“No man knows till he has suffered from the night how sweet and dear to his heart and mind the morning can be.”
-Bram Stroker
Ron sat up, light starting to gradually seep into the quiet cottage from the outside world. He watched with fascination as her chest rose and fell steadily underneath the layers and layers of quilts and blankets she had been entwined in during the night, making a small little whistling sound with every breath.
“What do Muggles do after they propose, Hermione?” he had asked as they sat there by the flames, her head warming his chest.
Hermione’s face scrunched up in such an endearing way that it took all his self control not to start snogging her again.
“I dunno, but I think we should go for a break in tradition this time.”
When all she got was raised eyebrows, she blushed, and mockingly punched his arm.
“Not in that way, idiot.”
She pressed her palm to his. They both examined their interlocked fingers; Ron’s were rather man-like and slightly stubby, while Hermione’s were very slender and long (piano hands he remembered her telling him.)
It was the most intimate thing he had ever experienced, there was no doubt of it in his mind.
Then they had talked. Ron was bursting with questions about her childhood, and he listened closely to every detail; from the days she spent scribbling on the bathroom tiles as a toddler to her first day in primary school.
He filled her in on stories that he had been too shy to share with her before, and they laughed and laughed until the tears started to roll down their cheeks, until their sides ached from the spasms of mirth that were wracking their bodies.
At times, they had to clamp their hands over their mouths to prevent the steady stream of snickering that would have surely woken the others.
He grinned at the memory despite himself. It was the best night of his life, and the first with his new wife.
Back in the present, the muse of inspiration had murmured into his ear. He gently unwound his arm from around her waist and snuck back into his room. Ron rummaged around for a minute, then finally found what he had been searching for.
It was an old flannel shirt of his, which hadn’t been washed since the night he had used it. He pressed the fibers into his nostrils, and it reeked of blood. He briefly registered the small stain that had spilled onto the once clean fibers.
Just like that, another memory flashed across his consciousness, as swift and unpredictable as lightning.
“Ron, it hurts,” Hermione whimpered, as something dark dripped from her neck onto the wet sand.
“I know, I know, but I’m going to make it better, okay?” His voice cracked from the strain.
She nodded, and winced.
Fury exploded inside him as he noticed the film that seemed to be in front of her eyes, a haze of confusion and pain.
He picked her up as though she were a delicate soap bubble ready to pop, and headed toward the house.
“You saved me.” Ron looked down at her, startled.
“You saved me,” she mumbled again, and she turned over, snuggling closer into his jacket.
Then he heard steady breathing, and knew she had fallen asleep at last.
Ron laid her tenderly on the mattress. Suddenly her breathing wasn’t so normal anymore. Her eyes were moving rapidly under her lids, beads of perspiration forming.
“No-please, stop-STOP!” Her feeble frame convulsed from some unseen terror.
He couldn’t stand to see her like this. Where was that witty, gently teasing Hermione who could out-duel him with one arm tied behind her back? He pondered this while stroking her fingers with his thumb, back and forth, back and forth.
She stirred, and jolted awake with a shriek.
“Hermione, what’s wrong?”
But she didn’t seem to hear him.
“Where am I, how did I get here?”
Hermione tried to get up, but he put a hand to her shoulder to hold her back.
He leaned over her, and a little piece of him died as he saw her eyes darting wildly around the room in anguish.
“It’s me, Hermione, it’s just me. We’re at Bill and Fleurs’, we’re safe now.”
“But how did we escape? You and Harry were in the cellar, you couldn’t get out-”
She started crying weakly.
Ron felt pressure welling up behind his eyes, but he forced it away.
“It’s a long story, but the point is, you’re safe.” He reached across her and wiped away the wet tracks that had wound their way down her cheeks like fast flowing rivers of despair.
“They can’t hurt you anymore. I would die before I’d let them do anything else to you, all right?”
He took her face in his hands. There was a creak as Fleur came into the room carrying a small blue potion.
“ ’Ow eez she?”
Ron didn’t answer.
“Fleur’s going to help you, all right?”
He started to get up, but Hermione grabbed his hand.
“Don’t leave, okay?”
“Hermione,” he smiled wearily, “Where else am I going to go?”
This seemed to calm her down, because she had finally settled down onto the sheets.
Ron slowly shut the door behind him, and headed into the empty sitting room. He fell to his knees, finally succumbing to the grief and regret that obstructed his vision and snatched the air right out of his lungs.
***
Still holding the shirt, he walked past a softly snoring Harry, down the stairs, through the living room, and out to the lawn.
Halting in front of the grave, he crouched and folded it up neatly, finally placing it near the tombstone. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets.
“Dobby, I can’t ever thank you enough for what you did for us a year ago. I’ll never forget it, and neither will she. You’re the real hero, and you’ll always be.”
A soft breeze stirred the salty air, and he swallowed.
“Without you, I wouldn’t have had-”
“Ron?” Hermione called from the doorway, bidding him to come back.
“I’ll be right there.”
He lowered his voice, starting to get choked up.
“Without you Dobby, I wouldn’t have gotten a second chance.”
Ron stood up, soaking in the fiery rays of sunlight that were caressing his limbs. He gave the mound one final look, and noticed the tiny little flowers that had sprung up from the dirt.
“Forget-me-nots, her favourite,” he whispered to the wind. He took a couple, tucking one into his chest pocket for good measure. Ron turned towards the house, whistling as he faced the future with a clear conscience and a happy heart.
She Walks in Beauty
- Lord Byron (George Gordon)
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!