A/N: I...don't know. But I do know that the "Mudblood" scar carved into Hermione's arm is movie!canon - I know this, but I rather like the idea of it, though I know it's not technically canon. Oh well. Since when have I followed canon anyway?
When the morning comes, find her. She will be waiting by the window of the tallest tower. Not a princess or a damsel in distress, but a warrior, surveying all she has lost. All she has left.
Go to her. Look through the shattered glass together, the dust thick on the stone beneath your thighs, and remember the shape of a castle that once held strong. See it clear as day in your mind's eye. See it now, broken, ruined. But triumphant. A battlefield stained with blood and youth and victory. Wrong and right; a bittersweet ending.
Think of your fallen brother. Think of his brightness, his loudness, the firework he was. Listen carefully; hear only her quiet breathing, distant winds through too-tall trees. Miss him. Painfully so, achingly so. Miss him, but be proud of him. He fell in battle. He fought to the death because he wanted this, this happy ending.
Promise yourself not to waste it. For him.
Instead, revel in that victory. Remember the scent of it, sickly as blood. The sound of it, like sobs and whispers. But the feel of it...
If you are still, you will feel it. There. The thrum in the air, the energy of it all, the excitement and bitterness and grief and joy, the return of humanity and soul to this once dark, desperate place.
You will feel, too, the heat of her against you, the warmth of flesh against your thigh, and your heart will tremble, flutter, dance for joy, because she is alive and you are alive (and he is alive too, even after you have seen him lifeless and pale) and that is all you ever dared hope for.
Feel it, the life that courses through your veins, the beat of her pulse beneath your fingertips.
Look at her. At the light high on her cheekbone, the dirt under her fingernails. Look at the twisted plait of her hair, threaded with dust and debris, the blood on her lips, smeared across her cheek, her neck.
Let your eyes fall to her arm, to the rough cotton sleeve that you know hides so much. Mudblood. Feel hatred burn at the back of your throat, the rise of bile and anger. Forget it is over, just for a second, and bite at your lip with sharp teeth, with fear and rage and worry. But then remember; new relief will flood your body, tingle on your skin like the rays of the early morning sun. Like the aftermath of her soft hands.
If you are feeling brave, kiss her. Go on. Do it. Let the warmth of her lips soothe your rattling nerves. Let her taste the need and trust and understanding on your tongue. Don't be afraid. Don't be nervous. Know that she cares. That she wants this.
Tell her, when you are close enough to swallow her breath, that you care about her. That you have been a fool. That you're sorry for...everything. Tell her everything. Listen when she says she knows. Hear how she means it. So much.
How she loves you. So much.
Tell her softly, shyly, that you love her. Tell her it scares you, that she deserves better, that you are afraid she will open her eyes and see you - really see you - and leave in whirl of falling book pages and bushy hair. When she laughs, swallow her disbelief and her oh, Ron and smile against her lips.
When she says she will stay, squeeze her hand in yours. When she says that she is sorry for what has happened, that none of it was your fault, that you have suffered more than enough in this lifetime, listen. Listen with open ears and an open heart and let her know you will never tire of the sound of her voice, or the depth of her understanding.
With your hands in hers, your lips brushing lazily against skin and truth and new beginnings, tell her you have so many regrets when it comes to her, but you don't think you would change a single thing if it all led you right here, right now. Stay there, as the sun rises. Watch the light glitter off shards of smashed glass, the shadows that fall from the jagged rocks. See how everything looks more real in the sunlight, more beautiful.
Know that, in this day, everything will change. Has already changed. Think of your brother once again, how small he had looked in death. Think of her, your - your friend – your girlfriend – whatever she is. Think of Harry, of Ginny. Think of those whose eyes will not see these brighter days, those whose ears will never hear the cry of victory. Think of all this, and never let go of her hand, not once.
Later, when you have found your broken family and cried in seven different sets of arms, come back to her. Let her hold you last, for longest, and do not pretend to be strong. Do not pretend in front of her. She will see right through you.
When she says that she will always be here, believe her. When she says that you are stronger for crying than for pretending, believe her. When she says it will be okay, believe her.
When she says she loves you, believe her.
It's all you can do.