~*~The Hour of Departure~*~
"The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our ways – I to die and you to live. Which is better God only knows."
- Plato
At first glance, the young woman sitting up in the hospital bed appeared perfectly normal. Her bushy hair framed her freckled face and her crisp, white hospital gown was neat and clean. She was staring aimlessly out the window, humming softly under her breath. In fact, most people who passed by asked why she was not being released, for she seemed in the peak of health. Why keep such a cheerful, healthy young woman locked in a medical ward of St. Mungo's? Buy Ron knew better. He knew the reason the young woman had not noticed his arrival, though he had been sitting there for almost 15 minutes. He knew why she was wringing her hands, though the almost obnoxious smile remained in place. He knew why. But some days, like this one, he wished he didn't. For, quite unfortunately, Hermione Granger was insane.
She had been for a time now, but it seemed like only yesterday to Ron that he had found her, locked in her closet, refusing to speak to anyone. Not one word had she said to Ron, nor to anyone else who attempted to speak with her. All she would do was hum, as if the humming was a matter of great importance and was the only thing that kept the world from collapsing. It had only been four days before the train would arrive to take their entire year home for the last time. But Hermione did not join them on the train. She was in St. Mungo's, Healers surrounding her with the hustle and bustle of the slightly snobbish physician. Ron had not gone home on the train either. He had been attempting to see Hermione, though it was quite apparent that his efforts were not helping him in the least. The worst part of that day had to have been when the doctor came. Doctor Segovia was what Ron thought he name was. Truth be told, he had not paid attention to her name at the time. His shock at her news far overrode his capacity for remembering names of people he hoped to never see again. He was still shocked at the words even now, five years later. "I'm afraid that Ms.Granger has become mentally unstable. She will be staying in St. Mungo's until further notice." Further notice had never come and neither had closure with the still startling events. 'What is it those Muggles are always saying?' thought Ron bitterly. 'Time heals all wounds or something like that? Codswallop if ever there was any.'
He stared sadly at the young witch in front of him. The idea that Hermione would never remember his name or tell him off for making up predictions for Divination had numbed from a burning sorrow to a steady throb that had slowly become part of his life. Although most of his classmates had felt deep sorrow at the end of their last year, none had felt as much as Ron, or so he thought. After he had lost both of his best friends, one in death and one in insanity, he had drawn away from the wizarding world, wasting away by the bed of the one he had used to call a know-it-all at least three times a day. He had felt like a darkness was creeping up on him just outside of the door, ready to swallow him up if he set foot out of the cold, white room. All of his classmates (at least the ones that were left) had tried, with no success, to make him let go of the suffering that had festered so deep within his heart that he had felt that he could never be free. He still remembered his sister's pale face, looking at him as she asked him how he felt. He had responded "fine", per usual. And she looked at him with that peculiar look of concern she had always saved for Harry as she always did before she started up a conversation about some topic Ron couldn't care less about. It had taken waking up in a hospital bed after collapsing from mal-nutrition to finally wake him up from his dreams of what could have been.
'That is behind me now,' he reminded himself. 'I'm better now. I've got a job as a ministry official. All of it is behind me.' But he knew he was lying to himself. Just the mention of Harry's name still brought tears to his eyes and he was in Hermione's ward more often than the Healers. He was still tied to the bushy-haired occupant of the bed in front of him. He had never given up hope of her recovery, though he had been repeatedly told that there was no chance. There was no cure, no spell that could return the Hermione he knew to him. Yet on he stayed, sitting by her bed during his coffee break or lunch, practically spending the night at St. Mungo's so that he could comfort Hermione when she whimpered in her sleep about some unknown adversary. He just couldn't force himself to forget the chiding tone with which she had regarded them when they had not done their homework or the mischievous glint in her eye as she hurled a snow ball at his face. He just couldn't.
With a sigh, he stood up, stretching his stiff limbs. He couldn't remember how long he had sat there. With one last look, he headed into the hallway. He knew he would be back tomorrow and the next day and the next day. And she would still be there. But something stopped him. It was just a small sound, nothing that should have warranted that jubilant expression on Ron's face as he turned around.
