Survivor, Part 2 (A), Harry/Hermione, Ron
Author: atruwriter
Genre: Tragedy/Romance/Drama
Rating: R
Spoilers: I haven't read Deathly Hallows, this story was written before the book came out and I can't say whether or not spoilers are included. As far as I know, no. I doubt JK and I were on the same wavelength.
Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to any Harry Potter whatsoever. I own only my creative thought process and the characters I make up on a whim. Ownership of all else lies solely in the hands of others.
Images: Chapter image and banner by Alora of The Dark Arts!
Summary: Waiting. He was always waiting. He'd already buried one best friend and now the other will follow. There was nothing he could do or say. There was no Harry without Hermione. Ron witnessed the beginning and now he must accept the end. HHr. 4-parts
Warning: Character death, character suicide - Please do not read unless you are prepared to cry. Very serious content matter!!!
Survivor
by: atruwriter
2/4
Ron couldn't quite remember what happened after that. He thought maybe Harry walked Hermione up to the castle, but he wasn't sure what he did with her body. He knew that Harry wasn't speaking to anybody, wasn't going near anyone. After they returned to the school, Ron had holed himself up in the Gryffindor boy's dormitory, where he curled up in his old bed and he stared hauntingly out at nothing. He never heard Harry come back to the tower and when asked if he knew where Harry went, he told them to check the library, because that was Hermione's favorite place. He never found out if that was where his best friends were, he simply laid, waiting. He wasn't sure what he was waiting for. The world to end, perhaps. Because the ending was all wrong and that meant that something in the universe was off course. The world had to collapse sometime. His eyes teared up when he thought of Hermione, saying in her clear, precise voice, “Don't be silly, Ronald, the world is not going to end. You sound like Trelawney, and we all know how I feel about that- that- woman.”
His mother came to see him, but Ron said nothing to her, had nothing to say. She sat beside him, stroking his hair, and some part of him wanted to be that eleven year old she was talking about before. But she told him he could never go back to that, and he hated that she was right. He wanted to be that innocent boy again, the one who didn't battle Death Eaters or face giant spiders or live each day trying to fight for a better world. He wanted to be normal. But normal would have kept him from Harry and Hermione, and he couldn't help but wonder which was worse or better. To be normal and not have them would mean he wasn't hurting now, but never to have them at all... wasn't that so much worse? He wouldn't have the memories of Hermione's nagging and her bushy hair or the way her hands always found her hips when she was irritated, or her voice as she said, “Oh honestly!” with exasperation. And he wouldn't have all those times with Harry, playing Quidditch or chess or just hanging out. He wouldn't have Harry's friendship or the kinship bred over seven years. Could he handle not having that? Better to have loved and lost then never to have loved at all, right? He didn't know. He just knew that everything hurt.
He wasn't sure when Luna came into his room, but he remembered feeling just a little bit better when her arms wrapped around him. He didn't say a word, but then, she never asked him to. She buried her face against his back and she hummed the tune to “Weasley is our King,” and somehow, in some absurd way, that was comforting. And he took her hand, holding it tight, and he cried. Hot tears rolling down his cheeks and his chest tensing and burning with his fear and his loss. He wanted to say something, wanted to tell her how wrong it all was, but no words came. And still, she whispered against him, “I know... I know.” And she did. He wasn't sure how, but she did. He wasn't anywhere near better, wasn't sure he ever would be, but having her there, at least soothed the little piece of the old Ron so that he wasn't crying in the corner any more, but only sniffling.
Hermione's funeral was a few days later, separate from those of the other losses, which were buried in one large ceremony. Remus arranged all of it, made sure it was very private and that nobody from the press were allowed near the ceremony. Harry hadn't spoken since the war, not to anyone. He hardly looked at anybody and he wasn't eating, no matter how much Molly forced food on him. He holed himself up in the library while they were at Hogwarts, sitting at a table with stacks of books all around him. The twins told Ron that he wasn't doing anything but sitting with the books, simply sitting and staring out blankly. They had tried to talk to Harry, to cheer him up in some way, but they had failed like all the rest. Ginny had been trying to get him to eat, to speak, to sleep, but Harry didn't acknowledge her. Molly and Arthur had both gone in and sat down with him, talking to him for hours about how he still had a future, he could live for Hermione, do all that they talked about. But Harry simply stared forward, his expression dull and lacking any interest in their words. Tonks had purposely tripped over books and chairs, trying to get his attention, but the most she got was Harry picking the books back up, brushing them off carefully and putting them back in their respectful places. Ron was sure that was only because it would have bothered Hermione to see books treated in such a manner. Ron didn't go to Harry, although everybody begged him to. He was sure that Harry didn't want to see him yet, and he honestly didn't want to see Harry.
Standing in front of Hermione's open grave, the casket not lowered yet, Ron's heart clenched. The long casket was pearl white and gold, clean and shining beneath the glittering sun. Flowers surrounded her, wreaths, bouquets, and baskets of them. A burst of colour, pink, yellow, red, and purple. Ron could feel Luna's hand in his and he squeezed it tightly as a man dressed in white robes talked about death and God and how Hermione would go to a place where everything was peaceful. He could see the Granger's off to the side, crying and holding each other up. Hermione's mum kept looking over at Harry, who was standing alone, because he didn't want anybody near him. Any time somebody got close, he raised his chin and stared directly at them, and that dead look in his eyes ran everybody back to their respective places. It's not that they don't love him or support him, it's that he wasn't the Harry they knew anymore, and Ron's words still echo in their mind. “Hermione's dead,” and “ Unless you want to die, get away from him.” And maybe Harry wouldn't kill them, maybe he'd shrug them off or just injure them minimally, but Ron wasn't completely sure on any point.
Harry stared down at the casket, his hands clasped in front of him and his face so tight and pale that he looked like a walking corpse. There was one flower in his tightly knotted hands, a perfect white lily that stands out starkly against his all black ensemble. It's all he wore anymore. His shirts, his pants, his robes. He seemed darker, like a shadow of his old self, simply walking through life, waiting for it to end. Ron wished he could pull him out of it, but he couldn't say he was much better than his friend. His own appearance was lacking, given that he wasn't sleeping much, or eating unless forced. He only slept when Luna held him, which was hard to explain to his mum and she couldn't always be there for him. At least he had Luna, he would think bitterly. Harry had no one.
When the man at the front finally stopped talking, people stepped forward to lay their flowers out on Hermione's casket and say their goodbyes. Ron watched as the Granger's came forward, each placing a white rose on top of the wild colourful array of flowers laid out. Mrs. Granger stroked the polished white of the coffin, shaking her head and murmuring something under her breath. Her husband was holding her up, his hands wrapped tightly around her shoulder. Ron can't help but feel sorry for them, because they didn't belong to this world, couldn't understand what was really going on, and yet their daughter was killed for it. Two Muggles lost their daughter because an insane, evil wizard thought he was better than everybody else. Because he convinced pureblooded wizards and witches that he could give them power. They'd never see their daughter again because of greed.
