Shadows, a harry potter fanfic

A/N: Yet another angsty oneshot. My first HP fic, and the first time I've ever really looked at George and Ron's characters in depth. I hope I did them justice - they may be a little OOC, but after all, it's difficult to perfectly reproduce the genius of J.K.R's characters.

Dedicated (wow, I'm actually dedicating something?) to my Hobbits, especially Frodo, my Harry Potter and fanfic twin. Enjoy the angst-overload.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling. I own nothing.

Shadows

For Fred, the Skiving Snackboxes were a joke, a game, a chance to proclaim the twins' genius to the world while also advertising their lack of responsibility and common sense. To him, it was well worth the punishment and humiliation to see gits like Malfoy run screaming out of the classroom, blood rushing out their nostrils.

George didn't think quite so lightly of their inventions.

At first, he'd shared Fred's thoughts exactly – the Snackboxes were moneymakers and hilarious pranks to boot. And at first, he'd thought nothing of testing his own products, stopping the worst nosebleeds with a flick of his wand.

The Puking Pastilles changed everything.

In the magic world, there were thousands of ways to cause pain. Harry Potter knew most of them; Lord Voldemort knew more.

Ron Weasley knew the most.

Harry complained often of his burning scar, the curses he'd had to dodge, the Bludger that had nearly cracked his leg last match. That was real pain, everyone said, and they dropped their wands and quills and rushed to help Harry, to raise him on their shoulders for no other reason than simply being the Boy Who Lived. It was during times like these that Ron would stand off in the corner of the common room, picking at the loose threads on his secondhand robes and wishing with all his heart he could be Harry Potter for just one day.

Harry didn't know real pain.

The Weasleys were known for their red hair and freckles, but those were really the only traits they all shared, appearance-wise. Molly was short and dumpy, as Malfoy often reminded them, and Ginny was small (that was the best word to describe her, George thought. Small and fierce.) Arthur was tall and thin like Percy and Bill, but none were as lanky as Ron, whose twiglike 188-centimeter frame towered above the rest. George, Fred, and Charlie were shorter – though Charlie was the shortest – and stockier, which Fred always joked was the result of too many of their mum's famous blueberry muffins. Charlie would laugh at this, pause a moment, and then reach across the table again, tossing second helpings to the twins and grabbing a third for himself.

Looking back, George had nearly forgotten about those blueberry muffins. Fred was right, though – they definitely had something to do with it.

Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can't see where it keeps its brain.

Ron wasn't sure that scribbled margin notes counted as thinking, but they still didn't know who the brain – the Half-Blood Prince – was, and so that counted as breaking a rule, didn't it?

Then again, he wasn't trusting the book, per say. Harry had tried the spell first, after all, and so Ron had already seen the consequences. He did tweak it a bit – just a bit, though, to lessen the wounds and bleeding – but still, it wasn't like he didn't know what he was doing.

On the contrary, he had complete control.

The day Fred invented the Puking Pastilles would be forever ingrained in George's mind as the day his life changed completely, but at the same time remained exactly the same.

"Hassle-free vomit," Fred had said by way of introduction. "Imagine, no illness, no gagging. Right in the middle of class – free ticket to the hospital wing, or, for the more rebellious student, the common room or even Hogsmeade. Imagine…"

By the next day, the twins had created the perfect little pill. Since Fred had tested the last one, it was George's turn, and he bit off half the Pastille warily. Within seconds the redhead was kneeling on the ground, retching all over the sidewalk, his arms clenched around his stomach as it forced everything out. Fred laughed at first, a hooray-we-did-it laugh, and as George heaved again he gasped and dropped to his knees, wrenching the half-eaten pill from his twin's grasp and shoving it in the other's mouth.

The whole ordeal lasted only a few minutes, and Fred shrugged it off, giving George a lighthearted slap on the back and whistling off to create more mischief. George sat there on the sidewalk, surrounded by his own vomit, and smiled.

He was empty, void, bare, and it felt good.

Ron knew the spell – he'd practiced it over and over in his head, careful not to even glance at his wand. He was just waiting for the right time.

He didn't have to wait long, either. After one particularly difficult Transfiguration lesson, in which Hermione succeeded in dyeing a dove yellow-green and Harry managed to turn Neville's toad into an ostrich (which he claimed was pure luck), Ron retreated to the dormitory alone, hot tears burning at the corners of his eyes, one of which had inexplicably turned bright pink during his failed attempt to Transfigure a chair into a coat hanger. Harry and Hermione had set off for lunch; it was a beautiful day out, and Ron knew he'd be in trouble if he was caught up here.

