DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter characters, themes, and related likenesses are owned by J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Scholastic Press, Allen & Unwin, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Pictures. No profits have been received in the production of this creative piece.

Basically, Above the Fall was written just for fun :)

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Chapter 1

As they began to take their leave, his mind was still sharp, adrenaline coursing through him like fiendfyre, burning up his flesh. He glanced around, instinctively – they all did, just to be safe. Keenly, he looked over the greenery surrounding the remote little cottage, a contradiction in its beauty, juxtaposed with the piece of shit they'd just captured.

Swallowing air in quick gulps, he pulled himself from that trained height of energy, that anxiety that he'd learned to harness into something much more useful to him – to all of them. His breathing slowed, his heart paced, the pulsing behind his vision subsided, and then he was back.

He finally allowed himself the luxury of tiredness; and he was, as tired and exhausted as he always was after these long days away. His body was weary, but he could finally leave. They were done. His purpose was fulfilled, the criminal secured by his squad members moments before, assisted by a secondary support unit. The wizard would make his way to processing at the Department, then, he'd probably spend a night or two in a holding cell at Azkaban.

His friend – his brother really – looked at him with his ironic grin, set with sadness just around the edges, pushing his round-framed lenses further up his nose. Ron glanced at the other man to his left, broad and solid, and as tall as he himself was. There was no trace of his once round cheeks or the clumsy boy he'd known all those years ago, age and experience etched across his inviting face. He slapped a hand on Ron's back in a silent affirmation, and they all shared the same quiet gaze in agreement. The most senior and thus, the last of the group to leave, they turned on the spot in a near-synchronized, long-since mastered, soundless pop.

In the next moment, the familiar tug released his gut, and he landed stealthily in a swirl of air and movement on the familiar concrete landing, with the pot of bluebells, the black door, and the gold Filigree unit number. He'd promised himself, he'd promised her, despite her frustrated protests ("Oh, honestly, Ronald! I've been tortured by Death Eaters! Bloody Bellatrix herself! The least you can do is tell me how you got that cut on your shoulder! I'm stronger than you think, for Merlin's sake!" He smirked at her, knowing full well how strong she was. He was proud of her use of the swear, then proud of himself for being such a superb and terrible influence on her), that when he'd chosen to join the Corp and hunt down those countless remaining Death Eaters, he'd leave it in that entryway. He'd never bring it into their home and to her, not if he could help it.

Of course, none of it was ever quite a choice for him; it seemed that his life was hurtling towards this from the moment he'd met the small boy with the messy dark hair and the unmistakable scar on that scarlet train, nearly twelve years before. This was his destiny, as much as it was Harry's, and as much as his life had been moving towards her – this moment in time, them together. For her safety, and for the sanctity of their home, he'd leave the blood and violence and ill-thoughts wherever he'd found them. And for the time that they were together, those glorious, sweet moments, he would be hers and she would be his.

There were times over the years, though, when his open and relaxed subconscious betrayed both him and his promise. Those nights when he was away from imminent peril, when he was in their home, and the Death Eaters were at bay. He'd awake next to her, or on top of her, or under her, with a start, gripping his wand, covered in sweat, and with his mind racing.

That anxiety was not so harnessed then, and he would be there again. That first explosion would threaten to burst his eardrums, and he was running and dodging, ducking and whipping unicorn hair and Willow, shooting off spells and curses in wild directions; confusion and maelstrom at every turn.

Members of that homework club formed in the Room, now soldiers battling for their lives and the lives of the Wizarding World. Order members fighting alongside Professors and... kids, really. They were only children; soldiers, yes, but Merlin they were too young to have to execute the sorts of Killing Curses, and hexes and jinxes that made his sweat run cold to think about.

Green and red jets flew around him. Slashes of flesh and blood, and the sorts for Dark magic he'd never expected, or seen or heard of. The kind of demented people that would dream up such things. Things that were only created to torture, to maim and, the most merciful of them all, to murder. For so very long after, they had made him deeply question his faith in humanity.

Then, in an instant, those familiar places, those corridors of their beloved boarding school, were covered in soot and dirt and blood. There was another explosion. His throat would constrict, again, from the noxious air and the smell of carnage.

