A.N. Greetings! I know right now that some of you are looking at this suspiciously. 'Why isn't this an update for To Know You is to Love You? If she could write this, then she could have updated sooner!' But there you would be wrong. Writing is a funny thing. Sometimes, no matter how much you want to write something, the right words refuse to come. And I would rather take the time to get it right, rather than insulting you with something half-assed just to keep to a schedule. Several months ago on Tumblr, I opened up my ask box for prompts, only expecting to get two or three at the most. They have continued to pour in since then, and I have completed at least twenty. I write them to refresh myself, in between sessions of writing TKYITLU. I've had requests to put them up here, so, here we are. Now, my main focus is TKYITLU. That isn't going to change, until it's finished. But I will also be posting these from a backlog, and since they've already been written for months, they aren't taking up any writing time. Some of these fics will be T, and others M; some will be funny, and others serious. None are connected unless stated otherwise. Now, I'm just going to leave this here before diving into my regular writing...

Prompt: Hermione returns from her last year at Hogwarts to discover that Ron has not been dealing with the aftermath of the war as well as he has lead people to believe...

Hermione grabbed her beaded bag off the top of her dresser, and gave herself one last look in the mirror. She had decided against anything fancy, and was wearing jeans and an indigo blue shirt in a soft material that had loose, floaty sleeves to hide her scar. Glancing outside, she saw that her parents' car was gone, meaning they had already left for work. She had said goodbye at breakfast, so that was fine. Things were still rather awkward between them, and she was glad to finally get away for awhile; she had stayed to spend time with them for the past three days after graduating, and that was enough.

Really, though, she missed Ron. He hadn't been able to make the last couple of Hogsmeade visits, and the letters, though they meant so much, just weren't cutting it. She needed to see him. To see if his hair had grown out from his Mum cutting it, so the edges curled over his collar. To watch as the left corner of his mouth raised a little higher than the right whenever he smiled, and the way his lanky body seemed to take up the entire length of the sofa when he sprawled out. She wanted to revel in the way his eyes lit up when he saw her, and how they darkened when he pulled her close. She needed to hear him. The laugh that was rarer but all the sweeter for it while he was getting over the war. The sound of his snoring in her ear, and the inflection he wrapped around her name. She needed to feel him. His arm draped across her waist as they slept; his breath on the back of her neck. The way his lips felt on hers, and her neck, and her-

She had always lived vicariously through books, traveling to far off lands and times, experiencing lives far different from hers. But words on paper could never do Ron justice; her imagination paled in comparison to his reality.

Giddy with excitement, she Apparated away, landing precisely on the top stair of Grimmauld Place. Taking a few moments, she attempted to compose herself; then gave it up. Why should she try to hide how excited she was to see him? She had spent too many years hiding her emotions from him, and he always seemed so happy when she expressed them. And she very, very much wanted to make him happy. With a slight smirk, she wondered if they would make it past the sofa.

The sitting room was cool and dark, the thick, heavy green curtains pulled tightly closed to prevent the smallest sliver of light to shine through. Ron sat on the deep brown sofa, hunched over with his face in his hands. He was breathing shallowly, trying to suppress the nausea that had slowly been increasing in the past few months. He should probably eat something, he knew, but he had no appetite. He had no energy, either, and he wondered if that wasn't why George had sent him home. He had arrived at the shop at his usual time, pasting on the same smile as he did every day, but it must be wearing thin. George had at first seemed surprised to even see him, and had then looked at him too closely for comfort. He had slapped Ron on the shoulder, telling him to take a few days off. Ron, who had been feeling light-headed, had swayed under the force of his brother's hand, and agreed.

He had felt horribly guilty for leaving, but George acted like he was doing well. He'd been much better, these past three months, although Ron still caught him staring off into space with a lost expression, when he didn't think anyone was looking. But he was already back to experimenting with new products, and even if he wasn't always as enthusiastic as he was before, it was a step in the right direction. Ron was just happy that he didn't have to watch him every night to make sure he didn't drown in his own sick.

Releasing a shaky sigh, he told himself to get it together. Hermione was coming tomorrow, and he couldn't let her see the shit state he was in. She had enough to worry about, with her parents, and finding a job and all. At least her nightmares were getting better, and Ginny had written to say that she was much less jumpy. She still scanned rooms when she entered, and didn't like anyone sneaking up on her, but it wasn't as noticeable. Hermione had written much the same about Ginny. In a fit of what he had considered pure brilliance, he had taken each one to the side before they went back to Hogwarts, and asked them to keep an eye on the other for him, since he wouldn't be there. He knew both of them were stubborn as hell, and wouldn't ask for help, but that they wouldn't be able to resist doing for the other. He hated that that was as much as he could do, along with letters and a handful of visits. He felt like he had so much to make up for.