Confident no one else was skipping the meal, Ron allowed himself to cry, slowly, softly at first, then faster, hotter, louder, until the pillow could barely muffle his sobs. Above his bed, the Chudley Cannons raced in and out of the poster, grinning as they snapped the Quaffle back and forth, and suddenly Ron couldn't take it anymore.

It was time.

George convinced Fred to work on the Pastilles again the next day, even though they usually didn't spend that much time on their inventions. Fred twirled his wand; three seconds and two silver sparks later, it was ready.

Fred offered to test this one – after all, George must've puked out everything he had in him the day before. George shook his head – no, he'd had breakfast (a bagel, six pieces of bacon, and two heaping bowls of porridge), so he'd be alright. Fred shrugged and tossed him the pill.

The feeling was exhilarating, a rush George didn't get from anything but Quidditch, and even that (since as a Beater he didn't zoom around too much) was nothing compared to this.

Fred called out, and George suddenly remembered the other half of the pill. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he popped it into his mouth, and just like that, it was over again.

But something else was beginning.

The book was right where he knew it would be, buried deep inside Harry's trunk for safekeeping. Ron didn't really need to see the incantation again, but he looked it up anyway, flipping to the page easily and scanning the cramped handwriting one more time.

In one simple, fluent movement, he pulled out his wand and pointed it at his arm.

"Sectumsempra."

The pain came first, the white-hot pain. It seared through his body, an electrocution, and for a second all Ron could think about was his father. Then, just as quickly as they'd left, the thoughts of Harry, perfect Harry, flooded his brain again, seeping through his head like the blood that was flowing freely from the wound on his wrist.

The countercurse was located within the textbook, Ron knew, because he'd examined every last word scrawled between the lines. Harry hadn't even found it – Ron'd beaten him at that – but it was there.

He muttered under his breath. The blood vanished, leaving the pain and the scar behind. A scar.

Months later, Ron still couldn't figure out how he'd been able to deal with the pain so well that first time. It didn't occur to him that perhaps he was already numb.

After the third test, in which George nearly "forgot" to take the second half of the pill, Fred grabbed his twin's wrist.

"Aren't we done testing?"

George shook his head, muttering that they had to be absolutely sure it worked. After all, it could be dangerous in the hands of an irresponsible child.

Fred sighed, spinning his wand in between his fingers. "Then I'll test it out tomorrow. You're running out of vomit, mate." He laughed and flipped his hair back, his eyes twinkling with bright enthusiasm, but George said nothing.

There had to be a way to get those Puking Pastilles.

Over the next few weeks, it became routine, as had so many other aspects of Ron's life. Harry won a Quidditch match, Harry wrote a perfect paper, Harry showed up in the Prophet yet again, and Ron slipped away unnoticed, rummaging through his best friend's trunk for the tattered textbook, skimming the pages for the spell that was ingrained in his soul. Perhaps it would've been easier to forget the book – the page was spotted with tiny dots of blood – but he felt a sense of security in the ritual, and so Ron took the risk. Luckily, Harry hadn't turned to that page lately, and even if he had, the red was practically unnoticeable.

Ron had never thought too much about the dress code before, but now he was thankful for it. His old robes, though they barely reached his ankles, stretched all the way to his knuckles, sufficiently covering up the beautiful scars that lined his arm. One, Ron thought, looked almost like a lightning bolt. He traced the jagged mark with his fingertip, being careful to brush his skin lightly. The scars always hurt bloody hell afterward, but it was worth it to hold the wand in his fingertips, whispering the incantation as if it were the sole most important word in the world.

And in a way, it was.

"A whole batch?" Fred scratched his head. "Why?"

"Why not? We should be prepared. These'll sell in seconds," George tried, holding his breath. Fred thought this over for a minute, then nodded.

"Smart."

It was an offhand comment, but nevertheless rare. George wasn't the smart one; Fred was. He smiled to himself, relishing the compliment and hoping, praying for another one.

Fred just shrugged as usual, turning to go whip up two dozen Puking Pastilles. George spun around, a childish celebration, and stumbled, nearly falling off the curb. Dizzy, he steadied himself and followed his twin, images of little pills dancing across his thoughts.

