You're Everywhere...
Title: You're Everywhere to Me
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Harry/Ron
Rating: PG/PG-13
Warnings: main character death (prior to fic), angst, slash
Summary: Ron died in the war, and his memory is haunting Harry day and night...
Disclaimer: I totally don't own Harry Potter and or anything related to it. I suck. *goes to sulk in a corner*
“…Harry?”
Harry opened his eyes just enough to recognize Hermione, then immediately closed them again, turning his face into his pillow. Hermione had seen him cry more times than he cared to count, but he still had his pride. Besides, there was a big difference between Harry talking to Hermione and crying during the day, and Hermione waking up to find Harry crying in the middle of the night because of a dream.
“Oh, Harry,” Hermione sighed, placing a soothing hand on Harry’s feverish forehead. “It - ” she paused and Harry wished he knew a way to stop her from continuing that didn’t require him speaking.
“It was - ” Hermione sighed again, “ - Ron again, wasn’t it?”
Harry responded by turning again so he was face-down on the pillow. Merlin, it hurt just to hear the name. But Hermione had read a book that said hearing the name was necessary for recovery, and consequently she refused to stop, despite Harry’s pleas.
Hermione’s hand moved with Harry, sliding into his hair. She had expected this. She let Harry sit in silence for a bit, gently caressing his head.
“Harry, look,” Hermione finally said, a desperate tone in her voice, “You can’t go on like this forever. You have to talk about it. I can’t pretend it makes all the pain go away, that really isn’t possible at all, but it helps. Please, Harry. I need it, too,” she explained in what would have been a frantic manner had she not been so intent on keeping calm.
Harry slowly shifted his body so he was lying on his side and, using a surprising amount of strength, grabbed Hermione’s hand in his own.
“It’s my fault,” he said quietly. Hermione made a complaining sound, but he cut her off. “I know it mostly isn’t, but some of it is. And so as punishment I have to watch it again and again, every night.”
Harry opened his eyes to gage Hermione’s reaction. She was waiting for him to go on as far as he could tell without his glasses. He squeezed her hand to let her know it was her turn to speak.
“Harry, I said tell me. Des-describe it,” Hermione stuttered, clearly hesitant, but a familiar determined look was strong in her eyes.
Harry shuddered and worked to keep his eyes open so the image wouldn’t play out in his head.
“It’s just like it happened. The curse coming at me, and I know I can’t move in time, and then - ” he shut his eyes tight and winced.
“He’s there,” Harry choked out, trembling without pause by now, “And…he falls…” he whispered. Fresh tears leaked out onto the pillow, but he no longer cared if Hermione saw them.
He glanced up, and Hermione’s other hand was clasped over her mouth, her face set hard as she clearly tried to refrain from outright sobbing.
“Is…that where you wake up?” she managed after a second. Harry nodded.
They sat there for a minute, grasping each other’s hands so tight it hurt.
Then Hermione spoke.
“That’s not all. I know it isn’t.”
Harry looked at her, letting his gaze speak for him. The nightmares were scary enough, but it was the day that was really driving him crazy, and he wasn’t sure he could talk about it without screaming.
“Oh, Harry, do you really care? If the neighbors hear I can always modify their memories tomorrow,” Hermione told him, her eyes crinkling in a small, sad smile that didn’t reach her lips.
“It’s like he’s still here,” Harry gasped, his voice suddenly hoarse.
“That would explain last week,” Hermione replied calmly, and nodded. The Tuesday before Harry had caused quite a ruckus at the Burrow, tearing up the Weasleys’ home in a frantic search for, Bill had finally gotten him to say, Ron’s old Cleansweep Eleven. When Bill had asked him why he wanted it, Harry had replied that he didn’t, and then run out of the house.
“It’s not like I forget all the time,” Harry told her frankly, “But I - I keep hearing him, and seeing him and - ” his voice broke.
He let go of Hermione’s hand and clutched his head, turning to face the ceiling.
