Disclaimer: "Harry Potter" etc, etc ... you know the drill here.

Summary: After every dusk comes a dawn. How do they live a normal life after all they've endured? Hermione, Sirius, and all the others try. A sequel to "Road to Redemption".

Dusk to Dawn

Chapter Three: Horrors

"I am so tired, I think I'm going to fall over and die," Ron declared wearily, sinking deep into the couch as soon as he had taken his plate back to the kitchen after dinner.

Hermione eyed him, alarmed. "Please don't! You've just eaten my cooking; your mother is bound to blame me for your unfortunate demise."

"Is that all I mean to you, Hermione?"

"In essence, yes," she laughed.

Ron snorted. "Blimey, and she calls herself a friend. When are you starting work at Hogwarts?"

"Dumbledore told me I can take up Charms whenever I like after the baby is born. He's giving me some time – at his own suggestion. Besides, Professor Flitwick wants to do a prima donna's curtain call, and dramatise his retirement." Hermione smiled as Ron burst out laughing at the image. "I wish I was starting soon, though."

"Why?"

"I suppose I'm used to having work on my hands."

Ron chuckled. "You're disgraceful, Hermione, somebody should pickle your brains and put them up in a museum for the world to admire! Harry's going to start Auror training in a couple of weeks."

"Yes, I know," she nodded, smiling, "It's what he's always wanted to do."

"I dunno how he can, though."

Hermione looked at him, seeing the troubled look on his face. "Why not, Ron?" she asked gently, wondering how thick-headed Ron really was.

"If I was Harry – well – being an Auror would be the last thing I'd want." He looked at her doubtfully, as if afraid she would mock him or laugh at him. Ron, Hermione knew, didn't have a very good opinion of his own intellect. He was quite right not to, but you had to give him some credit.

She said quietly, "I know exactly what you mean, Ron."

He looked at her, and then grinned. "Right. So. Are you surprised about him and Parvati?"

"That they broke up?" Hermione shook her head. "No, I'm not surprised actually. They'll always be good friends. Harry told me himself that he isn't ready for a relationship with somebody who doesn't know him inside out, like we do. What he was really looking for was female companionship, which he said he already has with me. I guess it makes sense."

"I think it's a little too deep for me," said Ron mournfully, "Am I insensitive? No, don't answer that," he added hastily, grinning, as a twinkle leapt to Hermione's eyes. "How many months along are you, by the way?"

"Four," Hermione responded, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Ron watched her go, shaking his head and smiling a little. He still couldn't believe Hermione was actually going to have a baby. And he was the one who was going to be married in ten months' time. He and Luna had decided to wait, because they both had a lot of things to settle first. Luna was training as editor for her father's magazine, The Quibbler, and Ron was in intensive training for Puddlemere United. He leaned his head back against the cushions of the couch, utterly drained. Although he and Hermione had just had a late dinner at the House, he was still in his Quidditch robes. He hadn't yet washed the small cut on his forehead (side-effect of dashing out of a Bludger's path), and he needed a bath desperately, but couldn't bring himself to move.

It had been a rainy practice, and there was still grime on his arms and legs (Hermione had shrieked when he first flopped on the sofa, but he had politely reminded her of the fact that they were both magical citizens and could 'scourgify' the mess in a flash. Her acid glare, belied by the sheepish look in her eyes, had given him some satisfaction.). Although the fans were on, the room felt extremely hot. Sweat dripped down his arm, mingling with the dust. He looked down at it.

How strange, he thought to himself... the pale patterns traced out by the path of perspiration on his forearm... they looked like – they almost looked like –

Ron closed his eyes, but it didn't help. The Dark Mark, grey and smoky but nonetheless terrifying, appeared before his mind, high up in a moonlit sky while people screamed in panic around him. He could still feel the cry that had bubbled up in his throat, a cry that he had stifled with as much courage as he could summon. Harry and Hermione hadn't understood the terror the Dark Mark struck into the hearts of witches and wizards, they hadn't grown up listening to the stories.

"... You know, Mum you've never told me your maiden name."

A flicker of something in her eyes. Was it pain, fear, the jolt of memory? "What a strange question, Ron. Is that something to ask your mother after twelve years in the world?"

"We have a family tree assignment in History of Magic, Mum, so go easy on me, would you?"

"Prewett." There. That flicker again. What was it?

Prewett. Her voice echoed in his mind. He knew that name...

