Ice Queen

Dean could draw. Seamus was master of the joke. Harry saved the world. Quite often. Draco was a sex god. (Don't make that face - he was!) I could tell you exactly how much of each ingredient to add to the most difficult potion you could think of, in three seconds flat. Lavender could tell your future by simply looking in your eyes. But Ron... well, back in our sixth year, no one could really tell you Ron's talent. He was just 'The Best Friend'. 'The Excellent Listener'. 'The One Who Would Take The Rap For You'. He stuck by us.

And then one day, I came across a book in the Common Room. It was bound in burgundy leather, and had a quill embossed in gold on the front cover. I had never seen a more beautiful book, and, coming from me, that really means something. After enjoying the smell of the leather, I opened it, solely for the purpose of finding out who it belonged to, in order to return it. But my eye was caught by the poem on the first page. It was the title that drew my attention, I think. Written in calligraphy were the words "Emerald Fire".

Even now, I remember every word.

I

In the beginning of time there was Light,

A Light born of the womb of the Goddess.

Conceived from darkness, the God, this

Light was eternal.

She forged your eyes of emeralds and cast them

into this great Fire. Faerie Fire of the most fearsome

kind. Your eyes crackle and sparkle with the eternal

Fire that drives all.

Emeralds born of eternal Fire do not despair.

Do not be quick to die. Water is so easy to give

into. But don't you see? Yours is the fire that

drives all. Emeralds born of eternal fire do not

blink, do not flicker, do not close, do not go blind.

Sweet Emeralds please don't cry. Who has

seen Fire cry? I have, and I fear it's contradiction.

My dear Emeralds don't let your inspiring light

become melancholy.

I will be your shield against Air and Water. Nothing

shall consume your wondrous flare as long as I am

here. For if your Fire goes out there will be one less

beautiful light in this world.

My Spirit is drawn to your Fire like a suicidal

moth to a flame. If your Fire is snuffed out, my

Spirit will slowly burn away in your embers and die.

Beautiful Emeralds,

born of the most eternal Fire

please...

don't cry.

I was so completely engrossed in my reading that I didn't notice the portrait door swing open, or the footsteps approaching from behind. There were just no words.

I finished the poem, closed the book, and sighed. I looked up and out into the cold winter night, expecting to see my reflection in the window. What I saw caused me to catch my breath and drop the book.

"Well?" he asked patiently. There was a fire in his eyes, but not that familiar 'What-in-the-name-of-hell-do-you-think-you're-doing?' fire. It was more of a fierce pride; something one rarely saw in those crystal blue orbs.

"I...I just...I didn't mean to..." I stammered, and trailed off. As I bent down to pick up the offended book - I suppose it was a journal - he leaned against the wall and said,

"The great Hermione Granger at a loss for words? Haven't seen something like this since...well, now that I think about it, I've never seen something like this." And he smirked.

In that one instant, he reminded me so much of the one person he should never have made me think of. The fire died, and his eyes turned a shade of steel blue so cold that it made me shiver. It was the combination of the steel and the smirk, I think; I almost called him Draco. I caught myself.

"If you wouldn't leave your crap lying around, maybe people wouldn't read it!" I shoved the book into his chest and stormed off. Later that night, I would regret my words immensely.

I didn't know what it was that made me act like that. I'm not a person who easily loses her temper. I pride myself on my ability to control my emotions.

I went for a walk that night. I sat on a bench on the lakeshore, and just stared. At nighttime, when there is no one around to break your concentration, you can find out a great deal about yourself. So I sat there, and reflected upon the past six years of my life. I thought about how much Ron and Harry really meant to me. It's like the lake, really. Just like there will always be water in the lake, they will always be a part of me. Those two own a piece of my heart that I will never again be able to give away.

I might have simply thought that Ron wasn't supposed to be extraordinarily good at anything. I was happy with having Regular Joe-Ron. It brought me down to earth, after being surrounded by all these people who just had a knack for certain things. I mean, Harry saved the world! Five times! Six, if you count the incident with Voldemort that Halloween long ago. Ron was the one who kept me grounded. I guess it just hurt that he would have hidden something like that from me.

In a way, too, I now realize I was jealous. I read far too much into things. The subject of the poem had green eyes. That small realization rocked my world. I so desperately wanted it to be about me, but my eyes are brown. Poop brown, as my mother says. They are in no way, shape or form emerald in colour. But who could it have possibly been about? That question haunts me to this day - I've never asked him. I most likely never will.

I was in shock that Ron could write like that. I don't think it would have been the same if it was anyone else. Poetry of that calibre goes down in history. Ron could be one of the greats. He just needs to hone his talent. None of us knew he thought that deeply; I don't ever recall any of us bothering to care.

