Shedding Silent Tears

I was slowly walking toward a pool of blood. There was a redheaded figure in the middle of it and the sight sent shivers down my spine. I reached the person and turned him over. It was Ron, as in my brother Ron. Ignoring the blood, I knelt down and cried next to him, staring into his misty blue eyes, which stared back at me, not really seeing me, his older brother, the one who was supposedly in charge of him, the one who had failed him miserably.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and opened my eyes. For some reason, I was in my bed in the room that I slept in at my parents' house. I realized I had been dreaming. I turned my head to see another one of my brothers, this one alive, handing me a tissue. I had been crying in my fitful sleep. How embarrassing.

"Are you alright?" asked George, sitting on my lumpy bed. "You were reliving 'it', weren't you, Fred?"

My family never referred to Ron's death as, well, 'Ron's death'. They used the words 'it' or 'the incident'. My mother started that and we all followed because we didn't want to accept 'it' or the fact that Ron was gone.

I figured that it would have been much easier to deal with if Ron hadn't been slaughtered like a farmer's pig. But he was and his murderer's name because like a swear word in our household; our father nearly beat us if we even mentioned the name 'Bellatrix Lestrange' once.

"I'm better, George. Thanks for waking me up," I assured my worried brother. "I'm just going to get a glass of cold water before I try to sleep again. Is that alright?"

"Alright, then. Goodnight, Fred."

I got out of bed and tiptoed to the door. I opened it and went to the small round table at the end of the hall. We had always kept a pitcher of water here for Ron. No one wanted to get rid of it, for that would make his death absolute, a horrible truth that would haunt us forever.

I was pouring my water into a tall glass when I heard something. It was very quiet and it sounding like someone crying-no, pouring their eyes out. I listened silently a bit longer. At last, the sound of mourning stopped and a door closed on the landing below mine.

I gulped down the rest of my water, put the glass down and hurried back to bed, the crying ringing in my ears.

The next night, I didn't even bother to try to sleep for two reasons. Reason number one was that I wanted to know who had cried the night before at eleven o'clock. Reason number two was very simple; I wanted to be able to avoid those horrible gruesome nightmares about 'it' that I had all the time.

This time, I crept down the stairs to the second floor of the house, waiting patiently for the crier.

I saw a bushy-haired woman close her bedroom door softly before heading down the stairs to the first floor.

I waited a few minutes before following the woman. The weeping started and I was sure that she was the one who I was looking for. I saw that there was a light on in the kitchen. Without hesitating, I pushed the door open, shielding my eyes from the very bright light.

I opened my eyes and looked into Hermione Granger's red puffy ones.

"Fred! I-I-I…" Hermione stammered.

"You come here every night to cry about Ron, don't you?" I accused her.

"Yes," she admitted, wiping her eyes.

"Ron wouldn't have wanted this, you know," I informed her quietly.

"I know," Hermione answered, staring at her fuzzy pink slippers. "I know," she repeated slowly.

"Why do you do it then?"

"You do it too. George told me this morning at breakfast. He told everyone, not just me."

"That's not the point!" I said, a bit angrily.

"It's the exact same thing, Fred!" she pointed out. It was obvious, though I didn't want to admit it.

"Maybe you are right," I sighed, "but the point is that we both should stop. Lately, we've both been so miserable, so unhappy-"

"I'm-I was-his girlfriend, Fred!" she exclaimed. "How was I supposed to react? Maybe I should have just brushed it off, be happy!" She was frustrated and she was bothering to hide it.

"And I'm his brother!" I paused, thinking about what to say next. I chose my words carefully and said slowly: "I'm not asking you to be happy about his death or anything like that. I am telling you though, Hermione, to stop being so miserable. We all are and we shouldn't be."

"Why not, Fred?" she asked stubbornly.

"Ron wouldn't have wanted you to be this way," I repeated to her. "He would have wanted you to move on."

"And to forget him?!"

"I never said to forget him. I said to move on. You don't have to forget to move on, Hermione. Do it for him. Everything that you do in life, do it for him."

"I'm such an idiot, aren't I?" she laughed a little.

Hermione hadn't laughed in ages. I noticed that she was pretty, even when her eyes were all puffy like they were then.

"Of course you're not an idiot, Hermione! Do not ever ever ever say that."

We were silent for a minute.

"Thanks, Fred," she whispered to me.

"It's nothing."

I felt a lot better than I had before we had talked, just as much as she did, in fact. I guessed that all that we had needed was someone to talk to. I thought about it a little and realized that Hermione Granger was a part of my little brother and that I had to take care of her because he couldn't do it. I told her this.

"That's really sweet, but-"

"No 'buts'. I'm taking care of you. Tomorrow, I'm taking you out," I said firmly and before she could interrupt me, I continued: "You certainly need to get out of this place."

Hermione gave me a hug and thanked me again. I watched her go up the stairs and I followed, stopping on the third floor. I walked past my bedroom door to the 'pitcher table' and took Ron's pitcher downstairs to the kitchen.