Cobwebs and Crescents

The Burrow used to breathe—shuffle of feet, clatter of dishes, seven kids and two parents always moving. Now it’s a corpse. Walls still smell like old cooking and dried herbs, but the warmth is gone. Replaced by a chill that creeps under doors and settles in rooms nobody enters.

Ron’s on his back in the attic, staring at the sloping ceiling. Cobwebs tremble with every gust. The house is quiet except for wood settling and, somewhere below, muffled footsteps in the kitchen. Doesn’t know who. Doesn’t care. His body feels borrowed, heavy, foreign—the bindings across his chest cutting into his ribs, tight enough to remind him he’s still here, still trapped.

He’d loosened them earlier. Almost took them off. But the thought of the soft flesh underneath, the wrongness—made his stomach turn. So he wrapped them tighter, winced at the pressure, and tried to focus on the pain instead of the thoughts circling like carrion birds.

You should have died. Fred should be here. He was worth ten of you.

The mantra loops. Familiar now. Almost comforting. He digs his nails into his palms, hard enough to leave crescents, and breathes through the urge to reach for the small blade hidden in his trunk. Not tonight. Not yet. Promised himself he wouldn’t do it again until the funeral, at least. That’s tomorrow. Or the day after? Lost track.

A sound drifts up through the floorboards—a sharp, hollow laugh that cuts through the silence. Ginny. In her room, probably with Hermione, pretending everything’s normal, telling jokes that land flat and brittle. Ron imagines her face, pale and smiling too wide, the way she’s been since they came back from Hogwarts. Performing grief because the real thing’s too big to hold. He hates it. Hates her for trying. Hates himself for hating her.

Then another sound, from the other side of the wall. George’s room. A sob, strangled and raw, cut off like someone shoved a fist in his mouth. Ron’s throat tightens. He’s heard that sound every night since they came home. Every night, alone in his room, George cries until he can’t anymore, and Ron lies in the attic and listens, counting sobs like a rosary. Each one a bead of failure.

I said it. I told him I wished Fred was the one who died.

The memory burns. Sharp and fresh. The argument was stupid—something about a forgotten order of pies. But Ron was tired and angry and grieving in a way he didn’t know how to name, and the words spilled out. “At least Fred got the joke in the end. Some of us are still waiting for the punchline.” George looked at him, face frozen, then walked away without a word. They haven’t spoken since.

Ron rolls onto his side, wincing as the bindings shift. The pain’s a constant—dull ache across his chest, sharper sting lower down, where he carved his own flesh three nights ago, apologizing to no one. He’d been careful to hide the marks. No one looks anyway. No one sees him at all.

He thinks about the other thing. The thing he never lets himself think about. The cellar in the Malfoy mansion. The Death Eater who laughed as he forced him to his knees. Ron was fifteen, already terrified, already convinced he was a freak for wanting to be something he wasn’t. The assault was a punctuation mark on a sentence he’d been writing his whole life: you are not a person, you are a thing to be used. He never told anyone. Not his mum. Not Hermione. Not Harry. Especially not Harry, who carries enough darkness of his own.

And then the pregnancy. The abortion. The lonely trip to a muggle clinic in London, paid for with stolen gold. How could he explain to a Healer what happened? How could he explain the body that betrays him at every turn—the womb that took root with a child he never wanted? The relief and guilt that swept through him when it was over? Both too big to hold.

He presses his forehead against the wall. Cold seeping into his skin. The moon’s bright tonight, casting silver light through the small attic window. He can see the garden below—overgrown, wild, the same garden where he played Quidditch with Fred and George as a kid. Now it’s full of shadows.

Can’t stay here. Walls closing in, pressing against his chest until he can’t breathe. He pushes himself up, ignoring the sharp protest of his ribs, and pulls on a jumper—the one with the hole in the sleeve nobody bothered to mend. Always cold now anyway. The bindings help. Constant reminder of the prison of his own skin.

He creeps downstairs. Past Ginny’s room, light still on. Her voice, low and steady. Hermione’s answering murmur. Planning something, probably the funeral. He doesn’t want to know. Past Percy’s room—a stack of paperwork rustling in the breeze from the open window. Percy drowning himself in organization, desperate to impose order on chaos. Bill and Fleur in the master bedroom, muffled voices, tense and caring. Charlie’s occasional gruff interjection from the sofa.

No one sees him. No one calls his name. Ghost in his own house.

The kitchen’s dark, but the back door’s open, letting in damp night air. Ron steps onto the patio, barefoot, cold stones under his feet. And there, in the garden, sitting on the bench where Arthur used to read the Prophet—George.