He was doing his best at that with the rest of his family and Harry, although it was harder with Harry off training most of the time. He spent most days with George, in the shop; that was a lot easier now that he wasn't worried that George would do something...drastic if left by himself. When he wasn't with him, he was at the Burrow, making sure his Mum had someone with her while his dad was at work. He spent more time with his dad in the evenings, and tried to squeeze Bill and Percy into the time left over from that. Charlie was back with his dragons, and Ron made sure to write him frequently. Bill was on top of the world, proud as could be with his daughter. Percy seemed to be doing the same as Ron; he threw himself into working for Kingsley, but his spare moments were either at the Burrow, or with George. They hadn't done so well there, for awhile, but things were going much better than they had been.

Still nothing he could do for Fred. As much as he helped the rest of the family, his brother would still be under six feet of packed earth. Making sure George didn't join him had seemed to be the best thing he could do...it still didn't erase the guilt. Each day since the wedding, while he was with Harry and Hermione, he had felt guilty for leaving his family. Never knowing if they were in trouble or not ate him alive, coming up with all sorts of scenarios where something could happen to one or more of the m that he could've prevented. The part of his brain that had beaten the giant chess game at age eleven knew how idiotic it was to think that. His family had safeguards put up for nearly every possible emergency, and they had all been practicing attacks and defenses, whether they admitted it to each other or not.

He had also known just how likely it was for all of them, in a family as large and active as they were, to make it through the war alive. Not to put too fine a point on it; he had thought he'd be the one to snuff it. He was less than thrilled with the idea. There were things he wanted to do, witches he needed to tell that he...but if someone had to be sacrificed, he was willing for it to be him. Not that life worked that way. Not even with magic. Still, he had felt that it was unfair that any Death Eater could find his family, while he was hidden.

The guilt had swung the other way after the night he left; he could never bring himself to sleep in the warm, snug bed that Fleur had made up for him, with Harry and Hermione still out on their own. He went over the fight over and over, Hermione's screams a constant echo in his head. With the locket gone, he was able to see how much of a bastard he had been to them, and it made him physically ill. He had promised himself he would make it up to all of them, somehow, but then there was the Manor and Hogwarts andeverytingfallingtoshitaroundhimandmovingtoofastforhimtocatchuppleaseMerlinmakeitstopevenifit'sonlyforaminute-

"Young master?" A voice croaked near his elbow.

Ron slammed backwards at the sound, never having noticed that his body had begun to curl up into itself. He swallowed, trying not to snap at the elf that watched him warily. Kreacher had vastly improved since the first time they had met him, although he was still rather crusty. He also wasn't always quite right in the head, and would frequently begin mumbling to himself, but at least it wasn't the filth he used to spout. Hermione, of course, had wanted him to be freed; Harry and Ron had mostly agreed with her. Mostly, because he wasn't exactly young, and it would be hard for him to get used to somewhere else. They had reached a compromise, finally. Kreacher was free to live in the mansion for the rest of his life, or until he found someplace he'd rather be. He was also free to come and go as he pleased, was given a small room of his own in the attic, and only two things were asked of him in exchange. The first being that he vowed never to do anything that might harm the people that lived at Grimmauld Place, including their families and friends. The second was that he cooked on a fairly regular basis, because aside from eggs, bacon, and toast, he and Harry were shite in the kitchen.

Kreacher had been happy with the arrangement, which meant that Hermione had been happy (once the heads had finally been removed from the wall and provided with proper burials), which meant that Harry and Ron could be happy. Kreacher had had light duty; Harry was gone nearly all the time, and the little Ron spent here, he hardly ate. Kreacher pottered about the place, cleaning mostly out of habit; he seemed more relaxed when he was working, though he was free to turn any request down. He never had yet, though Ron thought he caught a shadow flash through those large, milky black eyes that promised some sort of trouble coming up.

"Yeah? What is it?"

"Will young master be needing anything special today?"

Ron started to tell him, as he had many times before, that he didn't need to call him 'master.' But Kreacher would only ignore it, so he didn't bother. "No, thanks. I think I'm gonna go upstairs and have a kip; I'll make a sandwich or something when I get hungry."

