Heavy Shadows

The Burrow had always been a place of comfort, a place of warmth. There was the familiar hum of Mrs. Weasley’s cooking, the occasional crash of Fred and George’s latest experiment, and the unmistakable feeling of home. But lately, the walls of the Burrow felt different—closer, tighter—like a suffocating pressure was pressing down from every direction. Ron Weasley didn’t know how to explain it, but he could feel it in his chest, a weight that wasn’t there before. It was the same feeling he'd had when he wore that cursed necklace, the one that had nearly driven him mad with jealousy, anger, and confusion. But this time, it was worse. There was no locket, and it wasn’t just the sense of suffocating dread. It was the overwhelming, gnawing sense of emptiness.

He sat at the kitchen table, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup absently as he stared out the window, watching the rain fall in thick sheets against the glass. He should be happy. He should be grateful for the safety of the Burrow, for the friends and family gathered around him, for the fact that the war was over, and Voldemort was gone. But instead, all he could think about was how tired he was—how utterly exhausted he felt. Not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. It was as if he were carrying some invisible burden, something that was slowly eating away at him from the inside.

The feeling had started when they returned to the Burrow after the final battle. Everyone had been so quick to move forward, to pretend like everything was fine. But for Ron, it wasn’t fine. Nothing felt fine. Not the way Harry seemed to move on effortlessly, nor the way Hermione seemed to always know what to say. It wasn’t their fault. He knew that. But it didn’t make the feeling go away. It didn’t make him feel any less broken.

The worst part of it all was how isolating it felt. No one seemed to notice. They didn’t see the way his stomach churned every time he walked into a room or the way his hands shook slightly when he reached for something. No one noticed that he hadn’t been able to look at himself in the mirror without feeling disgusted. It was like he didn’t even recognize the person he saw anymore.

The thoughts were getting louder now. Those damn thoughts. The ones that told him he wasn’t good enough, that he would never be as strong or capable as Harry, or as brilliant as Hermione. The ones that reminded him of the things he’d failed at—the times he had let his insecurities get the better of him. He could still feel it— the swooping disappointment just like the anger that had surged through him when he had seen Harry and Hermione together.

Ron’s fingers gripped the edge of the table, the knuckles turning white as he tried to focus on the present, on the sound of his mother bustling around the kitchen. But it wasn’t working. His mind was spinning in circles, drowning in thoughts that wouldn’t go away. It was the same suffocating sensation he had felt back then—when he had worn the cursed locket, when the dark magic had whispered to him, making him doubt everything he knew and loved. He had thought the locket was the cause of everything, that if he could just get rid of it, the feeling would go away. But now, there was no locket. No dark magic. Just… him.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He had survived the war. He had survived the battle. He was supposed to feel relief, to feel free. But he didn’t. He felt like he was being crushed under the weight of his own mind, and the more he tried to fight it, the worse it got.

“Ron?” His mother’s voice broke through the fog in his mind. He looked up, startled, and found her standing in front of him, concern etched across her face.

“What’s wrong, dear?” she asked gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve been awfully quiet. Is something bothering you?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but the words didn’t come. He didn’t know how to explain this. How could he explain it? How could he tell her that the weight on his chest wasn’t something he could just shake off, that the feelings he had were consuming him from the inside out? That it wasn’t just a passing phase, like she probably thought it was?

“I’m fine, Mum,” he said at last, his voice rougher than he intended. “Just… tired.”

His mother’s eyes softened, but she didn’t press him further. “Alright, dear. But if you need to talk, you know you can always come to me.”

He nodded, grateful for her concern but also unable to meet her gaze. It was easier to lie, to keep it all inside. The truth was too much to bear.

The rest of the day passed in a blur, with Ron going through the motions, but never truly present. He felt like a ghost, moving through the house but never quite a part of it. Every conversation seemed distant, every laugh hollow. He kept telling himself that he just needed a little time, that it would pass. But deep down, he knew something wasn’t right. He knew that this wasn’t something he could just wish away.

That night, as he lay in bed, the shadows in the room felt darker than ever. He stared up at the ceiling, his mind racing. The exhaustion, the anxiety, the crushing weight of everything he hadn’t dealt with—it was all too much. And then, in the quiet stillness, something inside him snapped. He reached for the bedside table and grabbed his wand, his fingers trembling as he held it tightly in his hand. He didn’t know what he was doing. He didn’t know what he expected, but something had to change.

The silence in the room grew louder as he lay there, waiting for something—anything—to break the tension. But it didn’t come. Instead, he felt the familiar sting of tears pricking at his eyes. Tears he didn’t want to shed. Tears he didn’t deserve to shed. But they came anyway, spilling over, as he allowed himself to feel the weight of it all. The loss. The fear. The failure.

And just like that, he was back to where he had been before—the same darkness closing in, the same suffocating feeling wrapping around him like a cold, unyielding blanket.

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