We'll Be Okay
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Harry runs his index finger lightly over the smooth wooden surface. Perfect. How is it that something so entrancingly smooth and soft, could hold something so lifeless and cruel and full of pain? Harry does not know, so he keeps on staring, searching for any kind of answers, even though he knows he will not find them here.
The wood is polished and gleaming, so brightly shining that Harry assumes that if he gazes into it's black depths, he will be forced to see his reflection staring back at him. His eyes close tightly. He doesn't want to see his reflection...the reflection of a traitor. The reflection of someone who lived, of someone who had been saved by someone. If it wasn't for Harry, he would still be alive. If Harry had not been so obsessed with defeating Voldemort, and saving people, he would not have wanted to help and followed him. He turns away from the coffin, rubbing his eyes as hard as he can to make sure tears to not fall from them. He knows that if the tears started, they could never possibly end.
He sighs, the quietness of the house unbearable. He wishes for Fred and George to come barelling in through the doorway, yelling about a crazy new invention for their joke shop. He looks away from the front door of the Burrow...he knows that they will never be opened in joyous comfort, and nobody will be come toppling up the front steps in relief to get home. Those days are over. And they are not coming back. A realisation hits Harry so powerfully, a sense of loss so incredibly hard that he stumbles backwards in shock and confusion.
Ron is truly not coming back.
He looks around the room, breathing heavily. Fred and George are, for the first time, sitting at complete opposite sides of the room, wearing black sweaters and trousers. Bill, Charlie and Percy talk gently to eachother, every now and then sending concerned looks at their little sister Ginny, who is vigourously washing dishes in the kitchen. She scrubs the pots and pans so hard Harry is afraid that suddenly the pots will break under the strain of her fingers. She swipes a strand of dull-looking red hair out of her face, and then goes back to her dish-washing. It's her way to deal with the pain, and no one makes any move to stop her.
Harry doesn't want to look into the eyes of Molly and Arthur Weasley, he is afraid of what he might see in their faces. He knows that they love him as their own son,buteven they repeatedly tell him that it was not his fault, he knows that what is going on inside is a battle far more complex than what they choose to reveal with their mouths.
They blame Harry. They blame Harry for the death of their youngest son. They walk around the room absently, every now and then patting the shoulders of their children and guests gently and asking if they want any refreshments. They look fifty years older than they actually are...itis not the usual image of the young-looking parents who held on to fun and innocence through their older years. Harry winces at the sight.
But the truly most painful thing he witnesses is his best friend, Hermione Granger, sitting on the window sill staring out of the glass. Rain slams on the window pain, and a flash of lightning illuminates her tired face. She looks like she has not slept in days, her sweater and long black skirt make her pale skin look white as snow, and her long bushy hair is pulled into two plaits falling down her back. Her hands hold a mug of tea that must have gone cold hours before. She has not moved from that spot since the wake began. Remus Lupin, Molly Weasley, Charlie Weasley, Tonks, and other members of the order have tried to softly coax her away from the spot, but she barely even looks at them. Harry is afraid for her.
He is afraid of how gaunt her face has become since she recieved word of Ron's death, of how thin and pallid her body is becoming, of the amount of time that has passed by since she smiled or laughed. Harry looks down at his own body, and sees the similarities. Heis hurting. They both are. He walks slowly up to Hermione, sitting down next to her on the small space. She does not move, she does not blink. She merely stares soundlessly into the darkness of the night. Her cheekbones are defined from not eating enough. He raises his hand to her cheek, touching it ever-so slightly with his index finger. She still does not move. He takes the tea from her stiff fingers, placing it on the table in front of the couch occupied by Charlie, Bill and Percy. When he returns to her side, she takes in a deep, shuddery breath. Harry wants to reach out to her, to comfort her...but he does not see what solace he could possibly give to her.
Hermione bites down on her lip hard, her eyes become glassy as she breaks the barrier of her lip. Blood slowly seeps into her mouth but it is the only thing she can do to keep from screaming. She needs to get out of the room, so filled with death and darkness. She wants to get out of the house that will no longer hold any memories of of her best friend, of a house that will forever echo the sound of his contageous laughter. She looks back, finally, and sees Harry standing there, helpless. She stands up from the window sill and takes his arm in her hand, leading him up the winding staircases until they stop at a familiar door. After a moment, Hermione breathes in deeply and pushes the door open. They step inside.
The room is covered in orange. Posters of the Chudley Cannons are plastered all over the walls, bookshelves filled with magical names and colors, an empty rat cage that used to be occupied by Scabbers, a bed still messy from the last time Ron woke up in it. Hermione takes a few hesitant steps toward the bed, running a slender, womanly hand as gently as humanly possible over the sheets. Sheis careful not to upset any creases or change a decimal of an inch of the position of the comforter. Harry studies her care and lovingness as she touches the soft cotten of his bed coverings. A tear slips down her face, and then another, and another, until sheis quietly sobbing her grief into the sanctuary that still holds thespirit of Ron. She reaches for the pillow and lifts it to her face, until her eyes close and she breathes in the hauntingly familiar scent. She can smell his shampoo, his soap, his cologne. She can smell the life of her best friend, and in that moment she feels closer to Ron than she ever has in her life, but the feeling she has when it parts...is the most unbearable loneliness she has ever experienced. It pierces her heart, and she falls to her knees as her body gives out to to her suprise and pain. Her eyes widen, and the tears become evident as they fill up her already red eyes. She stares at the floor tentatively, as Harry lowers himself in front of her, lifting her chin to face him. Hermione looks up at him in confusion, her lips trembling.
"What do we do Harry! What do we do! What do we do now! Where do we start!" It is then that she leans forward, and wraps her arms tightly around Harry's back, grasping at his sweater in her small fists, trying to find sanctuary in his arms. She feels so cold without Ron there. She feels so empty. Something is so painfully wrong when he is gone. Hermione clenches her eyes closed tighter, pulling herself closer to Harry, sobbing unrequitedly. She doesn't want to open her eyes, she doesn't want to know that she will have to live in a world, live an entire lifetime...without him in it. That emptiness, that loss, it tears apart her soul and crushes her heart. Harry cries with her, in Ron's hauntingly familiar room, and whispers comforting words in her ear. If Hermione was not in his arms, he is afraid that she might just blow away into the wind and fade into nothing, so they both hold on tighter, wailing with sadness.
"It's okay, Hermione."
"Please-please Harry, don't leave me too. Please-don't."
"I'm never going to leave you Hermione, I promise you."
"I don't know-what I would do-what I would do if I lost you."
"Hermione, I'm not going anywhere. It's okay...we'll be okay."
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