Ron's eyes followed each Weasley as they lined up, passing by and placing their flowers on the casket of a girl who had meant so much in their lives. He overheard the twins mention how they'd miss her lectures about following rules and might even consider listening to one or two in the future, just for her. Molly's words were muffled by her sobbing and Arthur soothed his wife, unable to really convey anything to the girl he considered to be like a second daughter. Bill and Charlie said something about bravery, about wishing they could've known her better, about losing the smartest honorary Weasley they'd ever known. Ginny talked about sisters and friendship, of a bond she'd never have with anybody else. And they moved on, they all stepped back, because there isn't anything left to say. How does anybody say goodbye, really? It wasn't as easy as it seemed, and Ron didn't know what was expected of him.
He watched as Neville, sniffling and mumbling his gratitude about her always being there for him, always helping him, never making him feel useless, dropped a bouquet of yellow flowers on top of all the others and stumbled back to stand by Ginny, wiping his face with his sleeve. Remus and Tonks walked forward, the older professor staring down with a drawn, tight expression. He said something that sounded a lot like, “brightest witch I've known since Lily,” and instead of flowers, placed a thin book that Ron didn't know the title of on top. Before walking away, Remus added, “Perfect O, Hermione, well done.”
Luna squeezed Ron's hand as he moved to give his farewell to his best friend. His knees shook beneath him, his heart hammering in his chest, and he thought, for one moment, that maybe if he tried really hard, he could magic it all away. Like how his mother use to kiss his injuries and somehow they were better, he'd just close his eyes tight, make a wish, and all the magic in the world would come together to grant him this one reprieve. And she'd rise up, brush herself off, and take Harry into her arms. And then the trio would be reunited, life would go on, and he'd never have to look back on this dark day again. But as he stood next to her coffin, his hands bunched up by his sides, his eyes shut painfully, he wished and he prayed, and not one thing happened. The wind brushed his face, the sobbing continued behind him, the darkness still permeated the Earth. So he put the bunch of flowers he had in his hand, red and white roses, on the casket lid, and he stared down at it, sickened at knowing she was lying inside.
“I should have done my homework,” he told her, his voice quavering. “I should have listened to you more when you told me to do things. And I shouldn't have called you all those names over the years,” he admitted, his mouth shaking. “I should have read more books and learned more spells, and maybe I would have made it to you before they killed you,” he said, his voice cracking. “I should have shouted louder when I saw Bellatrix and I should have killed her the second I saw her. If I had been a little closer...” He shook his head, tears falling down his cheeks. His breathing was labored, his throat aching against the need to sob. “I should have told you more often that you were one of my best friends, even if I made fun of you for your weird love of books.”
He sniffled, closing his eyes for a moment, before inhaling a shuddering breath. “It should have been me out there, not you. Because the world needs smart witches like you, witches who don't give up, who want what's best for the world.” His chin rose an inch, his eyes falling on Harry, “Because Harry needs you and I can't... I can't be for him what you were. Stability, patience, kindness, and understanding. I don't think anybody could be what you were.” Ron sighed, his shoulders shaking and his stomach twisting painfully. “Wherever you are, I want you to know that books and cleverness weren't all you were, you were so much more than that, and I... I admired you for that. I still do. I always will.” Nodding jerkily, Ron let go of the coffin and stepped back. “Goodbye for now, Hermione.” Luna stepped up next to him, placing a multi-coloured plant beside his flowers and took his hand, leading him back to stand near his family.
Harry was last and Ron noticed that it seemed everybody was on edge, waiting and watching as he stepped up to Hermione's casket. Part of him was waiting for some sort of emotional explosion. For Harry to finally break, to shout and scream or tear something up. He had been waiting for Harry to blow up, but it hadn't happened yet. He'd been empty and separate from anyone for so long, but not in a brooding way. It wasn't as if he was trying to gain attention, or even wanted somebody to cheer him up. He was just there, a shell of the boy he had been before the war, and Ron was quite certain that nothing was going to change him back to the old Harry. That time was over and this was what they were left with. Maybe he would heal, his parents had high hopes that Harry would, but Ron didn't think so. It was too much, too late.
Harry walked to the casket slowly, the end of his robes floating around him dramatically from the heavy wind. He stopped at the head of the coffin, placing the fully bloomed, creamy lily on the white top. His hand stayed over the stem of the flower while he stared down at the casket, his jaw twitching and his green eyes staring down sadly. Two lone tears slipped down from his eyes and the only words he'd spoken in three long days slipped out, hoarse and thick with emotion, “I'll be with you soon, Love.”
Without another word, another look at anybody around him, Harry left the cemetery, his back straight, his eyes forward. Ron could hear his mother crying harder, trying through her sobs to tell Arthur that she couldn't lose him, too. Ron felt he should tell them Harry was already lost, but kept it to himself. He stood rigidly, watching his best friend walk away, a heavy feeling in his chest. He was certain he knew what Harry would do. Bellatrix and Malfoy hadn't yet been found and captured. They escaped Hogwarts grounds after the battle, though Moody speculated if they would survive the Forbidden Forest. Harry may have seemed in a catatonic state for the last while, but Ron was fairly sure he was just waiting until he knew for a fact that Malfoy and Bellatrix were alive or dead. Had they been proven dead, then Harry might have shared a funeral with Hermione today, but because he was certain they weren't, he would live awhile longer. As long as it took.
“Excuse me,” a voice interrupted his thoughts.
Ron turned his head, coming face to face with Mr and Mrs Granger. He nodded politely, wondering why they were talking to him. He hadn't met them over the years, remembering only seeing them from afar once. His father had had more interaction with them than he had. He cleared his throat, “Can I help you?” he asked them.
Mr Granger nodded stiffly, his eyes darting from Ron to Hermione's coffin and then out into the cemetery. “The man who just left,” he began quietly, “My wife was wondering if he was... if he was Harry?” he asked, looking down at Ron, his eyes the same brown as Hermione's. Ron thought they might've held the same friendly compassion, were they not so clouded with grief. Mr. Granger swallowed, “We heard all about him through letters and my wife mentioned that he resembled how Hermione described him. We were just... we were hoping we could speak to him.” He shook his head, sighing, “We didn't get to see Hermione much these last few years. Our only real communication was through letters and we got the feeling that Harry knew her well,” he said, sounding uncomfortable.
Ron stared at him, frowning over how much the war and his world had disconnected Hermione from her family. “That was Harry,” he confirmed, nodding. “And you're right, if you wanted to know more about Hermione, Harry would be who you talked to.” He winced, shaking his head. “I don't think that'll be possible though.”
Mrs. Granger's head lifted quickly and her face pinched sadly. “But why?” she wondered, her voice high pitched. It rather reminded Ron of how Hermione sounded when she was really worked up and verging on yelling at him. “He was her friend wasn't he? He loved her. He was with her when she- When she-” She shook her head, her eyes filling once more.
Ron exhaled heavily, glancing at his family who was watching with sad understanding. “Hermione and Harry were engaged,” he told them, swallowing tightly. “They'd been together since sometime last November.” He clenched his jaw for a moment, trying to stop his voice from shaking. “Harry... He, uh, he isn't taking it well,” he said, feeling it was quite lame. The words lacked the full meaning of what he was trying to convey, which he could tell they hadn't grasped. The Granger's were staring up at him, frowning.
