A/N: Look who's back in town :) … Again, sorry for the delay on this chap, just life taking over. I'm actually going to England for a year, and I leave in less than four weeks time, and everything's a big fat ugly mess (not a mess – just a lot of work that I can't be bothered to do), and I hate lists, and there are no winter clothes in the shops, and I shouldn't keep harassing you with my little problems. So, forgive me, and here's some stuff. ~this will all make perfect sense someday~ Shez

~

Lupin wasn't in the staff room, but Flitwick gave directions to his office, and they found it without much trouble. On the way, Hermione remembered that she'd been there once before, and then proceeded to lead him down various corridors with that fierce determination she had sometimes.

She could really move fast when she wanted to, and Ron was trying to conceal his puffing as they reached Lupin's door. She stopped abruptly and looked at him.

"What?" he said, and she made a face.

"You do it."

"Do what?"

"Knock."

"Why?"

"Because."

"Oh, for Merlin's sake."

He rapped on the door several times, and they waited. It wasn't long before they heard the professor's footsteps approach, and then he was opening the door. He was looking a little worse-for-wear (the full moon was upcoming), but not unhappy to see them. Maybe a little surprised, if anything.

"Hello Ron, Hermione."

"Hello Professor Lupin," Hermione said.

He looked from one to the other for a moment, and then opened his door more widely. "Well, come in."

"Thanks."

He held the door as they entered, and Ron took a surreptitious, sweeping view of the place. It matched Lupin all the way from the shelves of neatly stacked, frequently title-less volumes, down to the faded antique rug under his desk, and the toast that was browning slowly by the fireplace.

"I was just about to have some supper," Lupin commented, seeing Ron's eye fall on the food. "Would you like some?"

"No thanks," said Ron, albeit rather reluctantly. "We've got dinner soon."

"Aren't you coming down to dinner, Professor?" Hermione asked, and Lupin shook his head.

"No," he said. "I don't really feel up to it tonight."

"Oh."
There was a brief, awkward pause, and then Lupin gestured at a tattered green couch and the two of the sat. He took the armchair opposite.

"What can I do for you?" he said.

Ron and Hermione glanced at each other. They'd come down here with simple intentions, but it didn't seem so simple now. How could they put the situation without worrying Lupin? Ron hadn't considered it very carefully, and clearly Hermione hadn't either. Lupin, in many ways, was the closest thing Harry had to a dad without Sirius or James. But besides that, he was also Harry's instructor – and Ron knew that if they didn't say something now, they might not get around to it.

"It's like this," he began, and then Hermione cut in.

"We're worried about Harry. He's not himself."

"Yeah, he's freaking out," Ron said, taking up on her general thread.

"Freaking out?" Lupin repeated, and they both nodded.

"He's in a bit of a daze," said Hermione.

"And cranky," added Ron.

"He's morbid."

"Talking about death and things."

"Half the time it's like he's not even there."  

"Yeah, even in the middle of –" Hermione dug her elbow hard into his ribs, and he remembered who he was talking to. "Er – class," he finished lamely.

"Wait, wait, wait," said Lupin, quite loudly, and they both shut their mouths and sat back. He eyed them for some time and then absentmindedly rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I know Harry's – a bit odd at the moment. But it's to be expected in these times."

"That's a cop-out, Professor, if you don't mind me saying so," Hermione said frankly. Ron was impressed and nudged her, but she ignored him.

Lupin paused and then nodded, speaking almost to himself. "I know. I know it is."

"We just want to know what's wrong with him," Ron said. "That's all."

"Of course you do."

"Will you tell us?" asked Hermione quietly, and Lupin finally met her eye.

"I shouldn't," he said, "but I will."

A long silence followed this, and then Lupin realised that his toast was burning and had to fish it out of the fire. Once he'd done that, he seemed more composed. Ron found himself taking Hermione's hand, his heart throbbing in a strange anticipation. He didn't know why he was excited – or was it nervous? – about this. Just hearing what was happening would be a relief.

"I don't know all the details myself," Lupin said, "but I don't think many people do. Maybe Dumbledore and Harry, and the people at the Department of Mysteries. I only know the general gist." He hesitated. Inwardly, Ron was begging him to continue, and when he caught a glimpse of Hermione's face, he was sure she was doing the same. "Basically," Lupin went on, "Harry and Voldemort are involved in a prophecy. This prophecy states that one or the other of them will have to die."

