Nightmares

Hermione awoke from a horrific nightmare in a cold sweat with her covers twisted around her, which left her skin bare to the night wind. As she shivered she remembered her dream. She had dreamt that her entire world had fallen apart. She had watched her parents slowly disappear; her classmates and teachers vanish from the face of the earth; her idols wither away to ignorant buffoons. She had seen the man that she loved in the deepest recesses of her heart, to the utmost depths of her soul, turn away from her and from everything that he knew. She watched him walk away from his family, his friends, and from her, not that she was ever anything special to him. She saw his back as it slowly faded from everything and everyone that he had ever cared for and loved and who loved him, too.

She had had this nightmare over and over and over again. It ran through her head as she slept, and it nagged her in the back of her mind while she was awake. It impaired her ability to function as a normal human being. It stopped her from giving all of herself to anything or anyone. This nightmare was constant and harassing. It never let her be. With this nightmare she could never truly be alone. She could never have a moment to herself. She could never escape from stress, or pressure, or fright. The nightmare was always, always there.

Her life had been empty without him. It had been five years since she had seen her parents die of cancer, within months of each other. It had been five years since she saw her housemates fall in the fight for freedom from oppression. It had been five years since she had witnessed those she held in the highest regard be reduced to blathering idiots with one curse or another. It had been five years since she saw one of her best friends give his life to save the world; he had never gotten over his "saving people thing". Five years had past from the time when she had seen her other best friend. Five years since she had watched his silhouette fade in the setting sun. His head never turned around to look back, his feet on a predetermined course: away.

There was nothing left in the world after he walked away. Her wasted body felt naught as her heart slowly beat in the echoing caverns of her empty soul. There was nothing she could do anymore. Mrs. Weasley offered kindness and empathy, for she too had lost loved ones in the fray. Yet, Hermione still felt lost. Being in his house was just another numb feeling that poked and prodded at her cold, cold heart. She could never be warm again.

Days after, months after, years after, other people smiled again. They rejoiced in the news: Voldemort and his Death Eaters had fallen at the hand of the slain hero Harry Potter, may he rest in peace. They found hope and happiness again in the rubble of their old lives. New children were born in one of the biggest baby-booms in British history. Those people moved on with their lives. They had found new life that existed without fear and without shadows. The sun shone brightly in the sky; there were never clouds to dampen the warmth spread by these people. They had finally found prosperity and freedom. They had gained the ability of hope.

The ability to hope was a gift that Hermione did not have. She continued to live in the shadowy days of the past. Her heart and her soul were preoccupied with history. They never turned to find the future. They never wanted to realize the present. Her heart and her soul did not wish to move on. They knew that their best days were behind her. They had felt the most wonderful, the most fulfilled, the happiest, when he was around. When they could hear his laughter, when they could sense his joy, when they could feel his worry or his pain, those were the best times.

Her mind, the traitor, could continue on its path to enlightenment. It could disregard her heart and her soul and it could move on. She had always listened to her head.

The job offers came. The companies, the boards, the facilities all knew of her role in dispensing the man who would be evil, as did the rest of the magical world. They all wanted a part of her celebrity. They wanted to stick her face or her name upon something. Her mind ignored those that wished to monopolize on the death of her friends. Her mind chose a place where it could be happy and where, perhaps, her heart and soul would finally take a glance at the present, maybe even the future.

St. Mungo's needed as many Healers as they could get and Hermione's mind was happy to oblige. She drudged through medical books and read dry essays that she found fascinating. Her mind was gleeful and expressed that delight by causing her heart and soul to pay a little attention to what she was applying herself to. They met the people as her mind met the words that would make them better again. She researched and discovered things that made impossible things plausible and plausible things common. She met people so gracious that they threatened to name their first born, boy or girl, after her.

She saw things that almost measured with the things she saw five years ago. Then, she saw things that could never compare to the happiest moments in her life. She saw self-discovery, self-doubt, self-confidence, and self-satisfaction in every patient. She saw some of the most joyful moments a person could ever experience, though those flashes of delight never belonged to her. She was never, fully, herself. There was always a piece missing. Was it was the pure contentment that she never had the chance to know or the sadness that constantly dug into her ever deepening chasm of loneliness and despair? There was at least one question that she would never be able to answer.