Ron sighed, a hand lifting to run over his haggard face. “Look, I realize that you want to know her better, I understand that. I've known Hermione since I was eleven years old, but I can't tell you what Harry could. They've been inseparable since first year. She stood by him through everything and quite honestly, Hermione was probably the most important person in Harry's life. He's lost everybody he's every cared for. His parents, friends, mentors, his godfather. And now Hermione. He wanted to marry her, wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. And while I know that the old Harry probably would have talked to you about her, this Harry doesn't talk at all,” he told them, shaking his head as his eyes filled with tears. “And he's going to be joining your daughter shortly, because he's not going to last around here without her. So, I'm sorry, I really am. Because I wish you still had your daughter. I wish I still had her around,” he admitted, his voice shaking. “But Harry can't help you. I wish he could, but he can't.” Unable to see their faces, to hear their pleas, Ron turned and walked away, his shoulders shaking.
The Weasley's returned to the Burrow after the funeral, Ron included. He hadn't yet moved out of Grimmauld place, and he wasn't sure he would. He felt like he needed to be around Harry for as long as he could. He wouldn't interfere because it was pointless, but he'd be there if his best friend needed him, or by some miracle changed his mind. Ron sat on the couch as people milled around the house, talking about the fallen witch and discussing how the world was going to be from now on. He paid only half-mind as people who had once been classmates of his talked with Neville and Ginny about Hermione in school and the Final Battle, each of them with their own grim stories. Seamus Finnigan wasn't there, he hadn't survived the battle. Neither was Lavender Brown, she'd been killed within the first little while, Ron remembered seeing her on the ground as he pushed into the thick of fighting. Parvati and Padma Patil and Susan Bones had been killed too, along with Cho Chang and her friend Marietta Edgecomb. Ron heard that Cho put up quite the fight though, battling admirably. Blaise Zabini, a Slytherin, had surprisingly been fighting on their side, but he was taken down by Draco Malfoy early on, before Ron had got to the slimy git.
Draco was in Auror custody until his trial, and Ron sometimes wondered if maybe he should have just killed him. It was his father who had killed Hermione. But then, Hermione would have told him that he couldn't transfer feelings for one person onto another related to them. Otherwise, Sirius could be blamed for the Longbottom's state or various other deaths caused by Bellatrix. Come to think of it, Narcissa Malfoy was Sirius' cousin too, so he would take the blame for the Malfoy's exploits too. So Ron couldn't hate Draco for what his father did, but that didn't mean he didn't still hate him. Draco had wracked up his own list of misdeeds, though Ron had no proof any of them deserved death. Azkaban maybe, and it appeared he was headed that way.
Ron didn't socialize with anybody but Luna, and even then, he simply sat with her on the couch. Sometimes, she would talk. About the odd creatures her and her father wrote about in The Quibbler, about weird moments in history that he wasn't sure were real, about anything that wasn't the war or Hermione's death or Harry's deterioration. And he sat back and listened to her soft, dreamy voice, which soothed him into a comfort zone. She held a plate of food in her hands and every once in awhile, she'd put something in his hand and make him eat it, because he wasn't that great at making sure he ate anymore. It felt pointless; his stomach was always too knotted up for food. Hermione couldn't eat anymore and Harry didn't, so why should he? It wasn't logical, but then, Hermione was the logical one, wasn't she? He ate the food when it was given to him, and knew that his mother would be relieved to know he had something to eat that day. It seemed his lack of appetite made her apprehensive, scared him more than any of his other oddities lately. Must've been because of his hearty appetite over the years. Ron never skipped a meal or ate lightly, so it was unusual that he wasn't much interested in eating anything unless provoked.
When the hour grew late, Ron announced that he was going back to stay with Harry. He made no comment on the surprised and apprehensive looks of his family, instead walking to the Floo to leave for Grimmauld. Luna went home earlier, so he was alone on his trip to visit his secluded best friend. He knew Remus would be with Harry, though he hadn't been able to draw Harry out at all. He wasn't willing to leave Harry alone for too long, and while Ron thought Remus was a good man, he knew his attempts were all for naught. They couldn't save Harry, they could only wait. Maybe that was callous, perhaps part of what little compassion he had was long dead. But, he thought he knew Harry, thought he could figure out at least a little of what Harry must be feeling. Ron had known Hermione just as long as Harry, maybe not as well but better than everyone else. Besides Harry, Ron was the closest person to Hermione. Yeah, they had their problems and they fought more than most best friends did, but they were still best friends in the end. And with Hermione gone, he felt that loss pierce him every day that he woke up, every time he drew a breath. So maybe he didn't feel it as much as Harry, but if he was feeling like death would be a reprieve, then there was no doubt that Harry felt it too.
When he arrived at Grimmauld, the house was dark and quiet. Nothing but the fire in the living room lit up the downstairs area. It wasn't late, but he knew Harry had already retired to his room. The room that he used to share with Hermione. Part of him thought that was a bad idea, but he knew it was pointless to tell Harry he shouldn't surround himself with things that would only drown him. The house felt empty, and while he walked through it slowly, he was bombarded by the memories that used to keep it full and comforting. For a time, after Sirius was gone, the house felt a lot like this. Like the happy presence that made it a home was missing. Every room had its own memory of Sirius and the walls held secrets and hidden laughter. Because it was being used as the secret housing of The Order, Harry was forced to come back and live through that torment. As time went on though, he was able to laugh in Grimmauld again, with the help of the twins, Ron, and Hermione. Ron had hoped that Grimmauld would never hold those nightmares again, those dark days where Harry could barely smile. But they had come back with a vengeance and though Harry avoided Grimmauld after Sirius died, Ron knew Harry wouldn't do the same this time around. He was almost certain that Harry would hole himself away in his and Hermione's bedroom, slowly driving himself mad and falling into that desperate depression that always seemed two steps behind him, waiting to pounce.
Ron stared at the couch, his eyes burning while he stared where he had seen Hermione sitting when they were last there. “Oh honestly,” she had said, her voice whispering in his mind, “that game is simply barbaric. I much prefer the Muggle version, at least it doesn't destroy its opponent visually.” Ron sniffled, shaking his head and turning to leave. He stopped when he swore he could see her sitting in the armchair in front of Harry, her back pressed against his front. Harry's chin rested on her shoulder, while Hermione pressed the side of her cheek against his forehead and read her book in her lap. “I love you,” Harry said to her. A gentle smile passed her lips and she looked up from the book to stare down at him. “I know .” Instead of replying, Harry would half-grin, content. “Stop it,” Ron choked out, his chest constricting as he shut his eyes.
“Ron, don't play with that. It's an antique! You'll break it!” He heard her sigh, exasperated. “Oh, see what you've done! That can't be Reparo'ed you know!” He apologized after that, sheepishly, while secretly rolling his eyes to himself. “It's fine. I don't think we needed it. But please, be careful, will you?” “Yes, Hermione,” he'd replied, in that long, suffering sigh he always used with her.
Ron covered his ears, wanting to forget for that moment, the way she sounded. He didn't want to think anymore. He needed to sleep. In his sleep, he didn't feel or think or remember, because he had an endless supply of Dreamless Draught. He knew what Hermione would say about that. “You shouldn't run away from it, Ron. You're a Gryffindor. Face it, fight it! I'll be right here to help you!” But she wouldn't be. She was gone. So she couldn't hold his hand or tell him a cure from her books. She couldn't make any of it better. “Because she's dead!” he said aloud, his voice shaking and distraught. He wondered if he'd always hear her. If he could last in the house, if he was going to see her everywhere, hear her. Did Harry suffer through the same things? If he did, then he was likely already dead up in his room. Ron felt a sharp pain in his heart and hated himself for even thinking that Harry had done himself in.
