A/N: So here's the thing…I should not be posting this, I should really not be posting this. I am only seven chapters into this story and I haven't even plotted out the entire thing yet. I'm so sorry. Alas, I have absolutely zero self-control. I've been sitting on this story for so long and I just could not resist.
So…here it is. My Ron/Hermione aftermath story. While this is most definitely Ron/Hermione centric it will also likely include various points of views and side other-canon-pairings. I will do my absolute best to keep up with it, but I am about to return to school and things may get quite busy at times.
Note: Unlike my missing moments fic There Goes My Heart, I decided to go the other direction with Hermione's torture and follow movie!canon in terms of the mudblood scar. Just a slight deviation and I hope no one minds too greatly :)
Warning: this story will deal with PTSD and other related issues.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter
Chapter One
"We are not youth any longer. We don't want to take the world by storm. We are fleeing. We fly from ourselves. From our life. We were eighteen and had begun to love life and the world, and we had to shoot it to pieces." -All Quiet on the Western Front
Hermione cringed as she removed her jean jacket, a sharp sting running up the length of her arm to her shoulder, from which a thin line of blood still trailed down. Her teeth clenched as she continued to remove her clothes until she stood there in her underwear. Bracing herself, she grabbed a bottle of dittany from where she'd set it on one of the beds and turned quickly towards the mirror in the far left corner of the room, before she could change her mind. Even having known it wouldn't be a pretty sight, she still couldn't contain a gasp. The body she saw reflected back at her was barely recognizable, a distant shadow of the girl she remembered seeing last.
While on the run, she had tried her best to avoid looking at her reflection at all costs, but of all the unavoidable glimpses she'd taken, this was by far the worst. Months of living off of mushrooms had taken its toll. She was far too thin, and her body seemed frozen in a state of exhaustion. Her skin was marred with what seemed like a million cuts and bruises, including a few that looked particularly nasty. The thin scar Bellatrix had left with her knife stood out sharply against the white of her neck. Thankfully, the other, more painful reminder of her torture was still wrapped tightly in the bandage she'd had Fleur pull over it, but the feeling of it there caused her throat the hitch all the same. The dittany, while taking away some of the sting, had unfortunately done little to dim the bright redness of the burns she'd received at Gringotts, an event that seemed to have taken place years ago, rather than hours. With a sharp intake of breath, she realized that even her hair, which was tied into a french braid and now half unraveled, was matted down with blood. In order to prevent tears, she forced herself to avert her eyes to the edge of the mirror, and focus on the background rather than on herself.
She was in Ginny's and the other sixth year girls' dorm room. McGonagall had encouraged everyone to stay the night in the school, in order keep things as manageable as possible. Most everyone had had no desire to leave directly after the battle, anyway. There was something strangely beautiful about the way war brought people together...and no one had wanted to leave the sick and injured or the battered school behind without offering their help. The Great Hall was being used as an infirmary, and McGonagall had expanded several classrooms into makeshift dorms for the families, students, and fighters who were staying, filling them with camp beds with a flick of her wand and the help of the other teachers. The dormitories of the four houses were open as well, and Hermione had escaped there as soon as she could with Ginny, who had insisted she stay with her in the sixth year dorms, so neither would have to be alone. There was no one else that would be staying there but them. Parvati was down in the infirmary with Lavender, and all of Ginny's own dormmates had been too young to stay and fight.
Looking around the room, it was almost possible to successfully avoid reality. The dormitory itself was unscathed. Gryffindor flags adorned the walls. Forgotten schoolbooks lay in stacks on the floor. Pictures of smiling family members rested on each set of drawers. On Ginny's, the old picture of the Weasley's in Egypt smiled down at her. Hermione eyed it carefully. She had seen it hundreds of times, but it had never before looked so unrecognizable. Mrs. Weasley, relaxed and smiling widely. Bill, before his face was maimed. Ron, holding tightly to a squirming scabbers, untouched by war, unaware of what lay ahead. Fred…alive, laughing. It was a far cry from the broken family gathered in the Great Hall, probably wondering if they would ever smile like that again. Looking at the photo, she could, for a moment, almost forget that a war had taken place just beyond the room's walls.
Snapping her eyes away from the photo, Hermione uncorked the bottle of dittany and began lathering it onto her wounds. Ginny was down in the common room talking with Harry, but she knew she only had so much time alone. Once she had finished applying the stuff (which stung like hell) to all of the reachable cuts and scrapes on her body, she scrambled through her worn out beaded bag for some pajamas, turning away from the mirror in relief to slip into the warmth of a four-poster bed. Lying down, however, felt wrong, and without anything to keep her busy, being by herself was starting to make her anxious. Despite being exhausted, she knew sleep was not an option. She wondered if she would ever be able to fall asleep again, after tonight. At the moment, it seemed unlikely. Instead, she slid on her slippers and robe and made her way downstairs.
