Title: Dieing

Summary: ...and at the worst possible moment, she was the happiest she had ever been. HermioneRon Final Battle One shot, drabbleish DARK

Urgh...I intended for this to be dark and angsty, and then it just got SAPPY. I disgust myself.

AS OF MARCH 18, 2006:

So, so sorry for the many, many typos. My spell check didn't correct me when I put 'dieing'. Thanks to those who corrected me!

Disclaimer: I own ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. And it sucks.

Dying

The silence was so heartbreakingly loud, and the noise was so agonizingly quiet, and the moments seemed to bleed together like the blood that had been spilt on the ground. Everything she saw was blurry and glazed over, the lights unusually bright and the shadows unusually dark.

She was dying.

Lying on the ground, her head propped up against something that she swore to herself just had to be a rock, she realized it: she was dying.

But really, was this what dying was supposed to feel like? Shouldn't she be having an epiphany? Shouldn't her life be flashing by before her eyes? Shouldn't she be making a long list of 'if only's? She wasn't; and yet, she knew that she was taking her last breaths, thinking her last thoughts, living her very last moments.

It wasn't how she had pictured it, obviously. Being propped up on an…unidentified object, dying because of a teeny tiny stab wound that cut through her stomach. She had pictured it in so many ways, so many different times. But it was never, ever like this.

She had pictured it dramatically, being 'Avada Kedavra'ed while taking out an entire army of Death Eaters. She had imagined being tortured to death, or jumping in front of a brilliant green flash of light to save someone she loved. She had even pictured dying in her bed, old and happy and married to Ron (of all people), with children and grandchildren and memories that were worth having.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. She should die with some kind of emotion, not this detached nonsense that was slowly numbing every nerve and feeling that she had.

She tried to sit up, roll over, move her fingers, something, anything to hold on a little bit longer. Her fingers, though, were wrapped too tightly around her now-useless wand to comply, her legs were too tangled up in each other to allow her to flip herself over, and trying to sit up made her scream sharply and painfully, ripping through her throat and making her eyes water.

"Oh, my God."

Standing over her suddenly, his form blurring and sliding around, was Ron, and the only parts of him that she could really see were his red, red hair and his blue eyes, so unlike the brown ones of the rest of his family. Dropping to his knees and bending over her, he looked sick and scared.

"Oh, my God," he repeated, glancing at the blood that she could feel trickle out of her stomach. "You're…you're-"

"Dying?" she asked, an ironic sort of smile crossing over her face. "Yeah, I think I am."

He shook his head vigorously. "No. You-you aren't the one who's supposed to die. You're the strong one. The brave one."

She rolled her eyes at him. "Bravery and brains only get you so far, Ron." She squished her nose up and said, "There's this little thing called mortality."

"Stop being so dramatic," he snapped. "You can't die."

"And why is that?" she asked dryly.

"Who's going to do all the research for me and Harry?" he asked, his voice cracking a bit. "You know we're lost without you. Do you know how many times we would've died by now?"

She laughed. "I have a general idea," she said softly. Rolling her head around to gaze at the battle going around them, she said, "You've got to get up, Ron. If you sit here like an idiot, you'll die, too."

A look of determination crossed his face, and, surprising them both, he grabbed her hand and squeezed tight. "Then I'll die," he said recklessly. "Because I just…" His voice cracked, and he looked away. "I just can't live without you, Hermione."

Her heart exploded, and she let out a small sigh of regret. Of course, it would have to take her dying to make him realize this.

"You can, and you will," she said forcefully. "You're going to grow up and get married and have children and die a happy old man, surrounded by those he loves."

"How can I die surrounded by people I love," he asked, finally looking at her again, showing her the tears that had built up in his eyes, "If you're not there? And-and who am I going to marry, if it's not you? Who's going to have my children, if it's not you? There's no one else, Hermione."

She snorted. "You don't mean that," she said pessimistically. "You're saying that because you know you won't have to follow through with it."

He glared at her. "No offense, Hermione, but I don't think I would ever spout out that load of rubbish unless it was absolutely true. I mean, honestly. I sound like a girl!"

She laughed, and his face crumpled.

"I love you," he whispered, and at what was very likely the worst possible moment, she was the happiest she had ever been.

She looked up at him, her vision clouding more than ever. "I love you too, you dolt."

And then they sat there in silence, waiting for her last breath to come.

And it did.

Even though this could possibly be classified as TRASH, I felt an odd sort of duty to post it. Please, criticism, I beg you.

-Turkey