broken, not shattered
Rating: M (it could also classify as T, however the entire theme of this fic is centered around depression and mental health issues so I just want to be safe)
TW: depression, mental health problems, mentions of drinking, mentions of body issues
Brief Summary: Trapped in a place she never thought she’d be, she writes a letter she may never send—one that holds the truth she’s been running from. Elsewhere, he tries to forget, losing himself in fleeting moments that never last. But when the past finds its way back to him, will he finally face what was left unsaid?
I have always been better with my words on paper than in person. I doubt I will even send you this letter but it is something I have to do to help me move on.
I hate that I broke your heart. It was never my intention. I intended to be yours forever, but sometimes we sabotage ourselves over and over until disaster strikes. The night you proposed to me was the most important moment of my life. It solidified my decision to break up with you.
It sounds harsh, maybe a little funny, though there’s nothing funny about breaking the heart of the one you love the most.
I need you to know that I broke your heart that night, because broken glass, unlike shattered, can be put together again. You deserve to be put back together again. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. And you deserve to have someone be the best thing that has ever happened to you. It just couldn’t be me.
As I sit here, grey and cold concrete walls surrounding me, I often find myself thinking about you. About us. The way your hand always seemed to find the small of my back when you kissed me so deeply I could feel it in my soul. How your lips felt against my neck, soft and tender. The way your words always had a deeper meaning when looking in your eyes. Your eyes are the way to my soul, Ronald.
I miss them every day I am stuck in this lifeless hole of unseasoned meals and disappointing doctor’s visits. ‘She isn’t getting better,’ they say. Maybe I don’t want to get better. There’s no reason for me to get better. I already broke you so why do I deserve to get better?
I watched your tears run down your cheeks that night. Watched as your hands shook so hard you dropped the ring to the ground. Watched as you walked right out of my life because I refused to shatter it. Breaking your heart was the less hurtful option. I don’t think I ever deserved you, to be honest. I couldn’t give you the love you gave me. I failed to show you even just the smallest piece of what you meant to me.
I still have the picture you kept of us in your wallet, by the way. It has faded a bit since then, just like our memories together fade into greater distance each day I continue to live in this huge, unfair universe.
Ron, I love you, still. I just hate myself.
Every day I wake up in this dark hole, demons surrounding me. They are worse than death eaters sucking out your soul. They attack your whole body.
Sometimes I wake up and they are slightly less evil and I think I might be getting better, but then I realize I’m only better cause I dreamt of you. To be honest I am only still alive because the memories of you keep me going.
It’s extremely unfair of me to tell you this. You have a heart of gold, Ron and I know you would do anything to bring me light so you could guide me out of this darkness, but that’s not fair. You deserve to keep your own light. You shouldn’t need to guide someone who didn’t deserve your light.
To put it into the simplest form of words: You are everything to me, Ron.
Breaking your heart was to make sure I didn’t ruin you. You are a part of me, I can’t change that and I don’t want to, but I don’t need to be a part of you.
Hermione dropped her quill with a sigh. Her cheeks wet from tears she didn’t even realise she had shed. She leaned back in her chair and forced her hand to stop shaking. Outside, the wind roared, rain pounding against the small window of her room. She had never related to the weather more.
“Miss Granger, Dinner is about to begin.”
“Thank you, Grace,” She smiled at the tiny woman in a white gown, “I’ll be right down.”
Hermione listened as the soft sounds of footsteps slowly moved away from her room and sighed again. She glanced at the letter wiping her tears and then she stood up and left.
She had always hated the bright yellow colour of the walls at St. Catherine’s. When she got here 3 months ago the head nurse Marin had explained that they had chosen this colour to brighten people’s days. Hermione scoffs at the memory. If anything these walls made her more depressed. They almost felt offensive to anyone who dared to have a bad day. And Hermione had only had bad days since she got here.
Entering the dining hall of the hell hole she put herself in, she was immediately overwhelmed by the noise. Cutlery scraping plates created a high-pitched noise which reminded her of the screams in her nightmares. People were chatting pretending they weren’t here because they were utterly depressed. She hated it when people pretended.
She sat alone during dinner. She usually did. It left her alone with her thoughts that often made her feel even worse about herself. But she would rather feel horrible about herself than have to interact with people who would ask how she was doing. The doctors already did that enough.
“How are you, today?” has become her most dreaded question of every day.
Hermione ate slowly. Some might say too slow. Her doctors did. She had lost weight is what they said. She wouldn’t know since mirrors are strictly forbidden. Though one time she found herself looking at herself in a tinted window and hating the person looking back at her.
Once finished with her food she dragged herself back to her room, closing the door behind her, hoping the only people bothering her would be the characters of the book she had been reading.
She sighed, she did that a lot these days. Looking around her room her eyes landed on her empty desk.
