AN: A plot bunny wrestled me down earlier. This is based a bit on another fic of mine on , only I lengthened it and changed the setting as well as the angsty character. A few of you may be confused as to whether this really is a Ron/Hermione love each other fic at first, but I assure you, it is.
Outside his bedroom window, five stories above the castle grounds, he can hear the sounds of people dying. He is not certain if they are residual memories, forever burned into his mind, or if it is really going on. He has not been sure for awhile now. When he looks out the window, he sees no signs of disturbance; no lights or sparks from spells in the distance. It was his mind. He briefly wonders if the screams and moans of pain will ever leave him, if there will ever be a silent moment were he does not remember death.
He hears a knock at his door, but he ignores it. People should know better than to bother him, especially tonight. The door gives off a long and low creak as it opens slowly, and he cannot believe someone would have the audacity to enter. He does not move until he hears the door shut.
"Hello, Ron." She says it so softly that if he had not seen her lips move he might have believed he was imagining her voice too. He has almost forgotten what it sounded like. It seemed like it has been forever since they spoke.
She does not move away from the door, and he does not move away from the window, but they are looking at each other. Hatred and passion simultaneously flash in their eyes.
"What are you doing here, Hermione?" he asks, still looking directly into her. It has become a competition of who will break first.
"I came to make sure you were all right. I hadn't seen you anywhere all day today. . .so, are you?"
He laughs at her; a deep, menacing laugh. A touch of pain was in it as well. "How do you think I feel, Hermione?"
Had she not been used to it, she would have been frightened by him. But he has been like this for a long enough time now, and she is used to it. "I only know I feel, but I can guess you feel somewhat like me. It's only logical that--"
"Logical?" he burst out. "Logical, Hermione? You want to explain my feelings using logic? Well, I would just love to hear this explanation. Please, indulge me on the logic of my feelings." He stares daggers at her. She purses her lips and stays silent for several moments. He turns back to his window.
She has barely turned the doorknob before his arm reaches above her and holds the door shut, blocking her from making her exit. She does not turn when she says, "I'm leaving, Ron. Let me go."
"You aren't staying the night?" There is an edge to his voice. She can tell he is trying with all his might to seem unaffected, to pretend it is just another question, but she hears the small break in his voice at the possibility she may be serious this time. As she turns, her body slightly brushes against his, and he backs off, realizing how close he was to her. He sits on his bed as she probes his eyes, still standing at the door.
"Do you want me to?" For some reason she needs to hear him say the words. She needs to see that he is not dead inside like so many others believe. She needs for there to be a part of him still living.
"It doesn't really matter to me," he says as he returns to facing the window.
She will not back down now, though. Following him to the window, she stands next to him. Her eyes are as focused on him as his are on the outside. She needs for him to be okay. For a month now, she has been trying to keep both of them alive, and it is wearing her down more than she thought it would. It is trouble enough trying to keep her head above water without carrying his weight as well. She has been so worried about him, she has barely had time to grieve. "What happened to you, Ron? What happened to talking? Real conversations-- do you even remember those? We used to have them a lot."
"They died when Harry died." He says it so calmly that it makes her shudder. The name sounds foreign to her. She could not remember him saying it since the funeral. She could not remember the last time she had said it either.
"It seems like we died when Harry died, as well, doesn't it?"
"You don't seem so affected."
She slaps him with all her might; a red outline of her palm remains on his face, but he does not make a sound. "How dare you tell me that I'm not affected. You wouldn't know, Ron. I've been too busy trying to be the strong one around you. . . you are completely lost Ron." Her voice shakes ever so slightly. "No, not completely. But almost. So close to being lost. And I cannot lose another best friend, which means that I need to keep you at least mildly sane." He still says nothing, but she thinks she might have seen his chin quiver. She presses on. "I hurt too, Ron. And I hate how unfair everything is. It's unfair that Harry died; it's unfair that we have to fight while we are still so young; it's unfair that we still have to fight after the death of our best friend. And it is so unfair that we are standing a foot apart from one another, and we both feel so damn lonely," tears threatened her eyes now. "But one thing I learned from being friends with Harry is that life isn't fair. Life isn't logical either, and that kills me sometimes. I don't understand how we can be flesh and blood living and so dead inside. I don't understand how our insides have shattered and broken, but we still can have this outside shell left. I don't understand a lot of things, but I do understand that we have to keep living because if we don't keep fighting, then Harry died in vain." Her tears are freely flowing now. He does not look at her directly, but she sees him glance at her out of the corner of his eye. She knows her words got to him because she sees his chin quiver once more, and this time, she is certain of it.
They are now both staring out the window. They continue wordlessly for a few minutes before he finally speaks.
"I'm going to bed now," he says as he walks away. HE grabs a pile of bed clothes off his chair and heads into the bathroom. When he returns, only moments later, she is gone. The familiar pang of emptiness that always lessens when she is around has return full force. It is so strong he feels like it will implode him. But he has had the feeling for a month now and is used to it.
He climbs into bed and shuts off the light. Before he has time to hear his own thoughts in the silence, the one thing he is terrified of, he hears the long, low moan of the door creaking, and by the light in the hallway, he can see her enter, clad in her bed clothes. He can see her face is still tear streaked. She lifts his sheets and crawls in. He throws an arm around her waist, and she grasps his hand. They are holding each other slightly tighter than normal. He feels silly for thinking she would have left him alone, especially tonight. She knows that his greatest fear, even above silence, is her leaving him.
But he knows inside that she will always be there for him, and he hopes, that one day, he will once again be able to be there for her.