A/N - Here's the revised edition of "Time Ran Out." I know that everyone's going to like the ending MUCH better ... muahahahaha! So please read and review ... as you all already know, I'm a review-whore. So show me some love. :)

Goodnight

By: Amanda M.

Once, I wore a gold chain around my neck. It was a gift from my prince, and it meant that I was his. It meant I was loved.

I don't know what I'm doing here. It's raining and cold and I'm tired. God, I'm just so tired.

There is lightning now, and it hurts my eyes. The edge gets a bit closer every time I breathe. The freezing rain is melting my clothes into my skin, making them stick to my numb body.

And I don't even care.

I peer over the edge of the bridge I'm standing on, void of all emotion. The water is swirling and rushing at the bottom in strange patterns. I think I see faces in the white foam. I'll be one of them in a little while. The thought soothes me. I'm not afraid. My toes are already over the edge. It's funny, in a way. I'm killing myself in inches.

A flash of red-orange. A whisper in the dark. A warm, tough hand holding mine, and the strongest shoulder I've ever cried on.

Ron Weasley is the only reason I'll ever have.

He understands. He knows. He feels it, too. It was always the three of us. Nothing was ever going to stop us. Sure, there was a crazy evil bastard after our hides, but that was somehow all right. Okay, maybe not all right.

But it was bearable. It was going to be over someday. We could handle it because — because Harry was there.

And Harry is no longer here.

Ron blames himself. But really, it was my own stupidity. A week before graduation, the Dark Lord was done for, and everything was peachy keen.

I needed more writing supplies. Figured I'd pop down to Hogsmeade and visit Flourish and Blotts. I was stupid. It was late, the streets were deserted in favor of nice, cozy fireplaces and a mug of butterbeer. I didn't see the three hooded figures until it was way too late. They found me when I was here, right here on the bridge. Closer to Hogwarts than I'd like to think about. They took me — well, I still don't exactly know where they took me, but . . . they did things to me that I still can't think of, or I'll explode.

Another pro of tonight's plan — I won't have to think anymore. Won't have to feel so horrified at the things that have happened. As I said, it was all my fault.

Harry, of course, came after me. As I expected him to. What I didn't expect was that he would come alone. A right dumb plan, that was. Yet even now, I can't stop thinking that plan is the right word to describe his actions that night. He knew what he was going to face, and he didn't bother to inform Ron. Didn't bother to tell anyone that he was coming for me.

I still remember the look in his eyes. The look he gave me right before he fell. He had already done in the Death Eaters, but the damage was done. It was over. He was over. I remember begging him not to close his eyes. Talking to him for what felt like hours on that humid, sticky night. The minutes dragged on. I remember trying to convince him to stay — Harry, not now, all right, who's going to tell Mrs. Weasley and Remus what happened, who's going to tell Ginny? Who's going to stand up for Ron at the wedding, Harry? You're not going anywhere, Harry, it isn't happening . . .

But it was happening. And he was gone. It nearly killed me.

And it almost destroyed Ron. My Ronnie — he hates being called Ronnie. Reminds him of his Great Aunt Tessy, or something like that. I don't know.

Am I selfish for saying that I'm glad Ron wasn't there that night? That I'm glad he's alive and well right now, probably reading the note I left him? I would never say that I'm happy Harry's gone — on the contrary, it's part of the reason I'm here tonight. But if it had been Ron . . . well, I wouldn't have made it five minutes without him.

I can see him now, in my head. So tall and loyal and just so Ronald Weasley. Thick red hair that badly needs a trim, straying into his eyes. His eyes, those beautiful blue eyes, always sparkling. Always hoping, no matter what. Even when he got the news about Harry, there was something akin to fire in his eyes. They are never dull. Never lifeless.

Not like I'm about to be.

My name is Ronald Weasley, and I am a bloody moron. That sentence has been playing in my head non-stop all day. I can't believe that I actually left Hermione alone on the anniversary of — Merlin, I still can't say it. The day Harry died.

I quickly unlock the door to the apartment we share in Muggle London. After he — wasn't around anymore, the two of us decided to pool our money together and rent a flat. It was much cheaper than living alone.

I tell myself every day that it's the only reason we moved in together. Because it was economical. It was safe. But somewhere, I know that we both did it because we would have died otherwise. Would have locked ourselves up, alone and broken, until it became too much.

Before I go check on Hermione, I open the refrigerator and grab a bottle of butterbeer. I make a mental note to add that to the grocery list I spot out of the corner of my eye, laying on our small kitchen table.

And then it hits me, like a Bludger to the stomach. That isn't a grocery list. And there isn't going to be another grocery list unless I read the note.

"Hermione?" I call out, hesitantly. Hopefully. My heart literally skips a beat as I wait for her answer. None comes. I don't want to pick up the parchment, so I walk slowly down the hall and to her bedroom door. My heart skips another beat as I wait for her to answer my knock.

She doesn't, so I go in. It's a no-nonsense bedroom: a desk in the corner with stacked papers and a few bottles of ink, quills laying next to them. A neatly made bed . . . there is nothing personal about it. Nothing except for the photograph tucked safely beneath her pillow. I knows it's there, I've seen it before. It's a photo of the three of us in our first year. Before we . . . before everything.

She's not here. She's not in my room, the bathroom, the balcony. She's nowhere and everywhere at the same time.

I had hoped to find her curled up in my bed, under the maroon comforter. In the beginning, right after it happened, she came to me.

Once, in the middle of the night, she had simply crawled into my bed and started to cry. That was the night we first made love. Seems a bit wrong to me, at times. That the two of us became so close because of what happened. It's like, we have something to hold us together. Something to keep us in line.

