Losing Your Way

Losing Your Way

Where have the days gone?

I have lost count of the sunrises I've watched on nights where sleep would elude me. Yet there are moments when it doesn't seem like any time has passed at all. It seems more like time has stopped, simply frozen. Everything is cold. Or perhaps that's just the cold I feel inside me, a biting frost that runs like ice through my veins, into my bones. A bitter chill, the only proof I am still alive -- depending on your definition of alive.

The air is thick and salty with the spray of water from restless waves crashing on jagged rocks. I sit in silence and watch the insistent pulse of the tide. Wave upon wave roars and crashes, sprays and shatters, and disappears forever. The larger the wave, the bigger the crash and, inevitably, the bigger the disintegration. A white capped wave barrels towards me now and I eagerly await its destruction. Odd how such a beautiful sight leaves me with that sensation.

Most would look at the sunlight glistening on the water's face. Most would watch the ripples and vastness of the ocean and marvel at the intricacies of nature. I sit and watch the water swell and crash and vanish and I am somehow set at ease by it; by destruction and repetition and the consistency it brings with it. Somewhere I have forgotten how it feels to looks at something beautiful and treasure it for no other reason than the beauty that it holds.

Somewhere I got lost.

I'm not sure at what point it all changed for me. Perhaps too much time has passed since I've spoken to another human being. Maybe too much time has passed since I expressed an emotion other than detachment or vacuity or sorrow. Possibly because I know, in the end, the things I treasure most will be taken away from me and then I would be left with nothing; nothing but a hazy vapor covering my face and salty air burning my lungs.

The tide went out long ago, but I await its return. I remain rooted in the same spot until well after the sun has vanished over the horizon. I am unable to leave, unable to move. Silly, I know, but I'm scared. I have been comforted by these waves for six hours now, finding consolation in the fact that though they leave me, I know they will return. It is perpetual and unremitting. One of the few things I can depend on, really. The tide comes and crashes against the jagged rocks and then leaves, but it returns. It always returns. I need to see it return. I need to believe that it can happen. That just because something goes away does not mean it is gone forever.

As the sun returns so does the tide, and the day begins again. I have sat here for twenty-four hours, ignoring hunger and thirst and fatigue. I watch the dawn and the rebirth of the tide crashing on my jagged rocks and inhale the briny mist. It has all returned, just as it was the morning before -- just as I left it three years ago. It is all as I remember from that fateful day when the gods would play a cruel, cruel trick on an unprepared boy.

I can still see her standing there, the wind blowing her thick mane in all directions. I hear her laughter as she says my name, as she sits on the ground kicking sand at me. I remember those beautiful hands drawing pictures in that sand and the warm chocolate eyes that look up at me, making me forget everything else.

I can still smell the perfume she wore everyday, because sometime the year before I had told her that it reminded me of a meadow with wild flowers in the spring. It did. I carry around her handkerchief in my pocket, one left forgotten on the library table after a three hour study binge. And though the scent faded long ago I can still smell it. I take it out and hold it to my nose and suddenly the air is full of orchids and daisies and clover. In that instant, I can no longer smell the ocean air I have been breathing all day and night. I am surrounded by her hair, her laughter, her hands, and her scent.

They told me Hermione Granger was dead. They told me she died valiantly protecting my little sister from Draco Malfoy in his last attempt to cast some form of vengeance before it all fell apart, before Voldemort was destroyed and before the Darkness finally crumbled. I demanded to see her, to see her body for myself, if only to say goodbye. But there was no body to find. There was nothing left of her. She was gone. Through hex or charm or potion or fate, no one really knew. One minute she was confronting Draco and the next they were both gone, and the only witness, Ginny, was knocked unconscious and hurtled across the noxious battlefield.

They told me Hermione Granger was dead, but I refused to believe it. So I started looking for her. I began walking. I walked over the dead and the dying. I walked over friend and enemy. I walked over town and country and city and state. I walked for three years. I walked until there was no place for me to walk to anymore. Now I sit on the spot where we last spoke. I sit on the spot where I laid my heart out to the person to whom I wanted to give it since a chance encounter on a train a decade ago.

I made a promise that day on the beach. I promised that when it was all over we would be together. I promised forever.

And then she kissed me.

She reaffirmed all that I needed and wanted through a kiss so tender and loving that I thought I would die from the joy, that my heart would burst from the overwhelming emotion that rushed through it. Together we went with those we loved, into the battle that would decide our future and the future of a world that did not even realize it was in peril.

