Dancing with Ghosts
Ron wasn't entirely sure how he should take their mum's suggestion that he move in with George and help with the shop. Sure, it really was a brilliant suggestion, but at the same time, he wasn't sure if she was just sick of having him mope around the Burrow. He wasn't like Harry, Hermione, even Ginny, with their jobs at the Ministry, and playing professional Quidditch. He felt so lonely, so cold. Hermione hadn't been able to take it, and he couldn't blame her, of course. She was a nice enough girl, but, he didn't really love her, and certainly not like she deserved. The fact that she still came around when she could and checked on him just made him feel like more of a git.
He shifted his bag from hand to hand, looking around the flat above the shop. He hadn't really been much, had really only seen George when he's stopped by the Burrow. He'd made up excuses of every colour, but the truth was that he'd been afraid it would hurt too much. That he'd look around and not be able to stop seeing Fred. Everyone else seemed to be getting on; he knew mum would never really recover, but she was strong, had to be to keep the lot of them going. She busied herself with them to keep from thinking about it, and Ron couldn't blame her.
Every morning he half expected to see George and Fred peering over the headboard of his bed, either waiting for him to realize some new and horrible prank they'd pulled on him, or telling him about a plan they had, and wouldn't it be brilliant. That day never happened, and it was hard to face the fact that it never would, that Fred was gone, really gone. He'd been close to them, closer than anyone, and losing Fred was like losing part of his heart. He'd loved him, as more than a brother, same as he loved George, but he didn't talk about it, had never told anyone. Never would.
Being here didn't hurt as much as he thought it would. If anything, it was bittersweet, tinged his sadness with memories, with happier times and laughter and the thrill of making things. He ran a hand through his shockingly red hair, shrugging his shoulders. "Where should I put my things?" He thought he knew, but figured he'd let George tell him. For all he knew George might have taken to sleeping in Fred's bed, trying to cling to what vestiges of his brother there still were.
Ron knew he would.