He was numb, standing there in the Hall, watching that one place where there was once no chaos. And, they'd seen, really seen,what the devastation of such a few short hours had looked like. The destruction, the...bodies of his friends and his peers would be spread out obscenely, and he was there.

During that short battle-pause, Voldemort's cold, rasping voice was mocking and haughty. Ron shuddered. The best of what was left of so many were the remains of the Killing Curse. The best he could hope for after they went searching for the wounded and dead was to find all body parts intact. He prayed for those bodies, not the bloodied heaps of flesh he stumbled upon more times than should have been asked of any teenager.

They all had the scars. He wasn't immune because he was best mates with The Boy Who Lived. He'd just waited a little longer for his mind to break, and surely it did.

Ron would wake with a trembling gasp or, when it was bad, a keening lament for his fallen brother. His dead eyes and haunting smile seared all the joyful parts of him, like his death was just moments before, or like Dementors were drinking what life Ron had left from his heaving body.

The celebrity, the Captainship, the Order of Merlin, the awards, the placards, his heroism, it was all gone, and really, he detested the phrase: War hero. What beauty was there in a war that left so few of his friends alive and well? What honor was in being able to wake and walk, and live and love when they were lain in the cold ground? All those years and all the medals were gone in those moments, and he was the same lanky, awkward, insecure man-child, with much to prove, and no clue how to prove it.

His love would run her small hands down his stubble-covered cheeks, swipe those treacherous tears away, and rub tiny circles along his back, mumbling salve on his soul's lacerations like dittany. "It's okay, Ron...Its' okay...I know, I'm here. It's over...it's over, now...we're here; you and me. We're safe."

He'd remember they weren't on the run. They weren't in that little tent, and there were no snatchers. They only visited 12 Grimmald Place by choice, not necessity or safety. He was in his warm bed with her.

And his heart would race and stutter, then ease...

He hated this part of himself. He hated the nightmares, the anxiety. He hated it all. He felt weak, and inadequate; he couldn't stand what was left of his emotions after the battle, even more than he'd hated them during those torturous years of youth, at the hands of his stronger, bigger and better older brothers.

He'd learned to loathe this part of himself even more after his training, but also how to harness it. He'd grown so much over that time, understanding that he was more than a punch line, and good for more than his fiery temper and a laugh. He was a man. He had grown to be one, he was sure, somewhere during those months away from his family and friends, and school, but then he'd become even more of a man after experiencing so much loss, and still being able to mature, and function and thrive.

Time heals all wounds but, after some four or so years, he still wondered when he'd really find his complete peace from everything. Things were better, that much was certain. No more daily and nightly mortal fear. No more heart palpitations when there was a knock at his door. Now, when he was startled or afraid, his mind would calm, his face becoming a mask of determination and confidence.

Ron muttered the counter spells to the dozen or so wards protecting their townhome, set in Mulberry Cross, a small but relatively modern, magical community, just outside London.

"'Ermione...M'home!" He was relieving himself of his heavy black uniform robes, and curse protective over-garments before he'd even completed the statement. Hermione bounded down the steps in the next moment, wild brown curls flying behind her, smile warm and welcoming with limitless excitement. She had missed him terribly.

"Ron! I hadn't expected you until tomorrow!" she squeaked. She threw herself into his arms, and rained love and kisses upon his wind burned face and chapped lips. He gripped her back, tightly, wrapping her up in his arms and burying his nose in her hair. She smelled wonderful, her body soft, and firm and there, pressing tightly against him, reminding him of all the amazing curves he loved so much.

He mumbled into her neck, "Yeah, well, I s'pose we did a little better than expected. The bloody bastard was hiding just outside Scotland, wan'nee?"

"Oh, that's brilliant, Ron! I know you did an amazing job, like you always do." Her eyes shined with pride as she ran her fingers across his pale face, and over his countless freckles. She loved when he'd come home with the rough fuzz of his face, more of a beard than when he'd left. His hair was wild fringe, nearing his shoulders, with bangs just above his eyelashes, matted to his scalp with sweat and dirt.

