Harry had the first watch after a chance dinner of chips but as he breezed across the marshlands he felt light as air. Moorlands rolled out to the deepening purple sky behind him and crumbled into the waves. He lay on his back, reclined and easily able to watch the running watercolors of the seascape and her sunset. Gentle blues with rusty specks, abruptly turning into a deep purple sky. Stars were covered in alabaster clouds, light and slipping all over the place. He covered his eyes, and grew to his normal size without the moons of Jupiter to tease him.
There was a soft footstep behind him, he knew it was Hermione wandering away from the tomes, done with the fairy tales for now. He kidded himself for the moment that he doubted it was hers, and not a heavier tread.
"Hey," he said, and felt his smile was too shallow, but she returned it and sat beside him. She didn't look at him, but she wasn't feeling the eternal vastness of space as he had been, her eyes shifted between the dry and brittle grass and the tumult below them. She hitched half a smile before looking at him.
"We're doing all right. Yeah?" Her imitation was melancholic joyless but joking , and Harry was sure she hadn't meant to sound like Ron, but her face fell all the same. "Where do you think he's gone?"
Harry faked a confused look.
"Ron," she said softly, significantly.
"Oh," He thought hard, scrunched up his face to give the thought some physical appearance and hiked up his shoulders. "Perhaps he's enjoying an extended holiday with Auntie Muriel." He grinned at her, and she laughed, putting her gloved hand on his. He couldn't believe she'd actually been able to laugh.
"Oh Merlin, you're terrible." She was still smiling, but gripped his hand tightly. He pressed it, and she turned back.
"He's okay," Harry said. And she nodded, eyes darkening for only a second as he pulled her close and she rested her head on his shoulder.
He watched the sea again. As her breathing quieted and she fell asleep, he felt lonely. She was warm beside him, but the pang of companionship lost was worse with it. Her arms encircled him, and he held her close, but the cold crept in. He shifted slightly and she awoke.
"Mmm, Harry?" She pushed away as the last glittering pieces of the sun skid across the water, and the starlight began to reflect. "Is it my watch?"
"Not for a bit."
She looked at him, and delicately touched his face.
"He didn't abandon you. You know that."
Harry didn't say a word. Anger itched, but worry and disappointment, loneliness and despair weighed heavier. They couldn't really avoid it now.
"He didn't. None of them did." Harry thought the comparison bitter, dead men and cowards, but she snuggled close for one more moment and he nodded. "They had no choice." He turned away.
"Doesn't he know—we need him." Harry sat up.
"He loves us just as much as we love him. He needs this right now. You know best of all what a commitment this is." She gave him a little shake to hide her flushed expression. Talking about Ron was the last thing she needed either, if purely out of embarrassment for her feelings.
Harry wasn't embarrassed anymore. He'd allowed the river to run away from him, and he didn't blush about any of it now. That was all a waste of time, and time was something they had too little and too much of. It was best for them all, really. They would agree, Ron and Hermione, if they knew. But he'd never have the satisfaction of asking himself. Once out there, that kind of thing, it wouldn't just pass like a bad midterm grade, so he would never actually open it for discussion. Besides, love fades. Or did Shakespeare also say it could be transferred? Hermione knew Shakespeare, he caught his tongue before he asked her. He forced his eyes shut, blotting out the temptation to talk about his feelings.
Hermione left and Harry forcibly returned to thoughts of magical stones, invincible wands, and enchanted cloaks. Like a meditation he cycled through them, wheeling his eyes through the galaxy laid out before him in the sky. Snatches of Astronomy came back to him, Andromeda, a comet in that direction, but slightly to the north, wasn't that just some distant sun from another system? He meandered around the stars and further distant planets. Moons beyond them, and... he'd very much to be big enough to scoop them up. They didn't look that large from there. He actually began to seem as though he were a giant, and imagined swallowing them all in a few spoonfuls. Hands back covering his eyes, he wanted to be alone, and yet, he just wanted to be someone else. To get another chance, another run at it, maybe this time understand friendship a little better. Know when it was kinship and when it was something else.
With a groan he swung himself upright, hands still over his eyes, and rubbed any unwelcome sights out of his eyes. Back to the starlight sea. Eyes turning across the waves hushing him, he imagined shadowy brothers treated to gifts given by death. Ugh, whatever. He stood and paced, not able to save himself from a gloomy train of thought. He knew it was all indifferent now. Ron and the universe, but sometimes it felt as though if he lingered too long, he's lose all self-control, his all powerful grip on what was really important and just slip into some sort of a fruitless depression. He had his friends, and god, now he had Ginny.
Heart fluttering at the memory when Ron had admitted, without realizing, that Hermione was someone special. That one summer at the house, Ginny had come down the stairs, escaping room arrest for a new box of tissues, she'd laughed and teased them both, Harry knew now she'd been flirting with him. Ron had ducked out for some reason, and with her nose congested, her sincere pleasure at seeing him flushing her even more and daring her spirits on, she'd been like an airy version of his best friend. Bad jokes, and a cracking boyish voice. Shorter though, softer, but her big delicate hands like his. When she'd pursued the relationship, he never objected again. He sat down, calmed and content.
Fingertips rumpling his long hair, Hermione stooped over him, artificially chipper. He dared not suggest she'd been crying. Harry smiled slightly, and allowed her to give him a hand up.
"Ooh, it's cold." She said, hugging him a moment and stealing his coat for on top of hers. "Also, you need another haircut." She ran her fingers through his hair again. Harry affected annoyance and brushed her away, making her eyes twinkle.
He trundled inside, numb now, and went to poke the fire, but found it perfect condition, Hermione had just tended to it herself. He paced chaffing his hands against one another, and warming up slowly. Each time he passed the desk he saw the fairy tales laying next to a book of runes, one more pass and he saw a piece of paper underneath the fairy tales, a recent portrait of the three of them. Ron in the middle, arms draped stupidly over their shorter frames. All of them ridiculously happy, mockingly so. The greatest thing, love—Harry jerked the picture away from himself, scared to watch it dance daringly close and then fly past open hearth. He went to retrieve it. Under a bed he crawled, and on the bedside table was the locket. He picked it up, daring himself to confront his thoughts and just put it on. But he lingered, everything was so fine at the moment. So numb and focused on what was important. He was happy with the way things now were, he was convinced of this. As much as he could be, as the world neared cosmic confrontations.
Oh, the locket would make a mess of him tonight. He knew it as he opened the chain to enter it's weight, and felt tears tickle. "No," he said, aloud, and for once, his mind acquiesced and the taunting malignancy backed away. "You're not going to devastate me. Not now." He whispered. He felt strong and remembering Ginny he swelled a little with pride. That he had inspired so much love and loyalty. Neither of them had wanted it to end. But there was a sweet taste in his mouth, bitterness in his throat, and he felt his abdomen tremble a little. Ginny frowned and she grew taller, became his best friend. He guessed what he wanted, and allowed his clothes to drop away easily, crawling into the dark pit of the bed. He could only imagine what dreams would rake him with guilt in the morning.