A/N: So, I suppose one downside to writing something so frantically and quickly is that you overlook problems with your own timeline! Without spoiling too much, I was only really paying attention to Rose, because I just honestly forget about Harry & Ginny's kids, most of the time, and it occurred to me as I was editing this chapter that they would have already had James by this point, if I was making any kind of effort to stick with canon. But… I sort of reasoned with myself that this can't really be canon, either way, because I don't think everyone would just go on with their lives at the same speed if they thought Ron was dead. So… in this story, we have diverged fully from canon. I also added a bit more about Harry and Ginny's relationship to a later chapter, to kind of compensate for that.

Oh, one quick note that I am including dates at the top of each chapter now, which represent the day in the first segment, not the day through the whole chapter, as many of these will take place over several days or more.

Okay, onward! Thanks so much to everybody that already read and reviewed chapter one! I'm so please that you are enjoying the angst. I apologize in advance for this chapter being perhaps a bit worse in that respect than chapter one...


CHAPTER TWO:
6 years, 5 months, 18 days
Saturday, 30 October 2004

She wasn't waiting for him.

A little thunderstorm rolled, chanting six years, six years. He could easily lose hope, imagining what her life had been since he'd disappeared. No, since he'd died. She could be married, have sodding kids by now… He could choose to face the likely reality that she had moved on.

But, instead, he played a little game where he could feel her arms around him when he was finally free.

Wingardium Leviosa.

He was lying on his back, ignoring stiff muscles and stinging scratches from tossing over in his sleep on rough stone. Something was happening soon, he knew… They'd talked about her again, and he'd remained silent, holding back the million questions flowing through him, knowing it was better to wait, better to play the part of a weak, compliant hostage, let them let their guard down.

Wingardium Leviosa.

He sat up and stared at his pebble on the floor, willing it to move with all his focus. But, it remained there, and he slowly closed his eyes.

Windgardi-

The door scraped open, and he jumped slightly as he opened his eyes again to stare across the room at the three men who walked through. He knew their names. He'd been paying attention. Graham - the one he had stunned during his capture, who was now mysteriously missing two fingers from his right hand. Isaac - an older wizard, tall and thin, with a peppered black and white beard and dark eyes. Charlie - a man who bore no resemblance to Ron's brother but had a rough, scarred face and sunken eyes, bald head and calloused hands… Today, Charlie was clutching the arm of a small girl with long, dark hair, who could be no older than early teens.

The door slammed shut, echoing loud as the girl flinched. Ron's heart beat faster, suddenly terrified that she was in danger, too. Maybe he'd been completely blind, maybe he wasn't the only one. How many others had they taken?!

"Weasley," hissed Charlie, a menacing grin slowly sliding into place as he tugged the girl forward. "This is Evelyn. And you can read her mind."

Confused, he stared at the girl for a long moment, her almond shaped eyes meeting his, and he felt a strange chill run down his spine. Who was this girl? But there was one thing for sure, one thing he knew without a doubt. They'd made some kind of mistake.

"No, I can't."

Before he'd taken his next breath, Isaac's bony fist had pummeled Ron's cheekbone, causing him to stumble sideways, his left elbow slamming into the stone slab on which he still sat.

"You can," Isaac said, in that impossibly low voice that made Ron's skin crawl. "Show him."

Charlie roughly turned Evelyn around until her back was toward Ron, and Ron tried to sit back up straight, to see properly. He could taste metallic blood in his mouth from where his teeth had cut the inside of his cheek. But, all of a sudden, Graham reached out and tugged Evelyn's long hair over her shoulder, revealing a scar that had left a strip of her scalp bald in an upward, swirling line. And Ron understood, stomach sinking. His arms. His scars. Isaac was staring at them with a narrow glare, confirming what he'd guessed. They'd both been attacked by the same thing, and these men thought- But why? Why did they need him to read the mind of a teenage girl?

"We're going to ask her what we need to know," Charlie said, "and you're going to tell us what she thinks."

Okay. So, she must have been uncooperative in their previous efforts to force the information from her. Was he their last resort? What did she know that they needed so desperately? And what happened when he failed, because there was still the minor obstacle of Ron having absolutely no bloody idea how to read someone's mind, scars or no. What had Harry said about his lessons in Occlumency and Legilimency?

