Written for the QLFC semi-finals.

"It never was..."

Ron frowned, staring down at his lap.

He clenched his fists together, keeping his gaze resolutely at the city below.

...

Ronald Bilius Weasley.

Family of nine.

21 years old.

A wizard.

These ― these were all facts. These were the grounding, the very base of what made him him. He knew these facts to be true to the very core of his being.

But everyone seemed determined to convince him otherwise.

Ron frowned heavily to himself, confused and irritated beyond measure. There had to be some reason, a good explanation for everything.

The war was still going on, he knew. And what were they doing instead of fighting Voldemort? Collecting Horcruxes?

Sitting and playing around in the Muggle world, that's what. Not only that, every time he mentioned magic, he would be given a look. The same happened when he was trying to use magic to accomplish some inane chore they assigned him.

It was like everyone he was close to had a discussion one day and hadn't thought to inform him.

It was, quite frankly, very frustrating.

But there was nothing he could do about it. Even Harry and Hermione were resolutely sticking to the plan, refusing to even mention or use magic. He'd play pretend for them, while practicing spells by himself, he decided.

Ron stood up, ready to go do just that. There was a park nearby where nobody really went anymore― their Muggle house was located at the outskirts of a city.

Just as he was about to slip out the door, his mum called. Ron suppressed a sigh at that.

"Ron, is that you? Come get breakfast before you head to uni!"

"Coming," he called back weakly.

Right, he had forgotten about that. In their bid to act more Muggle-like, he and Harry and Hermione were all attending school, while the older ones got jobs in the local area.

It was disturbingly thorough.

He quickly ate up, then went upstairs to grab his backpack to complete the look.

"Love you," Ron said to his mum, pressing a kiss to her cheek before heading off.

The moment he stepped outside, however, he went the opposite way to bus stop. Little did she know he had stowed away his wand away with him. Classes, especially Muggle ones, just weren't all that important in the long run.

He set his bag down in the sand box, plopping down next to it. Fishing through it, he grabbed the wand triumphantly.

Practice time.

...

"Why'd you skip?" Harry asked worriedly the moment he saw him.

Ron glanced up. Harry looked exhausted. Bags under his eyes, a tired slump to his back. His scar was probably acting up too. At his shoulder hovered Hermione, looking absolutely furious.

Ron pressed his lips together.

"You know I can't just sit here doing nothing. The war is still going on. I need to do something."

There it was again. The look.

"You'll get kicked out of university," Hermione spoke up, her voice tightly controlled. "You're not handing in assignments and failing all your tests. Honestly Ron, I just don't understand you."

He fought back a biting comment. How could she ― no, both of them ― be so callous?

"Just don't tell mum, yeah?"

Hermione looked as if she was about to explode. Harry just looked more tired.

"Yeah," he agreed after a moment.

Hermione made a noise of frustration. "Fine! But if this happens again, I'm going straight to Molly!"

Now that they were all together, Ron stashed his wand away again. He knew they wouldn't like it if he suggested they practiced their charm work or their spell work.

I just don't understand you, Hermione had said. Ron felt the same, all too clearly.

…

Ron slumped down onto his propped up hand, barely stifling a yawn. He dully watched the professor at the front of the room.

Boring.

How boring.

This was completely at utterly boring.

From beside him, Hermione kicked his shin and jerked her head in the direction of the voice. Harry stifled a laugh when he nearly slipped from his chair.

He grumbled, but grabbed a pen anyways.

...

On the fourteenth month of their farce, Pig appeared again.

Ron, slumped by the window, jolted off his desk chair when he saw the distant figure.

Scrambling up again, he fumbled for the window lock, throwing it open once it was done.

Pig hooted cheerfully and he swooped in and settled on the desk.

"Pig!" Ron exclaimed in delight. He scooped up the owl, hugging his feathered little body close to his chest. It was warm.

Fourteen months ago, they let Pig go. Ron assumed it was more with the pretending mentality, as Muggle folks didn't often have owls as pets. But somehow, miraculously, Pig had found them again. Surely his family wouldn't chase him away a second time?

Of course they wouldn't.

Ron ran downstairs and into the living room. He smiled in relief ― everyone was here.

"Look who came back!" he said, holding Pig out for them to see. Pig hooted cheerfully at them and ruffled his feathers.

Silence descended on the room. Ron faltered. He sent Ginny a confused look. He was sure she'd be the happiest of all of them to see Pig, but she was just staring and him pale faced and trembling.

His gaze swivelled to his parents.

White faced. Horrified.

He couldn't believe this. Ron exploded.