Every single day caused her heart and soul to cry out in joy or pain. Every day her mind found something that improved someone else's life, but could never find the cure to hers. Those big volumes of forgotten lore that lay in dusty corners of the medical libraries at St. Mungo's held no secret thought or potent word that hinted at her ailment or her remedy.

After days in which her heart and soul expressed both hidden sides of themselves and her mind had fulfilled its need to know, she returned to her dark, plain, bare flat. The small apartment that overlooked a street one block away from St. Mungo's served her needs. It had food in it and clean water. There were books borrowed from the library stacked upon a table and books that were owned by her in a bookcase that was larger than it looked. The lights that lit the rooms seemed inefficient, even on the sunniest days. Her bedroom held barely anything of importance. The closet was filled with clothes that could be used at work, nothing more. The floor was spotless except for a neatly stacked column of books next to her end table. The most important thing about her bedroom was that it held a bed. That terrible bed which made her relive her nightmare over and over and over again. It became customary for her to watch his flaming red hair combine with the rays of the sun. She saw the dejected way he held his wand, almost rolling off his fingers. She observed the resolve in his shoulders and the tension in his neck as he walked away from her. She saw the way one of his shoes was untied and the sweat stains on his clothes. She saw the dirt on the back of his arms as he determinedly stepped away from everything. Every night she saw him.

That nightmare kept tearing at her heart and soul and even monopolized a portion of her mind as she worked and lived. There was no one in her life except for her patients. The other Healers were not friends but only colleagues. No one new could get close to her. And, most of those people that had already found a place in her heart were gone forever. Patients came and went. They played with her heartstrings as she labored to let them live. But, as soon as she had, they were gone. Only few sent her something in the mail. Fewer still sent anything after a year or so.

On different days she saw different people. Mondays and Wednesdays were her new and short-term patients. Tuesdays and Thursdays were her old and long-term ones. The rest of the week she saw whomever needed her the most. She took no days off. She was one of the most dedicated Healers at St. Mungo's. There was talk of putting her portrait in the entrance hall or anywhere noticeable once she retired. She didn't want a portrait. She had no heart left to give, anyway.

Five years ago she had watched him walk away. Her heart and soul had shut down and hid in the impervious corner of her emotional fortress that was slowly being deconstructed brick by brick. Her mind had even ceased to function. It had stopped calculating the exact mathematical formula to the destruction of her heart and soul. It had ceased formulaically counting how many of her acquaintances, housemates, and friends were dead. Her brain had closed up the nerve centers so that physical pain could not be felt, but the central nervous system does not control emotional pain. Her heart was pierced with a knife at every funeral she went to. The tears that she shed were the essence of her heart leaking from her eyes. Her soul had decided to never care about anything again. While others cried she wept with them, but her heart had been deflated and her soul had become indifferent. There was nothing anymore.

She had stayed awake since the moment she had sat up in her bed. The nightmare ran around and around in her head, a tireless hamster. She never called in sick and it would not be any different after a nightmare she had had for five years. Today it was Monday. It was just another day for Hermione, just another day. Today was just a day she met new people. Today was just a day that meant new challenges and, normally, quick recoveries.

People shivered with joy when they heard that she would be their Healer. Not only had her reputation as a tireless and extremely successful caregiver preceded her, but people still remembered five years ago when she had helped in the dissolution of a terrible fate. They still remembered five years ago when she was the best friend of the Boy-Who-Saved-The-Good-Of-The-World. She still remembered five years ago when her heart was left in the dirty footprints of a tall man who stepped over mangled bodies to walk into the glorious sunset. These people commonly had joy that was exuded for good reason. Hermione made these people better. It did not matter how long it took, but if they were her patient they always returned to their lives. There were no deaths on her record. She had decreased the mortality rate of St. Mungo's by ten percent. She invented new potions and charms that fixed things faster, longer, and better. She had found the antidote to the breath of a Nundu-one breath could kill a village-and had discovered an extremely easy charm-so easy Lockhart could do it-to fix a fracture (not a clean break) in a bone. She was fantastic at what she did and there was no one better. Nothing else deserved her time. For Healing, her heart had decided to beat again. For that, her soul sometimes peered out of its cracked shell and cared.

