Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, etc...here borrowed for non-profit, purely entertainment reasons.

Lasting Lies

By Adelaide E

xoxox

How it ached for her. The sweet, dull, constant pain was not something he'd normally enjoy, something he'd smile about. But Ron found comfort in it. It meant he was still alive.

Sometimes, it was hard to tell. His soul simply suspended existence when he was piling corpse after corpse into neat, little piles, to make way for the fellow soldiers. (One could not do that while one's soul was watching. It had to turn away. Inside, Ron shut his eyes while, outside, his hands moved blindly.)

Sometimes, it was hard to tell if he was living at all. His lungs breathed, his head swam, and Ron simply wasn't sure if he walked amongst the living, or had somehow fallen into a grey, heavy hell.

And then, somebody would mention her name. He'd smell her perfume. There'd be a cloud, whose fluffiness and heavenly position reminded him of her.

And that excruciatingly precious twinge tickled and tortured his heart. And he remember.

(Once, she told him it was simply an organ to pump blood. No emotion whatsoever actually came from those four chambers. And Ron had nodded, let her think that silly idea, for he loved her beyond the petty matters of who was right and who was wrong.)

She opened the door and sat on his bed.

Normally, he would have commented on this. After all, Hermione Granger did not simply sneak in young men's rooms, nor sit on their bed, in the late, late night on a weekly basis.

But they did not have the luxury of "normally."

She watched him, as he packed and repacked his few belongings. She sat silently as he studied and frowned at the plans. She said nothing as he stopped his fidgeting, stopped his denial, and looked at her.

He had not bothered with light, so that no one would know that Ronald Weasley was not sleeping properly before his first solo mission.

And, apparently, she did not mind the darkness so much.

She shouldn't have faded into the dullness of his chamber so easily. She was Hermione; surely, that merited some sort of radiance, some sort of celestial aura that made her glow in any setting. These worn wooden floors, these old tired walls, that sad beaten furniture...she did not belong to that. He wanted her to shine.

He crossed his arms, and leaned on the wall opposite her. He sighed.

He wanted everything to be different.

"You have to say it," she requested, her voice barely above a whisper as they watched the moonlight spill through the windows. The pale, silvery intrusions did not reach them, flowing past Ron's arms and falling short before Hermione's bare toes.

"You have to say it, Ron, before you go."

He only stared at her with hooded eyes, hating to memorize her face, knowing that he might never see it again...and yet he couldn't look away.

She knew then, did she?

She knew that he never envisioned his future without her? She knew that he—deplorably clumsy Ron Weasley—would dance for her and only her, should she ask?

(She never asked.)

Did she know that he always volunteered to do the dangerous tasks, the tasks beyond his skill or comprehension, in hopes of pleasing her? Did she know that he spent many a night contemplating his uselessness to her, to Harry, to the cause? Did she know that he would gladly die for her? Did she know that he would do anything she wished, give everything he had, if it meant her happiness?

(But she never asked. She had never asked for anything, and that killed him all the same, more than this moment, more than the enemies of tomorrow.)

"It's better that I didn't," he replied, voice so deep and heavy he winced.

Ron used to believe that Hermione's happiness was vital for his breathing, above all else.

And what a naïve boy he had been, indeed.

For then the assassinations came, subtly at first, but then with blatant arrogance. Then the skirmishes, the attacks, the undeniable battles arrived in quick succession. And lastly, came the realisation that he could not appreciate Hermione's happiness if Hermione was dead.

Ron was going to kill a man in a few hours. It would be his first, personal kill and, if one was to speak optimistically, hopefully the last. If one was to speak realistically, one would say that Ron was going to die in a few hours, in a heroic but futile attempt to thwart Hermione Granger's potential assassin.

Did she know that he was going to die for her?

(He hoped not. She would make things ever so difficult if she knew.)

"Please say it," she asked. Her voice trembled and her heart beat visibly under her night gown. "Please say it. I'll say it if you say it."

They had skirted around it for so long. Dismissing their aching, furtive stares as their own, silly imagination. Excusing their intertwined hands for safety and reassurance, and nothing of love. Pretending that that sweet pain in their hearts was nothing more than surplus emotions, left over from the heartless carnage this war had rendered.

And now, here they were, with no time in the world. And she wanted him to say it.

"I can't," he manage to say with conviction. He stared at the bridge of her nose, unable to meet her eyes as he lied.

Would he go to hell for this? Lying to a flawless girl only hours before death? Was there a rule about that?

"Why not?"

Damn it, damn it, god fucking damn it. She sounded so young, so incredibly hurt, so very small, here in his soon to be abandoned room, so why was he hurting her, why the fuck was he hurting her?

