His Beautiful Tragedy

His Beautiful Tragedy

Author: Lanni Weasley

Harry James Potter had been one years of age when his parents, James and Lily Potter, had been killed by Voldemort. Harry James Potter had also been one years of age when he was marked as Voldemort's equal with a lightening bolt scar and defeated Voldemort for the first time. He was so young, already marred by the pains of war. He was no longer little Harry James Potter.

He was the Boy Who Lived.

The Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter, had been twenty-five when he had defeated Voldemort for the second and last time. It had been a rainy April night, dark and cold. Voldemort had sent Death Eaters to rain upon his house along with the water, but the Order of the Phoenix had been prepared. Never in all his life had Ron seen Harry looking so furious and powerful. Harry had been so powerful that his magic had radiated off of him that night.

The Darkness of Voldemort had been pierced by the Light of the Boy Who Lived.

Voldemort was gone. In his last moments, he had lived out as Tom Marvolo Riddle, the boy who he used to be. Ginny had been crying when he died, not out of sadness or happiness but of nothing. She had known Tom Riddle like none of them had. Ron imagined it had been difficult for her to realize that the Tom she had known was still in there, but so far down inside. But that was not the end of the pains of war.

Harry Potter was gone forever, but the Boy Who Lived remained living.

Ron remembered the morning after the Final Battle only vaguely. Some said that they could remember it clearly; and they retold the tale again and again. Why anyone would want to remember or hear something so horrible was beyond him. He, himself, had tried his best to forget it, but it never worked. It always came back to haunt him in the end--in the dead of the night when he was alone.

13

From where he was standing, Ron could see Voldemort's dead body. But Voldemort didn't look like the Dark Overlord that he was supposed to be. He looked like a regular man. It was only then that Ron realized that it was not Voldemort's corpse at Harry's feet but Tom Riddle's.

Ron blinked. That was Tom Marvolo Riddle? Ron expected something else--a handsome man, like the way people talked about him when he was younger--but not this. He was average-looking. That was it. The total feeling of disappointment was in the air all around them. Not only had the defeat of Voldemort been a great big disillusion altogether, but even the revealing of Tom Riddle was a letdown.

Harry slowly turned around. Ron caught eyes with him, but immediately wished he hadn't. No longer were his green eyes vibrant and full of life. The spark was completely gone; the light was turned off; the fire was put out. That sight felt more alarming to Ron than when he had first realized that Death Eaters were actually attacking the house.

"Harry, mate, c'mon, let's get out of here," Ron said in a hopefully soothing voice. He beckoned Harry to come to him, but Harry didn't move. He just gawked at Ron, as if he was speaking another language. "Harry, let's go. Let's leave this place."

"He's dead," Harry blurted in an oddly detached voice. Ron was taken aback. Harry's voice had been so calm and strange. It didn't suite him for the moment. Ron gaped at Harry. "He's dead. He's dead. Voldemort is finally dead."

"Harry..." Ron began, but he forgot what he was going to say.

All of a sudden, Harry started laughing like mad. He lifted his head, arms hanging limply at his side, and laughed very loudly. It wasn't a cheerful laugh; it wasn't bitter laugh. It was a hollow laugh. He looked back at Ron and grinned very broadly. But the usual spark in his usually vibrant green eyes was still gone. And the grin was not a happy grin, but an empty grin.

"I killed bloody Voldemort!" Harry laughed. He threw his arms up. Tears were now rolling out from behind his glasses, but they weren't sad or happy tears. They were nothing. He didn't even realize he had tears coming out of his eyes. Ron was beginning to feel horrified as he took a few steps toward his best friend. He held out his hand to Harry.

"It's time to go home, Harry," Ron told him quietly. Harry nodded his head, still crying, still grinning, and still laughing like mad. Ron grabbed Harry's wrist and tugged him out of the house, away from the body.

13

Ron remembered a lot of other things about that morning. He remembered taking Harry into St. Mungos; he remembered how Harry hadn't stopped laughing until he fell asleep. Ron remembered how he hadn't fallen asleep for three days and how he hadn't cried at all. He hadn't cried until a funeral, which he did not want to ever relive again.

Harry had gotten out of the hospital a week later, but the spirited boy and man Ron had once known was no longer behind the round, clear glasses. He was too different. He smiled and laughed, but none of it was ever out of happiness or joy. He didn't know any better. The suffering Voldemort had caused him had finally cracked him over the head; the pain had caught up with him finally.

Harry Potter was no more.

The Boy Who Lived went along with his name. He lived on, as the Boy Who Lived should.

