Ron briefly remembers that they're only seventeen but disregards this information as irrelevant now. The choices he has to make are the same, regardless.
He can't remember how long its been, he marks the coming and going of time by letters from the Order, and how long its been since Hermione cried.
She hasn't cried for a while now.
They thought the war would end with Voldemort, but they were wrong so wrong and there was blood and confusion and an insane figurehead at least meant a measure of chaos not this–
Logic. The chess player in Ron can only admire the weapon of cold steel logic wielded by the so-called Dark and Light like a sword. Calculated casualties of the kind Ron had only thought the evil used in achieving their goals rolled out onto the printing presses of the Daily Prophet, but he had been seventeen then and knew little of evil, or where to look for it.
The Boy-Who-Lived-No-More!
The death of the famous Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, is a curse and a blessing. His death is a loss to us all, but his heroic, epic struggle against the Dark Lord ensured at least that neither –
– Can live while the other survives, perhaps he should have noticed before.
The Death Eaters rage on unabated, for poison goes only where poison is welcome, and they had opened their mouths wide for a spoonful. The true wizards must pit themselves against the mudblood, for he is an unclean abomination.
Dumbledore and Lucius throw young, idealistic recruits at each other, until the streets run red with blood – funny, it all looks the same colour to Ron.
XXX
At night, there are purges from either side. There are some things held universal, irrespective of blood or magic, and one of them is the sight of someone you called friend torturing your loved ones until you confess to whatever it is they're sure you did. You tell them things, in the dark and the terror, things you didn't even know you'd done, know you knew.
It is not an inquisition, they don't really want a confession.
XXX
Half-bloods and Muggleborns are beginning to flee. It's a quiet retreat, that of the desperate and the defeated. In the Muggle world, wands snapped and robes burned – did you know that if you snap a wizards wand nothing happens? Not even a sound – they do their best to get by.
The Death Eaters rarely have dealings with most muggles anymore, unless it is for sport. There are just too many guns, too many armies, and the numbers of the pureblooded are few. The purging of their world into a bright, clean, shining thing, is what matters most. But the refugees have little knowledge of such things, as far as they know, muggles are targets too, but there are just so many of them, and the Death Eaters can't possibly target that accurately.
Though, Hermione's parents are lying in some unmarked grave, and she's started putting her hair up into a bun and wearing cardigans because if she catches her reflection in the corner of her eye she can almost see her mother's face again.
XXX
Hermione's staring blankly at the nine o'clock news, and Ron just wants to shake her.
He could be selfish and kiss her. She'd melt in his arms, and for an hour or two of bliss there would be that fire and that passion again, and it would be all his his his.
But it is a night of new beginnings, and he knows she needs to do this, wipe the slate clean or there'll be nothing left in the cold light of morning.
He wants to hold her, but she'd never let anyone hold her when she was scared, and her eyes are glassy and her joints are locked with a terror so profound that neither of them know how to make it something separate from her anymore.
She's so small. He'd never really noticed before, she was always so loud, so bossy, so vibrant. But sitting there she seems to almost have folded into herself, and he thinks that if he touches her she might shatter, and she mustn't, mustn't, because then there'd be nothing left of him too.
She is the most precious thing in his world, and he knows her inside and out, has watched her as that brilliant, beautiful mind, raced farther and faster than anyone else, is watching now as it crawls sluggishly behind those eyes, buckling under the weight of what they have done, what they must do.
He had a choice to make.
It's wasn't really a choice at all, it never was, and the world is cruel for making him see that so clearly. He knows exactly how to kiss her until her toes curl and she makes that keening noise in the back of her throat, knows she mainly has freckles at the base of her neck and shoulders, knows exactly how many there are, and has three that he keeps a secret because he likes that only he knows where they're nestled. He has spent whole nights wide awake, pulling her tightly to him, desperately counting breaths and eyelashes because he mustn't forget a goddamn single thing and he can't quite believe they're both still alive.
She holds her arms out and he goes to her, curling up on the settee. His new jeans chafe, and he shuts his eyes tight against the unfamiliar glare of the screen, and reminds himself, helplessly, hopelessly, that it's telephone now. Telephone.