Disclaimer: Not mine. Belongs to the lovely JKR.

Setting: Post-HBP

Knowledge

Hermione put the newspaper down. This was not good. Not good at all.

She folded the newspaper carefully and considered the best way to get rid of it. Ron and Harry couldn't know what it said. They couldn't.

A sleepy grunt from the other side of the shack interrupted her musings and tears pricked her eyes as she looked over to him. Poor Ron. She couldn't tell him, wouldn't do it. Not now, not when Harry needed him so much.

Oh, God. Harry. He'd be beside himself. His inane hero complex would have him Apparating back home before Hermione could stop him. He'd probably even find a way to blame himself.

She had to stop crying. They couldn't know. Hermione took a deep breath, dried her eyes and threw the paper into the small fire that served as their stove and heater.

The paper crackled, causing Hermione to wince and glance over to Ron. He shifted slightly, but didn't wake up. Hermione breathed a sigh relief and set about making some tea. Harry would be back soon, and morning patrols were always the coldest.

Ginny was right Hermione closed her eyes briefly, but they were dry when she opened them again. She remembered when Ginny had sobbed that morning in the common room and told Hermione how scared she was, how terrified she was one of her brothers would die in the war. Well, it looked like she had one less brother to fear for.

The newspaper was almost too burnt to read, thank God. Ron and Harry didn't need another burden. Ron was going to be crushed when he found out—and he'd be furious she kept it from him, that was a given—but this was for the best. They had to stay focused on the goal: only two more Horcruxes to go. There would be time for grieving later.

It wasn't fair. Mrs. and Mr. Weasley were good people. This shouldn't have happened. One of their boys was gone. Just… gone. And no spell would bring him back.

Fantastic. Now she'd burned the toast. Way to hold together under pressure, Granger.

The burnt toast joined that horrible newspaper in the fire and Hermione set to work again on their makeshift breakfast.

Harry stumped in a few moments later and smiled gratefully when she handed him a mug of steaming tea. "Have you looked at that paper yet, Hermione?" he asked quietly. "It's light enough now."

She froze for just a second, half bent over the fire. Could she do this? Could she really lie about something this important? Hermione glanced between the two boys, one fitfully asleep and the other looking at her with his trademark intensity. Yes, she could. She most definitely could.

"It was an old paper," Hermione said. "I burned it."

"You burned it? But it's nearly impossible to get hold of those, Hermione. You know that."

"The fire was running low, Harry. It was save the paper or save the fire."

Ron sat up blearily and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "You're a witch, Hermione. It's not hard to conjure fire."

Damn it, she was hoping he'd sleep in a bit more. Lying to Harry was one thing—he wasn't related—but lying to Ron? That was big. That was big and wrong and manipulative and something she was determined to do.

"It was the paper about the muggle attacks two weeks ago," Hermione said finally. "I couldn't stare at the headline anymore."

The change in the room was immediate. Harry shrank into himself and avoided their eyes, but Ron flew to Hermione and wrapped her in a bear hug.

"We're not letting anything happen to you, Hermione," he whispered fiercely. "Nothing. Not to you or your parents or your home."

"I know," Hermione mumbled into his chest. "I know that." Oh, the dear boy, he was so wonderful.

Ron drew back slightly and studied her face. "Everything will be fine, Hermione. It has to be."

A sick desire to laugh came over her. No, actually, it didn't have to be fine. It wasn't fine. They were trapped in some Godforsaken shack in Scotland, the fight was far from over and Ron was a brother short.

But Hermione merely smiled up at him. "Of course, Ron. It'll all be over soon enough."

Ron nodded and let go of her, then sat down next to Harry to plan their day. Hermione knew she should listen to their conversation, but she couldn't. Her mind was miles away. Mr. Weasley had been the one to find him. The article had been shaky on the details, but that much was obvious. Mr. Weasley had followed a Dark Mark to an empty alleyway and found his son's body.