"I think you've probably told me before," he said cheerfully, scribbling it down on a piece of paper. Then he blinked, and remembered where he had heard the names. He remembered challenging George to a crossword contest when he was ten, and going into the attic and searching all the old newspapers for the crosswords. He'd found a very old newspaper... with a front-page article...

He put down his quill and said slowly, "Gideon and Fabian Prewett. Did you know them, Mum?"

"Ron – " she turned around, saw the look in his eyes. "They were my older brothers."

"Murdered by You-Know-Who."

The tears in her eyes, reddening, spilling over onto her cheeks. "Yes." Her dry, wracking sobs as she fled from the room.

The terrible feeling in his gut. No son should see his mother cry...

Ron blinked, and tried to release the tension that had built up in his stomach. He staggered to his feet, shaky from his exhaustion but full of a new energy because he needed to do something... or else he was lost. He lunged for the remote control of the television and tried to turn it on. The noise blared to life, and he stared at some Muggle rock star biting off the head of a bat with disgust.

"Ron, what are you doing?" Hermione demanded, snatching the remote from him and turning off the TV. "You hate TV, and I thought you swore just yesterday never to touch 'that wretched thing'." She frowned at the black TV screen. "Sirius still isn't home?"

"He'll be back soon," Ron said reassuringly. "You know how unpredictable Aftermath Duty is."

Something in his voice must have caught her attention.

As she turned to look at him, she caught the pallor of his face before the colour came back. He sighed. Hermione missed nothing. She always saw.

"I'm really tired," he said quickly, although she hadn't asked.

"Why do you train so intensively, Ron?" Hermione said softly. "Every spare moment..."

He sighed, and sat down on the couch. Why not tell her the truth? He trusted her with his life. She wouldn't laugh at him. "Because when I'm distracted or training, I don't have to think. And when I don't have to think, I don't have to remember."

The front door opened at that moment, to the relief of both, and Sirius walked into the room, to the greater relief of both. Hermione was struck by how incredible he looked, even after a long day of hard work (hard work Sirius loved immersing himself in). His shirt was dusty and frayed, but it matched his typically dishevelled look. His hair was tousled, and she noticed the frown darkening his brow instantly.

"You two still up?" he said shortly, looking at them.

Hermione sensed his bad mood immediately. "What did Snape do this time?"

Sirius couldn't bite back a smile. "You know me too well. I swear to Merlin I'm going to make truth of my past sins and murder the swine if he doesn't find another job. Dumbledore has no mercy in him. All Snivellus and I do when we're hunting together is fight and argue. We barely have a quiet moment to even think!"

"Perhaps Dumbledore has more mercy than you know," said Hermione cryptically. "For both of you."

They both looked at her. Hermione met Sirius's dark eyes, and looked down at the floor, unsure of whether or not she should have said anything. Her words may have gone over Ron's head, but she was fairly certain Sirius understood exactly what she'd meant.

"Where's Harry?" Sirius asked, clearly unwilling to dwell on the subject.

Ron jerked his head upward. "He was tired, and went to bed early."

"I think I'll follow his example," said Sirius, stretching his arms, "I'm so damned exhausted." He paused, however, and looked at Hermione, "Coming?"

"Not that tired, I see," murmured Ron.

Hermione ignored him, smiled, and blushed a little. "I'll just clear up."

"I'll do that," said Ron mischievously, "You go ahead."

Hermione flushed and looked at Sirius. He grinned and cuffed Ron on the back of the head, and started towards the stairs. His eyebrow lifted in a typically rakish, questioning way, before he chuckled and went up. Hermione frowned reprovingly at Ron, who was having one hell of a laugh, and followed Sirius up to the bedroom on the second floor that they both shared...

Sirius opened his eyes. The silvery pall of the moon was casting a shimmering glow over the bed, streaking through the softly billowing white curtains of the window. The moonlight caught the sparkle in Hermione's brown hair perfectly, as she lay with her hair splayed around her, soft and silky, her expression unusually peaceful. He watched her for a moment, smiling slightly as he thought about the way she sometimes, late in the night, slipped out of his grasp and cuddled into her own pillow. Old habits died hard. But he loved holding her.

Her mouth opened slightly, and she murmured something before turning over and kicking off the quilts so that he could see her stretchy tank top and baby blue pajamas. He was struck by desire, and forced himself to look away. There was no need to wake her up.

Smiling wryly, he reached out and pulled the quilts back up around her. She would be cold in a minute. He had no idea why she invariably kicked off the covers every night.

