondering if you were rehearsing for some kind of play."

"Well, you can't keep talent like this hidden away," Ron grumbled.

Straight away Hermione's mirthful expression flipped into of suspicion. "And how many people have tickets for this show?"

"Just you," Ron grinned.

"Good," said Hermione, hugging her knees over the duvet. "Now get that arse over here, Mr Sexy."

"Mr Sexy?"

"It's your stage name."

Ron chuckled as he made his way over to her. He stood by the bed and leant over so his face was close to hers. Hermione gave him a cheeky smile and Ron found he wasn't all that humiliated anymore. He knew she wouldn't tell anyone else and that she really didn't think less of him. While she'd definitely take the piss, she had almost come to expect this kind of thing from him.

He thought for a moment about saying thank you for being her, but, as ever, he didn't know how to make the words sound as important as they were, so he kissed her and hoped she could feel it somehow.

"So why were you perving on me?" he asked, climbing into bed.

"Party was a waste of time," she told him with a roll of her eyes. "It was full of insufferable bores."

Ron thought that sounded like all of the functions she had to attend, but he decided not to say that. "Did your minion have fun at least?"

Hermione frowned at the nickname. "Peter made lots of good contacts and connections." She turned on her side and hugged him, her eyes sad for moment. "Still wish you could have been there."

"Who could blame you?" Ron asked with a heavy sigh.

"You're a plonker, you know?" Hermione told him conversationally.

"I have been informed once or twice, yes." Ron rolled onto his side and pushed some of Hermione's hair out of her face. "As long as I get to be your plonker."

"You most certainly do," whispered Hermione and Ron kissed her nose, earning him a giggle. It was amazing how she could be ministry employee extraordinaire one minute and be a teenager the next.

Whenever Hermione giggled Ron couldn't help but kiss her. Despite the bedroom being a mess and her evening being terrible, she was in an amazing mood and it probably had something to do with him being caught dancing naked. He should probably start doing it all the time to get out of trouble.

Eventually, Ron was lying on his back with Hermione curled up against his side, tracing the line of his hip bone. The house and everything outside was silent; all he could hear was their breathing. You couldn't pay for this kind of peace, Ron thought as he glanced at the clock and saw it was coming up to midnight.

And just like that the peace evaporated as the thought that had been troubling Ron all day came back to him and with his defences so low there was nothing to stop him sharing it with Hermione.

"Am I old?"

"What?" yawned Hermione.

"Am I old?" he repeated.

"No," she replied. "If you're old then I'm six months older than old so be careful what you say."

"Okay," Ron said quietly, even though it wasn't. For once Hermione was joking while he was being deadly serious. Thankfully, even though neither said anything else and she had her eyes closed, Hermione still sensed something was wrong. She propped her head up on his chest to look at him, a slight crease between her brows.

"Is this about your birthday?" she asked. By the tone of her voice, Ron could tell she didn't really know why he was acting strangely.

"It's three days away."

"Worry about it in three days then." Hermione gave him a smile and settled back against him.

Normally the urge to talk about feelings was not something Ron felt a lot so he was surprised to find that he was becoming frustrated with Hermione not pestering him to open up. He could never make sense of these things without bouncing ideas off her.

"I'm going to be forty," he said miserably. Just hearing the number aloud made his skin crawl and his stomach feel oddly empty.

"I know," came Hermione's reply. She seemed to realising that this was an issue, even if she couldn't work out why.

"Forty."

"It isn't that bad, you know."

"Yeah," Ron whinged, "but you suit forty!"

That got her attention. Quicker than he could have expected her too given that she was half-asleep, Hermione sat up and looked down at him with a serious expression.

"Explain," she demanded.

"It's all smart clothes and sexy reading glasses for you," Ron dismayed, rubbing her lower back. "You were born to be forty."

Hermione seemed to think over his words for a moment before lying back down on her side. "I think that's a compliment."

Ron turned to face her and shook his head. "I'm not forty."

"No, you're thirty-nine."

Now was not the time for her to get smart with him. Even if she was technically correct.

"It took me three attempts to get off the sofa this afternoon."

"That's better than normal," she joked, poking his ribs, but Ron didn't laugh.

"I had to go for a slash after every pint at the pub."

"Honestly-" Hermione huffed but Ron interrupted.

"I'm old," he repeated despondently.

He closed his eyes and tried to not think about the horrible sensation inside of him that he couldn't figure out. So far talking wasn't helping. Hermione shifted so that she was half-lying on him, her face inches from his.

"You're still as ruggedly handsome as the day I married you," she whispered and kissed him deeply. Automatically his arms wrapped around her as his mouth responded. This kind of thing usually warmed him from his toes to the tips of his hair, no matter what colour it was nowadays. The compliments, the physical affection… he craved it when he was down and she knew it.

So why wasn't it working this time?

Ron pulled away and Hermione gave him a look that told him he had to explain because she was running out of ideas. He sighed and ran a hand through her hair.

"One day I won't be," he tried again in a quiet voice. "As handsome as you seem to think I am, I mean."

Hermione gave him a small smile. "That's fine," she chuckled lightly. "You can get as old as you like as long as you get old with me." She gave him a lingering kiss to underline her point.

"Where do you get these things from?" Ron asked, shaking his head, still unable to explain why he felt this way.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Shut up and kiss me, old man."

She leaned in again, but this time Ron backed away. "Hermione," he started, but still the words would come.

With her usually confidence building techniques not having any effect, Hermione pushed herself up so she was leaning on her elbow.

"Ron," she asked, turned his cheek to face her, "what is this about?"

It was then, with Hermione looking at him with such concern in her eyes, that it all clicked into place and the words finally came.

"I wasn't supposed to make eighteen," he croaked.

That was it. Every milestone birthday he reached felt like he had cheated somehow. At seventeen he had signed himself off, was convinced he would die in the war protecting Harry, Hermione or anyone else he loved. It wasn't bravery that caused him to put one foot in front of the other; it was the fact he already considered himself to be a dead man walking.

And then of course the dead man had walked and kept on walking away from those he had sworn to shield and waiting for the final blow didn't seem like an option anymore.

Even now part of Ron was still that seventeen year old boy that saw no future, just a cliff face and an easy way out. A seventeen year old who felt like a small child caught in a man's world that he was never going to make it in. A seventeen year old that gave up on the dream of ever being eighteen.

So now, looking forty in the face, Ron remembered that this was another birthday he was never supposed to reach with the family he wasn't supposed to have in the life he wasn't supposed to build. It felt like borrowed time and even now he wasn't sure if he had used it wisely.

It wasn't far into this train of thought that he felt tears building and he blinked them away. He may have cried in front of Hermione many times before, but it didn't mean he wanted to. Ron felt her fingertips lightly lift his chin and he just about managed to look into her eyes.

And he was so glad that he did.

There he saw that she knew what he was talking about. Decades ago now he had told her all that the locket did to him and it was never talked about again because neither of them could face it. He also saw the sadness she felt that he was still beating himself for the mistakes he made long ago and had never come close to repeating. Most of all though, he saw the love that had been there from the start and, as she smiled, Ron wondered how he could possibly question whether or not he had wasted his life.

"But you were, Ron," she said in a strained voice as she stroked his cheek. "You were."

And then when she kissed him, he felt younger than he had in years as his soul caught fire.

A/N: See? All over the place. Nudity and tears. Anyway, Happy birthday for tomorrow, Mr Weasley. Sorry for making you sad in this but you totally got laid afterwards so it isn't all bad.

Been a while since I did this on here so here's not one but two fics you should read:

For Better - thesecondshelf

The Black Library - Rokesmith

So go and read them. Thank you.