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Part 1 of sticks and stones may break my bones but at least broken bones can heal
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Published:
2025-09-02
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3,065
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1/1
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Silent Cries

Summary:

Hogwarts doesn’t feel like home. The Burrow doesn’t either. And when even Hermione, Harry, and his mum can’t—or won’t—see him, Ron is left with only one terrible conclusion: maybe they’d all be better off without him.

Notes:

I wanted suicide fics but there were like none of the sort I wanted so I wrote one! I like all the characters I'm bashing and they may be just a tad out of character but do you know else was ooc? RON. In all of the movies! So anyways, please comment and like thanks for checking it out :) Also like, yay me for my first not Hunger Games fic! Actually, that's a lie, I've written a Maze Runner one but I'm waiting for day 250 to post it...

Work Text:

Ron wanted to live. At least, he always thought he did.

But he was sick of every time he walked past the places where there was construction in place to erect memorials to commemorate the people who died in the war, he wished he was just one of them.

Every time he walked past the astronomy tower, he wondered what it would feel like if he fell off it.

He wasn’t strong like the others. He couldn’t ignore his feelings. That’s why he left them with the Horcrux hunt. Even though he knew it was created by Voldemort and meant to trap him in fear, he believed in it. Still does, if he was being honest. Perhaps he always would.

Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to go back to Hogwarts, but Hermione had insisted that he finish his education—forcing him into it really—and Ron just wanted to make her happy so he did. Besides, he was never the one with the plans. Hermione figured out all the smart stuff and Harry did the brave thing and enacted them. Ron was just a sidekick. A tagger-on. A shadow. The only reason Harry was even friends with him was because he sat with him on the train that first year. And if he was honest, sometimes Ron wondered if even that was a mistake. If Harry had sat with someone else, anyone else, maybe things would’ve gone smoother. Harry would’ve still gotten Hermione; he always got everything worth having. Ron just… took up space.

His family never needed him either. Bill was the curse breaker. Charlie was the dragon tamer. Percy was once the Head Boy and now the Ministry man. The twins were the legends—until Fred wasn’t anymore. Ginny was the daughter his mum had always wanted, her darling, her only girl. And Ron? He was the spare boy. The leftover.

He should have died, not Fred. Fred was loved. Fred was important. Fred was something brilliant, and Ron was… what? The sixth son? The whiny one? The coward who ran away when it mattered? Fred made people laugh. Ron made people sigh.

And maybe his mum never said it out loud, but he could see it in her eyes now, the way she looked at him and then at the empty space where Fred should have been. She would’ve traded Ron in a heartbeat if she could. And maybe she should have.

Every day at Hogwarts felt like punishment. He could almost hear his classmates thoughts on him—Harry Potter’s sidekick, Hermione Granger’s shadow—he wondered why he bothered. He didn’t belong here. He didn’t belong anywhere.

 

He told himself he wanted to live. But more and more, when the nights were too quiet and the ghosts of laughter that should’ve been filled the halls, Ron thought maybe he was lying to himself.
And that was how Ron found himself on top of the astronomy tower late one night, toes creeping over the edge.

The stone beneath his toes was cold, biting through his socks as the wind whipped against his face. The drop stretched out below him, endless and almost comforting. One step and it would all be over—no more trying, no more failing, no more living in the cracks between everyone else’s greatness.

Ron leaned forward just a fraction—

“Oh, Mr. Weasley!”

Ron jolted, his arms pinwheeling as he staggered back from the edge. Professor Trelawney emerged from the shadows, a mass of shawls and jangling beads, clutching a telescope nearly as big as she was. She blinked at him owlishly through those enormous glasses, apparently unconcerned with how close he’d been to falling.

“Quite the evening for stargazing, wouldn’t you agree? Mars is in ascension—ominous, most ominous.” She tottered past him, setting her telescope up right where he’d been standing, muttering about alignments and destinies.

Ron’s heart pounded in his chest, his legs trembling. He couldn’t take his eyes off the ledge. One more second, one less interruption, and he wouldn’t be standing here at all.

