Disclaimer: Just borrowed - nothing is mine!
It has been six months since Ron died, yet Hermione still comes to breakfast with red eyes and a false smile.
There are still reminders of the girl she had been; the books stacked by her bedside, her laughter when Crookshanks settles upon her lap, the occasional cutting remark when Fred or George push her a little too far. Charlie watches for those moments and wishes there were more of them. The war had been hard on them all, and as sweet as peace was, it also gave time for uncomfortable reflection. Funny how fighting Death Eaters could seem less daunting than going to bed each night, stranger still to think that for most of the wizarding world this was a time of celebration. All the dreamless sleep potions in the world would not erase his memories, nor assuage his guilt.
Ron had been his little brother; the brave, gangly young man who had still been looking for his place in the world, constantly overlooked and always adored by his friends. Harry, Hermione and Ron; their names were legend now, their bravery recounted in ever more inaccurate biographies. For years it was hard to think of one without the other two, they kept each other strong, and they kept each other alive. When friendship had evolved into something more romantic for his brother and Hermione in the wake of Dumbledores' death it had not come as much surprise to anyone. Much of the wizarding community had assumed Harry and Hermione were romantically involved, an idea that provoked much mirth among those that knew them well. Harry and Ginny, Hermione and Ron. Some things were written in the stars, a destiny that even Sybil Trelawney could have foretold.
Dragon keeping had been his main priority in those days, his visits home few and far between. There had been little time for romantic entanglements; and while he was pleased that Ron had found someone to make him happy, all he could recall of his future sister in law was a mane of bushy brown hair and an armful of books. It had been Bill and Fleurs' engagement party when he had first really noticed her, when he had first looked at her as something other than his little brothers' girlfriend. She had been more than a little drunk, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright. Dragging him away from the corner he had been happily settled in, she made him dance with her, the fact that she had no idea what the song was providing no impediment to her enthusiasm. Her slender body was warm and soft in his arms, the tickle of her untameable hair against his forearms oddly erotic. He barely heard her when she made a joke about Remus Lupins' horror at being dragged out onto the dance floor by an overenthusiastic Tonks, in truth he had not noticed anyone else around them. Swaying mindlessly to the music, rough hands spanning her narrow waist, the song seemed to go on interminably. She thanked him for the dance with a guileless grace he could not begin to emulate, whispering that he had better be careful of the girls eying him from the table in the corner. Her breath was sweet with butterbeer, her giggle low and husky. Grinning reluctantly he had let her go, steadying her when she stumbled slightly. Briefly her mouth was close to his, her hand gripping his shoulder, and for a moment he wanted to kiss her so badly it actually hurt.
Not good, not good at all… There had been women in his life before; nice girls whose company, and more he had enjoyed. This was different. This was wild and uncontrollable and utterly wrong. The following morning Charlie volunteered for a dragon wrangling post in Hungary; distance was the key, he told himself firmly, all he needed was a little space. When Ron and Hermione married six months later he offered his congratulations, wished them well, and did not meet her eyes.
He remembers those days sometimes. Happy days when there was laughter and hope; days when the Daily Prophet was a newspaper and not just a register of the dead. They had fought, and they had fought well. Voldemort had died by Harrys' hand, the Death Eaters all but vanquished. Few families in the wizarding world had been untouched by the war, and in the aftermath it seemed that their community had grown closer, the memory of shared horror an inoculation against the re-emergence of evil. These days were a time of tentative renewal and progress, however such hope had not come without a price.
The final battle had taken the lives of both Ron and Neville Longbottom. Loyalty unwavering they had fought like heroes beside their friends, their sacrifice allowing Harry to get close enough to Voldemort to finish him off. In the dark silent moments when sleep will not come, Charlie remembers that night. Hermiones' dark head bent over the sprawled figure of his brother, the wedding ring that he had only worn for three weeks gleaming brightly on his lifeless finger. She had not cried, he remembers that much. Dull eyed and self controlled she seemed to sleepwalk through the funeral and it's aftermath, her face a mask and her knuckles white on the bench she sat upon at the inquest of his death. Molly and Arthur had offered her a room and she had accepted; the thought of moving back to her muggle parents' world unendurable. Her presence is a comfort to his parents; Ron had loved her, by keeping Hermione close, they still had a small part of him with them.
Not much has changed in the long months since. Declining offers that will take him too far from home, Charlie listens to her crying when she thinks no one can hear her, tries not to notice how thin she has become. There are times when he has to leave the house abruptly; walk until he is too tired to think properly, until the urge to pull her close and tell her how much he loves her has passed. It is Ron she cries for, Ron she wants. His little brother may be gone, but his presence can still be felt throughout the house, his memory as fresh as the day he died.
And he can no more touch her as his widow than his wife.