I don't know how long I stand there, staring down at my brother's body. Percy's arm is around my shoulders; I can't remember the last time he showed any affection towards me, but it doesn't feel weird. Like me, he's standing rigidly, and I wonder what he's thinking. It's different for him, isn't it? What if he hadn't come back? What if he and Fred had never made up?
Time passes, but I don't know how much. I'm vaguely aware of seeing Ginny leave the Great Hall with Neville, of Percy murmuring something and moving away, but I don't move until I feel a warm hand in mine. Hermione's hair tickles my nose as she hugs me tightly, and I hug her back, and I wonder at the fact that some time ago I actually kissed her, I kissed Hermione Granger ...
It all seems so long ago, now. It even seems like years ago that we watched Snape die. As I think this, I feel suddenly sick; that's no way to die, even for a greasy git like Snape.
Blimey. Harry's head must be going crazy. He hates Snape even more than I do. I wonder what those memories were?
"He must be in Dumbledore's office," I say aloud. I'm mostly speaking to myself, but Hermione raises her head and nods at me. Her eyes are red and swollen.
"The Pensieve," she says, echoing my thoughts. "Ron, about Snape -"
"Don't," I say. I know what she's going to say, and I hope she doesn't say it to Harry - that he might have been wrong all along, about Snape ...
For once, Hermione listens to me. It's a few moments before either of us speaks again. I look around at my family - at Mum, clutching at Fred's shirt, at my brothers, all looking as if - as if someone's died, I think bitterly - and at Dad, staring down at Fred's body as if he can't quite believe it, not even attempting to stop the flow of tears down his cheeks. It hits me that I've never once seen Dad cry before, but there he is, sobbing like Mum, his chest heaving.
"Ron," Hermione says again, relinquishing her hold on me, "do you think we ought to go and find Harry? I think we need to talk to him. You heard what - what he said - that in an hour ... if Harry didn't ..."
I hear the chilling voice in my head again, and suddenly I realise that we do need to find Harry, and as quickly as possible. How much of that hour has already gone? I told him not to listen - but will he?
"Let's go," I say to Hermione. I offer a brief explanation to my family, but I know they're barely listening. For once, I don't mind.
I grip Hermione's hand tightly as we hurry through the blood-stained Entrance Hall and up the staircase, quickening our pace with every step. My heart is thudding in my chest, and I'm desperately concentrating on watching my feet, so I don't have to think ...
We reach the stone gargoyle that guards Dumbledore's old office, and I realise that we don't know the password. Surely Harry didn't, either? I glance at Hermione, and know she's thinking along the same lines. "Excuse me?" she says to the gargoyle. "Could you possibly tell us - has anybody come past you in the last hour?"
"Aye," the gargoyle croaks. "Lad of your age. He left about five minutes ago, though."
I stare dumbly at Hermione, who stares back. Her face is rapidly draining of colour. "He can't have gone to the Great Hall," she whispers. "He would have come up to us."
If, at the end of that hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up ...
It comes to me, everything that I'd been trying not to think, in a rush, hitting me with brute force. Of course he has. He's Harry.
He was Harry ... no! He is Harry, he is, he can't be dead, he can't, he can't ...
I'm barely aware of Hermione leading me back to the Great Hall. I can hear her talking, her voice shaking, to people - Neville? Ginny? - but I can't tell what she's saying.
Fred is dead. I can accept that. I saw it happen. It hurts - it bloody hurts - but I know it's happened, and I know there's nothing I can do about it.
But somewhere, Harry might still be alive. Still. I can't actually - that I'm having to - that I'm having to think of him like this. As maybe -
Dead.
Ginny's wail of grief pierces my ears and pulls me back to my surroundings. "I can't believe it," she's gasping. "Hermione - is there no way he could -?"
Survive? Hermione's shaking her head. "Not if Voldemort uses the Avada Kedavra," she whispers. "And if Harry doesn't try to defend himself - and he won't. He's going to let it happen."
"He might have a plan," I argue. I feel like I owe it to Harry, to believe him in - after I didn't before. But deep down, I know ...
Time drags by. I can't believe we're just standing here. And none of these people know that somewhere, Harry Potter might be dead ...
What was the last thing I said to him? I can't even remember. All I can see, in my mind, is his face as I shouted at him in the tent. As I walked out. I can hear my own voice, and I feel sick. I know he said I made up for it, but I wish, more than anything, that it had never happened.
He forgave you, I repeat to myself. It's all right.
And then that awful voice shatters the silence.
"Harry Potter is dead."
Everybody looks up, alarmed. Mum screams, "No!", and Dad runs over, grabs my arm. He's trying to make himself heard over Voldemort's voice. "Ron," he's saying desperately, "it isn't true, is it?"