"Ron." The word seemed to be torn from Hermione's throat as her eyes focused for the first time in five, long years. She stood up, standing with the same confidence she had had so many years before. Her voice was hoarse and she spoke barely above a whisper, but it seemed to Ron the most beautiful sound he had ever heard in all of his 22 years. Her hand stretched out, as if to touch his arm, but he was too far away. Ron stepped forward, almost not believing his own eyes. But before he could reach her, her knees faltered and her eyes clouded. Without a sound, she slowly fell to the pristine, white tile floor. And Ron Bilius Weasley, on the fourth floor of St. Mungo's, felt his hope being torn away from him yet again as he watched the only person he had ever truly loved fall with a sickening thud to the ground, his dreams laying shattered on the floor beside her.
~*~*~*~*~*~
A/N: Hello all of my wonderful readers! Here is your much anticipated revised edition of The Hour of Departure. I have attempted to make some things more clear to my readers though there are still some questions that remain unanswered. Everything will become clear by the end of the story. I actually know where this story is going, unlike a lot of my other writing enterprises. In fact, I know almost exactly how it is going to end. And because of this, I feel the need to apologize to you before hand and ask you not to whack me with sharp and/or pointy sticks when this story finally comes to an end. Remember, the story is to blame. It wrote itself.
I accept all reviews and thoroughly enjoy improving my work, so I love constructive criticism. However, I don't understand why people leave reviews that consist of:
This story sux! Your writing sux! U sux!
I don't see their purpose. If you're going to tell me I suck, at least use proper English. And if you want to be really reasonable, you might even tell me why I suck. That's a little pearl of wisdom, I do believe. Quite a novel idea, isn't it? Anyway, I urge you to press the little blue button and give me a review, because they give me much joy and happiness and blah, blah, blah. I love all of you very much and hope you believe this to be a valuable waste of your time.
Menace
"The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our ways – I to die and you to live. Which is better God only knows."
- Plato
At first glance, the young woman sitting up in the hospital bed appeared perfectly normal. Her bushy hair framed her freckled face and her crisp, white hospital gown was neat and clean. She was staring aimlessly out the window, humming softly under her breath. In fact, most people who passed by asked why she was not being released, for she seemed in the peak of health. Why keep such a cheerful, healthy young woman locked in a medical ward of St. Mungo's? Buy Ron knew better. He knew the reason the young woman had not noticed his arrival, though he had been sitting there for almost 15 minutes. He knew why she was wringing her hands, though the almost obnoxious smile remained in place. He knew why. But some days, like this one, he wished he didn't. For, quite unfortunately, Hermione Granger was insane.
She had been for a time now, but it seemed like only yesterday to Ron that he had found her, locked in her closet, refusing to speak to anyone. Not one word had she said to Ron, nor to anyone else who attempted to speak with her. All she would do was hum, as if the humming was a matter of great importance and was the only thing that kept the world from collapsing. It had only been four days before the train would arrive to take their entire year home for the last time. But Hermione did not join them on the train. She was in St. Mungo's, Healers surrounding her with the hustle and bustle of the slightly snobbish physician. Ron had not gone home on the train either. He had been attempting to see Hermione, though it was quite apparent that his efforts were not helping him in the least. The worst part of that day had to have been when the doctor came. Doctor Segovia was what Ron thought he name was. Truth be told, he had not paid attention to her name at the time. His shock at her news far overrode his capacity for remembering names of people he hoped to never see again. He was still shocked at the words even now, five years later. "I'm afraid that Ms.Granger has become mentally unstable. She will be staying in St. Mungo's until further notice." Further notice had never come and neither had closure with the still startling events. 'What is it those Muggles are always saying?' thought Ron bitterly. 'Time heals all wounds or something like that? Codswallop if ever there was any.'