Ron stood, swaying on his feet, something niggling at his brain. "Oh! Um, if you have time, would you mind clearing out my room before Hermione comes tomorrow? Don't want her to worry if she sees the...stuff."

By 'stuff,' he meant the disturbingly large amount of empty vials of Dreamless Sleep.

Kreacher gave him the same look that George had earlier. "Master wants Kreacher to get them out...before tomorrow?" He asked carefully.

"Yeah, if you can. If not, I'll do it later tonight."

"Kreacher would be pleased to see to the problem," he answered, giving a small bow before shuffling out of the room.

Ron picked up the crumpled robes he had tossed across the back of the sofa. He also needed to make sure he had something decent to wear tomorrow; better than the current jeans and tatty t shirt he was currently sporting. Something that maybe hid how thin he was...which reminded him that he needed to let Kreacher know that he was taking Hermione out for dinner that day, and they wouldn't need him to cook. Until breakfast. The thought brought a smile to his face, easing the creases around his eyes and mouth.

"Ron?" A softer voice called to him, one that he hadn't been expecting.

Hermione stood in the doorway, staring at Ron. She hadn't bothered to knock, since she was expected, and had walked right in. The house was quiet, but she had expected that; Harry wasn't here, And the loudest Ron got when he was alone was during a Quidditch match on the wireless. She had expected to find him draped along the sofa with a Quidditch magazine, or an Auror training manual. Or possibly in the kitchen, having a mid-morning snack. She hadn't expected to find him standing in the sitting room, looking as if he could barely manage to keep himself upright.

In the poor light, her first impression had been that he had the mother of all hangovers, but that assumption was quickly dispelled when she looked at him more closely. His skin had always been pale, but now there was an unhealthy pallor, looking as if it would be dry and papery to the touch. His hair was dull and brittle, the warm glow that she had loved seeming to have been snuffed out like a candle. He was so thin! Not as bad as when the war ended, but he should have put on much more weight by now. She knew she was still lacking in that department, but her appetite still wasn't back to normal; Ron should be miles ahead of her.

When he turned at her voice, she saw that the worst part was his eyes. Not the fact that they were sunken and bruised looking; that was almost expected, given the rest of him. It was the raw, hopelessly haunted look that made her gasp, her hand raising to her heart, which ached sharply. He hadn't looked that bad since the locket. Wait. No. This was worse. With the locket, there had at least been the anger to give him some life. Now, he was more like an animated corpse.

"Hermione? What...what are you doing here?" He asked, sounding confused, and a little worried.

She was worried as well; had whatever was the matter with him affected his mind, as well? Slowly she approached him, as one might a wounded dog; it had always been friendly before, but now you weren't quite sure where you stood with it.

"You invited me, remember?"

"Yeah, but we said Friday. You're a day early. Did something happen? Are your parents being difficult again?"

His voice was concerned, and he crossed the room as he spoke, his arms going around her as he looked for signs of distress. Hermione relaxed. Whatever it was, he hadn't been cursed with dark magic. She brought her arms up to circle his waist, frowning when she felt more bones than she should.

"Ron, it is Friday. Are you feeling well? Should we go to St. Mungo's?"

Ron scratched the bridge of his nose, mentally kicking himself at his carelessness. It was bad enough he had lost track of the date; he had hoped to spruce himself up some before Hermione saw him.

"What, are you saying I look bad, or something?" He joked feebly, hoping to distract her.

Hermione raised her hands to his face, tracing over the curve of his cheekbone, running a thumb across his jaw. She brushed the fringe away from his forehead, wincing as it crackled like straw.

"This isn't funny! You look like you can barely stand-here, let's move to the sofa," she suggested, leading him to sit down.

She curled up beside him, taking his left hand between hers. "Now, tell me what's happened."

He shrugged, not sure what to say. There was no way he was going to tell her about all the mental things in his head. It was better if she didn't know. It was better for him. He couldn't quite meet her eyes; his kept sliding down and to the left.

"Nothing! I've just been working really hard lately, is all. A few night's sleep, and I'll be fine."

Hermione bit her lip. she could tell he was lying. Ron wasn't a liar, and whenever he tried, he was horribly obvious. Somehow, she was going to have to pry it out of him. Whatever it was, it was affecting his health, and couldn't go on like this. She was still deciding what would be the best way to get him to open up, when a rattling, scraping noise came from behind her. Twisting around, she saw Kreacher walking past the door, with a bag dragging on the floor behind him. Odd.

