A Mourning to Remember

Chapter 5: A New Beginning

To heal is to touch with love that which was previously touched by fear.

~ Stephen Levine

*****

Ron carefully sat up—trying to not upset the dozing form of his new fiancé.

He took in the smoldering ashes of their fire; the rosy, early rays of dawn had now started to seep into the quietly awakening room.

In quiet fascination, he observed Hermione's chest rise and fall steadily underneath the layers of quilts she'd been entwined in during the night, her breath making a small whistling sound.

***

"What do Muggles do after they propose, Hermione?" he had asked as they lounged by the still-crackling hearth, her head warming his chest.

Her face scrunched up in such an endearing way that it took all his self-control to not start snogging her again.

"I dunno," she mused as she lightly traced the ring with her fingertips, "Go 'round, telling everyone they know?

Hermione continued to scrutinize him—as if she were trying to permanently etch his every feature into her mind's eye.

Then they talked, really talked.

Ron was bursting with questions about her upbringing, and he listened closely to every detail—committing certain parts to memory, so he could share them later with his insatiably inquisitive father.

Then he filled her in on stories that he'd been too shy to share before; like the time when he was seven and Ginny convinced him to try on their Mum's lipstick—then planting it in Fred and George's room to deflect their fault.

They laughed and laughed until tears rolled down their cheeks, until their sides ached from the spasms of mirth that were wracking their bodies.

At times, they had to clamp their hands over their mouths to prevent the steady stream of snickering that would have surely woken the others.

***

Back in the present, the muse of inspiration had murmured into his ear. Ron gently unwound his arm from around Hermione's waist and snuck back into his and Harry's room.

He rummaged around for a moment, before finally finding what he'd been searching for.

It was an old flannel shirt of his, which hadn't been washed since the night he'd last used it.

He pressed the fibers to his nostrils, which still reeked of tears, sweat, and the tell-tale metallic tang of blood.

Ron briefly surveyed the small scarlet stain that had been spilled on it.

Just like that, another memory flashed across his consciousness—as swift and unprecedented as lightning.

***

"Ron, it hurts," Hermione whimpered, as something dark dripped from her neck onto the wet sand.

"I know, I know, but I'm going to make it better, 'kay?" His voice cracking from the effort.

She nodded, and winced.

Fury exploded inside of him as he noticed how her eyes were filmed over with a thick haze of confusion and pain.

He picked her up as though she were a delicate soap bubble ready to pop, and headed toward the house.

"You saved me."

Ron looked down at her, startled.

"You saved me," Hermione mumbled again, and she turned over, snuggling deeper into his jacket.