Chapter 5: Regret

Ron couldn't believe what an absolute twat Harry was being.

Harry had no idea what it was like for Ron to have his whole family out there vulnerable and open to attack at any moment. Most nights in the tent Ron couldn't fall asleep–which was highly unusual for him–because images of his family dying in brutal, horrific ways flashed through his mind as soon as he shut his eyes. As much as he tried to push them out, they always came back, each one more grotesque than the last.

It wasn't just his family he was worried about. He knew he was in as much danger as the rest of them, Harry even more. And Hermione. That was one thought that was sure to keep him up the entire night.

Not that it mattered. She hadn't followed him. She had no idea what it was like. She didn't care.

Ron could feel his heart in his gut, his grief almost encompassing the red-hot anger he felt.

Almost.

He swung for a tree trunk next to him but missed. As he was shaking out his hand and trying to decide what he wanted to do next, he felt a tight squeeze around his body. Before he could react, his wand was out of his hand and a large arm held strongly against his stomach, not letting him move.

It had been twenty-four hours since he was attacked by snatchers. Twenty-four hours since he had left his best mates to survive on their own. Twenty-four hours since he was a bloody coward.

Ron looked down at his right hand. A constant ache where his two fingernails had been were a cruel reminder of two other things he so desperately missed.

He had spent the rest of the precious night camping out where Harry and Hermione had been. They were gone by the time he arrived, but still, he had waited until the sun rose. He hoped that this nightmare–which was all his fault–would be untrue and they could return to normalcy. Not that any of it was normal.

Begrudgingly, and full of shame, he had gone to Shell Cottage. He didn't want anyone to know what he had done, but since a cave in the middle of nowhere was out of the question, he decided to go to a place with the least amount of people to let down.

Ron told himself that his brother was happy to see him, that he was glad Ron was uninjured and alive. But a small look, a quick flick of Bill's eyes exposed the truth; that Bill was undoubtedly ashamed of Ron's choices.

It had been three days since Ron disapparated.

He had not slept a wink, which was impressive considering the last few nights had been the first in a while that he was in a regular bed. Not only was he in a regular bed, but he also had a bathroom all to himself with warm water and smelly, posh soaps. On top of that, he had three square meals a day; french meals, hearty meals, delicious meals.

He had never felt more guilty.

Ron didn't know what to do. All he knew was that he had to get back to Harry and Hermione. It didn't matter how angry they would be at him, he would beg for their forgiveness until the bloody sun exploded.

It had been one week since Ron left, one whole fucking week, and he had not gotten any closer to finding his friends.

There had been no news of either of them and Ron was sure that they were still alive. Or, he willed himself to be sure.

He knew they could be anywhere, that they were so heavily protected by Hermione's spells, it was unlikely he'd ever find them. But that didn't stop him from leaving at 6 am each morning and coming back, defeated, at 9 pm each night.

It had been two weeks since Ron made the worst mistake of his life.

If he hadn't been so determined to find his friends, he doubted he would make it out of bed each day. But his resolve was waning each day, and the fear that he would never see them again began to grow larger.

It was Christmas Day.

Ron didn't look for his friends.

It had been a month since Ron arrived at Shell Cottage. He was sure, now, that he would never find his friends. Still, he left each morning in search of them.

Though on this particular night when he got home, instead of crashing into his bed like he normally did, he pulled out a load of parchment and a quill.

He may never be able to talk to her again, he may never see her face again, but he needed to tell her. He needed to tell her everything.

Hermione,

I am so bloody sorry. I was wrong, I never should have left. I've tried my best at getting back to you, but I don't think I will. If I don't, I hope that you somehow get this letter. I hope that you're happy, living the life you deserve.

I've got to say some things. If you get this letter and I'm still alive, go ahead and stop reading and burn this.

Did you stop?

You mean everything to me. I know that's cheesy, I know you scoffed at the end of that movie we watched about the Muggle owl post. You said life's not like that. But maybe it is. Without all of the electronic mail and weird code names.

I want to say this in person. To tell it to your face.

Except I don't. Because what if you don't feel the same way? What if you think I'm mad or gross? What if you never want to see me again?

So maybe this is the best way. Because I'll never know how you feel. And I can never be embarrassed.

I love you, Hermione Granger.

Ron held up his parchment, crumpled it up, sighed and uncrumpled it. He folded it into a tiny rectangle and shoved it into a tiny crack at the back of his wardrobe.

That way no one could find it

It had been five weeks and three days since Ron left. He was sitting on his bed, urging his sore body to move when he heard his name.

It sounded just like her voice, but he knew it wasn't. It couldn't be.

Then, the lights in his room went out.