Feart

Feart

Disclaimer: Fit a stramash!

Translation: Scots Doric – What a disturbance/state of confusion/mess.

A/N: This chapter covers issues of depression/self harm/attempted suicide/suicide. If you, or anyone you know, suffer from depression, please seek support from friends, family or appropriate health professionals.

As the discussion about what had happened to the real Sword of Gryffindor surged back and forth, Ron stared at the underside of the top bunk, listening to the increasing whine of the wind outside. It was clear they didn't care what had happened to his little sister and didn't need his input. What could a half-starved, maimed Weasley add to the conversation between the illustrious Harry Potter and his beloved, bushy-haired...?

And where had she been the other day when she came back smelling so good? She never did tell him who the other man was. He was pretty sure she'd told Harry... Special, wonderful, our chosen saviour, Harry bloody...

"What d'you reckon, Ron?"

"Ron?"

Oh, now they remembered him. Well, it was too bloody late. He'd tell them just what he thought of them, the two-faced, conniving, uncaring bastards. Ron let his misery and spite pour forth in malicious waves, his shouting nearly drowned out by the rising storm outside.

And Hermione? He crumpled inside when she took Harry's side, protecting the specky geek from Ron's angry advance. Bugger them! He was leaving, going home. After wrenching the tormenting Horcrux from his neck and throwing it onto a chair, he tried one last time to persuade Hermione to come with him, but she chose Harry fucking Potter.

Hugging his arms tight around his breaking heart, Ron shoved his way out of the tent. The rain battered down on his uncovered skull, drumming in the message of his despair. With head down and hands tucked firmly into his armpits, holding his swirling emotions in to his sob-wracked chest, Ron rushed out into the darkness of the storm.

He thought he heard Hermione's plaintive voice calling him back, but deep in his heart he knew she was only playing with him, making fun of the blubbering wreck he had become. With arms still crossed protectively across his chest, he broke into a stumbling run, lengthening his stride to distance himself from the pursuing persecution.

Branches slapped Ron's face, and brambles tore his jeans as he hurtled through the forest. The faster he ran, the harder he wept. Tears ran unhindered down his face, mingling in salty streams with the pouring rain.

Suddenly, his foot slipped on a wet tree root, and he fell headlong unable to protect his fall with his arms still folded across his chest.

Twisting and striking his head hard on the ground, his last thoughts were of home. Mum, help.

~*~

Hermione's breath dragged in and out of burning lungs in irregular, ragged gasps. Resting one hand on her ribs and the other on her knee, she leaned forwards trying to still the hammering of her heart and heaving chest. Her vision shimmered and danced as her eyes scanned the forest floor for any sign of Ron. His long legs had carried him faster than she had been able to run in her attempt to keep up with him, and now, energy depleted, she could only see the final skid marks his trainers had scored into the damp earth and a small patch of blood on an exposed tree root. The boy himself was nowhere to be seen.

Calling his name, her voice was weak and rough from running. She shouted for him again, louder, her pleas ending in a strained cough. As she had expected, there was no reply, only the constant patter of rain on leaves and the fluff and twitter of small birds above her head. It was clear Ron was gone, and Hermione's heart lurched with a spike of anxiety for her missing friend. She couldn't think where to start looking for him and had no energy left to begin the search.

Slumping against a tree, she lifted a hand with the intention of soothing the exercise induced light-headedness from her temples. The sight of her trembling, bramble-bloodied hand brought tears to her eyes, and she pressed dirt-encrusted fingers to her lids to stem the flow of unhappiness. With her other hand, she rummaged in her pocket for a hanky, finally pulling out the one Lupin had lent her and dabbing the dampness from her eyes before blowing her nose hard and taking a deep, steadying breath.

Hermione tried to formulate a plan of action as she pushed off from the tree, running shaky fingers through snarled-up, sweaty hair. Her feet dragged with reluctance as she trudged back towards the tent. She knew she had accompanied the boys to help with the search for Horcruxes, but her intellect told her there was little point when they had made no progress. Not only that, they had become seriously malnourished and not fit enough to fight a cold, let alone Voldemort.

And now her conscience was screaming at her, tearing her apart. How could she have neglected Ron's welfare so badly he chose to leave? What had she been thinking when she sided with Harry?

But at the back of her mind was a small, thankful thought; now she only had to divide their meagre rations two ways instead of three.

Hermione's face was grim and tear streaked by the time she eased through the tent flap and told Harry the news of Ron's disappearance.

~*~

"Mum! Mum!"

Ron's head ached as he tried to open his eyes. "Mum?" he murmured.

Rough hands lifted him into strong arms. "Mum!" the voice shouted again, rumbling through Ron's head clasped against a broad, familiar-smelling chest.

