A Crack in the Wall

The Burrow was loud, the way it always was in summer. Pots clattering in the kitchen. Something exploding in the shed—probably another failed experiment. Six kids talking over each other, two parents trying to keep up. But for Ron, all that noise had turned into a funeral march.

He sat at the dinner table, a plate of shepherd’s pie steaming in front of him, and his stomach tightened. The smell of lamb and potatoes—usually his favorite—made him want to gag. He pushed the food around with his fork, making little mountains and valleys, hoping it looked like he’d eaten. Across from him, Ginny was arguing with George about some Quidditch foul. Fred was mimicking Mum’s frantic arm-waving. Percy had his nose in a Ministry pamphlet. The twins were home from Hogwarts, just finished their NEWTs with, let’s be honest, questionable success.

Ron forced a forkful into his mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. It landed like a rock. He chased it with pumpkin juice, which was a mistake—the liquid sloshed against the solid mass, and his stomach turned. He put the fork down, pushed his chair back an inch.

“Not hungry, dear?” Molly’s voice cut through the racket. She stood by the stove, ladle in hand, watching him with that hawk-eyed look she saved for suspected illness or injury.

Ron shrugged. “Had a big lunch.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You barely touched your breakfast. And you skipped lunch—I saw you out by the pond with a book.”

“Wasn’t hungry,” he said, flat. He stood, chair scraping the worn floor. “I’m gonna go unpack. Still got stuff in my trunk.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He walked out, feeling her stare on his back, and climbed the creaky stairs to his room. The door clicked shut behind him, and he leaned against it, eyes closed. His hands were shaking. He wrapped his arms around himself, felt the sharp jut of his hipbones through his thin shirt. *Good*, he thought. *That’s good.*

---

It started third year. A slow, sneaky thing, like a Dementor’s chill seeping in.

Ron had always been the tallest, the lankiest, the one who kept growing while everyone else filled out neat and manageable. Percy was slender and studious. Fred and George were wiry street cats. Ginny small and quick. But Ron was all elbows and knees, a growth spurt that never settled. And he was hungry. Always hungry. He ate like he had a bottomless pit, shoveling food in at every meal, never quite satisfied.

But Harry and Hermione were different. Harry was small, wiry from years of neglect, and he ate carefully, like he didn't trust the next meal would come. Hermione took small portions, chewed slowly. Ron felt like a glutton next to them. He'd look at his plate heaped with potatoes and sausages, then at Harry’s modest serving, and feel hot shame.

It came to a head one night in the Gryffindor common room. Third year, a few weeks after the Sirius Black scare died down. Ron ate two whole plates of treacle tart—who could blame him? It was his favorite—and then caught a glimpse of himself in the window’s reflection. He was sitting cross-legged, his shirt riding up, and he saw a soft roll of flesh above his waistband. Made his stomach lurch.

That night, in the boys’ bathroom, he knelt in front of the toilet and stuck two fingers down his throat. The treacle tart came up in a sweet, sickly rush. He gagged, coughed, tears streaming down his face. But afterward, he felt a strange, hollow lightness. Clean. Empty.

First time was an accident. Second time was a choice.

It became a habit. A secret ritual. After meals, he’d slip away, lock the bathroom door, and purge. He learned to do it quietly, time it so the other boys were asleep or in the shower. And when purging wasn’t enough, when the shame still clung to him, he found another release.

A small razor, nicked from Fred’s prank stash. He’d been looking for something to cut a rope, and there it was—thin, sharp, wrapped in parchment. He pocketed it. That night, in the dark dormitory, he drew the blade across his thigh. Just a shallow line, a bead of blood. The pain was sharp, immediate, and it cut through the fog in his head. For a moment, he felt *alive*.

He did it again the next week. And again. The cuts became a secret language on his skin—scars only he could read.

---

The summer after fourth year was the worst.

