My Immortal

My Immortal

He wandered listlessly down Diagon Alley. His eyes, tinged with black semi-circles from lack of sleep, focussed on the cobblestoned ground. Frozen hands gripped the edges of his robes, wrapping them tight around himself, protecting him from the bitter chill January had brought in her stead. He didn't know where he was going, but continued down the busy street nonetheless.

As he pushed a long, red tendril of hair out of his face, his hand brushed against the scruffy, brittle stubble on his chin he hadn't bothered to shave off. He didn't notice the way people, who he jostled out of his way would look at him with semi-familiarity in their faces. It wouldn't matter anyhow; not one of them would fully recognise him for who he had once been - Ron Weasley, hero of the second war against the Dark Lord, best friend of the legendary Harry Potter and of Hermione Granger ...

He blinked, quickening his pace. No, Ronald Weasley was dead. He had died a long time ago.

He had died when she had.

His wandering gaze flickered to the window display of Quality Quidditch Supplies, haloed by a bright array of blinking coloured lights, a remnant of the Christmas just passed; the first Christmas without her. He was almost distracted by the bright window arrangement showcasing their latest broomstick model - the Lightning Bolt, which, declared the lewd flashing lights, was able to fly to Jupiter and back. It was named after Harry, who had brought the Appleby Arrows to victory in his professional Quidditch debut. Rumour had it that he would be selected to play Seeker for England in the upcoming World Cup. Not that this truly mattered to Ron; he had lost contact with his old friend after the day when his world had collapsed at his feet. He turned his back on the display and moved on, drawing his robes tighter as another icy gust of wind buffeted him.

He noticed a white beam of light out of the corner of his eye, and turned to see Flourish and Blotts. He squinted against the bright light to get a clearer view of the shop as he passed by. He gasped, his eyes widening in shock, stopping dead in his tracks.

'Watch where you're going!' an elderly woman hissed as she collided with him from behind. She scowled as her brown-paper wrapped parcels fell from her overflowing basket. Automatically and absentmindedly, he reached down and helped pick up her packages, his eyes fixed on the sight that had caused his abruptness. The old woman pushed him aside and walked on, sorting out her belongings, making sure nothing was broken. She muttered to herself about inconsiderate young people, but he didn't hear her. His face paled as he continued to stare at the window of the old bookshop.

She was there.

It can't be her, his mind pointed out logically, yet he didn't want to believe that. He broke into a grin. It must be her! he decided. It simply had to be. He missed her so much. He closed his eyes, oblivious to the icy wind blowing his hair over his face, remembering the touch of her bushy brown hair, which smelled like sunshine after a light summer rain. The vision was so real to him; he reached out with a thin hand, the fingernails bitten to the quick, and tried to touch it.

A chill, colder than the wind buffeting his robes in circles around him caused him to open his eyes. She was gone. He searched about him in desperation, but to no avail. The people passing him by stared at him quizzically; a pale and drawn face, dishevelled hair, and a hand outstretched for no apparent reason, he must look a sight! Hastily, he lowered his arm and, mentally kicking himself, forced his legs to move onwards. It's not her, it's a figment of your imagination. It can't be her, he told himself brusquely. She can't come back; she's dead and you know it. His stomach churned at that thought, yet he gathered himself, pursing his lips, and walked faster in an attempt to rid his mind of everything, especially thoughts of her.

'I am here, Ron.'

He jumped, his heart thumping terribly. The words were spoken softly, almost lost in the slight howling of the wind, yet it was as though they had been whispered directly into his ear. He turned in a full circle, wild-eyed, half-hoping and half-dreading to see the owner of the voice, but there was no one there except the milling crowds surrounding him; blank, nameless faces taking advantage of the post-Christmas sales.

He tried to walk on, but his feet stubbornly refused to obey the orders; he breathed in deeply, as though he had run a marathon. It was her voice, he knew. She was here.

'Hermione,' he whispered softly, and collapsed in the middle of the street.

