Disclaimer: I don't own anything. If I did, believe me, I wouldn't stop bragging about it.

NOTE: This is in Ron's point of view.

In my eyes, she was beautiful—the Aphrodite of her day. But, unlike the Goddess of Love, Hermione wasn't immortal.

She had told me not to worry. That I was ridiculous to think we might not make it out of the war. We'd been through so much, we could handle a bit more. It was the first time Hermione was ever wrong.

I prayed that, if someone was going to die, it was going to be me. I had told myself over and over through out the war that I would never be able to survive without Hermione there to tell me I was doing something wrong. But God must have gotten his signals crossed, because I'm still here, left only with memories.

I wasn't even with her when it happened. I was busy fighting off Death Eaters who had surprised the Order with an attack, and wasn't even aware of her lost soul until after the fighting was over.

As I looked around with a heavy heart at the ground that was littered with bodies—some Death Eaters, some not—something caught my eye. A mass of bushy hair.

I couldn't breath—I thought I was dying and I didn't feel my legs walk themselves over to her pale body and then suddenly give way so that I was on the ground as well.

The first thought that entered my mind was that I loved her. I loved her and she'd never know it. I'd kept the secret so long, and now that she was gone, I'd have to keep it for the rest of my life.

I could hear other voices around me, but my brain was having trouble concentrating long enough to understand what they were saying. I could hear someone crying, and it took me a few moments to realize it was me.

With shaking hands, I picked up Hermione's wilted body and held her close to me. She was still warm, but her chest was motionless. I'd never realized how light she was before. She felt so small and fragile in my arms, and I was afraid if I hugged her too tightly to myself, I might break her.

I bowed my head and buried my wet face in her hair, taking in a long, shaky breath. A familiar smell filled my senses. It took me a moment to place the scent, when I finally realized that it was the perfume I'd given her for Christmas back in fifth year.

I didn't want to believe that she was really gone. I thought, if I tried hard enough, and ignored the truth and refused to think about it, then it wouldn't be real. But the evidence was right there, lying limply in my trembling arms.

I had to learn to live without Hermione—and I had to do it without her telling me how to.

A/N: So short, I know. Don't kill me. Please.