Ch. 2 Dirge through the Day
Hermione stood behind, holding Harry's clammy hand. Family yet not, they both agreed. The Weasley's needed time among themselves, without their interference. They could share their grief with one another, siblings in everything but blood. So they stood back, and watched through their own grief.
The men hoisted Fred onto their shoulders, carrying him from the back garden out to the Orchard. Kingsley was there, along with a few others. The only one not of his blood was Lee, his best friend.
Arthur followed the procession, holding Molly on one side and Ginny on the other. Behind them was Fleur and Percy's newlywed wife Audrey, with Angelina in the middle. The two other women were fighting to keep Angelina upright. She was distraught since she was Fred's other best friend, but George's girlfriend.
Harry and Hermione took seats on the third row. They were close enough to the family but respectful to give their distance. Hermione saw that Harry was glancing at her. She didn't mind her brother's concern. She was concerned herself, not having slept the last two nights without Ron at her side. Molly insisted that women who were not married didn't sleep in the same bed with a man. It was heresy for anything else. Try as she may, Hermione couldn't convince Molly that she couldn't sleep a wink unless she heard Ron's snoring and Harry's nocturnal grumbling. It didn't matter that Hermione begged her to sleep on the floor, like they had done for the past nine months.
The shower she took this morning during breakfast reminded her of how pathetic she felt and looked. She knew she looked atrocious. Her hair was pitiful at best. She took a knife to it later that Monday morning after feeling the singed ends, the spell damage, the smoke and soot and blood caked into it. In her exhaustion, and a way to cope, she cut the matted and encrusted plait off, leaving some so she could pass for presentable. Her face was emaciated, along with the rest of her. The scars on her neck, chest, arm and back were hidden, concealing glamours for the rest of the family. Only Ron and Harry, along with Bill and Fleur knew of them. They wouldn't tell unless she said so.
The black dress she borrowed from Ginny hung like sack cloth off of her boney frame. She didn't realize until her first bath at Shell Cottage how much weight she had lost. The meals that Fleur tried to coax her to eat did nothing for her appetite. Her eating was mechanical now, out of necessity to keep going, to keep fighting, to keep surviving. The stress made anything she put in her mouth taste like mud and ashes. It was force of will that she could choke down a piece of toast.
She stole a glance back at Harry. He was off in his own world at the moment, letting the words slide off of him with no recognition. For once, Hermione didn't pay attention either. All that she was focused on was a six foot two ginger up on the front row, on the end, watching him hold George up while his shoulders shook in grief. She wanted to sit next to him, giving him what little strength she had, what comfort she could afford for him.
Intellectually, she knew his family needed him. Emotionally, she needed him. She was annoyed at herself for her irrational need to keep him for herself. 'Quit it. Just stop. His family needs him,' she berated herself. 'So does yours,' said the quiet voice she trusted most.
The thought of her parents, safely ensconced in Australia, was enough to break the floodgates open. Within seconds, she was sobbing on Harry's shoulder. She hadn't noticed how much she needed her Mum, needed her father's wisdom and intellectual insights. As much as she loved her adopted family, only her father, and maybe Luna, could stand toe to toe in an academic discussion.
His arms surrounded her, letting her cry bittersweet tears. 'We won,' permeated her thinking. Regardless of outcome, the price paid in blood was steep. Fred. Remus and Tonks. Colin. Snape. Dumbledore. Lavender.
The last name on that list was the worst. The silly bint that was more interested in clothes, makeup, boys, stood up as a pureblood and fought when many ran. That brainless girl could have stood aside, let others fight, and yet she stayed and fought the pogrom at the school.
Hermione remembered back, one of the few images that were cemented in her mind. The blood dripping off of Greyback's chin, the palor of Lavender's face, and the gore oozing from the wound on her neck. The relief Hermione felt blasting him off of Lavender was short lived. They were still fighting, trying to win. She had no time to stop and help further than what she did. That was the brutal cost of battling in such close quarters.
The painful memory of standing in the Hospital Ward, looking at the blood soaked bed in the corner where Lavender lay. Someone had tried to rescue her, take her to shelter and safety and save her life. Their efforts were in vain. Hermione knew that after the fact. Ron took it as well as expected, growling in affirmation when Hermione told him what happened. "Serves the bastard right that we killed him," was all he said. Hermione never asked what he meant by that.
She never told Ron the salacious taunts he whispered in her ear while Bellatrix was degrading her. The pain from her cuts hurt less than the cruelty he impressed upon her. His foul stench and revolting breath on her face while he held her arms was enough to make her retch. Just the thought of the monster was enough to make her shudder in memory. She would never admit it, but blasting him with a curse away from Lavender was the first step in her healing. Ron helping dispose of the monster gave her considerable relief. She took grim satisfaction in that he would never harm another soul.
The congregants stood up watching the Minister perform his last duties on behalf of Fred. Hermione didn't care to watch. The thought was too painful just a few days after what happened. Instead, she focused back on Ron, who was standing on the end. She saw the raw unbridled magic rolling off of him in waves. His hair was a mess, and the flowers surrounding the dais were floating around Kingsley like a lily strewn halo.
Bill looked over from the first seat and saw his youngest brother barely controlling his emotions. The tears down his face betrayed him. He knew that Ron was the one unable to control his magic. The vase holding the bouquet of white roses melted, spraying the front row with petals. Ron stood up, and with his long lanky legs, strode away from the service.
Hermione looked at Harry, and saw his answer. She left her seat to chase after him.
He left. He had to. He strode away trying not to cock up the day for everyone else. He was about to ruin the funeral that Fred never wanted. He wanted laughter; he wanted fireworks and celebration. This was a dirge that he would scoff. But this wasn't for Fred. This was for his mother, and father, and the rest who needed it. Damn them for being traditional when Fred wasn't.
