A/N: I've been wanting to write this fic for a while; I've just been waiting for the right time and right inspiration.
Seems I've finally found it. . . .
Disclaimer: Honestly, not mine—I swear!
The clouds had grayed slowly over time; the sun no longer shone as brightly; eyes no longer twinkled. People frowned, furrowed their eyebrows, rarely smiled and never laughed. Life raced during the day—a melded blur of morning and afternoon—and night emphasized every second, every moment, every numbed feeling during the day. The darkness had swallowed her whole and cloaked her in what was unmistakably a lullaby played continuously in a minor key. She lulled about looking but not quite seeing; hearing but not quite listening; and feeling but it was never quite any specific emotion. None that she could identify, anyway.
Night had always been her weakness. She had fallen into the cold, slimy grasp of melancholy and it wouldn't let go. Depression is a strange and unusual thing; a horrible, disastrous thing and although it is terrible enough to not provide mercy to the pessimist, it is great in all its melancholy beauty. And once trapped in its bitter, slithering clutches, the optimist cannot help but to adhere to his or her emotional web: an intricate, complex, and usually barren light that can either be turned on or off.
At the moment, Hermione's light was well beyond dim, beyond off. It had disappeared.
Along with him.
It was the night that took him away. The night had brought death. The night had brought pain which wrapped around her stiff shoulders like a shawl. And it seemed to be there underneath her skin, never willing to go. She would never let it go.
'I have to go, Hermione. He needs me,' he said pleadingly.
It wasn't that she didn't want him to help his friend; she just didn't want him to leave her.
'Please don't go,' she whispered.
But he went anyway. Despite her efforts and despite his promise, he left her. He left her and never came back. He left her forever. It had been a year since that day. She was just beginning to understand why she felt so calm and relaxed and comforted around him. He had a power over her; he had her heart. And she didn't notice until he never returned. And never gave it back.
She looked up at the colourless sky and took another sip of her coffee. It was here, here at this very table where they last sat together for their last everything. Hermione absentmindedly wiped away his nonexistent spilled tea. She looked at imagined eyes and spoke in her head, relaying her thoughts and replaying their last conversation over and over again. If only I'd said something, she thought. Something different from everything else, something that would have stopped him . . . maybe he'd be here.
A fat drop of liquid dribbled onto the metal surface of the table. She ignored it; she was probably crying again. She did that a lot. She would cry for hours and not fully realize it until she felt she could no longer breathe. Another drop spilled, and soon another and another.
The sky rumbled and the Earth trembled. Again she glanced at the sky. So it really is gray, she thought. She stared at it and shook her head back, her coffee left forgotten. She let the rain consume her. It slickly caressed her firm skin. It soaked through her being and she closed her eyes, almost smiling. Hermione loved it when the heavens agreed with her. Passerby looked at her sympathetically as she unknowingly danced through the fierce storm. She didn't care; she had danced many a storms before. Lightning crackled above her and splayed across the thick, thunderous atmosphere.
Summer had never felt so incinerating. It was usually filled with fun, with laughs, with love. But that she had lost. Tears and anguish was all she had left. She kicked at the puddles and covered herself in mud. Hermione lifted her hands to the sky as it again rumbled violently. Her bag under the table was never once hit by the pouring rain. She spotted it quite suddenly—in the middle of a spin and kicked it out onto the street, its contents spilling out every which way. Hermione gasped as a tightly rolled-up scroll of parchment with a scarlet ribbon was washed away towards by a splash of rainwater. She flailed after it, forgetting every thing else currently being whipped about by the wind and lashed by the furious downpour.
She ran after it as it floated down the fast stream, heading towards the drain. The scroll was suddenly whisked over the drain as an automobile drove by and splashed her mud-covered jeans. It turned a corner into a dark alleyway. She ran even harder through the murky rain.
'Miss Granger?' an official-looking man said in her doorway. It had been nearly a month since she had asked him not to go.
'Yes, that's me. Do you have any word on a "Ronald Weasley?"' she asked, urgently.
