If things would have gone as planned…
Trying to escape reality, trying and miserably, lamentably fail. This is my only mantra left; the one that controls my whole life now. The only thing that controls my life now. What happened? I used to be so strong… Merlin's pants, I even help defeat V-Voldemort. Right now, I'm just a mess.
It's raining today. Exactly like that day. One year ago, day for day. One freakin' year already passed, bloody unbelievable.
Warm tears fall on my petite body, never stopping, turning my dress slightly transparent. I feel empty, searching for some source of comfort; but I'm alone in the little park near Diagon Alley. I don't even bother to sit on a bench. So instead, bare feet on the muddy grass, I let myself being immersed by the rain, completely absorbed in my invisible illness. I read in some muggle book that rain can clean the soul; me, I would need a freakin' hurricane.
A glint faintly shines in the hollow of my trembling hand; it's difficult to believe that a so little object, a blade from his razor, can solve all my problems. I know its all bullshit. But right now, it's kind of nice to believe. I was searching for a solution, again and again – what can I do better, I'm Hermione, for god's sake - but I never saw the ending. I'd searched in books – nothing. I'd searched in faith, in magic – again, nothing.
I feel artistic today. For the first time, I see blood worthy of obsession; it's short and beautiful. It's fluid, and passionate… and deadly. A blow that way, another this way. I draw fine line of blood with the blade like an artist and her brush. A little drop is forming at the intersection of two outlined cuts – I see it fall only to be grasped by gravity and splash on my dress. Blood drops fall faster and faster, mixing with rain, giving it a pinkish color. It's look like watercolors.
If rain hadn't achieved in cleaning my soul, maybe blood would. Yeah, sure, I could have used the magical way to... I just don't think I deserve to.
It's burning; the blood burning my skin. It freakin' hurts. A minute or two, and everything will be pitch black.
I tried so many times to escape reality, but in one way or another, at the end, only my memories stand by me, cope with me. Not that I want them to, actually. But, hey, death has that particular way of making you feel melancholic. Ha.
Memories have broken me.
This morning, when I woke up, I knew that I was lost. The bed was empty, the floor was cold. George had been working at WWW for some hours already. I was feeling confused, and lonely. Not that I should, I know, I mean, I have him. But regrets have that cruel way of eating you alive. We thought that together, we could get through this, all of this, but I can't.
Memories…
Suddenly, when I was eleven, I wasn't just a brainy girl with bushy hair, but a witch, friends with an already overly popular Harry Potter and an already overly annoying Ronald Weasley. Ron had that ability to turn my world upside down; I should have run. I love things to happen the way they are planned but him… He challenged me to be that unexpected person that I never thought I could be. Overnight, annoyance become affection, and affection became love. So much, that, out of character, one day, in the Room of Requirements, I kissed Ron Weasley. Two years later, at nineteen, because I already wanted my future planned in detail, we were getting married. We would have two kids, successful jobs, a tranquil life; we would die really old. So, he put the ring on my finger, I put the rope around his neck, literally.
Things were running smoothly and happily between us. We were never passionate but we were full of respect and deep affection for each other. Like love between two best friends. Maybe too friendly, but love, nonetheless. Love is a rarity, I felt lucky to have my share.
After some time, I was offered a prestigious job at the Ministry of Magic. Ron was accepted as a reserves player for his favorite Quidditch team: the Cannons. He had to travel with them to replace injured players. If being a war's hero didn't ensure him many female fans, this had made his popularity pop.
Week after week, I became more and more engrossed with my job; he became more and more absent. One thing leads to another: the more time he spent in another country, the more I worked. The more obsessed in my job I seemed to get, the more availability he gave to his job and worked to the point that he was promoted to regular player.
Sure, we would have dinner together some times, but more often, it was magically enhanced microwave dinner on the couch with a book for company. Some weeks, I would even have more news of him through the gossips columns of the Daily Prophet than in a proper conversation. Usually, he would come around midnight; sweaty from the game and breath smelling vaguely of two or three firewhiskeys he had drank in celebration of victory. Other nights, he didn't ever bother coming home, attending one party or another. The next day, he always promised to see me more the next weekend. But, the weekend would come and promise wouldn't.