Another long silence, more tense this time. Ron attempted to understand this. Lupin looked grave.

"What do you mean, 'one or the other of them'?" Hermione said, rather shrilly.

"The theory is, they will fight, and then either Voldemort will kill Harry, or Harry will kill Voldemort."

"Wait, Harry has to fight Voldemort?" Ron asked incredulously. "Again?"

"Yes."

"And kill him?"

"If Harry is to live, yes."

"Are you sure you have this right?" Hermione said. "I mean, couldn't they have mixed it up? Maybe it was talking about a previous fight between Harry and Voldemort. Like fifth year, or second year, or even – oh I don't know, even first year. It could have been that, couldn't it?"

"Hermione …" Lupin began, but she spoke over him.

"It's just like the Ministry to put this on Harry's shoulders! He has more than enough to deal with."

"It wasn't the Ministry," Lupin tried to explain, but now she was standing up.

"Well, fuck the Ministry's silly prophecy!" she shouted. "Harry's not going to fight Voldemort again!"

And with that, she ran out.

Ron stared at Lupin for a few seconds as the full impact of what the teacher had been saying finally hit him. Harry and Voldemort, in a fight to the death. It was nearly the most awful thing he could think of. Lupin looked so tired and sad, and his worry-lines were so clear, that Ron simply couldn't sit there anymore. He left too – and found Hermione sitting on the floor in the corridor, her back against the wall.

He sat beside her. She was staring into the distance with a horrified expression on her face.

"I said the f-word," she managed finally, "to a teacher."

Then her face crumpled and she put her head on her upright knees.

Ron, who was still in a kind of shock himself, once again felt useless in the face of her crying. He touched her leg, and then the back of her neck, and eventually found himself stroking her hair, muttering words that didn't mean anything.

"Harry's going to die," Hermione sobbed.

"No he's not," Ron said immediately. "Don't say that again."

"He is."

"Stop it."

"Ron …"

"Right here."

She went on crying, and he went on stroking her hair.

Eventually, she calmed down and lifted her face from her knees. She was blotchy and tear-streaked and red-nosed and he wanted to kiss her so she'd feel better, but didn't want to seem insensitive. She looked him right in the eye, and he knew had to say something – he just didn't know what.

"Harry's not going to die," he told her, in the end. "We won't let him. Alright? Harry's going to kill Voldemort, and that's all there is to it. He shouldn't even have to fight him, but – but he's trained, right? And we'll help him. And he's not going to die."

Hermione nodded, and wiped her face with both hands. "OK," she said. "I believe you."

Ron felt like he'd made a promise when she said that. It was one he might not be able to keep – but he'd say whatever he could to make her happy again.

"Let's go to dinner," she said, and stood up. He did the same, and they were about to go when Ron heard Lupin's voice. They turned – the Professor was standing in his doorway.

"I'm sorry," he said wearily. "And please don't tell anybody. Voldemort doesn't know, you see."

Ron and Hermione nodded simultaneously, and so did he, and then the Professor went back into his room, and Hermione and Ron went down to the Great Hall.

~

At dinner, Ginny sat through almost the entire, near-silent meal before she cracked.

"Right," she said. "What's up with you lot?"

"Me?" said Harry, Ron and Hermione, glancing up from their plates.

"Yes, you," she retorted. "All of you. What on earth's the matter?"

"Nothing," Harry said, and Ron and Hermione mumbled agreements.

Ginny frowned furiously at each of them, and then looked as though she was trying not to cry.

"Fine," she snapped. "Have your little secrets. Leave me out, like you always have done. I don't care."

"Ginny …" Hermione said pleadingly, but the redhead was already standing. Harry half-stood with her, but she waved an irritable hand at him and stormed away. Harry sat back down and then narrowed his eyes at Ron.

"What is wrong with you two?"

"We could ask the same thing of you," Ron said.

"Me? I'm fine."

"Yeah?" Ron said disbelievingly, and Hermione poked him. They'd agreed not to tell Harry that they'd heard about the prophecy yet. If they just let loose with their newfound information, who knew what he'd do?

Harry wasn't paying attention, anyway. He was watching after Ginny. There was a silence, and then he sighed heavily.

"I should go talk to her."

"Probably," Hermione agreed.

He left without another word.

"I hate it when he does that," said Ron.