"When's your birthday?" Graham asked the scrawny girl who was still staring at Ron in an oddly disconcerting way.

She said nothing, eyes narrowing the tiniest bit, and Ron had the impression she was trying to block him from finding the answer. Fortunately for her, he had no idea how to find it, anyway. But, he had to do something. He stared back, betting on making it strongly appear that he was working hard to do as they had asked.

"Weasley." Isaac's stern face glared down at him, cast in shadow from his straggly hair falling forward, his head blocking Ron's face from the only light in the room, a single candle that had nearly burnt out.

"I'm not getting anything," Ron said, voice scratchy and raw. His head was pounding, and he was lightheaded from lack of food… dehydration. But he focused all he could on this, on something impossible they thought he could do. He had to string them along, at least until he could figure out how to-

Charlie grasped the back of Evelyn's robes, hard, almost lifting her off the ground.

"She's doing something to stop him, yeah?" Charlie growled, knuckles white as he gripped her robes tighter still.

"Maybe he really doesn't know how to use it," Graham suggested, watching Ron carefully.

"Get up," Isaac insisted, giving Ron no time to move before he yanked his arm and tugged him off his stone slab, forcing him to stumble to the ground on his knees. "Move her closer," and he gestured to Charlie who forced Evelyn to move forward, mere inches away from Ron. Her face was nearly level with his now, her sharp features lit in deep contrast as the light behind her flickered.

"When were you born?" Graham rephrased, voice lower and more urgent, his growing temper fully evident in his tense shoulders and face.

Ron was certain this would not work, that it would end in his face and body being pounded again by a fist or two, a forced fasting period of several days, as they'd done to him before when he'd asked a simple question, something he'd learned not to do unless necessary… or unless he'd made a mistake.

But, he put all he had into the task he'd been given, as impossible as it felt. The girl, he was realising, believed it could be possible, and that was enough to give him pause… to make him wonder…

He stared, unblinking, willing her words to the surface. And then, beyond anything he had hoped could happen, he heard it.

...October...

Like the faintest whisper through a long, echoing corridor. It was unclear, at best, but he could mold the distant sounds only he could hear into one word, to start. He forced his face to remain unphased and blank, though his heart was pounding.

When's your birthday?

He felt himself ask the question without speaking, and then her eyes narrowed fiercely. She was going to answer him, against her will.

5th of October, 1991.


Hermione was standing in the middle of Duncan's flat, a glass of Firewhisky in her hand.

It had been a long, long time since she'd drank so much. Once, in a bittersweet time at the Burrow, shortly after Fred's burial, but… but if she let those memories swirl to life, she'd hear his laugh and see his glistening eyes crease as he smiled at her, and she couldn't-

She squeezed her eyes shut and took another long sip of her drink.

The second time had been worse, much worse, and had lasted for months. June, July, August had vanished in a sea of unending, indistinguishable nights, mornings she hadn't seen, waking late into the afternoon to start again.

"Need another?"

Duncan appeared from the kitchen, eyes flicking down to her almost empty glass.

"No. Thank you," she said, hoping her smile looked less like a grimace than it felt. She knew what she was here for, and she suspected Duncan must as well. She'd only been here twice before, but never so late at night.

She wasn't going to move on if she didn't… move on. It was fortunate, really, that Duncan hadn't given up on her when she'd gone a month without speaking to him. But, their relationship - or whatever she could call it - had remained casual and mostly void of emotion, save that one conversation at the pub, about her past. She should probably be somewhat concerned with feeling nothing, but, instead, it made it just a bit easier to think she could do this… It was just a matter of choosing to take steps consecutively forward, instead of constantly fleeing backward.

"Want to sit down?"

"Can we go to your room?"

The words were out before she'd really thought them through, and he nodded, reaching to take her glass from her hand. He vanished through to the kitchen again, and she didn't follow, recognising his need to keep things clean and tidy - no clothes on the floor, no dishes in the sink, no books out of place.

