A/N: This is my first venture into Harry Potter fanfic. I love J. K. Rowling's characters but, like many of you, never really felt that Ron and Hermione were right for each other. This story is about Harry and Hermione's relationship after the war is over. Rated M for references to suicide, alcohol and drug abuse, and language. I have no idea how often this will be updated; my muse is a temperamental bitch and she shows up when she feels like it, but I will attempt to keep it on a weekly or biweekly schedule.

If this story suits your fancy, please review. No flames, please.

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters; they belong to J. K. Rowling. I am simply playing on her playground.

Chapter One: Memories

The fog hanging over the city was thick, not one of the heavy, pea-soup fogs of yesteryear, but still, vision was nearly down to zero, the lamplight thin and wavering. This section of London was more rundown than most and, this late, dangerous. Gangs of young toughs roamed about, breaking windows and pilfering any vehicles with owners foolish enough to leave them unlocked. Bin bags lay everywhere; many had burst in the heat, spilling crud onto the sidewalks where the few lucky enough to be employed would be forced to step around onto the street to avoid soiling their clothes.

The man who popped into existence that morning, as Big Ben tolled two o'clock, ignored all of this. Removing a device that looked like a small cigar lighter from his pocket, he pointed it at the only two streetlights still untouched by vandals. The lights flew toward the end, disappearing from view but not before shining on thinning red hair. Ron Weasley stood unmoving in the dark, head down as he concentrated, muttering words learned long ago, hoping against hope that they would still work.

Nothing happened for a long moment, but at last a low rumbling shook the street and he watched, still amazed after all these years, as 12 Grimmauld Place appeared, grinding into existence with the Muggles on either side none the wiser. He tried the door, surprised when it swung open; he'd half-expected Harry to have it warded against him.

The house was just as gloomy as it had been in the final days of the war, when all their hopes seemed to fray around them, all signs pointing to Voldemort's triumph. Ron was careful not to bump into anything, shaking his head sadly as he gave the troll leg umbrella stand a wide berth, the memory of Tonks' smiling face weighing heavy on his heart.

Creeping down the stairs to the kitchen, Ron held his wand out in front of him, whether to light the way or as a defensive measure, he wasn't sure. "Lumos," he whispered, and the light from his wand burst in a soundless explosion as the lamps around the room flamed high. The floor twinkled as if covered with diamonds and Ron inhaled deeply at the sight of all the broken glass. It looked as if Harry had smashed every piece of glassware in the house and left it lying where it had fallen.

Ron was wearing boots, but he muttered a shield charm all the same as he crunched across the floor, headed for the cupboard. Hands trembling, he reached out and gently pulled the door open. He stared into the darkness, his eyes needing a moment to adjust. After a long look, he breathed a sigh of relief; it was empty. There had been two occasions in the past several months when he had arrived here to find his best friend crouched in the dark as he rocked back and forth, eyes unseeing as he whispered the same word over and over again, whispered her name.

Back up the stairs now, heading for the living room. Ron could see the sullen glow of fire and the sight gave him a flashback to the night of the last battle, the one which had cemented him and his two best friends as heroes in the collective minds of the wizarding community. They had been so alive that night, only coming down from the high of success as the terrible toll of victory had been hammered home in the form of covered, lifeless bodies in the Great Hall.

The fug of cigarette smoke hung in the heavy, humid air, but beneath that there was a low smell and Ron wrinkled his nose as it became stronger the closer he came to the doorway. Peering around the corner, he took a deep breath, steeling himself against what lay ahead. Finally, he stepped into the room, wand out again as he looked around for his friend.

Harry Potter was sprawled in the floor, a blanket covering his head, the coffee table collapsed under his weight. Ron winced at the sight of an ocean of empty liquor and beer bottles, the overflowing ashtray. But it was the sight of the photos, many taken when he and Harry and Hermione had been at Hogwarts, which really caught at his heart. Harry snorted in his drunken stupor, reaching out for the one nearest to hand before falling into a deeper sleep. Reaching down, Ron snagged it and stood staring, silent tears streaming down his cheeks as the three faces of yesteryear grinned back at him.

It had been one of those impromptu snaps, taken during fourth year, after Harry had rescued Fleur's little sister Gabrielle, and Ron, from the Black Lake. The three of them had been walking away from the pier, headed to Hagrid's when the photographer had snapped the shot, catching their smiles, their elation at Harry's triumph, perfectly. Thinking back, Ron realized that it had been the last time they had truly been innocent, the last moment of purity before the deaths of Barty Crouch, Sr., and Cedric Diggory had ripped the blinders away, revealing the gravity of the situation as Voldemort returned in the flesh.

He returned to the kitchen to wait. There was a broom in the small space that had once served as Kreacher's den and he spent the next few hours sweeping up the mess and depositing in the trash. It would have only taken a moment to straighten things with his wand, but his hands were shaking again and Ron didn't trust himself to cast even a simple cleaning spell. He missed the old house elf as he worked, but Harry had seen fit to free Kreacher after his efforts in the Battle of Hogwarts, a move which most had applauded. Kreacher had fit in well in the kitchens at the school, Minerva had reported, and it was a good way to keep an eye on him. There were those among the Order who still questioned his loyalty, even after his heroic change of heart, but Minerva and Harry were not among them.

Ron had time to ponder the words of the letter he'd received this afternoon and as he worked they replayed themselves over and over again in his mind. We each owe a debt to the universe, a debt which we must all someday pay. And I now know that I owe two. He was not certain what his friend had meant, but he intended to get to the heart of the matter before he left here tonight.

The words evoked memories of the last days before the three of them had set out in search of the Horcruxes, and he tried to banish the ghosts that seemed to swarm around him, never seen clearly, but flashing in and out just beyond the range of his vision. A couple of times, he could have sworn that he saw Moody in the corner beside the great fireplace, enchanted eye spinning lazily as he watched over them all. Tonks was sitting at the table, her hair flashing from electric blue to cotton candy pink, then to a black nearly the color of midnight as she entertained Ginny and Hermione. Hermione….

Upstairs, Harry Potter turned over and the blanket slipped from his face. He snorted drunkenly, rolling about to find a more comfortable position before falling into a deeper sleep. His eyes began to move beneath their lids as he began to dream, to relive the day that he had found her…