"Hello, Kreacher. Where are you going with that?" She asked.

The elderly elf looked up at her, the neck of the bag going slack in his grip. "Kreacher was removing the bottles from young master Weasley's room, as he asked."

Hermione glanced sharply at Ron, noting how the little color he had draining from his lips, his eyes dilating. Dread began to gnaw at her stomach.

"What bottles, Kreacher? Firewhiskey?" She hoped not. She knew that George had gone on an alcoholic binge, but Ron had appeared to be too busy taking care of him to follow suit. If he had developed a drinking problem, it was serious; that was a very big bag...

"Not Firewhiskey. Dreamless Sleep. The young master needs it to sleep."

"That's enough!" Ron cut in harshly, feeling things beginning to crumble around him.

"No, go on, Kreacher. I think I need to hear this." Hermione demanded, her eyes fixed on the bag as if it was another Horcrux.

Kreacher looked back and forth at each of them, seeming caught between what must have felt like an order, and his own desire. "Kreacher doesn't want to cause any trouble. Young miss can ask for herself." He turned to go, then stopped. "Will young miss be wanting anything to eat?"

Hermione shook her head in frustration; food was the farthest thing from her mind right now-

"Very well. Kreacher must be losing his skill in the kitchen, since no one will eat his food anymore, save for Master Harry."

This grabbed her attention. "What do you mean? Are you saying Ron doesn't eat here anymore?"

Kreacher shook his head mournfully. "Even when the young master dines at home, he never has seconds. Sometimes he doesn't even finish what's on his plate. Kreacher's cooking must displease him."

"I'm sure you're cooking is perfectly fine," Hermione tried to assure him, her mind racing.

Kreacher looked up suddenly, a hard look in his eyes telling her that he knew exactly what he was doing. "If Kreacher is still doing his job well, then maybe there is another problem? Young master used to love to eat. Kreacher knows. Kreacher remembers."

"I like eating just fine!" Ron said loudly, his fingers digging into the back of the sofa. "I stuff myself when I'm out, and I'm too tired when I get home. Sorry if I hurt your feelings, and I'll try to do eat in more. Can we drop it now?"

He and Kreacher had a silent war, neither one wanting to back down, but each one hindered from speaking; Ron, because Hermione knew too much already, and Kreacher, from having years of obedience ingrained until he could no longer defy those he viewed as his masters.

Kreacher shrugged, sullenly, and Ron relaxed, thinking he had won. "Very well. Kreacher will be going back for the rest of the bottles."

Hermione shot to her feet. "Are you saying there are more?"

Without bothering to wait for an answer, she bolted from the room, ignoring Ron's shout of protest. She pounded up the stairs, her footsteps thundering in time with her heart. She heard Ron behind her, but it didn't slow her down. She made it to his room with him hot on his heels, throwing open his door before he could stop her. The first thing that hit her was the smell. It wasn't bad, but it was stale; like there hadn't been any proper air circulation in a long while. The messiness was about usual for Ron, with a few items of clothing scattered around the floor, and a glass on the bedside table.

But none of that compared to the vials of Dreamless Sleep.

Sprinkled on nearly every surface, they glinted at her accusingly, taunting her, telling her she should have known. She felt as sick as Ron looked, and she staggered over to the bed to sit down. How could this be happening? Why hadn't he written to tell her that he was doing this badly? Is this the reason he hadn't been able to visit? Did anyone else know? Questions flew through her mind like disoriented birds, unable to find a clear direction. Ron stood in the doorway, watching her morosely.

"How often?" She finally asked, even though she already knew the answer. Too often.

"I...when I need it," he answered evasively.

"How often do you need it? Three nights a week? Every other night? Every night?"

He flinched at the note of hysteria in her voice. "Sometimes one dose isn't enough," he admitted grudgingly, unable to keep up the effort it took to lie.

Her eyes filled with tears, and a strangled whimper rattled at the back of her throat. "Ohmygod. Oh my god, Ron! We have to get you to St. Mungo's! Do you have any idea what kind of damage there could be? I'll need to owl your family-"

"NO!" He yelled, stepping forward as she made to stand up.

She sank back onto the mattress, unsure what to do. He obviously needed help, but he looked so upset right now that she couldn't clearly decide on the best course of action.

"I guess that means they don't know...Ron, why haven't you told them? Why haven't you told me?"

