-A silver thorn, a bloody rose

Lie crushed and broken, on the virgin snow-

‘Vincent’ – Don Mclean

/x/x/x/x/x/

Ron stared unseeingly at the bodies in front of him. A remote, rational part of his brain noted that he was probably in shock. The rest of him couldn’t care less. They looked perfect, too perfect. To the casual passerby, it may have looked as though a master craftsman had merely left two, lifelike statues lying in the snow. It may have looked as though he would be back at any moment to mount them on a pedestal.

But that was not the case.

Ron shivered and hunched his shoulders in a futile attempt to escape the biting wind. The blizzard had stopped a little over an hour ago, leaving the landscape blanketed in a peaceful layer of uncompromising white. It hid many things, snow. The snow must have fallen a foot deep at least, maybe more. Either way, it was enough. Enough to fill the jagged holes torn into the earth, soften harsh edges and fool the eye. For what one might take to be merely the rolling undulations of the ground, were really the covered mounds of bodies. Poor graves for Death Eaters and Order Members alike.

They looked happy, those two sleeping statues. They were obviously lovers; the way their hands were clasped was familiar, the hand resting lightly on her waist hinting at intimacy. Once Ron had gently closed their eyes, you could not see their fear. Ron tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he contemplated them. He could not decide whether a smile had been forming on her lips as she died, or whether the corners of her mouth had always been teetering on the edge of a smile. His memories of her were growing fuzzy already, and that terrified him.

Turning his attention to the woman’s partner, Ron sighed. It had been getting harder to hate him, lately. He had found them, one muggy evening, legs dangling over the side of the Astronomy Tower as they talked and laughed. He had almost pulled his wand, but Ron was not the rash boy he had been a year before; he had waited, listened, concluded. The deciding factor, he thought, had been that they were just talking. That boy that he should of hated, had always hated, had been making her laugh. They hadn’t laid hands on each other, not then at least. Ron remembered lowering his wand, making himself walk away.

Sure, he had confronted her later. But calmly, rationally. He knew that that had thrown her. She was too used to his white hot outbursts, his irrational anger and reluctance to listen. But Ron had learnt much in the last year.

The snow was starting to fall again; big, cotton soft flakes designed to compact down and make a second layer. Cursing softly to himself, Ron quickly renewed the heating charm on the two prone figures. As they landed, the flakes melted away with a soft sigh, leaving the two bodies pristine in their repose.

He had left them where they had fallen, not daring to disturb the peaceful picture they made, so at odds with the way they had died. A tear slipped onto a single eyelash, balancing on the end as it tried, trembling, to defy gravity. A moment later, it fell. Proof, he thought, that you could not defy the laws of nature.

Ron had seen it, from not a hundred paces away, the way that they had died. He had just stunned a nameless Death Eater, muscles screaming with protest as he forced them to react quickly enough for him to avoid a curse thrown his way. Sending an answering hex in the direction from which it had come, he had allowed himself a second’s respite. Nobody ever told you, but battles were hot. So hot. He had been taking in great gulps of air, tainted with the tang of smoke, when he had seen them.

They had been fighting back to back, two lone figures amongst a horde of black. Even as Ron had started running, wand arm rising as he tried to think of a spell, curse, anything – it had happened. That boy he had tried so hard to hate, he had thrown himself across her body, one hand clasping hers as the other gripped her waist, seeking to cushion her fall a little even as he took the green light meant for her.

Futile, thought Ron, utterly futile. For even as that star struck lover died, so did another jet of sickly green light catch her, illuminating her features for a split second before she even hit the ground. Even in death, they had not let go of each other.

Ron frowned; he thought he may have gone mad then, temporarily of course. The howl of anguish that had left him as he watched her fall had drawn the attention of those killers. He remembered the exhilaration of raw magic coursing through him, uncontrollable, dangerous. He had been a mere vessel, a tool. They had all died, those death eating bastards. But too late, too late for those star-crossed lovers.

The battle had ended sometime after that, Harry must have won, he supposed. Ron had only been aware of the fighting ceasing abruptly a little while after. Then the blizzard had started. Ron had taken shelter in a nearby belt of trees, eyes fixed feverishly on the spot where the two bodies lay, sight never wavering even as the snow covered them. When at last the snow had stopped, he had crept out, wand pointing at the spot where he knew they lay. It had taken him so long to melt the snow away, but it had been worth it. They looked so beautiful, together.

They were so different, yet alike too. She lay comfortably in the crook of his arm, face turned towards his as one leg rested in between his two. Her curves seemed designed to marry up with his angles, the soft red of her hair entangling itself seamlessly with his; silvery and blond. They were utterly beautiful, and they were dead.

Ron became aware of the crunch of snow behind him, someone was approaching. But who? Death Eater or family? He could not find it within himself to care.

He renewed the warming charm.

“Ron?” The voice was hesitant, fearful – but he recognised it.

“ ‘Lo Mione.” He whispered, surprised by the hoarseness of his own voice. How long had he been there?

A hand settled on his shoulder, large and firm. Bill.

“What are you doing here, Ron?” Bill asked, deep voice shadowed by exhaustion and anguish. How many others had they lost? Wordlessly, Ron indicated the two lovers with a tilt of his head.

He barely heard Hermione’s sharp cry of grief.

Bills hand clenched his shoulder, the pain welcome in the emotionless void that Ron had been floating in. Hiding in. “Ginny.” He heard Bill whisper, the hand on his shoulder shaking.

Suddenly, Hermione was darting forward and Ron’s wand was raised, halting her a mere step away from the body. His voice shook with anger or grief, he could not tell.

“Don’t you touch them!” he cried, shaking. “Don’t spoil them! I tried, I tried so hard, but...” his voice trailed off, throat constricting with unshed tears. “The least I could do was make them beautiful, make them look alive. Because they do! They could wake up any moment, they could –”

And then he was crushed to Bills chest as he sobbed uncontrollably, fists hammering wildly into his eldest brother’s chest as he howled his misery into the winter air. He was dimly aware of Hermione’s small, hesitant hand rubbing soothing circles on his back, of more people arriving. Sobbing, screaming - his mother, for sure.

Gradually, oh so gradually, the noise lessened. It was so cold now, so different from the midst of battle. They stood, the remaining Weasleys, staring at the corpse of their beautiful Ginny, of the ethereal Draco Malfoy.

Slowly, the falling snow stared to cover them. This time, Ron made no effort to prevent it.

They could have been sleeping.

/x/x/x/x/x/