At least he couldn't be more different than-

His hand extended in front of her, startling her out of a daze, and she took it, following him down the hall to his bedroom.

He let go of her as they crossed into his room, and she watched him walk around to light the lantern by his bed as she tossed her messy hair over her shoulder. It had grown so very long now, nearly reaching her waist. But she wouldn't think about why she hadn't cut it, though. She couldn't.

Duncan returned to her, and they stood at the foot of his bed, sheets neatly tucked in under his mattress.

"Ever taken someone's virginity before?" she asked, gooseflesh coating her skin. He kept his flat quite cold, she noticed, but the thick blanket on his bed looked warm enough.

"Once," he admitted, "a few years ago."

"Make that twice, after tonight."

"Are you really?" he asked, shocked. "You've never-"

"Don't make fun of me, or I'll change my mind."

She hadn't meant to snap so fiercely, but her words were unguarded, and she didn't have the strength to fix them, not when all she had was focused on doing what she thought must be the right thing. After tonight, she couldn't look as far back. Not nearly so far, anymore.

"No, I'm not," he assured her. "Just surprised, is all… especially after what Ginny told me about her brother-"

"Please." Her voice cracked on the word. "Don't ever talk about that. I can't."

"Sorry."

"Maybe we could… not talk much at all, if that's alright."

"Yeah, that's fine."

He reached for her arm, holding her elbow in his hand, and she let his face blur out of focus as he ducked to kiss her.


She was banging frantically on the door. Ordinarily, she'd have refrained from such nonsensical behaviour, peacefully waiting for Harry to come let her inside. She'd have felt too self-conscious, on any other day, of Harry's neighbours overhearing her being hysterical. But tonight was not an ordinary night.

Harry wrenched open the door, a look of urgent concern etched across his face.

"Hermione, what-"

"P-Please, can I c-come in?"

"Why are you asking? Just Apparate in if you need to. What's wrong?"

He stepped back, and she crossed by him, shaking head to toe, tears coating her face and blurring her vision.

"I slept with him," she choked, as Harry closed the door behind her.

He turned around to face her, blinking.

"Who?"

Her eyes narrowed to creased slits as she tried to catch her breath to answer Harry's completely absurd question.

"Duncan!" she screeched, a full octave above her normal range. "Wh-who do you think?!"

"I don't know…" Harry muttered, pushing up his glasses in that nervous habit sort of way he often did now when he was dancing around the mention of… him. "I'm sorry."

And then, it occurred to her, that Harry thought she was caught up in the past, just now… and she felt her throat constrict intensely.

"You thought I meant-" She couldn't swallow, and Harry's flat was spinning. "Oh my God, I know what you th-thought, and that's exactly wh-why I'm here and why-" She broke off to attempt a breath that turned immediately to a cracking sob. "I never slept with Ron."

Harry visibly swallowed at the sound of his name.

"I didn't think you had, honestly, but-"

"Oh God, Harry," she sobbed, "I m-miss him s-so much."

Harry blinked a bit rapidly and nodded.

"I know. I know... I do, too."

"It was supposed to be him." She was shaking like she hadn't done in months. "It was always going to be him, and now-" Her voice broke again, and there was suddenly only one thing she needed. "Harry, where's his trunk?"

"No." Harry's voice was firm as he shook his head, but he was obviously more consumed now by sorrow and pity than actually threatening to stop her. And she knew he'd give in. "Hermione, you shouldn't-"

"I need it, please!" she wailed, losing track of her own tears, hardly feeling fresh waves coat her face.

For a long moment, Harry stared at her in silence, his own eyes watering and glistening in lantern light. But she begged him again with her gaze, hands violently trembling at her sides, and he gave her one, quick nod before breaking away and crossing past her, toward his room.

She could acutely hear the ticking of the clock on the mantle, her own ragged breath following a completely dissonant rhythm. And then, seconds later, Harry emerged once more, holding a small, wooden box, the same size as the jewelry chest she'd had as a young child, but it took her no time at all to recognise it. He handed it to her, and she thanked him with another meeting of their eyes, unable to speak and risk one more wracking sob, one that might not let her breathe again. And, clutching Ron's shrunken trunk in her arms, she turned around and disappeared into the loo, locking herself inside.


