Title: My Heaven.

Rated: T

Characters: Ronald Weasley, with reference to Hermione Granger

Time Frame: 2 years post second war

Summary: "Ron walked a path that he knew by heart. Hell, he could visit the graveyard blindfolded, and in fact had come around in the dead of night on various occasions. He found that visiting Hermione's grave was not something that he could arrange, but instead was an act that could only be accomplished sanely when her memory struck him strongly enough. Undoubtedly, the time was now."

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Upon arriving, January had brought along a break in the heavy snowfall and harsh, arctic winds. The weather was almost pleasant for the time of year. Yes, the air was still frigid, and grass was scarcely seen from beneath the blanket of snow that encased the ground, but all of that was indeed changing. The snow had begun to melt, creating trickles of water, which then led to puddles, which had a tendency to freeze over come nightfall. Snow, in the process of melting, remained a slushy, very wet substance that could be found all about the roads and sidewalks; ensuring that the hem of your pants would be soaking, unless you tucked your pant leg into your boot. Otherwise, suffer the consequences: cold, wet, uncomfortable pants against your ankle all day.

Ron Weasley walked through the bustling crowd with a purpose. Head bent down, in a feeble attempt to protect his bare face from the cold air he walked against, his eyes watched the cobble stone ground which he walked atop, and he only knew his direction with the help of his peripheral vision. The pace in which he walked was rather swift — although, if the air had been ten degrees warmer he would have surely slowed down. There did not seem to be a feasible connotation as to why he would be in a hurry to reach his current destination. The name of the place says it all, Ron thought to himself, graveyards are just that: grave.

Bending around a building corner and into a small back-alley, Ron suddenly found himself alone; the company of other pedestrians obliterated. Unknowingly, Ron shuddered. It is debatable as to whether or not the shudder was triggered by the cold, or from the appearance of a long, straight, and rather eerie alley before him. Either way, the boy pulled his arms in, attempting to keep his body heat nearer to his chest, and continued to trudge forward. "Damn efficient short cuts," Ron muttered to himself; he then closed the distance to the end of the alley with ten large steps.

Emerging from between two brick buildings, Ron wandered back onto the sidewalk of a much idler street. There were only a few people out of doors, and Ron did not blame the rest for staying in their warm homes. With an unconscious sigh, the boy jogged across the street without a glance for traffic, for he knew there would be none to avoid. Ron jumped a small wooden fence, landing in a mess of snow and mud, but continuing forward without a notice of the splatter on his boots and pant legs. His mind was slowly transitioning into an uncomfortable and anxious stage. As he walked, he pushed his hands into his shallow denim pockets, as if determined to break through them.

Five short minutes passed, but it felt like hours to Ron. His mind was racing now, and it was in places that he wished it would not revisit: her smile, her laugh, and her perfect, beautiful, cherubic face. Although, as Ron considered these memories, he realized, with a trickle of familiar pain in his chest, that he could never really wish for them to disappear from his mind. No, he would never be capable of setting Hermione aside. She would always, and forevermore, be in his mind. Some days Ron appreciated her remembrance, but on other days, the days that mostly filled his life now, he wished that he could forget her existence: if only if it would stop his hurting.

Ron could remember the day that she died vividly, and often relived it in his dreams. She had been only eighteen when He had gotten to her, when He had stolen her away from him, and taken her from the glory of the life he wished to give to her. Why had he, the one person that loved her more than she could have ever known, not been able to save her? The fact that Voldemort stole the light from behind Hermione's deep auburn eyes infuriated Ron. Even now, he found that his muscles had become severe, and his fists clenched inside of his pockets.

Although, Ron did not allow himself to sallow on the hatred that suffused him. The bastard who had taken his love away from him had seen his final day. Most unfortunately, Ron did not kill Voldemort himself, but felt satisfaction in the fact that he was at least destroyed; deceased; blasted into fragments, despite who cast the curve. Only a select few in Voldemort's world had felt the same redemption that Ron had felt upon hearing the news of his death. Vengeance was sweet.

Ron walked a path that he knew by heart. Hell, he could visit the graveyard blindfolded, and in fact had come around in the dead of night on various occasions. He found that visiting Hermione's grave was not something that he could arrange, but instead was an act that could only be accomplished sanely when her memory struck him strongly enough. Undoubtedly, the time was now.

The yard was unkempt; but it was not a dead place. Ironic, right? No, the small graveyard was covered in an abundant tall grass, which was currently flattened by a blanket of white, but patches were visible poking through the top of their melting covers. Ron walked through the untouched grasses, waiting for the moment in which he would come across her place in the frozen Earth. The boy felt a chill in the air as he crouched down, proceeding after a brief pause, to brush the wet snow from the surface of a smooth, medium-size stone. A content sigh fell from his lips as her name, engraved in the marble's smooth surface, met his eager eyes.

