Disclaimer: to your enormous surprise, I'm sure, I don't own the Harry Potter books or the characters.
Now you're gone. You'd be so embarrassed to know that they're talking about erecting a statue of you at Hogwarts – you probably would have preferred a wing of the library, and I told them that. They didn't listen; they never do. Everyone watches me constantly, but sometimes it feels like no one hears a word I say. You always listened. You were good at that.
Ron was a mess at first, you know. He went days raging and crying alternately; for awhile no one was safe from his temper. Slowly things evened out, and now a quiet sadness has settled over him, one that is occasionally broken by a reluctant smile or a look of contentment when Ginny brings out their chess set. The ends of his orange hair still haven't lost the charcoal, singed color from that spell gone awry when we destroyed the second horcrux. It should make him comical. Instead, it only makes him look like the glum, sulking boy that you fell in love with.
When did you fall in love with him? Was it when he made those hurtful remarks about your academic status, or when he fought you on everything imaginable? Was it during one of my long stays in the infirmary? Or did it creep up slowly, happening so gradually that you didn't realize it at all until it was too late?
I dream of you at night. I see your smile; feel the curves hidden underneath long black robes. I talk with you about nothing and enjoy it exceedingly more than the many substantial conversations I've had lately with people who are still alive. And when I wake up, it's not in a cold sweat like Ron, who pictures you as you were in those last moments, but with a smile on my lips, my hand reaching out to draw you nearer to me.
I tell myself that I have no right to grieve for you like this because you were never mine to mourn. You were always Ron's, always Victor's, always so firmly your own that I never stood a chance. I never even understood that I wanted a chance.
I never told you, but that morning in January when you were up at the crack of dawn, the bags and circles under your eyes almost as distinguishable as your tangled mane of hair, I thought you were the most beautiful thing in the world. I never told you that you were the only person that could make me laugh quietly; the only person who understood the things no one else got after hours of explanation simply by gazing into my eyes. I never told you, but you were the axis my world turned on.
Ginny doesn't understand. I think she expects me to treat it as if I'd lost Ron or Fred or George. I find myself treating your death much more like losing a love than a friend, though, and trying to explain to her why my eyes are never quite dry when Ron talks about you is a daunting task. It is difficult realizing that her one unforgivable trait is her failure to be you. She knows, although I'm not sure she believes it. It took loving you to realize that I'd never loved her, and I'm not sure whether to thank you or curse you for that.
Did you hear me say it, just before Ron joined us for your final moments? The whispered "I love you" that wasn't in itself incriminating but carried a load of guilt and regret? Were you still conscious as he clutched your body, damning you and begging you not to leave him? I just sat by useless. The only one of our group any good at healing charms was Ginny, and I doubt she could have helped you even had she been there. I'd like to imagine that your eyes staying open only long enough for me to reach you signified something. I'd like to imagine you loved me, too.
After two years' time, I should be happy. Voldemort is gone, and almost all of our class is still here. But you aren't. You aren't and it makes all the difference in the world, but not for the reasons I would have thought.
Heroes aren't perfect. I still wonder sometimes if I would take it back if I could – undo Voldemort's defeat, that last year of school, if it only meant having your eyes meet mine over a stack of dusty old tomes. So much good has come from his downfall; so many lives have been saved (although more have been lost), and so many souls finally have the assurance that it wasn't all for nothing after all.
I'm directionless now. Because Voldemort and his tyranny are gone, and with it my purpose – you were my purpose. I'd like to think you knew that. You always did understand much more than me.
Fin.
A/N: So this is my first attempt at a Harry Potter fic. You can probably tell I'm very new to the fandom (I've only read through book two so far:/), and I'd love constructive criticism on how to make Harry more believable. Thank you for bearing with me in this drabble during which I wax philosophical and show just how sleep deprived I truly am.