Now that he had forced himself not to look at her and was no longer distracted, Sirius was able to realize that something that woken him up. Frowning slightly, he looked around and wondered what it could have been. Had Hermione said or moved in her sleep and woken him? He rubbed sleep out of his eyes, and listened hard. Some noise had woken him, he was sure of it. He stopped moving in the bed and the soft rustling of sheets ceased. Deathly silence reached him; the House was completely peaceful this late in the night – or rather, this early in the morning.

Then he heard something. He pricked up his ears. Yes, there it was.

It was a low sound, muffled – but it Sirius knew what it was. He had heard it many times before.

His heart sank horribly, and his gut clenched. He shook his head slightly and threw off his side of the covers, which were already near his knees anyway. He always wore regular pants to bed; it was a habit he'd gotten into when he was always prepared for an emergency. All he had to pull on were shoes and a T-shirt. He moved noiselessly out of the room and hurried down the corridor. The walls were panelled with warm oak, the floor carpeted thinly. There was something homey, something comfortable and golden about this house that he'd never really noticed before.

He reached the stairs, a winding flight that led upstairs. Both Harry and Remus's rooms were on the third floor, but Remus was staying at Tonks' for the night. Ron and Sirius and Hermione's rooms were all downstairs. Sirius walked up and onto the landing. He walked around the wide space in the middle of the floor, where the stairway was, towards the door of Harry's room. Harry's room was directly positioned above Sirius's in the House, which was why Sirius could usually hear sounds from that room when it was deathly quiet like it was now. He gritted his teeth, furious with the world for what it had done, and walked to Harry's door. He considered knocking, but dismissed the idea because Harry wouldn't hear him anyway and who knocked on the door of the sleeping person? He stared at the knob for a moment, a flicker of fear seizing his insides, and then pushed the door open. He went inside and turned on one of the lights, a dull one, before shutting the door.

Harry lay face down on the bed, biting into the pillow. His arms quivered and thrashed a little, and there were sounds of utter anguish coming from the pillow, the same sounds Sirius had heard from his room below, only magnified with proximity.

"Harry!" Sirius said in a low, compelling voice, reaching out and gripping his shoulder. "Wake up! Harry!"

The boy, the young man, on the bed jerked and lay still. Then slowly, Harry turned fully over and sat up, fumbling for his glasses. Sirius pulled him closer and Harry silently rested his head against his godfather's shoulder, breathing hard. His body was soaked with perspiration, his skin was paler than pale, almost sickly, and his green eyes were wide and glassy, full of unspoken horrors.

"It's all right," said Sirius gruffly, ruffling Harry's hair like a father or brother would, "It was just a dream. A nightmare. It wasn't real."

"It was," said Harry, low, "It was real once."

"Those memories are over, Harry, the chapter is closed."

Harry leaned back against the wall behind his bed. He looked a little better, although still shaky. "Do you really believe that, Sirius? Does the pain, do the memories ever really leave you? Yeah, the chapter is supposed to be closed. But has it been? Can it be?"

"Hell, I'm no wise man, Harry," Sirius said, almost bitterly, sinking down in the chair next to the bed, "I don't have the answers."

His godson looked back at him, green eyes filled with knowledge – too much knowledge. "Has Azkaban left you?"

Sirius closed his eyes.

... The anguished sobs of the other prisoners, low and muffled so that the Dementors wouldn't have the cold satisfaction of hearing them, but far too audible to the sharp ears of an Animagus whose form was a dog.

"Lily and James, Sirius, how could you!"

"Go away, Peter, leave me alone..." Mumbling, pleading in his sleep... then the anger... keeping him sane...

Bellatrix coming in, looking at him with a hollow black eyes. She had never once screamed. The sobs and moans he heard were never once hers. She was cold as stone, dead as a fish inside. She was so cold that she didn't even feel the pain, the desolation. He hated her with all his soul, but he wished he could borrow a sliver of her steel and use it to protect himself from the pain. He envied the stone inside her. Blood was blood after all. Perhaps he had some of it.

"Lily and James, Sirius, how could you!"

No... he had far too little of it to save him in here...

"Sirius?" Harry said slowly, pulling him out of his reverie. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to – "

"It's all right," he said, smiling faintly, "Those memories are so hashed out in my mind anyway that all they cause now is a dull ache. The sharp stabs of pain are no longer there. I never cared enough to feel daggers even now. You'll find the same, Harry. All it takes is time. The nightmares will cease. The pain will be a dull throb, nothing more. A mere headache."