“I think I see him sometimes, too, in my peripheral vision,” Hermione confessed. Harry determinedly looked at the ceiling, not wanting to see her expression.
“It’s not like that,” he replied, turning bitter, “I see him, head-on, all of him. And he….won’t….go….away,” he ground out, his body tensing with pent-up emotion.
Harry felt rather than heard Hermione shake beside him. “Is - he in pain? When you see him,” she added hurriedly. She knew Harry was of the opinion that the people behind the veil in the Department of Mysteries were vastly unhappy.
“No,” he replied, “He’s fine. It’s not any different.” He began to cry, a flood compared to the tears he had shed earlier. Seeing…Ron…happy was worse than watching him dying, because it gave the impression nothing was wrong. But it was, and horribly so.
“Harry,” Hermione said slowly, moving closer and placing a cautious hand on his shoulder, “I’m sorry, but I have to ask; what is he doing? Seeing Ron walking or sitting for a few seconds can’t be very bad, especially if you get used to it,” she reasoned.
Harry stiffened under her hand.
“Playing Quidditch, eating dinner and listening to what I’m saying,” he started, clearly trying to relax, “smiling at me, sleeping, walking beside you, leaning down to ki-” He froze.
“Harry I know,” Hermione nearly gasped, tones of fear in her words. Her hand slipped off his shoulder, losing contact with him altogether.
Harry turned his head to look at her. As soon as he met her eyes, he sat up as quickly as his tired body would allow.
“You know?”
She nodded. “I saw you two a few days before we went after Voldemort. Briefly,” Hermione added at the slightly horrorstruck look that was now mixed in with Harry’s confusion and grief.
“…Why didn’t you say anything?” was all Harry could think to say.
“It didn’t seem like the right time,” she said sadly. “I had already pretty much figured it out, anyway, and I guessed you two would tell me after the war ended.” She sniffed, but seemed beyond tears.
Harry just sat there, processing this. Then he moved over and pulled Hermione into the bed beside him.
“Harry?” Hermione asked hesitantly. He buried his head into her shoulder and she automatically put her arms around him. They sat there like that for maybe nearly half a minute.
But then he pushed her away, and his eyes were fierce with a wild agony that had been missing in the months since Ron died, even at his funeral.
“What kind of horrible world is this anyway? I get over Sirius, I get over Dumbledore, I get over every other poor person we know who died in the war, and then he dies. My best friend!” Unable to say seated any longer, he threw his slim frame out of bed and began pacing the room.
“My…I don’t even know what to call him! We didn’t get a chance to do anything, to be anything! ALL I GET IS A FEW SNOGS, AND THEN HE’S GONE! WE SLEPT TOGETHER ONCE, JUST ONCE, AND IT WASN’T EVEN WHAT YOU’D THINK, ALL WE DID WAS SLEEP!
“I DIDN’T EVEN GET TO SAY GOOD-BYE! HOW WAS I TO KNOW HE WAS GOING TO DIE? HOW WAS I TO KNOW? DON’T YOU THINK I’D’VE DONE SOMETHING DIFFERENT IF I HAD??” he demanded of nobody in particular. He was desperate for an answer. The lights in the room were flickering.
Hermione was gripping the mattress underneath her so hard it had to hurt, her eyes wide and worried, her teeth clenched tight. Shuddering, she told him, “Say the name, Harry. Say his name.”
“RON! RONALD….BILIUS…..WEASLEY!” Harry screamed, whirling to look at her. “ARE YOU HA - ” But then he paused, and it was as though he was a balloon whose helium was being let out, because suddenly he was deflating and deflated, no longer mad, no longer confused, and completely worn out.
“….Ron,” he whispered, and covered his mouth with his hands.
Hermione slowly released her grip and watched him cry in silence. Her work here was done.
