Memoir

October 31^st, 2006 - Memoir

When Harry died, I died too, in a way. After the initial shock was over, the realization gnawed its way down to my heart and soul and ripped me apart.

I guess that's what it feels like to lose your best friend.

By god, I hope it never, ever happens to you.

It was on this day, too, the day we celebrate as Halloween. A celebration for the dead...

Maybe it was just coincidence, or bad luck, but Halloween was always The Day. Some memories I look back on in fondness, others... not so much. On Halloween, 1981, The Dark Lord murdered Lily and James Potter. On Halloween, 1981, little Harry James Potter was condemned to a life alone. On Halloween, 1997, Harry James Potter, not so little anymore, faced off against The Dark Lord - and won. He won. He won. He liberated our world, and Jesus, he won. On Halloween, 1997...

...Harry James Potter died.

Oh, it wasn't in battle, of course. Harry was a strong young man. Harry toughed it out, all of it. The days of our imprisonment in Azkaban - Voldemort had taken over the prison near the beginning of the Second War. It probably seemed to him like some sick little joke he could manipulate... who knows how his twisted mind thought, anyway? He got his kicks out of locking the leaders of the Light away in a Dark fortress, and we got our kicks by busting out, exterminating a few 'old friends', and then laying the old one on Voldemort.

I can say his name now. I'm not afraid of him anymore, and I think I realized that sometime by the middle of the war we fought, Harry, Hermione, and I.

I think I realized it sometime along the day we got news that one Remus John Lupin was dead.

Anyway, I'd have to say we did the proper hero thing. We won, didn't we? We did the right thing, didn't we?

...but one of my best friends still paid the ultimate price, and maybe I'm selfish, but that didn't seem right to me. I was only seventeen - too young to be a leader of an army, too young to administer death, too young to understand what Harry had been forced to understand at a far earlier age.

Still, though, I made it through. We made it through, and it was over.

After the battle, we three just stood in a hug and cried tears for our friends and the fallen. As if on cue, Harry's eyes rolled back into his head, and he collapsed into our arms, just like a fallen angel.

He only woke up once after that. Afterwards...

I remember it clearly, even nine years later. Hermione had been clutching onto my arm with her good hand - the other was wrapped up thrice in bandages, and had a reddish stain peeking its head through. It was only two hours after the battle when he opened his eyes, and I even remember exactly how they had looked - wistful emerald. He just breathed in slowly, once, and then out, once, and then Harry took our hands into his palms... and he looked frightfully weak, all of a sudden.

"Both of you... I love you."

Then he closed his eyes, and the emerald disappeared forever, and my best friend was dead.

That moment would always be engraved in my mind, never forgotten.

Even though the war had matured me, changed me forever, it had taken me years to understand. I raged, I cried, I wondered why things happened as they did - and I even fantasized about how happy the three of us would have been if Harry had not died.

I even blamed him, for a short time, but in time I came to understand.

When I asked Hermione to marry me a year later, I did not take a best man. Harry was my best man, and Harry would never be replaced - I knew he was watching us in spirit.

When my daughter was born, I named her Harriet. It was horribly corny. Harry would have laughed. She was the most beautiful little lady in the world, and she never came to have a godfather. Instead, we gave her memories of the wonderful man we had known, the great man her mother and father had been best friends with.

When she became old enough to understand more, we showed her our memories. Thinking back on it, it was all worth it... seeing her emerald eyes dance in joy at the stories of her Harry-Papa made it all good.

Harriet had emerald eyes.

It was something indescribably odd. Hermione had chocolate brown eyes, and I had blue, and against all odds...

Harriet had emerald eyes.

I knew it was a message, and I forgave everything, and I finally understood.

Now, at the age of 26, I have seen far more than most men my age. I have fought in a war, I have fought in politics, and I have fought with my own wife - often! - but even as I sit here, getting ink all over my hands and brushing red hair out of my eyes, I smile at my own fortunes.

I am a brother, a husband, an uncle.

I am honored to have been Harry Potter's best friend. I think I've finally made him proud, real proud of me, and I send him one last message as I stand over my daughter's bed.

My name is Ronald Weasley.

[I love you too, Harry. I love you so much.]

END MEMOIR.