Ron left the living room, hoping the voices would be left there, too. Unfortunately, as he found himself in the front area, he could see her standing there, her hands on her hips as she frowned at a group of drunken boys. Harry was leaning on Ron's shoulder, his face directed at her, a goofy smile on his face. Ron was using the wall to keep him up, and consequently also Harry. Behind them, the twins were waving bottles of Firewhiskey and singing a silly song off-key, grinning ear to ear, their freckled faces flushed.
“Just what were you thinking?” she asked them, shaking her head and tapping her foot. “Do you have any idea just how dangerous it was for you to be out there? Off guard and drunk, of all things!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide and her brows lifted. Her cheeks flushed with her anger and she thinned her eyes at them. “All it would take is a tripping spell and you'd be down for the count. What would we do then, huh? Four of you captured, possibly even dead!” she shouted, beginning to pace. “And you didn't even leave a note! We had no idea what had happened or where you were! Or-- FRED, GEORGE, YOU PUT THAT DOWN RIGHT NOW!” she cringed as something crashed and lifted her hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Leave it alone, boys. No, don't touch it. It's glass, you'll cut yours-- I told you!” She sighed, turning to point at the stairs. “Get up to bed, we'll discuss this in the morning.” She stomped her foot, her face becoming tired, “One more giggle, Ronald, and I'll hex the laughter right out of you. This is not funny. Harry,” she said, her tone a little softer. “Harry Potter, what will I do with you?” she wondered, her shoulders falling and the tiniest of smiles appearing.
“You'll take me to my room and ravage me,” he replied, slurring. “I agree wh- -hic- whole- -hic-wholeheartedly, love.” He grinned, suddenly stumbling away from Ron to wrap his arms around his girlfriend, kissing her neck sloppily. “You're so beautiful when you're -hic- angry.”
Ron closed his eyes, shaking his head and moving to the kitchen. He needed something to drink, definitely something with a little bite. Maybe he could drown his sorrows. No! Hermione would throttle him from the heavens if he became a drunk! Stomping his way to the kitchen, his brow was furrowed in irritation. He bent at the fridge, looking around the shelves, searching for something to drink. He found pumpkin juice, a few bottles of butterbeer, a large jug of what Hermione called “coo laid”. Sighing, he slammed the fridge door and walked to the cupboard, looking for the tea bags. He grabbed the empty silver tea pot and pilled it with water before dropping it heavily on the stove and turning it up high. He leaned back against the counter as the water heated, his hands wrapped around the edge, knuckles white from pressure. He clenched his jaw as he saw her again, sitting at the table, tapping her quill as she read something over and jotted down notes on a piece of parchment.
“That cake is for after dinner, Ronald,” her voice called out, though her head didn't turn to his figure at the fridge.
“Ah come on, 'Mione, just a sliver,” he moaned, looking back at her with hopeful eyes.
She shook her head, “Dessert is specifically made for after dinner. You'll ruin your appetite and your mum has made a delicious casserole.”
“It's a whole hour away though,” he whined, his shoulders slumping. “I'll let you have a bite,” he offered, his brows lifting.
She snorted, rolling her eyes. “Get away from the fridge.”
“Com'on, you know you want a piece, too. I won't tell, if you won't tell. I'll share it with you,” he said, frowning as he looked down at the cake. “Half and half. Mum'll think it was the twins, I bet,” he said mischievously.
“Ron...” she warned, stopping her reading and turned to him, her eyes thinned. “That's rather mean.”
“Hey, they never got in trouble for that last prank they pulled. 'Member how long it took to get the gunk outta your hair?” he reminded, half-smiling as he saw her resolve crumbling.
She sighed, “Hours,” she replied, looking annoyed.
“And it's a really tasty lookin' cake, 'Mione. Two layers, chocolate icing, strawberry jelly inside. My favorite,” he said. His mouth watered just at the memory and his fingers dug a little harder at the edge of the counter as he swallowed, remembering the night with an ache in his throat.
“My favorite dessert is pumpkin pie,” she told him matter-of-factly, before smiling. “But I love a good chocolate cake on occasion.” She rolled her eyes, shrugging. “Okay, but a small piece, and we never tell anybody about this!” she said, her eyes wide and warning.
“Deal,” he said, whipping around to pull the cake out.
The shrill whistle of the tea pot cut through the air and Ron sniffled, wiping his face as he turned to take the pot off and fill his cup with it. He dipped the tea bag in it a few times as he walked to the table and then padded over to the fridge to grab the cream. Sitting down, he pulled the tea bag out, tipped the cream over until the tea was a light brown and then dipped his teaspoon in the pot of sugar, dropped two spoonfuls in and stirred. He sighed as he stared down at the hot drink for a moment and closed his eyes. He needed to get a hold of himself, he was going a little crazy. Maybe he just needed a good sleep. It was her funeral that caused it. He was just missing her. He would get used to it. He would move on and the ache would dull. At least until Harry was gone, too, then he'd have even more to see. But when that happened- IF he reminded himself. He shouldn't be so morose about it. Harry might get through. If Harry died, Ron vowed never to return to Grimmauld. There were too many memories in the house, too many shadows and nightmares to swallow him.
Ron drank his tea quickly, the heat burned the roof of his mouth and singed his tongue, but he didn't care. He just wanted to keep himself occupied. He needed to drink something and then he'd go to bed. He wondered where his Dreamless Draught was. Did he have one with him? He'd been staying at Hogwarts the last few days, had he left it there? He searched his pockets as he finished off his tea and found a vile in his pants. He wasn't sure if he'd make it through a whole night if he wasn't equipped with the stuff. He knew almost everyone was doing the same as him. The twins had been knocking it back like Firewhiskey on a boy's night out. They missed their best friend Lee Jordan, who was killed in the war, not fifteen feet from them. They mourned their girlfriends, Alicia and Angela, who had suffered too. They missed Oliver Wood, Hagrid, and good, responsible Headmistress McGonagall. And they missed Hermione, because she may have been a bossy bit of goods to them, but they loved her like a little sister. He knew Neville was taking Dreamless Draught because he was the one who told Ron it was a good idea, he was the one who brought it to him back at Hogwarts.
Neville was also the one who told Ron that Harry was suffering through nightmares worse than when he stayed at Hogwarts and had Voldemort plague his mind. They could hear his cries from the library, echoing through the castle. Remus tried to wake him up once and received a stunner to his midsection that threw him into a bookcase, knocking it flat over and hitting the next one. Instead of apologizing, Harry righted the shelves and began putting the books back. When Ron heard that and noticed Neville's confused face, he explained, “Because Hermione would hate that the books were treated that way.” And suddenly it made sense, and Neville's face became anguished as he gave Ron a few more bottles of Dreamless Draught, saying that, “Hermione haunts my dreams the most. It's both comforting and horrible. I'm always blowing something up and she's always telling me not to worry about it, I'll get it one day.” Neville broke off in a sob and left the room, his shoulders slumped.