Whenever she met new patients it was hard. She always expected to see one of those bodies that had lain upon the ground five years ago to be lying in a hospital bed. Every new person she met seemed familiar. One of the people sitting in those stark white hospital rooms had to be one of the slain. There was a quality that reminded her of those that had fallen. Today alone she had sworn she had seen McGonagall's pursed lips in an older woman, the twinkle in Dumbledore's eye as a man stared up at her, Harry's steel of determination in a young man with messy black hair, and the endless love in Ron's blue eyes of a man who should have had freckles.

She stared at the chart in her hand as it changed right before her eyes when she tapped it with her wand and muttered, "Room 03-01" The words writhed and slithered into place to reveal the name of the patient, the patient's basics-age, sex, height, weight, medical/personal history-, and the patient's health problem. Hermione usually forewent the name until the very last so it would be fresh in her mind before she entered the patient's room; it made them feel recognized and familiar.

Age: 23 Sex: Male

Height: 194 m/6ft. 4in. Weight: 86.4 kgs/191 lbs

Medical/Personal History: Large family. No major complications. A few broken bones. Hole through tongue at a young age by Acid Pop. Blatant

Arachnophobia. Genetically sound. Death of two brothers and father five years ago. Mother is ailing due to loss. Has not seen a Healer for five years.

Health Problem: Routine Physical. (You may want to do a more thorough physical than suggested. Attempt some sort of psychiatric evaluation as well, we didn't turn him away because he seems unwell and may need our help.)

Hermione finished reading the patient's information. A physical seemed much too simple for a Healer of Hermione's caliber, but it was late and she always enjoyed an easy patient to end the day with. The information for this patient seemed a little familiar. But, she supposed that she was doing the same thing to this patient as she did to all the others. When she walked into the room, perhaps, she would see Percy Weasley defending his Cauldron Bottoms. Maybe, she would see Bill Weasley fending off his mother who held a pair of scissors in her hands. Possibly, she would see balding Mr. Weasley attempting to figure out exactly what a Muggle hair dryer did, though it would not be of use to him if he could. What she did not expect was the name on the top of the chart to remarkably resemble the names of those who had lain with the heroes five years ago. The name at the top of the chart was "Bilius Weasley". It seemed as if the Weasley's relative had been neglecting his health. Hermione imagined a wizened old red-head with a portly belly and a striking resemblance to Molly to be sitting upon the bed when she walked into the room.

Hermione opened the door to reveal a bleak white room with its impeccable cleanliness and order. A cabinet lined the wall and was filled with various potions that would apply to anyone that would be in an exam room on the fifth floor next to the tea room and hospital shop. A chair resided next to a desk that was upon the wall contrary the cabinet. A bed was situated against the opposite wall of the exam room. The man sitting on the bed was neither portly nor an exact replica of Molly Weasley, he did have her chin and her worrying air about him, though. The man was tall, thin, but not too much as he had muscles filling out his arms, torso, and legs. The hands that rested on his knees where large, but they had a deftness about them so as they could move fairly quickly. He had freckles across his long nose, and kind, blue eyes that had a weathered look of age, as if they had seen too much. The hair was the remarkable Weasley red, but the most distinguishing feature about this man was his absence of age. He did not seem old enough to be Molly's brother. He did not seem old enough to have eyes that tired, though she knew that she had them too. She recognized this man. He was the man that haunted her days and her nights. This man's silhouette against the setting sun was burned into her mind, her heart, and her soul. This man's image was one of the things that they shared. This was the man that had caused her heart to shatter and her soul to wither away. He had forced her to live everyday as someone with a piece missing. He was the one that walked away from that day five years ago and left her incomplete. He left her with her nightmare.

Ronald Bilius Weasley looked shocked to see her. In that case, he had not known. He made a motion to get up as she fought the urge to run out of the door and forget that this had ever happened, to forget that the man who had made her emotions burn and freeze in the same moment. To ignore that man that was staring at her eyes and seeing her soul reawaken; watching her as her heart mended, piece by piece; observing her as the gears in her brain shut down; and examining her suppressed emotion take hold.

"No, please," she whispered in regard to his motion to stand, "stay."

"If that's what you want." he muttered, formally, in response.

"Yes, yes it is." she said slowly. "I haven't seen you since that day."

"No, no you haven't."

She was going to force him to speak to her. He would to respond to her. He would have to explain.

"Well, where did you go? Where did you hide yourself? Your family would love to hear from you, you know." She was going to get him to open up, slowly.