Ron dropped to the floor, resting his back against the mattress, next to her legs. "You? Hermione, you're the last person I'd tell," he choked out in a laugh.

She tried not to let that sting; there were more important things right now than her own feelings. "I don't understand. What-"

"You want to know? Fine," he said in a dull voice. "I can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see that damned wall falling on Fred, and Harry in Hagrid's arms. I see you lying on the floor at Malfoy Manor, and Dobby lying in a hole I helped dig. I hear the list of the dead, name after name fading in and out of the static of the radio. I hear every filthy thing that locket whispered to me, and I hear your voice begging me not to leave..."

Hermione slid down the bed, burrowing into his side, her arms going around him to squeeze tightly. "I'm sorry, Ron. I never...you always seemed to be handling everything so well," she tried to explain, but it sounded weak in her ears. What kind of person was she, to have missed this until now? True, she had been away, but still...

Ron pulled her closer, surprised. He hadn't known what to expect. Yelling, maybe. He wasn't sure anymore what was fact, and what was a product of the paranoia that gripped him most of the time.

"That was the point, wasn't it? I had to handle it. Everyone in my family was fucked up over Fred; Harry had that case of survivor's guilt he always gets, and didn't need me adding to it. You, well; you were still...you know. And the whole mess with your parents. And I had to make it up to all of you, for running out, in one way or another. This was the only thing I could do, see? All I could do was try to help where I could, and it's still not enough, not really." He gave a harsh laugh. "And now I've gone and ruined it. Fucked things up with us before it really got started. Can't blame you for leaving, now that you see what a weak, useless sod I really am."

Hermione had only thought she had felt sick before. It was nothing to how she felt now, listening to the self-loathing in his voice. It was so very, very Ron. Ever since they were eleven, he was always the one rushing to sacrifice himself for the good of those around him. It shouldn't surprise her that he was doing the same thing now, even though it was breaking him. He was a flame that was trying to bring warmth to too many people, and he was just about burned out. With everyone trying to deal with their own pain, it had probably been easy to slip his past; to fake a smile, and do whatever needed to be done. George had seemed to be the one in danger, the one loudest in his despair. They had all, herself included, been leaning on him, and had nearly crushed him under the weight. Now, it was Ron's turn to lean, and while he would need support from everyone, it would start with her.

"That is probably the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard you say," she said gently. "Do you think that after all we've been through, That I would leave you because you need the same kind of help as the rest of us? That I would somehow think less of you?"

He didn't know. The darkness screamed yes, that that was what she had to think, that it was what he deserved. The tattered shreds of reason he had been clinging to absorbed her words, and he found himself staring at her like a man that had been lost in the desert would upon coming across a pool of fresh water.

Hermione sat up a little, putting her hands on his shoulders, looking him in the eye seriously. "That isn't how this works, you know. We've come too far for that. I'm not sure exactly what to do right now, but...Ron, whatever we do, we do it together."

She watched as his mouth worked silently, the way he tried to fight back the tears that were standing in his eyes. She wasn't having that; he had been fighting too long. Carefully, but firmly, she pulled him down to her, drawing him into her embrace, resting her head on top of his. She felt his body tense, the muscles jumping and twitching under her hands. Then, with a sob against her skin, he relaxed, and she felt the tears fall as he shook. She knew that this didn't fix anything, not really. Ron was going to need medical help, and he was going to have to open up to his family and Harry, so they could give him the support he had been denying himself. And while they would be shaken and hurt, she knew that they would be there for Ron, as he had been for them. She also knew that Ron would get through this; it would take time, but she believed in him. Step by step, he would heal, and he would be able to stand on his own once again.

For now, she would gladly take the weight.

A.N. This was a very important piece for me to write. The subject matter is very near to my heart, and I didn't want to portray it casually. Depression, PTSD, and any other mental illness will not be solved just because someone loves you; they can help and support you, but not save you. I hope I made it very clear that Ron is not healed by her show of love, and that he still has a long journey ahead. It's something he has to do himself, but it's easier when you have others beside you to lend a hand. I have a multi-chapter fic coming up that deals with this more thoroughly, and isn't connected to this piece. Still, I wanted to give a small taste in this of what can be expected in the future.

Also, before Harry and the Weasleys are judged too harshly; when a group of people goes through something as devastating as a war and the loss of a family member, it can be very difficult to judge how severely another in the group is affected if they are purposely hiding it.