"Don't you guys think you're taking this farce too far? I get it, I really do! This is all for our protection so we don't all go looking for Horcruxes and getting ourselves killed! But I've had enough!"

Abruptly, his mum stood up.

"I can't take this anymore," she whispered.

"Finally," he muttered.

His dad stood up then too, holding a hand steady on her shoulder. His mum turned, leaning into him.

"Arthur, I can't take this anymore. Call a doctor. Please. Something's wrong with Ron."

Ron's heart dropped straight down to his stomach.

"Mum," he said, the words numb on his lips. His world was tunnelling in and he could only focus on one thing at a time. "What are you saying? I don't need a healer."

She burst into sobs and dread spread through his body.

His dad moved, then. He stepped closer to Ron, cautiously, gently, as if he was some wild animal about to flee. Ginny moved to comfort their mum, shooting him scared glances all the while.

"Ron," his dad said, and his gaze snapped back to him. "Your mother and I... are worried about you, okay? It'll just be a quick trip to ― to the healers and we'll be right back."

Ron, haltingly, nodded. He pretended he didn't hear the sigh of relief.

...

It wasn't quick trip at all.

They brought him to a Muggle doctor after all, which was frustrating on both ends.

The doctor asked all sorts of questions about how he was feeling, his behaviour, and everything in between. Ron answered as best he could, but even that took nearly half an hour.

Then, they sent his into the waiting room with instructions to 'behave yourself please'. He acquiesced only because his mum still looked teary.

But it was awfully boring here. Ron crept back to where they were, stopping beside the open door.

"―believes he has magic for god's sake. In the beginning, it was worse. He just kept getting angry and going on about this war and I don't know what to―"

Ron drew back as if burned. What did she mean "believes in magic"? There was magic. They were part of the Wizarding World. They were Purebloods. He knew it.

It was true. He was right, true. They were lying to him, trying to trick him.

Against his better judgement, he leaned in closer again. It was his dad's voice now.

"He tried to show us something today," he said.

Yes, Ron thought. Pig.

"But there was nothing in his hands."

There was a moments' pause. Ron froze, confused. The doctor's pen tapped down on his clipboard.

"Erratic behaviour."

Tap.

"Hallucinations."

Tap.

"Delusions."

Tap.

"21 years of age."

Tap.

Each beat sounded like a death sentence.

"Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, I believe your son has developed Schizophrenia."

No.

...

"Ron..." There was movement behind his door, and then a sigh. Something, a tray probably, was placed on the floor.

"Eat your medicine please. And some food too."

Ron curled up into himself and ignored her.

…

Ronald Bilius Weasley, he repeated to himself.

Family of nine.

21 years old.

A wizard.

No, not a wizard.

Yes, no. Yes. Yes.

No.

He was... in university. Yes. With Hermione and Harry.

He was not fighting a war. There was no Lord Voldemort.

Yes, yes, yes.

He mouthed them to himself next, and then spoke them aloud.

Not a wizard. Not a wizard. Not a wizard.

He sat up, miserable and tired and unhappy. Turning his head, he glanced at his desk. There, right at the corner of it, was his wand. It was lovingly placed, gleaming and familiar.

With trembling fingers, he reached for it and placed one hand on each end.

He was going to snap it.

But ―

Ron placed it down, lovingly, again. Maybe another day.

There was a knock on his bedroom door, brisk and confident. Not his mother then.

"Come in," he said, slowly. Everything was slow now. He couldn't think ― fast enough anymore.

It was a side effect of the medication, they said.

His train of thought was broken when Hermione came sweeping into his room. Harry trailed in after her.

She wrinkled his nose, whether at the state of his room or the fact that he was still in his pyjamas, he didn't know. Knowing her though, it was probably both.

She stepped closer and shoved a whole pile of notebooks into his hands. Ron grimaced simply at the weight of them.

"My notes," she said, a little too lightly. "You better study them."

"Yeah, yeah, I got it."

Harry shuffled something out of his bag, then, and Ron turned to him curious.

"Chess?"

They both watched him, waiting for his reaction. Ron sighed, a little fond and a little not.

"Sure," he agreed.

They smiled at him.

...

"It never was true," Ron kicked his legs a bit, leaning his head on the railing of the balcony.

"Ron..." Harry stilled for a moment, then glanced at him, worried.

"You know, that medicine isn't perfect. Sometimes, I forget. Sometimes I reach for my wand, because I was special in that place. I had magic and one hell of a best friend and exciting adventures. I still have to tell myself what's real and what's not."

"Is that okay?" Harry asked, quiet.

"No," Ron said truthfully. "But it's fine. I'll be fine."

If he told himself that enough times, maybe he'd eventually believe it.