Another Beginning

Cool, plump rain drops slid swiftly down his pale, freckled face, clinging momentarily on the tip of his long, red nose, before free-falling to the soaked earth below. Each drop hit the hot, damp ground with a steady pitter pat, the light tap combined with the strong, natural smell of hot moisture of the grass and the soil. It was the beat to which the moans of loss and despair found its pace and rhythm. It went unnoticed. He only had his sight.

His swollen blue eyes were hot and glazed over with bitter, salty tears that dripped down, mingling and mixing with the precipitation. His head was throbbing intensely, and his nose was so stuffed with grief that he gasped and panted with difficulty through his mouth. The numbness he had possessed ebbed away, and suddenly, unwillingly, he could feel once more. The pain that welled in his chest had clenched its iron grip around his faintly beating heart and begun to squeeze out all of what little life, love, and hope it had. He trembled violently against the sticky humidity of June as if he were surrounded by a hundred soul-sucking Dementors.

He mused to himself. A Kiss was a reasonable option. Maybe it was better to be an empty shell without a soul, without an identity, rather than endure human pain. He focused all of his energy on bringing back that numbness. He wanted to dip back in the ignorant nothingness of denial. His eyes looked past the rain and the mass of mourners to the six hollow, mahogany coffins that lined the graveyard.

It wasn't right, he thought, that his friends, his mentors, his own brother to rest for eternity in the ground. Much like both life and death, the ground was dark and cold. He didn't want any more of that for them. He wanted light and warmth and love. But this was the foolish hopes from a small, wide-eyed, and naive child; someone he didn't know anymore. It was amazing how quickly he had lost innocence. It was equally astonishing that no matter what he wanted, he would never get that back.

He felt the pressure on his right hand tighten. Then, two arms were wrapped around his waist, holding on for dear life.

"R-Ron." Her shaking and heartbreaking moan met his ears. He somehow managed to look down at the soaking wet Hermione Granger. Her chocolate eyes, puffy and swimming in tears, met his, asking him in that one word, his name, to make it better. He stared at her helplessly. She looked away and buried her face into his sopping wet chest, hugging him closer and closer to her. Her body shook with sorrow, her wails muffled, yet heard. He wrapped his own arms around her and tried to bring her closer. They both longed for that physical and emotional closeness. Yet, somehow, the world had taken that too.

For the first time, he looked around at those who came. He and Hermione stood beside Bill and Fleur, Charlie, Percy, Ginny, and his parents. Bill held Fleur to him as Ron held Hermione, wailing to the heavens as Fleur shuddered against him. Charlie had one arm wrapped tightly around the small, defeated frame of Ginny. Both hugged each other tightly, hoping that their touching could somehow bring their brother back. Ginny's long, auburn hair clung to her pink cheeks as the rain poured and poured. Percy stood beside his father. Both had removed their glasses from their eyes and had one hand over them, possibly to block out the sight...the reality of what was before them. The family made the most gut-wrenching sounds of agony that tore at his heart, their sniffs and shallow breaths filling the summer air.

Mrs. Weasley, on the other hand, was quite still and silent. Aside from the constant rain, her eyes, though bloodshot, remained dry. Her face was pale, her lips thin, and she looked ill. Her grief seemed to be beyond any outer manifestation. She looked on toward the casket, unblinkingly, and watched. She had lost a child. Whether or not she could accept that, was insignificant. It was done. Her heart was broken, and it would never fully mend until the day she was in her own casket.

Kneeling beside the casket on the muddy earth was George Weasley. His hand stroked the wood, his drenched red head leaning against it. His tears were silent and empty. There seemed to be nothing left for him to feel. To lose a twin, was to lose a part of yourself. With Fred, a piece of George had died, and it was never going to come back. The George Weasley that they had all known would never recover, would never come back. He would never be the same again. The iron grip tore his heart once again, and Ron found it physically painful to watch his once joyful brother act in such a way. He looked away.

It was then that he realized that Fred had not been the only one they had lost in the war. Across the cloudy graveyard, through the gray sheet of rain, stood Andromeda Tonks and Rubeus Hagrid. They stood there, staring at four coffins lined up next to each other.

Hagrid towered over the woman, howling at the top of his voice, shaking his surroundings as he blew his nose over and over into his tablecloth-sized handkerchief.

Ron never fully realized how much he cared for and admired Hagrid until then. He was such a big man with a fierce heart. He was so genuine and so real. He wore his heart on his sleeve and saw nothing wrong with this. To be that open and honest was a gift, for he never pretended to be strong or brave for anyone. He was comfortable with himself.

Like Molly, Andromeda was beyond grief. She looked on the grave of her husband, Ted, her daughter, Nymphadora, and her son-in-law, Remus silently, calmly, and couldn't really comprehend that she was alone. Or was she?