To be continued in B of Part 2.
Genre: Tragedy/Romance/Drama
Rating: R
Spoilers: I haven't read Deathly Hallows, this story was written before the book came out and I can't say whether or not spoilers are included. As far as I know, no. I doubt JK and I were on the same wavelength.
Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to any Harry Potter whatsoever. I own only my creative thought process and the characters I make up on a whim. Ownership of all else lies solely in the hands of others.
Images: Chapter image and banner by Alora of The Dark Arts!
Summary: Waiting. He was always waiting. He'd already buried one best friend and now the other will follow. There was nothing he could do or say. There was no Harry without Hermione. Ron witnessed the beginning and now he must accept the end. HHr. 4-parts
Warning: Character death, character suicide - Please do not read unless you are prepared to cry. Very serious content matter!!!
Survivor
by: atruwriter
2/4
Ron couldn't quite remember what happened after that. He thought maybe Harry walked Hermione up to the castle, but he wasn't sure what he did with her body. He knew that Harry wasn't speaking to anybody, wasn't going near anyone. After they returned to the school, Ron had holed himself up in the Gryffindor boy's dormitory, where he curled up in his old bed and he stared hauntingly out at nothing. He never heard Harry come back to the tower and when asked if he knew where Harry went, he told them to check the library, because that was Hermione's favorite place. He never found out if that was where his best friends were, he simply laid, waiting. He wasn't sure what he was waiting for. The world to end, perhaps. Because the ending was all wrong and that meant that something in the universe was off course. The world had to collapse sometime. His eyes teared up when he thought of Hermione, saying in her clear, precise voice, “Don't be silly, Ronald, the world is not going to end. You sound like Trelawney, and we all know how I feel about that- that- woman.”
His mother came to see him, but Ron said nothing to her, had nothing to say. She sat beside him, stroking his hair, and some part of him wanted to be that eleven year old she was talking about before. But she told him he could never go back to that, and he hated that she was right. He wanted to be that innocent boy again, the one who didn't battle Death Eaters or face giant spiders or live each day trying to fight for a better world. He wanted to be normal. But normal would have kept him from Harry and Hermione, and he couldn't help but wonder which was worse or better. To be normal and not have them would mean he wasn't hurting now, but never to have them at all... wasn't that so much worse? He wouldn't have the memories of Hermione's nagging and her bushy hair or the way her hands always found her hips when she was irritated, or her voice as she said, “Oh honestly!” with exasperation. And he wouldn't have all those times with Harry, playing Quidditch or chess or just hanging out. He wouldn't have Harry's friendship or the kinship bred over seven years. Could he handle not having that? Better to have loved and lost then never to have loved at all, right? He didn't know. He just knew that everything hurt.
He wasn't sure when Luna came into his room, but he remembered feeling just a little bit better when her arms wrapped around him. He didn't say a word, but then, she never asked him to. She buried her face against his back and she hummed the tune to “Weasley is our King,” and somehow, in some absurd way, that was comforting. And he took her hand, holding it tight, and he cried. Hot tears rolling down his cheeks and his chest tensing and burning with his fear and his loss. He wanted to say something, wanted to tell her how wrong it all was, but no words came. And still, she whispered against him, “I know... I know.” And she did. He wasn't sure how, but she did. He wasn't anywhere near better, wasn't sure he ever would be, but having her there, at least soothed the little piece of the old Ron so that he wasn't crying in the corner any more, but only sniffling.
Hermione's funeral was a few days later, separate from those of the other losses, which were buried in one large ceremony. Remus arranged all of it, made sure it was very private and that nobody from the press were allowed near the ceremony. Harry hadn't spoken since the war, not to anyone. He hardly looked at anybody and he wasn't eating, no matter how much Molly forced food on him. He holed himself up in the library while they were at Hogwarts, sitting at a table with stacks of books all around him. The twins told Ron that he wasn't doing anything but sitting with the books, simply sitting and staring out blankly. They had tried to talk to Harry, to cheer him up in some way, but they had failed like all the rest. Ginny had been trying to get him to eat, to speak, to sleep, but Harry didn't acknowledge her. Molly and Arthur had both gone in and sat down with him, talking to him for hours about how he still had a future, he could live for Hermione, do all that they talked about. But Harry simply stared forward, his expression dull and lacking any interest in their words. Tonks had purposely tripped over books and chairs, trying to get his attention, but the most she got was Harry picking the books back up, brushing them off carefully and putting them back in their respectful places. Ron was sure that was only because it would have bothered Hermione to see books treated in such a manner. Ron didn't go to Harry, although everybody begged him to. He was sure that Harry didn't want to see him yet, and he honestly didn't want to see Harry.
Standing in front of Hermione's open grave, the casket not lowered yet, Ron's heart clenched. The long casket was pearl white and gold, clean and shining beneath the glittering sun. Flowers surrounded her, wreaths, bouquets, and baskets of them. A burst of colour, pink, yellow, red, and purple. Ron could feel Luna's hand in his and he squeezed it tightly as a man dressed in white robes talked about death and God and how Hermione would go to a place where everything was peaceful. He could see the Granger's off to the side, crying and holding each other up. Hermione's mum kept looking over at Harry, who was standing alone, because he didn't want anybody near him. Any time somebody got close, he raised his chin and stared directly at them, and that dead look in his eyes ran everybody back to their respective places. It's not that they don't love him or support him, it's that he wasn't the Harry they knew anymore, and Ron's words still echo in their mind. “Hermione's dead,” and “ Unless you want to die, get away from him.” And maybe Harry wouldn't kill them, maybe he'd shrug them off or just injure them minimally, but Ron wasn't completely sure on any point.
Harry stared down at the casket, his hands clasped in front of him and his face so tight and pale that he looked like a walking corpse. There was one flower in his tightly knotted hands, a perfect white lily that stands out starkly against his all black ensemble. It's all he wore anymore. His shirts, his pants, his robes. He seemed darker, like a shadow of his old self, simply walking through life, waiting for it to end. Ron wished he could pull him out of it, but he couldn't say he was much better than his friend. His own appearance was lacking, given that he wasn't sleeping much, or eating unless forced. He only slept when Luna held him, which was hard to explain to his mum and she couldn't always be there for him. At least he had Luna, he would think bitterly. Harry had no one.
When the man at the front finally stopped talking, people stepped forward to lay their flowers out on Hermione's casket and say their goodbyes. Ron watched as the Granger's came forward, each placing a white rose on top of the wild colourful array of flowers laid out. Mrs. Granger stroked the polished white of the coffin, shaking her head and murmuring something under her breath. Her husband was holding her up, his hands wrapped tightly around her shoulder. Ron can't help but feel sorry for them, because they didn't belong to this world, couldn't understand what was really going on, and yet their daughter was killed for it. Two Muggles lost their daughter because an insane, evil wizard thought he was better than everybody else. Because he convinced pureblooded wizards and witches that he could give them power. They'd never see their daughter again because of greed.