"What's left of them." he murmured despondently. "I was around."

He paused and decided that this was not a good enough answer.

"I went to America. I knew no one there, so there were no constant reminders of that day." He stopped and collected a deep breath.

He continued. "I played Quidditch in America. They have a really small league, but I lived off of it. There were no teams of Cannons quality in America, so I was able to do pretty well"

Hermione snorted in amusement at his last statement. The Cannons had gone even further down hill after Ron had left. They came as close as they could to shutting down the organization before winning a game against the Tornadoes. The Cannons are now synonymous with terrible. Hermione had heard the phrase: "That was done with Cannons quality, that was." more times than she could count.

He was still sitting there, but the age in his eyes was becoming closer to his own. Hermione had found herself making some semblance of a laugh. She had not done that in years. She had smiled encouragingly at patients and had entertained their jokes, but nothing had made her laugh. There was nothing to laugh about. She has nothing to laugh with; her heart and soul had submerged within themselves. Then, there was Ron.

But, there was still that day. The day five years ago that changed the magical world forever. The day that Ron lost three of his family members and Hermione lost everything that she loved. That one day tore apart the fabric of reality and replaced it with a poor substitute. There were gaps in it where people should have been. The people that were still in the cardboard cutout of life were different, they had changed. This false reality had all come crashing down like the poorly made farce that it was when she had walked into exam room 03-01 to find her heart and soul sitting on top of the bed. He would have to explain.

"Why did you come back? It's been five years. People have changed and moved on. Why did you come back now?"

"You haven't." he said quite suddenly.

Hermione was surprised by his utterance, she wasn't shocked. She knew that she hadn't moved on. Her nightmare told her that. Her aching heart and vacant soul told her that. The emotions she felt when she looked into his eyes told her that. She just didn't know that he knew.

"That did not answer my question. Why did you come back?"

"I felt as if it had been enough time. I don't really know what that means. I just thought it had been enough time. I thought that everyone would have forgotten me or at least that day. I thought that I could come back and it could all be the same again. I don't know. I guess I thought that five years would be enough to put everything back the way it was. We could just go on with our lives as if it was our last year at Hogwarts, just you, me, and Harry. We could get jobs and grow-up as if nothing had ever happened. Every Christmas we could go back to The Burrow and spend it with our family, all of them. We could just...."

He stopped there and put his head in his hands. His shoulders began to shake.

Hermione moved from the doorway and sat down on the bed next to him crying silent tears of her own. She tried to put a comforting arm around the tall man's broad shoulders but he just leaned into her so she put two. She hugged his shoulders as she cried into them. Her nightmare had changed. Instead of walking into the sunset, away from her, he was walking from the sunrise, towards her. There were still mangled bodies strewn on the ground with the stench of sweat and magic in the air, but they were together. Her heart had repaired itself with the pieces broken by the crying man in her arms. Her soul cared deeply about something again. It cared about Ronald Bilius Weasley and his family. It cared about how he felt and why he had left. It cared why he came back. Her restored heart beat faster than it had in five years. It beat for every tear they cried. It beat for the pieces of her heart that will never be fit back into their places.

Her quickly beating heart began to slow. The tears that had fallen from her eyes so steadily had become rarer. Ron shook much less than before and his hands had been removed from his face many minutes before to hang limply from his sagging shoulders. Emotionally wrenched and fatigued there was still one more question Hermione needed to know before she could let go of this man's shoulders again.

"Ron?" Hermione whispered.

"Yes?" came the quivering reply.

Hermione softly asked the question she needed to know the answer to. "Why did you leave? Why did you walk off of the battlefield and leave your family? Why did you leave me staring at your back as you walked off to leave everyone and everything you had ever known behind?"

"I...I...I had to." Ron stuttered. "I couldn't deal with the death. I couldn't deal with the pain. I didn't want to live my life with half of myself. I know I wouldn't be whole if I had stayed around the memories of all of the fallen. If I had had reminders of all the death, everyday. I would not have been able to function. I mean, some of my family died. Harry died. I couldn't deal with it. That's the difference between you and me 'Mione. You can survive after all of that because your brain does your thinking. I couldn't because I don't think with my brain, I know you know that. I think with my heart and my emotions. I rush into things without a second thought because I know that it's right, even though, sometimes it isn't really. I react to things without thinking it out. That's why I hit Malfoy so many times after he insulted you. I didn't think about the consequences, I just wanted to get even with him for badmouthing you. Besides, what did I need a brain for, you were always there. I only grew one after I left."

