Title: Harvesters

Author: Emmylou

Summary: Grief is a selfish emotion, and when Harry and Ron become desperate for the things that meant so much to Hermione, will these things give them comfort or rip them further apart?

Disclaimer: Harry Potter, the characters, creations, and settings are the property of JK Rowling, Warner Bros. and other associated trademarks. This is a fictional piece created solely in respect of the original work with no infringement intended, nor any profit being made.

Harry had made up his mind to keep one of the pictures before he ever opened the box. He had come home, prodded at the fire with his wand and boiled some tea. Then he had padded into his bedroom and rooted around in his old trunk to pull out his photo-album.

Each precious page was packed with pictures of his parents. They were smiling or laughing, sometimes they looked surprised, as if the camera had flashed in their face. Harry had poured over each photo perhaps a hundred times. Every time he would wish for just one more photo, one more thing he could use to glean information about them.

But this was different, he had known Hermione. He knew the sort of food she ate at dinner, the clothes she wore, and the music she hummed along to. The everyday little things he knew about her were the sort of things he would have given so much to know about his parents.

It seemed very strange that despite the fact he knew all those little things about Hermione, looking at the unopened box next to him felt as rare a treat as receiving the photo album had been. This was his chance to learn all he might ever learn about Hermione.

One picture, he decided. Couldn't he have just one picture that no-one would ever know about?

With trembling fingers he opened the box. He was disappointed to see that it was not quite as stuffed full as he imagined, the pictures rattling around loosely. But there were at least fifty photographs, moving and still, in the box.

He closed his eyes and dipped his hand in, tugging the first one he reached for out. He had to go slowly and look carefully at each picture.

Harry laughed out loud when he saw a very familiar picture indeed. Ron and Hermione sniping at each other (Harry thought he saw a glint o a S.P.E.W badge being waved around by Ron). No doubt this had been taken by Colin Creevey in the common room, everyone looked very young. Alicia Spinnet and Angelina Johnson were talking at a table behind the couch where Ron and Hermione were sitting. He himself was barely visible to the left of the picture, talking to someone and occasionally prodding at a piece of parchment. Hermione looked utterly comfortable, even with her scowling as Ron tossed the badge up in the air and caught it again.

This one, he thought, was utterly Hermione. He put it to one side. This would be the one he kept.

He reached for another. It was an unfamiliar picture. Strangely still after looking at the moving ones. Hermione's smile was locked, eyes un-sparkling. Her hair looked bushier than ever against the familiar blue background of a primary school photograph.

Did her school have a picture like this taken every year, like his had done? Had her mother brushed at her pristine uniform all morning and struggled to put an Alice band in the right position?

It was like a window to another world, a part of Hermione's life he'd never thought to ask much about.

He dipped his hand back into the box, again and again. Each time he learned something knew, or saw something he didn't remember. Different clothes, different smiles, the ways she stood, the vague impressions of what she was saying…he must have sat and stared poured through them for hours.

How could he choose just one photograph to keep? Had he really expected to find one photograph that was the 'essence' of Hermione? And even then had he thought he might just stick it in a photograph.

Had she even liked having her photograph taken?

The problem was, there were a million aspects to Hermione, and he had only seen a few parts. He picked up another, Hermione was laughing at a joke Ginny had told. How would he ever know what the joke was, or why it had made her laugh?

He got into bed, pulling the covers up high, as though they might somehow block his thoughts from the photographs. They, and their box, were sitting to one side like a perplexing question.

When he awoke the next morning, he looked at the photos again as he buttoned up his shirt and pulled on his trainers. Ron would no doubt ask for the photos today, and Harry wasn't sure he wanted to give them to him just yet.

He wanted to decide on one picture and look over them properly again before giving them back. Ron would never believe him if he said he'd forgotten them, maybe if he asked for a few more days…

"Do you have them?" asked Ron immediately. He glanced Harry over, clearly looking for a lump that would indicate a box full of pictures. "You know, the photos?"

He bit his lip nervously, as if he were about to receive some sort of medal.

