Making Beds

No one understood everythign they had been through. Neville, Ginny, and Luna understood to an extent; they understood the fight at such a young age and losing someone. But they weren't there facing Voldemort head-on. It was just the three of them, three teenagers--no Order, no adults, no professors, no friends. While Harry and Hermione watched Ron fall to the ground, dead, their friends were at school sitting their N.E.W.T.s.

Their trio--their ever-perfect trio--had been reduced to a heartbroken duo. And while mourning would have been the proper course of action, Voldemort was still alive.

Harry didn't talk much anymore, and Hermione spent most of her time reading up on Dark Magic and silently crying. She never saw Harry cry. Sometimes she wondered if he actually did. It was stupid to think he would; Ron was his best friend, after all, but Ron's death seemed to have completely numbed Harry.

It hadn't numbed Hermione, though. All her motions were screaming at her: sorrow, anger, determination. She hated the long nights she spent sitting in bed with only her thoughts to keep her company. Everything reminded her of Ron. She stayed in the same room at the Leaky Cauldron in third year, when Ron had still been alive. It was slowly killing her from the inside out. She knew not to concern Harry with her sadness--he had enough on his plate. But her emotions were taking away everything she had; she couldn't even think properly anymore.

On this particular night, Hermione hadn't even bothered opening her book on the Dark Arts. She wept and wept until she was sure that there were no tears left to cry. Though she had sworn not to run to Harry, she found herself suddenly standing in front of his door, staring at the bronze number eleven that hung on it. She stood there, staring at the lines on the wooden door, mesmerized by its simplistic elegance. Slowly, she raised her hand to the door and rapped her knuckles against it, hoping that he wasn't already asleep.

The quick footstep allowed her to breathe a sign of relief. Harry opened the door a crack, holding his wand at the ready. When he saw her face, he opened the door wider and raised his lit wand up to her face. Rather than ask questions he obviously was wondering, he put a hand on her arm and ushered her inside.

The room was fairly neat considering they had been there for two weeks. A pile of books were stacked next to Harry's trunk, and though newspapers littered the ground, Hermione knew it could have been worse. But what caught Hermione's gaze weren't the books and newspaper but the empty unmade bed in the far corner. One week since it had last been slept in, and still it was as if he had just woken up and left it like that.

'I couldn't...' Harry didn't need to finish his statement for her to understand him perfectly. She nodded silently as the tears came back and filled her eyes. With her back still to him, she wiped the tears away. She knew he wouldn't consider her weak or foolish for crying, but she felt that way.

Hermione flinched at the touch of Harry's hand on her back. 'Sorry,' he whispered as tan his hand up and down her spine in an attempt to calm her.

Wiping even more at her eyes, Hermione muttered, 'Being stupid. I shouldn't've come to you.'

'I'm glad you did,' Harry admitted, still rubbing circles on her back. 'I hate watching you suffer.'

'I hate watching you not.' The words rolled off of her tongue so fluently, yet she felt so terrible for saying it out loud. She bowed her head shamefully, allowing her hair to fall into her face to hide the tears. 'Sorry,' she said quietly. She looked up at him through her mess of hair to see him staring at Ron's bed.

After several long moments of silence, Harry finally spoke. 'I don't know if I can.'

Hermione gave him a questioning look that she knew he couldn't see because his back was now to her.

'I'm not supposed to fall apart,' Harry said, answering her unspoken question. 'Poor brave Gryffindor.' His voice was hushed and filled with more emotion than Hermione had heard in a long time.

'Harry--'

'It's for you,' he said quickly. Hermione couldn't speak--whether it was for shock or confusion, she wasn't sure.

She approached him and put a hand on his shoulder. Though it was not clear, she was almost positive she saw a tear roll down his cheek. Her hand slowly drifted down his arm until it met his hand, where she laced her fingers with his.

'Harry, what are you talking about?' she asked quietly.

Harry sighed, finally taking his eyes off of the empty bed. He turned to Hermione, taking her other hand in his. Her dark brown eyes met his stunning green ones, and she suddenly realised that he was mourning just as much as she was.

'I have to be strong...' Harry began, unable to pull his eyes away from hers. 'For you.'

Tears burned in her eyes at his beautiful words, and she found that she could control herself no longer. She buried her face in his chest and remembered nothing of that night when she awoke the next morning alone in Harry's bed with only a note in his handwriting.

Don't worry about me. We both need one day to deal with everything. Then, tomorrow, we'll go back to the harsh reality.

--Harry

Hermione smiled faintly at the note. She knew it was what they both needed--one day to be with Ron in sprit, not matter how ridiculous it sounded.

Still in the clothes she had worn yesterday, she sat up in bed, the covers pushed down at her feet. Her gaze wandered to the bed across the room once more. Shakily, Hermione got to her feet and slowly made her way over to the unmade bed.

Silently, Hermione sat down on Ron's bed. She traced her fingers over his pillow, expecting to feel the warmth of his body heat. But she felt nothing, just the cool linen. Needing something--anything--that would remind her of Ron, Hermione lifted the pillow gingerly to her face and breathed in the sweet smell that reminded her of him. It was the scent she remembered smelling in Slughorn's class on the first day when he had introduced them to Amortentia. She wasn't even sure what it smelled like; it was simply Ron.

And with that single moment of remembrance, Hermione got what she needed: closure. She replaced the pillow and stood. She could only hope that Harry was getting the same sense of closure wherever he was as she pulled up the sheets on the mattress and made Ron's bed.

--End--