“You can go in, Mrs Weasley,� said a soft voice.

“Thank you,� she replied. “Thank you.� Her voice was distant as she repeated the words.

Hermione felt her feet take her through the door into the small room of St Mungo’s where her husband lay waiting for her. His eyes were open, and his hand took hers as she reached the chair next to his bed.

“Ron, I—� Hermione started.

“Please don’t, Hermione, we knew this was coming. We’ve said all we wanted to say, and we’ve done everything we wanted to.�

Tears began to flow freely down Hermione’s pale cheeks, falling on the crisp sheets of the bed. “I love you,� she whispered, looking directly into his eyes.

“I love you,� he replied, his voice strong and clear.

As he said the words, Hermione saw something flicker in his eyes. It was a glow of warmth, of orange – a blaze of fire from within. The colour was reminiscent of the Weasleys’ auburn hair. The sight warmed Hermione.

The couple held each other’s gaze for a moment longer before Ron indicated that Hermione should rest. She lowered her head onto the edge of the bed, and Ron laid his hand gently on her shoulder. She could feel the warmth of him through her clothes.

Together they drifted into slumber, unable to resist the temptation.

When Hermione awoke, she shivered; the hand upon her shoulder was cold.

______________________

The days passed at the slowest pace, and Hermione felt it was only to torture her. The daylight hours brought memories of what was lost, and the night left her only with a cold space. Some nights, their youngest daughter, Sophia, would join her mother in the large, bare bed. But nothing could fill his space; nothing could replace the warmth that he brought.

Much of Hermione’s time was spent walking across the fields that backed onto Cherry Cottage. She could wander as far as she liked and think of him as much as she wished that way. Her lone figure in the fields would be visible day after day, moving slowly along the ridge or else sitting hunched on a decaying tree stump.

Ginny visited Hermione each day; she made sure that the dishes were clean and the fridge full, that Hermione was not losing all control over herself and her surroundings. The empty space in Ginny’s own life since Ron’s death was more than painful, but she could not lose Hermione as well.

Ginny would watch Hermione from the kitchen window as she roamed the countryside surrounding the pretty little cottage. She had often offered to walk with Hermione, but she was always politely refused; Hermione could not be warmed by the company of another.

Harry had not been to visit Hermione since the day of the funeral. He could not accept Ron’s death, and so he had immersed himself heart and soul in his work. It wore Hermione down even more, yet she would not confide that in anyone. The loss of both of her best friends was excruciating.

Tear-streaks had become as if ingrained upon Hermione’s young face. The eye is so often described as the window into the soul; anyone who knew Hermione could give testament to that. Her eyes, once a bright brown as rich as fertile earth, had now grown to a deep, murky shade. All the joy that she possessed had been extinguished by the loss of one person: the one person she could never have thought of losing.

That was why she spent so much time as a solitary figure: because she could not stand it. She could not stand the show from friends and family. They felt her grief too, but they could never know what she experienced. It was too late to go back to what she had once been; she could never be that person again because she would never be complete again.

Hermione wasn’t sure how long it had been since Ron’s death. She often imagined that she saw him walking towards her. When the sun was low in the sky and the bright orange light dazzled her eyes, it was as if she could see him appearing over the brow of the hill, striding towards her with the purpose and determination that he had possessed in those final moments when the glimmer of orange had flashed in his eyes.

However, every time the figure grew close enough to call out to; to shout to with myriads of pain, she would blink, and in a blaze of orange, he would be gone. Because that was all that he was: a figure on the horizon. No more and no less than that now…

It happened once again on the day that was to mark a month since Ron’s death, but Hermione did not know the day, she only knew the loss. She sat on the edge of a fallen log from a nearby tree. The day had been clear, and the sky now was turning to a darker shade of blue, tinted with orange hues.

She could see a dark shadow of the man she knew so well advancing in that confident way, heading away from the direction of Cherry Cottage and towards the log on which Hermione slumped hopelessly. She could not see his features, (she never could and never would again), as the sun shone brightly in its setting moments.

Yet, something was wrong. His stride was not right, and his figure seemed too short, too broad. She thought that perhaps the sun was warping her image of him, but then she remembered with a heaviness that he couldn’t be real. She still had to remind herself even after all this time.

Slowly, Hermione closed her eyes. She was not ready to see her dearest companion disappear from view yet again, but the tears welling up were stinging in such a way that she could not hold him in her sight any longer. The whole of the sky was now saturated with the deep orange of the setting sun. It reminded her so painfully of the glow in Ron’s eyes which had been the last, defiant sign of life that she had seen in him.

It was with a heartbreaking struggle that she shut her eyes and shut him out once more.

As she prepared herself for the heavy loss of his presence, she drew a slow and shaking breath. The glare of the light pressed on her eyelids so that she could still see the bright orange glow of Ron’s eyes in hers; she could still feel the warmth of his hand on her skin. She opened her eyes, and the sparkle of the sun’s rays blurred her senses for only a moment and then she was staring again at the horizon.

Nevertheless, the horizon was not yet without her husband.

She could not comprehend it, and she did not dare let herself hope for it, but she could not deny that he was approaching rapidly. The glow from his eyes, his soul, obscured his figure, but it could not be anyone but him.

Hermione could still see nothing of his features even when he came so close, such was the strength of the sun’s glare. The man reached her and embraced her gently.

She recognised his scent, and it was so painstakingly familiar. It was as if a small part of her empty heart was filled. His warm hand on her shoulder sent heat flowing through her depleted body.

“Harry,� she whispered. “Oh, Harry.