If I Must Lose Thee

A/N: Harry Potter, his friends, and the world in which he lives all belongs to J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury books, and Warner Brothers...sadly not me. I just play with her characters...

If I Must Lose Thee

He's not gone on a long holiday; he's dead.

The entire short car ride home from St. Mungo's, Hermione chanted the words over and over in her head.

Dead.

Gone forever.

The Ministry driver kept his eyes forward, for which Hermione was grateful. The last thing in the world she wanted was another stranger extending insincere, sympathetic drivel.

"So sorry for your loss, Mrs. Weasley."

"At least he lived to see the end of Voldemort."

"He's in a better place now."

It was that last inane platitude that she hated the most. She thought it was rubbish; the best place in the world for him was by her side. Ron always said that was when he was best, when he was with her.

A retribution killing, the head Auror in charge on the investigation had said. Possibly a Death Eater, but more likely just some angry pure-blood put out by the defeat of Tom Riddle and his ideals. Hermione didn't care what the other Aurors called it; she thought it was a stupid and senseless murder, sneaky and backhanded and not at all the way a hero like Ron deserved to die.

When Harry had come to the flat that night, Hermione needed only look at his haunted eyes, and she'd known that it was Ron and that it was bad, before Harry even had the chance to say anything.

The next few days had blended into a quiet, desperate blur of disjointed images and random bouts of anger, guilt and sadness. She only had a vague recollection of the funeral, and the rather somber gathering at the Burrow afterwards. Ginny, in a misguided attempt at kindness, put her memories of the day into a Penseive for Hermione to look at later.

It was when she hungrily dove into the memory that she'd become unhinged. She only wanted to see his face again, and instead found herself slowly walking up and down the narrow row between benches examining the mourners with calculated judgment. Seeing herself a sobbing incoherent mess, clinging to Harry, and witnessing a disguised Draco Malfoy sniggering into his hand at the back of the church was more than her fragile hold on reality could take.

Her parents brought her back to the home of her childhood and settled her in the bedroom where she'd first had the thought of Ron Weasley as anything other than a friend. For weeks, she refused to get out of bed and would not see any of her friends.

At last, Harry and Ginny forced their way into her bedroom and used a port-key to bring her to the new Cerebral Injury ward at St. Mungo's, where she'd been up until this morning.

During the morning examination, her Healer, a man called Dysart, unexpectedly declared her ready to rejoin - and function in - society once more. Hermione was just as glad for the short notice; it meant nobody else knew and therefore, there would be little fuss.

She stared out the car window at the snowy, slushy streets of London and counted the streets until the Ministry driver stopped outside the Leaky Cauldron. She stared numbly up at the rundown façade of the pub, and nearly jumped out of her skin when the driver pulled open her door and offered her his hand. Automatically she reached out and allowed herself to be extricated from the car. For a moment, the driver looked unsure what to do with himself; Hermione had no bag, as she hadn't needed one. After a moment of indecision, he silently tipped his hat to her, got back into his car, and slowly drove away.

Hermione stood and looked up at the gently swaying sign above the door, willing her feet to move. Her insides began to quiver and she felt herself begin to slide down the slippery slope towards what her healer called the Dark Place. She reached into her robes and sought out the comforting wood of her wand, worn from years of use but as potent as ever.

He's not gone on a long holiday.

He's dead.

Now be a big girl and go home.

She pulled the hood of her dark gray cloak up to hide her face and resolutely opened to door and stepped inside the warm pub.

A thirteen-year-old Ron sat at the bar, sharing a private joke with Harry and grinning from ear to ear.

Hermione shook her head and looked at the floor, not wanting to see Ron so vibrant, so young, and so invincible.

The bar was deserted. Even the little old landlord Tom was not visible. Hermione sighed in relief and hurried out back to the snowy little courtyard. She hesitated a moment before she tapped the third brick from the left, suddenly certain she was not ready for this.

He's dead, gone forever. You've got to keep living. Now open the bloody archway and go home.

Hermione held back a sad smile. The voice in her head had sounded a bit like Ron, just for a moment. Without further hesitation, she opened the archway, straightened her back, and stepped into the noisy wizarding street. She hurried, nearly jogging past Flourish and Blotts and the Magical Menagerie, not quite ready to deal with whatever ghosts of Ron might be waiting there for her.

She came to an abrupt halt outside Madam Malkin's Robe Shop, and looked up at the windows on the third floor, the windows to their - her - flat. She stood stock still with her arms hugging herself tightly and turned her face up, gulping ferocious gasps of air. Any moment, Ron would poke his heads through the curtains and scan the street below, and seeing her, his face would light up with a giant grin and he'd blow her a kiss.