He stared sadly at the young witch in front of him. The idea that Hermione would never remember his name or tell him off for making up predictions for Divination had numbed from a burning sorrow to a steady throb that had slowly become part of his life. Although most of his classmates had felt deep sorrow at the end of their last year, none had felt as much as Ron, or so he thought. After he had lost both of his best friends, one in death and one in insanity, he had drawn away from the wizarding world, wasting away by the bed of the one he had used to call a know-it-all at least three times a day. He had felt like a darkness was creeping up on him just outside of the door, ready to swallow him up if he set foot out of the cold, white room. All of his classmates (at least the ones that were left) had tried, with no success, to make him let go of the suffering that had festered so deep within his heart that he had felt that he could never be free. He still remembered his sister's pale face, looking at him as she asked him how he felt. He had responded "fine", per usual. And she looked at him with that peculiar look of concern she had always saved for Harry as she always did before she started up a conversation about some topic Ron couldn't care less about. It had taken waking up in a hospital bed after collapsing from mal-nutrition to finally wake him up from his dreams of what could have been.
'That is behind me now,' he reminded himself. 'I'm better now. I've got a job as a ministry official. All of it is behind me.' But he knew he was lying to himself. Just the mention of Harry's name still brought tears to his eyes and he was in Hermione's ward more often than the Healers. He was still tied to the bushy-haired occupant of the bed in front of him. He had never given up hope of her recovery, though he had been repeatedly told that there was no chance. There was no cure, no spell that could return the Hermione he knew to him. Yet on he stayed, sitting by her bed during his coffee break or lunch, practically spending the night at St. Mungo's so that he could comfort Hermione when she whimpered in her sleep about some unknown adversary. He just couldn't force himself to forget the chiding tone with which she had regarded them when they had not done their homework or the mischievous glint in her eye as she hurled a snow ball at his face. He just couldn't.
With a sigh, he stood up, stretching his stiff limbs. He couldn't remember how long he had sat there. With one last look, he headed into the hallway. He knew he would be back tomorrow and the next day and the next day. And she would still be there. But something stopped him. It was just a small sound, nothing that should have warranted that jubilant expression on Ron's face as he turned around.
"Ron." The word seemed to be torn from Hermione's throat as her eyes focused for the first time in five, long years. She stood up, standing with the same confidence she had had so many years before. Her voice was hoarse and she spoke barely above a whisper, but it seemed to Ron the most beautiful sound he had ever heard in all of his 22 years. Her hand stretched out, as if to touch his arm, but he was too far away. Ron stepped forward, almost not believing his own eyes. But before he could reach her, her knees faltered and her eyes clouded. Without a sound, she slowly fell to the pristine, white tile floor. And Ron Bilius Weasley, on the fourth floor of St. Mungo's, felt his hope being torn away from him yet again as he watched the only person he had ever truly loved fall with a sickening thud to the ground, his dreams laying shattered on the floor beside her.
~*~*~*~*~*~
A/N: Hello all of my wonderful readers! Here is your much anticipated revised edition of The Hour of Departure. I have attempted to make some things more clear to my readers though there are still some questions that remain unanswered. Everything will become clear by the end of the story. I actually know where this story is going, unlike a lot of my other writing enterprises. In fact, I know almost exactly how it is going to end. And because of this, I feel the need to apologize to you before hand and ask you not to whack me with sharp and/or pointy sticks when this story finally comes to an end. Remember, the story is to blame. It wrote itself.
I accept all reviews and thoroughly enjoy improving my work, so I love constructive criticism. However, I don't understand why people leave reviews that consist of:
This story sux! Your writing sux! U sux!
I don't see their purpose. If you're going to tell me I suck, at least use proper English. And if you want to be really reasonable, you might even tell me why I suck. That's a little pearl of wisdom, I do believe. Quite a novel idea, isn't it? Anyway, I urge you to press the little blue button and give me a review, because they give me much joy and happiness and blah, blah, blah. I love all of you very much and hope you believe this to be a valuable waste of your time.
Menace