"Mmmm, love, I missed you so much," he whispered, pulling her tighter still against him. He was in good spirits. The catch and being back with her had made him that way. Ron loved the feeling of purpose that being an Auror provided, joined with the feeling of emotional and physical need he'd always gotten when he was with Hermione.

"I missed you, too, so much." She had the distinct urge to wrap her legs around his waist, and show him just how much his presence had been missed in their home.

Ron had always been awkward: his arms too long, his legs too thin, and his feet too large –lanky. His training, though, with those tiresome months away from her, had done his rather thin frame a service. Over the years, after hours of wand work and combat, his shoulders widened, straps of muscle wrapped his arms, thighs and chest, and his jaw had squared.

She still remembered the first time she'd seen him after all those months of separation, her nose finally away from her books and the revising of her N.E.. He was surely still her Ron, that Weasley hair shining fiery in the sun. Yes, he was still her rather batty, funny, die-hard Quidditch fan of a boyfriend, but so much had changed. Beyond his appearance – which was a change that no red-blooded witch could ever deny being a thing of beauty – there was so much more. She could see it in the intensity of his eyes, his posture, and his new-found confidence. He was a man. Very much so. And she fell in love...and lust, a little more.

Auror camp had helped even more than Ron had thought it ever would, providing him the means and strength he'd had buried and dormant inside. The healer also helped, of course, in ways that no one ever really could. He was always far too guarded to let many know the deepest parts of his mind and soul.

The moments he spent with his family had helped, as well. Charlie was around a little more, and so was Bill; additional fathers and mentors of sorts. Just after the war, Percy'd returned to the fold, though his guilt was still palpable, as they'd talk, albeit awkwardly, across their Sunday dinner table at the Burrow. What's more, the addition of so many nieces and nephews helped more than he'd expected.

And George...

Those nights with him, alone, because he would have no one else, were difficult. More than a few times, Ron would find him staring into space, which was never actually hard, not really. It was the breaking moments, when George was so full of pain, so overcome with agony that his soul overflowed into a frightening heap of tears and shaking, and moaning on the floor of the bathroom he'd once shared with his twin. Those were the moments that Ron dreaded.

Thankfully, they were passing those moments now. He had Angelina, and he'd opened up more to his mum and dad. The attacks came fewer and fewer, until the agony was more of a dull ache that would never fully go away. The cut was still too deep, and the wound too new, even after all this time.

Hermione was there, too, and she'd helped him – all of them – to heal. He would have never been able to on his own. She'd been the one that suggested they all visit the small auxiliary unit of mental Healers, just blocks from St. Mungo's, a couple of months after the Battle.

It had been getting harder and harder for him to do it alone, and when Harry was having an ever more difficult time getting through each day without falling into himself, as well, they all knew that their problems were bigger than magic. They were larger than their teenage minds could comprehend. They'd have to get the help, and definitely before training began that following fall, if they'd expect Kingsley to allow them to enter the Corp.

"So...Ronald—"

"Ron. Just Ron."

"Ron. My name is Patricia Thurkell. I'd like to talk with you some, if that's okay."

"Yeah, sure, right."

"Alright, then. What brings you here, today?"

"Wha— I mean, don't you already have it all down? I mean... I thought—"

"Yes, Ron, I do have a file on you, but I'd like to talk with you...without the paperwork." Ron nodded, but was having growing difficulty understanding her angle.

"Well...I, I mean, I promised my girlfriend that I'd come and meet with you. So...here I am, aren't I?"

"Yes, well, I would imagine so. You mentioned your girlfriend—"

"Hermione."

"Hermione. Now, what does Hermione say is the reason you've come here today?"

"She says...I mean, I've just been having some nightmares, and things."

"Things? Why don't you tell me about these nightmares, and things? Why don't we start there?"

"Uh... I. I guess..." Ron shifted on the rather comfortable couch, surrounded by cushy pillows and a bright orange, chenille throw blanket. The room smelled of sage and some other sweet fragrance he couldn't quite identify. It was rather dim, save for the light from a tiny window streaming in from the midday sun.

"...it's always the same. Always."

"The nightmares, and things?"

