I miss you. I want to cry for you, long and hard, with snot running down my nose. I can't. I didn't expect it to feel like this. Standing here in the vicious winter air, with the bitter wind and the dead trees wailing at me, I am frozen. With the gray sky pressing down on me, standing on the cracked, gray earth in front of the gray slab that marks your death, I feel a vice-like grip over my heart. Hate was never an emotion I was familiar with- even Malfoy was just intense dislike. Even when he insulted you. I thought myself too noble, too intelligent for hate. Noble.
I hate Voldemort, but not with the burning fire in the pit of my stomach and the hot, damp tears of anger I expected, and even hoped for passionately. Instead, I feel my hatred with a cold, hard clearness in my heart, and a sense of responsibility is chilly in my veins, and all the sudden I think I have tasted what its like to be Harry.
He won't be able to get over this, either. Never. Of course, he feels responsible. He's not angry with himself like he was over Sirius. He doesn't yell or cry, not since the first day. No. He has just been gone to the world. Empty. He's barely spoken a word to anyone. He's some creation of vengeance, training himself and honing himself and losing himself so he can kill Voldemort.
You were stolen from us. Stolen. Laughing in the autumn air with us one minute, and when I turned around, you were gone. We searched frantically for you, gathered the troops. There were almost a hundred of us. We called out for you until night fell, until out voices grew hoarse, until the teachers forced us back up to the castle. They had to forcefully drag Harry out of the woods, kicking and screaming. They sent others, of course. Much later, they found you, beaten and bloody, grey and green. Tonks found your body. She cried the rest of the night.
Ginny has finally hiccupped herself to silence. She cried for days. I haven't yet. All I can do is stand here and feel that grip on my heart. I miss you. I miss how you never got anything right, except for the things that counted. I miss how you always bounced back. I miss your faithful loyalty to Harry, your willingness to accompany us, wherever we may go. I want to cry, I promise. I do. But I'm too cold. I have too much hatred.
I place a single daisy on the cold grayness before me. Nothing else will grow in this earth, I'm sorry. It's too cold.
"Hermione?" A warm voice blossoms behind me. My face thaws. .
"Oh God, Ron, I miss Neville so much. I can't even cry." I turn to the blue eyes of the love of my life and collapse into his arms.
"It's okay, Hermione. It'll be okay, it's okay." He keeps his mantra. The world thaws, for that voice
With his warm, loving arms around me, I break into wracking sobs. It doesn't matter that I haven't felt salty tears dripping down my cheeks. I'm too cold for the liquid. But you've got to know, Neville, I've cried for you.