The last thing I remember was Harry coming up to me and telling me that it was over. Voldemort was dead....and so was Hermione. Nothing after that mattered.

So now I find myself at the spot where I last felt anything akin to happiness, looking for a reaffirmation of life through the futile repetition of wave and rock.

It is time to join the world I fought so hard to protect and sacrificed so much for. It is only fair to the family that I left without so much as a reason. It is only fair to those who survived, to finally live a life held in limbo because a tyrant and his disciples bade it so.

It is time to go home.

____________________________________________________________

I love you. Have I told you that today? I sit and think of your eyes. Are they sky blue? I'm not sure. Darker I think - cobalt perhaps. All I know is that they are the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen. They always seem to be laughing. Sometimes, I swear they mock me. Do you mock me? Do you realize that you are in my every waking thought? That I breathe for you?

Your smile is burned in my brain. Have I told you that today? A small, sweet, smile just for me. A mere fraction of a second in my life but enough to sear itself into my mind's eye and even now, a lifetime later, I can still see it. Even now, when it is just a faint but sweet memory, I can still see it. As clear as the heavens on a crisp autumn day I can see the smile that was my destruction and my salvation.

I look for you everywhere I go. Have I told you that today? A sea of strangers sweeps out before me. Nameless faces pass by and I search among them for you in some ridiculous hope that you will find me. That perhaps you are looking for me too. I can be walking around somewhere, not paying attention, when I see a man who resembles you in some remote way and suddenly my heart races and my hands shake. And then its not you, and I feel a horrible sense of loss and pain.

But I still hope. Somewhere. Sometime.

Do you ever think of me? Do you dream of me as I dream of you? Do you hear my voice in your head?

________________________________________________________________

It looks just as I remember it. The grass needs to be cut. The hedges need to be pruned. The paint is still chipping horribly around the third floor extension. The shutter on the kitchen window still hasn't been repaired. With its crooked floors and teetering additions, I am almost surprised that it is still standing. It survived two bouts with the Dark Lord and the likes of George and Fred; I shouldn't wonder that it is still here. How could a building that looks as if it were on the brink of collapse be so indestructible?

I resist the odd sensation that I should knock before entering. When did I become a stranger in my own home? My hand wraps around the handle and I pull. With a groan and a squeak it opens and I peer inside.

"Hello?" I am startled by the sound of my own voice, so deep and aged. When was the last time I spoke aloud? "Is anyone here?"

I am greeted by the sound of a falling plate and rushed footsteps. Before I can comprehend what is happening, a pair of vice-like arms encase me.

"Ronnie, my baby." My mother hasn't called be Ronnie since I was three. I always hated it, but for some reason find comfort in it now.

"Where have you been? Do you have any idea what you've put us through?" She tries her best to be the formidable Molly Weasley she always was, but the words that were suppose to be full of anger and indignation were weakened by a steady stream of tears.

Before I can answer, a gasp from the other side of the room catches my attention. I look up to find my sister, with a pale face and a swollen belly. Three years is a very long time.

"Ron," she says unable to stop the sobs that have started to wrack her small body. "Oh dear Merlin, you're home." She seems about to collapse and I pry myself away from my mother's arms to help her up. My arms wrap around her delicate frame and gently carry her to the sofa. She looks up at with eyes full of questions...and their answers. We always did have a special connection, Ginny and I.

"Whose?" I ask with a hand on the crest of her stomach. I think I know, but I must be sure.

"Harry's," she answered, unsure of how I am going to react.

I smile and she immediately relaxes. "I hope he had the decency to marry you first." She blushes. God, I missed this.

"We...we were married a little over a year ago. We....we wanted to wait for you but we weren't sure....we weren't sure you'd come back." There is anger in her hesitant voice. She's angry and I don't blame her. I left with little regard for how it affected the people around me, and it was cruel.

"Where is Harry?" I ask.

"He should be here soon. Everyone should be here soon. Ron....where were you?" There is such sorrow in her voice; I find my throat tightening and suddenly very dry.

"Later, I promise," I manage to choke out. "I just want to shower and change. Don't tell them I'm back. Give me time to get myself ready. I'll be down soon."

