Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter!
160614: Minorly edited to fix grammar, punctuation and flow issues.
Patching Up the Holes
She pulls you up, her arms gentle but firm, and you mindlessly obey, because you're just numb, like a zombite, or whatever those muggles call them. You are conscious and complete with a beating heart, but your entire being feels ice cold - devoid of any and all emotion.
"Ron," she murmurs into your ear. "Come on, we have to go. Everyone's waiting for you."
You barely register her words. You don't want to go anywhere, or do anything. You just want to lie here and wait for the end of the world you just know is going to happen. Or has it already happened?
You are still struggling to grasp the impossibility of it all. It doesn't feel right – Fred shouldn't be dead. You stare at his lifeless body and look longingly at the smile that's still etched upon his face. Fred was still smiling, even in death. The reality of Fred's death hits you at that instance like an avalanche. It burns yet you barely feel anything at all.
"I can't, 'mione," you manage to choke out. "I can't leave him here like that." Your voice is hoarse from screaming and crying. Tears threaten to overflow and you do nothing to stop them.
"Oh Ron." Her voice is soothing, like a gentle stream. She sits you down upon the steps. With tender, shaking fingers, she brushes stray, scarlet locks away from your dirt-covered forehead. She takes a seat beside you, taking your rough, calloused hand in her smooth, slender ones. Her touch is an anchor amidst the chaos.
"I know it hurts," she begins, her voice sounding slightly shaky as well.
You want to reply, scream at her that she doesn't understand, that she can't possibly begin to fathom the pain that came with the loss of a brother. But then, like an electric shock, you realise that she does. That she had had to obliviate her own parents in order to ensure their safety. And so, you remain silent, willing her to continue.
"But I think that Fred d – died for a reason. He died for a good cause. He died in the hopes of creating a better world for you and I - for all of us." A deep breath, and a sniffle so soft it was almost inaudible.
"Fred was a prankster, everyone knows that. He once told me that he was a prankster because he loved making people laugh, and he didn't like people upset. I don't think he would want you, or anyone else for that matter, constantly torturing yourself, mourning his death instead of picking yourselves up and starting again. If you did that, it would be akin to wasting his sacrifice, for what good would his death have done if you were constantly stuck in the past, refusing to live in the future he gave his life to create?"
"It should've been me," you manage to reply quietly, after a moment of thoughtful silence.
"You honestly think that it would have made a difference? Would everyone be less heartbroken because it was you who died, and not Fred?" she reasoned, her voice still surprisingly delicate and comforting.
As you open your mouth to reply, she cuts you off. "No, it would not have made any difference. At all," she adds in sternly, seeing you on the verge of a retort.
"But that doesn't make it hurt any less," you finally admit, the tears making yet another appearance and streaming down your grimy cheeks in rivulets.
She says nothing, leaning closer and holding you tightly in an embrace. She rubs comforting circles on your back, and makes low, shushing noises occasionally.
After a while, the sobs lessen to sniffles, and you pull out of the embrace reluctantly.
"Better?" she asks tenderly, concern lining her war-worn features.
"Yeah," you say, "but I feel empty. Like there's a hole, a void inside, and I just feel so – so hollow."
She places her hand under your chin and pulls it toward her, so that you're looking right into her eyes.
You try and look away but she notices. "Look at me. Please."
You do. And you belatedly notice that her eyes were a breath-taking shade of brown. Reality hits you like a truck - the war has forced everyone to grow up way too quickly, because mere seventeen year olds should not have to fight in a war.
"We'll fill that void. Together," she murmurs, so softly that you think you imagined it. But you can see it on her face, the genuine sincerity behind those words, and you know that you won't regret it.
"Okay," you whisper back, truly believing it would be all right as the ache in your heart begins to diminish.
She leans forward and captures your lips in a heartfelt and passionate kiss, one far more tender and loving than the one outside the Room of Requirement. Her tongue seeks entry and you gladly permit it, your hand coming up to cup her cheek. You relax in those few moments, feeling pure bliss erupt in every fibre of your being.
That was when you realised that you loved Hermione Granger, and that she loved you back.
Fred's spirit watches them in contentment and happiness, knowing that Hermione Granger was exactly what his dear brother needed. He was as good for her as she was for him.
A/N: Whew! Did this in 30 minutes, surprising or what! It's my first Romione attempt, written for Camp Potter: A Challenge, under the activity Fireworks Show (Romance) and using the pairing RonHermione, and the optional prompt 'Look at me. Please.' And 'burning'.
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