Hermione had had five years to contemplate every possible reason for him to leave. She had known him better than anyone else. She knew about his emotions and she knew about his family and she knew about Harry. Sometimes she wished she had left with him and escaped the constant reminders of death. But, she knew that she could never, truly, be rid of the images of people, young and old, lying prone across the field of battle. Each had given their life for a cause they believed in, and some had prevailed while others had not. Each body was remembered by family members except for those with none left. Those were given to friends. The few without friends or family were given a ceremonial cremation and their ashes were spread where their life abruptly ended.

"Ron, I am going to tell you something." Hermione got up and shut the door which had been agape the entire time they had cried and comforted.

She sat back down on the bed, but now they were facing one another.

"I watched you walk away into the sunset as if you were some western hero without a horse. Don't ask Ron, just listen. I saw your silhouette move farther and farther away from me. I watched your back disappear. And, I have watched it everyday since. For five years my mind replayed the entire battle again and again. Every single time, at the end, I memorize the way you traipse away and the contours of your shirt against your skin, the way your hair blends into the sunset, the fact that your left shoe is untied. God, I even memorized the burn marks on your arm! The day you left, you tortured me everyday afterward. I desperately wanted you to come back to me. Your image in my mind was worse than those of the fallen because you could come walking back at any moment. You were supposed to stay so you could keep me human and so I could to keep you sane. We were supposed to be a team. Now, I am an emotionless Healer who keeps her nose in books and never takes days off and barely feels anything for her patients. That's because of you. That day just shut my emotions down. It ripped out my heart and left it for you to step on as you left. My soul vanished with your departure. I...I was left numb. Ron, I need you. I need you to keep my emotions a part of me, and I think you need me too."

"You don't ever stop do you?" asked Ron.

"What?"

"Telling me what to do." he replied humorously.

With a much more serious tone Ron continued, "I know I need you 'Mione. That's what happened when I grew a brain. I thought about what my heart was telling me and why there was one very large piece of it missing. I realized that that part was you. I needed to be around you. I needed you to fill that hole in my heart. I do need you to keep me sane. I love you so much it hurts sometimes. I figured that one out when I was gone, too. I love you with all of my being and everything in between. The amount of everything in the world could not measure to how much I love you. This has taken me a good five years to say and to think of what to say and to realize that I needed to say it. I love you so much Hermione."

They moved closer to one another on the bed.

"I love you. I love you. I love you. God, I love you."

Their faces were becoming achingly close to one another. She could smell his breath which contained a faint scent of chocolate and mint.

"Well that's good," breathed Hermione in response to his statement.

Her lips grazed his as she said this their faces were so close. The faint sensation as she brushed his lips caused her heart and soul to smolder. There was nothing left now. Their lips made full contact. Hermione felt passions that she thought had died five years ago. The pure exhilaration of it and the feeling brought along by the contact were, surely, impossible. Her senses were incensed. She was acutely aware of the exact position of his body on the bed even though her eyes were closed. The feel of his hand, which lay delicately on her cheek, she savored. Each of his fingers accentuated the heat upon her skin. His palm tenderly grazed her jaw line causing her to shiver from his touch. Their lips separated, but their faces remained less than a nose apart.

"I love you." said Hermione breathily.

"Well that's good." replied Ron as their faces closed the gap again, wanting.

The passion and emotion felt were just as intense. Her hands glanced over his cheek bones feeling the slight warmth emanating from his face. She could barely control her impulsive hands as they crept past his ears and to the nape of his neck. His neck, the one that she had seen disappear countless times into the sunset was now being caressed by her fingers. Her heart was beating its endless rhythm to the symphonies of her soul. They made perfect harmony.

Their lips parted. Both of them were breathing heavily with a partially glazed look in their eyes. Their hands did what lips did and found one another. Ron's long fingers fit into Hermione's as though molded from an artist's clay. Each hand the perfect fit for the other. She turned as she rested her head upon his shoulder. She closed her eyes. He lay his ear on top of her head and shut the image of a white hospital room from his vision.

Perhaps, her nightmares will not be as bad anymore.