Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any related characters.

A/N: Hiya! Another short chapter, but the next is the conclusion. This one includes an important conversation between Ron/Fred. I really enjoyed writing these brothers.

Thank you to adenei and accio-broom for looking over this chapter for me.

Brave

Chapter Four

We have things we left unsaid

Moments on repeat in my head

I still have things I gotta tell you that you need to hear

It wasn't always this hard for me

To look in your eyes and just feel

Through the way I do and let you see

What we are

You've been waiting to hear from me

Say what's on my mind so you see

See the truth in how we both feel

Here we are

You've been waiting to hear from me

Say what's on my mind so you see

So herе's the answer

Caslow - Waiting Part II

Ron, she's alive.

It's difficult for him to take in any other information, only focusing on the set of words he had been hoping to hear—bloody gripping hold of, actually. A large release of air exits his lungs as his stomach caves in.

She's alive. She's alive. She's alive.

"She was hit with a curse of unknown origin….very dark magic…straight to her heart…she's still unconscious…heart rate is weak though…we should know more in a few hours…things could go either way…"

Either way. What the fuck does that mean?

Ron opens his mouth to ask as such when Fred adds, "She's stable for now."

For now.

"They'll allow two visitors at a time." Fred meets his gaze, and Ron has to look away. "Ron, Harry, why don't you two go on first—"

"I don't think I'm ready to go see her." Ron's voice, barely recognizable as his own, pauses the conversation as the other Weasleys turn to gape at him.

"You're joking, right?" Harry's deep voice cuts through the tension like the Sword of Gryffindor. "Ron, it's Hermione—"

"You think I don't know that?"

Ron plonks his hands on his hips as the soles of his trainers kick against the hard tiled floor. Every breath rattles against his chest, his uncontrollable frustration rising to the surface.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Fred's voice interrupts the void. "Harry, Ginny, you two go on ahead and visit with Hermione first. I'd like to have a word with my dear brother. Percy, can you reach Mum and Dad? Let them know what's going on?"

"Sure thing."

Everyone disperses except for Fred, who wraps an arm around Ron's shoulder, guiding him away from the crowd towards a quieter section of the hospital.

Ron slumps against the nearest wall, sliding down until his bum reaches the floor. He folds his knees into his chest and curls his arms around his legs. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he debates whether he wants to focus more on steadying his breathing or fighting the urge to throw up.

Fred settles next to him but doesn't speak a word despite the promise of conversation. Moment after moment passes in silence.

"Ron…" Fred starts after a few minutes as if he's been mulling over what to say, turning to face his brother. "Everything you're feeling, it's okay. Shit, it's okay to be scared."

"I don't know how to feel," Ron rasps, staring off into the distance, not looking at anything in particular. "I'm so, so glad that you're alright, but if she—"

"Don't think like that, Ron."

"How can I fucking not? We've not even had a chance to—" Ron bites his tongue, attempting to focus on breathing in and out through his nose. It's hard to remain calm on the surface, knowing deep down he's damn well falling apart. "There's so much I need to say to her."

"And you will get that chance." The earnestness in Fred's voice almost makes Ron believe him.

Almost.

"I'll never forgive myself if she's not alright," Fred chokes, swallowing hard as if he's fighting back tears.

A wave of acid coils its way through Ron's stomach. He's been so busy dwelling in his own pain that he hasn't stopped to think about how his family is dealing with the aftermath. Instead, he's only resented the fact that he can't be with Hermione rather than show the appropriate gratitude towards his brother.

Ron rolls out the muscle spasms in his neck before letting his head rest against the wall behind him. "S'not your fault, Fred."

"It's not yours either." Fred sniffles, maintaining a set jaw as he shakes his head at Ron. "But that doesn't stop us from blaming ourselves, does it?"

"Yeah." Ron grunts, stretching his long, lanky legs out in front of him. "What kind of twisted bollocks is that?"

He starts pulling at the hairs on his freckled skin, a mindless way to pass the time. "Everything's going to change now, isn't it?"

"Yes." Fred's reply is as instant as it is followed by more advice. "But things change. It's the only constant we're guaranteed."

Although his brother is right, it doesn't make Ron feel any better. Things changed before he was ready for it—before he realized that he took his time with Hermione for granted. So much of it was spent rowing with each other, operating on opposite mindsets, and for what? To end up here, wishing he had more time.

What had Hermione been wishing for once the spell was cast? Was she afraid they wouldn't get another chance to voice what they've left unsaid?

"You really love her don't you?" Fred whispers, speaking the words that are, quite literally, tormenting his soul.

Ron gives an almost imperceptible nod but doesn't respond. He can't say it out loud. He wants to say it to her.

So he'll wait.

He doesn't know how long they've been sitting. Minutes, perhaps hours. Regardless, Fred never moves from his side, not even for a second.

Ron's gaze travels across the corridor to the whitewashed walls with not a spot of dirt on them, unlike what his whole body is caked in. A symphony of coughing and wheezing alerts him to the number of witches and wizards continuing to pile into the waiting area, nursing injuries from the Battle. The pungent scent of sterilized equipment fills his nostrils as people bustle around his still frame, moving their legs in haste across the marble floor.

Although Ron can barely formulate a solid thought, sensations begin returning to his consciousness—drooping eyelids, parched mouth, rumbling stomach. But none of it really matters.

Was it really not that long ago they were still at Shell Cottage? He has no true concept of time anymore. Squeezing his eyes shut, a vision of Hermione—with her uneven hair, a radiant glow in her deep brown eyes, her laughter filling the air—burns in his memory. How he wishes to see her cast her eyes at him, even if it must be with scorn as she so often did.

Just one more time.

Ron finds himself longing for the gentle onshore breeze they experienced at the Cottage, for another chance to breathe after an intense storm. But it's just a fantasy demanding his attention when reality seems so bleak.

He's fucking screwed.

"Ron."

It's Harry. His head snaps up, meeting the gaze of his best friend who has an unreadable expression plastered on his face. Ron's heart is pumping fast, but his thoughts are faster.

Please, please, please…

"Hermione's awake."