Ron had barely spoken to Harry since the Third Task. He’d been a git, and he knew it. Jealousy had festered like a splinter, and then Harry went and *died* in front of him, sort of, and came back carrying Cedric’s body. Ron couldn’t even look at his best friend without feeling like a horrible, selfish person. So he retreated. Buried the guilt under layers of self-loathing.

And that self-loathing found a home in his body.

He started skipping breakfast. Then lunch. He’d eat just enough at dinner to avoid suspicion, then get rid of it in the bathroom. The weight fell off fast. Collarbones stuck out like knife edges. Trousers hung loose. He was still tall, still lanky, but now there was a gauntness that made people look twice.

Molly looked three times.

“Ronald Weasley, you come back here this instant!”

Ron froze halfway up the stairs. He turned slowly. His mother stood at the bottom, hands on her hips, face a mask of worry and anger. Second week of August. He’d just tried to leave the table after eating three bites of roast chicken.

“I told you, Mum, I’m not hungry.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said, voice trembling. “You’ve been saying that for a month. Look at you—your trousers are falling off. You look like a scarecrow.”

His cheeks burned. “I’m fine. Just growing.”

“Growing *down*, more like.” She climbed the stairs two at a time, blocked his path. “I’m your mother, Ronald. I know when something’s wrong. Now tell me what’s going on.”

He couldn’t meet her eyes. Stared at a loose thread on his jumper. “Nothing’s going on.”

“Don’t you lie to me.”

“I’m not lying!” He shoved past her, voice cracking. “Just leave me alone, okay?”

He ran to his room, slammed the door. Heard her call his name, then a long silence. He pressed his back against the door, breathing hard. The blade was in his pocket—always there. He pulled it out, stared at the thin sliver of metal, and felt a terrible calm settle over him.

He rolled up his sleeve. The inside of his forearm was a map of pale lines, crisscrossing like railway tracks. He made a new one, a shallow cut just below the wrist. Blood welled up, bright red. He watched with detached fascination. *Beautiful*, he thought. *Like pearls on a string.*

---

The mirror in the Burrow bathroom was old, slightly warped, frame tarnished. Ron stood in front of it early one morning, before anyone else was awake. Shirtless. The reflection showed a boy who was all angles: sharp shoulder blades, prominent ribs, concave stomach. He turned sideways, saw his spine like a ridge of small mountains.

He remembered a compliment from Zacharias Smith during a Hufflepuff-Gryffindor match. Smith glanced at him in the changing room and said, “You’re looking pretty lean, Weasley. Did you finally stop eating like a troll?” Meant as a jab, but Ron latched onto it. *Pretty lean.* He replayed those words over and over, clung to them like a twisted trophy.

But in the mirror, he didn’t see lean. He saw a skeleton wearing his skin. And yet—there was something elegant about it. The way light caught the hollows of his cheeks, the fine bones of his wrists. He looked fragile, and fragile felt safe.

He hated himself for thinking that.

The bathroom door rattled. “Ron? You in there, mate?” Fred, voice cheery and oblivious. “George and I are making portable swamps. Wanna help?”

“No,” Ron said flat.

“Come on, you’ve been moping all summer. Loosen up.”

“I said no.”

Footsteps retreating, then a muffled conversation with George. “He’s in a mood again.” “When is he not?”

Ron pressed his forehead against the mirror. The glass was cool. He closed his eyes and imagined disappearing, just fading away. But the hunger was there, a gnawing ache that never left. He ignored it.

---

The intervention happened on a Saturday.

Molly gathered the whole family in the living room—Arthur, the twins, Percy, Ginny—and told them something was very wrong with Ron. She described the weight loss, the excuses, the anger. Fred and George, for once, were silent. Percy looked uncomfortable. Ginny had tears in her eyes.

When Ron walked in, still in his pajamas, he saw them sitting in a semicircle. His stomach dropped.

“What’s this?”

“Sit down, dear,” Molly said softly.

“I don’t want to sit down. What is this, some kind of—”

“Intervention,” Fred said, not unkindly. “Mum’s worried. We all are.”

