Dear Nobody

Additional disclaimer: This is a translation! I (pandora903) am not the author! The original is written in German by Zerengeb, it can be found here. Translation done with author's permission. Reviews made here will be forwarded to the author.

A/N: Nothing belongs to me, only the plot. All I earn are reviews ;-)

Content: A little story which I'm going to split up into several chapters. Ron Weasley tries to cope with the aftermath of the Great War, which proves more difficult than he could have suspected.

There'll probably be some explicit display of violence, but I'll warn with a note.

T(Translator's)/N: He actually doesn't do that. But there'll be some explicit violence in the forthcoming chapters. So be prepared ;-)

Many thanks to my beta Melissa. What would I have done without you?! ;-)

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"I'm sorry, but I just can't," Ron explained deliberately.

His eyes were fixed and cold sweat moistened his forehead. Pictures zoomed in front of his eyes, cruel, brutal and merciless.

Memories. Nightmares.

An old story of ideals, idiotic ideologies and mindless bloodshed. The memories that had been disturbing his sleep for years now, that had turned it into something threatening. And these flashbacks...

Like last week in Knockturn Alley.

All he wanted to do was buy some owl food on his way back home from the ministry. But then he saw the figure with the black hood and instantly those pictures flashed before his eyes.

He was surrounded by these faceless figures. Death Eaters. Ron got caught in an ambush.

He drew his wand and started to disarm them. Throwing curse after curse until he got blown off his feet by a Cruciatus.

The pain was unbearable! It was hot and intense and all Ron wished for was release. Death with its comforting coldness and the endless silence, far away from the heat of the pain and the sound of his own screams. He wouldn't have to feel anything anymore, no pain, no mourning and no regret.

Then he had woken up in a Ministry cell where he had been told that he had run amok in Diagon Alley and hurt many people.

Nothing could have shocked him more.

Two days ago he had had a flashback again.

He hadn't realized it until the next day when he saw his wife Laura again. She had a big violet bruise in her face.

Ron couldn't believe that he was responsible for it but that was what she had told him.

But it wasn't only the flashbacks that tortured him.

No, there was also the constant fear that they could get him eventually.

Even after the war had ended many years ago he couldn't overcome his habit of always having his wand within reach. He couldn't overcome wandering into a dark corner near the door on big events. He did it in order to survey all people in the room and to be able to rescue himself if it became too risky.

And those nightmares that robbed him of his sleep.

He saw them all die, in front of his eyes, and he was completely helpless.

Yes, Ronald Weasley had experienced a lot during this war and it had forever changed his life.

And he owed it to this incident in Diagon Alley that he was sitting here now.

He had been prescribed a therapy he was supposed to attend if he didn't want to go to Azkaban.

Even though he loathed all those therapists for they were all quacksalvers.

But if it meant not having to go to Azkaban. Never, ever again would he go near a Dementor. He'd rather die, or attend a therapy which was even worse than death, than face a Dementor.

And now?

Now he lay there, on this comfortable bordeaux-colored couch in the well-furnished office gazing at the cream-colored ceiling.

Dr. Padma Patil, Great Britain's best headshrinker (pardon, therapist) was attending to him and asking uncomfortable questions.

"Now please stop pretending to be so pigheaded, Ron," she sighed, irritated.

"I won't bloody talk about this bloody war because it's none of your bloody business!" he spat.

She surveyed him with her brown eyes and threw her silky black hair over her shoulder in an offended manner.

"You seem to have developed a very special relationship with the word 'bloody'", she stated.

Ron sat himself up and sighed deeply.

"I don't know what the hell I'm doing here," he snarled.

"The other option's called four months Azkaban," his old friend responded matter-of-factly.

Ron swallowed.

Actually, he wasn't angry at her, but at himself, at his weakness. Padma Patil was, after all, one of the few survivors of his own year and had become a good friend.

Even though her profession made her seem like the incarnate antichrist to him, but that just secondary...

"So, what now?" she asked slowly, tapping impatiently on the notepad she carried around to take notes.