*hands you a tissue* Now go listen to Everywhere by Michelle Branch, it's a great song and it gave me the idea for the fic.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Harry/Ron
Rating: PG/PG-13
Warnings: main character death (prior to fic), angst, slash
Summary: Ron died in the war, and his memory is haunting Harry day and night...
Disclaimer: I totally don't own Harry Potter and or anything related to it. I suck. *goes to sulk in a corner*
“…Harry?”
Harry opened his eyes just enough to recognize Hermione, then immediately closed them again, turning his face into his pillow. Hermione had seen him cry more times than he cared to count, but he still had his pride. Besides, there was a big difference between Harry talking to Hermione and crying during the day, and Hermione waking up to find Harry crying in the middle of the night because of a dream.
“Oh, Harry,” Hermione sighed, placing a soothing hand on Harry’s feverish forehead. “It - ” she paused and Harry wished he knew a way to stop her from continuing that didn’t require him speaking.
“It was - ” Hermione sighed again, “ - Ron again, wasn’t it?”
Harry responded by turning again so he was face-down on the pillow. Merlin, it hurt just to hear the name. But Hermione had read a book that said hearing the name was necessary for recovery, and consequently she refused to stop, despite Harry’s pleas.
Hermione’s hand moved with Harry, sliding into his hair. She had expected this. She let Harry sit in silence for a bit, gently caressing his head.
“Harry, look,” Hermione finally said, a desperate tone in her voice, “You can’t go on like this forever. You have to talk about it. I can’t pretend it makes all the pain go away, that really isn’t possible at all, but it helps. Please, Harry. I need it, too,” she explained in what would have been a frantic manner had she not been so intent on keeping calm.
Harry slowly shifted his body so he was lying on his side and, using a surprising amount of strength, grabbed Hermione’s hand in his own.
“It’s my fault,” he said quietly. Hermione made a complaining sound, but he cut her off. “I know it mostly isn’t, but some of it is. And so as punishment I have to watch it again and again, every night.”
Harry opened his eyes to gage Hermione’s reaction. She was waiting for him to go on as far as he could tell without his glasses. He squeezed her hand to let her know it was her turn to speak.
“Harry, I said tell me. Des-describe it,” Hermione stuttered, clearly hesitant, but a familiar determined look was strong in her eyes.
Harry shuddered and worked to keep his eyes open so the image wouldn’t play out in his head.
“It’s just like it happened. The curse coming at me, and I know I can’t move in time, and then - ” he shut his eyes tight and winced.
“He’s there,” Harry choked out, trembling without pause by now, “And…he falls…” he whispered. Fresh tears leaked out onto the pillow, but he no longer cared if Hermione saw them.
He glanced up, and Hermione’s other hand was clasped over her mouth, her face set hard as she clearly tried to refrain from outright sobbing.
“Is…that where you wake up?” she managed after a second. Harry nodded.
They sat there for a minute, grasping each other’s hands so tight it hurt.
Then Hermione spoke.
“That’s not all. I know it isn’t.”
Harry looked at her, letting his gaze speak for him. The nightmares were scary enough, but it was the day that was really driving him crazy, and he wasn’t sure he could talk about it without screaming.
“Oh, Harry, do you really care? If the neighbors hear I can always modify their memories tomorrow,” Hermione told him, her eyes crinkling in a small, sad smile that didn’t reach her lips.
“It’s like he’s still here,” Harry gasped, his voice suddenly hoarse.
“That would explain last week,” Hermione replied calmly, and nodded. The Tuesday before Harry had caused quite a ruckus at the Burrow, tearing up the Weasleys’ home in a frantic search for, Bill had finally gotten him to say, Ron’s old Cleansweep Eleven. When Bill had asked him why he wanted it, Harry had replied that he didn’t, and then run out of the house.
“It’s not like I forget all the time,” Harry told her frankly, “But I - I keep hearing him, and seeing him and - ” his voice broke.
He let go of Hermione’s hand and clutched his head, turning to face the ceiling.