Ron stayed up much later than the other boys; he was tired beyond belief, but he couldn't sleep. His sleep schedule was completely out of whack, as dizziness from loss of blood made it difficult to stay awake in class. As a result, he was tired all the time, and, he guessed, probably much crankier than usual, but he didn't really care.

He looked over at the four-poster next to him. Harry's face rested peacefully against the pillow, his black hair falling softly over his bare closed eyes, his arm drooped carelessly over the side of the bed, and suddenly Ron's fingers itched for his wand. Before he knew what he was doing, he'd plucked it from the nightstand and was pointing it away from him, at the sleeping boy to his left, at his best friend, at the Boy Who Lived.

The spell drifted across his mind, a chantlike repetition. Sectumsempra… He mouthed the word carefully. And then, without realizing what his hand and mouth were doing, Ron began to utter the incantation, each syllable another stab in not only Harry's heart, but in his own.

His shaky voice had made it halfway through when Harry's eyes popped open.

"Ron?" He sat up quickly. "Ron? You okay?"

"Mmmh," Ron mumbled, hastily tossing his wand back on the nightstand. "S'ry, mate." Harry blinked and smiled at him.

"G'nite, Ron."

He hated himself even more.

Fred was right, there wasn't going to be much left to puke up after a while. It was mostly all water now, as George didn't eat much more than half a bagel these days. His stomach, so used to being empty, rejected almost any food he put in it (not that he tried much, admittedly), and some days he didn't even need the Pastille.

If Fred had noticed the diminishing supply of pills, he hadn't said anything. After all, he'd moved on to creating other Snackbox novelties, and had all but forgotten the Puking Pastilles. He had mentioned, when they were changing into their old robes for a quick game of toss, that George was looking a little thinner than usual, but George had brushed it off; maybe he was sick, there was that flu going around, remember? Fred had shrugged and grabbed the tattered ball, and the two had mounted their brooms, kicking up dust the way they always used to.

It was getting harder and harder to conceal his secret from his friends. The weather was warming up, and most students had traded in their turtlenecks and sweaters for t-shirts and tank tops. Ron's arms (both of them now, as he wasn't sure the left could take any more abuse) were horribly scarred, so he slipped on another black long-sleeved shirt and headed down to the common room.

Hermione, who'd been more subdued than usual lately – was it exams? – gave him an odd look and asked how in the world he could stand to wear something so warm. Harry laughed and said something about Ron having more important things on his mind, namely breakfast, and Ron let out a sigh as the trio set out for the Great Hall.

Hermione didn't let up, though. Over the next few days she pressed Ron each morning about his clothing, and after a while Harry joined in. It was blazing outside, they said. Besides, he was never cold; Ron had always been the type of guy who wore short sleeves every month of the year but December. So why was he covering up now, just as the sun was coming out?

It was only a matter of time before he'd run out of room on his arms and have to start wearing jeans.

In the air, they passed the ball back and forth rapidly, without missing a beat. Five years on that house team had served them both well, and, as they were twins to begin with, and close ones at that, their movements were perfectly in sync.

George had always been good on a broom. As a Beater, his hands had been occupied with the club, and he'd learned quickly to control the broomstick with his legs. Control. That was what flying was all about. That was what life was all about, George decided. If you were in control, you'd stay afloat, balanced perfectly on your Cleansweep, but one slip-up and you'd go spiraling towards the Quidditch pitch.

He couldn't afford that slip-up. George's grip was slipping on the broomstick handle, and it was all he could do to stay in the air. He was tired, dizzy, weak – he hadn't eaten in days, but he'd taken the pills faithfully anyway, vomiting up bile and acid and, hopefully, whatever food was in his body. It burned his throat and his mouth, but at least the feeling was consistent, unlike everything else.

Fred tossed him the makeshift Quaffle again, a loopy overhand pass that arced perfectly, spiraling straight into George's hands – spiraling a little too fast. The ball slammed into his chest, knocking whatever wind he had left out of him and sending him flying backwards off the broomstick, flying, falling towards the ground.

He'd slipped.

"S-sectumsempra," Ron stammered, the book lying open on his lap. It was comforting, really, to have something to look at besides the blood, even though he knew the page by heart. There was something to be said for tradition – he must've picked it up from his mum and those stupid sweaters.

The pain stopped, and he pointed the wand at his arm again, muttering the countercurse and waiting for the bleeding to stop, the way it always did.

It didn't.