"Yeah. I'm running with my brothers beside me, my heart's beating out of my chest. We're fighting, we're...battling with the rest, hexes and curses are flying everywhere, and then..."

"And then..."

"...and then there's this explosion. I feel like my eardrums are gonna burst, you know? Then...It's Fred, it's my brother..." The witch nodded her head, urging him to continue, and scribbling something on the pad of parchment she held in her hands. "He was hit..."

"And then what happened, Ron?"

"He..." Ron swallowed, thickly, looking at the witch sitting across from him, peering over her thin-framed spectacles. She reminded him of McGonagall, only twenty years younger, and without the Scottish accent or the condescending glare.

"Did he die, Ron?" she asked, after several painfully long moments of silence, while he tried to find his voice. Ron nodded his response, finally scrubbing a hand over his weary face and looking away, to anything but the witch's steely gray eyes. "How did that make you feel?"

"How did it make me feel? You've gotta be bloody kidding me."

"I assure you, Ron, I am not. I'm positive there is much more to be learned from your nightmares, and... things; I'd like to explore those feelings."

"Why would you want to go and do a bloody mental thing like that? I'm fine. I told them I was fine!" He felt himself – the anger, the pain, always there, ready to rise into an incoherent fury. There was no reason, none at all, that he'd become this upset this quickly, but this healer had a way of making him...feel. He was feeling so strongly in that moment that he thought his heart would fly into pieces around the room.

"Ron, you must understand: you are a war survivor who has seen and experienced quite a lot in his young life. It would be best—"

"Yeah, right...To talk about it."

Getting Ron and Harry to visit the healer hadn't been easy, naturally. It took Hermione some time, and she spent it quietly working on each of them; attempting to get them to be reasonable, helping them to understand that they'd made it through unspeakable horrors at such a young age, and shouldn't expect to be equipped to handle it all alone.

She was patient, most of all with Ron, because she knew him, and the parts of him that he wouldn't allow seen by anyone but her. She knew the best and worst of him, had known him intimately, and longer in her life than she hadn't, and she wouldn't judge him. Instead, she used that knowledge to shift his view of such a thing. Admitting his shortcomings after developing his strength and fortitude around that common evil, it...it took time. Time and patience was all that she had in those days, and weeks and months following the fall of the Dark Lord, and she was willing to give both he and Harry the best of herself.

He had been strong for her, his family, and Harry. He and his best friend had rarely talked about the battle directly. They'd kept more of a silent acknowledgement, and a quiet support when things had gotten too difficult to bear. In those moments, Hermione was able to be there for the both of them, so their burden was slightly easier to manage.

In keeping with her usual habit upon Ron's returns home, she began running her fingers over his body, his shoulders, his neck. She gripped his chin and tilted his face this way or that, examining every inch of him that she could see. Just as she was bending his arm at the elbow, watching for any tenseness or wincing in his handsome face, Ron smiled his brilliant smile that he reserved just for her.

"Hermione...I'm fine. I wasn't hurt at all beyond a few scratches, and I already used some ointment." He showed her his raw knuckles that had already begun healing. "See?"

She took his hands, flipping them over. Then, she ran her hand over his palm. "Alright, alright, you know... You know I get so worried."

"I know, love, I know. I'm fine, I promise." He looked in her brown eyes, a silent request to have her cease her worrying, ensuring that he was okay and unharmed. "I do, however, need a shower," he joked. "Love... Let me..." Hermione captured his mouth with her lips, again, and held his face to hers with her hands on either side of his jaw. "Let me take a quick shower..." he mumbled into her mouth, between intermittent kisses. "...don't know how you can stand the smell of me." Chuckling, he wrapped his hands snugly around her narrow waist, nuzzled his nose into the softness of her neck, then pulled away from her, stepping out of his mud-coated boots.

She groaned her disapproval. She didn't care how he smelled, for Merlin's sake. She'd smelled him as a fifteen-year-old, after his Quidditch matches, fresh from the pitch. He smelled wonderful to her at the moment, and looked even better. She wasn't happy, but she obliged him, letting him kiss her a few more times before disappearing into their second floor bathroom, with strewn clothing trailing behind him. She had missed him too much to say anything, barely caring at all as she found her wand and made quick work of landing the soiled heap into the laundry.

