Ron was still. What other word was there for this paralysis, the silence, the lack of movement, even in the recesses of his chest? No heartbeat, no breathtaking rise and fall of his ribs. No subtle twitch of his scarlet curls as he moved about restlessly.
Ron was still, and I knew that because he’d never been still before. Ron never sat in peace, he was always moving. He was always full of life, full of happiness. He’d be bouncing Hugo or Rose on his knee, telling Granddad Weasley anecdotes or Uncle Harry adventures, or wrestling George or Perce like he was twelve rather than thirty-seven. Maybe he was teasing Ginny and me, or giving Harry a sock on the arm for being thick. Maybe he was gazing out our bedroom window, twirling his wand between his fingers.
I put my hand on his heart and it was cold. It would never beat again, the Healers had told me, their voices hushed and hollow. The best friend, the sidekick to their savior Harry Potter was dead. The esteemed Auror, the generous benefactor to St. Mungo’s was dead. They didn’t know him as anything else, how could they? They didn’t share our home and our memories. They could only mourn a moment then scurry off to a patient with the possibility of life. This was their job; this was my life. They left the widow, the single mother, the heartbroken lover at her husband’s bedside, in the gloom and despair of a world with no light.
It would be hours before the news reached anyone. Harry and Ginny would be in disbelief; Harry especially, I was sure. They’d come to me and try to mask their own pain for the sole purpose of alleviating mine. I’d have to tell the children before they got the Prophet in the morning. I’d have to go home, and deal with insurance and funeral costs, and prepare a meal for my in-laws and my parents, and put on a brave face. I’d have to listen to the Minister’s broken apology and show my sorry features at an award ceremony for Ron’s bravery until his last breath here, in this broken ward. I was a widow now.
I’d get leave from work and Ginny would come help me. She’d cook meals in my kitchen while I sat at my table, thumbing through paperwork and reliving memories. Memories, memories. Lavender Finnigan would show up once in awhile and try again and again to become an ally in my upset. I’d find out she never lost her taste for my redheaded hero, even after two decades and then some. The old DA would become a crutch of support, always showing up in large groups on the weekends, ready with plates of soul food and pleased to do the dishes afterwards. I’d laugh with them, unable to contain it after a few glasses of Muggle wine my parents sent me and the aura of forced joy in the room, which left stains on my dim walls when it was just me at night.
Summer holiday would come and Rose and Hugo would join me, and we’d resume a life drained of pleasure. I’d put on a brave face, for my son and daughter. I’d put on a brave face, for the world to know I wasn’t afraid to live without Ron Weasley. The villains of the universe had been trying to separate us for years - when finally they succeeded, I still wouldn’t be ready to give up on life.
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AFTERMATH OF FINAL BATTLE - HOGWARTS CASTLE
****
I came out of the Prefect’s bathroom with one thought on my mind: After all that’s occurred, thank Merlin that place is still intact. I had plans only to find my beaded bag, which I’d stowed up in the Gryffindor Common Room, get some clean clothes out of it, and watch the sunset on the lake. To discover peace, where peace hadn’t been in months.
Ron had other plans.
He came out of a corridor covered in dust, looking appropriately grave, but uncharacteristically solemn. Not the moody solemn I’d grown accustomed to after being his best friend and eventually girlfriend for seven years, but solemn in a very sad way, like we’d both been for a moment, when Voldemort convinced us that Harry was dead. Now Fred was dead, and, unlike Harry, he wasn’t coming back from the grave. Fred, the contagious jokester, the silly older brother of my one love, the dimpled Beater on the Gryffindor team, who’d never been anything but a part of my universe. I hadn’t feared for his death; the idea that he could die had never actually presented itself to me. But now he was dead, and we all felt as though the world had been ripped out from under our feet.
I ran to his side. He looked up at the sound of my approach, fearful for a moment, then his entire being went slack as I came up. He pulled his hand through his hair, which was coated in debris. He’d been walking about with Harry and McGonagall, discussing the damage and the courses of action to be taken in the future of Hogwarts. Both him and Harry had insisted I go up to the Gryffindor Common Room with the rest of the Weasleys and rest. After much arguing, I agreed, and Ginny and I went to clean up. Ginny was still in the huge bathtub in the Prefects’ room, trying to lose her grief in the mountains of multicolored bubbles.
“Hey, Hermione,” he muttered, looking exhausted. For the love of Merlin, hadn’t we just been victorious? I knew the answer to this question, but why were we all so down? I wrapped my arms around his neck, sneaking a glance behind me at Harry entering the Prefect’s bathroom. Naughty boy.
“Ron, you look downright Inferus-like,” I sighed, recalling my dad’s old stash of zombie movies, the Muggle equivalent of Inferi. The walking dead, devoid of emotion. Then again, Ron was full of emotion, always had been, and he wore each new one prominently on his handsome features. He blinked at me. The new one was currently love.
“Do I?” he muttered sheepishly. “It’s Fred, and all, I suppose.”
Daft, silly, holder of my heart. “You suppose, you bumbling, grief-stricken fool? Stopping acting as though you don’t feel anything because your eyes are lying. Then kiss me and understand that I’m here to take your burden. I miss Fred too, a whole, whole lot.”
“Hermione,” he muttered again, and he obeyed me. Then he shook his head, and Ron Weasley was back, like he hadn’t been since we came down from Dumbledore’s office. He looked down at his hands, and I wondered what he was thinking. Usually, he was so easy to read. Of course, he wasn’t now, as his next question was quite unexpected. “Hermione, marry me.”
Suddenly, a lifetime of contemplating this moment seemed ridiculous. Even when she’d started to put Ron in as the potential husband, she’d given him credit and pictured it at a romantic Muggle restaurant or in some awe-inspiring location. I’d pictured me with a striking gown and a glorious application of makeup. Flawless. Not me in a towel-turban and Hogwarts-stamped bathrobe, and slippers, my face still scarred and Ron looking like a man on death row, standing in the half-ruined hallways of our school, surrounded by death.
Did any of that affect my answer? No. “Yes.”
My Brave Face by grangergirl35
Story Notes:
Here's a note from Captain Obvious: I'm not J.K. Rowling. I do not own rights to any of the J.K. Rowling franchise, blah, blah, blah, blah.
Enjoy my lesser writing if you wish. Just keep that in mind.
Chapter Notes: Hermione contemplates the future of her and her family- and her past with the dead man in front of her.
Chapter Endnotes: Ron's hair is red, Ginny's is too, Voldy went moldy, be kind and review!