Gone

Disclaimer: Harry Potter universe is property of JK Rowling. I, sadly, make no money from my fanfiction.


I’d give anything have that bloody Time Turner of hers from third year in my hands right now.

Anything at all.

I’d give up my grandfather’s chess set, Pig, my entire collection of Chudley Cannons memorabilia, and all the galleons I’ve got saved up in Gringott’s.

And if that isn’t enough for whoever or whatever’s in charge of this sort of shite?

I’d give up my bloody soul.

On second thought, I don’t even know if I’ve got a fucking soul anymore.

When she died, it felt like the best part of me started stirring around gently in my gut moving faster and faster with each second to form a great giant whirlpool that suddenly got sucked down a drain.

That was my soul, I think.

Gone.

She’s gone.

She’s gone and she’s never coming back and I hate her for it.

How can she have done this to me? To Harry? To us?

Our trio. Our troika. Our triumvirate.

Our dream team.

All of it was no more.

I just don’t understand. I don’t sodding understand how this could have happened.

When we were in first year, Harry and I had saved Hermione from a troll in the girls’ toilet. While she was ducking out of the way as the troll lumbered about swinging at her, I knew that day would only be the first of many adventures we’d have together. And at the precise moment Harry had managed to lodge his wand up the troll’s conk, I realised that we would face far more dangerous things than a bloody troll together.

I wasn’t wrong about that, not by a long shot.

I’d always thought that if something bad would happen to one of us, it’d be because of You-Know- Oh hell. I thought it’d be because of Voldemort.

If Hermione had died by his hand or the hand of one of his sodding Death Eaters, I could maybe understand. I’d sort of been preparing myself for something bad – really bad – like that to happen since about third year when Wormtail — when Harry stopped Professor Lupin and Sirius from killing Wormtail and then Wormtail managed to get away. I reckon that night was the night when I finally got it.

I got it.

This wasn’t child’s play, what Harry had to deal with. It wasn’t just three kids going about playing Aurors and Death Eaters. There were lives at stake here and it was up to Harry – with the help of Hermione and me no matter if he sodding wanted it or not! – to save the fucking day.

He still hasn’t saved the fucking day and he reminds me of that every day now since she’s been gone. He’s a sodding wreck, a shell of a man and I’m not much better.

Have you ever heard of a hermit crab? She tme ame about them once, about how the crab ends up and leaves the shell, their home. I don’t remember the reason why they crawl out of their shell and leave it behind like. All I know is that Harry and I are the fucking shell and Hermione’s the hermit crab and she’s gone and never coming back home. She’s never coming back and I don’t know how Harry and I will be okay with our shell so empty.

Mum says that I shouldn’t be so angry with Hermione. She thinks that I ought to be angry with the bloke in the lorry, not with Hermione. Of course I’m hacked off at the bloke in that lorry – he was the sodding arsehole who drove about all pissed up and smashed in to her! But as much as it is his fault, it’s Hermione’s bloody fault too. If she hadn’t taken up with that Muggle job doing social work, she wouldn’t have needed to drive about and get herself killed!

If she would have kept with getting a wizarding job, she’d still be here. Shbe hbe hovering over Harry and I like she always did, strategising new tactics for The Order or reading a bazillion books to come up with a tonne of theories on one thing or another all to help us finally figure out how Harry’s going to kill that bloody bastard. But she didn’t get a wizarding job. She said she thought those Muggles needed her and she wanted to help them help themselves, as if that made any bloody sense to me at all. I lied and told her I supported her when she asked but really I didn’t like the notion very much. Harry and I needed her. Bloody hell, the wizarding world needed her! And if she couldn’t be there all the time for Harry and me, who was to say that between just me and him we’d manage to blow that wanker up for good?

But no. I couldn’t tell her the truth. She would have been hurt beyond belief and one of the things I hated most in the world was seeing Hermione Granger upset with Harry or me.

I should have told her the fucking truth. If I had, maybe she’d still be here today and I’d at least be able to see the hurt in her eyes.

She’s gone.

She’s gone and I’t b’t be able to ever look in her eyes again.

Harry’s still here, though.

He’s still here and I can see the hurt in his eyes as clear as day.

I hate seeing that.

As much as I miss Hermione and know that Harry’s in just as much pain as I am, I know that my own pain will never be as big a burden as Harry’s. I want to shoulder the weight of Hermione’s death for him. I’ve always been the lucky one out of the both of us. I see that now.

There was a time when I didn’t think such a thing.