Hermione Jean Granger

1980-1998

"Hello, beautiful baby," the boy's voice was soft, and as he addressed her, the fingertips of his right hand caressed her name. He wished so direly that her warm voice could respond to him. He would give anything, undoubtedly, to hear her warm whispers once more. They would be lying in bed, with the golden morning sun radiating through a gap in the curtain onto their bare skin. She would be entwined in his arms, as he would be entwined in the appealing mess of her brunette hair. Her hair, smelling as it always did: of lavender and warm honey. She would gently tap the tip of his nose with her finger, and he would be lost in her enticing gaze. A smile would build on her satin lips, and he would not be able to resist the temptation to kiss her. She was too perfect not to kiss. A tear brimmed on the edge of Ron's bright emerald eye as he thought of the way her gentle caress would feel against his face as she whispered back to him.

"You've been on my mind, baby," Ron whispered through lump in his throat, which was choking him, and bringing him nearer and near to losing his composure. For a boy could only pretend to be okay for so long. And being here, with her once more, Ron found it increasingly difficult to keep his emotions in check. He pursed his lips. "I wish you were here. I'm constantly wishing you were here."

Ron wished that he could scream and throw a misery-stricken fit, because that breaking point had been building since the day she died. He wished that he was only five years old once more, and that his mother would be there to coddle him and assure him that everything would indeed be okay. He wished, god forbid, that his Hermione had the air back in her lungs, and the light back in her eyes.

Ron drew a deep, rattling breath through his parched lips. He raised his chin, eyes sparkling with a sea of tears that threatened to leak over his water line and stain his face. Was this considered being weak? Would crying over the girl who continued to possess his heart, even two years after her exit from this world, categorize him as frail? Ron stared unseeingly across the empty graveyard, allowing his mind to turn itself off momentarily as he took this moment in.

After the passing of a few delicate seconds, Ron inclined his head towards Hermione once more, and simply stared at the letters that made up her name. After another moment of silence, a single tear streaked down the surface of his freckled face. "Most nights, I hardly sleep. I dream of you when I do, though. You're in every single one of my dreams, Hermione, did you know? I'm praying that you and I may end up together again one da—" Ron broke off, his feeble words unable to form as his emotions overtook him. The boy shook in wave after wave of uncontrollable, soft sobs; tears leaking down his face. Ron fell onto his knees, and the cold, wetness of the ground, which seeped through the material of his jeans, was not something that could effect him in this moment. He was invulnerable to anything but this moment.

Five minutes passed, and the boy was finally able to regain his accord. Wiping beneath his eyes with his fingertips, Ron glanced back down at Hermione's tomb stone with bloodshot and swollen eyes. Though now, he was silent. Reaching for his gloves, which he had abandoned next to her stone, Ron put them back on. As he stood, his body ached and a sudden fatigue overcame him; although both of these symptoms were considered normal for him after visiting Hermione. She caused him to become a bit weaker of a man than he would like to be when he visited, creating such strong an emotion inside of him that it took a great deal of energy to bottle it up once more.

Heaving a sigh, Ron withdrew his wand from inside the pocket of his jacket, and pointed it down towards Hermione's grave stone. His lips barely moved as he muttered the spell, nearly nonverbal, that created a lovely bouquet of pale lavender and ivory flowers to emerge, lying on their side in the snow, and overlapping the stone which marked Hermione's final resting spot. Ron did not smile, for he was not capable of such an expression at the moment, but he was indeed pleased to see the flowers where they lay. Hermione would surely have loved them. There's no doubt, he thought calmly.

Ron retreated from Hermione slowly, and it took a good deal of will power to not turn back. He would love nothing more than to spend the remainder of his days here in her graveyard. As long as she was here, he would be happy; and surely, it would be a much happier life than he was bound to live outside of this yard, alone.

Ron turned back as he reached the wood from which he had emerged. He had arrived here by foot, but intended to leave by a different method of transportation. The boy's emerald eyes zeroed in on the bouquet of flowers, which nearly blended in with the icy mass of snow from the distance at which he stood. A small wave a grief flushed into Ron's mind, and tears automatically brimmed up to the surface of his eyes as he fought for the ability to speak the words he desired to end his visit with.

"Baby…" he choked on his tears once more, and had to take a moment to swallow the lump in his throat, "you are my heaven." Raising his wand, Ron blinked, a tear rolled down his cheek, and with a pop, he disapparated.

Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with J.K. Rowling, and credit for characters and plot remain with her. This story was written by me, and may not be reproduced/ saved in any way without my consent.

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