Ron's eyes followed each Weasley as they lined up, passing by and placing their flowers on the casket of a girl who had meant so much in their lives. He overheard the twins mention how they'd miss her lectures about following rules and might even consider listening to one or two in the future, just for her. Molly's words were muffled by her sobbing and Arthur soothed his wife, unable to really convey anything to the girl he considered to be like a second daughter. Bill and Charlie said something about bravery, about wishing they could've known her better, about losing the smartest honorary Weasley they'd ever known. Ginny talked about sisters and friendship, of a bond she'd never have with anybody else. And they moved on, they all stepped back, because there isn't anything left to say. How does anybody say goodbye, really? It wasn't as easy as it seemed, and Ron didn't know what was expected of him.
He watched as Neville, sniffling and mumbling his gratitude about her always being there for him, always helping him, never making him feel useless, dropped a bouquet of yellow flowers on top of all the others and stumbled back to stand by Ginny, wiping his face with his sleeve. Remus and Tonks walked forward, the older professor staring down with a drawn, tight expression. He said something that sounded a lot like, “brightest witch I've known since Lily,” and instead of flowers, placed a thin book that Ron didn't know the title of on top. Before walking away, Remus added, “Perfect O, Hermione, well done.”
Luna squeezed Ron's hand as he moved to give his farewell to his best friend. His knees shook beneath him, his heart hammering in his chest, and he thought, for one moment, that maybe if he tried really hard, he could magic it all away. Like how his mother use to kiss his injuries and somehow they were better, he'd just close his eyes tight, make a wish, and all the magic in the world would come together to grant him this one reprieve. And she'd rise up, brush herself off, and take Harry into her arms. And then the trio would be reunited, life would go on, and he'd never have to look back on this dark day again. But as he stood next to her coffin, his hands bunched up by his sides, his eyes shut painfully, he wished and he prayed, and not one thing happened. The wind brushed his face, the sobbing continued behind him, the darkness still permeated the Earth. So he put the bunch of flowers he had in his hand, red and white roses, on the casket lid, and he stared down at it, sickened at knowing she was lying inside.
“I should have done my homework,” he told her, his voice quavering. “I should have listened to you more when you told me to do things. And I shouldn't have called you all those names over the years,” he admitted, his mouth shaking. “I should have read more books and learned more spells, and maybe I would have made it to you before they killed you,” he said, his voice cracking. “I should have shouted louder when I saw Bellatrix and I should have killed her the second I saw her. If I had been a little closer...” He shook his head, tears falling down his cheeks. His breathing was labored, his throat aching against the need to sob. “I should have told you more often that you were one of my best friends, even if I made fun of you for your weird love of books.”
He sniffled, closing his eyes for a moment, before inhaling a shuddering breath. “It should have been me out there, not you. Because the world needs smart witches like you, witches who don't give up, who want what's best for the world.” His chin rose an inch, his eyes falling on Harry, “Because Harry needs you and I can't... I can't be for him what you were. Stability, patience, kindness, and understanding. I don't think anybody could be what you were.” Ron sighed, his shoulders shaking and his stomach twisting painfully. “Wherever you are, I want you to know that books and cleverness weren't all you were, you were so much more than that, and I... I admired you for that. I still do. I always will.” Nodding jerkily, Ron let go of the coffin and stepped back. “Goodbye for now, Hermione.” Luna stepped up next to him, placing a multi-coloured plant beside his flowers and took his hand, leading him back to stand near his family.
Harry was last and Ron noticed that it seemed everybody was on edge, waiting and watching as he stepped up to Hermione's casket. Part of him was waiting for some sort of emotional explosion. For Harry to finally break, to shout and scream or tear something up. He had been waiting for Harry to blow up, but it hadn't happened yet. He'd been empty and separate from anyone for so long, but not in a brooding way. It wasn't as if he was trying to gain attention, or even wanted somebody to cheer him up. He was just there, a shell of the boy he had been before the war, and Ron was quite certain that nothing was going to change him back to the old Harry. That time was over and this was what they were left with. Maybe he would heal, his parents had high hopes that Harry would, but Ron didn't think so. It was too much, too late.
Harry walked to the casket slowly, the end of his robes floating around him dramatically from the heavy wind. He stopped at the head of the coffin, placing the fully bloomed, creamy lily on the white top. His hand stayed over the stem of the flower while he stared down at the casket, his jaw twitching and his green eyes staring down sadly. Two lone tears slipped down from his eyes and the only words he'd spoken in three long days slipped out, hoarse and thick with emotion, “I'll be with you soon, Love.”
Without another word, another look at anybody around him, Harry left the cemetery, his back straight, his eyes forward. Ron could hear his mother crying harder, trying through her sobs to tell Arthur that she couldn't lose him, too. Ron felt he should tell them Harry was already lost, but kept it to himself. He stood rigidly, watching his best friend walk away, a heavy feeling in his chest. He was certain he knew what Harry would do. Bellatrix and Malfoy hadn't yet been found and captured. They escaped Hogwarts grounds after the battle, though Moody speculated if they would survive the Forbidden Forest. Harry may have seemed in a catatonic state for the last while, but Ron was fairly sure he was just waiting until he knew for a fact that Malfoy and Bellatrix were alive or dead. Had they been proven dead, then Harry might have shared a funeral with Hermione today, but because he was certain they weren't, he would live awhile longer. As long as it took.
“Excuse me,” a voice interrupted his thoughts.
Ron turned his head, coming face to face with Mr and Mrs Granger. He nodded politely, wondering why they were talking to him. He hadn't met them over the years, remembering only seeing them from afar once. His father had had more interaction with them than he had. He cleared his throat, “Can I help you?” he asked them.
Mr Granger nodded stiffly, his eyes darting from Ron to Hermione's coffin and then out into the cemetery. “The man who just left,” he began quietly, “My wife was wondering if he was... if he was Harry?” he asked, looking down at Ron, his eyes the same brown as Hermione's. Ron thought they might've held the same friendly compassion, were they not so clouded with grief. Mr. Granger swallowed, “We heard all about him through letters and my wife mentioned that he resembled how Hermione described him. We were just... we were hoping we could speak to him.” He shook his head, sighing, “We didn't get to see Hermione much these last few years. Our only real communication was through letters and we got the feeling that Harry knew her well,” he said, sounding uncomfortable.
Ron stared at him, frowning over how much the war and his world had disconnected Hermione from her family. “That was Harry,” he confirmed, nodding. “And you're right, if you wanted to know more about Hermione, Harry would be who you talked to.” He winced, shaking his head. “I don't think that'll be possible though.”
Mrs. Granger's head lifted quickly and her face pinched sadly. “But why?” she wondered, her voice high pitched. It rather reminded Ron of how Hermione sounded when she was really worked up and verging on yelling at him. “He was her friend wasn't he? He loved her. He was with her when she- When she-” She shook her head, her eyes filling once more.
Ron exhaled heavily, glancing at his family who was watching with sad understanding. “Hermione and Harry were engaged,” he told them, swallowing tightly. “They'd been together since sometime last November.” He clenched his jaw for a moment, trying to stop his voice from shaking. “Harry... He, uh, he isn't taking it well,” he said, feeling it was quite lame. The words lacked the full meaning of what he was trying to convey, which he could tell they hadn't grasped. The Granger's were staring up at him, frowning.
