Not Over

The whole pharmacy is here, sitting on top of the mahogany nightstand in their airtight, impenetrable, child proof, brown containers.

Seroquel, Zoloft, Zanax.

Twenty milligrams twice a day, fifty milligrams once a day, 150 milligrams twice a day. It's amazing I don't overdose. Then again, I could just mix up the pills and say I got confused. Maybe I wouldn't make it to the hospital this time.

Slowly, I push down the lid of a big, fat bottle, spinning my palm counter-clockwise to get the top off. The pills are tiny. It's hard to believe just a few of these put me in the hospital a few weeks ago. The purple pills.

I hate the hospital.

Last time they kept me for eight days for "observation." Really, they wanted to stare at me through a one-way mirror to see whether or not I'm nuts. Then the doctors get together and agree that I am, give me more meds, and send me on my way.

I'm not crazy. It's just the meds.

They're supposed to make me feel better.

I don't want to take them. I don't want to feel better. I want to be with him.

It was the summer after fifth year that Ronald Weasley finally got the courage to tell me how he felt. I felt nauseous from all of the butterflies that were fluttering around in my stomach - there must have been thousands of little things dancing inside me when he said he loved me.

It seems so childish that all of my being seemed to rest on those simple words. He loved me, and I loved him. I didn't say anything for a while; I was too shocked my feelings were reciprocated to respond. He almost took this the wrong way, almost took it to mean I didn't feel anything for him.

I remember his face was flushed red, right to the tips of his ears. He looked like a giant tomato. But as much as I wanted to, I couldn't speak, so I did the only thing I could.

I kissed him.

I, Hermione Granger, made the first move.

It was peaceful, and sweet, and powerful and passionate, and everything that a first kiss should be.

Oh we still fought. That was impossible to avoid. We often butted heads, but we always made up. It sounds corny but we just loved each other too much to stay mad. Not that we could or wanted to. A war was raging, one led by an evil wizard who meant to kill those of non-magical blood, people like my parents, and like me.

The war was always on our doorstop.

The day we graduated, Voldemort attacked, but we escaped. There were many casualties - Neville Longbottom, Padma Patil, even Charlie Weasley were among them - but Harry, Ron and I came out alive. The day that Ron proposed, the Dark Lord took over the Ministry of Magic. Fudge didn't stand a chance. Shortly after, the Order of the Phoenix launched a counter-offensive. Voldemort was killed, and the Wizarding world was safe. But we lost that battle. I lost the battle. I lost Ron.

I need to stop thinking about this.

I grab the next bottle, a small, slim bottle. It's the Seroquel. Just what I need right now. Needless to say, I lost it after Ron died. I had already lost my parents, and a lot of my friends. And Ron was always there. A part of my thought he would never leave.

Harry and Ginny had me chucked into St. Mungo's with the rest of the nut cases following the funeral. They gave me some potions and sent me on my way. It didn't work. I didn't get better. So here I am. Nothing, nowhere.

I know Harry wants me to get better, but I can't. I'm an empty shell. Ron was a part of me. He held my soul, and I can't live without that. I don't exist without him.