He sensed jostling bodies, running feet and more raised voices.

"Vite, vite! Molly! Viens ici."

Soft, baking-scented hands on his cheeks smoothed his tears away.

"Where have you been? You scared the living daylights out of your Dad and me, disappearing like that. Look at the state you're in, Ronald Bilius." Anxious hands plucked at Ron's filthy clothes. "If you carry him upstairs, Bill, I'll get him something to eat, then Fleur and I can get him cleaned up."

"Sorry," Ron whispered.

"You'll be fine, sweetheart," Molly Weasley replied, patting his cheek. "We'll take care of you."

~*~

Ron lay on the bed curled in a foetal position, staring with unseeing eyes out of the window. As Molly Weasley watched him through the part-open bedroom door, she felt concern for her youngest son. It had been several days since his sudden return, and she had lavished him with love and food since he had appeared, wounded and unkempt, in the garden. She had cooked nourishing meals, only for them to be returned to the kitchen untouched or merely toyed with.

Casting a mother's appraising eye over the boy, she could see how skinny he had become. His pyjamas hung off his almost skeletal limbs, and his hip bones jutted. Ron's hair remained dull and lank, despite Fleur's ministrations. His whole being lay inactive, apart from one foot which jiggled up and down in a never-ending, anxious dance.

He had been lying in bed day after day since his arrival, but she knew he wasn't sleeping well. At night she could hear him shuffling to and fro in his room, sometimes talking to himself under his breath.

The family tried keeping him company during the daytime, but he rarely talked to any of them, and his brothers got fed up with his lack of responsiveness. When spoken to, Ron's replies were flat and monosyllabic or an irritable, "I'm fine. Leave me alone." The vacant dullness of his eyes betrayed the fact all was not well with him.

What concerned Molly most was the loss of his normal spark. Her children were invariably so full of energy, even when times were tough, and she had always managed to pull the family through with plenty of hugs and good home cooking, but she could feel her touch slipping with her little boy.

Just as she was about to turn away from the door and head back to the kitchen, she noticed Ron rise from the bed and take a seat at a small table in front of the window. Pulling some parchment towards himself, he started to write.

Molly poked her head around the door. "It's nice to see you up out of bed, Ron."

The young man looked a little startled and half covered the parchment with a hand.

"What are you up to?" she asked.

"Nothing, Mum. I think I'll come down for dinner tonight after I've finished this. Is that okay?"

Molly's smile was infused with relief. "Absolutely. I'll cook your favourite."

"You're the best, Mum. Love you."

~*~

Molly was relieved. The previous evening Ron had sat at the dinner table with the family; he had eaten well and had even smiled and cracked a few feeble jokes with his brothers. He was still pale and skinny, but she was sure he would start to perk up now he was up and about and eating. When he'd left the house earlier, he'd looked almost happy.

Gathering ingredients from the kitchen cupboard, Molly hummed as she planned an enticing meal.

Cooking for the family eased her anxieties about what was happening outside her home; it cleared her head of clutter and allowed her to enjoy the simple things in life. She sniffed each of the spices before she added them to her mixture, savouring their individual aromas before they merged with the others. Cinnamon and nutmeg, just perfect for this cold weather, she thought.

When the Floo flared green in the corner of the room, Molly called out, "Can someone else get that, please? I'm busy cooking."

No-one answered, and when the fire flared again, she growled with annoyance. "Am I the only one in this house who can answer the Floo?"

Wiping her hands on her apron, she grumbled as she knelt by the fireplace. "Hold your horses, I'm coming...ˮ

"Molly!" Minerva McGonagall's worried features glowed green in the flames. "You've got to go now. It's Ron! He sent a message to one of the girls at school. He said he's so depressed, he's going to kill himself. Go now!"

"Sorry? Ron?" Molly's brain could not catch up with the information, but her instincts were telling her to get moving. "Where?"

"Arthur's Muggle shed. Quick, Molly. Go now! I've called St Mungo's. Please hurry."

The plump woman was on her feet and running for the door before the Floo connection had closed. Almost knocking a bemused Fleur off her feet as she hurried out of the house, all she could say was, "Tell Arthur. It's Ron."

~*~

Molly's apron flapped, and her slipper-clad feet slapped the ground as she ran as fast as her short legs could carry her.

"Oh, my god, oh, my god, no, no, no," she whimpered as she flew along the rough path leading to Arthur's shed. She hesitated for a moment at the large double doors, not wanting to open them, scared of what she might see inside. Instead, she ran round the side of the building, kicking her slippers off as she went, allowing her to move unimpeded. Pushing open the small side door, she rushed in to the quiet, gloomy interior.

"Ron?"

