The beginning
He can’t find anyone he knows.
It’s a mass crowd stampede, people rushing around and tumbling over each other in a mad frenzy to escape.
He tried to keep up with Hermione to make it to the portkey, but he found himself being pushed further and further away, shoulders bumping against every wizard and witch imaginable.
It isn’t until he is thrown back-first into a tree till he finally pauses, however unwillingly. His head cracks against the bark, body sliding down as he sits in shock.
Unable to get up, he stays there and tries to regain the breath that’s been knocked out of him. With cries all around him and worry gnawing at his chest, he blacks out, the duration unknown.
It must’ve been a quite a while, for his spot nearly cleared out, only one person remaining in within sight.
He comes to foggily, sky darker and air calmer.
The screaming is gone, no one in sight except for a figure a small distance from him.
He tries to get up, mistakenly cracking a twig.
Their head whips towards the sound, immediately hobbling over. An eerie feeling overtakes Ron, the smokey night air not helping his dysregulated breathing.
It’s a blonde, middle aged lady dressed in muggle clothing. He can see she’s panic-stricken by her face, but it’s for all the wrong reasons. An uneasiness hangs in the air, a nagging feeling of a puzzle piece in the wrong puzzle.
“You- you have to help me, please.”
Her hands wave around frantically, seemingly in a delirious state of mind. Every part of her body language screamed “unnatural”, wild and unfocused eyes darting all around. They never quite meet his.
Something doesn’t feel right.
Making no sound but following his pure animalistic instincts, he uses what little umph he has to crawl away, hands bleeding from thorns and pants shredding.
She comes closer, crouching, tone becoming more hysterical and indecipherable. A blade of a knife, but Ron isn’t sure if she’d be the cutting edge, the tip, or the spine. Even so, every part of a blade can do damage.
“Please, please!”
Ron instinctively closes his eyes as something black darts at him. At this proximity, a weapon would never miss its target. But nothing comes.
He reluctantly opens his eyes back up, not comprehending the scene in front of him. She lays there, unmoving, a heap on the ground.
“What…”
Regaining his sense, he stands too quickly, head going light and vision going black, swaying on his feet.
With a heart palpitation, he relies on pure adrenaline to run away, not once glimpsing back.
He would like to say that he found Hermione, but Hermione found him.
“Ron! I couldn’t find you… Harry hasn’t come with the rest, we need to find him!”
A pit of nausea forms in his stomach. Of course Harry would go missing in a moment like this.
“Yeah… yeah let’s go look.”
Him and Hermione run straight back to where the tent was located, aware of the threat of roaming hostiles, but calling out for Harry all the same.
His mop of hair is the first thing he spots, Hermione and him both making it to his side. Harry really should invest in some hair gel or something.
All he can utter up is a simple “Harry…”, mind in a fog, world around him blurring in and out of focus.
Hermione and Harry are talking. He follows their eyes to the glowing green skull in the air above them. It’s etched a sickly green, quite unlike anything he’s ever seen before.
All of a sudden Hermione yanks him down as magic flies overhead. He barely registers it.
Ron’s ears are too busy ringing to acknowledge the auror holding them at wandpoint. His friends are clinging on to him, father following soon after.
His father hugs him, but he is barely able to note this, his head a cesspit of nothing.
He stares off into the distance, eyes fixated on the Dark Mark above. A chill runs up his spine.
If only he knew, this was just the beginning.
—
The whistles sound, train nearing Hogwarts.
“Harry! Owls cannot eat that!”
“But Hermione, she’s a magical owl. Who knows what magical owls can eat? Besides, she clearly wants it.”
Ron can hear the trolley lady approaching.
Harry’s head perks up, discontinuing their conversation. His breath catches at the sight of a pretty girl ordering sweets. Drawn, he leans on the door arch, straining his neck to peek out.
Ron scrounges up what little money he has in his pocket, planning to ask for the cheapest item she has in stock. He only has enough for the droobles.
Taking his eyes off the pretty lady, Harry tries to vouch for him, interrupting where he isn’t needed. “Hey, I’ll take a couple of licorice wands.”
The sight makes him wince. Ron doesn’t need his pity.
“Just the droobles please.” Ron cut Harry off from his next sentence, throwing him a side eye.
