Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, settings, lines, and references within the Harry Potter universe belong to JK Rowling and affiliated publishers. In addition, any aspects borrowed from the film canon are property of Warner Bros. This fanfiction exists purely for the non-commercial entertainment of fellow Harry Potter fans, and the author is not benefiting from any form of monetary profit. Rated T for language, tragic themes, and some sensual implications in later chapters.
Doomed Darling ◊ Carmen's Daughter
A Lion Lost – Ronald Weasley, Celebrated War Hero, Dies at One-Hundred Fifty, A Mere Four Months Following The Death Of Harry Potter
In books, he is regarded as a legend; but to those who knew him intimately, Ronald Bilius Weasley was an exceptionally ordinary boy immersed in undeniably extraordinary circumstances. Born on the first of March, 1980, in the village of Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon, England, as the youngest son amongst a modest two-parent household (the second to youngest child out of seven), he enjoyed the simple pleasures that his childhood offered: skipping stones in the pond behind his family home, playing recreational games of Quidditch with his siblings, as well as Wizard's chess, in which he excelled with deft passion.
Upon reaching the tender age of eleven and beginning his magical education at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in 1991, Weasley was sorted into Gryffindor house and quickly befriended Harry James Potter, otherwise known as The Boy Who Lived. From the very beginning, however, it was clear that Weasley's liking of the famous child was not rooted in malicious intent: the two were, and remained for the rest of their lives, no less than brothers—growing together, and, ultimately, fighting alongside each other against Lord Voldemort and his followers in the climactic battle at the ancient school on the second of May, 1998. The defeat of the Dark Lord entailed many deaths, including that of Weasley's older brother, Fred Weasley.
In the immediate aftermath of the war, Potter asserted his best friend was just as responsible for the downfall of Voldemort as he was, stating that he [Potter] would never have been able to do it without him [Weasley]. The cloud of fame and glory that forever hung over Weasley's head as a result did not impede him from being the humble and kind-hearted individual that he always had been. He, alongside Potter, pursued a career as an Auror shortly following the war, a position that left him financially stable enough to retire after only two years and help his brother George Weasley (twin of the aforementioned Fred) run his joke shop, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, as co-manager. Following George's passing at the age of ninety-nine, Weasley too stepped down as manager, passing the duties on to George's surviving children, Roxanne and Fred Weasley II. (It was noted that George passed at an age considerably younger than the average life expectancy for healthy wizards—something that was credited amongst the Weasley family as being due to George's heartbreak at never having fully recovered from his twin brother's premature passing.)
While no longer holding the title of manager, Weasley remained ever-present in the shop, helping stock shelves, counting inventories, and aiding customers for years until his increasing age led him to a comfortable and well-deserved retirement from the work field. His remaining years were spent surrounded by his family, and in his spare time he was known to coach the youngest members of his extended kin in Quidditch and Wizard's chess. According to Lily Luna Potter, one of his many nieces, during the last year of his life he had taken up writing ardently in a private journal, which he proclaimed to his nephew and godson, James Sirius Potter II (with whom he was very close) was to be read and, if so wished, published only following his passing. He died peacefully in his sleep this Monday, the nineteenth of September, from a weak heart. The loss strikes the wizarding community as especially poignant in light of the passing of Weasley's best friend, Harry Potter, only four months before him.
Ronald Weasley never married, nor did he father any children. He is survived by his last living sibling, Ginevra Molly Potter (née Weasley), a score of nieces and nephews, as well as their children, their children's children, and so on. He is remembered by his family and all of wizarding society for being a brave, loving, and fierce brother, uncle, godfather, and friend, even in the face of unimaginable adversary.
James Potter II, when asked by Daily Prophet representatives on the status of his late godfather/uncle's writing and the possibility of publishing it, declined to comment.