I never said a word, not one. His career and newfound friends were so important to him, but inside, I was trembling. I was feeling useless, feeling unimportant, feeling hurt. I never really suspected him of cheating on me or not loving me anymore, but sometimes, I just, well, missed him.
On the first night of April that year, I was surprised when I heard a faint knock on the door. It's was late, and it's couldn't be Ron – he usually apparated directly in to the house. When I opened the door, there stood a tall, red haired, one eared, cocky smirked, especially handsome, very drunk George Weasley, come to celebrate his birthday with his younger brother. Like always, he wasn't there.
Other than Sunday dinners at the Burrows, I didn't have much contact with George in the past couple of years. Grieving Fred had taken most of his time, grieving my marriage had taken most of mine. George wanted to leave, I didn't want him to. We talked the night away. We talked about Ron, and Harry, and Ginny, and Fred. It was the first time that we talked about Fred. Actually it was the first time that George and I really talked.
That night was the first of many. It was a way for us to numb the pain, to make us smile, to forget momentarily the memories. Ron even saw the good of our friendship; he felt less guilty about leaving me to play Quidditch around the world and was glad to see George rediscover his joyful spirit. Usually, George and I would picnic in the backyard and trade stories; him about some famous prank with Fred, me about some life-threatening event with Harry.
July 11th. Like I said, I love when everything is planned, but sometime, things, and people, go in an unexpected ways. These days, you just want to relive it and enjoy again the event - or change the conclusion for another. For me, it's both.
July 11th; Two years before, I was at the altar, exchanging marital vows with Ron, smiles spread on both of our face, friends surrounding us.
July 11th; Ron wasn't there, again. I was pissed that he didn't make the effort to be there for our wedding anniversary. It's not like I was demanding that much. He did owl me a brief, but affection filled letter, something that he rarely took time to do. But he never mentioned the date or our anniversary. He had forgotten... Again.
Towards six that day, after work, I was sitting in the grass in the backyard, contemplating the stormy sky, my messy hair dancing a tango with the hot wind. I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around, thinking Ron had come to surprise me, but I came face to face with the darker blue tone of George's eyes. My shoulder skin seemed on fire. I tried to ignore the fast pace beat of my heart, like so many times before. I saw a light coat of sweat on his neck, he seemed slightly nervous. I bit my lips. He passed his tongue on his.
The tension that had built between us for the past weeks was palpable. I cleared my throat, shifting my attention back at sky. George did the same. We didn't say anything, he already knew; the date, the tension, everything. After a few moments, rain begun to pour on us. I invited him inside. On the porch, just before opening the door, I turn towards him. My breath caught in my throat; George was devouring me with lust-filled eyes.
A moment later I was pinned to the hard brick wall of the house, his lip crashing with mine, my hand in his red hair, his hands roaming my body. I never felt so shameful, so disgusted with myself, so freakin' alive.
For that single moment, I needed him. It was as simple as that. If he stopped kissing me, I would be incapable of breathing. If he stopped holding me, I would certainly fall on the ground. Sure, it could have been an expression of built-up lust. But I knew; the feeling was deeper, and greater, and so much more exuberant. It couldn't be hidden or suppressed anymore.
Piece of clothes began to fall the floor, making a visible path to our bedroom – the one that I usually shared with Ron. In the background, I heard a faint sound, but didn't give it any attention; I was much to involved in the moment.
After a heart shattering orgasm and getting my breath back, I left the bedroom to search the discarded clothes. Picking the last one near the door, I saw the lanky figure of Ron on the bench in the backyard; I froze.
Feeling my presence, he turned slowly, his big light blue eyes found mine. Only the glass door separated us. I bit my lip, again, but for entirely different reason. I stepped outside. The rain was still pouring. The grass was wet under my feet.
"Hi Hermione" he said, with no apparent emotion in his voice.
I didn't respond.
"I was on my way to take a walk."
He gave me a single purple orchid, my favorite.
"Happy anniversary, 'Mione."
And he walked away; I wanted to reach for him, to cast a spell to dry him or hand him an umbrella. I loved his brother, but I cared for him. I felt like such a monster. To this day, when I see myself in a mirror, I have the same feeling.
But most of all, I wanted to know if he knew. About tonight, about how I felt about for George, about all the days I had been silently pinning for George...
