I Dream of Angels and Fire

There was a warm calmness within her, and it was a good feeling to experience. Whenever he felt the need to rub his hands together, create friction and make a spark within him, instead he went to her.

She had a remedy for all of his tales. He felt the need to tell her everything; with him it was almost as if he were translucent. She could read him, she read his every expression. All she had to do was to look deep into his brilliant blue eyes (which had been filled with a passionate fire, she recalled, Once Upon a Time) and Ron was hypnotized.

It was more the fact that her eyes showed him a glimpse of her soul than anything else. She was young, but in her eyes he could barely see it. She had aged so much mentally, and it was his entire fault, he knew it. She had given up her youth for Harry, and he had a slight feeling that it wasn't only her youth she gave Harry.

Oh, if only she would give something to him too.

But Ron knew he would never be able to demand anything from her. She looked so deprived already, and he didn't want to cause any more of her pain.

Once, he dreamt of her (actually he dreamt of her quite often); she was standing at the edge of a dock, wearing a flowing white skirt which was ruffled by the wind. Her hair came in perfect tresses; it didn't look at all like her trademark feisty hair. It didn't look much like her, actually.

But he knew it was her. Her eyes, which shone wet with tears, were the same ones that looked at him with pain she desperately tried to hide, each and every night. He wanted to reach out at her, to tell her whatever happened would soon pass, and she would be alright. But something was holding him back, something was restraining him. She would then turn around and see him, but a look of surprise that was supposed to be on her face was nowhere to be found. She smiled, and Ron felt his world spin.

Then he woke up, panting. He knew he could not save her. Never had, never would.

He felt a chill thinking that one day she might be gone. Like time had so many times before, one day she too would slip through his fingers, and shatter. The thin yarn holding her up was ageing, and he knew he was her only restraint.

Sometimes she would look at him with pleading eyes, pleading to be let go. And sometimes, he was tempted to do just that. Surely, wherever she went, it would be a better place than the dump they were in now; the embers of a fight. She would be free; she could reclaim the remains of her youth and fly, like an angel.

But really, she was already an angel to him. A broken angel, but an angel nonetheless.

When she was feeling like herself, she would tell him things. About her repeated dream. That she was an angel, she was flying, laughing and glowing in the clouds. But then, the ghost of her past would catch up with her, and everything would rush back. Then he would shout at her, "Your wings are burning, your wings are burning!" And she would wake up.

At that point, he would ask her, "He? Who?"

And she would go back into her shell, and his question would always hang in the air, unanswered and sorrowed.

Tears emerging to his eyes, he would then vow to himself to keep her safe. Not that he could. Never had, never would. It had happened before; he had almost lost her before. Before she became a hollowed scepter of her previous self. She had slipped from his grasp, she was right beside him, or so he thought.

Yet the next moment, she was gone, and he didn't see her again for 16 months. And when she returned, Ron felt like he no longer knew her anymore. But he knew he still loved her.

Ever since she came back, he often took walks around the park, just to clear his head. He would travel the most desolate route - not wanting to meet anyone. Sometimes he would settle down under a tree and fall asleep, something he was not able to do very much recently.

And that was exactly what he did that day.

Ron looked up to the sky, and he saw a glint of light. Intrigued, he looked again, and this time he saw a girl in the body of a woman, with eyes that shone with laughter. She looked familiar, like the ghost of a dream he had. But whatever he did, he could not remember. Her smile...

Then he was up there with her. He did not know what happened; he did not understand what suspended him. Maybe it was magic. Maybe it was love.

Love - everything came crashing down on him, the whole weight of her form on him. He knew his time was limited.

Hermione. She had wings, and she had her youthful beauty back. The bags under her eyes, the limp hair, all were banished from her being, replaced instead by a pure light. She looked at him, her trademark calculating look on her face, cocking her head to one side.

Then everything seemed to rush up to her, reality finally found its victim. Her look turned from thinking to surprise to fear, and finally to tears. He moved forwards, her arms open to embrace her. She gladly went into him, but both quickly drew backwards, their flesh that touched burning red.

Not caring about his burning flesh, he turned towards her, confused. She had closed her eyes, pressed them tightly shut.

"No," she whispered.

And then everything seemed to be engulfed in a blazing inferno. But Ron felt no heat, only the stony cold of her skin.

"Your wings are burning, Hermione, Your wings are burning!"

His eyes, which had been clamped shut, opened. A breath he didn't seem to realize he was holding came out of him in relief, he knew it was just a dream.

But then he recalled her dream, her repeated dream, and jumped up. He ran into the house, where he had left her, sleeping peacefully. His fears were then confirmed, as he could not find her anywhere.

He called her desperately, madly, as if calling her could bring her back. He sat down on a chair and muffled his cries with his hands. He wanted to cry but no tears came. It was then he noticed a square wad of paper on the table.

I dream of Angels and Fire.

He was you.

Hermione's handwriting. His dream, it was not really his but hers.

It was then he felt the tears stinging.