He stepped back, pressing himself against the wall as if to anchor himself to the stone. His stomach churned. What the hell had he almost done?

He looked at Trelawney, who was now completely absorbed in her charts, humming under her breath as though he wasn’t even there. She hadn’t seen a thing.

Ron swallowed hard, throat dry. He wanted to laugh, or cry, or maybe both. The thought came crashing down on him with brutal clarity: if he wanted to keep living—really keep living—he couldn’t do this alone. Not anymore.

-

The library was nearly empty, just the scratching of quills and the occasional cough echoing between the shelves. As expected, that’s where Ron found Hermione, almost hidden by a stack of books. She looked so at home among them—ink smudged on her fingers, a crease between her brows—that for a moment he almost turned around.

But the memory of the tower, of the nothing yawning below him, shoved him forward. He slid into the chair across from her.

“Hermione,” he said, voice low, rougher than he meant.

She glanced up briefly, then back at her parchment. “You’re supposed to be finishing that Transfiguration essay, Ron. You’ll never pass if you keep putting it off.”

“I don’t care about the bloody essay.” He leaned in, trying to keep his voice steady. “I… I’ve not been doing well. Since the war. Since the horcruxes Since Fred.” His throat tightened. “I think about… things. Dark things. More than I should.”

Her quill paused mid-sentence. That was something, at least. But when she looked at him, her expression was not alarm—it was weary, almost exasperated.

“Ron, everyone’s struggling. You’re not the only one. Harry’s been through hell and back and you don’t see him complaining, do you?” She shook her head briskly. “You need to keep yourself occupied. Focus on your studies, keep busy. Dwelling on it will only make it worse.”

Ron blinked at her, the words landing like blows. “I’m not Harry,” he muttered. “I can’t just… get over it.”

“Well, maybe you should try harder,” Hermione said, sharper this time. “You’ve always had this… streak, Ron. This jealousy. Like you’re always comparing yourself to Harry, or me, or your brothers. Maybe that’s the real problem—you don’t see what you do have, only what you don’t.”

His stomach twisted. “Jealous,” he echoed, half to himself.

Hermione sighed, as if she were explaining something obvious. “You’ve always let it get in the way, Ron. Remember fourth year? The Triwizard Tournament? You nearly destroyed your friendship with Harry because you couldn’t stand not being in the spotlight. And with me—Merlin, Ron, half the fights we’ve had were because you were sulking about attention.”

Her voice softened just a touch, but not kindly—more like she was tired of saying it. “You need to grow up. Life isn’t fair. You’re not always going to be the hero, and that doesn’t make you worthless. Unless you let it.”

Ron ran his hands over his arms, feeling the scars from the brains, yes, but also the canaries—was he just not allowed to have a bloody girlfriend Hermione?(Back then of course, he’d never dream of anyone but ‘Mione now) She lectured him about when he got jealous of Krum but at least he never attacked her.

He swallowed hard. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am just… jealous.” The word tasted bitter in his mouth.

Hermione gave a brisk nod, already returning to her parchment. “You’ll feel better once you stop comparing yourself to everyone else and focus. Channel your energy into something productive. That’s the best advice I can give you.”

Ron sat there a moment longer, staring at her bent head, the scratch of her quill filling the silence. She hadn’t seen him—really seen him—at all. And yet, maybe she was right. Maybe jealousy had rotted him through from the start. Maybe all the things he hated about himself weren’t curses laid on him by fate, but simply who he was.

He stood quietly, the chair legs scraping against the floor as he pushed back. Hermione didn’t look up.

Ron walked out of the library, feeling smaller than when he’d walked in. But a tiny voice, buried under the shame, still whispered: she doesn’t understand.

And maybe—maybe someone else might.

-

The Burrow smelled like pine needles and cinnamon, Molly already fussing over mince pies in the kitchen while fairy lights blinked unevenly along the rafters. Outside, frost crusted the garden gnomes as they tried to run around to get it off, and someone—probably Ginny—had strung holly around the stair banister. It should have felt like home. It didn’t.