What happened next was a totally spur of the moment thing. Harry told the biggest lie he'd told in just about ever.

"No," he said, swallowing nervously. "Don't you have them?"

The lie had appeared, carefully mapped out in his head. All he had to do was follow the story and he'd gain a days worth of looking at the photographs.

Ron met Harry's eyes. Harry looked down, almost ready to come clean…but Ron kept staring and Harry realised that Ron had mistaken his shame for lying as shame for loosing the photographs.

"What do you mean 'Don't you have them?'" demanded Ron in a ringing, accusatory tone. "You had them! We agreed…I let you have them."

He looked so very upset that Harry faltered. He did not feel himself top be a natural liar, and Ron was his friend. Still, Ron would get them soon enough…it was just one day.

"I-I sent them with Hedwig, to you," the lie sounded guilty…but that was how he was supposed to sound. Harry couldn't stop himself digging deeper. "I sent them last night…I did…you should have them."

Ron gaped, his mouth opened as if to yell, but closed it again in a way that seem to stamp down an outburst.

"You sent those pictures by OWL?" he hissed.

"I thought you wanted them quickly."

Ron opened his mouth again, then closed it. He sat down, staring unseeingly ahead of him. He seemed utterly defeated.

"Right," he said. "Right…well…I'll never see them I guess. Ginny…I'll - you'll – we'll have to tell her. I can't believe you risked sending something like that with a bird!"

"Hedwig's never lost a letter!" said Harry quickly. He felt a sudden need to stick up for the bird whose character he was damaging.

The plan in his head prodded him forward.

"I-I expect she's just stopped for a rest…she seemed tired. She'll turn up soon."

"Right," said Ron hollowly. "I, I'll have to get back to work. Lunch is nearly over."

He turned suddenly, with an expected sort of briskness and stomped away through the slush to the bank.

When Harry got home that night, he did not go into his bedroom. He made quite a production of removing his travelling cloak and hat and scarf. He rolled his gloves into a ball and stuffed them into the cloak pocket, hanging the cloak back up and brushing snow of off it. He sat down on his couch, leaning forward and briskly undoing his boots. He waved his wand and a trembling duster began cleaning the brick-a-brac that amounts on mantelpieces in a rather feeble manner.

He lit the fire, went into every room except his bedroom, closing the curtains and doing the little odd jobs he found along the way. When the lamps were lit and some murky soup had been prodded into a reasonable dinner, Harry looked around. A picture on the wall, a joke caricature of himself, Ron and Hermione (drawn by Dean) was moving energetically. Each of their oversized faces were mugging at him enthusiastically and Harry felt like throwing that in the bedroom with all the other pictures too.

He got up and stomped towards the door, forgetting the cloak, and throwing it open to peer into the dark night miserably. White snow was falling silently, caking the grass and window panes. Harry was distracted by a patch of light coming from a window of the bungalow near to him. The witch who lived their and her young daughter peeped out at the snow, pointing and laughing at the flakes. The little girl clapped as her mother waved her wand and the snow from above the door fell to the ground with a 'flump'.

After a while the faces were gone and Harry felt utterly alone.

Oh yes, he thought bitterly to himself. This was worth it wasn't it? It was worth lying to the only friend you have left just so you could go home and tidy your flat while trying to forget that you feel guilty about the pictures you have stashed away…oh and an injustice upon your pet.

"Well," he said in a sarcastic mutter. "At least my gloves are where I can find them."

He rubbed at the arms of his thin sweatshirt and wished that Hermione were still here to call him stupid and tell him how to fix it all.

CRACK!

Harry grabbed his wand out of habit, but lowered it and soon as the mini-flurry the apparition had caused fell away. Ron stood, breathless and upset looking in the snow. He jumped when he saw Harry in the doorway.

"Where've you been?" he panted. "I've been in that fireplace calling your name for ages! I wasn't going to floo in properly in case you weren't in…where've you been?"

Harry looked at the closed door into the sitting room, just visible in the low light. "I was here…I guess I couldn't hear you."