No, he won't.

He's dead.

She dragged herself up the flights of stairs until, nearly out of breath; she stood outside the door to their flat.

Mr. and Mrs. R. Weasley, read the small placard on their door. Hermione blinked as a moment later, she stood staring at nothing but a scorch mark in place of the small sign, her wand shaking in her hand. Her gaze shifted down to a bundle of dried up flowers by the door. Not really curious, she bent down and picked up the bouquet of dark red roses and white poppies, looking in vain for a note. Flowers for mourning and consolation...somebody knew their Herbology. A slight smile twisted Hermione's face: Neville. For a moment, she wished she'd seen the bouquet before it dried up and died, but she appreciated the sentiment, all the same.

Feeling somewhat bolstered, she placed her hand on the door, which swung open as the spell recognized her touch.

At once, she'd wished she had never come. She backed out into the hallway, her hand trembling lightly at her throat. She swallowed heavily and felt tears prick her eyes as Ron's scent wafted through the open doorway. Hermione closed her eyes and wiped away the stray tears before taking a deep breath, choking back a whimper. She could do this; she had to do this.

Be strong, Hermione.

She did chuckle raggedly this time. How many times had Ron said that to her? It was no wonder she heard his voice echoing in her head now.

"Oh Ron, I'm trying," she moaned quietly.

It still wasn't real. At any moment, she expected him to pop into the room, full of exuberant energy. Even in sleep, Ron moved constantly, his legs kicking restlessly at the covers or his mouth shaping unspoken spells. At the funeral, he had been entirely too still, and not like Ron at all.

Well, he is dead. It wasn't as if he was going to jump up and perform a little jig.

Hermione frowned and stepped into the flat. She quietly shut the door behind her and swept her gaze around the tiny room. It was just as she remembered it being in the moments before she had answered the door, full of dread, and seen Harry.

With the curtains drawn and the dead Christmas tree in the corner, she was certain she'd never seen anything more depressing. The urge to leave the room as it was and retreat to the bedroom was almost unbearable, but Healer Dysart said that was counterproductive. She waved her hand and the curtains flew open. Dust motes danced in the sudden light.

Smashing down her desire to run from the room, Hermione stepped resolutely to the tree and removed three ornaments: the silver bell ornament from her childhood, Ron's special golden snitch ornament, and the one ornament they'd bought together of a darling little gingerbread house.

"One day, Hermione," Ron had whispered as together they'd hung the enchanted ornament. "One day, we'll have a house just like this, full of little bushy haired Weasleys."

Feeling tears stinging her eyes again, she traced her finger along the roofline, and pictured the little house flowing over with love. With a quiet whimper, she set the ornament on the mantle. Quietly she conjured a box for the others before she Vanished the tree and the brown needles littering the floor.

They'd meant to buy one ornament, every year for the rest of their lives. Hermione had never imagined the rest of their lives numbered one year.

With a low sob, she sank into Ron's chair at their little table. She buried her face in her hands and pressed her fingertips against her closed eyes, trying to hold the tears in.

"I can't do this," she wailed to the echoing little room.

I have to do this.

She brought her hands away from her face and looked despairingly around the small flat. Everywhere, things now orphaned, without an owner. Here, stacks of Quidditch magazines, and there, on the floor...a pair of discarded socks. Hermione had always needed to remind Ron not to leave his dirty socks everywhere. After a long day of work, Ron liked nothing better than kicking off his boots and peeling away his socks, regardless what she said. Hermione stared at the abandoned socks and felt fresh tears.

This was too hard, she decided. It was still too soon. The Weasleys offered her a place at the Burrow, but that would be even worse. She would have to return to Harry's spare bedroom. The matter decided, Hermione stood quickly and walked towards the door. As she reached for the doorknob, she noticed an unfamiliar box sitting on the table by the door.

She swallowed and struggled to breathe as she picked up the lightweight box and examined it. It bore the crest of the Ministry on the seal. The lid read, Personal Effects, Auror R. Weasley. Hermione felt light headed.

In the two months since Harry had shown up on her doorstep with that dreadful look on his face, Hermione's brain had been working at half speed. She hadn't considered where Ron's wand might have gotten to, nor any of the other tokens he carried with him on a daily basis. She sank to the floor, and held the box to her chest. This box, more than anything else, was Ron.

I can't do this, Ron. I can't.

