Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of this work of fiction and am not making a profit, monetary or otherwise, through the writing of it.
A/N: Written for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry assignment number 2, Ancient Runes: Runic Numbers, Task 2, "Write about someone finding out they don't have long to live." Extra credit was to choose one of the following characters as the main character for this story: Barty Crouch, Jr., Hermione, Percy Weasley or Bill Weasley. I chose Hermione.
Warning: This is a death fic, but there is hope after death.
When Hermione learned that she had a rare, incurable magical disease, the first thing she did, after researching the disease until her eyes glazed over, the words started blurring and she developed a headache that just wouldn't quit, was hire a solicitor to write out an ironclad, spellbound will, leaving everything she had to Ron, Rose and Hugo. It wasn't much, but she didn't want there to be any doubts as to who should get what. She didn't want her family fighting after her death.
She then wrote letters to each of her children, Harry and Ginny, her parents, her mother and father-in-law, and finally, when she knew that she had but weeks left to live, she wrote a letter to Ron, spelling the letters to appear to each a week after her death. Despite her resolve not to cry about her own impending death, there were blotches on the parchment where the ink had been wet by a few stray tears.
The tears weren't for herself, though. They were for Ron; for the children that she would not live long enough to see off to school for the first time; grandchildren that she'd never meet; for scrapes and bruises that she'd never get the chance to kiss better; for long, cold nights that Ron would lie alone in bed, shivering, reaching out for someone who would no longer be there to warm him...
Hermione pictured all of it, the moments and stories that she'd miss once she moved on in death (she had no desire to haunt her loved ones, or hang onto her old life in the afterlife). She even dreamed about how life would move on without her. Some mornings she'd wake with a smile on her face, others, with tears in her eyes, an ache in her heart.
Even though a part of her was frightened, and sad, Hermione knew that, when Death came for her, she'd be ready to meet him, head held high, heart in the right place, her family taken care of as best she could. It was the best she could do for them, for herself.
She told no one, though she did make a point of spending as much time with her family and friends as she could before the end, insisting on a month long family vacation that would take them to different destinations in the wizarding world that she'd always wanted to visit.
They'd had a blast, and, though she was exhausted afterward, and knew that her time was coming soon, Hermione did not complain. Instead, she treasured each and every moment spent with her family, and let those memories buoy her through pain filled days and nights where the body and headaches refused to let up.
She refused to tell her family, wanting them to remember her as she was pictured in the scrapbooks that she put together for them on nights when sleep would not come. She didn't want to see them cry. And maybe it was selfish of her, but Hermione didn't want to deal with their grief while she was still living. She wanted to enjoy every single moment that she had left, not wallow in sorrow, anger and guilt.
It was on a winter night that she died, almost a full six months from when she'd learned about her impending death (just as the mediwizard had said). Ron and she were sitting by the fireplace, his arms wrapped tightly, comfortingly around her. She was sipping on a glass of the finest red wine that they had, Ron on a tumbler of firewhiskey. It was cozy and intimate, and one moment Hermione was raising the wine glass to her lips, the next, she had fallen asleep, head resting on Ron's chest, rumbling with the story that he was telling about something that Fred and George had done when they were kids.
It was a few minutes before Ron realized that she had fallen asleep. A few minutes more before he realized that she was never going to wake. It was then that Hermione took one last, loving look at the love of her life, at her body, still entwined in his arms, and realizing that she was dead, she traced the tears that fell down Ron's cheeks with ghostly fingers and turned toward the figure in light who beckoned her.
She did not look back. The next great adventure awaited her and she knew that this was not really goodbye, but rather a brief interlude. She'd be reunited with her loved ones one day, and she hoped that it would not be soon, but a day far in the future which would feel to her like the blink of an eye.