Her eyes strained to adjust to the dim light, unable to see her son.

"Ron?"

A slight swaying movement caught her eye. Rope wrapped over and over a high beam dropped downwards, and at the end of it...

"Ron! Oh my god! No!"

Wearing only his underwear, lank hair flopping over half-closed eyes and head drooping forward, there was Ron with his hands tied in front of him and the noose tight around his thin neck. Long, pale toes twitched in the low light where they grasped the rungs of the stepladder.

"I'm coming, Ron. Stay there!"

He didn't even look at her as he moved to step back off the ladder.

"Don't you dare, Ronald Bilius!"

Molly flung herself over the clutter-strewn floor, hastily climbing onto the bottom rung of the ladder and circling her son's thin body with her arms. A sharp elbow in her face nearly knocked her backwards.

"Don't touch me!" he screamed. "Let go! Don't stop me! Let me go!" Ron struggled fiercely, trying to dislodge his mother's grip from the edges of the ladder.

"No, Ron. Don't do this. You don't have to do this. Come down, and I can help you."

"Let me die! You can't help me. I'm not worth it." Ron's foot slipped off the step, tightening the rope in a livid line around his neck.

His mother's arms tensed automatically, and she stepped up closer behind him, holding him firmly against the ladder.

Ron struggled again, but with less vigour. "Muuum!" he wailed.

"Hush. I'm here, love. I'm here, right behind you. Let me help you."

Molly stretched an arm up in an attempt to loosen the rope, but could not reach beyond her tall son. It was clear she was too short to untie him and couldn't let go long enough to send her Patronus for help. Ron pushed back once more, nearly unbalancing her, and the ladder rocked a little with the movement. Realising if the stepladder tipped, they would both fall, and Ron could die, Mrs Weasley grabbed the rungs on either side of her boy and held on for dear life.

"Ron," she whispered, resting her cheek against the bony ribs and soft skin of her son's back. "I love you. Just hang in there, sweetheart." She felt the tension in his body diminish slightly.

"Lame, Mum."

She felt the rumble of his speech against her tear-streaked cheek. "Hmm?"

"Telling me to 'hang in there' when I've got a rope around my neck. It's just lame."

A hysterical giggle erupted from Molly's anxiety-tightened chest. "Why don't you undo the rope and come down for me, Ron?"

"I can't, Mum. Look at me. I can't live like this. I disgust myself." Leaning his elbows on the upper rungs and sagging forwards, he cradled his head in his tied hands. "Leave me. Let me do this alone. I don't want to live."

"I'm not leaving you," Molly replied firmly, kissing the cool skin of her son's back and giving him a reassuring squeeze. She looked at the rope stretching pink and blue up into the rafters and blinked back her tears. "Bloody Muggle climbing rope," she muttered, "I never did understand why Arthur wanted to keep it."

The sudden crack of multiple Apparitions outside the shed caused reflexive stiffening in Ron's limbs.

"No," he whispered. "Ward the door, don't let them in."

"Hello?" a voice called from outside, and the large shed door rattled as unseen hands tried to open it. "Anyone there?"

"They're coming for me. Don't let them take me away, Mum." Agitated, Ron tried to step off the ladder, but was held firm by Molly's embrace.

"Hush, sweetheart. It's okay. I've got you."

Turning in her arms, Ron glared down at his mother. "They can't see me like this. Look at me. I'm disgusting. I'm nothing. Let me go!" He pushed hard with his bound hands, dislodging his mother's grip and lunged forwards.

At that moment, firm hands clasped his shoulders, pulling him upright, and another hand appeared above his head wielding a sharp knife.

"Nooo!" Ron roared his despair.

"Healers here," a soothing voice said as the blade sliced through the rope. "Come on down."

Molly stepped back and let the Healers lead a trembling Ron to a seat on an old tool chest. She watched as he crumpled in on himself. Legs curling up, head falling forwards and arms hugging his chest, her little boy started to cry. Huge, heaving sobs wracked his whole body, sucking in between his prominent ribs with each indrawn breath.

While the Healers eased the ropes from around his neck and wrists, Molly laid a motherly hand on her son's knobbly, freckled shoulder.

Violently, his body twisted away from her. "Fuck off! Don't touch me."

"Ron?"

"It's all right, Mrs Weasley; we'll take it from here. He'll need a physical check at St Mungo's and proper assessment."

As the Healers gently guided him towards the door, Ron lifted a desolate face towards his mother and asked, "Why did you stop me?"

A/N: My thanks to my Moravian friend for her witty insights and frank discussion of depression. I will always take her advice and never run in the woods with my arms crossed.

Thanks, sunny33, for being there when you were needed.

Translation:

Feart – Scots – scared