Hermione set off to the kitchen and began rummaging through the cabinets and refrigerator, pushing aside the raw roast, still in its packaging, which she'd planned to prepare as a welcome-home supper. She found there wasn't much else beyond leftovers. So, she turned and took the stairs two at a time. "Are you hungry? We have a leftover steak pie and some chicken, or I could cook something. We could get some take-away; maybe Chinese?"

She tapped the door, hoping to be heard over the water splattering against porcelain. Of course he was hungry. He was Ron after all; a Ron that had just returned from days in the field, of what she was sure consisted of quite awful food. "Uh...Yeah! Do you think I could have the pie? Or, maybe the chicken, as well? Do we have any mash?"

"Chicken and pie, Ron? And yes, there's a little mash there."

"I'm really, really hungry! Please and thank you!" He was scrubbing the leftover dirt that seemed caked in all sorts of inventive places on his body. He rubbed shampoo through his hair a couple times, for good measure, and let the near-scalding water burn off those days away. He washed until the water ran clear after hitting his skin. "Oh, and tea! Wait...do we have any Hogs Head?"

She thought for half a second, then smiled to herself, happy to have him home. "Yeah, I s'pose we do." Wand still in-hand, with a swish and flick of her delicate wrist, the piles of food were warming, the cap on the bottle of beer removed.

"Brilliant! Merlin, I'm dead knackered." He stepped from the claw-foot tub, quickly dragging his toothbrush around his mouth while exiting, effectively leaving puddles from the bath to their bedroom. Then, he found his favorite Cannons pajama bottoms in a neat pile in his cabinet. Still bare-chested and rubbing the towel through his damp hair, vigorously, he met her at their small dinner table.

He moaned, smelling the fragrant food, his mouth watering. He quickly draped the large cloth over one of the four chairs, leaving his hair standing on-end and him looking boyishly handsome. Grabbing Hermione by the hips, Ron pressed her back against his chest and whispered gratefully against her ear. "Have I told you how much I love you, today?"

She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling his stiffening appreciation against the dip in her lower back. She breathed, "N-no...but I'm sure you can show me later."

"That sounds like brilliant idea," he whispered, again, squeezing her hips once more, for emphasis. Her head was simply swirling at the clean smell of him, his bare skin sizzling against her arms, through the thin cotton singlet she wore.

She had to gather her bearings, as he switched focus, tucking rather fervently into his late dinner. She'd had hers hours ago, so just a cup of tea was in order, and she crossed to their kitchen to put the pot on. Two cups of tea and a lemon square later, Ron was finishing off his second helping, mumbling approvingly and she began clearing their plates.

He leaned casually against the door frame, then went to her, his roaming eyes drinking in her body. She'd worn those cheeky little shorts that showed off her amazing legs that he loved, like she knew he'd be there that night to enjoy them. There was far too much space between them. So, he was against her, again, in a moment.

"Leave that for the morning," he whispered against her ear. "Or, even better...Accio wand." The thin piece of wood was in his outstretched grip and, in a second, the dishes were spotless.

"You've been practicing."

"You're a good teacher."

"You're an even better one...in other ways."

"Oh?"

"Oh, yes." She turned to face him, standing on toes, wrapping her arms around his neck. He truly did smell heavenly, like a bit of spearmint, and his soap, and springtime and everything.

He slid his tongue against hers, their slick mouths moving in a practiced dance; slowly, softly, patiently at first. Soon, though, they were feverish, Hermione running her hands across his chest, forcing small approving noises from the back of his throat. His lips were on her neck, placing open-mouthed kisses along her shoulder, sliding the straps of her shirt down.

He murmured into her skin, "Mmmm, I've missed you..."

Hermione was humming with excitement. He looked indescribably sexy; he was home with her, safe and whole, and he felt so good. She reveled in the feel of him, stiff against her, just as excited as she was. She pulled him up the staircase and to their room by his hand, nearly running in her urgency. These nights had been hard on her. She'd missed his touch, missed his voice, missed the way he said her name with such love and, later, passion.

