His fingers carefully traced the crease her hand made on his sweatshirt: the pale thin hand gripping it tightly, holding on for dear life.

Her eyes were bruised, sunken into her face.

He knew she hadn't been eating again, nerves and stress always did that to her, and he kissed the crown of her head as he smoothed the gentle coils away from her face, her hair splayed about her head in an unruly mess.

Watching her brows crease, she turned and folded into his hand. 'Ron...' she sighed, leaning into his touch. Somewhere in her dream, she knew he was there.

A single tear slid down her face.

His eyes gently slid to the newspaper at her side, open at the Obituary. The list of deaths grew everyday, he knew, for he had stared at every page every day for the past few months, dreading the day he thought he would see their names. He didn't, luckily, ever see them.

He remembered how warm she had felt, so solid, as she had sunk into his arms and ran to hug him when they arrived back at the burrow: her astounding beauty at the wedding; the way the sunlight caught her hair; her laugh, chiming and melodious and rich; and her intelligence, saving his life throughout the years he had known her. He knew he had never been truly alone, when he had been around her. Graceful, elegant. He had watched her grow up, and she had made him the man he had grown to be.

Ronald Bilius Weasley, 17. Pureblood, blood traitor. Died: 16th May.

A small photo of him, one taken from the Yule Ball, had been placed beside his obituary.

Placing a gentle kiss on her forehead, he knew it was time to leave. But he would never really leave her, not again.

'Good bye, Hermione.' He whispered, fading out. 'I love you.'