Chapter: It Starts Here.
Life was a cruel mistress indeed.
Ron chuckled darkly as he stared at the carnage before him. He could barely register the still bodies that surrounded him. The war had finally been won, but the price was much too high. It was silent- too silent. An obvious sign that what had happened was much too horrible to be true. The aftermath of everything should have tasted like victory and relief. There should have been fanfares of celebration and pride for they'd finally done it.
Voldemort is dead.
Now he just sat in silence.
All around him dead foes, friends and family.
He thinks he should at least be grieving, rampant with anguish and pure rage over his loses. Instead, he is numb to anything. Despite the beating of his heart, the breathing of his lungs; Ron feels like another corpse on the field.
"R-Ron?"
He turns to look and there she stands. It hurts to look at her. It's not right- should not have happened but it is what it is. Hermione stares at him brokenly through bandaged eyes. She will never see again. No more reading for his lovable-at-times-infuriating bookworm. No more eye rolls with twinkling fondness when he says something stupid. Ron forces himself to speak and it's like swallowing broken glass.
"Yeah?" he croaks.
He feels the last of his heart strings break away at seeing how she tries to navigate her way to him. He doesn't hesitate to stand and reach for her. She clings to him tightly- desperately twisting her fingers into his bloodied and torn sleeves. As if begging him not to let go- to never let go. She doesn't need to because Ron has no intentions of ever leaving her side ever again. He pulls her into a tight hug and simply clings to her.
He's still not crying and neither is she; the both of them long dried up from any possible tears.
"It's over….. h-he did it," she whimpers.
Ron's stomach swoops with despair and he bites his tongue to swallow the wail it almost releases. He's done his screaming already- what use would it do him now? Instead he buries his nose into her singed hair. It's a far cry from her usual untameable poof, now uneven and hacked- singed and coarse. Ron knows if the tables were turned, she would see just how similar a mess he looked as well. He's glad she can't and the thought makes him choke on his guilt and self-hatred.
It's the truth though.
He knew Hermione- officially knew her better than anyone in the world.
She was better off not knowing about the deep carvings of claws he'll never be rid of. He was glad she couldn't see that the blood he was soaked in was a mix of more than just his own. Today, Ron wore a different kind of gift from his mother- one she literally bled for.
"This is wrong," she whispers
Once again, she's right.
Hermione Granger is always right and rarely ever wrong.
This was one of those times.
Ron thought about it all- he forced his mind to relive every second of their lives where Voldemort had ever been a threat. It doesn't take long for him to be remembering that horrid day as an 11 year old. The first time he ever had to visit the hospital wing. Ron thought about his family, his friends, the dead and the living. Until finally, he thought about him.
Harry Potter.
The Boy who lived.
Beloved Son, Wizarding World Saviour, Best mate and Brother anyone could ever ask for.
Scrawny Harry too broody for his own good.
Gloomy Harry with the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Sarcastic shit Harry with that cunning streak you missed if you blinked.
Harry Potter the Martyr.
Dead.
~(*)\(*)/(*)~
It's barely been a year and the both of them are no better.
Ron can barely bring himself to speak, his voice croaky due to lack of use. Hermione never stops talking. Every day from dawn to dusk she'll be heard repeatedly reciting every paragraph from every book she'd read. All of it stored in her brain, never to have her brown eyes devouring the pages of its ink printed form again. She speaks until her voice is gone but doesn't stop miming the words. The rare days they even remember to eat is a miracle in itself.
The first to try is Neville.
He tries to comfort them- to lend an ear, a shoulder, a hand.
He doesn't come back after Ron asked him to say hello to Luna for him.
"Why is there ever this perverse cruelty in humankind that makes us hurt most those we love best? For the belief of a cruel God makes a cruel man."
Ron snorts and there is no guilt to be heard. Hermione tilts her head in his direction, but does not scold him as she once would have. The silence between them speaks plenty, more than any would dare to suspect. The oppressive tension between them a language only they know how to read. What should have been a trio now, two broken vessels chained down by loss and grief.
"He's not him," Ron lowly growled.
Hermione only sighs. She's not congratulating him for being an arse to Neville. She knows why he'd done it. It does not change the fact that it was still cruel. She did not need eyes to know what expression Neville most likely wore in response to Ron's words.
Sweet, precious Luna.
Too young and free spirited.