I turned my gaze on the flower. It looked dirty and a little bruised up, like it had been shattered on the floor. Then I knew; Ron knew.
Everything went pitch black; I fainted. I woke in the reassuring arms of George, looking at me in fear; I thought that, for a moment, he had relived that last breath of his twin.
Everything after was confused; Mrs. Weasley, apparating in tears, thinking I had weak because of the news. What news? Bill and Fleur at my apartment, visibly nervous. Ginny was there too, with Harry, crying. George looked horrified. Everyone was cautious around me. For the first time in my life, I, Hermione Granger didn't understand anything.
This could have taken hours or days, I don't know, but finally, I did understand. Ron was dead; he was hit by a car, a muggle car, it was fatal, didn't make it, died on the spot. Was it minutes or hours after he left the house for the walk, we don't know. It looked like an accident.
I felt nauseous, I felt furious, I felt numb, I felt devastatedand cold, and I felt a little... perversely relieved. That's the worse.
For days after, I locked myself in the house, where one minute was taking an eternity to finish, wanting to forget, wanting to stop eating, wanting to stop sleeping, wanting to stop living. All the little things reminded me of Ron ; the wizard's chess game in the living room, the solitary orange sock found in the laundry, the one or two red hair near the sink, even George. Especially George.
I had to push it back. Him and what we shared. He was facing the same horror as me, the same guilt, but I was just a coward. I wanted to finish screwing up my life alone.
I didn't sleep for ninety four hours.
My mind was obsessed with only one thought: Ron death was a suicide. Nobody knew, nobody suspected, but I was sure. I still am. I saw it in his eyes.
I'm sure he'd purposely died. I'm just not so sure of the purpose. Ron was a complex person. Sometime, I think it was his way of revenge; some cruel game. It's really the best torture that he could have thought of! He should have murdered me; I would have felt so much less pain, I would have been so much happier.
Other time, I think he knew what had grown between his brother and I. It was his way to give us our freedom back. To be a couple to the knowing of all, without him being the bitter ex-husband or tearing the Weasley family inevitability apart. Maybe, for Ron, it was a kind of blessing.
I opted for that version. It was easier to live with... a little.
To ease the pain, I even tried to hate George. I never succeeded; I could never really regret what happen. He's the best unplanned event that ever happened to me. If only the consequence could have been more predictable.
After some time, I tried to convince myself that it would be okay. That it wasn't my fault, that I couldn't change anything. The only thing that I could control was the way I lived after. So secretly, I begun to see George again.
In October, at the Weasley's Halloween party, where the shadow of Ron was still palpable, George and I stepped out like an official couple. Everyone was happy for us, gushing that we make an outstanding and affectionate pair, proud that I opened my heart again. Mrs. Weasley, and everyone actually, thought that we came together grieving; that friendship and tears turned us into lovers. If they only knew.
The real stories between is so much deeper, and sad.
So this is it, this is the end. It keeps raining and my rosy lips begin to turn bluish. Soon, I will stop suffering, but now, it's hurting to place that I didn't even know existed. The bittersweet aftertaste of blood and regrets go to my head.
So, this is it, I killed myself because of fate, or maybe I just didn't make the right choices. If I didn't marry Ron so soon, I would have known. I would have known that my future shouldn't lie with him. I would have known that I could experience real breathtaking passion, and joy, and love. If I hadn't planed my future so carefully, Harry wouldn't be the only part of the golden trio left.
But, if the war didn't happen, or if Tom Riddle would have chosen an different career path, Fred would had been alive. And maybe, instead of getting himself drunk every year, George would have celebrated his birthday with his twin and we would never have fallen for each other. But that, I'm less sure of; sometime, someday, it's would have happen.
My life, and my ending, is the result of calculated mistake and unplanned events.
Pitch black.
Forgive me Ron.
Forget me George. I love you too much for you to suffer from memories. Like me.
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So, this is it ; my first fanfict, and, most of all, my first text in English ! Yeah !
I really want to thank oOoJadedoOo who did a fantastic job beta reading this and help me with my horrible inability to have the correct verb tense and with my frenetic punctuation.
My next text, if I found some willing beta-readers, will be much more funnier!
Please, Read & Review !