Smoking. Thin cigarette pinched between his fingers, ember glowing in the dark. He doesn’t look up when Ron approaches, but his shoulders tighten. Ron stands there a long moment, awkward and exposed, then turns back inside.

He comes back with two mugs of tea—the chipped ones that’ve been in the cupboard forever. Ginger and honey. George’s favorite, the one Mum always made when someone was sick. Ron doesn’t know why he made it. Just the only thing he could think to do.

Sets the mug on the bench beside George. Sits down, a few inches away. Silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable. George takes a drag, exhales slowly, then deliberately turns his head and blows the smoke right into Ron’s face.

Ron coughs, eyes watering, but doesn’t move away. He deserved that. Deserves worse.

“Sorry,” George mutters, voice hoarse, scraped raw from crying. He takes another drag, this time blowing upward. “Didn’t mean— just—”

“It’s fine.” Ron wraps his hands around his own mug, letting the warmth seep into his fingers. “You’re allowed to be angry.”

George laughs, bitter and broken. “Angry? That’s a good word for it. I’m so angry I could tear this whole bloody house down with my hands. But what’s the point? Won’t bring him back.”

Ron nods. Doesn’t know what to say. Never knows what to say, not when it matters.

They sit in silence, watching the moon trace its path across the sky. The tea grows cold in Ron’s hands. George finishes his cigarette and lights another.

“I’m sorry,” Ron says finally. Words scraping up his throat like broken glass. “About what I said. About Fred. I didn’t mean it. I was just—”

“I know.” George’s voice is flat. “You were being a git. But you’re always a git, so it’s hard to tell when it’s the grief talking and when it’s just you.”

Ron flinches. Presses his palms against his eyes, feeling the hot pressure building behind them. “I wish it had been me instead.”

The words come out before he can stop them. Small. Quiet. Almost lost in the night air. But George hears them. Feels him go still, like an animal sensing danger.

“What did you say?”

“I wish it had been me.” This time Ron’s voice cracks. “Fred was— he was brilliant. Made everyone laugh. Had a future, a business, a life. I’m just nothing. A mistake that keeps happening. Everyone would be better off if I’d been the one to die.”

George’s cigarette falls from his fingers, lands in the grass with a soft hiss. He turns to face Ron. In the moonlight, his face is shock—and something else. Fear.

“Ron, don’t talk like that.”

“It’s true.” The tears come now. Hot and unstoppable. Ron hates himself for it. He never cries. Never lets himself. But something broke inside him—some dam he’d been building for years—and now it’s all flooding out. “You don’t know what I’ve done. What I’ve let happen to me. I’m not— I’m not a good person, George. I’m not even a real person. I’m just this thing that keeps pretending to be a man, pretending to be okay, pretending I don’t want to—”

He stops, choking on the words. George grabs his arm, hard.

“Don’t you dare.” His voice shakes. “Don’t you dare say you want to kill yourself, Ron. Not after Fred. Not after we just buried my twin.”

Ron pulls away, wraps his arms around himself, presses his hands against the tight fabric of the bindings. “You don’t understand.”

“Then make me understand.” George’s voice cracks too. When Ron looks up, his brother’s eyes are wet, glinting in the moonlight. “I must have been a shitty brother if you think that. If you’ve been carrying all this alone and never thought you could tell me.”

“It’s not your fault.” Ron shakes his head, violent. “Not anyone’s fault. It’s just— I’m broken. Been broken for a long time.”

George’s jaw clenches. He takes a long breath, then another. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, almost gentle. “Then tell me. Tell me everything. What happened to you? Why do you think you’re not a real person?”

Ron stares at the garden, at the shadows dancing in the wind. Thinks about the cellar. The blade. The clinic. The endless, suffocating wrongness of his own body. Thinks about the way he wraps his chest every morning, flinches when anyone touches him, pushes Harry and Hermione away because he doesn’t deserve their kindness.

“I’m trans.” The words are bitter and sharp. “I’m not a girl. Never was. But my body— it’s wrong. It’s all wrong. And before the war, before I even knew what that meant, a Death Eater—”

His voice breaks. Can’t say it. But George’s hand finds his, squeezing tight.

“You don’t have to say it,” George whispers. “I understand.”

“No, you don’t.” Ron pulls his hand away, presses his fists into his eyes. “He made me— I got pregnant. Had to get rid of it. Alone. Did it alone because I couldn’t tell anyone, because how could I explain any of this? And I cut myself, George. I cut myself where no one can see, and I’m so tired, I’m so bloody tired of pretending I’m okay when I’m not.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Every second stretches into years. Waiting for George to stand up, leave, tell him he’s disgusting. But instead, two arms wrap around him, pulling him close, holding him tight against George’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” George says, voice breaking. “I’m sorry I didn’t see. I’m sorry I was so caught up in my own grief I didn’t notice my little brother was drowning.”