Dean and Seamus were sitting in the armchairs around the fire. Nearby, a worse-for-wear Neville was dozing in his seat. A gaggle of younger Gryffindors who must've snuck their way into fighting despite their age were gathered around the table, talking in hushed voices, their eyes wide. Eerily, stacks of books, quills, and ink bottles, and even a few half-finished essays and open school bags were scattered around the space, abandoned by their owners when they'd evacuated. Harry and Ginny were standing in a corner, arguing quietly. The one person she most wanted to see, however, was nowhere to be found.
Sighing, she made her way over to Harry and Ginny, whose eyes were narrowed at each other in equal defiance. "Have either of you seen Ron?" She asked, interrupting them. Harry shrugged.
"He said something about a bathroom before he left," Ginny said, turning to her sympathetically. Hermione sighed. He'd been gone far too long to have been in the loo this whole time… Perhaps she should just go look for him. Bidding the other two good night, she made her way into the hall. It was difficult journey. The school was in rough shape. Several of the walls and staircases had been destroyed completely, reduced to rubble. Many of the portraits and silver knights that usually adorned the walls lay in shreds on the ground. Every now and then she stumbled upon entire sections of the castle that were simply blown away. Walking it alone, she felt increasingly empty, and Ron seemed to be nowhere in sight. Just as she was considering turning around and searching a different route, she saw a flicker of red hair disappearing around the corner.
"Percy!" She called out, sprinting to catch up to him. His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. She figured he was either heading back to his family, or escaping them, but for some reason guessed Ron wasn't there. Still, he might know where she could find him. "Do you know where Ron is?" She asked, doing her best to keep the creeping worry out of her voice. Much to her relief, and surprise, he nodded.
"Prefect's bathroom. I was just in there. Look, Hermione..." His mouth opened as if to say something, but apparently deciding against it, he instead bid her goodnight and walked off without another word. Not stopping to think about this odd behavior, Hermione immediately turned on her heel and headed to the all too familiar prefect's bathroom, relieved to find the password the same as it had always been. It seemed to be the only password in the school that never changed. She supposed Prefects were trusted enough to not let it slip to people who shouldn't be there. When she slid the portrait closed behind her, she saw him, sitting on the edge of the vast, pool-like bath, his trousers rolled up and his feet dangling in the water. He'd looked up when she'd entered, but he didn't say anything.
Ron looked, to put it as gently as possible, horrible. His plethora of bruises and cuts rivaled her own, burns and caked blood layered on top of old and new scars. It wasn't hard to tell that he'd been crying. His eyes were just as red as Percy's had been. "Hi," she whispered, looking down at him.
"Hi."
Hermione pulled herself down to sit beside him, bunching up her pajama bottoms before slipping her feet into the water next to his. When the warm water met the burns around her ankles, she cringed until the sting had disappeared. Then she looked at him, as he stared straight ahead. He already looked older. It never failed to amaze her, how everything could change in an instant. How her whole world could be flipped on its axis in less than a day. Voldemort was gone, the war was over, but she didn't feel the slightest bit happy. She wished she could celebrate, or at least feel more relieved…but somehow things didn't seem any easier. With a moment's hesitation, she lowered her head to rest on his shoulder. The silence, sitting there quietly together, was somehow comforting, and eventually she felt Ron's hand snake into her own.
She wondered what it meant…her thoughts flickering back to one of the only moments of the day that wasn't painful—their kiss. It was all too easy to recall the taste of his lips on hers…the desperation and the passion that was a product of years of waiting. She wasn't very experienced with kissing, but Ron's had felt better than all the others she'd had combined, and then some. It had felt so real. And now he was holding her hand…which she hoped meant that he had felt it too. But she still didn't quite know where they stood. Were they a couple now, just like that? Certainly there had to be some sort of conversation…or would that seem too forced? She was almost positively overthinking it, but after so many years of wanting this, of wanting him, she didn't want to screw it up with a mindless mistake. "Ron, I—" she choked a little on the words as she tried to decide what to say. I want to be your girlfriend. I want to get through this together. We should have done this a long time ago. I think I'm in love with you. I'm almost certain I'm in love with you. Instead it came out as a question, "You and me?," and she could only hope he knew what she was asking.
"You and me," he answered without hesitation, and they both knew. The words didn't need to be said aloud. They were exchanged silently, in a look, a mutual understanding. Then, before she'd had time to process it, they were kissing, and every other thought was drained from her mind as they moved against one another, her toes swirling around in the water. He had pulled the tie out of her braid and was attempting to run a hand through her matted hair. The kiss was different than their first. It was softer, gentler, and less hurried. Slowly, the implications of the past few hours came trickling back to her. They were safe. They had an entire lifetime to fill with thousands of more kisses. It was over.