Ron sighed, a hand lifting to run over his haggard face. “Look, I realize that you want to know her better, I understand that. I've known Hermione since I was eleven years old, but I can't tell you what Harry could. They've been inseparable since first year. She stood by him through everything and quite honestly, Hermione was probably the most important person in Harry's life. He's lost everybody he's every cared for. His parents, friends, mentors, his godfather. And now Hermione. He wanted to marry her, wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. And while I know that the old Harry probably would have talked to you about her, this Harry doesn't talk at all,” he told them, shaking his head as his eyes filled with tears. “And he's going to be joining your daughter shortly, because he's not going to last around here without her. So, I'm sorry, I really am. Because I wish you still had your daughter. I wish I still had her around,” he admitted, his voice shaking. “But Harry can't help you. I wish he could, but he can't.” Unable to see their faces, to hear their pleas, Ron turned and walked away, his shoulders shaking.
The Weasley's returned to the Burrow after the funeral, Ron included. He hadn't yet moved out of Grimmauld place, and he wasn't sure he would. He felt like he needed to be around Harry for as long as he could. He wouldn't interfere because it was pointless, but he'd be there if his best friend needed him, or by some miracle changed his mind. Ron sat on the couch as people milled around the house, talking about the fallen witch and discussing how the world was going to be from now on. He paid only half-mind as people who had once been classmates of his talked with Neville and Ginny about Hermione in school and the Final Battle, each of them with their own grim stories. Seamus Finnigan wasn't there, he hadn't survived the battle. Neither was Lavender Brown, she'd been killed within the first little while, Ron remembered seeing her on the ground as he pushed into the thick of fighting. Parvati and Padma Patil and Susan Bones had been killed too, along with Cho Chang and her friend Marietta Edgecomb. Ron heard that Cho put up quite the fight though, battling admirably. Blaise Zabini, a Slytherin, had surprisingly been fighting on their side, but he was taken down by Draco Malfoy early on, before Ron had got to the slimy git.
Draco was in Auror custody until his trial, and Ron sometimes wondered if maybe he should have just killed him. It was his father who had killed Hermione. But then, Hermione would have told him that he couldn't transfer feelings for one person onto another related to them. Otherwise, Sirius could be blamed for the Longbottom's state or various other deaths caused by Bellatrix. Come to think of it, Narcissa Malfoy was Sirius' cousin too, so he would take the blame for the Malfoy's exploits too. So Ron couldn't hate Draco for what his father did, but that didn't mean he didn't still hate him. Draco had wracked up his own list of misdeeds, though Ron had no proof any of them deserved death. Azkaban maybe, and it appeared he was headed that way.
Ron didn't socialize with anybody but Luna, and even then, he simply sat with her on the couch. Sometimes, she would talk. About the odd creatures her and her father wrote about in The Quibbler, about weird moments in history that he wasn't sure were real, about anything that wasn't the war or Hermione's death or Harry's deterioration. And he sat back and listened to her soft, dreamy voice, which soothed him into a comfort zone. She held a plate of food in her hands and every once in awhile, she'd put something in his hand and make him eat it, because he wasn't that great at making sure he ate anymore. It felt pointless; his stomach was always too knotted up for food. Hermione couldn't eat anymore and Harry didn't, so why should he? It wasn't logical, but then, Hermione was the logical one, wasn't she? He ate the food when it was given to him, and knew that his mother would be relieved to know he had something to eat that day. It seemed his lack of appetite made her apprehensive, scared him more than any of his other oddities lately. Must've been because of his hearty appetite over the years. Ron never skipped a meal or ate lightly, so it was unusual that he wasn't much interested in eating anything unless provoked.
When the hour grew late, Ron announced that he was going back to stay with Harry. He made no comment on the surprised and apprehensive looks of his family, instead walking to the Floo to leave for Grimmauld. Luna went home earlier, so he was alone on his trip to visit his secluded best friend. He knew Remus would be with Harry, though he hadn't been able to draw Harry out at all. He wasn't willing to leave Harry alone for too long, and while Ron thought Remus was a good man, he knew his attempts were all for naught. They couldn't save Harry, they could only wait. Maybe that was callous, perhaps part of what little compassion he had was long dead. But, he thought he knew Harry, thought he could figure out at least a little of what Harry must be feeling. Ron had known Hermione just as long as Harry, maybe not as well but better than everyone else. Besides Harry, Ron was the closest person to Hermione. Yeah, they had their problems and they fought more than most best friends did, but they were still best friends in the end. And with Hermione gone, he felt that loss pierce him every day that he woke up, every time he drew a breath. So maybe he didn't feel it as much as Harry, but if he was feeling like death would be a reprieve, then there was no doubt that Harry felt it too.
When he arrived at Grimmauld, the house was dark and quiet. Nothing but the fire in the living room lit up the downstairs area. It wasn't late, but he knew Harry had already retired to his room. The room that he used to share with Hermione. Part of him thought that was a bad idea, but he knew it was pointless to tell Harry he shouldn't surround himself with things that would only drown him. The house felt empty, and while he walked through it slowly, he was bombarded by the memories that used to keep it full and comforting. For a time, after Sirius was gone, the house felt a lot like this. Like the happy presence that made it a home was missing. Every room had its own memory of Sirius and the walls held secrets and hidden laughter. Because it was being used as the secret housing of The Order, Harry was forced to come back and live through that torment. As time went on though, he was able to laugh in Grimmauld again, with the help of the twins, Ron, and Hermione. Ron had hoped that Grimmauld would never hold those nightmares again, those dark days where Harry could barely smile. But they had come back with a vengeance and though Harry avoided Grimmauld after Sirius died, Ron knew Harry wouldn't do the same this time around. He was almost certain that Harry would hole himself away in his and Hermione's bedroom, slowly driving himself mad and falling into that desperate depression that always seemed two steps behind him, waiting to pounce.
Ron stared at the couch, his eyes burning while he stared where he had seen Hermione sitting when they were last there. “Oh honestly,” she had said, her voice whispering in his mind, “that game is simply barbaric. I much prefer the Muggle version, at least it doesn't destroy its opponent visually.” Ron sniffled, shaking his head and turning to leave. He stopped when he swore he could see her sitting in the armchair in front of Harry, her back pressed against his front. Harry's chin rested on her shoulder, while Hermione pressed the side of her cheek against his forehead and read her book in her lap. “I love you,” Harry said to her. A gentle smile passed her lips and she looked up from the book to stare down at him. “I know .” Instead of replying, Harry would half-grin, content. “Stop it,” Ron choked out, his chest constricting as he shut his eyes.
“Ron, don't play with that. It's an antique! You'll break it!” He heard her sigh, exasperated. “Oh, see what you've done! That can't be Reparo'ed you know!” He apologized after that, sheepishly, while secretly rolling his eyes to himself. “It's fine. I don't think we needed it. But please, be careful, will you?” “Yes, Hermione,” he'd replied, in that long, suffering sigh he always used with her.
Ron covered his ears, wanting to forget for that moment, the way she sounded. He didn't want to think anymore. He needed to sleep. In his sleep, he didn't feel or think or remember, because he had an endless supply of Dreamless Draught. He knew what Hermione would say about that. “You shouldn't run away from it, Ron. You're a Gryffindor. Face it, fight it! I'll be right here to help you!” But she wouldn't be. She was gone. So she couldn't hold his hand or tell him a cure from her books. She couldn't make any of it better. “Because she's dead!” he said aloud, his voice shaking and distraught. He wondered if he'd always hear her. If he could last in the house, if he was going to see her everywhere, hear her. Did Harry suffer through the same things? If he did, then he was likely already dead up in his room. Ron felt a sharp pain in his heart and hated himself for even thinking that Harry had done himself in.