Hermione traced the edge of her mug with trembling fingers. She could imagine it. Mr. Weasley looking for a pulse, begging for it all to be a trick. His eyes frantic and his chin quivering. His desperate search for injuries, because while Adavra Kedavra is irreversible, injuries can be healed. Then seeing his son's eyes, and knowing it was real. Knowing he was gone.

"I'm going to go wash up," Hermione said softly. The boys nodded and she walked to the stream behind their shack. She splashed the frigid water onto her face and didn't bother wiping it away. The biting cold felt good.

The water dripped down her neck as Hermione sat on a rock and went to work on her hair. She'd lost her comb somewhere in France and hadn't bothered to pick up a new one yet. Her fingers felt loose and shaky as she teased the tangles apart and she gave herself over to the grief that had been building. She cried.

Hermione wondered if Ginny had cried when they told her, or if she'd raged and yelled and cursed. Probably a combination of it all. It's what Hermione felt like doing, and she hadn't really even known him. Not the way Ginny and Ron had. Not the way his parents had.

How would Mrs. Weasley feel about Hermione keeping this a secret? Hermione couldn't help but feel she was dishonoring his memory by keeping quiet. She couldn't tell the boys, though. Hard as they tried to hide it, Hermione knew this search was draining them. Ron had appointed himself the protector of the trio; his exhaustion was growing by the day. And Harry hadn't lost that dreadful intensity. He was still angry.

Hermione knew it was wrong, but she couldn't be the one to add one more burden to her boys. Not now, not when they were so close to their breaking point. Mrs. Weasley would forgive her for staying silent. She'd forgive her if Hermione had to grasp her ankles and tearfully beg for forgiveness.

It wouldn't be a hard secret to keep. They'd given up communication with the Order after one of the owls came back with bent wing feathers. Ginny had tried so hard to stay involved, but she'd eventually bowed to Harry's frightened temper and agreed to stop sending messages. Now the only news they heard about home came from littered newspapers.

Her fingers found another clump of tangles and she suppressed the urge to scream. This was getting ridiculous. If Ron didn't love her hair so much, she'd have chopped it all off two weeks into the journey. But he'd looked so horrified when she'd pulled out the scissors that she'd quickly decided to keep her mess of curls. He'd called it wild and perfect and messy and just right for her. He'd stammered and blushed horribly when he said it (and never mentioned it again, of course) but none of that mattered. He'd said it and Hermione had known that he was hers and she was his. She'd just known.

Lacking both shampoo and a brush, Hermione tried to tame her hair. She couldn't comfort Ron like she wanted to—she couldn't even be honest with him—but she could at least make him smile. She could make him smile for just a few seconds, if only her hair wouldplease, please, please behave.

She thought of the burning newspaper again and her fingers stilled in her curls. He didn't deserve to die like that. He'd deserved children and nieces and nephews and long dinners with a wife who adored him and stooped parents who talked about the good old days. But they'd stolen that from him before he'd even had a chance to live the good days.

It struck her that she was thinking about him in the past tense already. When Sirius had died, it'd taken her weeks to stop thinking as if he was still alive. That said something about the state of the world, she decided. If she could accept death so easily, there was obviously too much of it going on.

Hermione wiped away the last of her tears and came to a decision. It was time to forget she'd ever found that paper on patrol last night. She couldn't dwell on it. She couldn't allow herself to think about the world outside of her trio and their search. Next time she came across a forgotten newspaper she'd kick some dirt over it and keep on walking.

There was only one way to end the war. Hermione still struggled with the idea that the war depended on three teenagers, but it did and she had to accept that. She had to take her responsibility and prove they were capable. She had to stop letting innocent people die.

Hermione made a promise to herself and to the whole Weasley family. She'd never stop searching, never stop helping, never stop fighting. It was too late for one boy, but it wasn't too late for everyone else. They'd win this war, they'd punish the bastards who did this to him, and then they'd grieve properly.

Hermione ran her fingers through her hair one more time and stood up. She looked to the sky, gave the poor boy a whispered I'm sorry and went back to the fight.

—

The End