Proof of Concept

Rating: PG-13 for angst and adult themes.

Title: Proof of Concept

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters, settings, and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling as published by, including and not limited, to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The use of these characters and settings is for entertainment purposes only; no infringement is intended or should be inferred. Additionally, locations in and around the United Kingdom are used as a basis for "historical reality" or in a purely fictitious manner.

Spoiler Alert: Books 1-5.

Summary: Somehow, someway, we are all together. I never put it into so many words, but it’s this moment...this is the moment that I live for.

Pairings: Harry/Hermione

Author's Notes: Harry and Hermione is referenced. It is more a character study of Ron Weasley and how things might be should he have feelings for Hermione. It is not a happy piece at the onset. No comments or reviews are necessary.

Onus probandi.

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PROOF OF CONCEPT

[] IS IT BIGGER THAN A BREADBOX, CAN YOU HOLD IT IN YOUR HAND?

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I couldn’t wait.

You wouldn’t have listened.

I didn’t think that you would, at any rate.

I never said a word to you or Hermione about that.

You used to follow your instincts. That tactic never quite worked for me.

No, it just never worked for me. Could be that I didn’t really have much in the way of instincts. I was driven on by emotion. Gut feelings. I s’pose some might call that instinct. Hermione would call it always thinking with my stomach, food or no.

You were always the stronger one, Harry. In that silent, resilient way. You had loads to complain about, but it wasn’t until the world conspired to break you that you ever said anything. Silent but strong. I know that you would hate that.

Quietly observing everything, even though sometimes it didn’t immediately register. Like Hermione’s love for you. But I reckon it was made just a bit easier for you, though. Noticing nothing.

I thought that was reserved only for me, mate. Noticing nothing.

Now, here I am, noticing nothing again.

Now I’m lying on a table.

Is it a bed?

Is it a table?

It’s bloody cold in here. And bright. And white.

I don’t like it.

You won’t look at me. You keep staring at...something on the wall just above me. I dunno what you are looking at, though. I can’t move my head to follow.

Hermione has her face nearly buried in a book. I can just see that from my periphery. I don’t think she’s so much reading as she is trying to hide that she’s crying.

But you, Harry, are silent and strong and I don’t think you give a goddamn about who sees you crying.

But you won’t look at me.

I don’t feel any pain, but I do wonder if I am in a bit of a mess.

I reckon I must be. I can hear her cry now. They sound like the blackest tears I’ve ever heard Hermione shed, and we have been through hell together, man.

Somehow, someway, we are all together. I never put it into so many words, but it’s this moment...this is the moment that I live for.

Just the three of us.

The Trio. Should have put that on a jersey or a jumper. Mum would have been well chuffed to knit something like that. You know her and her stitching.

That’s us. The Trio. You, silent and strong, Hermione, smart and clever, me...I dunno, I s’pose I must have brought something to the table, right, mate?

I can smell...the outside air. Did someone open a window? It’s raining outside, I can smell it.

I still remember everything you said to Hermione. I keep it in mind. I can be like that. Emotional range of a teaspoon, right, Hermione? Not quite.

I remember it. The way that it felt, to hear you say those words to her. The words I was too much of a coward to say.

All that was left for me to do in the end was to just blame myself. For not telling her. For not telling you. You’re both my best friends.

I wonder now if you already knew how I felt about Hermione.

She surely must have known. I mean, she knows everything. She would have told you.

Still, you said it to her, Harry.

“I love you, Hermione.”

Little words can kill. They really can kill. I love you. I hate you. Crucio. Avada Kevadra. All the same.

You know I didn’t mean that. I hope you know that I didn’t mean that. I keep talking to you, but I know that you can’t hear me.

I’m just laying here, flat on my back, in some bloody cold and bright room, pouring my heart onto a table that feels like it’s been made from ice.

Merlin, am I dead?

Is that what this is?

Am I just a ghost to you, to Hermione, to the world?

Fucking brilliant. That’s exactly what I need.

Isn’t there some way you could make the day reset, Hermione, make it start all over? Did you have to give the Time Turner back to McGonagall? She’d lend it to you again, surely...?

I know he didn’t mean it. He. It wasn’t him. Merlin, I am starting to remember more now. I don’t want to. I want to forget.

How long have I been talking? It feels like forever.

Well, in case you were both wondering, I almost feel better. I think. I still can’t...really...move...anything...

Bloody hell.

Just when you think that it’s never bad enough...

I had been thinking about leaving, Harry. Or giving up. Not like that, you berk, just in terms of, y’know, my feelings about Hermione.

After hearing you say that to her, Harry, it just didn’t feel right, me sticking around.

Don’t think I’ll be going anywhere for a while. Not while I’m lying on a table.

Dammit, is this it? Is this my dying day?

I don’t even remember how I got here.

Where in the hell is here, anyways?

Oh, hell.

That’s not rain.

I can smell the ocean.

That’s ocean air.

I’m remembering, aren’t I? Hermione, you’d know if I was remembering, wouldn’t you?

I remember the pull of the tide. I remember it slowly swallowing me, taking me into the sea inch by inch.

I remember gasping for air.

I remember him holding me there.

Oh, Merlin, I almost got the both of you killed. I swear on...whatever you want me to swear on that I didn’t mean to. I shouldn’t have gone chasing after...