The man looked away from her. 'Er, yes. He has been missing for a while—he was reported missing the same night as a large group of people were kidnapped, tortured, and eventually killed by Lord—erm, by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Their bodies, however, haven't been found. It seems they all just . . . disappeared.'
Hermione looked at him, puzzled. 'What do you mean? You're saying he's gotten killed just because you can't find him!'
The man unraveled a piece of parchment with a scarlet ribbon and handed it to her. 'Here's the report, miss. I'm really sorry,' he said.
She took the scroll from him and threw it on the floor. 'You can't tell me he's gone!' she shrieked confused. She blinked furiously, trying to prevent the tears from spilling out onto her face, but it was useless. She ran towards the man, fists clenched. 'You can't tell me he's gone,' she whispered with all the energy she could muster. She felt suddenly tired, as if all life had been suddenly drained out of her. She shook violently and had to hold on to her door behind her for support.
The man backed away, looking at the ground. 'I'm really sorry,' he said again, softly. And with that he Disapparated. Hermione felt like this man had taken her with him.
She never saw him again. And she never got herself back again either.
Just a parchment. With a scarlet ribbon.
She snatched up the parchment by the ribbon and the oddest thing occurred: the parchment slipped out from the ribbon and with a slow splash landed a few meters away from the drain. With a blink of an eye, as Hermione struggled to reach it in time, a large rush of rainwater embedded it within its powerful current and pushed it into the drain.
Hermione blinked again. She had never opened it.
Just a ribbon, she thought, and the night overtook her again.
Tears ran down her face as she sat on the curb, the storm raging overhead. Just a ribbon. With the ribbon she very haphazardly tied it in her hair and curled up on the wet sidewalk.
The day Ron had been killed was the day of the Last Battle between Good and Evil. It had been rough and tremendously difficult. In some ways, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived had triumphed. He had saved wizard and Muggle-kind alike. But he had lost his best friend. It had been a year since he had spoken to Hermione. He couldn't confront her. He couldn't even confront himself. He had let his best friend die. He had asked him for help; Ron complied and had trusted him. Yet he had let him die. He had let him take Hermione with him.
The rain had become a part of Hermione now. She was soaked through and shaking intensely. Not because of the cold, but because of the hurt. She closed her eyes and saw his face. She squeezed her eyes tightly, trying to somehow make it vanish. She didn't need it now. She blinked a few times and looked at the sky. But she didn't see the sky. Instead, she saw a rosy, freckled-face, red-headed man staring down her.
She quickly sat up. 'Ron?' she whispered. But she closed her eyes. She was imagining it. It couldn't be him. He was dead. Dead, she thought to herself.
Strong arms embraced her and untied the ribbon from her hair. 'It's alright, 'Mione. I'm here,' said a very Ron-ish voice.
But Hermione wouldn't let herself believe. She had let herself get too carried away with imagined conversations and dreams and fantasies that he still met her at the café, that he still came around her house to 'borrow coffee,' and that he still randomly peered into her cubicle in the Aurors' work section to kiss her hand.
Still, she welcomed the fantasy that held her now, so warm, so close, and so real. She opened her eyes again. He was still there, and looked much different.
'Ron?' she whispered again.
'Hermione,' he said.
Hermione's eyes widened.
And she fell back, the darkness coming at her fast.
It was the last thing she remembered, before awaking. She smelled coffee brewing, and heard a tea kettle whistling. Her vision came slowly, and her situation real. She was lying in a couch, a heavy blanket resting upon her chest.
'Ron?' she said. Although she felt weak, her voice was strong and echoed around the room hollowly.
She heard footsteps approach her slowly, hesitantly. 'I was afraid you'd never wake up,' said the very familiar voice.
She sat up abruptly as it dawned on her, the possibility. Perhaps all her hoping and praying hadn't gone to waste after all. 'Ron? Is that really you?' she asked almost desperately.
The other person walked into the room and set down a cup of coffee on the table beside Hermione. 'Yes,' he said.
She wouldn't look at him. She breathed in very deeply when he sat down next to her on the couch and the two didn't say anything for a long time.