But no matter how gone Harry was, Ron had refused to call him any different. He had still looked like Harry. What else could he call him? He couldn't likely walk up to him and say, "What would you like for supper, Boy Who Lived?" That was disrespectful for someone who deserved more respect than anyone else in the world.

From then on, however, Harry had lived at Ron's house. Ron had a nice house; there was plenty of room for the other young man. They played chess. They ate dinner. They talked about everything and anything. Ron didn't know what Harry did when he went to work. Harry didn't work because Ron wouldn't allow it. Every now and then, Harry would bring up the matter and they'd get into a little tiff. But those little tiffs only lasted for five minutes at the most because Harry would forget about it quickly.

At work, Ron had always found that a huge workload made him forget about many things. It made him forget about his own pain--like the pain of watching his father quickly die when he was seventeen and then slowly watching his mother deteriorate because of it. She, too, had lost the spark in her eyes--the supposed everlasting life that had surrounded her--like Harry, but in a completely different way. She didn't laugh or smile at all nowadays. She didn't do much nowadays; Ron wasn't even sure if she was living although she was still very much alive.

But it is at work that Ron hears the most ghastly things that make him want to shy away from the world time and time after again. He hears the whispers. He hears the snickers. They don't know that he hears them, but he does all of the time. He knows what they're thinking when they look at him, even if he doesn't know a lick about Leglimency. He doesn't need that to know. He sees it. A smirk here--a cough to cover a chuckle or snort there. They can't hide their snide remarks and looks from him. They try their best (or maybe they don't try at all), but they can't do it at all.

They say Potter's gone mad; they say Harry Potter lost his mind after he defeated Voldemort on that rainy April night. But Ron Weasley knows better. Ron knows that if anyone is insane, it is himself.

Ron was never one for subtlety; he has always known that about himself. He was awkward and clumsy all his life. He was blunt and rude for all of time. That's why the insanity in him surprises so much; it was subtle to come upon him. No one knows except himself. No one knows that he's gone insane. He's out in the public eye so much (never about himself, but for Harry) and no one knows.

The irony of it all is so uncanny that it hurts. Harry went through so much more and although he is not himself any longer, he is not the one that is insane.

Ron stands on a podium, reporters for many different Wizarding newspapers peering up at him eagerly with quills and parchment in hand. Their quills furiously scratch out his speech (whether it is being altered or not at all) onto the parchment with a vengeance. Ron ignores the greedy looks in their eyes; in fact, he ignores almost everyone around him.

"What is Harry Potter going to do now that news of free Death Eaters have surfaced?" one reported boldly shouts over the noise of scratching quills. Many look up at him, a selfish hunger in their eyes. Whenever it came to Harry, reporters prodded him repeatedly and cut him deep and tried to bleed him dry. It was only now that Harry didn't have to face the fury of reporters. That was Ron's job now.

"My client and best friend has not heard of any such news; and therefore, I cannot tell you what his actions are going to be," Ron tells the reporter automatically. He doesn't blink; he doesn't move; and he doesn't look at that reporter. He just stares at them all dully. The light in his own eyes is fading. "No one has bothered to make him or me aware of this new situation. Right now, he is still recuperating from the Final Battle. Thank you for your time."

Ron concludes the press conference. He walks off the podium. Ginny, his younger sister, is standing at the bottom of the stairs behind a curtain in a pretty black dress. She helps him with his speeches, as he knows that he is not the best for this job. She smiles at him and hugs him tightly. He hugs her back and then pulls away.

As Harry Potter's publicist, Ron tells reporters everything they need to know about Harry. What they don't need to know, they don't get told. Now, Harry doesn't have to be bothered by reporters' ruthless questioning because that is Ron's job. He gets pushed around by reporters now, demanding that he tell them what is Harry's comment to this or that about fugitive Death Eaters on the loose in Europe or Asia or America. They were everywhere; and Harry didn't know a single thing about it.

"Are you going home?" Ginny asks. Ron shakes his head; he's not in the mood to speak, honestly. "Then where are you going? Harry expects you to be back in ten minutes. You are never late or early. He will get worried."

"He'll forget about me," Ron tells her heavily. She glares at him. He sighs; he's very tired. "Listen, Ginny; he will just forget about me not being there. When I come back, he'll think it's eight o'clock as usual. Why don't you pay him a little visit and have dinner with him or something. He's been asking about you lately."

"You mean he's been asking about Hermione lately?" Ginny says quietly to herself. Ron knows that he was not supposed to hear her then, but he does anyway. He looks away when he feels himself tearing up. It has been one year and he still hasn't gotten over it.

