This is a short one-shot for Nuisha about Ron Weasley because I was so mean to him in my other story that I'm writing, "I'm Going to Regret This".
I hope this is good enough, hunni xx
I found myself listening to JLS "Love you more" as I wrote this, and although the lyrics don't always fit with this story, the emotion behind the song kind of felt like it fitted with the last few paragraphs of this one shot.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, but hey, if Ms Rowling feels particularly generous this year, I'd like the Harry Potter characters wrapped up in a green ribbon please.
Anniversary.
Ron Weasley had been awake for a while. He lay back in his bed picking out the patterns on the ceiling wallpaper.
It was the anniversary today. Their anniversary. Her anniversary. His anniversary.
His.
Harry Potter. He had lost. Voldemort had taken control over both the muggle and wizarding world, and since Harry was gone, everyone expected the Hogwarts group to do something, with Ron leading.
He rolled over.
He couldn't. He'd lost half his family as it was. His mother, Percy, Fred… all gone. Charlie taken hostage. Bill and Fleur in hiding. He had Ginny and his father, and he didn't even really have them.
He turned the other way to look at the empty half of the bed. Still made. Still empty. He squeezed his eyes shut at a memory. Then pulled them open and rolled out of the borrowed bed.
He had been house jumping. A lot like Professor Slughorn used to do, as Harry had told him. He felt less detectable this way. The owners of this house were in Florida for two weeks after mysteriously winning the lottery, even though they'd never bought a ticket in their life. They weren't complaining though.
He didn't bother with breakfast; he never had much of an appetite these days, so he just yanked on a new shirt, underwear and jeans, grabbing his wallet on the way to the door.
He walked purposefully down the street, not really looking at anything. He stopped for a moment though as he caught sight of the Leaky Cauldron out of the corner of his eye. He squeezed his eyes shut again, as if in pain, rather than look at the boarded up windows and dead sign. The only part of it that was open was the door, which was used as a direct corridor to Diagon Alley.
No one used it.
People apparated to shops nowadays.
No one bothered with wizarding streets. It was all too dangerous. And the Muggle world was blissfully ignorant, and blamed terrorist groups for explosions and mass-killings. They just kept moving forward, while the wizarding population was stuck on pause. Terrified.
He arrived at a Muggle market, glancing at the stalls, throwing weak smiles to passing people. He carried on down to the far end of the town, to his favourite newsagents. There was a small flower stall outside the door, owned by the same people that owned the shop.
He pushed open the door and kept his pace as he walked up to the desk, only slowing slightly to flick his hand out and gracefully snatch up a Muggle newspaper.
He reached the counter.
"Mr Jenkins! How are you?" queried a bright and cheerful salesgirl named Sally.
He smiled a big fake smile to match the fake name he had constructed.
"Not bad, thanks, and yourself? Just this paper, please. You weren't working yesterday?"
"I'm good. No, I was at my mum's birthday. Hey! Didn't you say it was you're anniversary today?"
His head flicked up from counting out Muggle money.
"When did I tell you that?"
"Oh, last week-ish? You mentioned some Barry bloke as well?"
"Harry." He mumbled.
"Hmm? What?"
"Nothing. But yeah, it is."
A smile split across the girl's face.
"Hey, why don't you go pick out a rose for your lady off the stall out front? On the house, of course."
"No… Sally… It'll come out of your pay…"
"Nope. I insist."
He smiled weakly at her. It was small conversations like this with almost-strangers that kept him alive, that made him feel like he was worth something.
"Thanks, Sally…" and he paid for the paper, tucked it under his arm and made his way out of the shop, half-waving as he left.
He picked up a red rose, wrapped in clear cellophane, staring at it for a few seconds before turning left and disappearing into a thin alley way, so that he could disapparate out of people's sight.
He reappeared outside a pair of wrought iron gates. He looked up at them. They were propped open, enough for a muggle car to get through. They were black, and hinged onto high walls.
He sighed.
He tucked his paper further under his arm and gripped the plastic around the rose tighter. Then he began to walk.
He passed all the stones, flowers and statues without a second glance. He had seen them all before thousands of times. His feet carried him. They knew the way without his brain kicking in once.
They carried him down various paths and along a road.
Then he stopped abruptly. And he sank down to his knees, digging his fingers into the familiar dirt.
This was home.
He let the paper escape from his arm and flutter in the wind. Various pages engulfing him as they flew up and around his head.
He hadn't even read it.
He studied the flower arrangement in front of him. It was simple. Understated. Beautiful. Just like her.
He traced the writing engraved into the stone.
He would cry if he had any tears left in him. But he couldn't.
The wind whispered into his ears, reminding him of the cries, the screams, and the laughter… raging through him like rapids, so much emotion. And he had no idea how to express it anymore.
"I need you."
He picked up the rose in both hands, holding it to him.
Then he laid it on Hermione Granger's grave.