It almost killed me, writing this. I've loved Harry/Hermione for so long. I've got to admit, I really dislike Ron - a lot. I guess this is my way of redeeming him, of coming to terms with him and accepting all the good qualities he possesses. This plot bunny served to ease my totally one-sided feud with him. Congrats, Ron. You're a good person.

If you liked it, let me know. If you didn't, let me know why. (:

Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter universe. I just play with the characters.

1996

Ron Weasley was many things: a prat, a third of the so-called Golden Trio, the best friend of Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, a fool. Yes, he was many things, but he was not blind.

He didn't know when it started, precisely. One could only assume that some spark was ignited in the time he had left them. He had been angry, so angry, irrationally angry, and when he had finally Disapparated away from them the guilt set in immediately. His throat choked up and he felt winded with the regret he felt for abandoning his two best friends in their search for the Horcruxes. He almost immediately returned to the site he had left, and found to his dismay empty land. Whether they had locked him out of the wards, or simply moved on entirely, he didn't know.

The driving force behind Ron's determination to return to them was Hermione, whom he believed himself in love with. She motivated him. the memory of her pulled him through the darkness of being alone, of confronting the Snatchers, of lying and cheating his way through every day simply to survive. Naturally, chance was in his favour. The Patronus he encountered in the Forest looked so like Harry's, he simply assumed it was, and followed it to the frozen lake. There he rescued Harry and destroyed the first Horcrux.

The return to camp found a very enraged Hermione, her wand trained upon Ron and her eyes glinting viciously, hurt by his leaving. This was to be expected. What Ron didn't expect was for Harry to approach her unafraid, and, with a small brush of the hand over her arm, for Hermione to stand down. She threw him a glare and marched off angrily. Harry turned back to Ron.

"Don't worry about it, Ron. She'll come around."

Harry chose not to bring up his odd actions, and Hermione's equally odd reactions. Wisely, Ron took the cue and left it alone. It wasn't the only time he would witness the suspicious closeness of Hermione Granger and Harry Potter.

It started with touches. Harry was constantly touching Hermione. A hand on her lower back when she was cooking, hands twisting her unruly hair into braids to keep it out of her face, stoking her cheek, embracing her. He was not alone in his attentions. Quiet nights would find the pair curled up on the ratty couch, Hermione a book in hand and Harry's head upon her lap, her fingers carding through his hair, stroking him gently. She would reach up and kiss his cheek, fix his glasses, slip her arms under his own and wind them around him. The movements seemed almost unconscious, as though they had long been part of a routine. Reflecting, Ron believed they had. They moved together in tandem, always aware where each other was, projecting an image of such solidarity it was a wonder that he never knew it then.

Then he began to notice how they looked at each other. Each morning, Hermione would leave their residence to search for items to make into an edible meal for that morning's breakfast. Harry would engage Ron in conversation, and for a while it was almost normal, like they were the same two blokes who shared a dorm together in school. But Ron noticed that, every so often, Harry would glance at the entrance of the tent morosely, as though mourning the loss of Hermione. And he would notice how, each time she came back, his eyes would light up again. It would never be obvious to a person who didn't know them as well as he did. And Hermione – some nights, she tried to get Harry to help her in the kitchen. Ron sat at the kitchen bench and watched them as they conversed, the conversation light and mundane. But he saw the glint in her eyes, a warmth that had once been reserved for him. And that was when he knew she would never again look at him that way again.

Ron held onto the belief that Hermione belonged with him for a long time. He refused to allow himself to see that Harry and Hermione were no longer just friends, that they were something more. His anger over the growing realisation of the fact that their relationship no longer existed within the neat, tidy boundaries of friendship served to alienate himself from them further. They functioned normally, but not as they had been. Ron, Harry and Hermione almost seemed to live separate lives while in the tent. Ron felt indescribably bitter over the fact that Harry had once again won. The fame, the fortune, the girl. It caused him to push them away, wanting to be with them but at the same time not bearing to see the obvious affection between the two.

Spending nights protecting the tent became a regular occurrence for him. One particularly cold night, he volunteered himself for guard duty, promising the two that he would not venture too far away from the tent. He made his escape from the emotionally charged environment that was the ramshackle dwelling of the tent, and sat himself down on a log some distance from the opening of the tent. He could see the dim lighting of the candles from his position, and it allowed him the chance to reflect upon his feelings.

His mistake was returning to the tent so soon. As he neared the entrance he immediately thought something was wrong. The silence of the surrounding forest had morphed into odd rustling sounds, squeaking noises, and low murmurs. Brandishing his wand, he moved toward the tent. What he found was something he had long been afraid of. It was the most damning evidence he had discovered since returning, the final nail in the coffin for any potential relationship he might have pursued with Hermione Granger.

There, on Hermione's single bed in a partition away from the rest of the tent, in a tangle of skin and sheets, were Hermione and Harry. Breathy moans and strangled grunts punctuated the rhythm of his body driving into hers, the mattress protesting against the physicality of their passion. Her hands fluttered over him, gripping his shoulders, stroking his back, smoothing his hair, his name a prayer upon her lips. He gripped her hips, ran hands up her waist to tangle them in her hair as they kissed, worshipping her with his body. There was no denying it – their chemistry was a testament to the fact. Ron quickly averted his eyes and withdrew from the entrance, settling himself outside, steeling himself for the finale. He cried silently, foolishly as they reached completion, their names on the other's lips. That moment was when he realised that his two best friends were in love.