Ron spoke first. 'Hermione,' he started tentatively. 'I know this is very difficult to understand, but please look at me.'
Hermione shut her eyes and quickly wiped away the tears that had already started to fall. 'I—I can't, Ron. I can't,' she whispered. 'Just . . . hold me.'
Ron did as he was told. He slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her close to him. Hermione cried against his chest, and soon she wasn't the only one shaking with overwhelming emotion. They stayed that way for a while, Ron's hands occasionally entangling themselves in her long, wet hair, and her hands slowly adjusting themselves into clenched fists. She hit his chest. He held her tighter. She sobbed and muttered incoherent accusations at him for leaving her. And he whispered apologies into her hair.
'I'm sorry, love,' he said, once he had gotten himself under control.
She finally looked up at him. His face had grown paler, sallower, and more tired. His shoulders were broader, but she could feel he had lost a lot of weight. His eyes weren't as bright and full of life as they were the night she begged him not to go. His hair, on the contrary, looked like a bright torch, but was much longer and fell into his rugged countenance. 'What happened to you?' was the only thing she said.
He sighed and hugged her. To her hair, he said, 'I was taken away.'
'I know that much, Ronald. You wouldn't just leave,' Hermione said.
He took a deep breath and continued. 'I was taken away by a band of Death Eaters, along with seventeen other people. They portkeyed us to some remote land and abandoned us. It was the most horrible thing, Hermione. We didn't know how to survive, whether to expect a cold winter or not, if there were predators—if the Death Eaters would come back. We worked night and day to plot a way out—'
'Why didn't you use your wands?'
'Magic wasn't working—in fact, it was making everything worse,' he said. 'The point is that it took us a whole of a year to get back home. I suppose you also thought I was dead?' he asked.
She nodded, feeling too foolish to say anything.
'You acted a lot like Mum. She fainted, too,' he said smiling a little. 'Dad, on the other hand couldn't say much of anything other than, "I thought I lost you, boy." Once Mum awoke, she just hugged the life out of me and wouldn't stop crying.'
'Your poor Mum!' cried Hermione. 'Is she alright?'
He smiled. 'Yeah, almost didn't want me to go find you and Harry.'
Hermione looked away from him at the mention of Harry. 'Have you seen Harry?' she asked, her voice impassive.
Ron shook his head. 'I was hoping you could tell me where he lived. I came round his house, but apparently he's moved.'
'Sorry,' she said, unwrapping herself from him. 'I can't help you. I haven't spoken to Harry in a year.'
Ron looked absolutely puzzled. 'But—I thought you two were friends?' he asked.
Hermione looked up at him, ready to burst in tears again. 'I don't think neither of us has forgiven the other for your disappearance, Ron. Actually, no—that's not true. Neither of us have been able to forgive ourselves . . . I don't think we've ever gotten over you, Ron. Otherwise, I think we'd have had contact already,' she said. She was full out crying now; her heart ached without her two best friends. Now that she'd found one and had to admit not only to him, but to herself as well, that she hadn't spoken to the other in a full year had truly devastated her. And it was all because she couldn't get over the fact that she let the man she loved slip between her fingers, away from both her and Harry. She loved Ron. She did. When he left and (seemingly) died, it was impossible to face Harry. Impossible.
Ron took her in his arms again. 'It's okay, 'Mione. We'll find him, I promise. And there's one other thing, too,' Ron said.
Hermione wiped her eyes and asked, 'What?'
'I've met the girl of my dreams, 'Mione,' he said, his eyes sparkling. 'And I'd like you to meet her, too. Tomorrow night. What do you think?' he asked, grinning.
Hermione's eyes widened and she buried her face in his chest as she said, 'I'd love to.' She wept again, and Ron held her tightly.
She had really meant to say 'I love you.' Not then, not now when they were being reunited. She wanted to say it the night they had been forever separated.
You've waited too long, a voice in her head said.
'It's too late,' she whispered to herself as she walked home.
A/N: What do you think? . . . It seems a bit strange, I know. But REVIEW!
Cheers and tootles!
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