DISCLAIMER: I wish I were cool enough to own Harry Potter, but I'm not.

I'm very thankful to 1000timesingoldenink for the title suggestion, to Ari/Royari for being an awesome beta, and to Nadia for helping with the summary. :) A lot of hearts for all of you! :)

Author's Chapter Notes:

Hello, and welcome to my brand-new trio fic! I know I have Killer Instincts on the other side, which follows pre-DH canon, but that is just a revamp of an old fic, and is independent of this. This here is my new, DH compliant trio fic. And I reckoned I'd update it here and on MNFF simultaneously.

Anyway, it's been really long since I've actually written something with Harry in it, ha, and he's probably giving me accusatory glances from somewhere. Probably. Hmm. I wish he were real, he's a lot of fun.

This chapter is mostly just Ronmione, and the Harry/Ginny part will start soon too. Meanwhile, I hope you'll enjoy what I've got here. :)

1. After the War

The sun rose in all its zeal on a particularly warm morning in May, casting its glittering rays upon the cities, towns and villages below. The crystal dew drops on the colourful flowers and leaves sparkled merrily, eventually evaporating away in the heat of the sun as children woke up and started getting ready for school and their parents, for work. The day seemed like any other normal, cheerful day-except that, for some people, it was not just a regular day.

Ron opened his eyes and rolled over on his bed as a sick feeling washed over him. He shut his eyes and tried to will it away, but it wouldn't go. Who was he kidding? It was there to stay- at least for the next few months. Maybe years. In all honesty, Ron didn't know how long he'd be miserable this way.

Today, the pain seemed fourfold. The sick, swooping sensations in his stomach made him put his head in his hands and screw up his face, scared to breathe, scared to think. The terrible tightness in his chest and throat was waiting to escape, to be relieved, but he was afraid of letting go. Along with all this, he felt the urge to rip something out of himself and the desire to scream, to shout and to howl… All of these feelings Ron carefully shepherded inside him, because he was a pillar of support to too many people and he couldn't afford to be a wreck- not now, not ever. And when all this had passed, there was the terrible pang of hope… Maybe this was all a just a nightmare. Maybe he'd wake up in the morning in a sweat, screaming, and Fred would poke fun at him for it, very much alive…

The terrible thing was that he knew it wasn't a dream. This was real-all too real, in fact. It was happening, and there was no way to escape it. He'd have to live with it all. He'd have to live with the grief and pain-and he didn't know how to do that.

There was a knock at his door and he quickly wiped his face before going over to it. Harry was staying in Fred and George's old room again as George had wanted to be alone in his flat. No amount of persuading could convince the latter to stay over at the Burrow for the funeral. This meant that Ron was alone in his room. He was thankful for this: he could have his private moments with his grief and his thoughts, and no-one needed to know about any of it. His grief would be with him for life.

The knocks on Ron's door repeated themselves, and he opened the door. He was immediately greeted by a pair of arms around him and a mass of bushy hair in his face. But at the moment (or actually, at any moment that he could remember since he'd been fourteen), Ron didn't mind the hair. He just gently pushed Hermione's hair away from his eyes and hugged her back tightly, feeling her shake and his nightshirt become wet, at which point he realised that he hadn't even thrown on a robe over his nightclothes. He buried his own face into her hair and took deep breaths to keep himself steady. He could detect the beginnings of a terrible urge to scream until his throat was raw and dry, and letting it out would be breaking the rule. It wouldn't happen. He remained calm; he pretended he was coping well, and continued with the hug. Hermione was one of the people who looked for support in him, and he didn't want to be vulnerable in front of her.

They could have been hugging for an eternity, and they wouldn't have known it. He was disappointed when she broke away, wiping her eyes. The warmth of her arms was the best comfort he could ever get, and he wished he could keep her to himself, keep her with him at all times. He knew he was being selfish, but he couldn't help it. This wasn't a moment for selflessness.

Hermione looked up at Ron and cupped his face in her hands, her red-rimmed eyes full of pain and sympathy. "How are you?"

He nodded. "Corking. You?"

A smile crept up her lips and she stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "Oh, Ron!" She ran a hand through his hair and traced her thumb below his eyes, wiping away a wetness that he had never realised was there in the first place. "I'm right here," she said quietly.

"I know that," he said, his voice slightly thick. He blinked, sniffed and forced himself to grin at her. "I can see you, can't I?"

She gave him a mildly exasperated look. "You're never going to change!"

"I don't see any point in that." He shrugged. "Do you?"

He hadn't meant it to be funny, but she chuckled mildly and cupped his face in her small hands again. Running her thumbs on his cheeks, she slowly got back on her tiptoes, and came close… closer… He tilted his head, ready to meet lips with hers, only to see her shut her eyes for a moment, and stop where she was. Then she opened her eyes again, sighing, and pulled away from him, biting her lip unsurely. He smiled hesitantly. "I know I have morning breath, Hermione, but that was insulting."

She shook her head and looked up at him, her eyes filling up again. "It's not you, Ron, it's-"

"If you're going to say 'me'-"

"I wasn't going to say that," she said quietly, interrupting him, but apparently not getting the sarcasm. "I just… Not now… Not today. I want us to be at peace when we sort this out and to talk about this, and…" She trailed off.

"And?"

"Well." She sighed, "I want to be sure that it wasn't just the uncertainty during the war, or the vulnerability while we're grieving. I want us to be-"

"-Normal," he finished for her. He nodded his head slowly. "I… understand."