Ron laughed, harsh and brittle. “I’m fine. You’re all being dramatic.”

“You’re not fine,” Ginny said, voice cracking. “You’re skin and bones, Ron. You barely eat. And I found—” She stopped, hand flying to her mouth.

“You found what?” His heart hammered.

“I found your razor,” she whispered. “In the bathroom. With blood on it.”

The room went silent. Ron felt the floor tilt. He looked at each of their faces—concern, confusion, dawning horror—and wanted to scream. Wanted to run. But his legs wouldn’t move.

“It’s not what you think,” he said weakly.

“Then what is it?” Arthur’s voice was gentle but firm. “Son, we’re not angry. We’re scared. Please talk to us.”

Ron’s eyes burned. The words were stuck in his throat, a tangled knot of shame and fear. He opened his mouth, and what came out was a ragged, broken sound.

“I can’t stop,” he whispered. “I can’t stop throwing up. And the cuts—I don’t know why I do it. I just—I hate the way I look. I hate myself.”

He was crying now, ugly, wrenching sobs that shook his whole body. Molly rushed to him, wrapped her arms around his thin frame. He was so light, so fragile. She held him tighter.

“Oh, my boy,” she murmured. “My boy.”

The twins stared at the floor. Percy had gone pale. Ginny was crying too, hand over her mouth.

“It started in third year,” Ron said, confession pouring out like a dam breaking. “After Sirius Black. I felt so fat next to Harry and Hermione. Then the tournament—I was such a git to Harry, and I hated myself even more. So I stopped eating. I made myself sick. And the razor—it helps. It makes the noise stop.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” George asked, voice rough.

“Because I’m supposed to be the funny one,” Ron said, bitter. “The lazy one. The one who eats everything. I’m not supposed to—to fall apart. I’m supposed to be normal.”

“Nothing about our family is normal,” Arthur said, and there was a sad smile on his face. “And that’s all right.”

---

Harry and Hermione arrived two days later.

Molly had sent an owl—a short, desperate note asking them to come as soon as possible. They Apparated to the edge of the Burrow’s wards and walked up the garden path, faces tense with worry.

Ron was sitting in the kitchen, a cup of tea untouched in front of him. He looked up when they entered, and Harry’s stomach turned. Ron’s face was hollow, cheeks sunken, eyes ringed with dark circles. He wore a jumper that hung loose on his frame. His hands looked almost skeletal.

“Ron,” Hermione said softly, crossing the room to sit beside him. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Ron shrugged, not meeting her eyes. “Didn’t think you’d understand.”

“We could have helped,” Harry said. He sat down opposite Ron, voice tight with guilt. “I’m sorry for all the times I teased you about eating. I didn’t know it was—I didn’t know it was like that.”

“It’s not your fault,” Ron said. “It’s mine.”

“Don’t say that.” Hermione took his hand. His fingers were cold. “This isn’t your fault. It’s an illness. You can get better.”

Ron pulled his hand away. “You don’t know that. The healer at St. Mungo’s said it might take years. That I might relapse. That I’m—” His voice broke. “That I’m stuck with this forever.”

“Then we’ll be here for every step,” Harry said firmly. “We’re best mates. We’re not going anywhere.”

Ron looked at him, and for the first time in weeks, there was a flicker of something other than despair in his eyes. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

---

The argument with Fred and George happened a week later.

Ron was in the garden, under the old oak tree, reading an old Quidditch magazine. He was feeling worse than usual—the hunger was a constant gnaw, the urge to purge overwhelming. But he was trying. He was eating three meals a day, small portions. He hadn’t used the razor in four days.

Then Fred and George ambled over, faces grim.

“We need to talk to you,” Fred said.

“About what?” Ron didn’t look up.

“About what you said. About hating the way you look.” George sat beside him. “Look, we don’t pretend to understand what you’re going through. But we’ve been thinking. You used to laugh, Ron. You used to laugh all the time. And now you don’t.”

“Maybe I don’t have anything to laugh about.”