So that’s what happened.

The owl post.

From Percy.

Except it wasn’t from Perce. I’m stupid. So bloody stupid. That’s what I am, you are the strong one, Hermione is the brilliant one, and I am the knob.

Damn Malfoy. I’d punch him right in the face if he was here.

Of course, I’d have to move.

You’d kick his arse for me, wouldn’t you, Harry? Hell, I know Hermione would. Wicked hook she’s got.

It’s all catching up to me now. Honestly, I am thick. I’m here, in this room, this place, you and Hermione are here with me, and I can’t move…

Am I buried under the weight of my decisions?

Damn, I was hoping to get a rise out of Hermione with that one.

I do love you, Hermione. I should have known better. I mean, I am thick, but I am not that thick. You were impossible to hold. For me, at any rate. You could never be mine. No, you never could.

Well, you know everything, Hermione. I reckon you knew that. You must have known that Harry loved you, even though he was too stoic to admit it. Too stroppy to admit it.

I’m sorry, Harry, really. You know I didn’t mean it.

I’m just...damn, can I start over? If these are my last words and all...

Who in the bloody hell am I kidding? You can’t even hear me.

I’m stuck here, remembering more than I want to, remembering the things I’d like to forget.

Like the taste of the salt of the water on my tongue. The feel of the sea filling my lungs.

Sorry, Hermione.

There’s...something...

Something is making me lighter. I don’t know what that means.

There’s a quickening in my breath.

I think I am afraid now.

I wasn’t before.

But I am now.

There’s...flowers blossoming in my vision.

Bloody hell, Harry. That can’t be good.

Water is in my eyes...tears...I’m crying now?

I guess this all really has been what’s called a deathbed confession.

Damn, I’d better hurry. I think I am running out of time. I don’t even know how to tell.

Harry, Hermione, you grew up in the Muggle world. There’s this place I’ve heard of. It’s called Heaven. Do you know what kind of a place it is? Is it big? Is it small? Can you touch it? I mean, I’ve heard it has gates or something. I’ve heard it described as different things by different people. Nevs says that Heaven is a place where nothing ever happens. I dunno if I like that. Seamus told me that Heaven is a place filled with beings called angels who have wings and wear robes (like wizards) and play harps (don’t think I fancy that). Dean told me that in Heaven, people believe (‘cause he said that there is no proof that Heaven exists, that it’s just a religious concept) that when you get there you forget about your life here, with the living.

I don’t want that.

I don’t want to go to Heaven if when I’m there I don’t remember you, Harry, Hermione.

Do I have to go?

I don’t want to leave you.

I don’t want to die.

Merlin, if I could just reach out my hand...you’re only a step away, Harry, just a bloody step away. If I could let you know that I am here...

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry Potter nearly leapt into the air when he felt the hand upon his wrist. He let slip a choked sound of surprise and relief and finally looked down, looked away from the religious artefacts that Luna Lovegood had said would do Ron good. She and Neville Longbottom had attached them to the wall above Ron’s hospital bed in St. Mungo’s. Crosses, crucifixes, a few Mezuzahs, some Buddhas, and even some fat, waving cats that were what Dean explained to be Maneki Neko from Japan.

Ron Weasley’s friends were all desperate to see him well again. After Draco Malfoy had tricked Ron into thinking that his older brother Percy had been captured by Death Eaters and was being held on the edge of the coast, the redhead had stubbornly gone to rescue Percy and was captured by Antonin Dolohov and Walden McNair. Ron was stubborn indeed; after a few or several rounds of Crucio, the two Death Eaters had tired of their game and McNair attempted to drown Ron.

Harry and Hermione had found him. Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of her age, scryed and located his near dead form and had even braved flying on a broom, on the back of Harry’s Firebolt, to reach Ron.

He had been transferred to St. Mungo’s a couple of days post-attack.

The Healers at St. Mungo’s couldn’t quite explain it, but, despite lapsing into a coma, Ron’s eyes remained open. The peculiar condition puzzled them and unnerved his friends and family. Only Harry and Hermione seemed capable of staying by his bedside.

When Harry gasped, Hermione dropped the book she had been trying to lose her grief in and stared at the pale, freckled hand wrapped around Harry’s wrist.

She saw Ron’s lips part and then move, slowly. She stared. For the first time in days she looked at Ron Weasley and she stared as he moved, finally, at long last, moved.

His lips stopped moving and Hermione continued to stare. It was so little, but it was also too much.

She blinked and took in a shallow breath. “What...what did he say...?” she ventured, her voice just above a whisper.

Harry took Ron’s hand and held it and gave it a squeeze. He turned to face Hermione and smiled, and then laughed. “He said, I don’t have to go now, so I guess I won’t know just yet.”

Hermione found herself laughing as well, the strain and the weight of the days and nights spent in the ward making her sanity brittle and thin. “What on earth does that mean?” Her eyes were again glistening with tears, but her smile indicated her joy.

“I don’t know,” Harry grinned. He looked down at his best mate, whose blue eyes had drawn to a close and was now sleeping. The smile faded and he gave Ron’s hand another squeeze. “But I am glad to have the chance to find out, Hermione. I’m so very glad.”

†