Ron found Harry in the sitting room, tossing a Fizzing Whizzbee wrapper into the air and catching it absently. The firelight flickered across his glasses, and for a second Ron almost lost his nerve. But the memory of the Astronomy Tower pressed in again, and he forced himself forward.

“Hey,” Ron said quietly, dropping onto the sofa beside him.

Harry glanced over. “Alright?”

“Not really.” Ron admitted. “You know, with all the dead and it’s the first Christmas without Fred up to something and all that” Ron's voice shook slightly at that. Fred should have lived, he should have.

Harry’s hand stilled mid-throw. For a second, he just stared at Ron, then lowered the wrapper onto his knee.

“Ron, I get it. I really do. But… we all lost people. I lost my parents, Sirius, Dumbledore, Remus, Tonks…” His voice grew rough, then he shook his head. “If I thought about it all the time, I’d go mad. You can’t let yourself sink into it either. You’ve got to keep moving.”

Ron’s chest tightened. “I don’t know if I can.”

Harry gestured around the room, toward the warm glow of the kitchen, the bursts of laughter upstairs, the sound of Ginny humming along with the wireless. “Look at what you have, Ron. You’ve got this—this incredible family. A mum who’d do anything for you, brothers who’ve always got your back. You’ve got more than I ever did.”

Ron looked at the fire, jaw clenched. More than you ever did. He wanted to shout that Harry didn’t understand. That all his brothers had always been better, brighter, louder. That Ginny was the daughter Molly had prayed for after six sons, the girl who’d stolen their mum’s whole heart. That Harry himself fit into the Burrow more neatly than Ron ever had. Least loved by a mother who wanted a daughter. The Horcrux’s words whispered in his head, cruel and true.

“I don’t feel like I’ve got it,” Ron muttered.

Harry leaned back with a sigh, clearly uncomfortable. “You don’t have to feel it. You just… keep going. It gets easier, I promise.”

Ron forced a laugh, brittle in his throat. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Harry gave him a quick, reassuring smile. “You’ll be fine, Ron. You’re stronger than you think.” And just like that, he was back to flicking the wrapper in the air again, as if the conversation were over.
Ron sat there, staring into the fire, the sounds of his family swirling all around him. Everyone laughing, living, loving—everyone except him.

And for the second time in as many days, he realized he was utterly invisible.

-

One more try. Ron thinks. Then he’ll accept it. After all this, he’s still scared.

Christmas Eve at the Burrow was chaos, as always. The smell of roasted chestnuts, the sound of enchanted ornaments shrieking carols slightly off-key, the whole house packed to the beams with Weasleys and Harry in the centre of it all, laughing with Ginny as though he’d always belonged there.

Ron waited until the noise had died down a little, catching his mum in the kitchen busy as ever—stirring gravy with one hand, knitting something with the other, fussing at a stack of mince pies with her wand.

“Mum,” Ron said, hovering in the doorway.

“Mm? Yes, dear, don’t forget to put more wood on the fire, it’s getting chilly—”

“No, Mum. I—I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

She turned briefly, brushing flour off her hands, eyes darting past him toward the hall. “Can it wait until after dinner, Ronnie? I’ve got a dozen things on the go.”

“It’s about me,” he pressed, stepping closer. His heart was hammering in his chest. “I’m not doing well. Since the war. Since Fred. I… I keep thinking I shouldn’t even be here.” His throat caught, and he forced the words out. “I think I need help.”

For half a heartbeat, he thought she’d actually heard him. But then she sighed, rubbing her temple.

“Oh, Ron, don’t start. I lost my son too, remember? You’re not the only one grieving. We’ve all had to carry on, and you must as well.” She patted his arm distractedly, already turning back to the bubbling pots. “Honestly, you should think about how Harry’s doing—he’s been through so much, poor boy. Or Bill, with all those scars. You’re not the only one hurting.”

Ron felt heat rise in his face, something raw and ugly twisting in his chest. I’m your son too, he wanted to scream. Doesn’t that matter? But the words lodged in his throat.