1
With the utmost certainty, I can recall that in my many years of living, I have only been in love once—but I suppose to say "was" as if that love ceased to exist would not be truthful, for I still love and adore the girl named Hermione Granger as fiercely as the day I first brought her lips to meet mine. However, for the sake of not delving too deeply into the delightfully absurd purple prose the aforementioned girl found such guiltless joy in, in those old books she liked to show me—and, I suppose, for the mere sake of not confusing myself or whomever may read this—I will attempt to maintain a clear past tense. Because, even though my love for her is far from past, she was past, undeniably and irrevocably.
Furthermore, to assert that I was completely faithful to my love for that delightful girl would not be entirely honest either, and it is with great sadness that I pen the truth of the times, some several years following her passing, that I did allow myself to succumb to the pleasures of another woman's company—it was a girl I had once known at Hogwarts, lovely and dark blonde and pneumatic, but, for the decency of preserving her good character (and for not crossing the line into smut), I will omit her name. She nearly died in the final battle, the brave girl—but it was not until the five year anniversary of that event, when I felt obligated to attend yet another memorial ceremony, did she corner me following the usual speeches and breathe huskily into my ear how handsome I looked, how she couldn't hide it anymore, how she had fantasized about having me since our sixth year. I had come to know her intimately (at least in the physical sense) during our brief relationship, and a lovely girl she was. I heard she went on to marry and produce many children before she died some years ago. I hope she lived happily.
Still, I can honestly say that I had never loved her: she insisted on calling me "Won-Won" and made me wear these atrocious pieces of jewelry to establish myself as her mate (again, we didn't last long)—but I can attest to the fact that the only girl I had loved had brown hair, decidedly dark brown hair too, but not dark enough to deem it "nearly black." Instead, it was deliciously and richly brown, like chestnut or chocolate or a comforting cup of breakfast tea. She was beautiful and perfect and silken in the way that only a memory can conjure—for you see, I had no picture of her, and any documents of her existence have long since been destroyed, as was my heart the moment I discovered we no longer inhabited the same world, in the sense that she (that wonderful girl, that angel) was in Heaven, and I, now belonging in a Hermione-less world, was in Hell. I will contend, however, that in spite of my age, I am blessed with a near photographic memory, at least when it comes to the memories I have of her, for they are far too precious to gloss over with romanticism.
She (Hermione, my Hermione) had a wonderful lilt when saying my name. Even the simple monosyllabic utterance of "Ron" sounded positively exquisite on her sweet pink lips. When I was in her good graces I was simply Ron. When I annoyed her, or when she took on a sarcastic formality for the sake of humor, I was Ronald. But when she came to love me (and oh, how I loved her in return), only then did I occasionally earn the passionately whispered title of "Rahhhhnnn" as we kissed in our secret little refuge.
At the age of her untimely departure, she stood at only five feet and three inches; completely and adorably tiny in comparison to my own gangly six feet or so (I never bothered measuring exactly how tall I was). Her bushy hair, practically gravity-defying and undoubtedly the most distinguishing aspect of her physical appearance, was like the petals of a recently bloomed flower, curling out in all directions. Her skin was much darker than mine, at least in terms of comparative paleness—while I could never really accomplish a successful tan without burning, her skin during the summer months radiated with shades of golden brown, but the whiter, rosy skin beneath her clothes that the sun did not kiss was just as beautiful, as was she entirely.
I often ponder on whether or not I had doomed her from the moment we met—had I not prompted that first conversation, had I not proceeded to get to know her as if she were an extension of myself; my best friend—would we then exist in an alternate plane in which we would both still inhabit, even if it meant we wouldn't know each other? I don't know what's worse to contemplate: having her for a painfully short amount of time (as is the reality), or living my entire life ignorant of her existence. Knowing her impeded me from being able to love any other in the romantic sense, but loving her at all made me sure that I would have never experienced it with another girl to begin with. Was it fate?
Regardless of my inner philosophical conversation on the matter, I take greater comfort in the facts of my predicament: I met her first in the summer of 1991; there was a book in her lap, and a large bow in her hair.