In the dark of what should have been sleep, two sets of eyes--one blue, one green--were wide open and awake.
"Harry?" The voice was Ron's, alert, despite the time, and quiet, mindful of the calm of the still air of the night.
"Yeah?" Another voice, equally aware and apprehensive, full of breaths and questions.
"When this is all over, what do you think we'll do?"
Harry wondered if Ron had any idea how vague that was. "What do you mean?"
"I've...I've been thinking and I was wondering...when Vol-v-vol--you know!" He sounded agitated--with the name or with himself, Harry didn't know, "When he's dead, what then? We won't exactly be throwing ourselves into the same kinds of danger, even as Aurors. Don't you think...it might get a little quiet...you know?"
A goofy grin crossed Harry's face.
He thought about next year--returning to Hogwarts, hopefully triumphant, and having a seventh and final year with all his friends, whilst getting ready to plunge into adult life. He thought about Ginny and her dreams of Quidditch; about Hermione burying herself behind stacks of laws. He thought about Auror training, with Tonks and Kingsly guiding Ron and he through the hard parts. He thought about Lupin--of the new chances he could have, and the changes they all would face.
He thought about the future—of him and Ginny surrounded by kids. He imagined his daughters with his father's hazel eyes. He thought about marriages, and being brothers with Ron. He thought about Christmases; great gatherings at the Burrow.
He imagined Godric's Hollow, and growing old along side the Potter graves.
"Yeah. It'll be quite a change. Nothing but peace and quiet from then on out." He turned to his friend to grin in the dark. "Something good to look forward to, don't you think?"
Ron looked away, wondering if Harry could make out his expression in the dark.
He thought about second year--about the terror they'd all faced. The suspicion. He thought about the power that being best friends with a Parsletongue had given him, in a time when Slytherin was at it's most powerful. He thought about fourth year, and the trials and troubles both he and Harry faced. He recalled the image of Harry, ranting and bleeding, Cedric's body kept close, and then later, asleep in dreamless bliss. He thought about the battles, the risks they'd each taken--how every time he stood beside him, he pitied and yet envied Harry more. He thought about the thrill of battling Death Eaters, of the strength he'd found to face the danger.
He thought about first year and the bathroom troll; how scared and small and vulnerable Hermione had been, huddling in fear.
He thought it was the first and last time he'd ever seen her look to him for help.
No more of that, I'd wager. No more fighting, no more dying, no more adventures to save the world. Just a nice, thorough life with a quiet little end, like Harry wants.
"Ron?" Harry called out, wondering where his answer was.
"Yeah," said Ron, his voice rough with something--bitterness, perhaps? "Something to look forward to."