He wasn't going to walk away from them all. Just to walk, clear his head, get his heart and mind back under control. He could walk to that traitor's property up the lane, or down to the pub in Ottery St. Catchpole. He just needed away until the boiling cauldron inside him settled down. It didn't matter today if his mother berated him, or his brothers ridiculed him. It was either walk away or spoil everything. He'd ruined enough these past couple of months as it is.
He stopped at the front gate, the one that sidled up to the lane. He slumped on it. No one needed to see him crying. No one needed to know he was weak. No one needed to know that he was a wreck. The conflicts inside his head and heart tore him. His brother was dead, forever a laugh on his face. His love was alive and needed him strong. Laughter coexisted with his grief. He wanted to destroy those who hurt his family, who made his mother cry and kill. He needed Fred. He needed Hermione. He loved Hermione. He missed Fred.
Strength flowed into him when the delicate arms threaded their way around his waist. A powerful hug gave him the determination to continue breathing. "Love," was all he heard from her. That one word, from the brave brilliant beautiful woman behind him, opened him completely, and he let go.
Everything from the past nine months poured out. She was the only one he trusted to know this was his weakness. Everything that happened the last nine months – hunger; anger; fear; stress; love; rage – ran out through his tears coursing down his face. The volatility he always felt threatened to consume him once and for all.
The warm embrace he felt moved to his front. She was giving him her shoulder to lean on in his time of woe. Sadness didn't even begin to articulate what he was feeling. Hunger didn't describe what he needed. Fury couldn't contain what he felt. Words were shallow for what he was coping with.
He snaked his arms around her. A mad impulse gripped him. He had to act before he could be consumed. He spun them and they landed in the parlor of his home.
"Where?" she quietly asked.
"Come," was all he could articulate.
He grabbed her hand, dragging her up the stairs inside the Burrow.
Ron felt her let go, but deep down, he knew she would follow him. He always knew that she would be there for him, if he wasn't always there for her. The madness that coursed through his veins told him that tidbit of truth. He hoped that she would be the only witness to the rage that demanded release.
'Not with fire. Too hard to control. Bet you Hermione could control Fiendfyre. She's strong of mind and spirit and discipline.'
He made it to the shelter of his room, and began the destruction that the dragon inside his chest demanded. The chair went first, tearing under his strong hands. The mirror shattered when the chair hit it. Next flew the chair at the window. It bounced off of the frame, landing feebly on Harry's bed. Ron took two steps and launched it again. It froze in mid-flight, inches from the window.
He looked over his shoulder at Hermione standing in the doorway with her wand at the ready. She didn't need to articulate. The dragon wasn't satiated. Maybe a sacrifice would be sufficient.
He stalked to her. She was strong, controlling her fear. Was it fear of him or fear of his anger, he couldn't tell. Was it even fear, but something else? Her black walnut eyes showed bright.
He picked her up, and with a kick of the foot, slammed the door while thrusting her roughly against the wall of his room. Before she could yell at him, he claimed her lips. This was what he needed. Only she could make him whole. The taunt in his head quietly agreed.
He knew the magic was rolling off of him, shaking the house. Nothing mattered except the solace Hermione offered him. He might regret what he was doing later, but for this moment, he would take what she willingly offered. He needed her, wanted her.
Ron felt her hands threading through his hair, pulling him even harder onto her boney frame. She opened her arms further, settling his claim of her once and for all. Under her robes, her breasts were the only cushion he felt. The bones of her prominent hips cradled his narrow ones. He tasted her, marking her neck, shocked she would relinquish control.
"Mine," he growled.
"Yours," she growled back, biting his neck. "Take me!" he heard through her feral whisper.
"No!" He tried to pull back from her neck. "Hermione – "
She pulled him that much harder, practically butting heads with him. Her eyes were burning in intensity. "Take me, damn it!"
"You – "
"Only you. Always you."
That was all he needed to hear.
He tore her robes off and flung them behind him. She kicked out of her modest dress shoes, shrinking another two inches. He raked his eyes down her thin frame, taking in her modest white cotton bra and dainty blue knickers. He chuckled at the practicality rather than the matching ones that Lavender always insisted upon.
His face flushed from the memory of seeing Lavender out of her school robes the only time. Her royal blue kit was pretty. It was also when he realized that she wasn't what he truly wanted. He wanted the bushy hair, the smaller breasts, and the swotty mouth who could spout knowledge he never would need. Many a morning in the shower or at night behind the curtains, he imagined Hermione's mouth on him, driving him spare with lust.
A wave of shame rolled over his face. He hoped she didn't realize it. He didn't want to admit that he had tasted breasts of another, made her come by his hands. He didn't want to admit that she did the same for him. He wanted the dream girl in front of him. Ron wanted to do to her what he already had accomplished once before: this time, just for Hermione.
"Ron, what?"
He moved the straps of white cotton off of her shoulders. The bones on her clavicle stood out, the curves of her shoulders, the tendons in her neck. Looking down through his calloused hands, her pert nipples stood out through the white cotton. His control broke, and he latched his lips onto her pulse point again, moving his hands down her body to remove the bra. He twisted the fragile fabric in his fingers, tearing it from her torso. He flung it over his shoulder. Under his palms were those breasts he had been fantasizing about for the past five years. He couldn't resist, wanting to sense them in every way. 'More,' screamed the selfish monster inside his head.
Ron fell to his knees. He was drowning in her embrace. But what was in front of his face was worth drowning for. Those breasts, perky and erect, demanded his attention and ministrations. The light brown of the nipples begged for him, but he wanted to see her eyes before he started.
He looked up, through the valley of her breasts, and saw her hands thread back into his ginger locks. "Oh G_d please!" she begged.
