A/N: DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING BUT THIS SO-CALLED PLOT.
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PART III
Less than a year ago, the Hermione Granger who'd stood in front of Ginny's dresser had been all dressed up for a wedding. In her beautiful lilac dress, she'd been at the prime of her prettiness.
Who was that girl, and who was this girl now... the one currently being reflected, emaciated, pale, and haunted looking? Who was she with her pointy little shoulders and her skinny legs sticking out of sleep shorts with purple rings under her eyes and burnt, tangled hair?
Hermione took a pair of big bronze scissors and began cutting away the charred locks.
Snip. Snip. Snip.
The frayed curls fell haphazardly to the floor, so unlike the shiny, fiery strands that had surrounded Ginny's feet less than a year ago.
Less than a year ago.
How had the world overturned in less than a year?
Snip. Snip. Snip.
The Burrow was quiet – so painfully quiet – so abnormally quiet – and perhaps quiet forevermore. It had been fourteen hours since the fall of Voldemort, and George had locked himself up in what used to be the room he'd shared with Fred. Where, less than a year ago, she'd snuck in to steal some Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes products.
And then she'd come out to find Fred waiting for her with a knowing little smile on his face. Less than a year ago, and now he was dead.
Snip. Snip. Snip.
Early in the day, after she'd... lashed out at Draco Malfoy, Hermione had taken half an hour to collect herself. Then Luna had put a gentle arm around her and taken her back down to the Great Hall, where finally, Hermione got her audience with Harry.
They'd hugged for an endless moment, and she'd broken down against his chest, against his – against all odds – still beating heart...
Snip. Snip. Snip.
Hermione, Harry, and Ron sat on the damp grass by Dumbledore's grave, after Harry had slipped the elder wand back inside it. Kreacher appeared with a loud pop and a plate full of sandwiches, which they'd listlessly chomped on, while Harry told them how he'd come to be the boy who lived again. It all sounded impossible. The whole thing. King's Cross Limbo. Talking to a dead man. Choosing not to go "on"...
Snip. Snip. Snip.
But the thing that Hermione was most stuck on was what "on" meant. She wondered if she'd have been able to come back, like Harry so easily had. How had he done that? The answer to life's greatest mystery, what dreams may come once we have shuffled off this mortal coil, had been just a train ride away.
Snip. Snip. Snip.
She hadn't realised it then, with all the chaos and madness, but in the chamber of secrets, when the Horcrux had tried to distract her using the lure of knowledge and secrets, she'd been tempted. Dangerously tempted.
So was the 'Brightest Witch of Her Age' really a compliment at all, or a shameful, ironic summation of her greatest weakness? Was she really such a doomed Faustian caricature?
Snip. Snip. Snip.
She'd have boarded that train. The living world was absolute shite anyway.
Hermione put the scissors down, and stared at herself without blinking till her vision blurred. Her formerly waist-length mass of hair now fell to just about the middle of her back. With a sigh and a flick of Bellatrix's wand, she vanished the pile of hair around her. Since Bellatrix had die– since Hermione had killed Bellatrix, the wand had been working perfectly well for her. A trophy. How lovely.
She'd so have boarded that train.
The sound of the door opening had her refocusing her eyes, and reflected over her shoulder she saw Ginny walking into the room.
"Hi," said Hermione softly.
"Hi," Ginny replied, softer still. She had two vials in her hand full of some purple coloured potion.
"Er... dreamless sleep?" Hermione asked.
"Yeah. I thought we could use it. Gave some to Harry and Ron, too."
They both wandered over to their respective beds, with a vial in hand. Hermione slipped under the covers, knocked back the potion in one gulp, and Ginny doused the lights.
She lay in the semi-darkness with just a sliver of moonlight slipping through the gauze curtains that stretched across the window at the far end of the room, and waited desperately for oblivion to claim her. She closed her eyes, and saw the image of a boulder falling on Bellatrix in slow motion. Her eyes flew open again. God damn it, that was going to haunt her for fucking ever wasn't it? She was never going to be free of Bellatrix. Her wand, her death, her insidious, deranged cackle - they would follow her wherever she'd
When she woke up, sunlight was flooding into the room at an angle that suggested early afternoon. For a moment, Hermione watched golden dust mites dance in the shafts of light... so oblivion had come after all. She didn't feel refreshed or revived. Just awake. And that was enough of an accomplishment. Now, to get out of bed...
She threw the covers off, and swung her legs in an exaggerated arc before setting them on the floor. Her bare feet look so small and pale against Ginny's burgundy carpet. She stood up and stretched; her shoulders popped, and she tipped her head back, filling her lungs with air.