Because what was the use? He'd declare his love. She'd declare hers. They'd kiss, probably, maybe even prove their sentiments physically if she was especially scared and he was especially immoral. And then what?

He'd leave her with her tears and his heart when the sun rose.

And, with a loyalty nobody would understand, Hermione would keep her love for him. She would remain alone until she died in her old age.

And he wasn't going to risk his bloody life simply to have Hermione live a lonely one.

It was better this way. This way, when she married that lucky bastard in the future, she would not stand at the altar with a pause, with a doubt in her eyes. This way, when she said "I do," the words would be accompanied by the thought, Ron didn't even say that he loved me. There's no reason to feel guilty.

His arms burned as Hermione hugged her knees to her chest, as she settled her trembling chin atop of one joint, as she stared at him with unmitigated sadness. He wanted to hug her. He wanted to hold her, and keep her safe, and tell that he loved her beyond measure.

But he couldn't. He simply couldn't. Call it cowardly, call it wrong, but it could not, and would not, be called selfish.

He was hurting her for her own sake.

His death would draw attention to the Weasleys, to the Burrow. And there would be no need for that assassin to search out his Hermione, as somebody with startling resemblance to her would be in the enemy's grasp.

(Well, if he made the potion right. He couldn't have asked her to make a polyjuice potion of herself in this suicide mission, now, could he?)

And by this time in twenty hours, the Weasleys and Hermione would be in hiding. He had already arranged it. While the whole bloody mess of evil wizards were attempting to find out who he really was and where had he come from, no eyes would be watching his family seek refuge.

"You can't go," she begged, as one tear drop fell from her eye and onto her night gown. He focused on the stain rather than her gaze. "Please don't go, Ron. You love me, don't you? You need me, don't you?"

More than she knew. More than she could ever know.

"No, Hermione," he answered softly, almost tenderly. "I don't. Not like that. You're just—it's just—you'll thank me. You'll thank me for stopping such rubbish."

"It's not rubbish," she answered, too clever by half to believe his lies. "And I need you. I need you, Ron, I'll always need you." She licked her lips, hands shaking as they unclasped to wipe her eyes. "Don't go."

He closed his eyes, as if in pain.

Truthfully, pain was far from his mind.

He would tell her, and then she would cry, just a bit, before repeating the affection. He'd tease her about her maudlin tendencies, and she would give a watery scolding. He'd go, kill this man and maybe a few others, and miraculously survive. She'd run to him before he reached the door. She'd kiss him as if she needed kisses to live, and then she'd lecture him thoroughly on his recklessness. They'd survive the war, survive the pain, and then they'd marry. They'd grow old together, and she'd always be beautiful to him, even as she drew her last breath. Because she was Hermione Granger, and he would always love her.

And they'd have their happily ever.

Here, in his mind.

But not there, in cold, hard reality.

He opened them, and his vision was filled with a small, shivering girl. She stared at him with such wet, large eyes. She waited for him to speak with such violent trembling. He imagined that, if he put in an effort, he'd be able to hear the thuds of her racing heart.

"Tell me, Ron. Say that you love me."

He'd have to go soon. Before she managed to tear the truth from his lips. Before he managed to ensure her a very desolate future.

He pushed himself off the wall, and gathered his plans and equipment. Carefully, he slipped a vial of some potion—a temporary disguise, her perfect face—into his pocket. "I don't believe I'm in a talking mood," he told her, purposefully flippant, as he gathered his things and righted the small room.

"Ron," she very nearly sobbed, so raw with anguish that he stopped and stared. He had been so close, so very near the door.

"Ron, please—"

"Tell you what," he interrupted, sounding so fucking happy he thought he would die. "I'll spout all the nonsense you want after I come back, all right?"

It was what she wanted to hear, besides the truth of his feelings for her. They just wished it was the truth.

"Don't pretend—"

"I'll spend the whole day chatting with you," he promised brightly, striding forward with an offered hand. She did nothing but stare up at him, tears running freely now, head shaking sadly.

Ron swallowed the taste of self-loathing before taking her limp hand in a firm, solid grip. "I'll bore you to death with all the details, Hermione. After I come back."

She said nothing, thank god. He didn't know how to react if she nodded, if she gave any indication of believing him. Probably shake her, and yell at her for being so naïve.

"Good bye, Ron," she called softly as he passed through the door.

He paused. It was all he could do, for another sight of her meant the crumbling of his will power. He had to go. He had to go.

"It's not good bye, Hermione," he said steadily. "I'll see you soon."

Hermione watched his back disappear from her vision, unable to refute the fact. He would see her. Heaven, after all, offered the most splendid view of the world.

xoxox

The End