She nods and steps back. I give a last look to my mother who has finally stopped crying and is currently wringing a kitchen towel with nervous hands. I walk over to her and place a small kiss on her cheek. "I'm sorry," I whisper, "I'll explain later to everyone, I promise. I just need a little time now."

She nods and struggles to remain silent. I have seen that look before. She doesn't trust her voice to speak without breaking down. She doesn't trust herself to move without crushing me in her maternal arms. She is trying to maintain some semblance of control. It is the first time in my life I have seen her succeed.

I slowly make my way upstairs. I notice some new faces on the wall by the staircase. Little children I have never seen before, pictures of weddings I did not attend. My family has grown in my absence. The rest of the world kept going. I find that thought heartbreaking. It should have stopped. The world ended three years ago, why hasn't it acknowledged as much?

I turn to my room and am relieved to find it is as I left it. I am not sure how I would have reacted if it had changed as well. I grab some clothes and head for the shower. My lumbering feet shuffle down a well worn path on the russet carpet of the hallway. How many times have I walked down this corridor in my lifetime? A thousand? Ten thousand? I can't help but feel that this is the first time I've really ever seen it. The cracks in the wall that were a reminder of my meager finances as a child, cracks that I chose to ignore because of some distorted sense of pride, I look at now with nostalgia of a simpler time. Those cracks, that once cut into my ego like knives, cracks through which pretension and vainglory bled, now soothed my burning skin. Three years is too long to be without a home.

After a hot shower and some fresh clothes I feel human again, though not really as prepared as I would have hoped for the interrogation I was sure was awaiting me. They have a right, I remind myself. They have a right to know why I left and where I went, though I find myself really unsure of how to answer them.

How do I explain I was lost? How do I explain that I spent three years looking for my life? How can bring myself to even say her name? How do I keep my heart from breaking each time I think of her? How do I maintain some semblance of control? Perhaps three years is not nearly long enough?

I hear the murmur of voice downstairs. It is time. With a deep breath and a hard swallow, I make my way toward the voices.

I am greeted by disbelieving eyes and silence. "Hello," I whisper to the room full of shocked faces and immobile bodies. They stand frozen and somewhat afraid, I think. Are they looking at a dream, a mirage, a ghost? Is it really...? Can it be...? At some point a small child has taken tentative steps towards me. She can't be more than two years old. She says nothing but places a tiny hand on my leg and smiles up at me. And I smile back. That smile seems to be the catalyst as the floodgates open and the deluge begins.

Within seconds, I am caught up in the arms of my father. There are voices swirling around me. There are questions. Accusations. There is joy. Anger. Confusion. There are hands on my arms. Grasping my face. Rubbing my hair.

And then it stops. One by one they are silenced. One by one they step back. One by one they clear a path in front of me. By the front door, a trail of tears running from red-rimmed green eyes, stands Harry Potter. Ironically enough this was the confrontation I was dreading. Not facing my parents or my brothers or even my old life, but facing Harry Potter. His mouth is slightly agape as he walks towards me. He stops in front of me and stares, looking in my eyes, as though making sure I am real. He reaches his arms out and I stiffen. I think I expected a punch, but instead I find myself in a trembling embrace. "It's about time," remarks a shaken voice, and the steadfast resolve in which I have encased myself, shatters. I find myself sobbing. My knees give way beneath me and I start to fall. I can't seem to breathe and have somehow forgotten how to talk.

I have I think I would have preferred if he punched me. It would have hurt less.

____________________________________________________________

I just want to look at you. Does that sound insane? I suppose so, but it's all I want really. To be able to watch you talking to a friend and hear the timbre of your voice. If I am lucky, perhaps a laugh. I want to watch you run your fingers through your hair. Your red hair. Red? Orange? I'm not sure. I was always too scared and too nervous to look directly at you. As if you were the sun during an eclipse and one glance would blind me for a lifetime. I want to say all this face to face, but I can't, and it pains me in ways you could never comprehend. Perhaps in another place and time. Another life, maybe. Perhaps, if I were a different person and so were you, it could work. It could, couldn't it?

Am I fooling myself? Are these just the ramblings of some silly girl who has no chance of ever realizing a dream...no a fantasy...no a desperate hope of something else?

I hate myself for wanting you. For needing you. For allowing you to have so much of my heart. For loving you. I can't love you. I shouldn't. But I find that I do - and that love fills every cell in my body, every ounce of my being. It surrounds me completely, cradling... drowning me in a sweet serenity.

