A Mourning to Remember
There are many who don't wish to sleep for fear of nightmares. Sadly, there are many who don't wish to wake for the same fear.
~ Richelle Goodrich
Chapter 1: In The Still of the Night
Funny how screaming didn't need sound for him to hear it.
Look at me Hermione, Ron thought desperately, just look at me!
She did, and he recoiled as if he'd been slapped; her eyes were dull and listless, as if she had already given up. This terrified him more than anything else.
NO, fight it Hermione, fight dammit!
"HERMIONE!" Ron continued to bellow her name, dragging his feet in an attempt to slow his captor.
Her gaze lingered on him, until she was wrenched away by the roots of her hair.
Ron was thrown facedown on the jagged stone floor, and he stumbled as he tried to get up—he was still bound to Harry, Griphook, and Dean.
"HERMIONE!" he sobbed, scrambling to get to the stairs.
There was a deep throaty chuckle before the prison door slammed shut, plunging him into darkness.
The hollow echo hadn't yet faded before there was an awful, drawn-out scream that froze the blood in his veins.
Ron woke with a sickening jolt, chest heaving, his face coated with sweat. He stared at the ceiling, gasping, trying to reassure himself.
The Manor's gone, I'm not there—not there...
As he slowly took in the familiar forms of Shell Cottage, the nightmare gradually faded from the forefront of his vision.
"You alright, mate?" Harry groggily murmured from his right.
"M' fine," he mumbled in answer.
"Same dream?"
"Same dream."
Ron sighed in exasperation, crawling out of bed with the air of someone who had done this too many times before.
Before, he was always the one asking that question; it had never been him who thrashed in his sleep, trying to shove away the images that seemed permanently seared into his retinas.
Once again, Ron found himself admiring Harry's stoicism; whereas he was still relatively new in his timeline of nightmares, the latter had been handling bouts with his demons, night after night—for much, much longer than him.
Of course, there were some notable moments where he'd observed Harry's distress—but he still had a sinking suspicion that his best mate barely let on to the true weight of the burdens that he carried.
Ron got to his feet. Crossing over to the door, he wobbled his head from side to side, like a dog trying to rid its ears of water.
But the screaming continued to reverberate in his head, like one of those old Muggle records that was hopelessly stuck in the same spot.
Ron paused, his hand resting on the doorframe.
"Harry?"
"Yeah?"
"Does it ever get easier?"
There was a brief pause, and he heard Harry heave a deep sigh.
"I used to wish that, more than anything."
Then Ron felt a steady hand clasp his shoulder.
"But now, after all this time, I've found that those memories help me live life more fully—they show me that nothing is guaranteed."
Ron nodded, and there was a moment of silence.
Harry, inherently sensing his friend's turmoil, pulled him into a tight embrace.
When they released, Ron wiped his eyes and muttered, "Sometimes you sound like Dumbledore when you talk like that."
Harry chuckled softly as Ron quietly padded out of the room.
Despite his cautious gait, the floor still squeaked in protest as he made his way down the shadowy hall.
He poked his head inside the girl's room, the door creaking softly on its hinges.
Ron spotted Ginny, resting in peaceful slumber, but that wasn't who he was here for.
He tiptoed to the other bed, peering down onto the empty mattress. His insides squirmed in anxiety; where was she?
He crept down the stairs, carefully maneuvering around the noisiest parts of the well-worn floorboards.
Smirking, Ron remembered learning this tip from Harry and his sister—he'd heard them sneaking past their room more times then he could count.
His smile faded into a frown as he moved from room to silent room—Hermione was nowhere to be seen; the bathroom, living room, and kitchen were all empty, empty, empty.
He gingerly ran his hand across the grainy whitewashed walls, which smelled vaguely of salt and sea.
This place had seen joy, but this place had also seen pain—pain in such staggering amounts that he wondered how the very foundation didn't cave in from it.
What would these walls do if they could—would they sob or would they sing?
An idea suddenly struck him. Ron hurried back to their room, ransacking his duffel until he found one of his infamous, itchy Weasley-jumpers.
He paused for a heartbeat, quietly running his hands over the frayed but comforting fibers.
With a decisive nod, he started to leave.
He half-expected Harry to question him, but judging from the soft snoring coming from the other side of the room, Ron knew he was on his own now.
He strolled into the cool, clear night. One look at the cloudless sky revealed faint hints of dawn beginning to tug at the horizon—sunrise wasn't far.
Unconsciously, he found himself drawn to Dobby's makeshift grave, as if it were some great cosmic magnet.
It was on his way there when Ron nearly tripped over a figure that was sprawled on the dew-soaked ground.
He squinted through the semi-darkness.
"Hermione?"
Ron inhaled sharply—her beauty still took his breath away.
Her russet hair was fanned out like a halo—her face upturned to the pinpricks of light that pockmarked the gradually lightening sky.
"Ron?" She got to her feet, surprised to see him.
"I had a feeling you'd be here." He jerked his head towards the tiny tombstone.
She sighed, nodding. "I couldn't sleep."
"Well, I reckon that makes two of us."
He plopped down on the blanket, and she followed suit. Neither spoke as they both gazed at the minuscule mound that was flourishing with fresh foliage.
