Summary: Harry wakes up in Hogwarts after the final battle against Voldemort, and has an important moment with Ron. Short and sweet one-shot about tragedy and friendship. Ron / Hermione.
After and Always
PenPatronus
Harry Potter groaned, rolled over in bed and breathed in the ancient woodsy-waxy scent of Hogwarts. He felt awful—thirsty, hungry, his every limb ached and his chest felt like it had been branded. He must've had a particularly nasty Quiddich game. After pumping his legs to get the sheets and covers off, Harry's bare feet landed on the wooden floor of the Gryffindor dorm and he padded slowly toward the bathroom, stretching his aching limbs as he went. Out of habit he glanced in the bed beside him, and was unsurprised to see that Ron was still asleep. But it was probably at least a half-hour before breakfast. He wouldn't have to wake him up just yet.
Harry tried to remember if he'd finished all of his homework the night before and what his first lesson was. He was still struggling past that layer of grogginess that follows sleep when he glanced at himself in the mirror above the bathroom sink. Harry started, and released a sharp cry when the avalanche of memories surfaced.
Apparating into Hogsmeade…Dumbledore's Army…Carrow spitting at McGonagall…the students defending him in the Great Hall…Hermione and Ron kissing…the fire and the diadem…Fred's sightless eyes…the dementors…Nagini striking Snape…Molly wailing over Fred's body…Snape's memories in the Pensieve…seeing his parents, Remus, Sirius…submitting to his own death…talking to Dumbledore on the Hogwarts express…Narcissa Malfoy's voice…Hagrid carrying him so gently, his fist-sized tears soaking Harry's neck…Neville beheading Nagini…Molly screaming spells at Bellatrix…and finally, the ultimate duel with Voldemort.
Harry stared at his reflection. He wasn't a student in clean pajamas who needed to brush his teeth and wake up his friend for breakfast. His toothbrush wasn't there, and he didn't have homework. He was a dazed, pale man whose skin and clothes were covered in dirt, ash and blood. His black hair was singed. His back was bruised. The wound on his forehead had bled through the bandage Hermione had forced on him before he'd gone to bed. Harry unbuttoned his shirt, fighting the achiness in his bones, and saw the raw lightning bolt-shaped scar that crossed his heart from his bottom rib to his opposite shoulder. The dried red stains around the cuffs of his jeans weren't from a Quiddich match—they were from wading through a pool of blood.
Fred Weasley's blood.
Harry lunged for the toilet and threw up the sandwich Kreacher had made him.
Knuckles rapped against the bathroom door. "Harry? Mate—are you all right?"
Harry raised his face to answer, but his stomach rebelled again.
"Harry? Harry, I'm coming in."
Harry tried to tell Ron not to, but a cough started deep in his chest and forced him to surrender.
Behind him, the bathroom door moaned as it opened. He heard Ron step inside, stop, then walk forward to the sink and run some water. A moment later a cup appeared in front of Harry, and he drank from it like a dying man. When Harry's stomach was empty, his mouth rinsed out and his cough suppressed, Ron helped him to his feet. Harry squinted at his friend. Ron had showered and put on fresh clothes—a pair of jean shorts that were too big for him and a shirt that was too small. The entire upper right corner of his face was one bruise and there were more scrapes and burns on his arms than freckles. He seemed to be favoring one leg, and Harry understood why when he looked down and saw the raw burn from Ron's calf to his ankle.
Seeing his confusion, Ron said, "You've been asleep for almost two days. We didn't wake you up because we figured you needed it since you, you know, died and all."
Harry blinked. "Right."
"It's about one in the morning, but if you want to eat something I can scrounge through the kitchens. Or I'm sure Mum would make you something if I woke her up."
Harry frowned, still staring at Ron's burned leg. Then he looked up into his friend's eyes and whispered, "Fred. Remus."
Ron visibly swallowed. "When I first woke up I thought I'd dreamed everything."
"But it wasn't a dream, was it."
Ron shook his head. "No. No." Ron blinked rapidly before speaking again. "Fred's dead, Harry."
Panic suddenly sliced at Harry's heart. Had he remembered everything? "Hermione? Ginny?"
Ron put his palms up as if surrendering. "They're fine. We're fine, Harry. And it's over. You destroyed Voldemort, you did it. It's all over."
Harry bent forward and braced his hands on his knees, trying to lasso his breathing. "Sorry," he gasped, embarrassed that he couldn't seem to control his body, his emotions, anything. And then he suddenly stopped trying for control. Harry toppled forward to his knees and released a sob of grief simultaneously with a laugh of joy. Just as quickly, Ron kneeled beside him and wrapped his long arms around Harry's quaking shoulders. Harry clung to Ron, and Ron clung to Harry, and for several long minutes the two men didn't give a damn that they were crying like babies in front of each other.
"I'm glad you're safe," Harry muttered when he got both the control and the courage. "I'm so glad you're ok."
Ron wiped at his eyes with his shirt sleeve and nodded. "You too, mate, you too." Ron ducked his face and shook his head while staring at the bathroom floor. "Harry, when I saw Hagrid carrying your body I…I…I went numb when Fred died, and then when I thought you were dead I went…It felt like every bit of me just crumbled and sank and…" Ron suddenly let out a harsh laugh and gently punched Harry on the shoulder. "Don't do that again, ok?"
"Not planning to," Harry chuckled. He looked down at the scar on his bare chest and a laugh gurgled up again. "Wow…"
"Yeah wow," Ron laughed. He stood, and extended a hand to pull Harry up. Before they turned to leave the bathroom, Ron clapped Harry on the back and quietly said, "Love you."
Harry nodded and returned the gesture. "Love you too, Ron."
A half-asleep Hermione was sitting up in Ron's bed and Harry wondered why he hadn't noticed her brown hair when he'd gone by. She also looked clean and refreshed—her hair still a bit damp from a shower. "Everything all right?" she asked through a yawn.
"You slept with Ron?" Harry couldn't help but ask.
"Mmm hmm," Hermione answered. But then she sat up straighter with an alarmed look. "I mean, I slept under the covers and he slept on top of them and it's not like we—oh Harry, don't you dare tell any—"
Laughing, Harry went up to Hermione and hugged her as tightly as he'd hugged Ron. She hugged him back, not caring that the dirt on his clothes was being transferred to hers. "I love you," he whispered to her, kissing her on the cheek.
Hermione hiccupped and dug her face into Harry's shoulder, holding him close. "I was so scared, Harry," she whispered. But then she pulled back and faced him and she was smiling. "But you did it. You destroyed him."
"We did it," Harry corrected.
Ron brought over more blankets. He wrapped up Harry, wrapped up Hermione, and then wrapped up all three of them in a tight circle. They sat together on the bed until dawn, talking and laughing and crying about the past, and about their suddenly bright and shining future.
The End
