Hermione,
I
worry about you, how you read like a maniac.
I worry about Harry,
how he rarely laughs anymore.
I worry about me, how I think about
you more often than our mission.
I worry about all of us…
And
I mean all of us as one. Mum told me before we left that we're all
one, basically. We all are one person—bits and pieces of each
other. And I believed her, but now I don't. You are the scholar,
Harry is the hero, and I am the sidekick—the lover and the
fighter. You and Harry aren't torn between those two things, so
perhaps you two are extensions of one another, but I am my own
person, no matter how loyal or loving I am. I haven't always been
this way. When I was younger I wanted to be like everyone else, but
now I look at you and Harry, and I think, you're wasting your
teenage years! For what?
Ron
'Mione,
Hermione, Hermione…
I just told you all that that I wrote last
night, and we got in a terrible row, and I feel like a jerk reading
over it and remembering our conversation. We are all parts of
each other, slightly, and you and Harry aren't wasting your teenage
years, and neither am I. We're going to save the world. There's
time for fun and parties and experimenting when this is all over.
But
I do worry. What if we're dead when it's over? Are there any
parties in heaven, or wherever we go?
You haven't spoken to me
since our fight this afternoon. You've locked yourself in the
library. It's about midnight—I think you're asleep in there.
I
will come and say I'm sorry and give you a blanket if you don't
wake up.
Because we fight, and I'm sorry, sorry, sorry. But that
is who I am—an idiot, and that is what you are—stubborn. But
we'll get by, right?
I think I love you sometimes, like right
now.
Yours,
Ron
Dear
Dear Dear Hermione,
October's almost over and I'm just now
writing to you. These past few weeks have been hell. I don't even
remember that fight we got into, really…Merlin, this is
insane.
That last time we destroyed a Horcrux, it wasn't like
this. There were a few Death Eaters—me, you, and Harry didn't
kill any of them. The Order did, but they're adults, so it was
different. But this time, when Moody owled us about the next Horcrux,
things were different.
Lupin decided that we needed to learn the
curse…you know which one. So Tonks came out here one evening,
because she's the closest to our age, and taught us. "This isn't
my idea," she informed us, "but Mad-Eye says that there will most
likely be a full-out battle this time, so it's vital that you know
how to perform this curse." She was rather serious, and we used all
sorts of bugs as practice, mostly spiders, to my displeasure.
No
one gets it on their first time, you know. I didn't. You even
didn't. You came around after about six tries, and started balling
once it happened. I finally succeeded after about twenty tries, and I
was pretty upset, too. It was just a spider—people kill spiders all
the time—but the fact that this curse could be used to kill people
was just terrifying.
Harry wasn't like us. Harry was hesitant,
yes. But he got this serious look on his face and—BOOM, the thing
was dead, right away.
And the flash of green light is awful,
especially when you're causing it.
The battle was three days
later. It was hell. I don't remember what happened; who killed
who…I was just terrified. The Horcrux was destroyed. Next thing I
knew I was at the Burrow, home, looking at my childhood bedroom, and
thinking, "This isn't me…"
No one talked much. You and I
had never made up for our fight, but knew the other was sorry, but we
still didn't grace each other with words.
We returned to the
mansion just yesterday, and still there was no talking. I took a
shower, came out, and looked at myself in the mirror. There was
nothing different. I feel so grown up, so changed—because I killed
a man, scratch that, men, maybe even women for all I know. But when I
see myself in the mirror, I look the same. Although Harry is also
speaking little, he looks the same, too, sort of. Maybe hardened, but
I can't tell if I look hardened—I feel that way, though.
I
finally looked at you, and I mean looked at you, after all these
weeks. You looked saddened. You had your lips parted and looked at me
back, and you dropped that stupid book you were reading onto the
floor. Harry was asleep upstairs.
We didn't talk, we didn't
need words. We just got up, held hands, and exited the house.
Outside
it was nighttime, and chilly, as November is creeping up on us. We
were both in unpractical clothing—T-shirts and pajama bottoms—but
we made due. We headed into the woods, sat down, and said
nothing.
Before I knew it we were in a clearing, and we were
kissing, and more was going to happen, there was nothing we could do
about it. We were about to work at each other's clothing when all
of the sudden…it started to pour rain.
You thrust your head
upward, laughing, drinking it in. I thought you were nuts, but before
I knew it, we were kissing again, and you were saying, "Not now,
later, later…"
And I knew that you were so right, because this
was not a good time. So we just laughed there, in the freezing rain,
and ran back to the house, back inside.
We changed inside, in the
same room, but not looking. We laughed about that, too. And then we
were done, and your hair was a mess, and I said, "I love you."
You
smiled. "I love you, too."
And I was going to go my separate
way, but you pulled me with you, and whispered, "Here, now,
now…"
And when I woke up and looked in the mirror this
morning, there was still nothing different, except…
Except
nothing. It's the inside that's changed.
And no matter where
you go from here, I know one thing—I'll always go with
you.
Yours,
Ron
THE END