***

He felt drowsy and toasty warm. And safe; he felt safe. Yet the bright lights against his closed eyes bothered him. He shivered as a sudden cold chill swept over him and forced his unwilling eyes open, squinting in pain against the light's brilliance. As his vision cleared, he realised he lay in a hospital bed, in St. Mungo's, he presumed, wrapped in a multitude of blankets. Yet he was shivering, almost uncontrollably. A soft breeze tousled his long unkempt hair over his forehead as his gaze wandered around the room. A slight movement to his left caught his attention. She was here smiling down at him, looking the same as he remembered.

'Hermione.'

He smiled contentedly, closing his eyes briefly as if to memorise the vision of her standing next to his bed. His eyes snapped open as he felt a cold hand brush the hair off his forehead.

'Hermione, I've missed you so much ... why did you leave me?'

She leaned closer to him. 'Shh ...' she hushed him gently. 'Quiet now; you need to sleep.' She was right, he felt so tired. But he was afraid that when he woke she would be gone.

'I will be here when you wake,' she promised, as though reading his mind. 'Close your eyes now, and rest.'

I'm so tired of being here.
Suppressed by all my childish fears.

When he opened his eyes, the dull aching he usually felt behind them seemed to have vanished; he felt refreshed after his sleep. Hermione! Sweeping the room anxiously with his eyes, he breathed an inward sigh of relief. She was here! His heart leapt with unrestrained joy.

'Why did you leave me? Before, I mean,' he asked her again, licking his dry lips. His heart beat furiously. She studied him with an all too familiar look on her face.

'I never left you, Ron,' she whispered, as though not wanting anyone else to hear. There was no need; no one else was in the room. 'I will never leave you, I promise.'

He smiled at her. Her hand travelled across his face, and he raised his head slightly, relishing the once-familiar caress. But something about it scared him. He stared at her, into her deep brown eyes that beheld him with a mixture of love and concern. She was as real as she had always been; she was here for him, but it somehow didn't seem right. He was torn between wanting her to stay with him and wanting her ... to go. Gazing into her eyes, he knew that she sensed the tugging conflict within him.

And if you have to leave,
I wish that you would just leave.
Cause your presence still lingers here,
And it won't leave me alone.

The bright light in her eyes dulled slightly. 'I won't ever leave you again, I promise. I won't leave you alone,' she repeated firmly. Something like relief surged through his veins, his doubts fleeing in a flurry of love that swelled within him.

***

He was released from St. Mungo's a few days later, the Healers having treated him for malnutrition and the beginnings of hypothermia. His mother collected him, clucking over him in her usual bossy way, taking him back with her to the Burrow.

'How could you have done this to yourself, Ron? It's not what she would have wanted.'

In his old bedroom, Molly fussed over him incessantly, her worries for him as plain as day. Grey streaks filtered through her red hair, revealing the stress she had lived through in the last few months of Voldemort's second rising. But the Dark Lord was gone now - Ron, Harry, Hermione, Neville and the Order made sure of that. Most of them hadn't survived.

Molly's brown eyes hovered over the long hair he hadn't bothered to cut in months, the dark circles under his eyes, and the bedraggled state of his clothing. She sighed; her youngest son hadn't been that same since she had gone. Time was supposed to heal wounds, yet her son's hurts seemed to fester, and nothing could be done to cure them. Time was overrated.

These wounds won't seem to heal,
This pain is just too real,
There's just too much that time cannot erase.

Ron never spoke unless it was necessary. Molly fretted over this, but reluctantly realised that she couldn't force him to speak. She fretted over this too, admonishing him for neglecting his loved ones. She was the only one he spoke to freely.

'How can you accuse me of neglecting my loved ones?' he hissed at her, 'when you were the one who left me!' She sat, unwavering, beside his bed, the bright orange wallpaper reflecting onto her untameable hair as she glared at him, arms folded, like she always did when he refused to listen to common sense.

'I didn't leave you. I'm here, aren't I? I said I'd never leave you, and I'm not! But if that's what you want -' She stood up angrily and turned as though to leave.