He had lost.

ooOOoo

1998

Ron Weasley was many things: a fool, a best friend, a lover, a brother. And now he was a father.

"Come on, little tyke," he laughed as he wrestled little Jamie into his clothing – today it was all blue. He confessed he didn't understand the significance of colour-coding, being a man, until Ginny explained it to him. Luna had simply laughed when his sister threatened to hex him if he attempted to match a little green striped shirt with orange polka-dot pants. How was he supposed to know that the combination didn't work?

"There, all done."

He bundled the baby into the carrier and headed out to the living room where Luna and Ginny were waiting. He pressed a kiss to the side of Luna's head as he watched Ginny coo over the baby. Ginny lifted little Jamie out and proceeded to feed him his breakfast, freshly warmed.

"What's on the agenda today, Ronald Weasley?" Came Luna's ethereal voice from his side.

"Going to visit Harry and Hermione today," he replied softly.

The drive was long. Jamie kept fussing in the backseat of the car, and Ron was having a hard enough time as it was controlling the giant steel death trap Muggles called a car. He was thankful that there were few people out on the roads. Pulling into the carpark, he turned to watch the baby in the back seat.

"Come on Jamie," he whispered. "Let's go meet Harry and Hermione."

Harry and Hermione's wedding could hardly be considered as such. It was a small, private ceremony along the beach outside Shell Cottage, Bill and Fleur's home. They undertook the old marriage rites that had long died out in wizarding weddings; the absence of an officiator necessitated a binding magical ritual. It was cold, it was windy and the sky was grey, but Harry and Hermione were the very image of blissful happiness in the sight of Dean, Luna, Bill, Fleur and himself. It took place near Dobby's grave.

When Hermione discovered her pregnancy, Harry was overjoyed. Ron remembered him lifting Hermione up by her waist, the frizzy roots of her hair almost brushing the roof as she was spun around by the exuberant father-to-be. He remembered Harry almost bowling him and Dean over, exclaiming, "I'm going to be a father! A dad! Me, Ron!" He remembered the lengthy nights awaiting the birth of the child, the mission placed on hold until they could all live safely. Months passed. Ron found himself enamored with one Luna Lovegood, and spent much of his time with her. Perhaps she was the reason he managed to find happiness in his best friends' relationship – or perhaps he got over it all by himself. Whatever the reason, he found peace with his life, spending periods of time with Luna on the sofa in silence, sometimes accompanied by Hermione and Harry.

The birth came; Hermione almost didn't survive it. A lack of medical equipment made the process considerably more dangerous than it otherwise would have been. Harry was near hysterical for the entirety of labor. He kept a faithful vigil by her bedside, guiding her through the pain. "Just think, Hermione. Think of our baby," is what he said to her. Finally, James William was born on a blustery winter's night in one of the five spare bedrooms of Shell Cottage, named for the fathers of both his parents, red and wrinkled and screaming with the indignity of having been forcibly ejected from the safety of his mother's womb. The young parents cried, overwhelmed with the knowledge that they had a family of their very own. Ron cried too. He cried harder when he was asked, along with Luna, to be her godparent.

Then the time came when they had to leave little Jamie behind to return on their quest. Hermione almost considered giving up to stay with her son, but the temptation to follow Harry even to death won over. James, now two months old, was handed off into the care of his Uncle Bill and Auntie Fleur, whom promised to keep watch over him during the war (and after, should it come to it).

The Horcruxes were destroyed. The diary, the locket, the cup, the diadem. The snake had been killed by Neville. It was the moment that had been foretold long ago, prophesised when Harry was a baby. But where was he? He wasn't there. But Ron knew he was alive, he saw him get up, saw him leap out of Hagrid's arms and draw Voldemort away. In the end – to his everlasting surprise – Draco Malfoy, pale and thin and haggard, stepped up to the plate. Voldemort's wand failed. Malfoy won. Voldemort died. But where were they? Confusion. Everyone was shocked by the conclusion. No one expected Malfoy. Where was Harry? Where was Hermione?

A loud scream of anguish reached his ears after the shocked silence had ensued. Ginny. Where was she… He made his way over to her, standing at the entrance to the Great Hall. And there, he got his answer. He wish he never asked.

There. in a tangle of broken limbs. lay his best friends. Their eyes were open. Unseeing. But seeing each other, always each other. Their glassy gazes were fixed upon the other. Even until the end. But why were their eyes open. They should be shut. Ron knelt next to a sobbing Ginny, next to the bodies. He reached over. Closed Hermione's eyes. Straightened her limbs out. She was cold. Removed Harry's cracked glasses. Reparo. Shut his eyes. Put his glasses back on. Even in death he holds her hand. He was cold too. Ron cried. The world was silent.

It was a bitterly cold day, and the grounds were covered in a thick layer of snow. Discreetly, he placed a warming charm on the carrier, heading down the hill towards his destination. He placed the baby carrier down in front of a giant headstone. It was ornate, monumental, and the new marble sparkled in the dim light of the wintry morning. And on it, the words –

In Loving Memory Of

Harry James Potter

31st July 1980 - 2nd May 1998

and

Hermione Jean Potter

19th September 1979 - 2nd May 1998

Death does not concern us, because as long as we exist, death is not here. And when it does come, we no longer exist.