A mass of turquoise hair, matted down with moisture, stuck out from the coat. Teddy Lupin squirmed and whined in his grandmother's arms. He did not care for the rain on his dry clothes. Andromeda tried to calm her grandson, rocking back and forth, her eyes never leaving the caskets. They just sat there, waiting to be lowered into their new home.

Ron felt a twinge of jealousy towards the child. The cries he omitted were those of discomfort, not of loss or pain or grief. Oh, to be that innocent once more, Ron thought to himself. The child would one day wonder why he had no parents, but would he ever truly feel the pain of losing them? Would it ever hurt the way Ron was hurting? He would never know. The only one who could relate to that would be...

"R-Ron-n?" Hermione's call asked him once more. She looked up at him with weepy eyes, and he responded with a grunt. "W-Wher-re's-s H-Harr-ry?"

Ron immediately searched his surroundings. It did not take long to find him. He was yards away from the rest of them, standing in the rain, staring down at yet another lonely casket, all by himself. Ron let out a shaky sigh, coughing and sputtering through more unshed tears, and slowly guided Hermione off toward their friend, hand in hand.

No one watched them go except the two brown eyes of one Ginny Weasley. Yet, she did not make a move to join them. She moved even closer to Charlie, understanding that the three of them needed that time together. It was significant. And that was okay. That was good. That was right.

Ron and Hermione slowly managed to reach Harry, the grass squishing beneath their feet. Once they were close enough, they saw that Harry's tears were unyielding, his breaths coming in sputters as he gazed almost longingly at Severus Snape's grave.

"Hey--" Ron cleared his voice for a moment, his throat dry, his mouth slimy from the lack of use and the cascade of tears. He found his voice once more. "Hey, how are you doing?"

Harry didn't answer.

"H-Harry," Hermione sobbed. She reached out her free hand and grasped Harry's gently. He didn't pull away.

"He...He saved me," Harry said, his tone somewhat bitter. "He saved my life so many times. And I never believed..."

"Don't," Ron said gruffly, putting his free hand on his shoulder. "Don't do that to yourself. You'll only drive yourself mad."

"But..." Harry began.

"No," Ron said. Harry's emerald eyes met Ron's blue ones. "Listen. Snape may have saved you, but you don't owe him anything. Remember: He loved your mum, not you."

"Ron!" Hermione whispered, sounding terrified. Harry kept his eyes on him, obviously startled by this proclamation.

"Thanks," he muttered to Ron. "That makes me feel loads better."

"I'm not trying to make you feel better, mate," Ron said, squeezing Harry's shoulder. "I'm trying to make you see that even though he protected you, he did it for your mum. Not you. No matter what may have happened, he always treated you unfairly, always hated you. He may be a hero, but...you don't owe him a single thing."

Harry turned to Hermione, but she stood up a bit taller.

"I agree with Ron," she said, controlling her voice, her diaphragm giving a small spasm. "Don't do this to yourself. You can't change it. No one can."

"That's right," Ron nodded once more. "You just have to live. Live your life. Live everyday. That's what your mum and dad would have wanted. That's just how Sirius and Dumbledore and Lupin and Tonks and Mad-Eye would have wanted it. And I can tell you right now that Fred would be insulted and mortified if you stopped living, Harry."

"I just wish..." Harry began once more, but Hermione squeezed his hand gently, quieting him.

"Shh. Stop it. Remember what Dumbledore told you? 'It does not do to dwell on dreams, Harry, and forget to live.'"

The three of them stood silent, holding onto each other in a group hug. Ron closed his eyes, listening to the rain on the earth, the breathing of the three of them. They would be okay. One day, they would be okay. For now, they would cry; mourn for those who they had lost. Then, they would find a way to celebrate; celebrate the lives of the deceased, and the lives of those to come. Harry Potter had saved them, and he had been a part of that.

As they stood there in their huddle, their hearts beat as one. Ron could already feel his mending in spite of what had happened only days before. He felt Hermione's arms around him. He felt Harry's hug. He felt alive for the first time in days.

It was the three of them. It always would be. And that was the only thing at that moment that was certain, that was true, that was real. Ron gave a small chuckle to himself. They had been through so much. He had never imagined that any of the things that had happened over the past seven years would happen to him--Not even when they met.

It was funny, he thought to himself. It had all began on that train: With a poor, red-headed boy with a big family and an even bigger heart; a bushy-haired, bossy, brainy know-it-all with courage and compassion; and the famous Boy Who Lived who was just looking for somewhere to belong. Ron respected his best friend so much. No matter what anyone said or thought, Harry had proven himself to be much more than the boy with the lightning bolt scar.