She was wearing his clothes. It was stupid and irrational and probably unhealthy, but she'd stripped naked, taken a hot bath, and pulled on one of his t-shirts and a hand-knitted jumper, deep blue and constantly bringing out the much lighter colour of his eyes, even now… even...

The moment that had really broken her was finding her own pyjama trousers crumpled at the bottom of the trunk, and she honestly couldn't remember why they were there, but it didn't matter. She'd pulled them on, and they still fucking smelled like him, if she closed her eyes, and it was all she could do to stop the unending flow of tears for long enough to try and clear her mind to a canvas of nothing. But, someone was trying to get her attention. She blinked slowly, and her eyes slid to the door.

"Hermione?" Harry was calling from outside the loo, his gentle knocking turning more insistent as she remained silent. She had to answer him, she knew, even though her body and her voice felt useless. She blinked again, and a hot tear rolled down her just recently dried cheek.

She managed to pull herself up and cross to the door, opening it to reveal Harry's face, creased with concern. His eyes darted down, for a moment, taking in the sight of Ron's clothes on her body. And she knew what he was thinking.

"I'm sorry," she said, hoping to encompass the full scope of what those short words could mean.

"Don't do that. You know I understand. Just worried me how long you've been in there…"

She nodded and clutched the doorframe as Harry stepped back to let her out.

"Want a takeaway?" he asked, as she followed him slowly down the hallway toward the sitting room. "Thought I'd go out and grab something but didn't want to leave before I talked to you."

"Isn't it late?" she sniffed.

"Nearly midnight, but it's Saturday. There's fish and chips or that curry place we like."

"I'm not really hungry-"

"Curry it is. We'll share. You should eat something."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he was already standing by the door.

"Stay here," he added, and she sat heavily on the sofa. "I'll be back in a few."

She'd taken several bites, at Harry's insistence, and she supposed it was better to try than to think of her slightly nauseous stomach, ignoring the vague throbbing of her head from skipping too many meals.

But her thoughts swirled back to Duncan, after a while, unwillingly. She'd left him at his flat, and he'd not really asked her to stay over, anyway, but she still wasn't sure how she felt about leaving so quickly. She'd rather lock herself in her flat for the next few years than face speaking to him again, as impossible as she knew everything was going to be… but she didn't want to hurt him. He wasn't part of this, and it wasn't fair.

"I'm using him, and he knows it," she said, as Harry took a long drink of water. He shook his head and lowered his glass to the coffee table.

"You aren't, really…"

"Harry."

She appreciated Harry's attempts to make her feel better, really… she did. She always had since… Well, they'd been the two people closest to… him. And they'd needed each other to cope, even when her raging tears had turned to angry words. Harry had never minded. They'd grown used to fighting over the years. But, right now, she knew the truth and had to face it. She probably shouldn't stick around like this, leading Duncan to believe she held anything more for him than a passing burden of needing to find a way to move on.

"Someone's got to be the first," Harry pointed out, slouching back into the sofa, next to her. "I know that sounds awful… but what else can you do?"

"I don't love him," she said, strong and clear.

"No one thought you did…" And Harry's eyes met hers as he shrugged. "Probably not even Duncan. Has he ever said it to you?"

"That he loves me?" She wrinkled her nose and sniffed. "No."

"Do you want him to?"

"Not at all," she cringed, "but I thought I was trying."

They sat in silence for several minutes, and she was actually starting to feel a bit tired in that hazy sort of way that resulted from crying too much, sore eyes and heavy limbs. She tucked up her knees loosely to her chest, jumper sleeves falling down over the backs of her hands. She shook one hand free, only to smooth her palm absentmindedly over the opposite sleeve.

"I'd just give you his trunk, you know…" Harry said, very quietly. "You should be the one to have it, anyway, but the healers said-"

"You keep it," she cut in, voice a bit raw. "I know where it is, and you'll keep it safe."

It was part of the process, people kept telling her, to let go. She wasn't supposed to cling to his things, still sleep in his clothes and call up constant images of his face when she closed her eyes.