But she found her trembling fingers breaking the seal and lifting the lid. Blankly she stared down into the tangle of possessions. Gingerly, she lifted his wand off the top of the pile and held it lovingly in her hands. Ron had been so proud of the new wand; willow, fourteen inches, unicorn tail hair. So many great things had been done with this wand. She waved it experimentally through the air but only managed to shoot a few weak sparks from the end. Feeling somewhat stupid, she brought the smooth wand to her lips and gently kissed it. Perhaps later, she would do a Priori Incantatem.

She carefully set the wand aside and pulled out his battered dragonhide boots. Hermione had offered to purchase him a new pair for Christmas, but he argued he'd had these boots on when they defeated Voldemort and he was going to wear them until they fell apart. Silly, stubborn man, she sighed. Why had they given her his boots? What on earth did they expect she would do with these?

Hermione reached deeper into the box and felt her hand brush the cool smooth side of the Moonstone amulet Ron wore for luck. Harry had given it to him the day of Ron and Hermione's wedding, saying he'd read somewhere it was good for promoting harmony and relaxation, and appreciation of others. Hermione had smiled wryly. She imagined Harry was thinking of their rather tumultuous relationship that had led them there.

The morning Ron left and never came back, he'd nearly forgotten the talisman. At the front door, he turned around and hurried back to the bedroom, where Hermione stood in front of the mirror, getting ready for work. After he scooped the amulet into his pocket, he'd paused, wrapped his arms around Hermione, and looked at the both of them in the mirror. He gently kissed her cheek and said, "You make me so happy."

Hermione had smiled and turned her face to catch his lips.

"Let's call in sick and go back to bed. You need your rest, after all," Ron had whispered in her ear.

Don't blame yourself. You didn't know.

Hermione clenched the amulet tightly in her hand and focused on breathing. Healer Dysart told her she mustn't blame herself for Ron's death. All the same, she'd never regretted anything more in her life than when she'd reluctantly told him she couldn't miss work that day.

Hermione looked into the box again and saw the small white envelope lying at the bottom. She broke the seal and peered inside. She sucked in a shocked breath. Ron's ring. She hadn't even noticed at the funeral that it wasn't on his finger. With a sad sigh, she slid it out of the envelope and held the shiny gold ring in her palm. She didn't need to look to see the words printed in gentle script on the inside: For thee, always. The same promise encircled her finger. She slipped it onto the chain with the amulet and looped it around her neck.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Hermione braved another look at the box. Her fingers closed around the last item, buried in the far corner of the box. She pulled out the bundle carefully wrapped in a blue handkerchief and held it close to her heart. She brought the long, thin bundle to her nose and inhaled Ron's earthy smell before carefully unwrapping it. The miniature Firebolt lifted off from her palm and hovered at eye level. This close, it was not difficult to read what she'd inscribed into the wooden handle.

Baby's First Broom.

She closed her eyes and smiled. Ron's face had been priceless when he'd opened this present on Christmas morning. He didn't notice the inscription at first, until Hermione pointed it out to him. Then he'd brought the small broom up to his face. His eyes had gotten enormous and he looked up at her, an incredulous smile on his face.

"Hermione, are you - you're pregnant?"

She nodded and he whooped excitedly, grabbing her in an enormous hug and swinging her around the room. "I'm going to be a father!" he'd shouted, grinning wildly. He dashed to the window and threw it open. "I'M GOING TO BE A FATHER!" he'd bellowed out into the street below. The rest of the morning, he'd talked excitedly about all the things they needed to do to get ready.

Now, Hermione carefully rewrapped the broom and tucked it into her pocket. She placed a steady hand on the slight bulge on her stomach and steeled herself. She had to keep going. She had to live. If she had to lose Ron, then she was going to make sure that his only son would have a good life.

Slowly she stood and gathered the boots. She placed them by the fireplace, where Ron kept them - "So they're nice and toasty," he'd say. With a long glance around the flat, she sank onto the couch. Her eyes briefly lit on the gingerbread house, the dirty socks, the chessboard set up by the fire, and at last the boots that had seen so much and had outlived their owner. Shivering slightly, she pulled a blanket from the back of the couch and curled up beneath it. She rested her hands on her stomach and rubbed. She blinked sleepily, suddenly worn out. Deciding to deal with the process of sorting through Ron's belongings another day, Hermione nestled down into the couch and closed her eyes. And just before she slipped into the welcome respite of sleep, she could have sworn she felt the gentlest brush against her cheek, the softest whisper in her ear.

She didn't know how, but she knew somehow, she could bear even this.