Instead, he just stood there as she moved past him, muttering about pudding and whether the tree had enough tinsel. Each attempt he made to open his mouth, she cut across with another task, another concern, another person to fuss over. Harry. Bill. Even Percy. Never him.

The anger curdled into something colder as he slunk back into the shadows of the sitting room. He hated himself for thinking his mother might have seen him, for believing even for a second that she’d have time to hear her useless, coward son. The Horcrux had been right all along: least loved by a mother who’d wanted a daughter.

Everyone else mattered more. Everyone else was worth saving. He was nothing but dead weight, a disappointment who’d somehow survived when Fred hadn’t. He should have been the one buried in the ground. At least then his mother wouldn’t have to look at him and see a reminder of the son she’d lost.

Ron clenched his fists so hard his nails dug into his palms. His chest burned with rage, but it was drowned in sadness so deep it felt like drowning. He hated himself—his weakness, his cowardice, his constant jealousy. He hated the way he always needed, always begged, always came up short.

And so he made up his mind. He’d stop trying to steal help from people who didn’t have any to give. Everyone would be better off without him—Harry, Hermione, his family, even his mother.
He decided he would dedicate the rest of the holidays to setting things in order: giving away a few things, writing notes, making sure no one would have to deal with his mess. And when he was back at Hogwarts, he would finish what he started.

Ron sat by the fire, silent, watching his family laugh and chatter around Harry as though he were the golden son. His chest ached with longing and bitterness. He would never belong here, not really.

-

The staircase felt longer this time, each step dragging him closer to what he knew he was going to do. Ron’s legs ached, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. The Astronomy Tower loomed above him, the same stone walls he’d traced before. The same cold he remembered. The same thought burning in his chest: end it.

When he stepped onto the top level, the wind hit him like a wall, cutting through his robes. The moonlight made everything look silver, hollow. He walked to the edge, hands trembling, and pressed his toes against the stone lip. There were no professors bursting in this time

And then it started.

The voices. His own voice, twisted and cruel. Hermione’s voice, sharp and dismissive. Harry’s, tired and distant. His mum’s, distracted and full of everyone else but him. The horcrux’s and his siblings and his teachers and his classmates and everyone’s but at the same time no one’s.

You’re useless.

Jealous. Always jealous.

The spare son.

Least loved by a mother who wanted a daughter.

Fred should have lived. You should have died.

The words pounded inside his skull, like fists slamming against bone. He pressed his palms against his ears, but it didn’t help—he couldn’t shut himself up.

Pathetic. Dead weight. Sidekick. Nothing.

Ron’s chest heaved, his throat raw. He wanted to scream, but the night would only throw it back at him.

He thought of Fred again—Fred, who everyone loved, who everyone missed. Fred’s laugh still echoed in the halls, in their house, in their hearts. And what was Ron’s laugh? Annoying. Empty. Forgettable.
Fred had mattered. Ron never had.

His family adored Harry more than him. Even now, at Christmas, Harry was the golden guest, the son Molly had practically adopted. Harry was brave. Harry was important. Harry was the chosen one and he fit the role well. Ron was… Ron. The boy who sat down in the wrong compartment and got stuck in a story too big for him.

You’re nothing.

Always the deadweight sidekick.

Coward. Quitter. Jealous little boy.

The words pulsed with his heartbeat. Louder, sharper, breaking him down. He dug his nails into his palms, trying to hold himself together, but his hands shook.

“I should have died,” he whispered. “I should have died. Not Fred. Not anyone else. Me.”

The wind whipped around him, a cold hand shoving him forward. He leaned out, toes stretching over the edge.

Do it. They’ll all be better off.

No more pitying looks. No more sighs. No more being the disappointment.

You’ll finally give them what they wanted. What they needed.

His vision blurred. He didn’t know if it was tears or the night. His heart slammed against his ribs, each beat screaming: worthless worthless worthless worthless worthless.

Ron closed his eyes. For the first time, he felt calm. No more noise, no more fights, no more watching everyone else shine while he stumbled in the dark.

One step. That was all it took. One step, and he could stop being Ron Weasley.

He stepped into the nothingness.