A/N: Number twelve! This one's a Ron POV. Very R/Hr. Happy reading, PLEASE review!
Disclaimer: I do in fact own Harry Potter. Mwhahahahaha...Psh, yeah right. If only. Everything belongs to JKR.
The day was cool and stagnant, lacking any breeze at all, with a white sky through which only small patches of beautiful, dazzling blue poked feebly. The sun was hidden behind the clouds so well that its position could not be determined. Perfect Quidditch conditions, Ron thought bitterly, as the knot in his stomach that had been suppressed for so long rose to his throat, where he knew it would remain for a while.
He walked up the grassy slope and through the rows of headstones he knew so well. He didn't even have to pause or think to know where he was going, it had become an instinct. He felt as if his feet were detached from his body, simply leading the way, with no feeling at all, just a subtle determination. It allowed his mind to wander freely, be free from his mechanical body for a few minutes, to think, and to not be held down.
He always came here whenever he needed to think, or when he was sad, or afraid, or lonely, or when he fought with Hermione, or whenever he just needed a friend. Today he came for all of those reasons.
Today was Harry's birthday. And that wasn't all. That morning he had proposed to Hermione. He didn't know what had possessed him to do it. Now that he thought about it, it seemed like a stupid thing to do anyway…especially today. But he had had that ring for so long, since before Harry…well for a very, very long time. He had been planning on giving it to her right after Lord Voldemort was defeated; Harry had talked him into that plan, so that there would be something wonderful to look forward to after such a long period of time consisting of nothing but fear and danger. But the festivities had been punctured by the death of the greatest man Ron had ever known, his best friend.
So he hadn't proposed to her that night, like Harry had wanted him to. It had just seemed inappropriate, too soon, too fast, too selfish. He hadn't felt that he could actually do it properly either, he could barely hold himself together that night. Neither could she. He had decided that he would wait. What he was waiting for he really had no idea. But he couldn't do it then, not when they were both so miserable and longing for someone who would no longer make their worlds light up.
He didn't stop thinking until he realized that he was now standing in front of his destination. His feet had stopped without his notice. He sat down on the dewy grass, leaning against the headstone. He needed his best friend right now. He couldn't sort all this out on his own.
Maybe he should have proposed to her that night. It was what Harry had wanted. It would have made the loss a little less hard on them all. But somehow, that night he had thought it would be an insult to the memory of his best friend to take away from the memories of Harry and focus on himself. He didn't know what he should think anymore. Whenever he had needed to talk to someone, he had always gone to Harry. And now Harry wasn't here anymore, and he didn't know who or where to turn to. He felt lost and lonely, like a stray dog crying in the night.
It had been over a month since that night when they had lost Harry. It still seemed as if it was still happening, as if his entire existence from that moment on had spanned only one night, an endless night of sunrises and sunsets. And this morning, the day when Harry should have turned eighteen, Ron had proposed to her. Hermione had gotten angry with him. She told him that he was being insensitive and selfish. There had been a large shouting match, with the ring throw carelessly on the kitchen table glinting in the morning sun as their rage with each other continued to climb.
That had been the first real row they had with each other since Harry's death. They used to fight all the time, big rows, small ones, ones that lasted for days, but after the events of that night it appeared as if they had forgotten about all that. But seeing that ring had reminded them both of someone who ought to have witnessed the event in the kitchen that morning.
In truth he couldn't imagine facing his own wedding without Harry by his side. He had already asked him to be his best man, before he had even given a thought as to when he would ask Hermione. Of course he had agreed. He had been so excited about it. Just thinking of his expression when Ron had asked him made his heart feel light with happiness and heavy enough to sink below his navel at the same time.
He didn't know what to do anymore. He needed a best friend. He needed his best friend. He needed Harry. But he didn't have him anymore. He missed him a lot. Not a day went by when he didn't think about him and remember everything they went through together, or when he didn't think of how his life would be different if things had taken another course.
They had been hard, these last few weeks. All anyone could talk about was the death of Harry Potter. And whenever the topic came up all everyone ever talked about was his fucking scar. Ron hated it. There wasn't any mention of what kind of person he was, or the things he liked to do, or the people he loved. Didn't they realize that there was more to the man than the stupid, lightning bolt scar? Didn't they realize that the only reason he had managed to defeat Voldemort was because of his talents, and his skills, and with help from his friends, and not because of a scar? Ron had learned to stop looking at the scar. It didn't mean anything to him anymore. It was just another characteristic that was recognized as belonging to his best friend, along with the glasses, green eyes and incurably messy black hair.
He was wrenched from his thoughts by the sound of soft footsteps approaching. He knew at once who the person was, even before he looked up to see. Hermione was ambling slowly towards him, playing absentmindedly with her fingers with her head down and her feet dragging, her hair bushier than he had ever seen it before.
She too stopped in front of the gravestone as if her feet were moving of their own accord, and only then did she seem to notice Ron. She did not look remotely shocked to find him there, more resigned to the fact that he was.
"I thought you'd come eventually," Ron said to her softly.
Hermione gave a weak smile through the tears that had already sprung from her eyes. She dropped gracelessly to the ground next to Ron, almost as if she were collapsing. But he knew she wasn't, she just couldn't hold herself together at the moment; she needed a little bit of help. He let her cry on his shoulder, holding her all the while and promising to never let go. After a long time he took her hands from her sides and held them in his own much larger ones. Their fingers were intertwined. Ron's finger felt something hard; something that he knew had not been there before. He looked down. The ring that had been thrown to the side this morning was now placed stunningly around her left ring finger.
Ron smiled and gave a tearful chuckle in spit of himself and embraced her tightly. He had never felt so content in her arms and she had never felt so safe.
She pulled away reluctantly and looked at Ron worriedly.
"There won't be a best man, will there?"
Ron shook his head sorrowfully.
Hermione turned around to face the headstone and said delicately, with her words directed at the name engraved on its face, "You'd be the best man, you know. And we won't have anyone else. Wouldn't even think of it. There's no one else we want. You're the man, Harry, only you. You haven't left us, I know it."
Ron put his arm consolingly around his fiancée and together they cried for the one they lost. They cried for the man, for the friend, for the hero. But not for the lightning bolt scar.