A/N I don't really know where this fic came from. One minute I was bored, the next I had this master plan for an angsty HP fic. Weird spur of the moment thing. It was a load of fun to write though, that's just about as depressing as I've gotten so far. Hope you enjoy it, let me know what you think and REVIEW!
Disclaimer I wished I owned Ron. I really do. Ron is a very wish-I-owned-you-ble person. But no. I don't own him....sadly. I only own this little plot thingie, because it's a fragment of my own over-active imagination. Now, onwards!
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He held her in the darkness of the engulfing night, her frail, broken body held close to his. Her fingers trailed on the ground, creating little ripples in the forming puddles as her arm swayed back and forth, following the motion of his grieving rockings. Raindrops splattered on her face, silent, unshed tears finally emerging as all life left her.
Blood had stopped pouring from her open body, but the remains of what had already left it pooled on the ground, mixing with the rainwater, making small pink puddles of lost hope and grief on the black concrete.
His own salty tears mixed with the rain water, sliding down his face only to be lost to the downpour. His shaking fingers gently caressed her pale, lifeless face, tracing the lines, hollows, and bumps he had grown so fond of over the past 8 years, rediscovering them behind the eye of the mourner. A grief-filled sob passed his lips as his body bent over hers, craddling it his arms, holding her like he would never let go as he mourned her passing.
And Ron Weasley crouched there in the alley, curling over Hermione Granger's mutilated, lifeless body, crying for his lost friend, his lost love. And the rain kept falling.
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How could it have come to this? How could so many things have gone so wrong? How could it have ended up this way when only a few years ago, everything seem to have fixed it self? How could this be the way things should end?
Hermione was gone. The last person in this world he had cared about was lost to him forever. Never again would he see her face, either streaked with tears as they mourned another lost friend, or lighted up with a rare, true smile when good news came, or simply blank and impassive as she poured over one of her books. Never again would he feel her secure hold on his hand or the soft touch of her lips on his. She truly was gone.
It seemed to him that the one thing that was left to tie his world together had disappeared, and suddenly everything was falling apart. Everything he had been striving to forget for the past 3 years came rushing back at him, because there was no longer a barrier. There was no longer a force, a wall, to keep all those memories out. All that was left was a wide open space and dark shadows that came rushing through it.
Harry was dead. Ginny was dead. Bill was dead. Fred, George, Charlie, Percy, Molly, Arthur, Sirius, Remus, Moody, Tonks, Kingsley. All dead. All at His hands. All because they had dared to stand up to Him. And now Hermione was dead, too. Dead. Because of Him.
The war was over. There was nothing left to fight for, nothing to defend. Only darkness. Cold, cruel, smothering darkness. Ever since He had risen again, the darkness had spread, slowly at first, then with increasing speed and opacity as more and more people fell or flocked to his banner.
They had fought with all they had, planning, spying, infiltrating even His closest ranks of allies. That was how most of them had died. Caught, murdered, and their bodies sent to their family's doorstep. Fred, George, Bill, Charlie, all of them had shown up, mutilated almost beyond recognition.
Then Harry had been killed, right before his eyes, ripped away from his grip as they fought to keep each other alive. And he had failed. Yet again, Ron Weasley had come up short and had been forced to watch his best friend die, and not even Harry's last reasurring smile could have dulled the ache inside him
But Hermione had. Only she had been there, hurting as much as he did, supprting him and sharing his pain. They had gotten closer in the past six months that they had in the eight years they had known each other. But what had it all been for? Why bother sharing something with another person if all that will happen is that they wil be taken away from you just like everything else? Every moment of happiness he had ever known had only led to more pain, more tears, more destruction.
This one thought rushed through his head as Ron finally gathered up the strength to get himself off the ground, off of her. His whole body felt numb, both for the liquid frigidness sepping through his clothes and from shock and grief. He looked down at Hermione's lifeless body, not knowing what to do. He crouched down, his eyes lingering over her smooth feature for one last time. Slowly he pulled out his wand, and with a last touch of her hand, muttered, "Incendio."
"Good bye, love," he whispered. A silent tear slid down his cheek as he stood up and turned away. And the rain kept falling.
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Ron sat on the couch at Number 12, Grimmauld Place, with no idea or notion of how he had gotten there. He stared down at the hands that lay in his lap, glistening as the moonlight hit the crimson coating that caked the fingers.
Her blood, he thought, blinking as his vision started to blur, either from unshed tears or the drip of blood from a gash on his forehead. Her blood, her life, her price. Why? Why hers? Why not mine?
Questions. Meaningless questions. Questions would not change what had happen. Question would be left unanswered, unheard. There was no one left to answer them, no one left to hear, to care. No one. He was alone.
His mind no longer had control over his body. He acted on instinct, pure instinct, simple reactions. It was what was best to do. The only thing to do.
Ron moved slowly, as if in a dream, and pulled a small pocketknife out of his back pocket. The smooth, handcrafter oak handle felt soft against his palm as he held the point of the knife calmly to his wrist. Dark silver, dangerously beautiful, the blade slid easily across his skin, leaving a thin, red line across the paleness of his wrist. The lines immediately started thickening, overflowing, until it was no longer a line, but a river of blood, flowing down his arm, across his palm, tripping down his fingers onto the carpeted floor of the living room.
All he could do was stare. Stare at the glistening crimson stream, the exploding droplets, the widening stain on the floor. He could feel himself slipping. The rug was being pulled out from under his feet but he didn't care. There was no reason to, nothing to hold him back. No reason not to let go.
He leaned back against the couch, head lolling to the side, resting against a pillow. Nothing to hold him back. His eyes traveled slowly across the wall, over the photographs that littered the desk, the bookcase, and the wall itself. He knew there wasn't much time left. He could feel death tugging at him, the gently calling of final darkness. His vision started to blur again, for the last time. In his last frame of vision, his eyes grabbed the photograph that lay nearest to him, on the first shelf of the book case. A small smile lighted his face and his lips part slightly. "I'll see ya, mates," he murmured in a barely audible whisper. And with a last concious thought of his best friend and his love, Ron Weasley slipped into the world of endless peace, leaving all darkness behind.
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