Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, I'm not making any money off of this, and its just for fun. Please don't sue me! :)
Author's note: This has been swimming around in my head for a little while now, and I've finally gotten it out. It's rather angsty and depressing, but what can I say, I just couldn't help myself. Im sorry for any spelling or grammar mistakes, I tried my best!
Please Read and Review! :)
Harry died on a Tuesday.
It was cold and grey and the occasional snowflake floated down from above, disappearing as quickly as it came. The only sound to be heard was the crunch of Ron's boots as he walked on the frost covered leaves. His breath floated eerily before him, but Harry's didn't. Harry had no breath, he couldn't breathe, he was dead. Ron walked with him in his arms the entire way back to the tent. It was a long walk, it took an eternity and no time at all, but he never tired or stumbled. And he never used magic; Harry was his burden to carry.
Inside, by the light of the candles, his face was somber and stoic, a stark white beneath the streaks of blood, as he laid Harry to rest on the table. His movements were as gentle as any parent putting their child to bed, as he eased him carefully down, supporting his head and brushing the hair away from his eyes. Ron's red hair was dirty and dim, his blue eyes dark and unseeing. His duty done, he stood briefly staring, before gripping Harry's thin shoulders in his fists. Hermione watched from the kitchen as his resolve crumbled, and his spirit broke. For just a moment he rested his forehead against his best friend's one last time, his tears leaving trails down Harry's cheeks.
She could hear him whispering words she couldn't make out. It sounded like a prayer and a plead, and ended with his name. "…Harry." A moment later he straightened and wiped his wet eyes, smearing the blood across his cheeks. He walked out of the room and didn't look back.
Harry's clothes were caked with mud and dried blood, and the layers peeled reluctantly off his pale skin with a ripping sound that was easy for Hermione to recognize. She was sure that it was the exact sound that her heart made when it broke. She had never seen Harry look so vulnerable, laid bare before her, his bones visible in his too skinny body beneath his too old eyes. She was the one who washed the blood away with warm water and too many tears. She was the one who sewed the ragged and stiff gashes in her best friend's skin back together. She fought with herself every stitch of the way to keep her trembling fingers sewing and her stomach from revolting.
This was all wrong.
Later, after she had gently toweled him dry and dressed him in clean clothes she and Ron put him onto his bunk and tucked him away beneath the blankets. He could be sleeping, except that Harry never stayed so still. They had both lain awake through too many of his nightmares and guilt ridden sleepless nights to mistake this for anything but death.
Twilight had descended on them without their noticing, and Hermione only realized it because she had always found it easier to ignore the harsh truths of her life in the dark. Ron pulled in a chair from the kitchen and the harsh scrape of the wood dragging sent a shiver up Hermione's spine. He set it at the foot of Harry's bed, folding himself into it, forearms resting on his knees, back bent and head bowed to start his vigil. Hermione climbed into the corner of her own cot, curling around a pillow with her legs hugged tightly to her chest. A dim shaft of the last of the day's light spilled across Ron's hands, illuminating the scarlet flecks of dried blood that still lingered beneath his nails and within the crevices of his knuckles. And it was the sight of this that the reality of the situation hit Hermione.
"We've lost Ron, it's over. It's all over, we've failed." She whispered in disbelief, causing Ron's head to whip up to stare at her. "We let Harry die, we can't win without him. It's all been for nothing." She couldn't stop the tears from welling up and buried her face in the pillow to stifle the sobs she knew were soon to come. But before she could continue Ron's chair fell to the floor and her shoulders are being bruised in his grip. He stands above her, looming and dangerous.
"Don't you dare. This is not how it ends. Harry didn't live a shitty life and die a stupid death so that you could give up and let them win. You don't get to do this, I'm not letting you." He says, his voice cold and unyielding as he gives her shoulders a shake with enough force to send her sprawling onto her side when he releases her.
"What are we supposed to do Ron? Harry was the only one who could kill Voldemort and now he's dead! Even I can't fix this, you can't bring back the dead!" She screams this, her frustration and devastation spilling out from her as she watches her last living friend pace.
"I know that Hermione, don't you think I know that? But we can keep the dead around a little longer. There's a price to pay, there's always a price."
Hermione knows that she would pay anything.
Hermione left behind stacks of letters. All the things she had never said and that she would never get the chance to, written in neat and precise words. Ginny found them a week later tucked away in her school trunk in that beaded bag she always carried. They weren't written on expensive parchment or with special ink, nor tied with ribbons. Each letter was folded exactly by three, some taking up pages and pages as if she would never run out of things to say, and a few no more than a handful of lines. She reminisced about her favorite memories with each of them and confessed the hopes and dreams she had only every acknowledged to herself. She asked for forgiveness but she never apologized. She asked them to take care of Crookshanks, to love him since she couldn't. There wasn't a need for any of them to comment on the tears that blotted some of the pages, that had made the ink run and left the remnants of the last pieces of herself that she had to give.
From Ron they found little glass orbs no bigger than sickles, their names etched on. Smoke swirled inside, each one a different color. His voice floated out as is from a distance, and left them with the last words they would ever hear from him. The charm used to make these undoubtedly came from Hermione, but the idea was all Ron. He didn't dwell on the past, instead he described the futures he pictured for all of them, that he knew in his heart were soon to come, the reasons that made their sacrifices worth it. He gave Ginny his broom and Pig to the twins, he said if he couldn't be around to annoy them the owl would have to do. His voice choked up at the end and everyone knew it had nothing to do with the possessions he was leaving behind and everything to do with the people.
Harry himself didn't leave them anything.
Heart pounding, breath coming fast and short, her lips tremble and her knees feel weak. Do they dare? She's never been so scared in her life, she's never seen Ron more sure.
Three has always been their magic number, it makes sense that three is the key now. Hermione traces an unsteady hand down the stained vellum page of the one book she didn't want to read a last time before Ron reaches out to hold it tightly. She can see the love in his eyes and hopes that he sees the same from her. He gives her an understanding smile that doesn't reach his eyes, she knows that for them it was never a matter of choice.
She picks up her wand and says the spell that will kill them, leave all three like walking dead until their mission is complete. Death always knows a good deal when he finds it, and two extra souls before their time in exchange for a few pitiful months is not to be passed up.
They feel no different after, and they never tell Harry.
Harry kills Voldemort on a Tuesday. He scoops Ginny up into his arms afterwards and spins her around, laughing as if he's never laughed before. Hermione catches a glimpse of a tender kiss between the two before the crowd swells around them, blocking them from view.
Later, Harry finds her and Ron having a last tender moment of their own. Hermione doesn't think she can ever get enough of Ron's eyes, his arms around her and his scent everywhere.
That night after the castle goes quite they sneak into the ruined Great Hall. There is no need for cloaks or maps this time, but Hermione insists for old time's sake. They conjure blankets and pillows and pile them onto a table, laughing the whole time. Hermione gets squeezed between the boys, and she complains like she's expected to, but there's no other place she'd rather be. Looking up, the enchanted ceiling is the only untouched area in the castle, and the sky is an endless black. Harry whispers that he loves them forever, and they whisper their love back.
They are found early the next morning. Their bodies have already gone cool and stiff, but they still clutch each other, legs tangled and arms wrapped around. On a chain around Hermione's neck they find memories. Everything she and Ron know that Harry would have said and wanted the people he loved to know, their most cherished and private memories left for the ones they had to leave behind.