Hermione, Fred, Hermione, Fred…
God, I'm – fuck – God help me. I'm lost. Please, help me. Please. Fucking please, I'm begging you please. I'm so lost. I can't find anyone. I can't see. I'm plunged into darkness. I feel it taking my arms, my legs, my body and I'm sinking deeper and deeper. I can't breathe, I can't do anything.
A hand reaches out and grasps mine, tightly, as if afraid of letting me go. It pulls me out of the abyss and into a dim yellow glow of light. I'm prickling with soft goose bumps and the warmth penetrates my jumper and touches my skin.
My face is wet with fresh tears so I wipe my face clean with the back of my hand. I feel an abrasion deepening as I smear sweat, tears and blood across my cheek. Yet I don't feel the pain, I don't feel any pain, I don't feel anything at all. No pain, no emotions, just this hand leading me to a place I don't question.
I'm being led through corridors, up stairs, behind tapestries. I recognize these places, despite the slain slabs of concrete strewn on the ground, gaping holes in the wall and torn and singed tapestries.
A painting of the Fat Lady comes into view. She smiles at me and coos my name like a hymn. She greets me through the canvas, albeit expressing shock at my bleeding palms. She offers some words of comfort and condolence to me and swings open.
The hand grips mine again and tugs me in. I catch a glimpse of flowing, long curly brown hair, swishing side to side. Something about the scent, a clean yet musky feminine scent, like cream, I follow, not blindly, no. There's something drawing me in, I'm guided by the strength of this one hand, pulling me into the Gryffindor Common Room, up the stairs into the boys' dormitory.
"Ron." It's a calm, familiar voice. A warm voice, which I remember loving to hear, craving to listen to, and hoping for more.
"Hermione," I whisper, hearing my voice tremble.
She finally turns to look at me, taking both my hands and leading me to the furthest bed. I observe every bruise, scratch, and cut, dried blood on her tired, worn out face. Yet she emitted this radiance, her cheeks, swollen under her pale, smooth skin. Her eyes told a different story. There was some sort of sadness beneath those brown chocolate eyes, like some indignant rage waiting to burst but painfully and reluctantly swallowed up at the last minute.
She sits me down on the bed and puts a hand on my shoulder. Slowly, she unbuttons my jacket, yanks my jumper over my arms and head. As her fingertips graze my neck, I let out an involuntary sigh at the sudden gush of warmth in my body.
"Take off your shirt," she says, averting her gaze. As I pull my shirt over my head, she looks into her beaded bag, searching for something. She takes out a bottle of Dittany from the bag and a handkerchief, my handkerchief, from her pocket. I fling the bloodied shirt to the floor as she soaks the handkerchief in Dittany.
Then she motions for me to be still. She sits on the edge of the bed, afraid of coming near me. I call her name, just to let her know I'm all right and she nods bravely.
She bites her lip and frowns as she moves closer to me. Looking down at my battered torso, laden with blood, glistening in the morning light, she allows her forehead to rest on my sweaty one. After curling her hand into a ball, she places it on my chest.
Slowly, she dabs each wound with Dittany. Silent tears trickle down her face, washing away the dirt and dust on her puffy cheeks.
"Oh God," she gasps, blinking hard as she caresses a particular long cut that ran from my right to left torso. "I could've lost you, Ron. I can't imagine –
The pain begins to leave my body, stripping me of anguish as relief drenches me. I twirl a lock of her hair that hangs over her face and tuck it neatly behind her ear. She's so close to me, I feel her breath tickling my lips and my chin. Her pink lips are quivering, even though she's visibly trying to suppress it. I lean in and plant a small kiss on her nose and bury my face in the crook of her neck. I catch a whiff of the scent again, inhaling deeply, letting it take over me.
She retracts her hands from my chest and explores the landscape of my assaulted back, searching for cuts and scratches that need attention. The damp handkerchief glides over my back. I suck in sharply as my skin comes into sudden contact with the cold potion.
"Ssshhh, it's all right," she says in hush tones. She strokes my back, up and down, up and down, so that my muscles relax with ease.
I pull away from her and she stares back at me, searching my face, my eyes, examining my mind, my pain.
"Ron?"
I feel a surge of pain that's been harvesting for hours and waiting to be relinquished. Not the physically kind of pain, but it's this unimaginable indignity, I wanted to get back at them, I wanted to just murder them with my bare hands, just to feel that justice was being served. I want to stomp on their graves and enjoy it but I couldn't do it. I couldn't do it not because I'm not able to. I can't do it, I will not.
"Oh Ron," Hermione whispers, hugging me tightly as I sob into her chest.
"Hermione, bring him back!" I cry, grasping her sweater. I feel her hands cradling my head as I sink deeper into her embrace. "Please, bring him back. I just want to see him again."
"R-Ron, I – I can't!"
I weep an endless stream of hot tears that streak my face and onto her sweater. I let it all out, I sob until I can't breathe properly. I cry until I'm blubbering like a fool but I don't care. The agony of losing my brother replays in my mind, bringing along with it a fresh tsunami of tears. But I feel cleansed, this relief washed all over my tense body, like I'm bring doused in a lake. As I resurface the water for air, I see Hermione's chest heaving and my hands tugging at the neck of her jumper.
"Hermione?"
"Hmm?"
I reach for the hem of her sweater and start to undo the buttons. Her hands automatically cover mine as I continue. My hands arrive at her collar bone and I pull the sides of the fabric closer to me. I lean in once more, this time, for a long kiss on her pink, slightly chapped lips. I feel her stripping off the wool jumper.
The kiss is long and unhurried. I take my time exploring her lips and tongue, recognizing the way she timidly flicks at my lips, as though apprehensive of tasting the saltiness. I try to probe into her mouth, licking her here and there, until she eventually relents. Her arms snake around my neck as my hands travel up her back, massaging her supple waist.
Just as I sigh her name, she pulls off and smiles at me, her moist eyes twinkling.
"Ron, I'm glad you're here with me."
"Me too."
"I think we should get some rest. You look tired."
"Okay. Come here."
She crawls shyly to my side and lies next to me. Then she does something which I don't expect. She unzips her jeans and wiggles out of them, revealing her smooth, white legs clad with a pair of navy blue knickers. She grins like a girly teenager at her boldness of which I respond to by mimicking her actions. But I fail clumsily as I fumble with the zipper. I get them off in the end anyhow.
I take the handkerchief and lie on my side. I wipe her face clean, carefully pressing a short gash on her right temple. Thankfully, her shirt is clean and I put away the handkerchief. A scar forms beside her eye and I blow at it lightly.
"I'm okay Ron," she assures. "Let's just sleep now."
I ease myself next to her and peck her cheek. God I can't stop kissing her. I kiss down her neck as she squirms like she's got the tickles. I stroke her skin for any bumps or bruise. I kiss each bruise I find, particularly on her thin arms. My nose grazes against the softness.
"I love you so much," I mutter, kissing her shoulder.
"I love you Ron," she replies, quietly. She yawns and places her hand on my chest. Our legs begin to intertwine as I kiss her to sleep.