"I know you're right, anyway," she sighed, staring down at her hands. "I shouldn't keep doing this. But… honestly, sometimes I just feel so sure I don't want to move on, that it's better this way. I'd rather lie in my bed in his clothes and think about the past than try to be with someone else. That's terrible…"

"I've got his watch in my top drawer. Does that make me mental?"

Her eyes slid up to meet Harry's, and she found him softly smiling.

"No… or we're mental together." She managed a smile in return, leaning back to rest her head on the sofa cushion behind her as Harry nodded and stood to clean up their dishes.


It was hard to sleep with a black eye, fractured jaw and bruised ribs.

He probably could have avoided it, but he'd never have done it blindly. And that's what he was, at least partially blind to what the hell they were playing at. He'd feigned not being able to read her mind at all, even as that whisper of a voice had so clearly resounded inside his own head. And they'd punished him for it.

At least he knew they wouldn't kill him now he understood a big part of why they needed him.

He took a deep breath and winced from pain, and he decided it might be alright to let go, just a bit…

Why was he fighting?

He thought of Quidditch with Harry at the Burrow, long days lying in summer grass, or those last few weeks of a school year, afternoons by the lake, half asleep as Hermione read through a stack of books under the shade of a tree.

He thought of Hermione's wavering smile when she'd try to hold back a grin at something ridiculous he had said, some joke he'd only really made to make her laugh.

He recalled times when the three of them had shared a late snack in the Common Room, after waiting up for Harry to come back from private lessons, or those quiet nights when Hermione had taken Ron through more of the castle than was probably required for their Prefect rounds, and he'd kept his mouth shut because he'd only wanted to spend more time alone with her.

And then, at last, he let his mind linger on the memory of that second kiss, the way she'd clung to his shirt collar with both hands, her teeth grazing his bottom lip as he'd tightened his forearm low around her waist, nearly lifting her off the ground again…

Her tongue touched his lips, and he stumbled slightly backward, not meaning to startle her, but the backs of his legs hit the edge of his bed, and he was still holding onto her as she gasped into his mouth. Her face moved away enough for her to meet his eyes, and they both slowly smiled, a shy laugh escaping him before she bit her lip and kissed him again. He moved his trembling hands to the sides of her face, and she leaned her full weight against him, the tiniest moan floating out from her as he tangled three, long fingers into her hair.

He couldn't stay like this much longer, with his neck bent to reach her and her whole body angled firmly along the front of him. As he bent his knees a bit, she broke away and pushed against his shoulders until he sat on the edge of his bed and pulled her into his lap. His heart was pounding in his ears, but she happily moved closer, brushing her cool fingers up his cheek and back down to his stubbly jaw.

She pressed soft lips to his cheek, and his eyes slipped shut, his fingers crawling up the back of her neck, under layers and layers of curls. Her lips slid toward his ear, then down the curve of his neck, sniffing back tears as she pressed kiss after kiss to his warm skin.

"You okay?" he whispered, because an ugly thought had occurred to him, and he didn't want her doing anything just for him.

"Mmm." She lifted her head and nodded, and he believed her. Her eyes were warm and beautiful and staring right back into his own. "Could I…"

She paused, and her eyes flicked away from his, cheeks colouring a more vibrant shade of rose.

"Is it alright if I stay up here tonight?"

Her question answered every last one of his, and one corner of his mouth turned up into a lopsided grin. She found his eyes again, and her shyness faded somewhat, eyelids fluttering almost shut as he gently tugged a long curl of her hair.

"Hoped you would," he admitted, and she grinned right back.

She moved quickly after that, or so it had seemed, because all of a sudden her legs were around his waist, and his hands were spreading across her back as her lips parted, meshing with his, tongues meeting and a wave of indescribable pleasure flowing out from his heart to his limbs.

He shifted around and held her against his chest, their lips breaking apart several times, laughter floating between them, until he was lying on his back, and she was lying half on top of him. Her hands moved up into his hair, and he felt gooseflesh spread from the back of his neck, across his shoulders and down his arms… one of which was now halfway inside the back of her shirt. He hadn't even meant to take things this far, but her skin felt so incredibly soft and warm and amazing, and she wasn't asking him to stop. He had a flash of a realisation that she wasn't wearing a bra, his hand spreading over nothing but skin between her shoulder blades. But, though it reminded him of how much he wanted her, that he had been dreaming of her naked body in his bed for months and months now, it also reminded him how close they were, not only in a physical sense, but in every other way.