"Go see him," Ron pleads. Ginny looks at him tenderly and then nods her head. She hugs him again and then Apparates to his house where Harry always is. Ron sighs; he is relieved that she is gone now. He loves his sister, but he is always reminded of that night when Ginny cried--when Harry laughed--when Ron forgot who he truly was.

Ron unbuttons his black robe. He loosens his tie and pulls his white oxford out of his pants. He combs his red hair with his fingers and gives another sigh. He is so tired, yet he knows that he cannot sleep. Instead, he Apparates and when he appears visible again, he is standing on a balcony.

The balcony is large. The sky above Ron is dark and the stars and moon are hidden by the noticeable gray clouds calmly floating around. The moon appears here and there, shining its pale light on Ron, but that is all. The wind blows against him and ruffles his hair. He leans against the stone railing of the balcony and takes in a deep breath. He closes his eyes.

He hates his job because it is not his job. Ron knows that he was never meant to be Harry's publicist, but he is the only one who can do it now.

Ginny never shows herself in public much anymore. Fred and George are always throwing themselves into work concerning the joke shop. Bill just had a baby with Fleur after being married for a year. Charlie had been tortured badly and although still alive and healthy, he couldn't do much outside of easy deskwork and family things. Ron's mother, Molly Weasley, never left the Burrow. Ron's father, Arthur Weasley, had been killed nine years ago.

And Percy...well, no one liked to talk about what happened to Percy, who had become a Death Eater late in Ron's Sixth Year. Ron especially didn't like to talk about what happened to his older brother. Ron had been the one who had killed Percy after he had witnessed Percy killing their father.

Ron fingers the gold wedding band on his finger, eyes still closed as the wind brushes against him. He has found himself fingering the band around his finger unconsciously tons of times. It was cheap in money, but the most valuable thing Ron had that represented the time before he lost everything. He kept it with him all the time so he would not be able to forget the time when Harry laughed because he was truly happy; when Ginny would smile because she was filled with joy; and when his father would come home from work and kiss his mother in front of all of them.

Ron didn't have anything else from that time. Harry was not that Harry that he used to be before the Final Battle. No one was who they used to be before the Final Battle anymore. They had all lost something inside of them; Ron had lost everything around him, too.

Being Harry's publicist was not Ron's job because it was Hermione's job.

Hermione...Oh, just the name made Ron's eyes sting, his heart clench, and his soul mourn. Ron gripped the railing tightly. Three years ago, on this very night and on this very balcony, he and Hermione had gotten married in the moonlight. He can still remember the pure happiness he had felt then; he remembers how he had been so nervous because she had been so beautiful.

In her white wedding dress, her face glowing, and her chocolate brown eyes gleaming with joy, Hermione had been the most beautiful sight in the universe. He had held her hands and had squeezed them right before he had said the binding words: "I do." He had nearly burst from bliss when they had been pronounced husband and wife. Their first kiss as a married couple had been nothing short of amazing.

Tears begin to fill Ron's eyes. Why Hermione had left him for heaven was beyond him. But Ron had always appreciated the fact that she had passed away quickly without any pain rather than die very slowly and painfully. He always appreciated the fact that he had been there for her last moments.

13

Ron put his shoes on haphazardly and snatched his wand off the bedpost. He took off after Hermione, who had run out of the room before him. The Final Battle had been a week ago and Death Eaters had been attacking people at random out of anger. Never in a million of years had Ron expected that his house would be the next on their list. They had kept a very low profile. Why now when he thought they were finally safe from being murdered?

He wanted to shout her name, but he knew that he was not supposed to. He can hear curses and hexes being shouted in the living room. He ran there and saw that Hermione was cornered by five fugitive Death Eaters that are filled with rage. He saw blood seeping through her pajama pants on her right thigh. One hex must have hit her. Ron growled angrily and lifted his wand. He attacked one Death Eater and knocked him out cold.

"Ron!" Hermione shrieked, pointing her wand at him. He raised his eyebrows and ducked when she shot a curse at him. It was only when he looked behind himself that he saw a Death Eater lying on the ground, now unconscious. The two of them fought the other four Death Eaters. Ron was forced into the kitchen by two and left Hermione with the other two.

After defeating those two Death Eaters, Ron sent for help. Someone would come to their rescue soon. He ran into the living room only to witness the worst sight since he saw his father die.

Hermione turned her head around to look at him. Her brown bushy hair flew into her face. Ron looked at her and then looked over. The Death Eater that she had just cursed pointed his wand at her. Everything came crashing down on Ron as he started to run to her.

"Hermione, get out of the way!" Ron screamed--a second too late.

"Avada Kedrava!"