He shook the wand, jabbing it against his arm, but that just made the wound bleed more. "Sectumsempra?" he tried, and a new cut opened up on his other arm, bleeding freely down towards his wrist, dripping onto the bed and soaking the bed sheets.

The sheets. Pressure. Ron dropped the book and his wand and clutched the sheets, wrapping them around his arms. He'd heard somewhere – Hermione? – that pressure helped stop bleeding, and he held his breath.

Seven minutes later, the sheets were bright red and Ron didn't know what to do.

"You could've died," Fred murmured. "You could've died."

George turned away, pulling the thick blankets around his body. It was so cold… why was it so cold?

Fred grabbed his shoulder, pulling so they were face-to-face. "You're such an idiot, mate." He was. He was a complete idiot. Fred would've never done something so stupid. Fred would never have fallen off his broom. "D'you know – d'you know how easy it was for me to carry you over here?"

George said nothing.

"I picked you up with one arm, George. One arm! Have you- have you looked at yourself lately? You're a mess! What- what happened to you?" Fred's face was the most serious George had ever seen it, and it was all his fault…

"I- I slipped," George whispered. "The broom, I wasn't thinking…"

"This isn't about the broom, George." Fred grabbed the blanket and tugged, exposing George's naked, shivering body.

"Don't!" It was one thing for his twin to see him lying on the ground, a complete failure, but this…

"How, George? Why?" Fred shook his head as George scrambled to pull the blanket back up. "I don't… I mean…"

"I dunno what you're talking about."

"How many times in one year am I going to have to save your life?" Harry laughed the next morning, leaning over Ron's hospital bed.

Ron bit his lip. So this, this is what Harry thought of him – a nuisance, always needing to be saved.

"Maybe I should just spare you the trouble and go off myself, then."

"That's what you're trying to do anyway, isn't it?" Harry said quietly, but there was fierce anger in his voice. "Giving up, is that right?"

Ron didn't respond. Harry wouldn't understand. Harry, who had never had the option of giving up. Harry, who was so damn perfect there was no reason for him to give up anyway.

Harry sighed, a sigh of disappointment, but said nothing. Ron fought the urge to burst into tears and buried his head in the pillow, wishing Harry and Madam Pomfrey and the kid in the bed across from him would just disappear.

He wouldn't tell him anything. He couldn't. Fred would realize in an instant just how weak he was, that he didn't need a stupid fat shadow following him around all the time, and George would be kicked out of the business. Fred's Wizard Wheezes, that's what he'd call it. George would be left alone to sell counterfeit Galleons on street corners, and they'd all laugh…

As Fred asked him why for the fifteenth time, George just shook his head. What explanation did he have, anyway? It felt good? It had, of course, but Fred wouldn't understand that. Fred had control.

They sat in silence for the next few minutes, and then suddenly Fred looked up. "The Puking Pastilles," he whispered, his voice heavy with the weight of realization. "The Puking Pastilles…"

George began to cry.

Harry and Hermione visited every day, sometimes staying for hours even though Ron said nothing. He didn't know what there was to say. I'm sorry? I won't do it again? The damage was irreversible, Madam Pomfrey had told them - he'd be scarred for life. Harry had gasped at this and Ron had fought the urge to laugh. Scars. What good would they do him now? Would they make him, Ron Weasley, famous? The Boy Who Cut…

He was getting sick of the word "why". Every single day, it was "Ron, why'd you do it?" or "Ron, why didn't you tell anyone?" or "Ron, why won't you talk?" He knew all the answers – they were laid out perfectly in his head – but no one else would understand.

No one ever understood.

He could see the disgust in Fred's eyes. Only a moron like himself could lose control like that, right? Smarter, better people – Fred, Ron, Bill, Lee, Harry – they had a grip on their lives.

"I can't believe this," Fred muttered to himself over and over. Oh well, at least it was an improvement from why? "I can't believe you'd do this, George."

George said nothing.

"I mean- the Snackboxes are a joke! A joke! I never thought… how could you not understand that? I could see… I dunno, Percy, but he's such a prat he can't take any joke at all…"

Percy was skinny as a stick, George thought bitterly.

"…and making two batches, how could I have been so stupid? Why would we need two batches? We haven't released them to the public or anything yet… I can't believe this… I can't believe I couldn't see it…" Fred shook his head. "And you kept wanting to test them, and I let you, and you haven't been eating at all, and I didn't- I didn't check the b-box of Puking Past- Pastilles…" He'd started to cry. "I… this is all my fault, and you c-could- you could-"

Die.

