Together

Bingblot

Rating: G
Genres: Angst
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 14/12/2005
Last Updated: 14/12/2005
Status: completed

Ron didn't pretend to understand the relationship Harry and Hermione had. All he was sure of was that somehow, it would last forever-- even beyond death. Very angsty one-shot.

Chapters

1. Together

1. Together

Disclaimer: Everything HP belongs to JKR, no money is being made, etc etc.

Author’s Note: First off, a warning- this is NOT a happy fic. It’s possibly the most angsty fic I’ve ever written; I made myself cry while writing it. Do NOT read this if you’re looking for a happy ending.

This is nowhere close to what I imagine will happen in canon or afterwards; it was only written to exorcise the angst bunny.

Together

Ron didn’t know how Harry did it.

It was slowly killing him—he was dying, as surely as she was. Ron knew it—and there were times he forgot his own grief and helpless frustration to see how ravaged Harry’s face looked. The stark despair in Harry’s eyes—though he hid it when he was with her.

It was killing him slowly to watch her like this.

It was only a mercy that she was not actually in that much pain. She was only weaker, almost visibly so, every day.

And Ron could only marvel at Harry’s strength—his almost inhuman strength—to be able to take care of Hermione the way he did, to put up with all of Hermione’s own frustration at her growing weakness and inability to do things for herself, and to do it all with equanimity. He spoke, not cheerfully, but calmly, gently, tenderly—even hopefully, to Hermione and if he raged at his own inability to do anything to save the life of the woman he loved, he raged in secret.

Ron rather suspected that was where Harry disappeared to every couple weeks or so, when Ron would sit with Hermione for a while and attempt to amuse her with anything he could think of. Harry would leave them alone for an hour, sometimes more—and when he returned, he would be pale, drawn, but calm again and ready to take his place by Hermione’s side. The place he never really left except for those occasional escapes.

Ron suspected that Harry went off—where he didn’t know—to some place where he could scream and yell and destroy things and cry, some place where he could vent all his wild grief and his despair and his rage at being so completely helpless in this, the most important thing in his life. It was the most bitterly ironic thing in the world, that Harry, who was such a powerful wizard and so wealthy he could have bought nearly anything he set his mind to, could do nothing in this case. All Harry’s magical ability, all his influence, all his money, could do nothing for Hermione—and he knew it because he’d tried everything. If he could have sold his soul, given anything including his own life, to help her, he would have—but he couldn’t. Now, when it really mattered, Harry was helpless and could only stand by and watch the woman he loved die.

It was a tragedy, a terrible thing. Ron still remembered, didn’t think he could ever forget, the look on Harry’s face when the Healer had entered the room, the way Harry had taken one look at the grim expression on the Healer’s face and had staggered back, literally collapsing to the ground.

There had been no need for words. Harry had been incapable of understanding anything for a long time anyway, staring blindly through tears at the floor, his head shaking back and forth, not so much in denial but as if he had lost control of his neck muscles. “No, no, no, no, no…” had been all Harry had said then.

It had been Ron whom the Healer had finally had to pull aside to explain in more detail that Hermione’s internal organs had been irreparably damaged through the unlucky combination of curses she had received in the final battle. That her organs were weakening and soon, Hermione herself would start to feel it, a loss of energy, a loss of control of her movements, a loss of strength. It was, the Healer had said, a matter of months.

Months!

Ron had listened numbly, the part of his mind still coherent vaguely thinking that it was ironic that Hermione, who had always been the strongest one of them in so many ways, would now become the weakest through no fault of her own.

She was dying. And Harry could do nothing for her, could only watch her die.

Nearly the first thing Harry had done, though, had been to propose to Hermione. And so they’d been married, in what was probably the most poignant wedding ceremony ever performed in history—and it had been Hermione who had said what everyone knew Harry had been thinking.

“I want to be his wife when- when it happens.”

And it had even seemed that Hermione was getting better for the first weeks after the ceremony, as if the ring on her finger and the almost mystical power of the bond between her and Harry now that she was his wife, in name, in law, in everything, gave her added strength.

That had been three long months ago and in that time, Ron knew he could count on his two hands the number of hours Harry had not spent by Hermione’s side.

And if he had ever doubted before the strength of Harry’s feelings for Hermione, then all doubts would surely have been laid to rest now, a million times over.

Ron didn’t know how Harry did it.

He only knew—shuddered away from the thought with everything in him—that it would be left to him to pick up the pieces of what was left of Harry when—when Hermione—when it was all over.

And Harry would be shattered. Heart-broken was too mild a term for what Harry would be. He would be shattered, devastated. There was no word for it.

Ron could hardly imagine what Harry would be like without Hermione. They had been together all their lives, it seemed, in one way or another, for nearly nine years. Nine years that seemed like much longer because of how much had happened in them. And it wasn’t even about the last two years when they’d been in love. It was simply that Harry needed Hermione, on a basic, visceral level—always had—and Hermione had always been there for him.