'No!' He sprang upright, panting heavily from the effort. He felt fear rise in him as she took two steps towards the door. 'No, Hermione, I'm sorry. Please don't leave me.'

To his relief, she turned around and resumed her normal position by his bed, although her arms remained crossed over her chest. She was still stubborn after all this time, and it made him smile.

Molly grew fearful for him. She often overheard him speaking to her and it worried her. She mentioned it to Arthur, but he was preoccupied, still grieving the loss of Percy who had been killed in the same blast that had taken Hermione from Ron's loving arms. Percy, who had admitted how wrong he was once he had realised the Dark Lord had indeed returned for the second time, and had come home. Percy who had fought so bravely in the war ... Molly's eyes filled with tears at the thought of her son who was lost forever to her from the physical world. Her thoughts shifted to her other son who was also lost to her, but in his own world. The one who's dead girlfriend seemed more real to him than Molly herself. She slid down the wall outside Ron's room, the tray carrying his uneaten breakfast rattling its contents threateningly in her arms, unable to contain the pain in her heart any longer. She cried.

***

'Ron, do you remember when you belched slugs for me?'

'How could I forget? I was sick for a week after that. Do you know what it's like having slugs pouring out of your mouth?' He grinned as she laughed, her eyes twinkling.

All of a sudden, he was overcome with an overwhelming urge to cry. Images flashed before his eyes, flashes of the last days of the war. He squeezed his eyes shut ...

She was standing tall, wand outstretched, her eyes twinkling with determination and concentration beside him. Beyond her, out of the large window, a strong wind blew the mighty trees to and fro, threatening to topple them over. He returned his attention to the enthusiastic voice of Albus Dumbledore, as he spoke before the large group of the Order before him.

'...we know Voldemort -' he paused, allowing the involuntary shudders of the large crowd in front of him to pass, ' - is planning to stage an attack, and we must be prepared. I know all of you -' his eyes swept over the grim faces before him, '- have been through hard times - we all have - but the war is not won yet. We still have a chance! We will fight on!'

The crowd broke into wild applause as Dumbledore finished. Hermione's eyes shone as she cheered Dumbledore loudly. With a sideways look at Harry, who remained in quiet thought on Ron's right, Ron, Harry and Hermione approached Dumbledore. Dumbledore gazed at them with a grave look in his eyes.

'Harry, it is time,' he said simply.

Harry nodded, the only sign of his fear evident in his paling face. Hermione bit her lip before giving Harry a big hug, kissing him on his cheek. Ron stepped forward.

'You take care of yourself out there, d'you hear?' He pulled Harry into a large bear hug. Stepping back, Harry grinned at him, his glasses askew.

'I'll be back,' was all he said. He glanced at Dumbledore, who gave a small nod, and followed him out of the room.

Hermione threw her arms around Ron, tears coursing down her cheeks. 'Will he be all right, Ron?' she asked as he encircled her tightly.

'Yeah, of course! He's Harry, remember?' He kissed the top of her head. However, his outward optimism didn't reflect his own doubts that surfaced speedily. What if Harry didn't make it? What if... he lost? And then there was the inevitable battle - they were always inevitable, but why did he have a bad feeling about this one? He groaned inwardly, trying to clear his mind, especially of the horrible images of Hermione lying dead on a battle field, as he held onto her.

He didn't want to think of that day. He wouldn't think of that day, he refused to. I must not cry ... I must not cry ... He clenched his fists together, as if this alone would avert the tears. He tried to keep the jovial expression on his face as he watched her laugh, but it didn't fool her. It never did. She lay down beside him on his bed, her mouth against his ear as she hummed 'their' song. He relaxed, closing his eyes, feeling for her hand, as frosty as death, and held it, lacing his fingers through hers.

When you cried I'd wipe away all of your tears,
When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears.
I held your hand through all of these years.

'I love it when you sing to me,' he whispered, when she had leaned back into sitting position again.