It was dinnertime, Ron knew – he couldn't see the clock from his bed, but the years at Hogwarts had trained his brain to follow the schedule. Right about now, the first courses would be appearing on the tables…

"Ron?"

He looked up. There wasn't supposed to be anyone in the hospital wing – everyone was at dinner. So then why was Harry standing at the foot of his bed?

"Ron… I…" He sat down. Who invited you? Ron thought, but said nothing. He hadn't said a word for days. "Listen. I'm supposed to be at dinner - Hermione's covering for me, she's telling them I'm in the library – but I was thinking about you, you know? I mean, obviously I was thinking about you, you've got us all worried sick, but… I…" He bit his lip. "This has something to do with me, doesn't it? Hermione doesn't think so, she thinks I'm trying to bring myself into something that's not my problem, but- is there something… some reason… are you mad at me? Did I do something wrong?"

Ron wanted to respond, he really did, but there was something holding him back. He trusted Harry, of course. He trusted him with his life. Still… he wouldn't understand.

"I just- Ron. I can't stand it, thinking about what you did. I'm having nightmares again, you know? And the blood… and this time I can't stop it, it's not Voldemort controlling my dreams, it's you. Please… I want to know why you did it, Ron." He was speaking almost to himself, Ron noticed – thinking out loud. "Hermione cries all the time, mate. And Ginny… did you hear George's been having problems too? Ginny, I don't think she can take it."

And this was the last straw.

"I don't want to die," George mumbled. Fred looked up. "I don't… I didn't…"

Fred leaned forward. "George?"

"It's not your fault," he whispered, unable to bear the thought of his twin - his best friend – taking blame for what he knew was all his problem. "It has nothing to do with you, Fred. It's me."

Fred didn't say anything, just sat there with his mouth closed tight. George fumbled for the words. How- how could he explain the feeling simply? It was more exhilarating than a Quidditch rush and more soothing than a mug of butterbeer at the same time- but that didn't make any sense, George realized. How could he explain that which had no logical meaning?

And suddenly it dawned upon him: there was a way. It would be hard – it would be confusing – but George knew what he had to do.

He took a deep breath and told Fred everything.

He really, really didn't want to explain it to anyone, but Harry was at the bottom of his list. If it had been anyone else… Hermione, Seamus, even Neville, Ron would've had an easier time. After all, anyone else would've been able to relate. No one else was perfect.

But it was Harry sitting at the edge of his bed, wanting and waiting to hear it all. It was Harry, his best friend, who'd saved him. Harry, whose wand (which was, after all, in much better shape than Ron's) had stopped the bleeding just before it caused even worse damage. And it was Harry who refused to leave Ron's bedside until he got the full story.

So Ron told him.

Fred had offered to take him to St. Mungo's, but George refused. "I'll be okay," he promised, wanting his twin to believe it almost as much as he wanted to believe it himself. Fred nodded, then gave George another long look.

"I'm destroying the Puking Pastilles."

It was a hard decision to make, George knew. After all, the Pastilles worked perfectly; they'd be an incredible source of revenue for the twins. All that hard work… and he'd ruined it all.

"You don't- the shop-"

"Maybe we'll make more someday, who knows?" Fred said slowly. "For now, I think you're more important than the shop."

There was a time when a comment like this would've sent George into a frenzy of elatedness, but now it barely surprised him. That was good, right? He knew his life was more important to Fred than their jokes. He knew that, and he knew someday he wouldn't have to try so hard to convince himself.

He knew someday he'd be strong.

Ron had known it wouldn't be easy, and he'd been right. Countless times he'd had the wand pressed against his arm, been on the verge of whispering the spell, but his friends caught him every time. Seamus, Dean, Neville, and Harry – they were all looking out for him, and there was something about that – all that attention – that made him feel better than he'd ever felt. These were people who cared deeply about him, people who would give their lives to save his (he kept telling himself that – there's someone in this world who would die for me – and, though the words were unbelievable, the feeling of love was incredibly powerful).

He still got pangs of jealousy when the school chanted Harry's name, or when the famous lightning-bolt scar decorated the front page of the Daily Prophet. But if he listened, if he looked, there were people who knew him for being himself, Ron Weasley, not just "one of those redhead blood traitors", not just Harry Potter's best friend.

Besides, he thought as they passed another hissing Slytherin, being Harry didn't look quite so appealing after all.