"What should I, the poor madman tell you? That I left my mental health somewhere on the battlefield? Sorry, but we both know that I'm a wreck. What help is talking about it?"

"You'll feel better," she explained patiently.

"You think so? It's enough seeing these images in my dreams. I don't have to talk about it, too," he answered stubbornly.

Padma sighed and pushed her glasses up to her head before rubbing her eyes, unnerved.

"Now listen to me very carefully, Ron! Not only have you suffered during the war. I've also lost many people and experienced a lot. I've been through therapy and I have been able to cope with it. I can't forget it, but I have learned to deal and live with it. Just let me help you."

Ron bristled with anger.

"You don't get it, do you? You think you have undergone tremendous things? I've always been in the front rank, in every goddamn battle. I've always been in the thick of it. You've seen only few of the real cruelties. But I'm the only man still alive who has seen everything, really everything. I'm the only one who knows how this war really was like. You don't understand a thing, nothing at all, none of you!"

He was wrathful and irrational, he knew it. All she wanted was to help him and he was being stubborn.

But that was what he was like.

"Believe me, Ron, I can imagine what you lived through. I didn't forget your fiery speech when you were awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class," she replied.

Ron had to smile when this memory came to his mind, in spite of the serious situation.

Oh yes, he had thanked Minister Fudge properly.

He couldn't even specify what he had entitled Fudge exactly, but he had been very creative. And the horror-stricken face of that lumpy moron had really brightened Ron's day.

He had lots of photos of it which he always looked at whenever he wanted to laugh heartily.

But that was another topic.

"I beg you, Padma. I can't and I won't talk about it. It's my experience. It's about my sins, about my pain. It belongs to me and I don't wanna share it."

"But you have to deal with it somehow," she insisted.

Padma was at the end of her tether.

Ronald Weasley was the most stubborn pighead she ever wanted to psychoanalyze. This was already the third session during which they argued, always with the same result: he became angry and left.

But she had imagined something that he couldn't, and mustn't decline if he didn't want to go to Azkaban.

"Alright Ron. You don't want to talk about it. Fine," she said, resigning.

"Honestly?" Ron asked and his face lightened up.

She nodded slowly and answered, "Honestly. We won't talk about it."

Ron grinned slightly.

The insufferable Weasley pighead had triumphed, as always.

"You won't talk about it, so you'll write something," she explained sweetly.

"WHAAAT?" he screamed.

"Damn, I don't wanna write about it either," Ron snarled angrily.

But she stayed tough.

"You will write about it. You lost many people and I want you to write to each of them. A nice, long letter for each. If you don't, I have no choice and you'll end up directly in Azkaban. The first letter is due the day after tomorrow, understood?"

Ron gazed at her, furious.

"Is that your last word?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Then goodbye!"

The door banged shut behind him and he apparated directly home into his study.

He walked back and forth a long time, steaming with rage.

Afterwards he stopped at the window and looked out into the garden of his house where his wife Laura played, laughing, with his daughter and his son.

They were the center of his life.

His daughter Hermione was now 13 years old und went to Hogwarts. She'd start her third year this summer. Just like her eponym she had outstanding marks and loved books. His eleven-year-old son Harry would go to Hogwarts this year and was a bit more like himself. A little short-tempered and cynical but also faithful and brave.

They all were his pride and joy, his one and only. The center of his life.

And then there was Laura.

She was his age and a Muggle.

He saved her from the Death Eaters. They had married during the war, 16 years ago. Hermione was one of the first children that had been born into the new Golden Era.

Laura laughed heartily when Harry overeagerly tripped over a root and turned various somersaults. When he stood up, he railed against his own clumsiness.

Then she turned her head and Ron could see the bruise again which he obviously caused during a blackout.

Damn.

It didn't help, he had to do it. He had to try.

Fight his inner demons because he never wanted to hit his beloved wife again.

Maybe he'd even be a danger to his children. He didn't want to think about that...

Deliberately, he fetched a feather, ink and a roll of parchment.

He considered for a long time to whom he should write first. Therefore he started chronologically.

Slowly he dipped the feather into the inkpot and started writing.