When we were younger, I sometimes would get really jealous of Harry on account of all the fame and shite he had. Merlin, I nearly went out of my head fourth year for a bit there. I can admit that now. I thought that he found a way to get over Dumbledore’s Age Line so he could put his name in the Goblet of Fire and had been so bleeding hacked off that he did it without me. If I’d’ve stopped to think for just one ruddy second, it would have been so bloody obvious that Harry’d never do such a thing! But I was young and temperamental (okay, so I’m a bit older and I’m still temperamental, but you bloody well know what I mean!) and I hadn’t taken the time to stop and think before I ran my gob at him.

No, Harry’s not so lucky. He didn’t ask for that fame. He didn’t ask for Voldemort to kill his parents. He didn’t ask to be part of any sodding prophesy. He didn’t ask for any of that and he certainly didn’t ask for the pain that came hand in hand with all that.

I hate that he’s been carrying around all that pain and I hate that it’s doubled under the toll of Hermione’s death.

This morning he did it again.

I don’t know why I was surprised; it’s sort of become a morning ritual.

Every morning I Apparate to his flat on Diagon Alley before work just to check on him. I lend him my copy of The Daily Prophet and put on a kettle of tea while he pours over the paper. By the time I’ve fixed his Earl Grey the way he likes it (heavy on the semiskimmed milk, half a lump of sugar), he’s made his way through the paper and bunched it into a ball, muttering under his breath. I can’t always catch what he’s grumbling about but I know it’s usually something about the Ministry being full of daft plonkers and such. I always pretend I’ve heard everything, though, and tell him I bloody well agree while I give him his cuppa and slide into the chair across from him. He always looks up and me and tells me I’m going to be late for work if I don’t Disapparate right then and there and I always tell him that I’m leaving when I’ve finished my cuppa and not a minute sooner. And then his eyes will crinkle up, his mouth turn down, and his voice will get kind of scratchy when he says, “I haven’t done it yet, Ron.” I always nod and tell him that I know and that one day we’ll get the fucker.

Just like every morning, that’s how things went in Harry’s tiny flat today.

But something new also happened in Harry’s flat today.

Instead of Harry nodding back at me and repeating “We’ll get the fucker” like he always did, he just sat there, raised his cuppa to his mouth, took a sand and set it back down on the saucer with shaking hands. I asked him what was wrong and he didn’t answer for a long time. I felt my chest tighten up, like someone had reached right inside my chest and was squeezing my heart, while I watched him. I said his name and he looked up at me. Merlin, the pain in his eyes was nearly overwhelming. I’m not sure but I think I might have gasped; I was so bloody taken aback by how hurt he looked.

“I miss her, Ron,” he choked suddenly and I swallowed hard.

I miss her, too.

I told him so and he looked down at his cuppa, as if he expected to see her face in the tea leaf dredges or something. For one mad minute, I laughed at the thought. I guess it didn’t sound like much of a laugh, though, cos Harry looked up sharply at me.

Sorry, I told him. I just—for a mo I thought you were trying to See her in the bottom of your ruddy cup and I—I just remembered how bloody much she hated Divination third year.

Harry smiled a sort of hangdog smile, the glassy look in his eyes kind of fading and I knew he was remembering as well.

“Yeah,” he said slowly, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, “she did. ‘Woolly old bat,’ she called her. Oh hells--”

And then he started shaking a little and I didn’t know what to do.

Harry rarely got emotional at all anymore and never like this. I just watched him for a bit, taking in the way he was trembling just so, and decided that I couldn’t take it anymore. He dt det deserve to feel like that. He didn’t deserve that much pain. Before I though much about anything, I lit out of my chair and manoeuvred around the table so I was next to him.

I know, I said to him, putting my arm around his wrist and tugging on it till he stood up. Gods, he was shaking so much and I couldn’t think of how to rightly stop him so I just pulled him in close and hugged him. He wrapped his arms around me, his breath tickling the side of my neck. He was still shaking, though, and I just wanted him to stop. But I knew he wouldn’t stop unless he wasn’t thinking about Hermione and, well, I did something that I reckoned would get him to stop doing that for at least a minute.

I kissed him.

It was ruddy odd at first. I’d never kissed a bloke before and Harry’s lips definitely were not like any girls’ lips that I’d kissed before. They were sort of chapped and they didn’t have any of that girly glossy stuff that tastes like pumpkin pasties on them. Funny how just then I realised that I never liked tasting pumpkin pasty glossy stuff when I was snogging someone. I liked this. It didn’t bother me a tick that Harry’s lips weren’t as soft as I was used to or that they were a bit rough on account of being chapped. I liked how they kind of melted against mine and how his mouth was opening up to mine. I ran my tongue along his lower lip and slowly slid it into his mouth and, Merlin, suddenly my chest wasn’t so tight anymore. In fact, my heart wasn’t being squeezed at all. It was beating so bloody fast that I thought it just might pop right out of me. And when Harry’s tongue moved against mine?

Dear. Gods.