"I had to tell you…the goblins…oh I tried to change their mind…I went on and on about how it was too soon…"

"Ron, come inside," said Harry. He stepped back in, leaving Ron to follow. "What's going on?"

"The goblins!" said Ron, as though it were all perfectly obvious. "They've set the date they're going to auction Hermione's house…boxing day…I told them it was ridiculous, but they said that it was their legal prerogative to set the date and they already had people planning to turn up. The buyer won't take possession until new year though."

"Why tell me now?" said Harry.

Ron seemed lost in his own thoughts. "It's too soon," he said finally. "I thought maybe I'd have worked enough to- but it's too soon." He rubbed his eyes. "God…it's like we're loosing everything we have left of her isn't it? The photos, the house…"

Harry grunted. He did not feel like talking, but he wanted to know more about what had happened.

"Did they floo you at home? To tell you?"

"No," Ron shook his head. "I was doing a little overtime…what with- with uh Christmas and everything, I was just getting ready to leave to go- go home."

Harry got the impression that Ron was not being entirely truthful, and the part of him that felt awful for the pictures sitting on his dresser told him to leave it, but this was different, this was Hermione's house.

"Ron…tell me. What happened?"

"Look…I," Ron faltered. Then he seemed to adopt a determined face, as though needing to get something off his chest. "I had just finished doing some overtime…I was going to go down the Leaky Cauldron on, well, on a you know…a date."

Harry looked blankly at Ron. Even when Ron had eaten that love-potion in sixth year, he had never felt so strongly that he had no clue what Ron was talking about or, for that matter, who he was.

"Well, I'm glad you've found happiness," said Harry coldly. He turned and pinned Ron with an open stare, determined to drag the rest of it out of him.

"I never wanted to go," said Ron quickly. "Look…Janie has been pestering me for ages, before Hermione…and I never paid any attention. And then she came up to me after we spoke about the pictures and she looked concerned and her hair was falling out of its bun…and I just thought I'll go and have a drink and I'll feel a bit less awful and she'll stop going on at me. I don't want to go out with her!"

"Well, I'm sure she won't be sending you a won-won necklace this year," said Harry.

"Look…and then my boss came in and he said that he knew I was interested in the affairs of that house and told me…and then I came looking for you. I didn't go on the date."

Harry didn't talk again. He conjured up some Butterbeer and they drank it in a stiff silence.

A hoot made them look around. Hedwig had soared in through the window he left slightly open for her and settled on her perch. Harry offered her a quick smile. Ron, however, leapt off the sofa.

"Where are they!"

He made a dive for the bird, as if trying to get it to answer him, then began lifting and rooting through things in its path flight, searching, Harry realised, for the box of pictures.

Ron dived for the window, peering into the snow as though his last chance were finding the box on the ground outside.

Harry stood guiltily, looking at the ground.

"She lost them!" cried Ron incredulously. "She lost them…your stupid bird lost the only thing of Hermione's we ever would have wanted!"

"She didn't!" said Harry. "She uh, maybe, she ah…" his mind seemed to have become blank. Any second Ron would realise (perhaps from Hedwig's look of injured innocence) that he had never sent the pictures to Ron. "Stop clutching her like that!" he snapped finally.

Ron let go of the bird with a final disgusted look in her direction. "Why didn't you give some of the pictures to Errol and Pig too?" he ranted, his voice high and sarcastic. "Then they could have scattered them about the country!"

"The…the string must have been loose," said Harry. "I'll look in the garden…"

"What's it matter to you?" yelled Ron. "You've seen them…I expect you wanted to be the last person to see them…"

That remark was so angry and so close to the bone that Harry wanted very much to hit Ron.

"I'd never destroy those photos," he said finally.

"Good for you," sniped Ron.

"I'll find them," promised Harry. "I'll give them to you."

"I don't want them anymore," snapped Ron, clearly lying. "I'm off."

He tugged his cloak on and marched to the door and left the house, Harry waited a long time and there was no CRACK of disapparition.

"ENJOY YOUR DATE!" he yelled, not caring if Ron heard him or not.

Thanks for reading!