Ron left the living room, hoping the voices would be left there, too. Unfortunately, as he found himself in the front area, he could see her standing there, her hands on her hips as she frowned at a group of drunken boys. Harry was leaning on Ron's shoulder, his face directed at her, a goofy smile on his face. Ron was using the wall to keep him up, and consequently also Harry. Behind them, the twins were waving bottles of Firewhiskey and singing a silly song off-key, grinning ear to ear, their freckled faces flushed.
“Just what were you thinking?” she asked them, shaking her head and tapping her foot. “Do you have any idea just how dangerous it was for you to be out there? Off guard and drunk, of all things!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide and her brows lifted. Her cheeks flushed with her anger and she thinned her eyes at them. “All it would take is a tripping spell and you'd be down for the count. What would we do then, huh? Four of you captured, possibly even dead!” she shouted, beginning to pace. “And you didn't even leave a note! We had no idea what had happened or where you were! Or-- FRED, GEORGE, YOU PUT THAT DOWN RIGHT NOW!” she cringed as something crashed and lifted her hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Leave it alone, boys. No, don't touch it. It's glass, you'll cut yours-- I told you!” She sighed, turning to point at the stairs. “Get up to bed, we'll discuss this in the morning.” She stomped her foot, her face becoming tired, “One more giggle, Ronald, and I'll hex the laughter right out of you. This is not funny. Harry,” she said, her tone a little softer. “Harry Potter, what will I do with you?” she wondered, her shoulders falling and the tiniest of smiles appearing.
“You'll take me to my room and ravage me,” he replied, slurring. “I agree wh- -hic- whole- -hic-wholeheartedly, love.” He grinned, suddenly stumbling away from Ron to wrap his arms around his girlfriend, kissing her neck sloppily. “You're so beautiful when you're -hic- angry.”
Ron closed his eyes, shaking his head and moving to the kitchen. He needed something to drink, definitely something with a little bite. Maybe he could drown his sorrows. No! Hermione would throttle him from the heavens if he became a drunk! Stomping his way to the kitchen, his brow was furrowed in irritation. He bent at the fridge, looking around the shelves, searching for something to drink. He found pumpkin juice, a few bottles of butterbeer, a large jug of what Hermione called “coo laid”. Sighing, he slammed the fridge door and walked to the cupboard, looking for the tea bags. He grabbed the empty silver tea pot and pilled it with water before dropping it heavily on the stove and turning it up high. He leaned back against the counter as the water heated, his hands wrapped around the edge, knuckles white from pressure. He clenched his jaw as he saw her again, sitting at the table, tapping her quill as she read something over and jotted down notes on a piece of parchment.
“That cake is for after dinner, Ronald,” her voice called out, though her head didn't turn to his figure at the fridge.
“Ah come on, 'Mione, just a sliver,” he moaned, looking back at her with hopeful eyes.
She shook her head, “Dessert is specifically made for after dinner. You'll ruin your appetite and your mum has made a delicious casserole.”
“It's a whole hour away though,” he whined, his shoulders slumping. “I'll let you have a bite,” he offered, his brows lifting.
She snorted, rolling her eyes. “Get away from the fridge.”
“Com'on, you know you want a piece, too. I won't tell, if you won't tell. I'll share it with you,” he said, frowning as he looked down at the cake. “Half and half. Mum'll think it was the twins, I bet,” he said mischievously.
“Ron...” she warned, stopping her reading and turned to him, her eyes thinned. “That's rather mean.”
“Hey, they never got in trouble for that last prank they pulled. 'Member how long it took to get the gunk outta your hair?” he reminded, half-smiling as he saw her resolve crumbling.
She sighed, “Hours,” she replied, looking annoyed.
“And it's a really tasty lookin' cake, 'Mione. Two layers, chocolate icing, strawberry jelly inside. My favorite,” he said. His mouth watered just at the memory and his fingers dug a little harder at the edge of the counter as he swallowed, remembering the night with an ache in his throat.
“My favorite dessert is pumpkin pie,” she told him matter-of-factly, before smiling. “But I love a good chocolate cake on occasion.” She rolled her eyes, shrugging. “Okay, but a small piece, and we never tell anybody about this!” she said, her eyes wide and warning.
“Deal,” he said, whipping around to pull the cake out.
The shrill whistle of the tea pot cut through the air and Ron sniffled, wiping his face as he turned to take the pot off and fill his cup with it. He dipped the tea bag in it a few times as he walked to the table and then padded over to the fridge to grab the cream. Sitting down, he pulled the tea bag out, tipped the cream over until the tea was a light brown and then dipped his teaspoon in the pot of sugar, dropped two spoonfuls in and stirred. He sighed as he stared down at the hot drink for a moment and closed his eyes. He needed to get a hold of himself, he was going a little crazy. Maybe he just needed a good sleep. It was her funeral that caused it. He was just missing her. He would get used to it. He would move on and the ache would dull. At least until Harry was gone, too, then he'd have even more to see. But when that happened- IF he reminded himself. He shouldn't be so morose about it. Harry might get through. If Harry died, Ron vowed never to return to Grimmauld. There were too many memories in the house, too many shadows and nightmares to swallow him.
Ron drank his tea quickly, the heat burned the roof of his mouth and singed his tongue, but he didn't care. He just wanted to keep himself occupied. He needed to drink something and then he'd go to bed. He wondered where his Dreamless Draught was. Did he have one with him? He'd been staying at Hogwarts the last few days, had he left it there? He searched his pockets as he finished off his tea and found a vile in his pants. He wasn't sure if he'd make it through a whole night if he wasn't equipped with the stuff. He knew almost everyone was doing the same as him. The twins had been knocking it back like Firewhiskey on a boy's night out. They missed their best friend Lee Jordan, who was killed in the war, not fifteen feet from them. They mourned their girlfriends, Alicia and Angela, who had suffered too. They missed Oliver Wood, Hagrid, and good, responsible Headmistress McGonagall. And they missed Hermione, because she may have been a bossy bit of goods to them, but they loved her like a little sister. He knew Neville was taking Dreamless Draught because he was the one who told Ron it was a good idea, he was the one who brought it to him back at Hogwarts.
Neville was also the one who told Ron that Harry was suffering through nightmares worse than when he stayed at Hogwarts and had Voldemort plague his mind. They could hear his cries from the library, echoing through the castle. Remus tried to wake him up once and received a stunner to his midsection that threw him into a bookcase, knocking it flat over and hitting the next one. Instead of apologizing, Harry righted the shelves and began putting the books back. When Ron heard that and noticed Neville's confused face, he explained, “Because Hermione would hate that the books were treated that way.” And suddenly it made sense, and Neville's face became anguished as he gave Ron a few more bottles of Dreamless Draught, saying that, “Hermione haunts my dreams the most. It's both comforting and horrible. I'm always blowing something up and she's always telling me not to worry about it, I'll get it one day.” Neville broke off in a sob and left the room, his shoulders slumped.
To be continued in B of Part 2.