I pulled back from him; I had to or else I—I don’t know what else, only that it would’ve likely involved me needing a Repair Charm for my head afterwards.

“Ron,” he whispered, reaching for my hand. I didn’t even hesitate to grab it and I smiled a bit to myself at feeling the callouses on his palm. He never was one to fly his broom wearing gloves. Oh, he wore them for Quidditch matches and all but he always hated having to do it. Said something about needing to feel the wood of the broom in the palm of his hand so he felt more connected. Hermione would always roll her eyes when Harry’d make that excuse for not wearing his gloves and then go on about not coming to her when he’s got thirty splinters imbedded in his hand. Harry never let her eye roll and little huff get to him, though. He would always wink and tell her that Anthony Goldstein never minded his splintery hands all over him. I’d never let it get further than that, though, as I never wanted to hear about Harry’s, well, love life. I never cared much that he fancied blokes and not girls just so long as he never told me too much about what he did with whatever bloke he was seeing at the time.

The moment I felt his fingers twining with mine, I knew. I knew and Harry was going to be all right someday. I was going to take some of his pain away, he was going to let me, and things would never, ever be the same again between us.

Shushing Harry, I leaned in and pressed my lips to his again, experimentally biting his lower lip to see what he would do. I wasn’t sure cos most girls would either pull back and give me a look that screamed “WHAT IN THE SOD DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?” or would just kiss me harder. I wasn’t sure which way Harry would go. What would he do?

He didn’t pull back and give me a look nor did he kiss me harder. Instead, he did something completely different.

He bloody well grabbed my arse, that’s what he did!

I think I might have screeched.

Okay, so I did screech.

A grin actually showed up on Harry’s face when I jumped and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to grab him in return to see how he liked it or do something else entirely to make him grin more. I hadn’t seen his mouth curled up like that in ages and figured that I was off to a good start in trying to get him to forget about Hermione for a little while.

I decided to do something else entirely.

I let go of his hand and then yanked at his shirt, buttons flying everywhere. Harry’s head turned this way and that like he was trying to keep track of where they were all landing at and I took the opportunity to latch my mouth onto his chest.

“Oh,” he muttered, making a little grunting noise when I shoved him against the table. I reckon he liked what I was doing, though, cos his hands were suddenly in my hair. I ran my tongue along his skin and I was glad that he didn’t smell like apple blossoms or other girly stuff. Merlin, I always end up getting a headache from all that fruit and flower smelly stuff girls wear—and it’s no fun when you’re messing about with someone and get a ruddy headache from the way they smell! I like the way Harry smells, though. He smells like Quidditch and fresh linen (He has this thing about his clothes; he’s had it ever since we left Hogwarts and he could buy his own things. I swear, he takes such good care of his clothes that he ought to be a girl!) and just a sniff of it that close was enough to make me hard. And it didn’t bother me one ruddy bit that my best mate was the one making me hard. It felt right. I don’t know why, but it just did.

I slowly sank to my knees in front of him, licking a path down his chest, stopping at his navel to swirl my tongue there. It always drove me nutters when girls did that to me and I was glad to see that it apparently had the same effect on Harry. His leg jerked when I did that and he made this noise that sounded just like the kitten Dean had got during sixth year. When he did that, I laughed and pressed a kiss there too for good measure before putting my hands on the waistband of his trousers and working open the fastenings.

Although I wanted to do it, at the same time I was getting a touch dodgy. I mean, I’ve never—I’ve had girls do it to me but I—this was Harry. He likely sensed that I was thinking it cos he slid his fingers down to the nape of my neck and sort of pressed on it to get me to look up at him.

“You don’t--” he started, but I just shook my head.

I wanted to do it. I wanted to make him forget.

I honestly don’t remember how long it took me to get his trousers and boxer shorts down about his ankles. All I do know is that when I wrapped my hand around the base of his cock, it was like that was how things were supposed to be. It felt like my hand was made to fit around Harry and only Harry just like that. I do remember that he groaned and shifted his hips and I told him I’d make everything better for a bit before leaning down and swirling my tongue along the head of his cock. I thought back to how the girls I had been with did it and found that it wasn’t hard to do at all. It wasn’t hard to do and I fucking liked doing it. I liked having him in my mouth. I liked the way he moaned when I would suck him and whimper when I would run my tongue along him. I liked how he bucked his hips against me when my hands began to knead his sack. And best of all, I liked how he let himself go and empty into me and said my name like it was the most sacred thing ever.

And in the very moment that Harry was shaking against me, my mouth still warm around him, I realised that I had completely forgotten about her for a little while.

Hermione is gone and isn’t coming back. But at least now, I’ve realised—with Harry’s help even though I was the one trying to make him forget—that it’s all right. I have Harry and Harry has me and somehow we’ll get through this.