His shirt, her shirt… that was all that separated their upper bodies from one another, and her chest was currently flattened quite completely to his. In his dreams, this might have mostly been lust, that sort of drunken haze of feeling that took over all rational thought. But, in reality, it was so much more than that. He'd known this, of course, in that abstract way of finally admitting to himself that he was in love with her, and not just blindly infatuated, not even just highly respecting who she was as a person - though he was absolutely doing those things, too. But no, it was much bigger than that, much more all-encompassing.

She pulled her lips away to take in a few short breaths, clear moonlight casting her face in contrast between blue-tinged highlights and dark shadows.

He slowly smiled up at her, twisting a long curl around his finger again.

"Never seen your hair this long," he said in a scratchy voice.

She licked her swollen bottom lip, and he was almost too distracted for a moment to breathe.

"You've seen me every day for almost a ye-" She interrupted her own words and cleared her throat. "For months, now."

His heart clenched at her mistake, as if she'd almost forgotten those weeks and weeks he'd spent apart from them, before Christmas. He had to talk through it, or he'd end up spiraling into an apology, knowing it didn't matter how many times she told him it was past now, done. It was the feeling of guilt that drove him, with or without her forgiveness.

"Yeah, but… I've known you a long time, and you usually keep it a good bit shorter."

"Haven't thought much about it recently…"

"I know," he said, willing the sadness out of his voice, though it seemed to be there to stay. "I like it like this."

She smiled sceptically at him, but she reached up at the same time to run her fingers through his hair.

"Is it strange," she started to say, staring at his head as her nails raked so gently across his scalp, combing through tangles of ginger, "that we've known each other as friends for so long and now…"

Fear briefly gripped him, but the way she was looking at him… He'd never have let her catch him looking at her like that, back when they were only friends…

"Dunno. It's good though, innit?"

Her eyes flashed to his so quickly he almost flinched.

"Of course it's good! Much better than that, really…"

He smiled but studied her face, her creased forehead, knitted brows.

"What?" he whispered.

"I realised something, after we got the fangs from the Chamber of Secrets…" She shifted a bit to prop up on her elbow, her right leg and half of her upper body still overlapping his. "I really do think you're amazing, and I don't tell you enough."

He didn't have the most secure grasp on reigning in his emotions, just then, after all they'd been through… and part of him wished she wasn't staring at him so intensely as his eyes watered. This shouldn't be such monumental news - she and Harry were his best friends, and he had to know they thought he was worth enough to stick around for so many years. On top of which he knew that he was different now, had faced the fears and made some kind of peace with them. And this wasn't completely something she hadn't said before. Just a few hours prior, in fact. But, hearing her say it now, having her here with him in his bed, her hand in his hair, her soft eyes on his face…

This would have been an excellent time to tell her that he loved her, but the words were caught in his throat.

He sniffed and tried to laugh, but it came out as a breathy sort of half-cry.

"Sorry," he whispered, but she shook her head, still staring.

"Do you have any idea how long I've wanted this," she whispered back, "to be with you?"

He smiled and risked blinking, relieved when no tears fell.

"If it's anything like what it's been for me…" He trailed off and cleared his throat. "Best thing that's ever happened to me, when you kissed me."

Her eyes sparkled when she smiled back, and, maybe because it was the longest they'd ever looked at each other this close up before, maybe just because she wanted to be even closer, she lowered her head to his shoulder, turned so her nose pressed against the side of his neck.

"If I'd known that," she said, "I might've done it a lot sooner."

"Me, too."

He gathered her somehow closer still, wrapping both arms around her, and she sighed as she laid her arm across his ribs, bending her elbow up to rest her palm loosely on the opposite side of his neck.

"But we have all the time in the world now," she said in a sleepy, peaceful voice. "It's really over."

"Yeah," he said, holding on tight. "We've got the rest of our lives."