"Hermione, no!" A brilliant green light flashed in the room, blinding Ron for a few seconds. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Hermione falling to the ground. The Death Eater that had said the curse was now dead, having used his last breath to say the Killing Curse. The Death Eater had used his life to kill another.

Ron dashed to Hermione and caught her, but her dead weight made him fall to his knees. He resituated himself and pulled her limp form into his lap. He was crying, holding her tightly. He moaned her name over and over again, but she didn't reply. Her head lolled his arms and pushed her face back to face him with a hand on her check.

"Hermione, please don't die on me," Ron cried, rocking back and forth with Hermione in his arms. His tears splashed onto her face; she didn't say anything to him. "No, you're going to live, Hermione, and everything is going to be alright. We're going to have a wonderful life with a few good kids. We're going to be happy. You are going to live and have a very happy life, Hermione."

But Hermione didn't say anything back to him. He pulled her up into his arms more and hid his face in her brown hair. His tears soaked her hair. He said her name again and again. He rocked back and forth, cradling her in his arms.

She looked so beautiful with that relieved smile on her face. Her eyes were closed. She looked so peaceful, as if she was only sleeping. He wished. Her hair surrounded her face like a frame; and she was practically glowing. Of course, that was what happened when wizards and witches died; they glowed as their magic left their lifeless body. And now, that was happening to Hermione.

And now, Ron felt his own magic leaving him.

13

Hermione's death had ruined Ron. He had been so sane until then. After her death, it had all went downhill. Nothing had been the same. He hadn't cried for her yet. He hadn't cried at her funeral like everyone else had. Harry had even cried, although he had not been in his right mind yet. Ginny had gone through three full boxes of tissues. Hermione wouldn't have wanted him to cry.

But now, Ron feels the need to cry for her. Everything he did always came down to her. All he thought about was her. He had been crazy about Hermione; and he still was. That was the problem. Her death had driven him to that road of subtle insanity. He could feel it everyday now.

Ron would wake up, say, "Good morning, love", and then roll onto his side to kiss her--only to find that no one was there. Then, he would remember that Hermione was not with him any longer; he would remember that she was dead. Twice, he had called her old workplace to see when she was coming home. He has come home with roses, only to find that Hermione is not there, waiting for him with dinner ready.

He's found out that he sleepwalks now because when he wakes up in the morning, Hermione's complete wardrobe will be on the floor in the bedroom. Harry had told Ron sleep talks to Hermione all of time; then again, Ron knows that he talks to Hermione when he's awake, too, so that doesn't really matter. But Harry also told Ron that he cries in his sleep, moaning Hermione's name a few times. That was not a good sign.

A few times, Ron would wake up in the middle of night after he thought he heard someone whisper, "I am here with you, my love." He would bolt upright in bed, sweating and panting, but no one would be there with him. He was always alone. He was hearing voices--or rather Hermione's voice. Maybe it had been apart of his dream, but it had seemed so voices.

Harry always asked of Hermione during the holidays and now. He had completely forgotten about her until his birthday came; and he had asked why she wasn't there. Ron had told Harry that Hermione was dead, but he never remembered. He blocked it out of his mind. Harry now almost lived a life of childish naiveté.

It broke Ron to pieces when Harry asked why Hermione wasn't at the Christmas party. He had still confused and hurt look in his eyes when he had asked about her; Fred had been the one to tell Harry that she had work to do. The look in Harry's eyes had resembled that of a little child that just got told that there wasn't enough money to buy presents.

"Hermione, I'm sorry; please forgive me," Ron whimpers. He puts his face in his hands. No one comforts him; he is truly alone. He hears no soothing voice in his ear or head. He is alone. He cries now--for the time seems so appropriate much more than it had been during her funeral. No one can see him. This is for her to see only. It doesn't need to be a public event. These tears are for Hermione and not for anyone else.

Hermione had been so beautiful when she had died. She had looked so peaceful in his arms that night. She had looked just like she did every morning when he woke up first, which wasn't very often. He would wake up and just watch her breathe in and out while she slept until she awoke. Her eyes would flutter open and upon seeing him looking at her, she would smile sleepily.

Hermione had been his friend for more than seven years. She had been his wife for two years. And now that she was dead, she was his beautiful tragedy.

Ron's shoulders shake as he cries for his lost wife, Hermione. She had not been supposed to die. She was the most intelligent person on the planet--Magic and Muggle alike. He wonders how she is in heaven, if she sees him crying for her finally. He knows that she is just as beautiful. He knows that her death has made him insane. He knows that her death was a tragedy permanently marked in his life.

Hermione was his beautiful tragedy.