Ron’s body shakes with sobs. Ugly and raw. Tears soaking into George’s jumper. He tries to pull away, but George holds him tighter, one hand cradling the back of his head the way their mum used to when they were small.

“It’s not your fault,” Ron chokes out. “None of it’s your fault.”

“It’s not yours, either.” George’s voice is fierce. “You hear me, Ron? None of it is your fault. The assault, the pregnancy, the way you feel about your body— none of it. You’re not broken. You’re hurt. And there’s a difference.”

Ron shakes his head, still crying, still unable to believe. “I can’t— I can’t keep going like this. I don’t know how.”

“Then we’ll figure it out together.” George pulls back, grips Ron’s shoulders, forces him to meet his eyes. “Tomorrow, we’ll find a Healer. A good one, one who knows about— about trans stuff. And we’ll get you help. Real help. And if you ever— if you ever feel like hurting yourself again, you come to me. Day or night. I don’t care if I’m in the middle of a nightmare. You come to me.”

Ron stares at him. At this brother he thought he’d lost—not to death, but to his own bitterness. Sees the grief in George’s eyes, the same grief he carries, but also something else. Love. Stubborn, fierce, Weasley love.

“I don’t deserve this,” Ron whispers.

“Tough.” A ghost of George’s old grin flickers across his face. “You’re stuck with me. We Weasleys have to stick together, even when we’re both right disasters.”

Ron laughs. A wet, broken sound. First time he’s laughed in days. He leans into George’s side, rests his head on his shoulder. George lights another cigarette, but this time he doesn’t blow the smoke in Ron’s face. Just sits there, arm around his brother’s shoulders, staring at the stars.

They talk until dawn. Ron tells him about the assault—the details he’s never spoken aloud—and George listens without flinching. Tells him about the abortion, the guilt, the relief. Tells him about the bindings, the pain, the longing to be seen as who he really is. And George shares his own pain—the dreams where Fred talks to him, the moments when he reaches for the phone to call the shop and realizes Fred will never answer, the fear that the joke is over and nothing will ever be funny again.

When the sun starts to rise, sky turning pink and gold, they’re still sitting on the bench. Ron’s voice hoarse from talking. George’s hand warm on his back.

“We should probably go inside,” George says, stubbing out his final cigarette. “Mum’s going to have a fit if she finds out we’ve been out here all night.”

Ron nods, but doesn’t move. Thought of going back inside, facing the family, pretending to be okay—feels impossible.

“Hey.” George nudges him. “I meant what I said. We’re going to get you help. And I’m going to be there for you. For as long as it takes.”

Ron looks at him. Dark circles under his eyes. Grief etched into his face. But also that stubborn determination that’s always defined George Weasley. Something shifts in his chest. Small crack in the armor he’s built around himself.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

They walk back inside together. The Burrow feels a little less cold. House is still grieving, still full of shadows and silence, but somewhere in the kitchen, Ginny’s making tea. Percy’s organizing something. Bill’s laughing at something Charlie said. It’s not fixed. Will take a long time to fix. But for the first time in days, Ron thinks maybe—just maybe—he can find a way to live.

He follows George up the stairs. When they reach the attic, he stops. Doesn’t go in. Instead stops at George’s door, and George looks at him, questioning.

“Can I—” Ron hesitates. “Can I sleep in your room? Just for tonight?”

George’s expression softens. He steps aside. “Course you can. Just don’t snore.”

Ron manages a small smile. “I don’t snore.”

“You do. But I’ll put up with it.” George gestures to the bed, cluttered with blankets and Fred’s old sweater. “Move that rubbish. I’ll grab the other pillow.”

Ron climbs onto the bed, ignoring the familiar ache in his chest, the tightness of the bindings. He’ll loosen them later, when George is asleep. For now, he just wants to feel the warmth of another person in the room. Know he isn’t alone.

George lies down on the other side, staring at the ceiling. The room’s quiet, but not the heavy, suffocating silence of the attic. It’s a gentle quiet. Full of possibility.

“Ron?” George says after a long moment.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For telling me. I know it wasn’t easy.”

Ron swallows. “Thank you for listening.”

George reaches over, squeezes his hand. “We’re going to be okay, you know. Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But someday.”

“Maybe,” Ron whispers, and for the first time, he lets himself believe it.

Outside, the sun rises over the Burrow, casting light on the garden—the overgrown flowers, the bench where two brothers sat and talked through the darkest night. Inside, the family starts to stir, sounds of morning creeping through the old house. And in George’s room, two boys—one still grieving, one still hurting—lie side by side, starting the slow, painful work of healing.

They’ve got a long way to go. But at least they’re walking the road together.