"You do?" she asked, looking surprised.

"Blimey, Hermione," he said, breaking into a genuine grin this time. "I may seem like a nutter, but I do get these things, you know."

She smiled. "You're not a … 'nutter'."

The grin on his face widened. "You just said 'nutter'."

"No, I didn't," she objected. "I was quoting you. Anyway," she said, before he could argue with her, "get ready. The…" She struggled with the word. "The fu-fune-"

"Funeral," he finished for her again, drawing a deep breath. "Right. I'll shower and get dressed. Where will you be?"

"Harry's room," she told him. "Come there once you're done."

"Sure," he said. She nodded at him once and left to descend the stairs. He stood right there, watching the bushy top of her head disappear as she walked down the stairs, before shutting the door behind him to get dressed.

Today was probably going to be the worst, most difficult day in his life. He didn't know how prepared or unprepared he was to bury his brother, but he knew that Hermione being there was a boon. She'd make it all better for him.

***

When Harry woke up from his disturbed sleep, the first thing he heard was knocking at his door. "Two minutes!" he called out as he put on his glasses and sat up in bed.

His eyes immediately fell on the calendar hanging from a nail on the wall. He had crossed off every single day that he'd had to attend a funeral on, ever since the war. At the moment, he could see three crosses, shimmering on the calendar in red ink, indicating the funerals Harry had attended: Lupin and Tonks, Colin Creevey and Lavender Brown. Now, there would be a fourth cross on that calendar.

Harry got off the bed, picked up a quill from the desk, dipped it into red ink and crossed off the day- May eighth, 1998. He knew he'd never forget this day for the rest of his life, no matter what. He knew he'd have nightmares about it, that he'd remember all these precise moments, no matter how old he got, no matter how badly his memory degraded over the years. Today, after all the other funerals of the people he knew well, as though it were sour icing on rotten cake, was Fred's funeral. It marked another sacrifice made for him. It marked a loss suffered by one of Harry's best friends in a battle that hadn't been anyone's but Harry's in the first place.

He was aware that he shouldn't be blaming himself, but the guilt that crept up him when he recounted war casualties couldn't be eliminated. He couldn't shake off the feeling that he was responsible for it, despite what anyone said.

"Harry?" called Hermione's voice from outside, and Harry threw on a robe.

"Come in," he told her as he examined his stubble in a mirror on the wall.

She opened the door and walked to him, giving him a sideways-hug when she reached him. Her hand patted his arm lightly and he rested his cheek on her hair.

"How's Ginny?"

She broke away from him. "Not very good," she said to him honestly. "You should go see her."

"I don't know what to say," he said, going over and sitting on the bed.

Hermione came and sat next to him and put a hand on his shoulder. "You don't need to talk to her, Harry, you know that, right? Just… be there for her."

"Yeah, but I wish I could do that as well as you do it," he sighed. He paused. "Did you see Ron?"

"I did," she replied. "I think… in some ways, he might be worse off than Ginny."

There was silence as Harry drank in the information, feeling worse than before. Hermione seemed to read his mind. "It's not your fault, Harry," she said fiercely. "All of us chose to fight, okay? No-one was forced into it."

"Had I gone to Voldemort sooner-"

He was interrupted by a voice at his door. "You've really got to shut up with all the self-blaming, mate."

It was Ron. He came in and sat on the other bed in front of Harry and Hermione. "Yeah, I'm still corking," he said, when Hermione gave him a concerned glance. He turned to Harry. "She's right, you know. You're mental to blame yourself. Besides, if any of us thought that Fred dying was your fault, we'd never let you into the house- forget letting you stay here as part of the family."

"I guess," said Harry quietly.

"Good," said Ron, getting up and giving Hermione his hand. She took it hesitantly, but left it once she was up. Ron looked a little disappointed at that, but he turned to Harry. "Come downstairs to the living room when you're ready, and don't peek into my sister's room while you're at it."

"Ron!" Hermione objected.

"Okay, you can talk to her. But no snogging." Ron sighed. "Or catching hands," he added.

"That's enough," said Hermione. "You can't interfere like that, Ron! Come on."

"And no hugging," Ron called over his shoulder while he left the room, clearly having chosen to ignore Hermione.

Harry smiled at them mildly as he went over to the door. Ron tried to catch Hermione's hand again, but she swatted it away and blushed, making Harry chuckle. He shut the door, found his robes in the dresser and walked into the bathroom to shower, wondering what he should say to Ginny. The last few days had just been full of silent glances, hand-holding and occasional hugs- nothing more.

Ginny had grown quiet since the death of her brother, and she preferred to spend her time at Hermione's to set up the house, so everything would be ready when Hermione brought her parents back from Australia. Harry was also over at Andromeda Tonks's house a lot these days so he could spend time with his godson, Teddy. All-in-all, there hadn't been much alone time to spend with Ginny, and somehow, right now, Harry dreaded the moment. However, he knew that, like Hermione said, Ginny would probably just appreciate it if he were able to be there for her, and he'd try his best to do that.

He changed into the black dress robes and tried to hold back his hair in vain. The stubble was off next, thanks to the razor he had got as his seventeenth birthday gift from Bill and Fleur. He took a deep breath as he stood in front of the mirror. He would never be ready for this, ever, he realised. No matter how many times he had seen death and faced the loss of people who were close, nothing could ever prepare him for another loss. Harry had lost: grief would always be the victor over everything else.

Chapter End Notes:

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