Here Goes

Summary: So many tears. So many scars. We all have them. Inside and out. Most of the time both. Hermione/Fleur.
Rating: M to be safe
A/N: Okay, a new attempt at story formatting. Inspired in part by some books I've been reading that have this first-person point of view without paragraphs or anything. Let me know if you like it. I do.

Chapter One: Pain
(Hermione's POV)

He remembers. Tonight, I can tell he recalls everything. Ron just stands there, beside the bed, a firm look of pain playing on his once boyish features.
The drugs don't help him anymore. They were what took Ginny away.
Alcohol didn't save him anymore. It drove his mother and him apart after the twin's death.
I can't help him anymore. He's forgotten love, and I've fallen out of it.
Nothing can drive Ron's mind away from Harry's disappearance and Bill's recent death.
"I'm leaving tonight, 'Mione." He wants to smile sympathetically, but the pain won't allow smiles. It's the rules. And if you break the rules, you die.
I feel his arms enclose around my slender waist and close my eyes. "Be careful." He nods against my shoulder. With a breath, he murmurs, "I'm sorry we didn't work out."
I'm sorry too. "During war, it's inevitable." Ron's eyes waver and he releases me. "Right." His heavy leather trench coat covers his limp somewhat, but I know it's there. Ron turns at the door.
"Oh yeah. Fleur's in town, but since I'm going, is it alright if she comes here?" My mouth falls at his forwardness, and yet, it's not surprising. "I thought she and Bill were over before-"
"They were. She just wanted to see if she could help with the Order. I was going to take her there. I walk to the door knowingly.
"I'll get here there." Ron draws his wand as he pulls the heavy mahogany to him. "I'll send her an owl. Thanks."
He's gone. Fleur's coming.

(Ron's POV)

I stop at the pub before taking the Portkey to London. That's where I'm supposed to start investigating.

Like I haven't been looking for Harry the last six weeks.

But this is different. Risky, they said. Living is risky these days. I enter the pub, hoping that strangers don't notice me. My limp from an Avada Kedavra backfire. The Avada Kedavra that killed Bill.
God, the damn light. That pure, green flash that illuminated a second's pain. A life's pain in an instant.
The light doesn't compare to any thing you've seen before. Especially not the lights in this place. The cheap colored lights that young wizards find glory in before drinking their ambitions to hell.

I should know.
I should know.
I should know to stop.

My fourth fire whiskey burns intensely against my throat as the liquid slides down. Both from the flames and the actual alcohol. I leave ten sickles and head out to the street.
There's broken glass from some window in a store. I catch my reflection.
Rough. Haggard. Shitty.
Scars etch wrinkles on my 22 year old face, framed by cropped auburn hair. My eyes are a dismal grey-blue, like the tears washed out their once vibrant sapphire color.

So many tears.

So many scars.

We all have them. Inside or out. Most of the time both.