They do not grow old, as we grow old
Disclaimer: Not mine, JK Rowlings.
She mourns for them both in her own way. In the year after their deaths,
Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, she does not stop living, but she does not
let herself be the girl, the child, she was with them. She does not stop
attending the Quidditch matches, even if she avoids the fields any other
day and is somewhat less enthused about it then she once was, well, no one
can blame her.
The next September she sat alone on the train, despite Ginny's pleading
gaze, begging Hermione to rescue her from the barrage of sympathy. On the
trek to the castle she studiously ignored the threstrals, her quite chatter
strained.
In the end, what makes it hurt the most, is that sometimes she forgets her
dear boys who did not die, not in the end, for some noble cause, but for
the foolishness of youth. She cannot forget seeing them both tumble from
their brooms, speed and gravity entering into the equations of life as luck
left them.
long, that she lets herself remember, and smile.