Contact
The mad little thought somehow rose above the others, staring down into that frozen, slightly grinning face.
'My god he's beautiful.'
Hermione had never really noticed before, but Fred Weasley was, in a word, gorgeous. The blood and dirt that clung to his face only accented a strong jawline, set in death, but she seemed unable to remember a time when it was not open and curved in a laugh. The lines of his muscles under the shirt he wore revealed a body that reveled in manual labor, and distantly, she thought she heard the crack of a bluger being narrowly diverted from it's scarlet and gold target.
She sat opposite Mrs. Weasley, who rocked, mad with grief, clutching her only daughter as she wailed as if she were only thing left in the world that mattered. George looked ready to vomit again, and Charlie supported him, mute with shock. Ron was finding it difficult to sit up-right. He looked dizzy and slightly drunk with exhaustion. Percy wept into his shoulder, and all Ron could do to acknowledge him was to put a hand on the top of his head. After a while, Percy reached up and clutched Ron's hand to his chest, running a hand over the bruised knuckles reverently. For the first time in memory, his lips formed the words, "I love you."
What possessed Hermione to do it she didn't know, but it seemed the only way to express her grief and gratitude in a way that meant anything. She leaned down over that beautiful form, one hand brushing a lock of hair out of his eyes, and kissed him full on the lips. She heard Ron try to choke something out, but Hermione was lost in the feel of the cold flesh pressed against her lips, thinking that maybe some of that warmth would take hold. It didn't, and she needed to breathe again. George was ogling her a little, and in that instant, her eyes focused on the set line of his lips, and she knew what had possessed her. She raised two trembling fingers to her own mouth, then reached over and touched George's. The gesture was so simple, so ineffectual she thought, but it was all she could think of doing. A last gift of contact, falsely warm and soft and as alive as George was likely to remember.
Understanding flashed between the two, and for one very strange minute when George looked at her, she was aware that he wasn't seeing her. He grinned—a small, pitifully sad, trembling thing, but the corners of his mouth somehow managed to turn up. A limp hand reached up to entwine to Hermione's and, impossibly, she heard George speak directly to her mind.
Thanks, Hermione.
A voice, not her own, joined his a second later.
Don't think we'll be making a habit out of this. Thanks, though.
And all of sudden George saw her again. He released her hand, a feeling of wordless gratitude flowing from every inch of his body. Again, audible only to the two of them, he whispered thanks.
Suddenly, a high cold voice broke across the castle. All heads turned and wands flew into hands.
"Harry Potter is dead," the voice proclaimed, but the rest was lost in the enraged ringing in her head. The voice was saying something about surrendering but it was distant. Hermione looked from one pale, determined face to the next, vaulted to her feet and held out a hand to George. Without hesitation he took it, readied his wand, and they joined the ranks forming on the boundary of the ruined castle walls.