The breeze is cool against your face. The air tastes salty. The sound is sad.
You sit on the sandy shore, facing the horizon. You're by the edge of the ocean, just where the waves rush in before falling back again.
The waves are like warriors on a battlefield. Racing in recklessly before retreating hastily.
Like a Gryffindor.
Like you.
Especially you.
The waves swish in again and curl back. Your trousers are folded back and your feet are far back enough so that the water doesn't hit you.
But you're close enough to see your reflection, the furrow on your brow, the red shirt your friend gave you last Christmas, the scar on your forehead.
Sometimes, you don't like what you see.
A voice comes from behind you, a quiet voice that's a little hoarse around the edges.
"Hey, mate."
You whirl around in surprise as your friend – best friend- comes closer.
(You don't like being snuck upon. Not since the war.)
You don't speak, but you frown at him. He's not supposed to be there. Not supposed to be here, beside you.
He reads your expression, like he's done over and over these past seven – no, eight – years.
He sits down beside you, on the prickly sand, by the edge of the ocean.
"The others left some time ago. They thought it might be best if they left you alone for a while."
You look away, then back into the horizon. You don't know what's best anymore.
He follows your gaze. "It's a beautiful place, really. You chose well, mate." He claps you on the back, a little too forcefully.
You don't answer. You look down at the waves again, at your reflection. You see his reflection now, too, beside you. His bright red hair towers over your own dark head, but his shoulder bumps into yours comfortably.
You make quite a pair, you think.
Like another pair of best mates some thirty years ago.
The breeze is cool against your face. The air tastes salty. The sound is sad.
But his touch is warm, his presence is sweet, and your sound is no longer alone.
You finally reply.
"Yeah, well. Sirius deserves the best, doesn't he?"
Your answer is soft, barely intelligible. A whisper.
But you know he would understand.
He always does.
Right before Ron hugs you, you see a tear drop into the ocean, marring your reflection.
Right on that scar that haunts you.
And before you know it, you're bawling against Ron's shoulder, sobbing, crying, hiccupping.
All he does is hug you a little tighter, gripping your shoulders close to his chest.
"S'all right, mate. You helped me cry at Fred's funeral. You can cry all you want now."
He presses his head against yours, his voice hoarse again, too.
"I'll be right here."
...
A/N: I love Harry and Ron. :) If it's a bit vague, well, it's meant to be vague. :)) The story's set around 8 months after the war, when Sirius is finally given proper recognition as a hero. They hold the memorial by the ocean. :)
This was written for "HedwigBlack's Weekly Challenge" - Write something in second person. This is also for "Some Things are Better Left Incomplete: Competition," with the prompt(s): I whirl around in surprise as _ /random word: ocean. Also inspired by Lady Phoenix Fire Rose's "The Character One Hour Challenge.
This was also written at 3 in the morning so please forgive any/all mistakes. :))
Thought of the Day: What do you think of Harry and Ron's relationship? :) Please let me know in a review! Also, how was the writing? I know the second person's strange, but it's my first time. ;) I'd love to know what you think!
Happy Holidays, everyone!