Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of this work of fiction and no profit, monetary or otherwise, is being made through the writing of this.
A/N: Death fic (I did not set out to write a death fic; sorry). Written for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry's July Fortnight Two, Going Postal. Section 5: Quote:
If music be the food of love, play on. - William Shakespeare
Dear Ron,
Ron flattens the parchment as he reads, eyes scanning the words of the letter first before he really takes them in through a second reading. At first, he feels nothing. Just a coldness in his gut that spreads slowly through the rest of his limbs, leaving him numb.
"What's that?" George asks, craning his neck to read over Ron's shoulder.
Ron curls forward, denying him a look. "It's private," he says, hating how soft his voice is, how it gives away some of the feeling churning away in his gut.
"Private?" George's voice has a teasing lilt to it, and Ron knows that he's said the wrong thing a split second before George pulls the parchment from him and dances off with it, passing it off to Fred who plays along in George's game of keep away.
Ron charges after his brothers and ignores George's and Fred's voices, mimicking that of the letter writer, as they take turns reading Ron's letter aloud, one holding the letter high above Ron's head while the other brother holds Ron back. It's a little like a game of Quidditch for awhile, the back and forth nature of the teasing, only it's a nightmare and Ron's losing what little composure he has left.
Trembling with anger and the coldness that has seeped into his bones from the letter, Ron wipes angrily at the tears that slip down his face and stops fighting against George's hold when Fred's voice falters on the last few lines of the letter. He shivers and bites his lip. He feels cold and hot and like sinking through the floor, or disappearing into thin air.
Fred and George exchange a look and when George lets go of Ron, Ron sags to the floor, arms wrapped around himself. It does nothing to warm him, nor do George's and Fred's arms when they enfold him.
"I'm so sorry," George whispers into Ron's ear. "I didn't know."
Fred kisses the top of Ron's head and rubs Ron's back. Something their mother used to do when they were little and inconsolable after a bad dream, or a scraped knee, or a lost teddy bear.
"'If music be the food of love, play on,'" George whispers the ending words of the letter, lips brushing against Ron's hair. They'd been written by someone named Shakespeare. A poet. A playwright. Someone Hermione had quoted more than once in her letter.
"She wants you to move on from this," Fred says, completing his twin's thought.
"I don't understand why she didn't say anything," Ron says, thinking back to the past few months at Hogwarts. Hermione hadn't seemed sick at all. She'd seemed tired after her visit home during winter break, sure, but they'd all been tired.
"She didn't want you to see her at her worst," George says.
"It isn't better this way," Ron says, hating the words that Hermione had penned to him in her 'farewell' letter. She'd made it sound like not telling him and Harry that she was dying was better for them, that they'd only remember the good that way.
There's a bitter taste in his mouth as memories of their first kiss, the day they first met, the first time she'd smiled at him, the time she'd punched Malfoy...spin like a spider's web through his mind. It really isn't better.
"I should have known," Ron says.
He'd thought Hermione had been losing weight to look prettier, though to him she'd been beautiful just the way she was. He hates that he'd said something of that sort to her in the last few weeks of school, and how he'd misread the tight smile she'd given him in response.
She'd given him several of her prized books, and Ron hadn't thanked her properly. Had said something that bordered on rude. He should have known.
"She didn't want you to know," Fred says. "She didn't want anyone to know."
"It isn't fair," Ron says, wiping at the tears that persist in spilling down his face.
"No, it isn't," George says, fingers carding through Ron's hair. "It isn't fair."
"She's the best of us," Ron says. "She can't be dead."
"She will always live on in you," Fred says. "And Harry, and in the lives of all that she met."
"It's not the same," Ron says.
"I know," George says. "She's a brilliant witch."
"Even now," Ron says, choking on the words, the pull of a smile at his lips. "Spelling her letter to arrive after..."
"I'll be she's got other surprises in store for you," George says.
Closing his eyes, Ron nods. Knowing Hermione, not even death will stop her from making sure that he and Harry keep up with their schoolwork, and that he live life to the fullest, as she wrote in her letter to him: "Don't you dare mope around and moan over the loss of me. I need you to be strong for Harry and move on for me. Live life to the fullest, Ron. I'll be watching over you, and so help me, Merlin, if you spend a year dressed all in black and brooding like Professor Snape, I will haunt you."
There's no doubt in his mind that Hermione will haunt him if he doesn't heed her words. He can almost picture her stalking him through the halls of Hogwarts, a book clutched in her hands, reading Shakespeare or Hogwarts: A History aloud to him until he stops moping, or rewrites an essay that is subpar, or asks a witch or wizard who catches his eye out. He smiles at that, and chuckles even as a few more tears roll down his face, taking comfort in the arms of his brothers and in the words of the girl he'd only just started to love.