Author's Notice: I hope this fic is as heartbreaking to you all as it is to me. It's lovely. Ron/Hermione. And here are some of the lyrics to the song I listened to while writing it (the song's by Jimmy Eat World)
Crimson, and Clover
over and over
Crimson, and Clover
over and over
Crimson, and Clover (our house in the middle of the street)
over and over (why didn't we ever meet)
Crimson, and Clover
over and over (starting my rock and roll fantasy)
Crimson, and Clover (don't don't, don't let start, why did we ever part)
over and over (get to start my rock and roll apart)
I'm on my feet
I'm on the floor
I'm good to go
So, come on baby
sing me something that I know
I wanna always feel that a part of this is mine
I wanna fall in love tonight (Crimson, and Clover)
I wanna fall in love tonight (Crimson, and Clover)
I wanna always feel that a part of this was mine
I wanna fall in love tonight
I wanna fall in love tongiht
I wanna fall in love tonight...Tragedy
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You have seen difficult times. You have seen the world turn to ashes. You have seen memories haunt the people you love, and the people you hate. You have seen a war.
But you have also seen love. Love. You are so verbal but words have left you. You have seen your two best friends turn into men as you looked on. You have had to be everyone's Mother, but don't particularly mind. You have been in love, so in love.
There are many kinds of stories. Stories of adventures, stories of tragedy. But the one thing every story has in it is a little bit of love. A little bit of romance. A little bit of jazz. Every story you'll ever read will come back to love. This story just happens to have a little bit of that too.
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Before the war, when you were a child, life was very different. You spent days with your best friends. The boy with the red hair, the gangly boy, the silly one. And the tragic one, the one with the scar and the messy hair. You walked around the grounds, snuck into the kitchens for blueberry tarts and pumpkin juice, and you played wizard's chess in the common room. You were always awful at wizard's chess, the comic character always seeemed to beat you. It was one of the worst tragedies in life that you were only good at school and being everyone's Mother. You did a good job of it though.
Before the war, when you were a child, you were in love. You were not in mature love, which centered around careers and fancy parties. You were in childish love. You loved Him. Loved Him a lot. You were unsure why you did not love the tragic character. How could one not love a tragic character? Shady and sad and empty. And heroic. But you did not love the tragic character. You loved the comic character. Such a laugh. Such a bore. But he was so deep, he was so deep and he didn't even know it. He had five brothers and one sister. You were an only child with no one to love and he was a boy who had the world.
Before the war, when you were a child, he annoyed you a lot. He'd take your books away from you and kiddingly toss them to the tragic character, leaving you in the middle trying to get your books back so you could study. He'd try to be so sweet sometimes, giving you a piece of his Mother's pie and laughing when you told a joke. He'd ask to copy your homework, and sometimes he didn't ask he just did it. Sometimes he'd copy your tests too, sometimes you knew these things were going on and you'd yell at him dispassionately and not really care. It was times like these when all you could do was love him, love him because he was a very dear friend, love him because everyone has to love someone...sometimes, sometimes.
Before the war, when you were a child, everything was much simpler. You fought Evil with the boys, what you thought was Evil, you did not know . Nothing is scary when you are eleven, and twelve, and thirteen, and fourteen, and fifteen, and sixteen. Nothing is scary because you do not think of serious matters. Your mind is filled with charms and flying and your friends. You are confident and you are free. None of you knew the dangers when you fought Evil, there were no dangers as far as you were concerned. Death was not an option. It is not so heroic when you think of it this way.
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It is the unfair problem with unhappy stories that no one ever tells you they are going to be unhappy. You hope they will be happy and light. But only when one is a child can life be like this. When one is an adult life is not happy and light. It is tragic. As tragic as the tragic character, maybe even more tragic.
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After the war, when you were an adult, life was very different. You worked for the Ministry and lived in a small flat. You worked all day and slept during the night. You were broken. You were not broken like when you broke your arm in primary school, or when you broke your ankle during track, you are broken like your heart is broken. Your heart is weeping for old memories, your heart is weeping for life and love. You are not weeping though, you are smiling with tired eyes.
After the war, when you were an adult, you were in love. You were not in childish, you're so cute I love you-love. You were in mature love. You loved Him, you loved the way he smiled, the way he laughed, even though he did not do so much of this these days. You loved that he was so grown up, but mourned for the child he once was. He was more mature now, much more grown up. Sometimes, you looked in the mirror: "He has lost his soul," you would say, "how can a woman like me love a man with no soul? A man who has all but faded into nothingness." You led a tragic life. But you remembered Him. You remembered his dumb jokes, the way he shared pie with you, you remembered kissing him on the cheek, you remembered how bright and alive he was. You remembered this...and loved anyway.
After the war, when you were an adult, he broke your heart. All he did was break your heart. He did not bother to telephone you, or write you, or stop by your flat. He did not come over to share old stories. You felt so selfish, wanting him to visit you. Selfish because everyone was hurting, selfish because you missed your life before the war. You missed just the three of you, long walks around the grounds, trips to the kitchens. Sometimes you missd losing at wizard's chess, that was one of the greater tragedies in life after all. You even missed the tragic character, missed him because every story needs a little bit of tragedy in it. You did not know why this boy broke your heart, only that he did.
After the war, when you were an adult, people came up to you. They asked you if you knew the tragic character, but they called him by some other name. They asked you what he was like in quiet, in secret. They asked you a lot of questions. You did not know what to say. You'd come home from the Ministry and look in the mirror, "Yes, I knew Harry," you would say to no one but yourself, "he was the same person you all saw..." pause "You would've liked him...you so would've liked him. Everyone would've...I did too. But I liked Ron, you know, Ron, the one...yes, that's the one ." You visited the graveyard for the tragic character alone, you would put flowers down by his large gravestone, and say a short prayer. You kissed the gravestone. The redhead never came with you but he still came. You saw in the Daily Prophet pictures of him coming here though...you were angered they took pictures of him here. He was not so gangly anymore, still with redhair and lots of freckles he wore a thick wool cape and was alone. In these photographs he knealt by the gravestone, willing himself not to cry. You remembered this face from when you were a child, his face would scrunch up and he'd get very quiet and very pale. He made you want to cry. Boys don't cry like girls, boys mean it when they cry. It's sadder watching boys cry. But you wouldn't know. You only have boys. "It's okay to cry Ron," you would say skimming through the Daily Prophet as you faced a mirror, "you don't have to be so grown up all the time. Here, look, it doesn't matter much anyway. Let's play wizard's chess, I'll beat you this time! Yeah, I swear!" But you couldn't say this anymore. It did matter. It mattered a lot. There is no story without a tragic character and your life no longer held a story, only memories.
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You looked in the mirror. "Love is but one big tragedy," you said loudly as the sound echoed in the quiet flat, "love is but one big tragedy."
And then, you looked away from the mirror.
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End.