"Ron!" Harry called into the dead of night. Cold enveloped him like a fearful mist, and now, it seemed, he could never feel warmth again. "Ron!" he choked out his friend's name in the frightening silence. "Ronald Weasley, where are you?" Silence. Harry blinked back the tears threatining to flood his pale face.

Hagrid's hut - quite desolate without it's owner's familiar sparkle - stood like a fortress at the foot of the Forbidden Forest. A flash of lightning struck the sky, illuminating a tousled figure sprawled under one of the windows. It sent a flash of red. Not the red of blood he had seen all too often this night, but a red that would be stuck in his mind for eternity.

Harry gaped incredulously at the sadly familiar fiery hair; the once flushed and happy face, now quite pale; and, of course, the blank, colourless eyes once so vibrant. Was this the Ron he'd played chess with - and lost - so many times? Was this the Ron who cheered him on at Quidditch, though secretly he wished to be the one on the broomstick? Was this the Ron - who through fights and disagreements - would always be his true best friend?

Harry's eyes shot open; he grabbed his scar in pain...Why must this taunt him every night, why must the murder of Ron affect him as if he were the murderer? Each night, in horrific realism, he would go through that fateful night in his mind, but each time it ended the same. He had to face it...Ron was dead, and there was nothing he could do to change it.

Graduation day was upon him already, he realized, after 7 strange years it was finally ending. The dreams, though taunting his sleep and even his awake state, were not to be thought of from now on, he was to go on and continue life, no matter how painful it might seem. He slowly walked into the Gryffindor common room, where Hermione was peering into a book.

"Ah," she murmured, looking up from the text, "did you have that dream again?" Harry nodded; Hermione seemed to be able to read his moods. As the only person who cared for Ron as much he did, memories struck her often as well.

"Harry, you must know by now that with every triumph there is tragedy." He saw the binding of the book Hermione was reading; it was a photo album from the Quidditch World Cup. "You have defeated the Dark Lord, but a precious friend was taken from you. With every new day there is a new challenge...With everything that is healed," she whispered, putting a finger on his forehead, "there is always a scar."