-1Disclaimer: Everything belongs to J.K Rowling.

Set after the final battle - first in a three part series. Rated for sexuality, although nothing too graphic at first.

The wall is cold behind her. That, Hermione acknowledges, that she can understand. Tired, numb and cold as she is, the little part at the back of her mind that tick, tick, ticks on like a metronome sorts out various theories regarding the type of stone used for building it and the labour used to fashion the rock into what had until recently been an impenetrable fortress. Perhaps the founders had used magic, perhaps they had used giants…

There's a dead giant not far from her. She can't see much more than his foot, but if she got up and peered around the corner she'd see the rest of him and that would be… Well that would be wrong. Like stopping your car and looking at a car crash victim. She almost giggles; of all the incongruous images she could imagine a car crash would actually seem the most normal. Do wizards have broomstick crashes? She thinks about the logic of such a thing; the velocity of a falling body verses the ability of the brain to react to danger. Wandless magic verses the spells needed to cushion impact or to deal with the devastation afterwards. If a spell is lost to the wind then does it actually work?

Harry is alive, they've won.

Isn't she supposed to be happy?

Biting her lip so hard that she tastes blood, Hermione tucks her knees up to her chest and rests her head upon them. There are people celebrating in the Great Hall, there is the strange, giddy euphoria that marks the relief of people who had not thought to see a new sunrise, the undertow of grief for the many who had fallen. But for the moment she remains detached, watches the thestrals pick their way daintily among the fallen before seeking out a suitable meal. She should probably stop them - everyone that fought and fell beside her have been taken into Hogwarts, but some of the slain Death Eaters are still out there, and they're human too aren't they? There is the unmistakable crunch of bone as a thestral puts a hoof upon a giant's stomach and tears at the flesh, but Hermione does not look away. It's true, you can't learn everything from books.

"Hermione?"

The voice is tired and hoarse, but she'd know it anywhere.

Ron slumps down beside her, and Hermione does not need to look at his swollen eyes to know that he has been crying. Her mind, her stupid brain that gives her no peace when she longs for sleep chooses that moment to go blank on her and she doesn't dare look at the boy beside her. She can feel him trembling though, and it's not from the cold. The weather has decided that tonight of all nights it's going to be warm and clear - the stars sparkle, the breeze is cool but not enough to chill. At any other time it might almost have been romantic.

"Ron. I…" She mentally shuffles through the appropriate platitudes and finds them all wanting. I'm sorry, Fred was a great bloke, at least you've got another brother that looks a lot the same…

At first it's the salt of her tears that she tastes, but bringing his head down to hers, they're so close that it could have been his. Ron is warm, he is alive and she loves him.

She doesn't mind when his kisses bruise her lips.

She doesn't mind when he shoves her against the wall and pulls her knickers down.

She doesn't know what she's saying, but when he plunges into her and Ow, that hurt, but she doesn't want him to stop, she tells him to keep going, and cradles his head to her breast when he is finished, sore, confused and trembling.

"Hermione, I…" He stumbles over the words but stops when she shakes her head, eyes averted, her fingers still locked in his.

"I'm not sorry." His red hair is sticky with sweat when she runs a hand through it, or perhaps it's blood. His eyes are lost to the horrors of the past twenty four hours, but he pulls her close and smooths down her skirt carefully. Ron's thigh barely trembles when she lays her head upon it and she doesn't flinch when he puts his hand upon her shoulder.

It wasn't how she had imagined it - her first time. As a romance novel it would be pretty crappy - Hermione tries to imagine her and Ron on the cover of a book - her with flowing hair and spilling out of a low cut gown, Ron with an unbuttoned shirt to show off his torso. The ripping sound of tearing flesh breaks that little fantasy, and she snuggles her head into Ron's lap. They're still alive. They've won. And that's good right? Isn't this what they all wanted?