'I do it for you,' she answered. She stood for a moment, surveying the room and then Ron himself. 'Do you need me to bring you anything?'

'Can you bring me anything?'

'Of course I can!' A cross look swept over her features.

'But you're ...' he floundered for a moment. 'I don't ... what are you?'

She grimaced slightly. 'You want to know if I'm real or not, don't you?' He nodded dumbly.

'I'm as real as you want me to be, Ron,' she said quietly, stepping forward and reaching out a hand to brush the side of his face. 'Some things transcend mortality. Only we can determine what is real for ourselves.'

He played with this idea in his head for a moment. 'My reality ...' he mused. 'My ... immortal.'

'Yes.'

His mind ticked over once more. 'No then. I don't need anything. I only need you.'

She smiled, and lay down beside him, resuming her singing.

But you still have ...
All of me.

***

'Are you sure you're going to be OK, Ron?' Molly asked frowning, looking up at her tall, thin son with concern in her eyes.

'Yes, Mum, of course I am.' Molly flinched at the harshness of his voice, and he immediately regretted it. 'I'm going to be fine, Mum, really,' he reassured her in a softer tone.

Molly's gaze bore into his. He turned away, reddening slightly, although he wasn't sure why. There was a pregnant pause; he shifted uncomfortably.

'Well,' she sighed, adding more darned socks into his suitcase, 'if you're sure ...'

'Mum, I'll Floo you if I need you. You know I will.'

'OK ...' she replied, although she didn't look at all convinced. 'I'll go see if you've left anything downstairs, shall I?' Without waiting for a reply, she turned and left the room, disappearing down the hallway.

Ron listened as his mother's footsteps faded away, feeling content in the stillness of his room. No matter how much he loved being at the Burrow, in his heart it wasn't his real home; his home was the one he had made with her. Looking down, he noticed the corner of a thick book sticking out from under his bed. That's funny, he thought, his brow creased in confusion, why is there a book under my bed? Leaning down, he found it was wedged in a tight space where the old mattress had almost sunk to the floor; he gave it a bit of a jiggle and it came loose. One glance at the title and he fell sharply to his knees, breathing heavily. He held the volume tight to his chest, fighting the tears and the memories that were associated with it: Hogwarts: A History.

You used to captivate me
By your resonating light
But now I'm bound by the life you left behind

'What's wrong, Ron?'

She was here again. The now familiar chill enveloped his body; he shivered involuntarily.

'It's your book.' His voice was barely louder than a whisper. He looked up at her, gripping the book so tightly his knuckles were turning white.

'If you hold that book any tighter, you'll cut off your circulation,' she laughed. 'Get up, Ron! You'll get dust all over you.'

'You don't care, do you?' He glared up at her, tensing in anger, refusing to adhere to her order.

'Don't say that! You know I care, and I always will,' she replied, her face growing serious. She turned to face the window, a smile creeping over her face as a small sparrow flittered across the bright blue sky outside.

Molly's voice echoed up the staircase. 'Ron, time to go!'

Ron continued to watch her as she stood at the window before hefting himself up from the floor, still clutching the dusty book. She turned from the window; Ron gave her another long look before picking up the suitcase from his bed and leaving the room.

***

She was already there when he arrived home, standing, as she once had, in the kitchen. He knew she would be there but said nothing to her as he shut the front door. She moved towards him and he stopped, waiting for her. He closed his eyes, dropping the suitcase with a loud thump on the ground next to him. He felt her light breath on his face as she cupped his cheeks in her hands and drew his face towards hers. He readied himself for the kiss. It didn't come. He opened his eyes, but she wasn't there. She was teasing him. He stomped around the kitchen angrily, swigging pumpkin juice directly from the carton; she would hate that, he knew.

Exhaustion suddenly washed over him; he was still weak from his hospital stay. Heading to the bedroom, he dropped ungracefully into bed, falling immediately into a deep sleep.