Harry holds his hands up in surrender, eyes drifting towards Cho leaving. Ron notices.
He feels a sickening feeling wash through his abdomen, a ball at the back of his throat. Harry could get any girl he wanted, couldn’t he?
Ron scoffs and looks back at the trolley lady, handing her the pitiful amount of savings he made this summer. He hates being poor. He wished he could afford a basic licorice wand, he’s just been so hungry lately.
He feels an out-of-body experience, almost as though he’s watching what happens next.
Ron wretches forward, shoving an unholy amount of unwrapped candy in his mouth, devouring and choking in the process.
The trolley lady puts her hand to her chest and takes a step back as Ron gags. She’s holding a piece of candy pie.
Ron rips that from her frail grasp and shoves it into his mouth.
“Oh my goodness…”
Snapping back, he freezes, staring back up at the trolley lady.
What the hell…?!
He spits what food he didn’t eat out and backs up, eyes wide and flicking between the old lady and Harry. No one moves for a couple moments.
Harry, baffled, slowly reaches for his pocket like Ron is a wild animal about to detach his arm if he moves too quickly. “I uh, I’ll pay for that.”
The trolley lady can’t help but stammer. “No dear… if… if a student is that hungry, I couldn’t fathom charging them money…”
She stares at Ron. He feels that ugly flush heat his cheeks. She politely hands him a couple more before speed-walking away.
Going back in the compartment, both Harry and Hermione stare at him, mouths open but no words coming out.
“Sorry… I was hungry.”
Ron slouches down in his chair and doesn’t say a word more until they’re sitting down for dinner later that night in the Great Hall.
And unsurprisingly, his breaker is a question about food.
“Hey, you going to eat that?”
His question was aimed at Neville, but Ron doesn’t even give him a chance to answer. As if propelled by force, he is unable to help himself, no self restraint.
He grabs a handful of Neville’s mashed potatoes and takes it by the fistful to the mouth. Neville jerks back, gaping. He starts to pick up whatever he finds laying on the table, not caring if it’s already on another students plate or not.
“Ron! Ron what are you doing?!” Hermione stands with her hands fluttering, face of uncertainty and confusion, wanting to stop him but not fathoming the scene in front of her.
Pastries, entire chunks of roast meat, pumpkin juice, he takes it all.
“Ron, no, no! Mine!” He plays tug-o-war with his sisters bowl of soup, taking it and chugging like a muggle at a frat party, leaving nothing to spare. His shirt is soaked, yellow broth-riddled with food crumbs.
All eyes are on him. He can’t stop. Why would he stop when he’s so hungry and there’s so much food?
He continues walking up the aisle, ignoring stuttered protests. Making it to the Professors table where the good food is, he takes a lamb chop directly off of Dumbledore’s plate, following after with his shepherd pie.
McGonagall is up on her feet instantly.
“Mr. Weasley- Why I never!-“
But all Albus Dumbledore does is twinkle his eyes down at Ron, amused. He raises a hand to halt Minerva’s oncoming verbal attack.
“It’s healthy for young men to have big appetites.”
Ron stands there hunched over his Headmasters dinner, mouthful of mushed food hanging out. His eyes are wide and pupils dialed, a textbook definition of a hophead.
He can briefly hear Hermione’s horrified “Ron!”
He darts out of the Hall, Hermione and Harry calling after him.
He just has to get away.
He’s mumbling to himself, deliriously slurring his words.
“A,b,c,c, uh, d, e, f, g?”
Trying to keep his wits, he sings the muggle version of the alphabet. His mother once said that the best way to stabilize is to do something familiar and repetitive. Students passing by him shoot concerned looks, staying very far out of his way.
He makes it to the boys bathroom and turns on the sink water, shoving his head under the faucet, so thirsty. Why is he so thirsty?
He looks at himself in the mirror and licks a long line up his arm, tasting the salt from his sweat.
Bloody hell, it’s not enough.
His eyes dart through the bathroom, spotting the open water. He slams open a stall door and throws himself onto the floor.
No different in appearance to that of a dog, he gulps the toilet water until his vision goes blurry. Something, maybe an act of accidental magical (at his age? how embarrassing) launches him upward. Unfortunately, he is neck deep in the toilet. His head is stuck in the seat.
This is how Ron passes out, untouched till morning.