Hey there. O.o; This is a really angsty one-shot that is also used for intros (heh. I'm a dork) because I decided one day while my father drove me to a Saturn dealership (whilst listening to Nada Surf, mind, which is never all that happy) that Ron needed to be sad.

So I killed Hermione, and the fic was born.

Enjoy. You can AIM me at x glitter ninja for flames and/or adoration. :D

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/just last night i woke from some unconscionable dream/
/and had it nailed to my forehead again /
/to keep this boat afloat /
/there are things you can't afford to know /
/so I save all my breath for the sails./

It's your fault.

You were the one that kissed her cheek, held her hand, embraced her too tightly. You were the one that made her feel important, and most of all, you made her feel like she belonged. You knew all she wanted to do was go play soccer, go get C's in her bloody high school, you knew she didn't want to be here but she was smiling because she was /good/. You were the one that didn't weep at her funeral, that didn't touch her hand. You'd done it thousands of times, all flukes, of course, because you were in love with the Ravenclaw. Why would the bitter cold of her hard flesh be so alarming? You were the one that she loved, and I was the one that brushed away her tears. I didn't mind it -- you're getting me wrong. But you were the one that let her die.

She ate chocolate too much and listened to crappy old records and giggled about dumb things when no one was watching and had an affinity for rosebuds and pearl necklaces. You learn from experience, but you experienced so little, except for what mattered most.

/but you'll find those lingering voices /
/are just your ego's attempt to make it all clean and nice /
/and make a moron out of you /
/walking a bridge with weakening cables /
/huddled up in fear and hate because we know our fate /
/and it's a lot to put us through./

I had heard it from the other people who had went to Hogsmeade that day, you bastard. You wouldn't speak to me for more then a week, and only then you were apologizing. Apologize to the dead girl that worshipped your delusional, weak little body. Don't apologize to me, because I'm still breathing. I'm still alive, brilliant, isn't it? If I had been there I would've saved her. I wouldn't have clutched my fucking scar and writhed, I wouldn't have passed out as the crack of green light resounded in your ears that had heard the two words far too many times. I would've died. I may be a coward, but I am also great with spontaneity. Would you have cried at my funeral, Harry?

You brought the war into my home that day more then ever before. It was brought into everyone's home, because they saw the faces of the Death Eaters that had bagged their groceries -- that had complimented their new dragon-skin boots. The icy smiles and whispered curses are always too much to bear, so people flee. It is the only open attack to the wizarding public that anyone /really/ knows of. Most fights are in alleys, most deaths are quiet, and most people aren't sixteen years old. I'm saying old stuff, right? You know this, you breathe this, you /are/ this. You're so little else, now, Harry. You're your calling and your inability to grovel at my feet so that I can feel better...feel like you actually cared that Hermione died at all.

/most ideas turn to dust /
/as there are few in which we all can trust /
/haven't you noticed I've been shedding all of mind? /
/so let's abandon that track /
/and leave our fathers fighting in a sack /
/cause we are way too wise-assed for that./

'Ron is too graceful, now. Ron smiles too little, now. Ron turns in his homework too much, now. Ron doesn't pick fights or throw wads of paper. Ron doesn't look like he is breathing. Ron wears maroon sweaters and brushes his hair. Ron reads books, now. Ron eats three meals a day, sends letters home to his Mum, and pretends he is alright.' Did you hear that as you walked down the hall? I heard it. But everyone is doing that now. Everyone has their losses, everyone has what they cling to, what they stick in their pocket and polish when no one is watching. /Ron/ was pretending he wasn't angry anymore, because /she/ wouldn't've wanted him to remain so livid. She wouldn't want him to grieve. She would want him to keep up with his studies, take care of himself, put flowers in front of the headstone every Wednesday.

/She/ wouldn't want /me/ to hate.

/you might find some fools at your doorstep /
/hustling the latest changes to the book /
/that's the strangest in an attempt to multiply /
/marionettes on weakening cables /
/huddled up with fear and hate /
/because they know their fate and it's a lot to put them through./

It is the only thing I have ignored -- Hermione's angry voice telling me to stop plotting murders, to stop accidentally stabbing myself with my quill. I should be with you now, more then ever, correct? Because we are both sad, and lonely, and I am clearly all you have left. Sirius is dead and Remus and Dumbledore are more then preoccupied ... the Order is all you have, and they are falling to pieces. Is this important? Mum is killing people, everyone killing people, my family trying to save the world when you are sitting around staring at ceilings, Quidditch games, yourself. Is that another little something that matters? When is Hero Boy going to be a hero? I am not forgetting Ginny, or fucking /Cedric/.

But this year, my old Potter-love does not seem considerably up to par.

The bleachers are damp and empty, eerie amidst too much fog and frost and mud and slush that dreams it is snow. And I am sitting square in the middle, in the center of the Gryffindor side, reading a book that I am not paying much attention to. And you are probably inside, drinking hot chocolate and crying, the salt going into your drink and tasting godawful, but to spit it out is to let everyone /know/ that you are weeping, like the sorry fuck you are. You didn't save your best friend, and you left your other one in the rainy cold. I forgot to tell you it was raining, and that is why I am not paying attention to this book. Because the ink is running and now it's ruined and now Ginny isn't going to be able to read it, because everything in my family is passed around. Musical chairs, food, scarves, shoes, literature.

/we've taken on a climb /
/and it's long enough to put the best of us on our backs /
/walking up a slide /
/and there are those we know who'd have us five miles off the track./

Are you laughing? I might break a bone if you're laughing, but you can't be, because I'm not speaking to you, because that would just be a little bit too much. I might start yelling, or crying, or sputtering-stuttering about how I need you but you are such a bastard that I can't hold on to you for dear life like I really /bloody/ need to. Am I not making much sense? It feels so. I used to love you so much, I used to gather your clippings from the newspaper that Hermione had in a shoebox and stare at them blankly, because that face was not the face that I had seen every day for over six years. You look so old, now. Even before Hermione died you looked older. You didn't trip over your feet, and you fought your hair every morning. I was still stupid then, I still had more freckles then anyone except the splendid relatives, I was still mildly adoring and mildly sugar-high because Hermione ate so much chocolate to keep from thinking about you, now that practicing fancy (never mind violent) things with your wand was far better then fraternizing with the either of us. The practicing didn't come in handy, did it, Harry?

/but you'll find those lingering voices /
/are just your ego's attempt to make it all clean and nice /
/and make a moron out of you /
/crossing the bridge on weakening cables /
/huddled up with fear and hate because we know our fate /
/and it's a lot to put us through./

She loved you so much that she made me love you, isn't that depressing? She found so many good things about you that I hadn't remembered, she saw you in rose-tinted glasses and halos and light. Then I decided I wanted you in that horrible horrible way that you see in some of Hermione's thickest books. I wanted to make you smile, make you feel better, take away all that sorrow. You let her die, and that's why I hate you in that sickening way -- why I want to rip you into shreds, even while reminiscing about times when all I wanted to do was hold your hand -- like when you drink a milkshake and you haven't eaten anything else all day -- it's empty and it's futile and too sweet but it's enough to keep you going even with that bad headache. It would be nice to be able to love you, nice to forgive and forget, but Hermione would be the one to convince me. To pat me on the shoulder, hold all my secrets like a living diary, give me some Honeydukes and then run off to read more romance novels as she pined away, wasted away, worked away. And you killed her -- you didn't utter the words, but you did just as well. You curled into a ball and screamed as she crumpled to the ground. Does it matter who told me? No, it matters that it happened, because she's dead, and you're not.

It's your fault, but what can you do but go on?