* * * * *

One day, during summer holidays between our sixth and seventh years, Ron rang me up. He was lonely, I think, what with Harry spending his summer with Sirius, all his siblings save for Ginny away, and I in Switzerland. We talked, and he read me more poems, and, since we hadn't talked about his writing since that day, I felt honoured that he would share something so personal with me. Honoured and a little victorious. He asked me what my first thought of Emerald Fire was. I told him the truth.

"Ron, there are just no words..." he seemed to be satisfied. I know I would be.

He told me that he had writer's block. I told him to write about me. He said, "Okay." I didn't really think he would do it, but I woke up the next morning to an owl (it must have been rented - Errol was too old, and Pig was too small) tapping his beak on my bedroom window. I unrolled the parchment, and proceeded to read the most beautiful letter I have ever come across.

Dear Hermione,

This is what I see when I look at you. I spent hours last night staring at your picture, trying to put you into words. Do you know how hard it was? I was so afraid I was going to fall short, somehow displease you. And I fell asleep thinking of you. And this is what I dreamed:

Ice Queen

Perched in snow-draped

mountains, in labyrinthine

halls of frost and

winter melodies, envy

of muses, pale in

her shadow...

A crystalline statue

with heaven's voice,

carved of diamonds,

of stars...

and the frozen queen

undulated in robes

of schilliant ice

and gazes of a hundred

eyes etched in stone...

her guardians, her wards, her demise..

For decreed in pages touched

by angel wings... the Ice Queen

must love not mortal eyes.

But her heart of bejeweled ice,

of purest snow...

of rarest gems

could not (in her mind) love..

till a hunter ascended

into the palace of brightest stars

of labyrinth halls of frost

and unknowing, ensnared

the careless fae in eyes

blue as the waters

she never knew...

"Stay with me..." voiced

the icy monarch, triune words

a siren call...

the warnings of stone falling

on deaf ears

"Aye.." whispered assent, against and by his will

to protests of dwellers of rock..

that rose like a wave in grim ambiance,

true to angel wings

and shoved a hapless soul from the

faery domain into the brazen embrace

of earth.... to live, to toil, to die

banished eternal from

the palace of brightest stars

Of labyrinth halls of frost

where a frozen queen sits forlorn

her heart of bejeweled ice,

of purest snow,

of rarest gems

warmed and grieved..

lost amidst cold chortles...

and from onyx pools slid, twin pearls

and bloomed pale flowers where they touched...

lovely as the frigid monarch with

a heart of bejeweled ice,

of purest snow,

of rarest gems

searching eternal, as a snowy fae

for blue eyes she could not hold

in the palace of brightest stars,

of labyrinth halls of frost...

Yours, Ron.

Can you imagine how that made me feel? This is my best friend, writing that about me. Something that deep, that sad, that touching...it really made me wonder about his intentions. Of course, it wasn't plain-as-day love poetry, but, well, after reading that...I just really wondered. Did he actually see me as unattainable, as being that perfect? I don't think I would have wondered so much if he hadn't written that note at the beginning. I still would have had that lump in my throat, but it wouldn't have been the same lump.

That, in turn, forced me to examine (yet again) how I truly felt about Ron. After the Yule Ball in your fourth year, Ron and I had 'seen' each other for about a month. But he was too stubborn, and I was too bossy. The thing is, though, I've come to the conclusion that people do change. Quite a bit, if given the chance. I came to the conclusion that Ron wouldn't have been that bad of a catch. I could see myself spending the rest of my life with him. And that was quite the revelation for a sixteen year old.

We spent more and more time together, and I knew I loved him - as a friend, yes, but so much more, as well. I would miss him when we were in different classes. I longed for him at night. But I never told him. Of course, I remained awe struck over the poem, but all I said was, "Thank you."

Halfway through our seventh year, Ron went away to aid in the war against Voldemort. I knew it was coming - we all did - but nevertheless, I cried myself to sleep for days after he told me he was leaving, and for months after he left. I came to realize that I had never truly yearned for someone before. The separation anxiety I felt was almost unbearable. But during those times when I was so upset that I could hardly get out of bed in the morning, I would look at Ron's picture - the one where he slowly turns his head to the camera and breaks into a wide grin, dissolving into a deep, throaty laugh. I miss him...

I miss you more than my heart will ever tell, Ronald Weasley. You opened my eyes to a completely different world. It was you that made me realize that there are more important things in life than books and cleverness. When you look at me, you give me these tingles so deep inside that they're almost unattainable. I love the way you make me feel, Ron. I love you for it.

I think of you and it leaves this deep, empty void inside. So come back to me, Ronald Weasley. You're what I live for. Please.

Hermione.

* * * * *

Hermione,

For you, I will.

Ron.

I melted.