Your face it haunts my once pleasant dreams
Your voice it chased away all the sanity in me

The wind was blowing her hair into her face. With an impatient scowl, she tried to tuck it behind her ears with her free hand, the other gripping her wand in readiness for the imminent battle, but the wind refused to concede. Muttering to Percy, who stood beside her, she magicked a rubber band out of thin air and deftly tied her hair back, a look of triumph spreading over her features.

Ron watched her from his post across the large battlefield with his own team, also waiting for the signal to attack. It was the final day of battle, Voldemort had been defeated - Harry had fulfilled the prophecy, but not without considerable injury. He would not be here today, recovering in a safe house far from the battle field. Today, they would be fighting the last remaining hordes of Death Eaters who were reluctant to accept the final demise of their master.

Ron watched as Percy leaned over slightly to hear Hermione's words, a ghost of a smile flickering over his lips as Percy pushed his horn rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose before replying; Ron wished he could lip read.

It all happened very quickly.

Before anyone could react, Hermione's team was enveloped in a loud explosion. Ron stood, horrorstruck, before the reality sunk in.

'HERMIONE!'

He tried to run forward, but the person beside him held him back. He couldn't make out the face of the person; his focus was simply to get free of them and to Hermione's side. He had to save her and protect her from danger. He tried fiercely to wrestle out of their grip, yelling her name over and over. He couldn't see what was happening; chaos had erupted as Death Eaters appeared all over the field.

'HERMIONE!' he screamed, surging forward once more, oblivious to the battle around him. Breaking loose, he sped forward, almost at once gagging from the smell and sight of the charred remains of people who were alive only a moment ago. He frantically searched for her.

'HERMIONE!!!'

He awoke sweating from a fitful sleep, his heart beating rapidly. She was ... in the dream ... NO! He drew his legs to his chest, rocking himself back and forth in a futile attempt to block to horrid images out of his head.

A hand on his shoulder told him that he wasn't alone.

'Are you OK, Ron?' It was her voice, it never left him. He closed his eyes, breathing in deeply as he regulated his heartbeat; the images slowly fading away to the deep recesses of his memory once more. The sheets in which he lay were soaked with his sweat, and he pushed them away, welcoming the cool air. Her fingers danced across his forehead, pushing his matted hair out of his eyes; he inclined his head slightly, unable to resist her touch.

'As long as you're here, I'm fine,' he whispered. He looked into her eyes, pausing as his heart caught in his throat. 'Hermione, I love you.'

She laughed; not at him, but with him. 'You silly duffer! You had me all worried! I love you too, Ron.' Her eyes shone with amusement; he gave a small smile. 'And now, you must go back to sleep.'

'Will you stay with me?'

She gazed at him with eyes that emanated with love. 'I will never leave you.'

He smiled, snuggling down under the quilt. He could feel her lie down beside him, her hand stroking his forehead much like how his mother used to after he had a bad dream as a boy. His breathing deepened, his chest rising and falling evenly, as he surrendered to undisturbed sleep.

***

She was everywhere. Whenever he made to leave the house, he would always see her, if not beside him, then a fleeting glimpse of her every now and then on the street, catching her watching out for him. It infuriated and comforted him at the same time. There were times when he refused to talk to her, and she would look at him with a forlorn look on her face, but say nothing. It annoyed him because the real Hermione would have done ... something to make him talk. Hermione. He almost never referred to her by her name.

These wounds won't seem to heal
This pain is just too real

There's just too much that time cannot erase

Time passed, yet he continued to live in his own private world. Yes, he socialised - he even made contact with Harry after she had insisted he do so.

It's been too long and there's no good reason for you and Harry not to speak to each other, she had insisted. You're best friends - there's nothing in the world that could ever break a bond that!

But, Hermione ... He had tried to explain, but she cut him off.

But, nothing! And as always, he did what she ordered.

Each night as he settled down to sleep she lay beside him, sometimes stroking his forehead, other times just cradling him. Like she promised, she never left him. She comforted him after his nightmares, which had become so frequent that he was almost afraid to sleep. Whenever he confided this to her, she would shush him quietly and lay his head in her lap, humming soothing songs.

