Submission

He wished he had a memorial to stand by, to stare at when he missed them. He needed the support and comfort of something as simple as that; he wasn’t as strong as his friends. They had been his supporting cornerstones in the harsh reality of the world. He ran a rough-skinned hand through his dirty hair. The war made it near impossible to do anything normal, have any set routine, do something as simple and satisfying as showering daily. He hated the way his hair felt when it was dirty, grimy and greasy at the same time. He wiped his hand on his jeans and suddenly wished he had his friends with him. They always knew just what to say exactly when he needed it. He heaved a tired, heavy sigh that pained him. He clutched a stitch in his side, an unhealed wound from the war around him. It was a painful reminder, both physically and mentally, that they were gone and he was standing there all alone. He took a cautious step forward, treading on the flattened, dead flowers; all that remained of the garden that had once been cared for so tenderly by his mother. He paused a moment and looked down at the sad flowers before continuing on. He refused to cry now; he'd already cried enough in the last few months. He pushed the front door open carefully – it hung limply and dramatically on one hinge. Inside, his childhood rushed back at him in one quick warm memory. He envisioned his mother and sister Ginny, baking or cooking in the kitchen. His father reading the Daily Prophet at the kitchen table, Bill sitting across from him, reading a section out of the Prophet. He saw his brothers, Fred and George, sitting in the living room, dressed smartly and talking with a group of wizards interested in investing in the twins joke shops. He saw Charlie, swooping around the orchard on his broomstick. He saw his additional family, Harry and Hermione, coming down the stairs together with Ron himself as they head out to de-gnome the garden again. When his mind brought him back down from the clouds, he saw the remainder of what he used to call home. All that remained now was a dusty pile of rubble with the occasional familiar lump of furniture, dusty shafts of light peaking through holes in the boarded up windows. He stepped around the debris and found the stairs, taking them three at a time with his ever-growing frame. Finding his old bedroom at last, on the top floor, he opened the door to find everything the way it was as he remembered it, only covered in a thick layer of dust. He took a deep breath and inhaled many old familiar smells as well as some new ones that made him cough. He made his way over to his bed that remained unmade from his last visit and sat gingerly on the edge, unsure if the old frame would hold his own. He lay down and soon found he had completely outgrown the bed; the only logically thing to do was curl into a ball and hug his legs to his chest. He let his tears fall as he heard the familiar shouts and footsteps of the Death Eaters that had followed him there echoing of the floorboards below him. And for the first time in years, Ron Weasley smiled and unforced smile of happiness as he prepared to join his family in the afterlife.