So I keep on writing letters to myself

For ten years she'd tried. Ten long years. She tried to owl him, even send him letters the Muggle way, she'd try to call him, try to get any hold of him at all, and ask how his life had been. But he never responded. So she stopped after a while, and she wrote to herself now. It was like a little diary.

Are you doing all right?

Are you burning out?

Are you happy with the way it turned out?

Was he was married, did he have kids, did he get the job he always wanted? She always wanted to know, but he shut her out entirely. Others had gotten some kind of hold of him, last she'd heard, she wasn't sure if it was true or not, though, because everyone she had known refused to talk to her too.

Running out of you

He was gone, fading away, just a distant old memory, until it never existed at all. She even tried to pretend he didn't exist; maybe it would be easier to handle than the reality: he didn't want to talk to her.

And I know you'll be running out of me

Yet she kept her hope. Maybe the letters never came through at first; maybe he didn't receive the calls. It was her only hope…except for the faint glimmer of a possibility that he was miserable, and he didn't want her to know. Soon enough, she would hear from him, she knew it. Soon, he would need to see her again.

Are you holding up?

Are you caving in?

Are you happy with the way things have been?

God knew she needed him. Even just word that he was fine, maybe even that he wasn't. She just wanted to know. How was he doing? Was it really that hard a question? Maybe so. Ever since Voldemort was defeated, he ran away and hid, never to be seen or heard from again.

Running out of you

And I know you'll be running out of me

She knew it. They needed each other. They had always needed each other. They were running out of each other, the past, the memories, and they needed some new ones. Happy, sad, good, bad, angry, glad, anything would do, just so long as it was something, which was what she didn't have.

When it starts sinking in

Like quicksand

I can't stand

Watching the best of me

Go down with the worst of you

She realized he would never contact her again. But she just couldn't take it. She forgot all about him. He didn't exist; neither did Voldemort, nor Hogwarts, Dumbledore, Gryffindor, Quidditch, magic, witches, wizards or anything. That's what she told herself to keep her sanity. She was losing it, and it was all because of him.

Are you doing all right?

Are you burning out?

Are you happy with the way it turned out?

How hard could it be to just give her one phone call? An owl? Why didn't he? She sighed miserably, and something snow-white caught her eye. An owl, and it looked familiar. But Hedwig…it was all a dream, wasn't it?

Running out of you

And I know you'll be running out of me

Her senses that she had lost over the years snapped back in an instant. He had finally owled her! Maybe he had just been busy or her letters had never reached him. She smiled. He had finally replied! She eagerly ran to the owl, took the letter from it, and then it promptly flew away, leaving her depressed. Now how could she owl him back? Everything magical had been abandoned years ago.

Her heart skipped a beat anyway, when she saw the envelope. Hermione, it said in blue ink, but it wasn't his handwriting, that was for sure. She slit it open anyway, and pulled out the piece of parchment.

Dear Hermione,

Wow, it's been years. I want to see you really bad; it would be easier to tell this to your face…well, not really. I'll make it quick. Harry – I know you've been trying to reach him for years, and I regret not telling you sooner. Hermi – he's dead.

He never survived the attack with You-Kno—damn it all, with VOLDEMORT. Everyone wanted to tell you, but we never thought you could handle it, especially since you left our world. If you want to know why no one ever bothered trying to reach you—practically everyone's dead, Hermione.

I couldn't take it, so I had gone crazy for a while. When I finally accepted it myself, I didn't have the heart to tell you, but you had a right to know, and I'm sorry. I know you loved Harry, we all did. I'm so sorry…maybe we can meet each other again, catch up on the times…but I understand if you hate me.

Ron Weasley

Hermione sunk to her knees, wetting the parchment even more, because it had already been tearstained. Harry was dead, probably all the Weasleys, probably Dumbledore, Hagrid, maybe all her teachers, everyone she had gone to school with. They were all gone.

Then she realized – she had run out of Harry, but the same wasn't going to happen to Ron. She was going to visit him tomorrow, go back to the world she had left years ago. This time – she wasn't going to have anyone run out of her.

* * *

Author's Ramblings and Disclaimer: I can't even begin to describe that fic. That didn't make sense, did it? Really weird. Oh, well, I only wrote this because I like the song, even if it isn't slow and emotional! And even if this fic totally sucks. It belongs to Lit, and their CD A Place in the Sun. The characters aren't mine either.