Some days, Ronald Weasley couldn't stand himself. He'd catch sight of his own reflection in the mirror and see his floppy hair—mum had tried all summer to bully him into cutting it, but he kept it long partly out of sheer spite—and his wide mouth and his gangly limbs and he'd just…not want to see any piece of himself ever again.

But of course, he always did.

He couldn't very well cover up every bloody mirror ever, could he?

Dean and Seamus would start calling him a vampire.

Harry wouldn't, of course. But then, Harry was something else entirely. He saw too much and too little all at once. It was maddening.

But no, Harry wouldn't call him a vampire. Or joke. Or laugh. But he'd know something was wrong. Because normal people didn't do things like that.

So Ron went about his days and tried to pretend that he didn't feel like his skin didn't fit. That he didn't feel like he was always going to look into the mirror and see someone he didn't want to be. Someone he was ashamed of.

He pretended that someday, he'd recapture that euphoric feeling of looking into the Mirror of Erised. He'd look at himself and see someone worthwhile: someone he was proud of. Someone who didn't make mistakes and had earned everything they had and deserved all of it and everybody else bloody well knew it too.

Somebody who got straight O's without trying.

Somebody who was Quidditch Captain and Head Boy and never struggled under the responsibility.

The problem was—and he knew it was a problem, Hermione wasn't the only one who could know things—was that he was ambitious in all the wrong ways. He wanted all those things. He wanted to be all those things. But at the end of the day, when he knew what he needed to do to earn them, he just…couldn't. He couldn't make himself put in the work. He couldn't make himself study more or take different, harder classes. Or practice quidditch long and hard enough to beat out somebody like Harry, who had natural talent falling out his ears.

Because what was the point of it all?

He would ruin now, which was pretty alright most of the time, and all for what? To maybe, if he was really lucky and everybody else was really unlucky, just maybe achieve ONE of the goals he wanted?

What was the point?

Every one of those goals had been achieved already.

Bill? Bloody brilliant. And Head Boy.

Charlie? Bravest bloke he knew, wicked cool job. And Quidditch Captain.

Percy? Biggest berk that ever breathed. But still, he was Head Boy and already working his way up in the Ministry. He'd probably be the bleeding Minister someday. And wouldn't that be grand?

Fred and George? Mad geniuses, the both of them. They'd never amount to anything at Hogwarts and they'd love every moment of it before they graduated and invented something that made a million galleons and they'd never have to worry about money or working ever again if they didn't want to.

And all that was left was Ron. Poor, gangly, awkward, stupid, Ron.

And Ginny.

But she didn't count. She didn't have to live in anybody else's shadow. Or in their old clothes. Using their old wand. Writing letters to send with their old owl. Sleeping beside their old pet rat.

She got to have fresh everything. New robes, new shoes—well, not new, no one in their family had the money to buy things new— new expectations.

It was easier when his friends, at least, were struggling, too. And didn't that just make him the worst fucking friend on the planet? If they were hard up, then they needed him just as much as he needed them. And if they didn't need him anymore? What was he then?

Afraid.

That's what he was.

He was afraid. Afraid that Harry was going to realize how bloody amazing and talented he was and he'd grow up and he wouldn't need Ron to tell him those things anymore because he'd know them. And then he'd realize that Ron wasn't any of those things and didn't know how to be any of those things and then he'd be gone.

He was afraid that Hermione would stop needing him, too. She'd already stopped, really, if he was being honest. She was so brilliant and so insufferable that he'd always been a sort of buffer between her and the wizarding world. She didn't understand how wizarding society worked and she didn't seem to want to. She'd just tear it all down and rebuild it the way she thought it should've always been, and fuck anyone who got in her way for any reason. Even good ones. And he'd been her…interpreter. That was it. He'd been her interpreter and he'd gotten to be good at something, even if it wasn't very special and hadn't taken any amount of effort. But now she had Krum, who knew all sorts of things and was talented and older and famous and bloody powerful besides. What could she ever need Ron Weasley for?

So there it was: being afraid was just about the only thing Ron was good at. That, and chess. But neither one would get him very far.

And now, seeing Hermione laid out in the hospital wing and not moving, Ron was getting in a good fear-response workout. He'd be a master in no time.

And boy did he feel like the lowest scum on the planet right now.

He'd spent all year being prickly. More than prickly, really. He knew he was being a right berk. Never in the moment, mind, always when he was lying awake at night or staring at his foggy ugly face in the mirror after a hot shower.

But he'd always figured he'd have time to apologize later. Time for her to forgive him and for them to patch things up. Time to figure out how to make her need him again. Or how to be ok with her not needing him. Time to figure out how to not need her.

And now it felt like he didn't have any time at all.

He crept forward like a criminal, ready to be caught doing something dastardly and devious.

As he got closer, he saw that her eyes were open just a tiny bit. Her hand twitched.

"Hi Ron," she said. He didn't know how she'd known it was him. Must've been the red hair.

"Hey, Hermione." He sat down, gingerly, on the very edge of the chair. It was still a bit warm, which was kind of gross, really. She must've had another visitor. Probably Krum, although half the school thought he was the one who put her here because blood magic was his thing, even though he wasn't supposed to be here after curfew.

Ron wasn't supposed to be here after curfew.

But the fear of being caught and the fear of not seeing her had all blended together until it just didn't matter anymore.

He was so bloody, fucking afraid.

When she didn't say anything else, he gently, ever so gently, grasped her hand.

"I'm so sorry, Hermione. For everything."