Ron groaned as he stretched his limbs out. His head was pounding and every movement felt like a workout. The covers of his bed felt warm. Too warm. He huffed as he pulled the sheets off of him only for them to get stuck halfway. He rolled his eyes using more force to rip them off his body. He jumped when he heard a soft hum next to him. His eyes fell onto the brunette girl lying beside him.
Ron massaged his temple desperately trying to remember what had happened last night. He went out with Harry and George. He got drunk. Really drunk. And now he is in bed with some random brunette girl.
This wasn’t new to him. If he was honest with himself this had been his routine for about a month. He wouldn’t say he particularly enjoyed it but feeling horrible was better than feeling nothing at all.
Ron slid out of bed, put on a fresh shirt and pants and went downstairs. Entering the kitchen he saw his sister sipping on a cup of tea while reading the newest edition of the Prophet“Anything interesting?”
“Harry and I got divorced again,” Ginny said.
“The third time this week. Is that a new record?”
“Bloody hell, Rita is getting more senile with the minute, huh?”
Ginny chuckled, “She’s been senile since the 90s.”
Ron opened the old cabinet above the stove and took out a mug, pouring himself a cup of tea as well.
“Brought home someone again?” Ginny asked, her tone judgemental.
“Come off it,” Ron spat, “it is none of your business.”“It’s my house, Ron.”
“Whatever,” he took a sip of his tea and cussed under his breath as he burned his tongue.
“Did you at least say goodbye to her?”
“You know I don’t. They’ll get attached.”
Ron didn’t care anymore what people thought of him. He spent too much time wasting that on the one person who broke him regardless.
“This is not you, Ron. I know you,” Ginny didn’t take her eyes off him.
“You need to get over her.”“I am.”
“Stop lying to yourself.”
“I don’t need your advice,” Ron jumped up and hurried out of the kitchen, not daring to look back at his sister.
They had had this exact conversation a lot ever since Hermione left him. Originally, Ginny was the one who held him as he sobbed into her. That night when he had nowhere to go but Grimmauld’s place, because he couldn’t stand being around Hermione for even a second longer. He never thought his little sister would be his rock, but she stepped up when he needed her most.
He didn’t understand what he did. He hasn’t figured it out yet. She didn’t tell him. She wasn’t obligated to, of course, but Ron had hoped 2 years of dating and 7 years of friendship would make him worth enough to receive an explanation. He sought her out, but she never spoke to him again.
He spent weeks wondering what moments exactly had led up to his life falling apart and ultimately landed on him being too much. Too much for anyone. Especially her.
Harry and Ginny were nice enough to take him in. Suddenly he found himself in his old bedroom at Grimmauld Place, feeling like he was 18 again.
Ginny’s comfort over time turned into honesty. She was one of the most grounded people Ron had ever known and deep down he knew it was only a matter of time before she tried to talk some sense into him. But he refuses to listen. Refusing to let anyone tell him he had to get back on track when he didn’t want to. He knew he lied when he said he was over Hermione. How could anyone ever get over the reason that kept you fighting through a war? She was his future, and he thought he was hers. Ginny knew this too. She can see through his lies like no one else.
Ron went to the bathroom and splashed water on his face. He thrust open the cabinet taking out pepperup potion to get rid of his headache. Turning on the shower to the hottest option possible, he got undressed and stepped into the stream of water. He hissed as his skin came in contact with the burning sensation of the water. He closed his eyes and let the heat run down his back.
Closing his eyes he thinks about the summer after the war when he first moved into Grimmauld. He remembers how Hermione and he would constantly find themselves in this very shower. Back when they still had to figure out what the other liked and what didn’t. Back when the innocence of their brand new relationship overpowered the trauma they had gone through in the war.
Closing his hand around his member, he remembers how Hermione would gently brush up and down his arm, making sure he would feel how sorry she felt for the scars she had caused him. He never blamed her for them, but that didn’t keep her from apologizing about it. He remembers how her lips felt against his. How her hair would tickle his face whenever she kissed him on the neck, trailing soft promises from his skin to his soul.
He curses, slamming against the wall as he comes undone and he isn’t sure if the running water was the only reason his cheeks felt wet and his eyes felt red.
He stepped out of the bathroom with only a towel and dragged himself to his room. His bed was empty and he felt bad for the girl that was kind enough to distract him from his pathetic life. He was sure she was nice, but he couldn’t remember. Ron put on another pair of fresh clothes when Harry shouted from downstairs, “Ron! You’ve got mail, mate.”
He grunted, “It’s Saturday, Robards can piss off, I am off duty.”
“It is not from Robards.”
This confused him, he only got mail from work. Making his way down the stairs he caught Harry’s suspicious look immediately.
“Trust me, I was surprised too.”
“Is that why you look like you just saw a ghost?”
Harry sighed and handed him the envelope.
Psychiatric Ward, St. Catherine’s Hospital
