The rain poured down on Ronald Weasley as he walked down the desolate road, struggling to surmount the force of the wind. His hair was disheveled and drenched, his clothes soaked to the skin. From what could be seen of him from the muted light of the moon, he was looking nothing better than a tramp; given the nearly hanging-off cloak and the much-too used shoes. To those who had seen him for a while, his state would not have come as a bolt from the blue. He had been like this for quite a few years, since she had died.

I step off the train
I'm walking down your street again
And past your door
but you don't live there any more

Ron walked on, battling the ferocious wind, till he reached a particular house among the many that lined the street. Turning so that he was facing it, he began to walk up the narrow cobbled path that led to its door. The rain had made it slippery and it was rather difficult to walk on the path. On either side grew what would once have been healthy, blooming flowers; they now looked old and wearisome. Not unlike Ron himself.

For a second, he stopped walking and looked up at the dilapidated balcony on the first-storey; Ron thought he saw a mane of bushy, brown hair. For a second, he thought he saw Hermione Granger.

It's years since you've been there
but now you've disappeared somewhere
Like outer space
you've found some better place
And I miss you like the deserts miss the rain
And I miss you like the deserts miss the rain

The illusion faded as fast as it had appeared. For Hermione could not be there. She had gone somewhere, where she could never come back from. Her haunting his mind incessantly and turning his world topsy-turvy, that was a different thing. It was something she had always done. But, though he could still feel her, seeing her, as she had been, was now beyond possibility.

Sighing, Ron continued his walk up to the door. He pushed it open carefully; it was almost hanging off its hinges. It was very dark inside, dust roofed every inch of the room, and Ron could not help coughing as the dust rose beneath his feet. Shielding his eyes from the cloth-covered furniture, which he had long since pushed to the corner of his mind, Ron walked towards the staircase that led upstairs.

Could you be dead?
You always were two steps ahead
Of everyone
We'd walk behind while you would run

Once upstairs, Ron had to register his astonishment at the change the house had undergone in a period of two or three years. This was the house which she had lived in all her life. That time, it had been spanking clean, there where lights and bright furniture everywhere. The flowers in the garden had been blooming and the house had bustled with life and cheerfulness. Now the very same house was dark, dull, and seemed to echo Ron's now permanent mood. It seemed to moan the loss of the soul that had made it the bundle of liveliness that it had once been.

Walking to the side of the bed in the room, Ron knelt down. From under the bed, he drew out a stack of papers. The first one was a picture; old-looking, though it had only been taken three years ago. It was a picture of him and Hermione, standing together and smiling happily, that had been taken just before that fateful moment when the Death Eaters had retaliated after the death of their master. And Ron had lost his reason for living.

I look up at your house
and I can almost hear you shout
Down to me
where I always used to be
And I miss you like the deserts miss the rain
And I miss you like the deserts miss the rain

Tears poured down freely; tears that had been suppressed for months. Ron's shoulders shook as his heart bled for Hermione, to touch her, to feel her alive; not the shadow that was forever in his mind. He wanted desperately to feel her warm skin touching his, her lips softly kissing him, making him feel that no matter what he had to go through, an insufferable know-it-all would always be there to make him feel better.

Back on the train
I ask why did I come again?
Can I confess?
I've been hanging around your old address?

He had tried, oh yes, to forget her. He tried to live his life pretending to have never known her in the first place. But not knowing her was to him like not knowing himself. Not when Hermione was the blood that pulsed in his veins, the breath that was life to him. Not when his every moment was spent reminiscing the time that had passed in her presence. When he had lived his life only for her, longed for her, and watched her take over his heart. His life.

The years have proved
To offer nothing since you moved
you're long gone
but I can't move on

And I miss you - like the deserts miss the rain
And I miss you - like the deserts miss the rain

It was hard to believe that his one and only source of joy and bliss was gone, never to return again. Be it her laugh, or her smile, or even her endless scolding for being inattentive in class, he had loved it all. But fate seemed to not like his happiness. Fate had cruelly snatched away what had then felt like the long-awaited peace and contentment he had sought in the form of Hermione. The magic she had in her, the aura around her that had drawn her to him, could not be dismissed so easily. It was hard for him to move on. Harder than probably anything he had ever done before.

I step off the train
I'm walking down your street again and past your door
but you don't live there any more
It's years since you've been there
but now you've disappeared somewhere like outer space
you've found some better place
And I miss you
Like the deserts miss the rain
And I miss you
Like the deserts miss the rain

"I miss you so much, 'Mione," Ron whispered, brushing tears off his face. "So much."

And I miss you
Like the deserts miss the rain