He hated burying the dead. The task made him feel old and tired. Seeing the faces of those who he loved, fought beside him and finally fallen, tore at his mind. There was always that little voice that nagged at him.
That should have been me. He dug his hands into the moist dirt, moving it over the newly filled grave.
I should have been able to stop this. The head, the heart and then burn it all to ashes. They were safe if they were just ashes. He didn't have to worry about seeing them again if they were ashes.
I should have done something. Anything. His mind ran well traveled circles. Over and over again, he blamed himself.
The others had already returned to The Burrow, the new Order headquarters. Sadly, fewer redheads inhabited the old house. The war had taken so many victims already. With one last sweeping motion, he smoothed the last of the soil over the grave. It may have been redundant to bury the ashes, but he didn't care. Standing slowly, bracing his hands on his thighs, he made to leave the small graveyard.
He stopped short, seeing her leaning on the rusted iron gates. She looked almost the same she had when he last saw her. Her once long brown hair was cut short and fluttered around her ears. She pulled a cigarette from her pocket, lighting it with a bit of wandless magic. She pulled a drag from it and exhaled the blue grey smoke lazily before moving towards him. She was dressed in black. Black pants with tight buckets, black top, snug but flexible and a high collar that could have covered the lower half of her face if she hadn't push it down before coming here.
He pulled out his wand, taking aim at her head. This was not the time to reminisce about the impossible. She stopped and held out her hands, in a mock gesture of being unarmed. She was dangerous with or without her wand. He had learned that the hard way.
"Evening, love," she said with that damn smirk on her lips.
"Shut the fuck up! What the hell are you doing here? Doing work for that dark bastard?" He sneered at her, keeping his wand trained on her, despite the heavy feeling in his arms. He had spent all afternoon and early evening digging with the others, wandless, magicless. They had tried so hard to not attract attention to themselves.
Taking another drag of her cigarette and flicking the ashes with an ease that came with long practice, she regarded him for a moment.
"No. In fact, he said to leave you be. I came out of ...maybe a sense of what once was." She paused and smiled sadly at him. "Won't you at least think about reconsidering?"
"NEVER!" He yelled at her, taking a step closer. His wand hand was now visibly trembling, though only slightly. "I will never join that bastard or his sick ideals." He seemed to consider where they were for a moment. "And if he thinks he can make Inferi out of this graveyard, good luck. Everyone here is ashes. Hard to make those fucking ghouls out of ash," he countered smugly.
She laughed long and hard at him, the sound startling him, sending sharp pains down his raised arm. Fuck! Why was she just standing there and smoking?
Sighing heavily, she took another drag and flicked the half finished cigarette to the soft dirt, crushing the butt out with the heel of her boots. She leveled him with an amused look, setting her hands on her hips.
"Really now. I have better things to do than dig up bodies for The Dark Lord. He can find plenty of bodies on his own," waving her hand in the air and smirking, she continued "or make more himself."
He bristled at her words. Bitch. He knew it was harsh, but he didn't care. She wasn't the girl he once knew. His blood felt hot, he knew he was loosing control of his temper and had to do something before she commented on the shaking in his wand arm. No, he wanted her to hurt.
"So just taking a break from being the little slut of the New Death Eaters, huh? I bet that dark fuck likes it..." He found his words cut short by the hand in his hair and the silver blade at his throat. Swallowing thickly, he looked at her cold dark eyes. Fuck! She looked so much like the woman he once loved. He hadn't even noticed her move.
"Oh Ron. My dear, dear Ron. You never did know when to shut up and hold that useless temper of yours, huh love?" She pressed the blade gently to his throat, letting the first line of red slide down to his shirt.
"'Mione...I..." Ron couldn't find the words. Damn, he still wanted her to hurt.
"I wish you had just joined him. He really isn't anywhere near as bad as people make him out to be. He does care for all of us, well, the ones not trying to kill him." She smiled, while still holding his hair tightly.
Ron seemed to finally find his voice. "That little bastard should have been drowned at birth. Things like him have been killed off for hundreds of years. He's a fucking necromancer, he doesn't possess the ability to love. Only death and greed."
Hermione looked sadly at her old lover, shaking her head. "He told me not to come looking for you today, but I had to try, one last time. We were good together." She leaned forward and pressed her lips gently to his, just a soft brush of flesh on flesh. This close, he could almost imagine he could see her mark. The skull, rose and thorn tattoo between her breasts. Blood, flesh and bone, a necromancer's mark.
Leaning back, she smiled at Ron. "Good bye, lover. I'm sure I'll see you again." With that, she drew the blade wetly across his throat, soaking her hands red and thick. Ron gagged, eyes wide and surprised. Hermione stepped away from him, letting his knees buckle, sending the redhead staggering to the ground. Hermione raised her wand, pointing it at the sky, and cast. The skull and rose bloomed over the graveyard, with the thorny vines wrapping around the old bone and bright red flower.
With one last look at her old friend and lover, Hermione apparated away. Ron's mind felt sluggish and thick. He kept one hand gripped tightly to his throat, while fumbling in his pants pocket for his Order coin. Finding it, he held it in his weakening fist, feeling it heat up. Several pops later, he felt the hands of his allies helping him lie down and the soft hum of healing magic at his throat.
It had been almost eight years since the Dark Lord Potter had come to power. Eight years since he lost his best friend and his lover to the dark. Eight years since the twins and Ginny were stolen by that same death magic and it's promises. So many people were dead to him, seduced by the necromancer that used to be his best mate. Ron closed his eyes. He would live. 'Mione was just as good with a blade as she was with her wand, as one of the Dark Lord's top assassins he knew it quite well. She had made sure he would live, mostly because she knew that he wished he wouldn't.
*AN: Thank you for reading. This a vignette of a much larger idea I have been thinking about for now. If people enjoy this I might even work on the epic fic of Harry's inevitable fall and rise as a Dark Lord.