When you cried I'd wipe away all of your tears
When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears
And I've held your hand through all of these years
But you still have all of me

People began to notice the odd mannerisms he had developed: talking to himself, or so it seemed, abruptly storming off angrily for no particular reason, and never managing to look after himself properly. This was all much to the chagrin of Molly, who visited him as much as she could, trying to rouse her boy into the person he had once been - trying to make him want to live again.

'Please, Ron. Please come back to us!' she had pleaded on more than one occasion.

'Come on, Ron! Snap out of it; she's never coming back. She would hate to know that she caused you to be like this.'

Harry. Harry, who, unlike himself, had moved on. He looked at Ron with concern - and pity. Oh yes, the pity was there in the expressions of everyone he met. There goes Ronald Weasley. He lost his beloved in the final battle against You-Know-Who, did you know? Yes, it's very sad; he's never been the same since, poor boy ... They pitied him, and he hated it.

Deep down, though, he knew that this wasn't good for him, knew Harry and his mother were right. Even she had commented on this. He began to tire of her company, but fiercely chastised himself for feeling this way, guilt tearing into him whenever the thought crossed his mind. It was her. How could he ever tire of her? And yet, he knew he could not go on living like this; he was dying inside.

However, his stubborn nature refused to concede. He didn't want to be alone anymore - he hadn't felt the gaping emptiness within himself ever since she had returned to him. Life without her in any form ... the thought scared him. His heart thumped madly; logic, something she had successfully drummed into him, however had argued its case well, and the resulting conclusion terrified him. There was only one thing left to do.

I've tried so hard to tell myself that you're gone
and though you're still with me
I've been alone all along

'You're here.'

He was sitting on his bed, gazing at her book that he held unopened in his hands, waiting for her, knowing she would come. She did not disappoint.

She stood leaning against the doorway. 'Of course I am! I would never leave you, Ron.' She began to hum softly to him as if to distract him from what he intended to do. He closed his eyes for a moment, forgetting his worries, a small smile creeping over his lips.

When you cried I'd wipe away all of your tears,
When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears.

His eyes flew open. He realised what she was doing. Wild anger surged inside of him - she was making this harder than it already was.

'Just go away, Hermione! Leave me alone!' he yelled, throwing the book across the room. It landed on the floor with a loud thump, skidding to the far wall. He turned away from her, crossing his arms stubbornly. He refused to look at her, yet he could feel that tears were coursing down her face.

'Ron,' she whispered softly. Almost unwillingly, he faced her again, watching her as she made her way towards him, taking small, but deliberate steps that never made a sound on the hard timber floor. He felt a slight chill run through him as she leaned over and kissed the top of his head, leaving a damp mark from her free flowing tears. He opened his mouth, but no sound escaped. Regret flowed like an escaped flood; his heart beat quickened.

'Good bye, Ron,' she whispered.

I held your hand through all of these years.
But you still have ...

'No ... no ...' he mouthed uselessly. It wasn't supposed to be like this! Where was the fighting? The arguing? Was she just going to take it like this, like she couldn't care less?

She shook her head, a flicker of defiant anger shining out of her eyes. She shook her head again, more firmly this time.

'No,' she said. 'This is your decision. I'm your reality, remember?'

He sat, dumbfounded at her words. She bent down until she was level with his face and traced his jaw line, kissing him lightly on his lips. Stepping back, she fixed him with a sad stare. It tore him apart. A rushing sound in his ears deafened him, almost driving him insane.

'I'll always love you,' she whispered.

He watched mutely as her image slowly began to fade, his open mouth working furiously to make a sound ... any sound that would make her see the terrible mistake he had made. It took only moments before she had disappeared completely. The shivering cold that had ceaselessly permeated throughout the room lifted. He was alone once more; she had left him.

Staring at the space where she had stood only a moment before, he felt a prickle as long repressed tears filled his eyes. The emptiness had returned. He was alone ...

All of me.

... and he wanted her back.