I miss you. Haven't seen you in a long while. I need to see you, to feel my heart race and my blood burn like lava flowing through my veins. I need to see you to prove that I am alive because otherwise I am dead. Dead from not being able to touch you and hold you and feel you near me. To hear that voice and occupy the same air that you do.

Why do you make me so weak? What is this power you have over me? When did I hand you my heart? Why did you hand it back?

_________________________________________________________________

Time passes by so quickly.

To hear all that has happened in the world leaves me amazed that it had only been three years.

The war ended and the world went on.

Mum contacted Charlie and Bill, and they flooed to the Burrow with their families to see me. I looked around the crowded living room at curious new faces and the familiar ones altered by worry and time, and I found myself overwhelmed by the sheer capacity of progress and change.

I tried to concentrate on what was being said, but the words started to jumble together in a wave of sound, and I was left merely picking up bits and pieces of news.

Charlie married Marta, a girl he met in Romania. They had a daughter, Veronica, Ronnie for short. My heart seized upon hearing that, and as if she knew, this tiny child just learning to take steps, toddles over to me and squeals with joy upon reaching my bended knee. I pull her up to my lap and stroke her chin only to have her pull my thumb into her mouth and bite down. I want to speak, to introduce myself to this small bundle that seems to have found a very comfortable home on my leg and is using my hand as a teething ring, but I cannot. I am left staring at her large hazel eyes.

Someone else is talking.

Bill is introducing me to his new wife, Elizabeth who everyone calls Beth. They were married last November and are currently living in Greece where Gringotts has transferred him. He hopes to get a position in London as he and Beth are thinking of starting a family, and they want to be closer to home.

George and Fred have opened their third joke shop, finally entering Hogsmeade. Fred has just proposed to Angelina Johnson, and not to be outdone by this twin, George is engaged to Katie Bell. They are planning a dual ceremony next fall.

Percy and Penelope married just before the war ended and now have a two year old daughter, Eleanor and a newborn son, Arthur. I try to remember where I was when they were born, trying to link my fractured existence to their lives, trying to anchor myself to a reality in which I feel like an intruder. Eleanor walks over to me again, a little more confidently than she did when I first emerged from the stairs, and demands placement on my free knee. Ronnie refuses to give up her spot but is more than happy to make room for her cousin. I balance them on my legs, savoring the closeness of family and the phenomenon of birth and rebirth when I realize Percy is still talking. He is the Deputy Minister of Magic under the new regime and a newly appointed Minister, namely my father. I look at Dad and smile. The glint of pride in his eyes is mirrored in my own.

Percy continues to talk on about his duties and the state of the Ministry, but I really don't listen. I know it's unfair but some things will never change, I smile at the notion.

The voice has changed. Harry is speaking. The rest of the room is silent as he speaks. Even the children sitting playfully in my lap seem to give him their undivided attention. I wonder if it just the power he possesses that commands the room so, or if it is perhaps the things they are looking for him to say because no one else has the courage to.

Harry was teaching Defense at Hogwarts and Ginny was going to take over the Muggle Studies classes in the spring, after the baby is born. They had married about a year ago. Harry had a hard time coping with the world, especially with his best friends ...not there. He turned to Ginny. A friendship grew into love and they married. I am left a bit dizzy by those words - a friendship grew into love - and do all I can to keep from falling. I concentrate on Eleanor's tight red curls, losing myself in the color and texture of the soft tresses and the way they twist and turn. I study the individual strands, focusing on them, nearly counting them. Anything, to not feel what I am feeling.

I blink.

I think I spoke at different intervals of this conversation. I am pretty sure I said "congratulations" more than a few times and possibly a "that's wonderful." I may have even ventured towards an "I'm so happy for you," but underlying it all is an apprehension of what comes next.

"What else has gone on?" I find myself asking and suddenly no one wants to speak. It is Harry who begins to tell me of the rest of the world.

Remus is currently lobbying for Werewolves rights in the wizarding community. His status as a War Hero and the sympathy of the current Minister of Magic, is helping make great strides.

Sirius's name finally did get cleared.

Seamus and Lavender got married. Lee Jordan writes for the Daily Prophet and Hannah Abbot runs a home for children orphaned after the war.

Harry's voice starts to tremble as he continues.

