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Ron remembered hearing Hermione say that war left wounds that couldn't be seen.
Ron wished he hadn't yet been able to understand what Hermione meant by that.
Fred's death was an open wound: it still bled despite the time that had passed. Ron couldn't look at George without crying and broke up, and he knew it was a problem they all shared.
If it wasn’t for Harry's support and help, Ron didn't believe any of them would have been able to get their lives back on track.
But Harry had supported them. He'd cooked for them, washed their sheets, and forced them all to move, talk, interact, survive and then start again to live.
George had started being George again, though sometimes he'd wait for someone to complete the sentence he'd begun, casting a shadow over them, a shadow that Harry would always clear, as if he knew exactly what he had to do to help all of them.
They had started to feel better, almost well. Not well in the normal sense; Ron wasn't naive enough to think it was possible to feel well so quickly.
None of them were well.
And, of all of them, Harry seemed to be the one who was doing the best: he'd returned to Hogwarts for a few weeks, had started laughing again, was eating regularly, and was getting at least five or six hours of sleep a night.
Ron had believed it.
He'd even been confused by the way Harry had started complaining about his homework again, since he still hadn't figured out why he was doing it, since Harry hadn't yet decided what he wanted to do with his life.
Until one evening, when Ron and Harry were alone, Harry forgot to breathe.
Ron was talking about something that had happened at the shop, gesturing with a fork as he tried to explain why he thought selling a set of dung bombs to an eight-year-old was a terrible idea, when Harry suddenly stopped eating.
He hadn't said anything. He hadn't done anything in particular. He'd simply put his fork down and stared at the table, a blank expression on his face.
Ron continued talking for a few seconds before realizing Harry wasn't listening.
"Harry?"
No answer.
Ron knew him well enough to know that reaction didn't mean anything good.
"Are you okay?"
Harry looked up. And then he had the nerve to smile at Ron.
With that small, quiet, almost reassuring smile, which seemed designed to convince others there was nothing to worry about.
"I'm fine."
Ron nodded.
It was the answer Harry had been giving for months. Maybe years.
That night, however, something had bothered him.
He still didn't know what it was.
He figured it out three days later.
Harry had just gotten out of the shower when he found Ron sitting on his bed.
"What are you doing here?"
"I've been waiting for you."
"Why?"
Ron shrugged. "I wanted to talk to you."
"Okay." Harry sat down across from him.
He was calm. Alert. Ready. As if he'd entered a room knowing someone was about to question him.
Ron watched him for a few seconds, wondering if that was something Harry had been unconsciously waiting and anticipating his entire life.
"When did you start to feel better?"
Harry frowned. "What?"
"When did you start to feel better."
"I don't know."
"I thought it was a simple question."
"It is."
"So?"
Harry looked down. "I'm fine."
Ron felt something tighten in his stomach. "That's not what I asked."
Harry ran a hand through his hair. "Ron..."
"No."
"Ron."
"No, really. Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"That thing."
Harry looked at him, confused. "What thing?"
"The one where you pretend not to understand."
Harry stood still, without daring to interrupt Ron.
"The one where you pretend to be fine and make it impossible for anyone to help you." Ron stood up. "You're not fine."
"I'm fine."
"That's not true."
"Ron."
"That's not true!" His voice came out louder than he expected.
Harry flinched.
It was only for a moment.
But Ron saw it.
And suddenly he understood.
Harry wasn't hiding the pain because he didn't want others to see it.
He was hiding it because he was afraid of what would happen if they did.
Ron lowered his voice. "How long?"
Harry didn't answer.
"How long have you been doing this?"
More silence.
"Harry."
"I don't know."
"Try to guess."
Harry shrugged. "Since I realized it was easier."
"Easier what?"
"Pretending."
The words were almost inaudible.
Ron remained still.
Harry continued to look at the floor. "At first, I tried to say when I was unwell." His voice trembled slightly. "But everyone had so much to deal with already."
Ron felt his chest tighten. "Harry..."
"George had lost Fred. Hermione had lost so many people. You..." Harry swallowed. "You had lost your brother."
"You too."
"I know." Harry smiled faintly. It wasn't a happy smile. It wasn't even a fake smile. It was a resigned smile. "But I was the one who defeated Voldemort."
Ron didn't say anything.
"So I was supposed to be okay." Harry clenched his hands. "When I was angry, they said it was normal. When I was sad, they said it would pass. When I was scared, someone told me it was over." He paused. "That's how I learned."
"To do what?"
"To know when not to say it."
Ron felt a chill run down his spine.
Harry continued speaking, looking at his hands. "If I wake up from a nightmare, I wait for it to pass."
"Harry..."
"If I can't breathe, I go to the bathroom and wait."
"Harry."
"If I think about Sirius..." His voice cracked. This time he didn't even try to hide it. "...I just don't say it."
Ron sat down next to him.
Harry quickly wiped his eyes.
"Why?" The question came out almost in a whisper. Ron wasn't sure he really wanted an answer, not after seeing Harry's eyes.
"Because I was afraid."
"Of what?"
Harry finally looked at him. "That if I kept feeling sick, you'd eventually get tired of me."
Ron was speechless.
Harry lowered his eyes again. "That you'd think I wasn't doing enough to get better."
"Harry..."
"That you'd say it'd been too long."
"Harry."
"That you'd decide I needed to stop."
Ron grabbed his hand.
Harry stiffened.
Ron didn't let go. "You're an idiot."
Harry looked at him, confused.
"A colossal idiot."
"Thanks."
"I'm not done yet."
Harry smiled slightly.
Ron squeezed his hand. "You don't have to be well to stay here with us."
The smile faded from Harry's face.
Ron continued. "You don't have to be the one who's better. You don't have to be the brave one. And you don't have to be the one who saves everyone."
Harry inhaled slowly. "What if I..." He stopped.
Ron waited.
"What if I don't know how to ask for help?"
"Then don't ask."
Harry looked at him. "I don't understand."
"You don't have to ask." Ron squeezed his hand. "When you can't say you're sick, come to me."
Harry stood still.
"You don't have to talk." Ron shrugged. "We can sit here. We can eat. We can watch something stupid. We can talk about Quidditch for six hours."
"I don't really want to talk about Quidditch for six hours."
"Five."
"Ron."
"Four and a half."
Harry laughed. It was a small laugh. Fragile. But real.
Ron smiled. "See?"
"What?"
"This."
Harry frowned.
"You don't have to hide this, either."
Harry lowered his eyes.
For a few seconds he didn't say anything.
Then he slowly leaned against Ron's shoulder.
Ron said nothing.
He didn't make any jokes.
He didn't ask if he was better.
He just stood there.
And that evening, Harry didn't say he was fine.
For the first time in months, he didn't need it.