AN: Hi everyone! Long time reader of HP fanfiction, first time writer. I just thought it'd be nice to spend some time with my favorite characters and share them with you too! Please leave a review and let me know what you think! Hoping to get another chapter up soon. 3 xoxo

Her tea was scalding, too hot to drink, but she gulped it down anyway. Her lips and tongue protested, she could feel the blisters inside her mouth forming already but she didn't care. She wished for more of this pain, she wished she could think about anything except the pain that was too big to feel, the pain of loss. Her thoughts were consumed with Ron. She thought about his ruddy face after Quidditch practice, his Chocolate Frog collection, the way he teased her about biting her quills when she was concentrating.

She also thought about how miserable he'd been in this tent with them the last several months, how the horcrux had made him jealous and testy, how thin he'd become and how his smile no longer met his eyes. The way they had forgiven each other and then the way he had stepped in the way to- no, she couldn't stand thinking about it. She wished that she could tell him he was stupid, he was brave, he was loved. She felt the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes and willed them to stay put. She needed to stay strong so that she could help Harry. Reluctantly, she turned her gaze toward the outline of Ron's body atop his cot. He was covered with a tattered sheet, stiff and cold. He might have been sleeping, except Hermione knew that he never slept so gracefully as that-usually there was also a telltale snore. She willed him to roll over, mutter something about the Chudley Cannons or passing the treacle tart, but instead there was only silence.

"Hermione," she heard from behind her. She twisted around to see Harry standing holding open the tent flap expectantly, pointedly ignoring Ron's cot. He was fighting tears too, she could tell. "Yes, Harry?" she murmured. "I've thought about it and… there's really no better option. We can't take him to the Burrow and we can't take him with us anywhere else. I think… I think we need to bury him here. Maybe when all this is over…" the rest of his sentence hung in the air with defeat. The unspoken things lingered uncomfortably: would this ever be over? Would Dark triumph over Light? Would they even be alive to come back for Ron's body? She nodded, gulping down more of her tea and roughly placing the mug back on the table. "Okay, I'll help you."

Harry looked at the ground and turned to leave. "Harry, I'm sorry-" she began but was cut off with a sigh. Harry's eyes bored a hole in the ground, his arrested gaze intesnifying the silence. "Hermione, you have nothing to be sorry for. We always knew this could happen," he replied heavily. She heard the grief in his voice. She didn't think her heart could sink any lower but at this moment it felt like an invisible hand was squeezing her chest cavity, constricting her breath and her pulse. "He loved you. I love you," he added, still staring at the ground. "And I know you love us," he said, his voice cracking. "We were always prepared to sacrifice-" the tears broke and he collapsed into Hermione's arms as she gathered him to her in a fierce and primal embrace. The tears she had been fighting cascaded from her eyes and she heard a wailing in her ears. She realized the wailing noise was coming from her mouth, not Harry's, deep from inside, seemingly without end. She clung to Harry, both kneeling in the cold earth, weeping for the friend they had lost.

*Three years later*

The house was black as pitch when she arrived. It had to be after midnight by now, she honestly wasn't sure what time she had left the Burrow. She'd apparated to London and ended up wandering the streets. Somehow, she'd found herself here, the curiosity drawing her inside like a magnetic force. The drapes were drawn, even light from the Muggle street lamps couldn't permeate the thick velvet covering the windows. "Lumos," she whispered, even though she knew she was alone. The floors were coated with dust, it smelled positively dank from human absence and care. She felt eerie, like someone was watching her. She didn't enjoy the company of ghosts. She carefully tread the hallway, deftly avoiding the floorboards she remembered had a tendency to creak. She slowly cracked the kitchen door and entered the old familiar gathering place. The stove had a cold kettle atop it, it had likely been years since it had been warmed for the comfort of family and friends. The chairs were tucked under the table, some askew from their last use. Was it really that long since they had all gathered here in this house to hide and plot the demise of the Dark Lord?

Hermione spotted a few candles on the sideboard and lit them with her wand tip. Next she pointed her wand to the fire grate. "Incendio," she muttered, comforted by the blaze that cast warm shadows across the room. The fire also illuminated a crystal decanter in the corner of the room. It was filled with an amber liquid that Hermione was sure was firewhisky. Perfect, she thought to herself. She wiped the inside of a crystal whisky glass clean with the hem of her shirt and removed the pewter stopper in the top. The Black family crest and House words were engraved on it, she examined a small stone set in the center of the crest and decided it was likely an opal. She carefully sniffed the contents, and released a spluttering cough induced by the sting of alcohol in her nostrils. She poured a small amount into the glass, regarding it for a moment before tipping the decanter again and filling the glass more generously. She took in a deep breath and chugged a large sip of it before choking and setting it down on the table, leaning against it for support while she recovered.

"Aquamenti," she choked, filling a cup from the butler's pantry and chased the burn of the firewhisky. After a few minutes she felt she had adequately recovered and returned to moderate sipping of the liquor she had poured. She was not a frequent drinker, the whisky quickly went to her head and made her body float and her brain fuzzy. She couldn't believe it had been three years since Voldemort's defeat and three years since she had lost her best friend. She often wondered if Ron could have been more than a best friend, if he had survived would they have fallen in love? Sometimes she had felt the spark between them, the "more" that surpassed simple friendship and drew them together. He was her opposite in so many ways, he was infuriating and stubborn and petty. But he was loyal and funny and- she couldn't keep thinking about the what-ifs, it would make her crazy. She wondered if she was going to cry, but no tears came. She had cried more tears than any person her age should be allotted already, there weren't any left for her dive into the bottle.

Why had she come here? She wasn't entirely sure. This place had become a kind of home to her though, even when times were difficult this was somewhat of a happy place. Now it was like a walk-in casket, a place that once was inhabited by warm living bodies that no longer walked the earth. It was morbid, it was sacred, it was bittersweet. God, this place was swimming in memories.

Throwing back the remainder of her firewhisky, she stood up and walked up the back staircase, clutching the rail for support. She no longer bothered with being quiet anymore, if the ghosts she sensed were offended by the intrusion they could lodge a complaint personally. She opened the first bedroom door she came across, illuminating it with her wand when she entered. Oh. Sirius' room. She rolled her eyes at the naked women he'd decorated the walls with and looked at the inviting four poster bed. It was unmade, untouched since the last time Sirius had slept in it. Sober Hermione would have minded very much that these sheets had not been cleaned properly in over five years. Drunk Hermione rationalized that she had lived in a tent for a year and this is exactly what magic was for anyway. She cast a few charms over the bed and crawled in-it smelled like fresh lilacs now. She kicked off her shoes and peeled off her jeans, discarding them on the floor. She pulled the covers on top of her and nodded off, willing herself not to dream.