She pulled at the drawstring holding Ron's trousers against his hips, as he lifted her shirt, palming each of her full breasts before easing her out of her shorts and knickers. There would be time for pleasantries and foreplay later, each of them much too excited to slow their pace. Hermione threaded her fingers in his hair as he lifted her, wrapping her legs around his waist, and sinking into her as they fell against the bed. She moaned in pleasure against his mouth as he slid deeper. An overwhelming, passionate relief flooded between them while they sucked, and tasted and consumed each other.

Ron's name was on her lips as she climaxed quickly, then again just shortly after. He chuckled between his pants; she was always in such a hurry, never able to hold on, at least not for the first one. He thrust his hips against hers, insatiable, reaching deeply to parts of her until she moaned more, and cursed, and gripped the sheets, writhing.

Intellectually, he knew that they both had work the next day, and that he didn't want to exhaust her, but Ron had no control of himself, as he felt her soft skin, her painfully wet flesh gripping him. So, he kept going after the first and second time, never having enough, never tiring of the feel of her, or the way Hermione said his name. He ravished her until he physically no longer could, and they were spent, panting and slick with sweat. She on her stomach and he on his back, they lay tangled in sheets against each other, after she'd collapsed on top of him.

"That was bloody brilliant!" he whispered, breathlessly. His grin was wide, and red hair stuck damply to his forehead, as her eyes fluttered open, with flushed skin, dewy and beautiful.

"Merlin, Ron...that was..." She unconsciously tried her best to smooth her mussed hair, only to have him slap her hand a way. He wanted to see her just as she was. He had made her that way. Hermione gazed at his distinctive toothy grin and glistening broad chest, making her want to mount him again.

"I know..."

"I didn't think I could..." She smirked. "I guess I missed you more than I thought…"

His hand crept toward her thigh, thrown lazily over his pelvis, and his grin widened further. "Do...you...do you think we could have another go?"

A very uncharacteristic tinkling giggle bubbled in her chest. "Great minds..."

"What? You were thinking the same thing?"

"Oh yeah." She smiled, quirking an eyebrow. "What? Don't look at me like that!" She slapped his chest playfully, sitting fully upright against him.

He matched her laugh, running his fingers through her hair, now wild and freshly fucked. "No, no...It's just..."

"What?"

"I love you. So much...promise me you'll always be here when I've come home. Promise me you'll stay with me."

Hermione looked into his eyes, and there was rawness, an intensity, that she'd long realized reached deep into his bones, and she rarely saw directed at her. She was always shaken by it. His eyebrows pinched in passionate concentration, and he took her again, deeper still. She arched upward, enveloping him into a protective embrace, kneading her fingers into his scalp.

"Of course Ron." She allowed him to press her into the mattress, linking his arms beneath her slight shoulders, pulling her closer to him – always closer. "Always."

/

/

A/N – In case you were wondering, I fully had Invictus, by William E. Henley in mind at the end of this chapter. I think it fits well with the theme of this story.

Overall, this fic will be one of redemption that, despite its beginning will have lots of fluff, lemons (yes, much lemonier than this one; no, I don't care if that's a word or not) and fun stuff. It will also take us on the road that Ron and Hermione had to travel to get to a better place, post-Final Battle. Hopefully I do both their struggle and the books some semblance of justice. This is my perspective.

Thanks for reading. I should update pretty regularly, seeing as most of the story's already written. You can expect around twelve or thirteen chapters out of this, and the occasional chapter banner.

Thanks to the Bonnie to my Clyde, the Thelma to my Louise, the Sam to my Dean, Kay Cannon, who betas all my work, and lets me take creative license much more than she ever wants to. If you find a comma splice or dangling participle, it's definitely not her fault. I'm just an artist, what can I say? *shrug.*

I'm on pretty much every social network site in creation, all under artbeatsandlife. At least on Twitter, you'll find a good mix of Harry Potter and Twilight shenanigans, not to mention on my Tumblr, Robot Tango, where I obsessively post NSFW items and anything related to Supernatural, tattoos, Harry Potter or Rupert Grint.

Anyway, I'm rambling into a ditch, so I'll just shut it. Until next time.

AB+L