Harry looked down at his hands and when he spoke, his voice cracked slightly: "I don't want to have to deal with it for the rest of my life, Sirius. I don't want every moment of my world to be marred and scarred by all that I've known and done." His voice was low, cracking, but nonetheless powerful in its intensity. "I never asked to be Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived! I wish I'd died with Voldemort, I wish I'd died with my parents, I wish I wasn't here any longer. Dying at the end of the war would have been the best way to go, but I wasn't even given that mercy! I can't deal with living."

"You can't fool a man who feels the same thing, Harry," said Sirius quietly.

Harry looked up at him, a question in his eyes.

"You're not incapable of dealing with living. You're afraid – because you don't know how to live." Sirius sighed softly. "So am I. I was young when the war began, almost as young as you when Voldemort's terror first spread. I lost my youth in Azkaban. I don't know how to live either, Harry."

"Then how do we get through each day now? What now, Sirius? How do we do this?"

Sirius looked out of the window, at the shadows of the clouds passing over the moon so that it was a clear silvery orb once more. "I guess we just have to learn," he said heavily.

And they'd thought the hardest part was over.

Ron lay awake in bed.

He was lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows flit and dance across. He could see various shapes there, could hear the whispers of memories filling up the silence. If only one didn't have to remember... how easy the world would be then. If only he didn't have to think at all. His mouth twisted a little wryly.

Harry and Hermione both laughed at him because he wasn't as intelligent as they were, and definitely not as clever as Hermione was. He wouldn't want to be anyway, that would be plain scary. But they didn't understand that it was easier not to be smart and perceptive, it was easier not to notice because then you had less to worry about, less to think about. You could just program your mind into 'thick-headed' mode, and you were spared all the burdens of knowledge. He'd perfected the art over eighteen years.

'Ignorance is bliss, Hermione, didn't you ever hear that?'... He smiled; he ought to say that to her sometime, just to see how she would react.

Probably hex him into oblivion.

He looked at the dusty old photograph lying on his windowsill, propped up against the glass as cool rain started to fall outside. Dawn would be here soon – dawn... wasn't dawn already here, a strangely dark and misty dawn that they could find nothing in and no path leading out of it. Ron rolled his eyes. He was starting to become philosophical, which was downright ridiculous. He wasn't even supposed to be capable of stating facts, let alone the deep analysis of philosophy!

His eyes flickered. The photograph was a very old one, hidden away in his trunk for years. He'd taken it out only a few hours ago, and he didn't know why he had, only that it was now propped up there for him to look at. Did he want to look at it? He didn't know. He only knew that he WAS looking at it, and that he couldn't turn his eyes away. It was a picture that portrayed nine red-haired people, all of whom except for two were very young, most of who were below the age of ten. Ron lifted a finger and trailed it down the picture. His parents... Bill and Charlie with their arms slung around each other... Percy fighting off Fred... Ginny at five years old... and George laughing and trying to pull a shy version of himself into the frame... a happy family.

And now? Percy was estranged from them. Charlie was barely around anymore. Ginny was showing alarming signs of softening towards Draco Malfoy, and that could only mean trouble. His mother cried every time Percy's name was mentioned, and Ron knew the depth of her pain over her dead brothers. His father worked hard, every minute of the day...

Could anybody still call them a happy family?

Harry wasn't the only one who had lost people he loved. Perhaps Ron could see the Thestrals, and hadn't seen death in its face, but he had felt its power as if he had been the one slaughtered by it. And there were some losses, like that by the betrayal of your own brother, that were just as painful as death itself... perhaps even more so. But it was just pointless thinking about it... Ron blinked back his tears, turned over, and went to sleep.

Sirius shut Harry's door quietly behind him and rubbed his forehead. He was tired, and utterly drained from all that he and Harry had talked about. He wanted nothing more than to – it was strange, but far from wanting to be alone, he wanted nothing more than to find Hermione and feel her hands stroking his hair as he held her, trying to drown in her.

But she was asleep, and he was far from finding sleep now. He stared at the dark corners of the warm corridor and smiled slightly to himself. Unlike Grimmauld Place, he loved this House and actually wanted to go downstairs into the kitchen – a warm kitchen, unlike the cold stone of his family home – and make coffee. After all, he had nothing better to do and the sun would be rising in another hour, perhaps a little more. He walked downstairs to the ground floor and padded through the hallway towards the kitchen. A light, soft and golden, was on inside. He frowned a little, wondering if Ron had forgotten to turn it off when he'd gone upstairs.

He walked in, and found Hermione sitting alone behind the counter.

TBC.

A/N: I am so busy, it's not even funny!