He had never been worried about dying.
For he was young, and the young have no use for death. But that didn't mean he didn't ponder about it often, he did.
He thought whimsical thoughts about dying. And dying to him was a fairytale it was not a regular occurrence.
And part of him, a very small part, thought that he could never die.
He was wrong though, he often was. He was wrong about the facts in Hogwarts a History, and he was wrong by thinking Fleur would ever like him. He was wrong when he said that acid pops didn't burn your tongue. And he was wrong when he insisted that the brown-haired girl did not like him.
But he was not wrong on his thoughts of Heaven. Sometimes, when he was tired from studying (he'd only studied for about five minutes) he'd retire to the dormitory and throw on his old, worn 'Chudley Cannon's' pullover and think. Think of Heaven. Upon mere minutes of thinking he came to many conclusions. One of these conclusions was that fluffy clouds were used to while playing Quidditch in the sky you'd have a safe place to land. And after the hardy bit of competition you'd take a nice bite of lightly toasted cloud that tasted just like a marshmallow. And when the thunder began it really was you and your best mates partying and drinking far more alcohol than is legal.
And it was okay to party. For it was Heaven.
Quickly he'd brush the thoughts out of his head and go back to studying. Maybe.
And then not only could he just muse of Heaven, he would soon be able to experience it.
He died on a rainy October Eve, a cold day. Thunder was abundant and the noise pounded in your ears. Years later some speculated that the thunder was Heaven partying, saying that they were ready for Ronald Weasley. He was not afraid.
Whatever he did, he did it forcefully. He was this determined type of chap that you only meet on occasion. He was so brash and stubborn that not only was it obnoxious often it was unnecessary. But today, today it was necessary.
Oddly necessary.
He was supposed to go see an old friend from school. He was supposed to visit him and talk of everything and nothing all in one. He'd have to pass Hogsmeade and go up the cobblestone steps to his flat.
But he was stopped. And he was killed. Not just by one curse, not just by one word uttered, but in cold blood. Cold blood that soaked his wrinkled white shirt and was just a shade darker than his ruddy cheeks. Crimson blood that dripped on the brick steps and was unable to cease.
And he was in pain. Excruciating pain that made him scream aloud, almost. For he was stubborn and brave, even if no one ever noticed. Nothing was stereotypical in the life of Ronald Weasley and coincidentally, his death was not either.
The blood dripped off his cuff and his black boots were untied and he had tried to move, and run. For he was just a bit farther away from his best mate's flat.
But he couldn't.
For once in his life he simply--couldn't. He couldn't run. He couldn't grab for his wand, or retie his shoelaces. He couldn't take a bite of the acid pop that was in his pocket. He couldn't adjust his twisted tie or rake a hand through his hair. And most certainly, most painful of all, he couldn't get away. He would die on a secluded block alone, hurting and wanting. And they would all cry at his funeral...if he were lucky.
And he never quite came to peace with it. For someone as much of a fighter as Ronald Weasley was...it was impossible.
But it was still tough to fight the inevitable.
And so, eventually, he died. Alone and just nineteen. His hair was wet and matted to his head and warm rain became one with cold blood.
And he couldn't say it was "not so bad" because it was awful, and terrible and this overwhelming feeling of your life going before you.
Meeting his two best friends, fighting with them both to no ends, his first kiss with the little brunette. Eating acid pops until his tongue burned and turned green. Learning magic. Laughing in the lavatories. Telling raunchy jokes with Harry, Seamus, and Dean.
Wondering about Heaven.
And it all flashed in his head, for a brief second.
And then, all was over.
He always looked down on his friends, and he smiled and made the thunder boom. He played Quidditch up in the sky with the big 'pros from the early 1900's. He ate marshmallow clouds to his hearts content.
And he was happy. In some way.
For he was young, and the young have no use for death. But that didn't mean he didn't ponder about it often, he did.
He thought whimsical thoughts about dying. And dying to him was a fairytale it was not a regular occurrence.
And part of him, a very small part, thought that he could never die.
He was wrong though, he often was. He was wrong about the facts in Hogwarts a History, and he was wrong by thinking Fleur would ever like him. He was wrong when he said that acid pops didn't burn your tongue. And he was wrong when he insisted that the brown-haired girl did not like him.
But he was not wrong on his thoughts of Heaven. Sometimes, when he was tired from studying (he'd only studied for about five minutes) he'd retire to the dormitory and throw on his old, worn 'Chudley Cannon's' pullover and think. Think of Heaven. Upon mere minutes of thinking he came to many conclusions. One of these conclusions was that fluffy clouds were used to while playing Quidditch in the sky you'd have a safe place to land. And after the hardy bit of competition you'd take a nice bite of lightly toasted cloud that tasted just like a marshmallow. And when the thunder began it really was you and your best mates partying and drinking far more alcohol than is legal.
And it was okay to party. For it was Heaven.
Quickly he'd brush the thoughts out of his head and go back to studying. Maybe.
And then not only could he just muse of Heaven, he would soon be able to experience it.
He died on a rainy October Eve, a cold day. Thunder was abundant and the noise pounded in your ears. Years later some speculated that the thunder was Heaven partying, saying that they were ready for Ronald Weasley. He was not afraid.
Whatever he did, he did it forcefully. He was this determined type of chap that you only meet on occasion. He was so brash and stubborn that not only was it obnoxious often it was unnecessary. But today, today it was necessary.
Oddly necessary.
He was supposed to go see an old friend from school. He was supposed to visit him and talk of everything and nothing all in one. He'd have to pass Hogsmeade and go up the cobblestone steps to his flat.
But he was stopped. And he was killed. Not just by one curse, not just by one word uttered, but in cold blood. Cold blood that soaked his wrinkled white shirt and was just a shade darker than his ruddy cheeks. Crimson blood that dripped on the brick steps and was unable to cease.
And he was in pain. Excruciating pain that made him scream aloud, almost. For he was stubborn and brave, even if no one ever noticed. Nothing was stereotypical in the life of Ronald Weasley and coincidentally, his death was not either.
The blood dripped off his cuff and his black boots were untied and he had tried to move, and run. For he was just a bit farther away from his best mate's flat.
But he couldn't.
For once in his life he simply--couldn't. He couldn't run. He couldn't grab for his wand, or retie his shoelaces. He couldn't take a bite of the acid pop that was in his pocket. He couldn't adjust his twisted tie or rake a hand through his hair. And most certainly, most painful of all, he couldn't get away. He would die on a secluded block alone, hurting and wanting. And they would all cry at his funeral...if he were lucky.
And he never quite came to peace with it. For someone as much of a fighter as Ronald Weasley was...it was impossible.
But it was still tough to fight the inevitable.
And so, eventually, he died. Alone and just nineteen. His hair was wet and matted to his head and warm rain became one with cold blood.
And he couldn't say it was "not so bad" because it was awful, and terrible and this overwhelming feeling of your life going before you.
Meeting his two best friends, fighting with them both to no ends, his first kiss with the little brunette. Eating acid pops until his tongue burned and turned green. Learning magic. Laughing in the lavatories. Telling raunchy jokes with Harry, Seamus, and Dean.
Wondering about Heaven.
And it all flashed in his head, for a brief second.
And then, all was over.
He always looked down on his friends, and he smiled and made the thunder boom. He played Quidditch up in the sky with the big 'pros from the early 1900's. He ate marshmallow clouds to his hearts content.
And he was happy. In some way.