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"Ron, look out!"

He doesn't have time to think. By the time he jerks his head up, he sees the green light coming straight for him, and he knows there is nothing he can do. Ron is frozen in place, his legs absolutely useless. This is how he dies, and he is powerless to stop it.

A sudden weight slams against him. Too-familiar brown curls fly in his vision, and his stomach sinks as he understands what's happening.

"Hermione, no!" He sits upright, his heart hammering painfully within his chest.

Just a dream, a bad dream. No. That isn't quite right, because dreams aren't real, and what he saw was. Harry says the Muggles have a name for what he's dealing with. It's something do with trauma that cuts so deep, he can feel it in the marrow of his bones.

Hermione is gone, and it's all his fault.

"It isn't, you know," he hears her whispers.

No. He doesn't hear her. That's all part of the trauma. Hermione is dead and in the ground, and no amount of going crazy is going to change that.

"You aren't crazy, Ronald," she says with that familiar hint of exasperation in her voice.

"Hermione, I…"

Ron shakes his head. There's nothing and no one there. Just the shadows in his room. Just a bunch of junk he hasn't bothered to put away in the weeks since the battle ended and he lost two of his favorite people. Just everything in the world that isn't Hermione.

He should have held her a little longer as they kissed. He should have reacted sooner. He should have jumped out of the way.

Why is he so useless? Why can't he do anything right? That's the way it's always been. He's never really belonged, no matter how welcome and Harry and Hermione made him feel. It's been that way long before he even met those two. He's always lived in someone's shadow, never able to be good enough.

"You really are far too hard on yourself, Ron."

He shakes his head, trying to ignore the tears that sting his eyes. It may be all in his head, but it sounds so real. Her voice is as clear as day, and it feels like someone has a knife buried in his chest and is twisting it without mercy.

"You're not real," he says.

He wishes she could be real. If she was here, everything would be okay. That was just how things were with Hermione. Without fail, she always found a way to make things better. Even during the darkest days, she gave him something bright and hopeful, something to cling to.

Now she's gone, and he's starting to lose his grip.

"What are you gonna do about it?" she asks, and he can practically hear the smirk in her voice. It was the sort of tone she used with him whenever he was so close to an answer, but the hopelessness was setting in. It was the tone that reminded him that she believed in him and always saw the good, even when he was blind to it.

"Shut up," he hisses, and that's just another way he knows she isn't really there. Ron would never dare tell Hermione to shut up. "Just shut up."

He covers his ears like a small child who doesn't want to hear what's being said. Of course it doesn't help. Hermione isn't there; she's in his head, and it's so bloody hard to drown out his own thoughts. Merlin knows he's tried again and again since the end of the war. What's left for him to do? Drown himself in alcohol, hoping it's strong enough to burn away his grief and regrets? That's what Percy's doing, and Ron has seen the way it has eaten away at his older brother. He doesn't want to be like that.

"So what are you going to do?" Hermione asks again, her tone a little more urgent now, just a touch sharper, deliberately pulling Ron out of his thoughts and back to the present.

"You're all I care about right now," Ron whispers.

"I'm not here."

He barely hears her at all. "Forgive me, Hermione. Please…" Tears cling to his lashes, one slipping down his cheek. "I'm so sorry. I should have been better. You shouldn't have died."

"There's nothing to forgive, Ronald. I promise."

…

Ron doesn't know how long it's been since he's actually been out. He's seen his family here and there, but he hasn't bothered socializing. Reporters have written to him, begging for an interview, but he's turned them all away, preferring to hide away from the outside world with only his misery for company.

"It's good to see you, mate," Harry says, offering Ron a soft smile.

Ron nods, at a loss for what to say. A choked sob escapes instead of words, and he tries not to hate himself for being so weak.

Harry is quick to comfort him with a gentle palm on his shoulder. "I know," he says with a heavy sigh. "I know."

"I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to apologize for."

Ron still isn't so convinced. He knows Hermione wouldn't want him to beat himself up, and he tries to cling to that, to honor what she would have wanted. Some days are easier than others. This is not one of them. Still, he somehow manages a smile and nods. "Right. You're right."

"Feels strange, doesn't it?" Harry asks as they approach the graveyard.

Ron swallows dryly. Strange is an understatement. From the moment Hermione became a permanent part of their lives, he never imagined a day would come when she wouldn't be there with them. Sometimes it seemed like she was the glue that held them together.

"I don't know what I'm doing," Ron admits. "You know, after we kissed… I thought I'd ask her out on a proper date once all this was over."

"You couldn't have known any of this would happen."

"Yeah. I reckon you're right."

They approach her grave. Hermione died a hero, and it seems much of the wizarding world knows that. The ground is covered with flowers and trinkets, little tokens of gratitude for the woman who did so much in the fight against Voldemort.

Nothing feels okay. Ron still feels like he's walking through a dream, like the world is some strange, hazy thing. Maybe that will never change. Maybe a part of him died with Hermione, and he'll never find a way back to the old Ron again.

Right now, though, as he kneels in front of the grave and rests his hand on the cool, polished stone marker, he smiles. He is, slowly but surely, learning to forgive himself. Maybe one day he will begin to heal.