Predictably, Hermione broke the silence.
"Can you believe that it's been a year, a whole year since the last time we were here?"
"Not really."
After Harry's triumph over Voldemort, instead of slowing down, everything sped up and became a blur, like a frenzied whizzing top.
There was the massive undertaking of the restoration of Hogwarts and its grounds, and the inevitable start of a new school term for both Ginny and Hermione.
Ron and Harry had instead opted to begin internships at the Ministry in lieu of a traditional 7th-year curriculum.
It was determined, (and rightly so,) that the trios' restoration of the Wizarding community fulfilled any and all graduation requirements that were previously necessary.
Despite the generous offer, Hermione turned it down so she could finish her education "properly," to the shock of everyone but Ron and Harry.
Ron remembered shaking his head and remarking to her that she was (and probably will ever be) the only person in Wizarding history barmy enough to voluntarily return to school—when it was no longer mandatory to do so.
He did wonder though, despite her notorious and voracious appetite for knowledge—if there was more than just academic fulfillment at play here.
After all, he had to admit that it was much, much easier burying himself in his Auror training and assisting George with the shop, then trying to sift through the emotional carnage of what they'd all been through.
The memories seemed to stalk him like some rabid animal that was constantly and relentlessly nipping at his heels.
He'd be able to swat it away for a bit, but when he least expected it—there it came again, hungrier and more demanding of his attention than before.
Maybe, just maybe, he weren't the only one trying to keep the past at bay.
Hermione then interrupted his reverie.
"Why couldn't you sleep?"
Ron stared fixedly at the ground, briefly registering the swirling emotions that threatened to yank him under.
He didn't want to burden her with his baggage; Merlin knew she had plenty to sort through herself.
"I dunno, I've just had a lot to think about, I guess."
"I suppose having your first niece or nephew would give you a lot to process."
"Yeah."
Fleur was scheduled to have the child within the next few months, and had asked for Ron, Ginny, Hermione, and Harry's help to prepare the house for the baby shower, which was to take place the following afternoon.
Ginny, being on Easter holiday, leaped at the opportunity to both visit family and spend some quality time with her fiancé—the latter coming in the form of snogging him at every available moment.
Ron and Bill had rolled their eyes, but Fleur had giggled and trilled, " 'Ve vere like that too, Villiam, don't you remember?' "
During the day, it seemed so normal—bordering on mundane; Fleur always kept everyone working with a seemingly infinite list of tasks to complete.
But as night crept in, it inevitably dredged up a slew of flashbacks—accompanied by a violent torrent of emotions that only deliberate activity could drive to the far corners of his periphery again.
This night in particular had him seriously evaluating if the daytime festivities were truly enough to merit him returning here.
As if she read his mind, Hermione whispered, "Honestly, I wasn't sure if I wanted to come back here."
"Why?"
With a wry smile, Ron continued, wanting to keep things light.
"Miss-'10-Outstanding-O.W.L.s' couldn't bear to tear herself away from her all-important N.E.W.T. studying?"
She playfully punched his arm in response, before her expression became solemn.
"Well, you do realise that it was right around this time when we just returned from the—the Manor?"
She paused momentarily, her brows knit together in concentration.
"If I remember correctly, by this time we would have just arrived."
Ron shifted his attention to the beach, and in his mind, the blanket underneath him and the grave in front of him vanished.
The bitter, briny wind bit into his numbing skin, his stomach still doing flip-flops from the abrupt Apparition.
His feet start to sink into the soft, swirling sand from the weight of supporting a deathly pale and unconscious Hermione…
"Ron, what's wrong?"
"What?"
With a mental lurch, the trance was broken, and he found himself looking back at present-day Hermione—who in turn was surveying him with deep concern.
"You look awful, like you just saw a ghost or something."
He unclenched his hands, which he'd unknowingly curled into fists so tight that he could see his blanched knuckles protruding out of his flesh.
"You're shaking Ron, what's the matter?"
Hermione looked pained, miserable even.
He hastily wiped at the moisture that had collected in the corners of his eyes.
"It's nothing, really. I'll go now, I just wanted to know where you were."
He started to get up, but she brushed his hand and he halted in mid-movement.
"Please stay."
Her eyes pleaded with him, and he allowed her to pull him down into a sitting position again.
There was another silence before Hermione quietly remarked, "You know, I never got the chance to truly thank you."
He shrugged sheepishly.
"I know you'd have done the same."
Hermione smiled wistfully as she looked into the distance.
"I really don't remember a lot from that night—just quick flashes, really."
"I recall getting here, and you taking me to one of the rooms—I didn't want to let you out of my sight, if memory serves."
Ron chuckled darkly.
"No, you didn't." He shifted his weight uncomfortably.
"It was nothing, Hermione. It was just instinct, you know?"
"I did what I did because it was just the right thing to do. If there was anyone who was the hero that night, it was you."
"Don't say that, Ron. Just don't."
Hermione stood up, brushing the clinging grass off her pajamas, avoiding his questioning gaze.
"I—I think I'll turn in, it's been a long day."
He reluctantly got to his feet as she gathered the blanket into her arms.
They silently traipsed back inside, each one thoroughly enveloped in their own mangled mass of thought and memory.