So cruelly tortured before Neville in reminiscence of his own parents and now truly looney.
Neville wouldn't mean too, but he would try to fill the gaping hole he left behind. Broken shards of two different vases can never fit together. Neville had his own loss to deal with. He was in no state to attempt healing theirs.
"This is wrong," Hermione repeats like she once did before.
Ron snarls and immediately latches onto her; his hold is too tight to be comfortable. She doesn't mind as her nails dig into his arms until it bleeds. No one can save them. They are broken pieces, rotting fruits at the roots of the tree of life. They only have each other and no one else.
They still don't cry.
Unable to shed a tear since the day they'd won.
Ron laughs, but there is no humour in the sound. He laughs as he buries his face into Hermione's neck and squeezes her tighter.
"I was so jealous," he croaked.
He'd always wanted to be more than he was.
He remembers the taste of envy and jealously in his fourth year.
'Why is it always Harry?' he used to think.
He never understood just what being Harry Potter really meant.
Not until now.
Ron Weasley had always been poor. Now, other than the clothes on his back and the woman in his arms, he had nothing. Once, he was the sixth child of seven and had two loving parents. Now, he was the last Weasley. The sole survivor of a family known to have many. No one cared about Ron Weasley the child- no one but his own blood and the few friends he'd made.
Ron Weasley the man was famous, one third of a saviour trio.
"This is wrong," Hermione repeated hearing his thoughts despite no words being spoken and no magic being used.
It was only the beginning.
After Neville came many more.
McGonagall.
Flitwick.
Hagrid.
Kingsley.
Krum.
Dean Thomas.
Andromeda.
People they didn't know.
Even Pansy Parkinson had made a strange appearance.
Every attempt ending with cruel words and silence.
All their efforts failing before they even had a chance to fully take flight.
It had been 7 years and both of them are no better.
The wizarding world starts to move on, while they were forever trapped.
~(*)\(*)/(*)~
Ron is sure it's Kingsley who pushed for their names to slowly fade from the papers. Hermione argued it was most likely McGonagall. They're both proven wrong when an owl delivers them a letter from Neville. Paranoia and Gratitude, is not a combination they're use to feeling. Ron had rummaged and read out loud every book he could find on defense magic and the likes. Hermione had brewed as many potions as she could in preparation for war.
No favour comes freely and they were sure this kindness was a farce.
But days turned to weeks and weeks to months with no attack or attempt of contact.
"This is wrong!" Ron snarled, borrowing Hermione's favoured phrase in the recent years.
She huffed at him, empty sockets trained in his direction behind a dark laced band over her eyes. She tapped her fingers on the rim of her cauldron, listening for that specific sound of sparks and bubbles. She ignored the trembling of the floor and shelves that responded to the dangerous rise of Ron's temper.
They'd changed and so had their magic.
It was wilder now, free and unbound- tainted by the darkness that lived in their minds and hearts.
Their younger selves would be horrified at all they'd become.
"Perhaps, but it is what it is," she mused before stirring the potion three times and leaving it to rest.
She could sense him with ease, able to track that wild thunderous thrum of his magic. He clung to her and she soothed him by digging her nails into his flesh. They anchored each other, nothing else was real but them. She inhaled sharply, greedily losing herself to the scent of him and his magic. He curled his hands in her hair and the pain of the motion made her smile.
"This is wrong," she repeated before pulling back from his hold.
She cupped his face in her hands and smiled. Easily, her magic rose to meet his and they danced. Ron groaned at the intimate combination their magic made. The sound morphed into dark chuckling. The room shook under the pressure of their magic and the potion bubbled over in its cauldron.
Ron growled at the lace band that hid her eyes, and pulled it off. He stared into the empty space and pressed his forehead against hers. She was all he had and he would not let her go for nothing. She giggled, hearing all he said and responding in kind. When she next spoke, it was just as haunting.
Fate had stopped breathing. While Time, Life and Death stood still, feeling a strange disturbance forming on the horizon. Only Magic smiled with excitement for what will come.
"We'll fix it."
And they would, for Magic would see it done.
~(*)\(*)/(*)~
Fate trembled.
Time despaired.
Life was angered.
But Death…..
Death only laughed.
'Come then, let us see what new fun they will bring,' Death whispered before shaking hands with Magic.
A deal was struck and Change got to work.