I can't bring myself to answer.
People are getting up now, crowding out of the Great Hall, going to see for themselves. Hermione and Ginny pull me along, pushing through the crowd, into the Entrance Hall and to the open doors. I crane my neck, and see him - Voldemort, I tell myself, say it for Harry - with that horrible great snake, smirking ... and behind him ... Hagrid! Hagrid, weeping, holding in his arms ...
"No!" I roar, anger and grief bubbling up inside me, and Hermione echoes me, and then Ginny, her nails piercing my arm, cries out, "Harry! HARRY!" - calling out to him, but what good will it do? He just lies there in Hagrid's arms, his eyes closed, covered in scratches and bruises and blood, and I wonder, did it hurt him? How did he do it? I couldn't ... couldn't just go to a murderer knowing he would kill me ...
The crowd around me screams and shoves and swears, and despite the iron foot repeatedly kicking me in the chest, I can't help but feel a fond surprise as I hear Hermione joining in with the vehement cursing. She's calling Voldemort things far worse than I ever called Snape, and I know that she feels just how I do - burning, white-hot rage that this bastard dared to kill our best mate.
That - evil - effing -
And even though I know it won't help, I yell with all my might, not even caring that my mother might be able to hear me, shouting myself hoarse until Voldemort, looking so infuriatingly smug, cries, "SILENCE!", and my voice is forced back in my throat and my tongue locks. Furious, I mouth the words I can't shout, desperately trying to fight it, for Harry. Harry, who now lies at Voldemort's feet, limp and lifeless.
He killed him, but it's not enough, is it? He has to parade it, abuse him - Harry's dead, you sick bastard, how dare you?
"Harry Potter is dead!" he repeats. "Do you understand now, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!"
He beat you, I think furiously, screaming in my head, he beat you, he beat you -
"He beat you!"
And just like that, everyone else begins shouting and cursing again, screaming their rage and disbelief, and I wonder if anyone else is thinking, is this it? Are we all going to die?
Voldemort, clearly fed up, silences us again, and this time I don't bother trying to fight it. I can only look at Harry, my best friend, the bravest person I know, lying dead on the ground ...
"He was killed while trying to sneak out of the castle grounds," says Voldemort - that liar - "killed while trying to save himself -"
"Neville, no!" I hear Hermione gasp, as Neville shoves through the crowd, his face contorted with anger, running at Voldemort.
C'mon, mate, I can't lose another friend ... what good will it do?
Yet I can't help but feel proud as I watch Neville standing up to Voldemort. Neville, our Neville, who wouldn't even stand up to Malfoy at the beginning of first-year ...
"You're worth twelve of Malfoy. The Sorting Hat chose you for Gryffindor, didn't it?"
I want to help Neville, but I can't ... all I can do is look at Harry. If Harry were alive, he'd do it.
All those months in the tent - I never even thought, then, that these might be the last few months of Harry's life. I remember Granddad Septimus dying when I was ten - he was ill for ages, we knew he was dying, everyone was prepared for it. But Harry ... two hours ago, he was perfectly alive, and now he's dead and I'll never speak to him again.
Merlin's pants, I'll never speak to him again ...
I can imagine that loads of people will mourn for Harry - everyone knows him, after all. But how many people will miss being able to beat him at chess, or doing last-minute homework with him, or chucking a Quaffle around in the back garden? How many people will actually realise
You can do it, you can!
will actually realise what it really means
He must've known you'd always want to come back.
what it really means that Harry Potter is dead ...
I'm not so good with the action, so this was a bit difficult to write and it might not make much sense and be a bit lousy, really, but I was thinking - what on Earth must Ron, Hermione and Ginny have been thinking when they thought Harry was dead? And I do love Ron. So ... there you go.
All speech you recognise is taken from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, pages 305, 317, and 583-585 (UK), and also Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, page 160 (UK).
4/1/11: I just recieved an unsigned review saying that this story is a 'direct rip-off/continuation of SingularityStar's "Before the Dawn"'. I at once searched for this story, as I had never heard of it before, and discovered that yes, the plotline is similar, but I assure any readers who might have similar concerns that if I were to even be inspired by another story, I would mention it and give credit to the author. I never said that my idea was completely original in that I was certain no one had ever thought of it before, because that would just be stupid, but I would never, ever copy anyone else's work, and frankly I'm offended to be classed as a cheat. If anyone were to have concerns and messaged me privately asking if I was aware of the similarities, that would be fine, but leaving a review that is an outright accusation and that I cannot reply to privately is, in my book, not right. Terribly sorry to go off on one, but that's just how I see it.