Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own Harry Potter and/or related characters/settings.
It's We Who Move the World
"Do you believe in God?"
They were sitting on the grassy bank of a pond behind Grimmauld Place, watching water spiders skate across its scummy surface. Various bits and pieces of floating detritus provided an obstacle course for the critters, while cattails rustled their applause with the breeze.
Remus had his back pressed against the thick trunk of Grandmother Willow, an affectionate and decidedly muggle nickname for the giant willow tree that spread its branches high and canopy-like above them. Had he not been preoccupied by thoughts of the day to come, Remus would have taken the time to appreciate the way the hearty boughs of the tree, spread asymmetrically about its trunk, reached their gnarly fingers skyward, the way the leaf-filtered sunlight created ever-changing patterns on the ground.
As it was, Remus found his attention largely captivated by the woman who had zeroed in on the essence of his thoughts as effectively as a pitbull zeroes in on its prey.
"I don't know, Hermione," he replied, observing her from the corner of his eye.
She was sitting cross-legged on the damp ground, elbows on her knees, hands toying with the long grass. Her fingers would deftly pluck a strand of green, knot it, tear it to pieces, and drop it. Pluck a strand of green, knot it, tear it to pieces, and drop it. The methodical motions of her small hands made him think of a pale spider carefully weaving its web.
"I was reading Bertrand Russell…"
Remus couldn't help smiling. Only Hermione would be reading philosophy the night before the final battle.
"… who said that if, upon death, he discovered there was a God and was asked why he did not believe in Him, he would reply 'Not enough evidence, God, not enough evidence.'"
"Believing despite the lack of evidence is the point of faith, I think." He watched as Hermione's attention shifted from the latest victim of grassy genocide to the dusky sky.
A deep sigh displaced a lock of her hair, causing it to slide back and expose the graceful curve of her neck. She was looking at him, now.
"I'd like to think there's something more out there, Remus."
It was a sentiment Remus understood all too well. She was referring to the War, of course. All the cold-blooded murders, the torturing, the Order members who had been killed fighting Voldemort's reign of terror… she wanted to believe it was all for a reason.
And he sorely wished he could reassure her, wished he could tell her that what is, is as it must be. But he was just as unsure, just as insecure. Those same perfidious thoughts of what ifs, maybes, and not quites plagued his mind. Instead, he took solace in wrapping his arm around her shoulders and felt the immense comfort of her body leaning against his.
They stayed that way for a long time, unable to succumb to the sweet oblivion of sleep. The night, stretching out before them with all its myriad stars, wrapped them in a cocoon of memories and recollections.
The Potter's announcing Lily's pregnancy... Pacing the long, impersonal halls of St. Mungo's with Sirius… Holding a very pink, very wrinkly baby Harry… The devastation and bitter relief of Voldemort's destruction…
Seeing a happy, healthy, thirteen year old Harry enter the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom… Being impressed by the vivacious and overachieving Hermione Granger… The confrontation in the Shrieking Shack… Discovering Hermione had known about his "furry little problem" and kept the secret… Returning to Hogwarts as DADA professor in Harry's sixth year… Watching Harry grow and mature into a brave, responsible young man… Seeing Harry, Ron, and Hermione graduate… Being moved by Hermione's valedictory address…
A nostalgic smile crept its way onto Remus's lips, enhancing his usually pensive countenance and lending his visage a youthful appearance.
Holidays at Grimmauld Place surrounded by friends… Late night conversations with Hermione over tea… The curve of Hermione's hip and the cock of her head as she scolded Harry and Ron… Working with Hermione on charms that could potentially weaken Voldemort… Teasing Hermione about the curly mop of hair that tripled in volume over a steaming cauldron…
Unconsciously, he found himself squeezing Hermione's arm affectionately and burying his lips in that tangled mess of a mane on her head.
Kissing Hermione by the warm fireplace… Threading his fingers through Hermione's beautiful hair as she read… Kissing Hermione under the mistletoe… Hearing Hermione's appreciative moans as he massaged her back… Kissing Hermione in the shadowy library… Sharing with Hermione the unbelievable joy of discovering a combination of charm and potion that would give Harry a fighting chance against Voldemort… Kissing Hermione…
And, as he was now, seeking solace in Hermione's arms.
Content in each other's embrace, they silently observed the gradual lightening of the sky, the eager 'I am here—here' of the Robin, and the angry streaks of red forming on the horizon that heralded the rising sun.
They allowed themselves one more quiet moment of reminiscence before rising slowly, stiffly, from the soothing warmth of the past.
"It's time," he said, softly.
Hermione's face was pale and drawn, and, looking at her, Remus felt his heart ache with pride for her courage and sorrow for her jaded youth.
"This is how the world ends," she sighed, looking back one last time at the house that had become her home. Her eyes swept over the sloping lawns, the vast gardens, the rickety old siding, and came to rest fondly on the shingles that threatened to knock someone unconscious.
Watching the play of emotions on her face, Remus smiled. "No," he whispered, "It's we who move the world and it's we who'll pull it through."
Then, together, they turned to face the dawn.
Chapter title, "It's We Who Move the World," and quote, "It's we who move the world and it's we who'll pull it through," are from Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand.
The quote, "This is how the world ends," is from T. S. Eliot's poem, The Hollow Men, which reads, "This is how the world ends / This is how the world ends / This is how the world ends / Not with a bang but a whimper."
Bertrand Russell was a British philosopher, logician, mathematician, historian, socialist, pacifist and social theorist. He is, I think, best known as one of the founders of analytic philosophy and received the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1950.