"I'd rather have him here and rude to us, than –"

He silenced her with a hard look. He didn't want to hear her say that – couldn't hear it. He couldn't even think it. Harry, his best friend, his sixth brother, who he'd grown up with, who always passed him the ball when they played backyard quidditch, who made his sister happy and didn't laugh at him when he screwed up – that Harry, dead?

Ron couldn't even conceive of his life without Harry in it; he couldn't remember not knowing him.

"Sorry," she murmured, and Ron shrugged. "Do you want your custard?" she went on, and he shook his head.

"No," he said.

"Do you want to play chess or something?"

"No."

"We could just go to my room," she suggested, and flushed. He looked at her sidelong and raised his eyebrows.

"You want to …"

"Do you?"

"I don't know."

He hadn't really thought about that either – the first time was all very well, but what about the second, and the third? How exactly did those come around?

"I just want to be with you," Hermione said softly, fiddling with her fork. Bits of her hair were coming untucked from her band and kept falling across her face. She flicked them away with her free hand, and his throat sort of closed over. He didn't know what to say when she was like this. She could still turn him about and make his heart beat crazy-fast, and he didn't know how.

"OK," he said, summoning his voice. "Alright."

~

Lying with her afterwards, Ron wasn't sure how he felt exactly. Well, he felt good of course, but that was shag-related good – Hermione-related good. It was more that he didn't know how he felt about feeling good.

"Do you think we should have done that?" Hermione asked suddenly, and he looked at her in surprise.

"I was just thinking the same thing."

"Really?"

"Yeah." He shook his head. "I don't know. I feel – like I shouldn't – be happy."

"Because of Harry?"

"I mean, shi– Merlin, Hermione. It's horrible."

"I know."

"And I don't want to think about it. But I can't stop. And I hate that. And I hate that I'm thinking about it now, when I all I want to think about is how much I really, really like all this."

"All this?" she said dryly, and in response he rolled onto his side and touched her bare stomach.

"Like how I can do that, and not be arrested," he said wonderingly, and she grinned. "No, I mean it." He hesitated and then shook his head. "I don't know why you picked me, but I'm glad."

"I don't know why you picked me," she returned, "but I'm glad."

They smiled at each other, and then Ron exhaled and dropped his head. "I don't know," he said.

"I think it's like what you told me before. We can't let Voldemort ruin everything. We can't let him ruin, you know, having sex, and we can't let him ruin how we see Harry, and we just – can't let him do all the things he wants." Hermione said all this in something of a rush, and when she was done, Ron stared at her.

"What?" she asked, a bit shyly, and his grin came back.

"You said sex."

She laughed and hit him on the head.

"No, no," he protested. "It's great. The f-word and sex, all in one day."

"I've said sex before."

"Not to me, you haven't. Wasn't it you who told me once 'if you're not mature enough to say it, you shouldn't be doing it'?"

"Stop it."

He kissed her, and then leant back against her pillow, trying to sort himself out.

"You're right," he said eventually, seriously. "You're completely right. I was completely right. We can't let him. And anyway, Harry's not going to – nothing's going to happen to him."

"Of course not," Hermione said stoutly. "Not if I can help it."

"And me, and Lupin, and Dumbledore and everybody." He paused, and remembered something. "Hey, we didn't really ask about those blackout things."

Hermione half-shrugged. "We could go back?"

That thought was far too depressing. "No," Ron said firmly. "Not tonight. We'll talk to him later."

"OK. We should talk to Ginny too."

"Yeah. Poor girl."

"Angry girl."

He nodded to himself a bit and then edged closer.

"You know, you can say it again if you want."

"Sex, sex, sex," she said, rolling her eyes. "There. Happy?"

"Very."

She frowned at him. "I don't recall you using that precise word either, Ron Weasley, come to think of it."

He kissed her again, and when he eventually broke away, was rather breathless.

"I don't need to," he said hoarsely. "You know what I mean."

So they pretended, for a while, that nothing was wrong with Harry or the world, and he was happy to be happy. It was almost defiant, in a way. But no matter what they told each other, Voldemort and Harry and Lupin's words still hung like a dark curtain across the back of his mind – and later that night, when her eyes were closed, he was still wide awake, unable to suppress the images of his friend pale and lifeless like Cedric Diggory had been, and Voldemort standing over him, laughing.