Memories in a Box
by Artichokie
"I love you," Ron whispered passionately.
"You don't," Hermione was swift to deny.
"But, I do!" He caught her hand in his as they sat in the moonlight.
She tried to pull her hand away, but Ron's grasp tightened. "You're just distraught."
He sighed and shook his head. "Do you know how hard this is for me? I feel so vulnerable. I'm not used to opening myself like this," he said, the last sentence was no more than a murmur.
"Then, don't, Ron," she stated emphatically, tears clogging her throat. "Close yourself back up and go back to the way life used to be."
He let go of her hand. "I can't," he hissed. "You can't. No one can."
Hermione closed her eyes and thought for a minute before saying, "No, this is true."
He sighed. "I just made things awkward, didn't I?"
She opened her eyes, finally being able to control her emotions. "Yes . . . you did." She turned and walked back into the house, a solitary tear trailing down her cheek.
The sun was setting. Another day was coming to a close. Hermione had lost count as to many such scenes she had witnessed in the last year. It appeared as though waiting was her new profession. That's all she was doing anymore--waiting for news, waiting for safety, waiting for their return . . .
The day had been long; Hermione was not used to staying idle. They were held up in some building in London. She was with members of the Order, some she didn't even know. Every time they found a new place to make headquarters, they had been found out. To preserve secrecy, they had been moved every time--so many times, all of the places kind of blurred together.
Hermione was standing in front of the window. The glass was smudged, causing the sun's final rays to glare into her eyes in blurs. She would have cleaned it, but she was tired of cleaning.
Sighing, she rested an elbow on the windowsill and brought her chin down to her hand. Brown curls fell in front of her eyes. Hermione blew them out of her face, but failed to manage them. More curls, wispy curls, covered her vision. Hermione gave up and continued to stare out of the glass.
Everything was so dead as of late. London, normally bustling with activity on a Saturday afternoon, looked almost barren. Most people took the new curfew recommendations seriously. No one was to be out past five PM; no one was to be about before six AM. Of course, the curfew hadn't stopped anything when it came to attacks and deaths. The front page of The Daily Prophet and various other Muggle newspapers had become the obituary section.
Faceless names in black ink ran in and out of Hermione's mind. Every morning when she saw the owl delivering her copy of the day's The Daily Prophet, a sense of dread coursed through her veins. After she had skimmed it and found no one she recognized, it faded. However, it always returned, so it never really disappeared.
Hermione reflected on the last conversation she had had with Ron. It had been the dead of night and, as usual, Hermione had trouble sleeping. She had walked out onto the porch of the house she had been staying in, seeking privacy. Ron had been standing out there, something Hermione hadn't been counting on.
That night, he had confessed his attraction towards Hermione. Although she felt it, too, she was afraid to make any commitments. With people dying everywhere, and the war between good and evil prevailing, she didn't want to set herself up for heartache. She didn't want to feel a throbbing anxiety piercing her heart every day.
Well, it had been too late for that. Even though she had pushed Ron away, she had known she would worry about him. She loved him, as much as one could love another person, and had barely constrained herself from throwing her person into his arms and kissing him. She had wanted that. She settled for less.
Harry and Ron had been gone for two months now. So many times she had wanted to go back with them, to help them fight. In the beginning, Hermione had been with them, along with Ginny. They were told not to go, but they were determined and had slipped out during the night.
In the end, Hermione had been injured and was forced to return to headquarters. Mrs. Weasley had found out that Ginny had snuck along and, after making it clear that she had been worried sick about her only daughter, had chewed her ears off. If Hermione hadn't been in her own pain, she might have pitied Ginny.
Hermione straightened and turned away from the window. Walking over to her makeshift bedside table, Hermione opened the drawer. Inside sat a small wooden jewelry box. The top was smooth and displayed an elegantly carved design of a rose. Hermione's mother had given it to her the year before she had been accepted to Hogwarts. She had treasured it since.
She sat down upon the edge of her bed, one leg tucked neatly beneath her body. Ever since she had been brought home after her injury, she had kept all of her mementos, just in case she had to suddenly flee. She could live without everything else, but not this box. This box was full of pictures and letters that could never be replaced.
Flipping the lid, Hermione breathed in the wood smell that was so familiar to her. On top was a letter, the paper creased and torn. A corner had been burned, which had given Hermione's heart a jolt when she first saw it. She picked it up and scanned over the words, an act she had done many times before.
H.G.--
I don't have much time to write. I just want to let you know that we're fine, both of us. We miss you all. We hate it here. Hopefully, this will all be done with so we can get the bloody hell out of here. I'll write again soon.
--R.W.
A sense of excitement washed over Hermione, just as it had every other time she had read a letter from Ron. She wished they weren't so short, but she understood. Unlike her, they were constantly busy. She envied them for that.
Despite her convictions that she wanted no emotional attachments right now, she was anxious to see Ron again. She prayed this whole ordeal would be over soon so they could possibly do something about this mutual attraction. She refused to do anything until then; neither of them needed a distraction. She knew that she prayed in vain.