“I think I see him sometimes, too, in my peripheral vision,” Hermione confessed. Harry determinedly looked at the ceiling, not wanting to see her expression.
“It’s not like that,” he replied, turning bitter, “I see him, head-on, all of him. And he….won’t….go….away,” he ground out, his body tensing with pent-up emotion.
Harry felt rather than heard Hermione shake beside him. “Is - he in pain? When you see him,” she added hurriedly. She knew Harry was of the opinion that the people behind the veil in the Department of Mysteries were vastly unhappy.
“No,” he replied, “He’s fine. It’s not any different.” He began to cry, a flood compared to the tears he had shed earlier. Seeing…Ron…happy was worse than watching him dying, because it gave the impression nothing was wrong. But it was, and horribly so.
“Harry,” Hermione said slowly, moving closer and placing a cautious hand on his shoulder, “I’m sorry, but I have to ask; what is he doing? Seeing Ron walking or sitting for a few seconds can’t be very bad, especially if you get used to it,” she reasoned.
Harry stiffened under her hand.
“Playing Quidditch, eating dinner and listening to what I’m saying,” he started, clearly trying to relax, “smiling at me, sleeping, walking beside you, leaning down to ki-” He froze.
“Harry I know,” Hermione nearly gasped, tones of fear in her words. Her hand slipped off his shoulder, losing contact with him altogether.
Harry turned his head to look at her. As soon as he met her eyes, he sat up as quickly as his tired body would allow.
“You know?”
She nodded. “I saw you two a few days before we went after Voldemort. Briefly,” Hermione added at the slightly horrorstruck look that was now mixed in with Harry’s confusion and grief.
“…Why didn’t you say anything?” was all Harry could think to say.
“It didn’t seem like the right time,” she said sadly. “I had already pretty much figured it out, anyway, and I guessed you two would tell me after the war ended.” She sniffed, but seemed beyond tears.
Harry just sat there, processing this. Then he moved over and pulled Hermione into the bed beside him.
“Harry?” Hermione asked hesitantly. He buried his head into her shoulder and she automatically put her arms around him. They sat there like that for maybe nearly half a minute.
But then he pushed her away, and his eyes were fierce with a wild agony that had been missing in the months since Ron died, even at his funeral.
“What kind of horrible world is this anyway? I get over Sirius, I get over Dumbledore, I get over every other poor person we know who died in the war, and then he dies. My best friend!” Unable to say seated any longer, he threw his slim frame out of bed and began pacing the room.
“My…I don’t even know what to call him! We didn’t get a chance to do anything, to be anything! ALL I GET IS A FEW SNOGS, AND THEN HE’S GONE! WE SLEPT TOGETHER ONCE, JUST ONCE, AND IT WASN’T EVEN WHAT YOU’D THINK, ALL WE DID WAS SLEEP!
“I DIDN’T EVEN GET TO SAY GOOD-BYE! HOW WAS I TO KNOW HE WAS GOING TO DIE? HOW WAS I TO KNOW? DON’T YOU THINK I’D’VE DONE SOMETHING DIFFERENT IF I HAD??” he demanded of nobody in particular. He was desperate for an answer. The lights in the room were flickering.
Hermione was gripping the mattress underneath her so hard it had to hurt, her eyes wide and worried, her teeth clenched tight. Shuddering, she told him, “Say the name, Harry. Say his name.”
“RON! RONALD….BILIUS…..WEASLEY!” Harry screamed, whirling to look at her. “ARE YOU HA - ” But then he paused, and it was as though he was a balloon whose helium was being let out, because suddenly he was deflating and deflated, no longer mad, no longer confused, and completely worn out.
“….Ron,” he whispered, and covered his mouth with his hands.
Hermione slowly released her grip and watched him cry in silence. Her work here was done.
*hands you a tissue* Now go listen to Everywhere by Michelle Branch, it's a great song and it gave me the idea for the fic.