- Chapter 3 –
One day, Hermione was sitting on her front porch in a rocking chair Mr. Weasley had built her before Ron had died, with a blanket Mrs. Weasley had knitted her around the same time splayed over her lap. On the road leading to her house there was a field of Harebell flowers that had never, and would never, exist there for real.
There was something among the flowers that she couldn't see, but she didn't move closer to find out what. It would only disappear before she could figure out what it was, and her body was weak that day.
She stared blankly as the pale blue flowers swayed in the nonexistent breeze, and shivered as the Winter chill began to settle in.
A head too solid and pale to belong in this other world suddenly appeared, and at first, Hermione thought it would be Harry coming up the drive to visit her; but then she saw the blonde hair cascading over feminine shoulders, and realized that this person was carrying a bouquet of the flowers that didn't truly exist.
Luna Lovegood set the bouquet at her feet and smiled a distant smile, and then she was gone, leaving Hermione to wonder if she had ever really existed at all, or if she really was going crazy after all.
That night, Harry come over with more bags of groceries than he could carry, but instead of being surprised by this, Hermione almost expected it.
Sometimes, Harry had to go out on long, dangerous missions, sometimes undercover, and he couldn't take care of her. This one was long overdue.
The groceries were largely non-perishables, bought in large quantities that would last long after Harry returned. He stared at her with a sympathetic look when she only smiled and nodded at the lame excuses he gave her for why no one could stop by and look after her while he was away.
When he left, Hermione felt sweet relief, for Harry liked to make random visits, even in the middle of the night, to make sure Hermione wasn't doing anything that would deteriorate her mental and physical state anymore.
She longed for the days where she could lay in bed curled up with the nonexistent creatures that often visited her, longed for the days where she could imagine Ron's fingers caressing her body in ways that no one else could do anymore, and longed for the days of long uninterrupted sleep in her dark bedroom where Harry didn't belong.
She could lose week's in that state. Week's that took her ever closer to her death. And it was sweet bliss, dreaming of lying in Ron's arms, the way his lips felt against hers, his calloused fingers against her skin, his mouth on her breast -
Hermione moaned, and her hands moved down her waist. Ron appeared in front of her, burning, as always, and when she plunged her fingers inside herself, his screams urged her on.
It was days into a long sleep when she was awoken again, only it was unexpected and confusing this time. It wasn't rough and bright like Harry's wake up call's were, when he ripped open the curtains and shook her shoulders to get her out of bed, but gentle and loving, with a palm against her face.
It felt like Ron's fingers on her face, where a hand held her cheek and calloused fingers stroked her skin, and a hot wash rag settled against her forehead. She mumbled confusedly when her eyes wouldn't open.
Someone shushed her, and she couldn't make out who it was. She was content to pretend it was Ron who was touching her, content to pretend that everything had just been one long, nasty dream.
But she knew it was all in her head. Her eyes were glued shut, her mind groggy, and though she longed to stay up to feel those fingers caressing her face, she knew it was only moments before she'd be under again.