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Disclaimer: No.
A/N: I had a relapse. xD In related news, my little sis turned thirteen and now has her own account as deatheater-in-a-towel
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Immaculate Truth
When had he gotten so old? When had the lines really begun to show, the young face careworn with the troubles of everyone and his own? Innocence and nescience had faded long ago, the only true age marking.
On that scale, he could be no younger than forty. The last few months had produced bona fide character building, being stressed and prodded to no end. But this– this was the maximum. His breaking point.
Things had been so trivial before and suddenly he was forced into hellish realism. How could he have left her, when now he couldn't even imagine such a thing, would rather have been in her place, screaming for mercy through lies of swords and vaults?
He had never shaken so in all his life, and had been so beside himself, he couldn't really be alive. Because, honestly, if she was gone, there couldn't be life without her. The world had to stop at the very last beat of her heart. How could anything else bear to go on when he could not?
He had never held her so tightly, his arms surrounding her, a talisman against the blade and wand. For one small horrific moment, he could not feel that familiar rhythm. And the world hadn't stopped. But her breath caught in her throat and air traveled audibly again, his own heart restored.
Apparating had not been as difficult now, his body remaining whole and intact, not one piece carved away. The destination ran through his mind without stop, Shell Cottage stamped into his memory. Deliberation was no problem, though the time frame for considering was a fairly small window.
It was the determination that used to stop him. Ron was not often sure of himself, being a loud person, but internally, quite modest. Confidence was scarce. But one thought pounded through his blood to his brain over and over and over.
I cannot let her die.
His features hardened as that last essential trait flooded him. Moments later, he felt the cold breeze and smelled the salty air. His eyes flew open, his legs already scrambling off the rocks to get his love to safety, or at least to comfort. Questions were heavy and difficult not to answer, but Ron evaded them all, and Bill was forced to accept that he would truly tell him nothing.
He carried her where Fleur guided him, laying her listless form gingerly on the spread, as the flustered woman walked briskly from the room speaking rapid French ("Le pauvre fille, cet garcon est tellement courageux..."). Her light weight gone from his arms, his legs felt like they were made of pudding.
He fell into the chair by the small bed, making the wood shake as he had.
Every mistake he had ever made with her was replaying in random order in his mind's eye. Every slight remark, every cross word, every moment of unfounded jealousy. The memories would not stop.
He felt abominable in her diminished presence, though her soulful eyes weren't on him. Yet she stayed with him. And wept when he abandoned her so callously. She cared for him. He cared for her.
After the longest while, he had come to realize that she was the only thing he truly liked about himself, and she wasn't even his. But she would be. Instinctively, his hand reached out groping for hers, his grip tightening about her small hand.
He probably should have considered the others for a moment, whether Harry had gotten back or not, but his mind made no such connection. His eyes were trained on her hair, the damp curls limp from the sweat and sea spray that had mingled there.
Forgive me. You have to.
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Warmth. She had not known that such a thing still existed, but a hot hand was pressed to hers practically radiating everything its owner was feeling. Her eyes fluttered and she gave a strangled sob as pain flooded her body, but she would be strong. She cut off the sound abruptly, harnessing the agony.
Quick movements made her head nod in confusion as to its source. "Hermione?" That was her name. And the way it was said made everything fall back into place, though she could not bring herself to blush. Squinting and blinking something terrible, she relaxed at the person before her, conquering her subconscious fears of never seeing him again. Her breath sped up, and she swallowed hard though it hurt, priming herself for speech.
"You... and the others, are they all right?" she asked, her voice coarse from the rawness of her throat. She could not read his expression; it seemed he was feeling too many things at once.
"I- I don't know," he said simply, his face falling and for a moment, Hermione possessed the absurd notion that he might cry. But Ron Weasley would not cry, she assured herself. And he did not, but his efforts were tremendous. Before she had time to think, she found herself staring into his wounded blue eyes that were telling her things that made her want to scream, though not in pain.
In no small time, she let herself fall into his arms. The schoolboy Ron would have been surprised and probably embarrassed. But this... this man before her was not so bashful, taking her into his embrace protectively, as if Bellatrix herself would come stomping through the door for another go. She loved the change, but despised it and was sorry to see them all sacrifice their childhoods to Voldemort. How could they ever bring themselves to smile again?
Peace.
Honesty.
Virtue.
Truth.
Hope.
Love.
All those things would be restored, if not by them, then by someone else. But this surely was not the end. They'd come so far and Hermione vowed to go farther still. Even in the darkness surrounding, though it choked and stung, it could not remove certain things. "Ron?"
"Hmm?" he murmured by her ear.
"We need to stay strong."
Ron laughed softly, his breath tickling her cheek. "I don't think you need to worry about that." He repositioned himself to look at her. This tenderness could not have been meant for her, but she involuntarily took on a pink tinge all the same. "You were extraordinary, Hermione." His pride was evident and well-earned.
She nestled into his shoulder to hide her pleasure at such a compliment. "For Harry," she said softly. "We have to..."
"Yes." His voice was resolute, surprising her again, but reassuring her deepest worries. Stay with me like this... forever.
A knock on the door startled her, but he did not let her go as she feared he would, though he did redden as Fleur reentered the room. The woman smiled at Hermione, which surprised Ron considerably. He was under the impression that the two could not stand each other.
"Come, 'ermione," Fleur said throatily, her voice unusually kind. "We must get you out of zose clothes." A dressing gown was draped over her arm. The idea of shedding her torn and faded robes was comforting.
She unwrapped herself from Ron's grasp and the boy quickly strode from the room, so as not to disturb the process. The woman tutted and fussed over Hermione and her few scars, murmuring to herself softly. She pretended like this did not bother her.
She could never love anybody else, she decided firmly. Ron was all there was in the world. It was almost like he was as eternal as the values they were trying so desperately to protect. And she loved him. His eyes whispered the same to her heart.
Once she was dressed properly and Fleur had left, she saw two hesitant eyes peering around the door frame at her. Ron entered, his bashful nature coming out again. "Harry," he said. A confirmation.
"Harry," she repeated. She stepped out across the threshold ahead of him and he followed, placing his arm gently about her shoulder. She knew he would never leave her again. And he knew she would never ask him to.
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Is love a fancy or a feeling? No.
It is immortal as immaculate Truth,
'Tis not a blossom shed as soon as youth
Drops from the stem of life-- for it will grow
In barren regions where no waters flow,
Nor rays of promise cheats the pensive gloom.
A darkling fire, faint hovering o'er a tomb,
That but itself and darkness nought doth show,
It is my love's being yet it cannot die,
Nor will it change, though all be changed beside;
Though fairest beauty be no longer fair,
Though vows be false, and faith itself deny,
Though sharp enjoyment be a suicide,
And hope a spectre in a ruin bare.
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Sonnet VII by Hartley Coleridge
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Reviews are appreciated. :)