Ron didn’t pretend to understand the relationship Harry and Hermione had. It had bothered him at first but he’d soon come to see that, after all, maybe it was a sign of just how right they were that he couldn’t, despite his closeness with them both, quite understand it. It went beyond love to something deeper, something stronger. And he could only think that one thing was for sure—it would last beyond even death.

~*~

Harry thought she was sleeping, hoped she was sleeping.

When she was sleeping, he didn’t need to try to act normal and hopeful, could give in to some of the agonizing sorrow he felt. He could look at her as she slept, see how thin and pale she had gotten—but still beautiful in his eyes, always beautiful—and he didn’t have to hide his tears. Didn’t even bother to wipe them away.

When she was sleeping, he could watch her and try to pretend that she would get better, that this was all some nightmare and she would wake up and be fine.

His Hermione… His wife, his best friend, his lover, his life…

He swallowed down the harsh sobs he felt rising in his throat, not wanting to make a noise that might wake her, and only bowed his head, his eyes closing on his tears, as he rested his head against her mattress.

“Harry.”

He jerked his head up at the sound of her soft voice, forgetting even to wipe the tears from his face.

He tried to smile but his lips couldn’t manage it and he felt tears well up again when he saw that her eyes were shining with tears too.

“Hermione, I…” he managed to croak but then stopped, not knowing what he could say.

“I’m sorry.”

He choked on air. “You’re sorry? For what?”

“About this, about everything. I- I wish…” Her voice trailed off and he blinked back his tears as he pressed his lips to her hand.

“Harry,” she began again, a new, odd sort of urgency in her tone, and he looked up at her, “promise me you’ll go on living without me. Promise me!”

“I- I can’t.” His voice cracked but he continued on. “I- I don’t know how to live without you. Don’t know if I want to live,” he finished so softly she could barely hear him.

“You can. You have to. Harry, don’t you see, you have to. As long as you’re alive, then part of me will be too.” Her voice faltered and faded away.

He had to swallow several times, and stare, intently and blindly, at the opposite wall, before he could bring himself to respond. “I promise,” he managed to say.

She smiled slightly. “Thank you.” She paused and then added, more softly, “Now, kiss me.”

And he did. He kissed her gently, tenderly, with all the love he’d ever felt—even as he felt more tears well up and wondered wildly, as he did so often these days, how he was ever going to live without her…

He kissed her and he kissed her and he kissed her, though always careful not to press too hard or hurt her in any way.

And then he sat by her, holding her hand, until she had fallen asleep.

I love you, Hermione. I’ve loved you all my life and I always will love you. And I’ll keep my promise, somehow. I don’t know how I’ll do it, but I will live. I promise…

~*~

Years later…

The man came alone, always, on his visits several times a year. Sometimes he brought flowers, sometimes he came empty-handed.

His visits varied in length from a few minutes to as much as an hour or even a little more than that as he stood in silence, staring down at the single tomb-stone.

His thoughts on his visits varied little—renewed grief, memories, loyalty, friendship.

He blinked back tears at the sight of the tombstone, reading the words etched on it even though he knew them by heart, simple as they were.

Hermione Jane Granger Potter

Beloved Wife

Beloved Friend

And a little below that:

Harry James Potter

Beloved Husband

Beloved Friend

There was nothing else.

Ron had once asked Harry whether he wanted anything about Voldemort, about being the Boy Who Lived, put on his tombstone and Harry had said no, adamantly.

Harry had been the one to insist that there be nothing on Hermione’s tombstone beyond her having been a beloved wife and friend—and he had also been the one to ensure that there was room on her tombstone for his name to be added later.

Ron sometimes thought, now, when his own grief had been somewhat dimmed by time, that probably no one had ever waited for anything as long as Harry had waited to rejoin Hermione.

For Harry had lived after she had gone—how, not even Ron was quite sure. He had lived, somehow, survived the months of black despair, months when he had holed himself up alone in their bedroom and seen no one except Ron. Months when he had eaten so little that even Ron began to fuss over him in an almost Mrs. Weasley fashion, trying to encourage him to eat more.

But he had lived and come out of his grief, although no one could say that he hadn’t been changed.

He wasn’t the same, was never the same after she’d gone—but he’d lived and even a relatively active life at that.

But always, always, Ron knew that Harry was not so much living as he was waiting.

Waiting—and he had waited more than 30 years…

And when the end came, Ron was conscious of an odd sense of gladness despite his grief, that now, at least, finally, Harry and Hermione would be together again.

Together—and so they were, he thought, as he stared down at their joint tombstone. So they were—and so they would always be, now. Together…

And he managed a smile.

Together in life—and in their deaths, they were not divided.

~The End~