Hermione found it when she was searching for The Tales of Beetle the Bard. Her arm was completely encased in the small beaded bag, metal rim brushing against her shoulder as she groped blindly for the book. She happened upon a piece of fabric and, mistaking it for parchment, pulled it out. But, instead of the book of fairytales, a shirt now lay limply across her lap.

It was a long-sleeved, flannel button down made of blue and white plaid. The buttons were all undone and the sleeves had been un-cuffed. It was soft to the touch and gingerly, as if afraid it might disintegrate, she lifted a sleeve. And then she burst into tears.

Clutching Ron's shirt, she sobbed into the collar, tears soaking deep into the soft fabric. Discarding the bag completely, she sat back against her bunk, the ground hard against her legs. And as she wept into Ron's shirt, Hermione realized that his smell still lingered on the inside of it. She cried harder.

She brought her legs up to her body, using the shirt to mop her tears. Her hair stuck to her face and the tent seemed even bigger and lonelier with only her inside. She could hear Harry outside, practicing with Hermione's wand and, through the tent, she could see a very dim outline of the bluebell flames she'd conjured for him to stay warm with.

It had been so long since he'd left her. How long had it really been? It felt like years since she'd seen him, but she knew it had only been a few weeks. Although, in her heart she knew that time didn't matter. The fact was, he'd left her. He left her. And it didn't matter how long he'd been gone. Centuries, months even a matter of seconds, it didn't change it. He left her.

Although she watched him go, saw him standing in front of her, then disappearing before her very eyes with an angry scowl and a loud pop, part of her didn't believe that the only thing he'd had with him was his rucksack slung across his shoulder, the locket long since discarded.

Hermione was sure that he'd taken part of her with him.

Perhaps not a big part. He hadn't taken anything she couldn't live without, but he'd taken a bit of everything. He'd taken bits and pieces of all of her, leaving her able to function, but not properly. Her heart had trouble beating, her eyes had trouble seeing, and her mind had trouble thinking. He had taken just enough with him that she was incapable of doing anything without being reminded of him. She was unable to move on without him. She was empty without him.

He left her.

He haunted her dreams, as well. Turning up in odd places and floating farther and farther away as she ran and reached for him, crying and screaming and begging him to come back. But he never did. Hermione was positive that she'd never see him again. Things had taken a turn for the worse since he'd left and there wasn't a doubt in her mind that she wouldn't live to see her next birthday. Her friendship with Harry was falling apart without the glue that was Ron to keep them together. His easy humor softened her nerves and took the edge off Harry's anger. Without Ron, there was no point to even try. Hermione found a lot of things pointless without Ron.

Her shoulders shook as she cried into Ron's shirt, a new wave of tears crashing down as she breathed in his scent. She remembered the last time he'd been near her enough to smell him. The harsh things he'd said, the rough way he'd pushed her off as she'd begged him to take the locket off, so unlike the gentle touches he'd used with her before the Horcrux took its toll. And the way he'd looked at her, hatred in his eyes. The last words he'd said.

I get it. You choose him.

But she didn't choose him. She didn't want anyone but Ron! But Ron didn't want her. She had pleaded with him, she'd sobbed and he'd showed no sympathy.

Hermione begged him and he left her.

She was sure that by now he was safe at home with his family. It should've comforted her to know that he was alright. But being in the freezing cold with nothing to eat and nothing to go on, she was unnerved. Ron surely knew what their conditions were like. He'd endured it with them, but did he care that they were alone with it now? She wanted him to care. She wanted him to worry about them, so desperately. It was almost a physical need. But he had left her to die without a second thought. Her heart ached and her eyes stung from crying. It was as if her body was compensating the loss by flooding her eyes.

Hermione's nails were broken and dirty as she clung to Ron's shirt. It was with shaky hands that she pulled it over her shoulders and stuck her arms in it. It was too big and her hands were lost in the sleeves, the bodice loose as it swallowed her whole. She trembled so violently that she buttoned it wrong. Why she was so nervous, she couldn't tell, but as soon as she had it on completely, she felt safe.

His scent enveloped her completely and it was like a protective barrier. She imagine instead of the flannel on her skin, it was Ron's arms, protecting her from harm. Hermione tucked her hands in the cuffs, snuggling closer in the shirt's warm embrace. And when she climbed into bed that night, she pretended it was Ron that held her tightly, molded to her skin and keeping her sa

It was with reluctance that Hermione admitted the next morning that it was not in fact Ron that had held her all night, but only a shirt. Harry watched her cautiously, as if she might burst into tears at any moment. But she understood. Ron was still gone. And Hermione was still empty.

A/N: Don't you just want to slap Ron sometimes for being so thick? *shakes head*