She told me she loved me, that night. Screamed it, whispered it, cried it. Told me that she'd never stop. And I was so alive. So in love.

My last hope is St. Mungo's, though I know not to even bother. If she were there, if something terrible had happened, Ginny would have told me. She is a Healer, after all. She would have known.

I'm back in the kitchen now, and the only reason it hasn't yet blown away is the mug resting on top of it. It's Hermione's favorite mug, a worn, chipped horridly purple and green one. She said it reminded her of Crookshanks. I never bothered to ask why.

It's time for me to read it.

Dearest Ron,

You've already searched the flat for me. By now, you know I've gone.

And love, you already know why. Don't come after me . . . I don't want to be saved. This is something I have to do, it's the only way to end my pain. To end everything.

Please don't hate me. I'm doing what I have to. There's just something I have to tell you.

Good night, Ron. I couldn't live with myself if I hadn't said it. I know it's strange, but I can't sleep unless I tell you. Before we were together, I would come into your room every night just to tell you goodnight.

So, good night, my love. I'm sorry.

It has to end where it began.

Love always,

Hermione

My heart is laying on the floor, shredded and ripped. It's what her message has done to me. The only coherent thought in my head is "Go. Go to her."

So I do. I Apparate to "where it began." The picture is a horrible memory. But it gets me there.

She's still standing. I haven't yet lost her. She doesn't want to leave me, I know that.

"Hermione!" Her name sounds as if it's torn from my throat, gravely and raw. There's a Quaffle-sized lump in my throat and I don't want to have to feel this again. I can't be the only one left.

The rain is loud, and for a second, I think she hasn't heard me. It drives into my face, blurring her image into wavy, cinnamon and blue lines. I impatiently wipe it from my eyes.

She is holding on . . . just a few feet, and I can grab her, haul her back over and ream her out for even considering what she's about to do.

"Hermione!" It is harsher this time, commanding. "Hermione, don't!"

"Stay back, Ron."

Her voice pierces my skin. It's icicles and frost. She's promised herself that she'll do this, and I'm just a mere glitch in the plan.

"Hermione." I am calmer now. I don't want to scare her, make her actually . . . jump. "You're not going to do this, all right? You can't possibly want to end something as beautiful as your life."

She actually looks at me now, looks me in the eye. I am shocked to see that she really does want to. But there is a ghost of the old Hermione lingering there. I can see her in the way this woman's lips are trembling, in the way her hands are shaking. Tears and rain are making her cheeks shiny, and red. Gods, I love this woman.

"I love you, too, Ron." I haven't said it out loud, and somehow she still knows. It's the way we are . . . no need for words. "But there isn't any other way — "

"Of course there is! Come back with me! Marry me, make me a daddy! Spend the rest of your life with me, Hermione! We can get through this together!" I am yelling now over the pounding rain. A clap of thunder sounds, and I feel myself starting to cry. I can't let this beautiful woman leave me. Not now, not ever.

For a second, I think I've convinced her, because her eyes are warm when she looks at me.

But then, she shakes her head and looks down at the water. "It makes me feel safe, Ron. Knowing I won't have to deal with anything anymore. Makes me . . . comfortable. I would love to come back — to the way things were. And then, then I'd marry you and make you a father. And I would be happy, Ron. But how can I possibly do that when it's Harry who's never going to have the chance to come back and marry your sister? He'll never be a father. He's never coming back, Ron."

"Damn it, Hermione!" I am angry now, screaming at the top of my lungs. I want to shake the woman before me, shake her until she realizes what I know. "Of course Harry can't come back and marry Ginny, of course he'll never have a child! But that doesn't mean he wouldn't want us to! Hermione, he loved us! He would want us to be happy!"

"I — I . . . " I can tell that she doesn't know what to say. There's finally a hint of sanity in her eyes, and I almost left myself breathe again. "Please, Ron. Please make me stop feeling like this."

When she says this, I do let myself breathe. I watch as she lets go of the railing and looks at me. "I love you."

My chest is loosening, and my stomach is releasing itself from the knots. I go closer to her, relieved when she doesn't move further away. Finally, I reach out and touch her. When I do, I know that I'm never going to let go. I pull her back to my side, and crush her against me. I have never come so close to losing her before, and I don't ever want to again.

"Hermione . . . " I groan against her. She looks up at me, new tears in her cinnamon eyes. "I love you. And you're never going to forget that, got it?"

She nods, still shaking. I absently finger the simple gold necklace that she still wears. It was my graduation gift to her — I was so embarrassed by its cheapness, but figured it was enough to let her know how I felt.

She is so small and fragile in my arms, and all I want to do is take her home and never let her leave.

She lets me hold her hand as I Apparate back to our flat. And later on, she lets me stroke her hair for hours, just laying in bed with her. I think she knows that she really scared me.

We lay in my bed until the sun comes up, just being there. Eventually, she finds her way closer to me and I can't help but kiss her. I can't help but touch every inch of her just to make sure that she's really here, and she hasn't gone. I can't help the tears threatening the corners of my eyes as I hear her cry out my name.

Early the next morning, we are both laying, entwined and tangled up in each other. I am half asleep, but she's still on top of me, running her hands over my shoulders and chest. Eventually, she lays against me. I can feel her hair tickling my face as I reach up to wrap my arms around her, hands resting against her bare back. I will never be able to tell her how much this means to me . . . that she's alive and with me. I love Hermione with everything I am, and if she had . . . well, I can't even think about that.

Before she falls asleep, her breath is warm against my ear as she whispers, "Good night, Ronald Weasley."