Type: one-shot
Paring: R/Hr
Rating: K+
Summary: A one-shot showing the scene of Ron and Hermione at Dumbledore's funeral. Romance, a teensy bit of angst.

A/N: I wrote this a few days ago. It's not too long, but longer than my other one I have here, "First Name Basis." I love constructive criticism, comments, ideas, etc., so please review! Thank you. -Hannah

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A Lack of Color

You held my hand that day. I remember thinking that it couldn't get any better than that and it couldn't get any worse. The warmth of your skin on my palm was the only thing that kept me from falling off the edge.

It was so much larger than mine, your hand. And your fingers, long and thick, weaved with mine, thin and pale. How small I felt, next to you, but so right.

I laid my head in the crook of your neck, my tears soaking through your shirt. But somehow I knew that you didn't care about all that. Somehow I knew that both of us wanted that moment to last forever. But we wanted that day to end and never come back, too. What a paradox it was.

His death was tearing me apart inside, tearing, tearing my soul, until I thought I would fall apart at the seams. My skin would split in two and you would feel it in your palm, your shoulder, your neck. But your touch was patching everything up again, just as it was torn and left hanging. And it was horrible, but for some reason I loved it.

The smoke flew from his body like a phoenix from the fire. Fire like your hair. We just watched it join the clouds in the grayblue sky above our heads, silent and forlorn.

Your brow furrowed as a teardrop ran down my cheek and you swiped it away with your callous thumb. I was in your arms again, face burrowed in the smooth skin of your neck. Your chin rested on my curls, and I could tell you didn't mind that they tickled a bit.

I tried to think of something to say but nothing came, so I kissed your neck instead, pressed my lips on your skin just barely. I thought I felt a beat in your chest and I knew you'd felt it.

Your hand fell in my hair, fingers raking softly through the messy ringlets at the base of my neck. Your other hand was on my back. I could feel your warm rough skin even through my shirt, so I pressed my body closer to yours. I needed that heat from your freckled skin almost as much as the oxygen in the air.

My fingers balled to fists, arms caught between our bodies. I felt safe there, enveloped in your strong arms and your hot hot skin.

We had a lot ahead of us, I knew. But your arms and your skin, they told me it might get better. They said it would be worse but that it could be better, too. And I knew, somehow I knew, they would never lie to me. You would never lie to me.

So we stood there at his funeral, and I looked right into your sad brown eyes. Things would never be the same as they were now, as they had been before, and we both knew it. Your eyes said you were scared, and so was I. But I knew, we both knew, that you, you and your arms and your hot hot skin, would be there throughout it all. You'd be there with me always.

We stood apart and your hand found mine once more. And we walked back towards the school, palm to palm. We walked closer than we ever had before, arms overlapping, shoulders bumping.

And I was frightened of what was to come. We both were. But I saw my fingers, pale against your hand, and I could tell—I could tell from the burn in your skin—they'd be there again, small and thin and linked with yours.