A commotion downstairs brought Hermione out of her reveries. Glancing at her bedroom door, she placed the letter back into her jewelry box and closed the lid. She set it on the mattress and stood. When she opened a door, she was met by a blast of shouts and, if she was hearing right, loud wailing.
Hermione's insides froze. She was aware that Order members were dying; it was only logical that it happened. They were at war, were they not? This death was different. This death was . . . personal.
Stepping into the hallway, Hermione started for the stairs at a near run. She didn't want to know who had died, and yet, she couldn't stand the suspense. She didn't want the tears, but knew they would come. Something was telling her that she was about to get her heart broken.
She took the stairs swiftly, basically flying down the stairs. At the bottom, Hermione almost fell face-first into the hard wooden floor. She stopped herself with her hands and hastily corrected herself. She paused long enough to determine the direction of the noise.
Everyone was huddled in, what was referred to as, the meeting room. In all reality, it was the family room, a place for close loved ones to congregate and be merry. Hermione wasn't in the mood to be merry. She wanted to hear the news that would destroy her world. She wanted it over with so she could mourn.
As she walked into the doorway, she saw everyone huddled together like a family. In fact, if one ignored the solemn looks, the incessant crying, and the tear-stained faces, one might believe this was a family huddled together in a deep discussion. Everyone was oblivious to her entrance, Hermione noted.
She walked deeper into the room and started observing the occupants. Ginny was bent over on the sofa, her face buried in her hands. Her deep red tendrils fell over her face, but Hermione could tell from her heaving shoulders that she was weeping.
Next to her, Mr. Weasley sat next to his wife, holding her close. His face was pale; his eyes were glazed over. He wasn't crying, but Hermione could tell he wanted to. His arms were wrapped around Mrs. Weasley, rubbing soothingly down her back and into her hair.
That was where the loud sobbing was coming from. Even though her cries were, for the most part, muffled by Mr. Weasley's chest, her sorrow was apparent. She had a tissue in one hand, but it didn't look like she had used it. It was pressed against Mr. Weasley's stomach, her fingers shaking.
That's when Hermione saw him. She didn't know his name, but she recognized him. He had been assigned to protect Ron and Harry in their mission. When he had found out about Hermione and Ginny being there, he had met them with derision. Hermione was certain that he would have snitched on them if she hadn't been injured.
He had been with them every single hour of every single day, proficient in what he did. He was a stern man, Hermione remembered, a perfectionist. He and she had had many squabbles about how things should go. Many times he had used his "higher rant" (so he called it) to over power Hermione's suggestions. She hated him more every day for it.
That's when it hit her.
Hermione gasped loudly and turned back to the Weasleys. Ginny had looked up at Hermione's reaction, her elbows still resting on her knees. Her eyes were bleak; her cheeks were stained with tears. She looked so miserable, so dejected, Hermione's heart pain suddenly became worse.
They stared at each other, communicating silently. Ginny was telling her with her eyes what Hermione had already guessed. He was dead. He had been murdered. He was never coming back. Hermione would never be able to tell him goodbye, never be able to tell her how sorry and wrong she was.
"Oh, my God," Hermione said on a breath. Tears flooded her eyes and erased Ginny from her vision. She saw nothing of her surroundings. Her attention was focused inward. This was what she had strove to avoid! Was she such a fool to believe, even for a second, that that was possible? Apparently so.
"No!" Hermione cried loudly, falling to her knees. She couldn't accept it, wouldn't accept it. Her tears were falling freely now; her wails rivaled Mrs. Weasley's.
"It's okay, Hermione," she heard Ginny's voice invade her thoughts. Warm arms enveloped her, and Hermione knew it was Ginny. They hugged each other and let out their misery. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut.
"He loved me," she on a whisper.
"I know," Ginny said soothingly. "He loved everyone."
Hermione wasn't listening to Ginny. She only saw her own anguish. "I loved him."
"We all did." Hermione's arms tightened around Ginny, needing something to cling on to. She felt as if she were swirling into oblivion, misery being her only friend.
"I loved him so much," she sobbed, hiccups interrupting her flow of speech, "and I'll never be able to tell him! He'll never know how much I cared. He'll never . . . understand."
Hermione took a large gulp of air, trying to control her sobs. Instead, they only intensified. She didn't want comfort, not now. She didn't want to share her misery, her mourning. She just wanted the pain to subside. She wanted to be alone.
Pushing Ginny away, Hermione jumped to her feet and ran blindly towards the stairs. Taking them two at a time, she ran back into her room and slammed her door. She got to her bed, swiping the blankets back, and laid herself down. Her jewelry box clattered to the floor with a loud bang that Hermione didn't hear. She only heard the roaring of sorrow, which was now consuming her.
Burying her head in her pillow, Hermione cried until she could cry no more. Silently staring at the wall, she mentally poked knives into the cavity that used to conceal her heart. It was empty now; there was nothing to puncture. She did so, anyway; it took her mind off of her loss. Eventually, she fell asleep with only one thought on her mind.
Oh, Ron, how much I love you!
The next morning, Hermione received her copy of today's The Daily Prophet. With tears still streaming down her face, she read the paragraph of newly reported deaths. His was the second to last name listed. Ronald Weasley had finally met his maker.
-The End-
Please R/R.