Dumbledore didn't make it. Neither did Flitwick, Hooch, Sprout or Hagrid. McGonagall is the new Headmistress and Snape is the new Deputy Headmaster, despite losing his eyesight during a particularly difficult battle. Harry tells me not to worry, that being given the Order of Merlin for decades of spy work has done nothing to sweeten the Potions master's disposition, and I find myself grateful for the reliability of the old bat.

Oliver Wood died a hero, as did Neville and half our year. I am suddenly facing flashes of rumpled bodies and lifeless faces, thrust back to a scorched battlefield, covered in smoke and the taste of bitter copper in my mouth. I am stirred from my reverie by a newly cut tooth in my niece's mouth introducing itself to my knuckle and find consolation in the pain it brings.

I come to the realization that no one is talking now. They all look at me and each other expectantly. Harry has paused, and his green eyes rapidly blink at me.

There is more he wants to tell me. I can see it in his eyes. Even after all this time I can read him like a book. No, like a brother. He can't go on until I tell my story though. He is afraid to say whatever it is until he knows that I am prepared to hear it. But I will never be ready, Harry. Don't you see? Though the rest of the world went on, time stopped for me and be it three years or three minutes I wouldn't know the difference. Space and time mean nothing when one is hollow on the inside. But they have been patient and they have been fair and it is time for me to speak. I just hope I can find the words to explain where I've been.

-----------------____________________________________________________________________

It's been such a long time. Days? Months? Years? I'm not sure I remember anymore. Time has ceased to be. Faces have lost their meaning to me. Colors mesh in a kaleidoscope of hues and tints and light and dark. Words have become nothing but indistinct sounds, as though I have been listening to them in my sleep. Like some old lullaby one hears as child, remembered in the places of the mind that stores the emotions the words are supposed to contain.

Everything is hazy now except your face. That I still see. A photograph frozen in my mind. I wonder now if I didn't dream the whole thing. If I didn't dream my whole existence. Or yours. At some point reality changed.

We used to fight. We used to pretend, but it was never false, only hidden. That makes sense to me though I can't really explain why.

I remember a place, a school. Was I a student or a teacher?

The staircases shifted. The pictures on the walls moved. Is that what I am? A figure trapped in a portrait hanging on the wall, trapped in bits of paint and canvas? No, I was alive once. I am almost sure of that. I had name once. So did you.

There were ghosts in the hallways. Is that it? Am I a ghost?

________________________________________________________________

My name is Ronald Arthur Weasley. That is probably the only thing I am sure of anymore.

There are countless eyes looking at me now. They want answers, but I don't have any. I went looking for answers and found none. But I can't tell them this. They wouldn't understand, anyway. Instead, I start to tell a story to try to make my family comprehend why I had to leave, why I had to go looking for her. Why I lost three years of my life trying to find her.

Once upon a time there was a boy named Ron and a girl named Hermione and they were friends. He was the sixth son of an old wizarding family. She was the only child of two Muggles who had no idea what a wizard was. He had a quick temper. She had a quick mind. He played Quidditch. She read books. And they quarrelled about everything.

After years of fighting a wicked Dark Lord, they realized they loved each other. Somewhere between the quarrels, the sixth son of an old wizarding family, with the quick temper who played Quidditch and the only child of a pair of Muggles, with the quick mind, who read books, fell in love.

One day on a beach, just before the pivotal battle during a ruthless war, they proclaimed their love and they kissed. It was their only kiss. One brief moment burned into his consciousness, consuming him. Through that kiss he was born and through that kiss he died. All at once he truly understood the words sacred, blessed, and eternal.

He promised that after the war they would be together. He promised that from that day on and for the rest of his life he would devote himself to loving her and caring for her. He gave her a thin golden band he inscribed with the words "Forever yours, Ron" on the inside. And told her he meant it.

I promised her forever.

They told me she was dead but there was no body. There was nothing for me to mourn but the memory of a girl who smelled of orchids and daisies and clover. I needed to say goodbye and I would travel to the ends of the world to do it. I looked everywhere I could for any trace of her or what happened to her. I can't tell you how I survived, but I did. I found kindness in the homes of people all too familiar with loss and pain.

Then, one day I realized I had no where else to go. I had looked everywhere I could but there was nothing. There was nothing to tell me what happened to her or where she went.

She had no family left. There was no one who would look for her, and I couldn't let that happen. I made a promise, you see. Not only to her but also to myself.