“That’s rubbish,” Fred said. “You’re the one who always cracked jokes in the common room. You made us laugh. And now you’re—” He gestured vaguely. “You’re wasting away. And it’s like you want to.”

Ron felt a hot surge of anger. “You think I want this? You think I *like* feeling like this?”

“Honestly? Sometimes it seems like you do,” George said quietly. “You look in the mirror and see something good. You see—I don’t know—a kind of beauty in being thin.”

Ron’s face went white. “Get away from me.”

“No,” Fred said. “We’re not going away. We’re not going to let you starve yourself to death because you think it makes you *pearl-like* or whatever that stupid word was.”

“It’s not stupid—” Ron’s voice cracked.

“It is, Ron. It’s a lie.” George’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. “You’re not pearls. You’re our brother. And we love you. But you have to look at yourself and see what we see.”

Ron stood up, fists clenched. “You don’t understand. You’ve never understood. You’re both perfect—thin, popular, funny—you don’t have to think about food every second of every day. You don’t have to feel like a monster every time you eat a biscuit.”

“We’re not perfect,” Fred said softly. “We’re just good at hiding it.”

Ron’s anger crumbled. He sagged, shoulders rounding. “I can’t do this,” he whispered. “I can’t keep fighting.”

“Then let us fight with you,” George said.

But Ron was already walking away, steps quick and unsteady. He went inside, up the stairs, and locked himself in the bathroom.

He fell to his knees in front of the toilet. The urge was too strong. He shoved two fingers down his throat, and the small breakfast he’d eaten came up in a painful rush. He kept going even when there was nothing left, even when he was dry-heaving, his stomach muscles cramping.

He reached for the razor hidden behind the bandages in the cabinet. Pulled it out, hands shaking, and rolled up his sleeve. The cuts were starting to heal—pale pink lines. He pressed the blade to his skin—

The door exploded inward.

Molly stood there, wand raised, the lock shattered. Her eyes went straight to the razor in his hand, to the blood already beading on his arm. She let out a sound that was half-scream, half-sob, and rushed to him.

“No, no, no, my baby—give me that—”

She wrested the razor from his grip, then wrapped her arms around him. Ron was shaking, crying, his face buried in her shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Mum. I’m sorry. I can’t stop. I try and I try and I can’t—”

“Oh, my sweet boy.” Molly rocked him, tears streaming down her face. “We’re going to get you help. Real help. You’re not going to do this alone.”

Ron clung to her, fingers digging into her cardigan. “It hurts so much.”

“I know. I know it does.” She held him tighter. “But you’re strong, Ronald. You’ve always been strong. And you’re going to get through this. I promise you.”

---

The next day, Molly took him to St. Mungo’s.

The Mind Healing ward was quiet, painted in soft greens and blues. The healers were kind, patient. They asked him about his eating, his purging, his cutting. They gave him a small notebook and told him to write down his feelings instead of acting on them. They prescribed a nutrition plan and set up weekly appointments with a counselor.

Ron listened, nodded, tried to believe it could work.

When he came home, his family was waiting. Harry and Hermione were there too, sitting on the sofa, looking anxious. The dining table was set with a small meal—soup and bread, easy things.

Ron sat down. The room was silent. He picked up a spoon, dipped it into the broth, lifted it to his lips. The liquid was warm, salty. It settled in his stomach like something fragile, like it might actually stay down.

He took another spoonful. Then a piece of bread.

Molly was holding her breath. Arthur had his hand on her shoulder. Ginny was smiling through tears. Fred and George were uncharacteristically quiet, watching him like he might shatter.

Harry met his eyes across the table. “How is it?”

“Not bad,” Ron said, voice rough. “Kind of like Mum’s soup.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Molly said, and she sat down next to him, her hand covering his.

Ron looked around the table—his family, his friends—and felt something shift inside him. Not hope, not yet. More like a crack in the wall he’d built. A sliver of light.

He took another bite.

*One day at a time*, he told himself. *Just one day at a time.*