Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own imagination. The characters depicted here (and quoted lines from Deathly Hallows) all belong to J.K. Rowling, except for those that I have fabricated for the story's purpose. The song lyric belongs to Kelly Clarkson and company.
Because of you
I'm ashamed of my life because it's empty
"Ron..."
He tosses.
"When he broke his wand..."
He turns.
"Remember?"
His head shakes.
"Remember Ron?"
He stirs.
"Hermione?" he murmurs into the wintry air.
But no response comes.
His hand immediately flies to the wand inside his sleeping bag, next to his right thigh. Still there - still intact. Still ready to fight.
If there was even a battle left to fight.
"C'mon, Weasley...get it together," he mutters.
He checks the proximity ward.
Nothing.
Maybe Harry and Hermione weren't here after all. Maybe he was just chasing a ball of light into the darkness. Maybe they were gone.
Forever.
"Enough," he mumbles.
He shivers. Night had fallen. He had drifted off into sleep late that afternoon despite tensely awaiting any sign of his friends. The hill had been silent, far too silent, and before he knew it his lids were drooping and night was falling all around him.
Then the dream began. It wasn't much of a dream, not really. Just snippets of a voice - a voice he'd heard so many times, most recently the night before from the Deluminator - a voice he'd probably never hear again.
"Stop," he pleads, feebly.
He can see the stars. He used to love Astronomy. He was hopeless at it, but he used to love watching the heavens. It was like a whole other world up there, a world free from school and brothers and Quidditch matches and Triwizard Cups and Horcruxes.
But now, it was a reminder that he was alone. Cold and alone.
And it was all his fault.
"No," he whispers.
The Horcrux was making them all change. It was evil, he knew that. But evil can't corrupt light - the night sky cannot hide the stars forever. Not unless clouds - the stars' darkness - obscure the light. And he was not without his clouds - none of them were. Clouds he had created, nobody else; clouds the locket fed off of willingly.
Clouds that the Deluminator's light must now be fighting.
"Please," he cries softly.
He reaches near his left thigh and pulls out the Deluminator. It sparkles brightly in the moonlight, and somehow just holding it seems to warm his hand.
"Ron," the echo comes to his mind - his heart - but not his ears.
But it's enough to make his fingers click the lighter.
A blue light appears, ethereal in the night. It weaves like a Snitch for a few moments. He remains still. He's no Seeker; he can't catch this. He's not Harry.
And just as he thinks this thought, the light enters him and he feels warm everywhere, all at once.
He realizes the thought that he's not Harry doesn't bother him so much, now, except that Harry's with Hermione and he's not.
Two movements of his wand, some muttered Latin, and he's ready to Disapparate.
"I'm coming back," he promises.
The pop of his Disapparation resounds into the night, unheard.
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