A long time ago I met a girl on a train, and she got under my skin in a way I did not think was possible. I fell in love. I don't know when it happened, but it did. This girl became my world, for nothing existed outside of her. Her eyes. Her smile. Her hair. Her scent.

I found myself prodding her to fight, just so I could see the fire in her eyes and the flush of her cheeks as she screamed at me. I shouldn't have provoked her so, but I was a child in love, and it seemed the right thing to do.

My day began when I saw her face and ended as she walked up the stairs to her dormitory.

I needed to go looking for that girl. I needed to find her to save myself. It was self preservation really, for without her I am dead.

She was everything, and then she was gone, and my world vanished before my eyes. I might as well have lost an arm or a leg. I'll never feel whole again.

I am not sure why I came home. I still don't think she's dead, just lost. And I still plan to look for her. But something told me I needed to be here now. Something told me I needed to be home, that I was away for too long.

There are countless eyes looking at me now. They want answers, but I don't have any.

Harry walks over to me slowly, and very gently takes the children from my lap. They do not protest but look at me strangely, almost pitiably.

Harry then pulls up a chair and looks at me. His voice is a strangled whisper. "About two months after the battle ended we found Draco Malfoy's body. Someone used the killing curse, but we don't know whom. We could find nothing that told us what happened. All he had on him was this."

Harry opened his shaking hand to reveal a thin golden band inscribed with the words "Forever yours, Ron" on the inside.

And the world went black.

_____________________________________________________________________

I hear voices. I know I do. I often suppose I hear people talking around me, crying even, but I am sure of it now. It is not my imagination. I can sense movement around me. Someone is here with me where I am. I need to let them know I am here.

Maybe it's the boy with the mocking eyes. The one I love. The one who left.

No. That's not right. I thought he left but he didn't. I did. I left. Or was lost. Or was taken away. I was taken away. But where am I now?

What happened to me?

His face appears before me again. Soft blue eyes with wavy red hair hanging over them. He is tall and lanky. He loves me. He loves me. He loves me.

His name is Ron. Ron. Where are you, Ron?

_______________________________________________________________________

"Ron."

_______________________________________________________________________

My eyes fly open and I find myself lying in my bed. I am covered in sweat and the muscles in my neck are cinched in a ball of agony and pressure. I nervously look around to gauge where I am. I am home. In my home. On my bed. In my old clothes. Clutched in my hand is a ring. Then I remember. Malfoy's body. Hermione's ring. My destruction. But something is different.

I heard her.

I heard her call my name. She was calling me. Damn it, I heard her call me.

I jump out of bed and my first thought is to run, to find that voice, but I stop. I just came home. Whatever I heard, I can't abandon them like this again.

I go to Ginny's old room hoping that they stayed the night. I open the door to find my sister and her husband curled up into each other. They look so peaceful and content. The thought of waking him hurts me. What right do I have to involve them in all this. This is my life I am fighting for. Then I realize - it is my life that I am fighting for. If anyone would be there for me it would be Harry. If anyone would be by my side to fight for me, it would be my friend. My brother. I reach my hand out, and I touch him on the shoulder.

His eyes open instantly, questioning me.

"I heard her voice. She called to me. She's still alive."

When I say it I realize how absurd it must sound. I am terrified by the notion that he will probably tell me that I imagined the whole thing, and that I was only torturing myself by looking for something that wasn't there. I expect him to tell me to go back to sleep, that I have been through a lot, and I should rest my body and my mind.

He doesn't say anything. He slowly disentangles himself from Ginny, careful not to wake her, and gets dressed. He scribbles a quick note and leaves the room. I follow. The next thing I know we are downstairs and he is asking me questions.

"What did she say?"

"Did she sound far?"

"Was she in pain?'

I answer.

"Ron."

"No, she sounded very close."

"I don't know. I don't think so. But she sounded weak."

He grabs his wand and walks over to me. He takes my hand. "I want you to concentrate on what you heard. Try to remember her voice. Forget anything else but the sound of that voice and her words to you."

I obey. It's easy enough. I empty my mind of everything clouding it and I concentrate on Hermione's voice and the one spoken word that echoes repeatedly through my mind in endless succession. I hear the soft, frightened call in a voice that was scratchy but unmistakably Hermione's. I suddenly feel the world dissolve around us and realized Harry as disapparated us both.

