"Hermione, I want you to know… I need you to know, I'm going to see this thing through until the end. I, just… Everyone thinks I'm a coward. But you never have, and that means so much to me. I'm not going to- I guess what I'm trying to say is I won't leave you."
He'd left behind his bloody sweatshirt. He'd left behind his stupid maroon sweater with the large yellow R emblazed on it, and she swears it might be the worst thing he'd done to her. He had ignored her before, kissed another girl in front of her, acted like a jealous prat , but nothing hurts more than seeing the sweater. Every single day she walked past the sweatshirt and everyday it felt like ice consumed her veins reminding her: He left.
She often felt the frivolous temptation to put on the sweater; she was sure it still smelled of him. She could pretend it was his warm, lean arms were around her instead of thick yarn and that was really him breathing behind her, instead of the wind, and she'd tilt her head back to look up at him- and nothing would be there and her heart would break all over again. She couldn't allow that to happen because she just couldn't handle being hurt all over again.
So she didn't touch the sweater. Occasionally, she would finger the fabric imagining his chest filling out the flat sweatshirt, his long legs sprouting out the ends, seeming as if they go on for ages, then his arms, his freckled hands poking out the ends, and finally, his face taking form, and she'd find clear blue eyes staring back at her. But no matter how much she willed the sweater to transform it never did.
For a long time she and Harry didn't do much. They travelled from place to place, quietly losing hope, barely surviving, depression consuming them. Their hopes weren't crushed by Ron's disappearance of course, but they simply had nowhere to go, their sense of purpose, dissolved. And so, with nothing to do, Hermione constantly fanaticized about the sweatshirt; it was the only personal thing she had left of him anyway. Anything else of Ron's could easily be Harry's and besides the sweatshirt was so Ron-Slightly frayed, warm and snuggly, maroon.
She let the sweater consume her imagination. Her favorite fantasy involved Ron finding them through a strange chain of events and groveling before her feet. He'd enter the tent, his eyes would widen at the sight of her, guilt would course through his body, but his heart would still do double-time at the sight of her. He'd immediately crumple to his knees, begging for her to take him back. And she'd quietly turn away and he would think he'd really lost his chance, but really she was just grabbing the sweater, and she'd kneel down right next to him and she'd say quietly, "You never left."
She missed Ron terribly, but enough time had passed that Harry now felt comfortable mentioning his name in her presence and tonight he'd carefully recounted a memory from their sixth year when he and Ron raided the kitchens, and how Ron accidently kicked Mrs. Norris, and it had to have been the funniest thing Harry'd seen in his life. He'd chosen his words carefully, slowly, like he was treasuring each word that slipped off his tongue. She was sure he was still a little uncertain of sharing memories of Ron in her presence and wanted to cling to the moment. He went to bed with a small smile on his face.
But while the memory made Harry feel slightly better, it made Hermione feel incredibly lonely. And it was so cold outside and she missed Ron so much, and she really did think that too often, and she finally decided the only thing that would make her feel better was Ron's sweater.
As quiet as she could, she crept back in the tent and rummaged around in the dark, careful not to wake Harry. Hermione knew she'd probably hurt herself more than help if she did this but she decided, just this once, to indulge herself. She located the sweatshirt and tugged it over her head and- oh, it smelled just like him and she could almost pretend he was right next to her but she had to remind herself that he wasn't, that she mustn't get carried away with herself, but the second the fabric wrapped around her shoulders she felt like she was home and she wished he- her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a quiet "Lumos."
Harry's face was illuminated by the tip of his wand and she jumped up, her face burning brightly and she was torn between ripping the off the sweatshirt and storming out or allowing herself to breakdown. "Hermione?" Harry mumbled, confused and disoriented, and fumbled for his glasses. "Why're you crying?" She touched her face lightly and, to her surprise, tears were there. But instead of lying or running away, she said simply, "I miss him." And without another word Harry nodded, slid off his bed, and pulled her into a hug without a second thought.
She clutched to Harry tightly and let the tears fall down her face hot and fast. And before she knew it her quiet tears turned into violent, thunderous sobs that s sent tremors throughout her body. She gasped for breath and Harry replied quietly, "Me too," And right then Hermione hated Ron more than anything she'd ever hated anything in her life. Stupid, stupid Ron, who was almost completely clueless, had left them in this stupid mess, even though he promised he wouldn't. He'd promised that night in Grimmauld Palace he wouldn't leave and then he had grabbed her hand holding it tight, like a lifeline, and an unspoken message passed between the two of them: Someday. We'll be together someday.
She had believed in Ron then, she had believed in his promises, she had believed in someday. But while Ron was completely clueless, she was completely naïve.
Before that night, Hermione would have forgiven Ron the second he stepped through the tent. But his promise was broken, the illusion shattered, and now she was going to fight. She didn't need Ron. She didn't need someone who broke promises.
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