Disclaimer: Not mine.
Beta'd by Dress-Without-Sleeves. She's magically delicious, yo.
He sits on the edge of his too-large bed and runs a hand gently over the book's worn cover, caressing the stiff leather
and once he'd wanted to burn it away to nothing, pretend it never existed, pretend she never existed; once he'd wanted to forget her so the pain would finally end.
When he strokes his thumb over the spine, it's almost like touching her again
because her hair was always dusty from too much time in the library, and he'd loved how it smelled like musty old tomes and magic bound up in paper and ink.
The pages are yellowed and brittle with age, but he doesn't cast protection or preservation charms on the volume. He knows too well that all things have an end, even beloved copies of Hogwarts, A History.
Better to let it crumble and fade as she had.
And perhaps books have souls after all, and perhaps they can die, and maybe when this book is nothing but dust and a memory, its spirit will somehow go to her
wherever she is, wherever she'd gone when she'd died
and she'll hold it dear as a reminder of him
until his time comes, until he is lowered into the ground next to her, until whatever makes him Ron Weasley abandons his fragile, battered body and finds its way home to her arms.