The world disappears and re-emerges in front of me. We are in a forest in the middle of nowhere, as the first rays of morning sun fill the sky. We start to walk. I know where to go. She is leading me there. We come to a small cottage covered in vines and ivy.

I knock.

Nothing.

I knock again.

Silence.

I knock again and say a prayer to any god who might be listening.

The sound of sluggish footsteps against a hard floor reaches my ears, and it is glorious, like the song sung by a choir of angels. I nearly weep.

The door opens to reveal an elderly man trying to brush off the remnants of sleep from his aged face.

"Who...What do you want?"

"I'm Ron," is all I think to say, and his face lights up.

"We were wondering when you'd get here." He steps aside and we enter the small house.

An elderly woman, presumably his wife, is currently shuffling around making tea. "You came. We're so happy to have you."

"Where is she?" I wonder why I sound so calm when my head is spinning, and my knees are about to buckle. My mind is swirling around me and I am doing all I can to keep from collapsing in a puddle on the floor in this cottage in the middle of nowhere.

"Follow me," she says smiling sympathetically.

She leads us through a short corridor to a door. My heart is beating so quickly I can feel it pulse and push against my ribcage. A door opens in front of me.

I see a bed covered in a white blanket. In that bed is a girl, sleeping. Red and orange drops of dawn reflect off pallid porcelain skin.

I fall on my knees where I stand, reminding myself that I need to keep breathing. Telling my heart it has to keep beating. I stare at her while voices speak behind me.

I have the inexplicable sensation that Harry is asking what happened and the little man is answering.

Many years ago a boy brought her here. He was pale with silvery hair and grey eyes. He told us to protect her; that Ron would come for her someday. The only other thing they remember is that when they laid her down her ring fell to the floor. The silver and grey boy picked it up and clutched it in his hand, looking at the girl for a long time. Then he left.

Malfoy. One last act of malice, hiding her away from the rest of the world. That doesn't seem right. More likely, one last chance at redemption. One last shot at salvation. I wonder briefly if it was at the hands of a former comrade that he met his end, or perhaps his own.

Somewhere behind me, they are still talking.

She didn't speak, they said. She just smiled quietly and went about her day. Alice -- they called her Alice -- was a lovely girl. She sat around the house and was no bother at all. They used to think that perhaps she was mentally disabled, but every once in a while she would have a glimmer of something in her eyes that said she was there. Inside. Hiding maybe, or lost.

She didn't interact with anyone. They used to take her into a nearby town hoping that the people would awaken something in her, but nothing happened. She went through the motions of life without actually living. It was like she was empty. They weren't even sure if she realized where she was. Then, just last night for the first time she stirred, and for a second, a glimmer of life entered her eyes. She spoke. She said, "Ron" and instantly fell asleep.

They thought that meant it was time. It was time for Ron to come get her.

Harry places a stabilizing hand on my shoulder and asks them if we could have a moment. As soon as they leave he walks over to where Hermione is lying and looks at her. He says something about Muggles. So, they were Muggles. He said something else about a spell, the Exanimatus Charm.

I have a vague recollection of some class we had as children. Memories spring forth in the form of words from another life. Separates the soul from the body. Body functions. Mind is dormant. Separates the mind from the body buying time, in order to heal otherwise fatal wounds.

He is trying to remember how to reverse it. He is talking about speaking to McGonagall or Remus. He goes on and on, but I stop listening. I know how to reverse it. I know how to wake her. My breathing has steadied and my heart is calm and placid. I stand and walk past him. I reach the side of her bed and look at the face that hasn't changed a bit from the last time I looked upon it. I kneel before her and slowly lean. As gently as I can manage, I press my lips against hers.

Through that kiss he died and through that kiss he was born.

I pull back and watch her wake. She sighs and long, dark eyelashes flutter open. She stares at me and I can see realization and comprehension enter her eyes. I see life. I see the girl on the train, the girl on the beach, the one who smelled of orchids and daisies and clover.

"Ron," she says in a voice hoarse from disuse, nourishing starved ears. "What's happened? Where have I been?"

There is so much to say, so much to explain, and so much I will never be able to explain because some answers are never meant to be found. But none of that matters now.

"Lost," I say simply. "You were lost. But I found you. I finally found you."

She smiles at me. "I want to go home," she whispers.

Yes, all that matters now is that we are together, that she is in my arms. And we have forever to ask questions and search for answers.

Forever.

Finis