Awake. Alive. The war was over. And she was so scared.
There was a cup of steaming tea placed on her bedside table, and she blessed Ginny's endless thoughtfulness. She breathed in the aromatic brew – English breakfast, just as she liked it – and then took a sip. Strong, sweet, just as she liked it, the war was over and she was so very scared.
With slow, shuffling steps she went to stand by the window, letting the summer sun hit her face, arms and bare legs. Sunshine on her skin, weaving into her hair, mingling with the steam from the tea and wafting up her nose...
Sunshine, tea just as she liked it, a new day, and the war was over.
The orchard outside was blossoming. The trees were heavy with fruit, and wild flowers were sprinkled all over the lush grass like colourful confetti. The sky was so blue, with only three-four sparkling, fluffy white clouds to mar its smooth, gorgeous perfection. A beautiful summer's day; the war was over.
There was a sudden disturbance by the edge of her vision, and then Ginny was walking up to the grove. Actually, she was jogging: Her stride was quick and urgent. Harry followed moments later, but kept a good distance from her.
Ginny paced madly in front of the trees; across the lush grass, under the blooming sky, warmed by the golden sun... she paced ferociously. With abandon. With desperation. Harry stood at one side and watched her.
The war was only over once you'd survived its aftermath.
Day one was quiet. Breakfast was quiet. Tea was quiet, but for Mrs. Weasley sniffling over her cup. Dinner was quiet, but for Bill telling Ron to please pass the potatoes. George didn't make an appearance.
Day two was quiet. The lunch they forgot to eat was quiet. Ginny grabbed her broom and disappeared for hours. Ron and Harry played chess quietly. George didn't make an appearance. Fred's hand on the clock on the mantelpiece pointed to Lost.
Day three was explosive.
Hermione, Harry, and Ron followed Mr. Weasley through the floo into the Ministry of Magic atrium. The traffic, the flurry of moving bodies popping in and out of the gilded fireplaces came to a standstill. Everybody stopped to stare at them.
Of course, Hermione's mind was full of flashes from the last time they'd been there – her in Mafalda's body, running terrified as Yaxley and his team of Death Eater's chased after them. She could still feel the weight of the horcrux-pendent in her hand...
"Blimey," Ron breathed.
She looked at what had caught his eye, and gasped. Gone was the ghastly statue of a witch and wizard on a throne of muggles, and gone was the tacky Fountain of Magical Brethren. Instead, standing in the middle of the atrium was a large obelisk made of lustrous white gold. They walked closer to see it was inscribed from top to bottom, with the names of all those who'd lost their lives since Voldemort's reign of terror began. Both times. Hermione, Harry, and Ron circuited around the structure while the crowd, still frozen, watched them.
"It was one of the first things Kingsley saw to, as Minister," Mr. Weasley murmured.
Fred Weasley, she saw. Lavender Brown. Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks. Edward Tonks. Dirk Cresswell. A little further ahead: Sirius Black. She stopped when Harry did, in front of James Potter. Lily Potter.
"Harry!" a voice boomed from behind them, and they all spun around. It was Kingsley, striding towards them. He was a new man, in his Ministerial garb; sophisticated and imposing. His robes were crisp and deep green, and his gold hoop earring glinted intensely even in the low lighting.
He shook their hands, one by one, with a warm smile. "It's good to see you all."
He gestured down the hall to the golden gates at the end, and led them through security. The poor guards seemed at an utter loss to see the Minister of Magic and Harry Potter at the same time.
"Where's it happening then, Kingsley?" Mr Weasley asked as they stood waiting for a lift.
"Conference room three. Level two. They – everybody's already there, waiting." Harry squirmed, and Kingsley caught it. "Don't worry," he tried to reassure him, "We've a strict schedule – ten minutes for you to speak, five minutes of Q-and-A, and then you're out of there."
Hermione said, "And what about –"
"Rita Skeeter has been categorically banned from the Ministry for the day," Kingsley smirked.
Then they were in a lift shooting downwards and Hermione's stomach, liver, kidneys, et al jumped into her throat. But even after the lift stopped, ("Level Two – Department of Magical Law Enforcement,") there was no time to let her organs settle back in place. Kingsley marched them down a corridor to a dark wood door flanked by two Aurors. He pulled it open and she reeled under overwhelming sensory overload.
A hundred flashlights attached to a hundred cameras went off, and she was blinded. A deafening applause broke out... whistles... hoots... cheers...
It was a good thing Mr. Weasley kept his hand on her back as she staggered her way to the long table that stretched across one end of the room.
Stage fright: Another awful old friend of Hermione Granger's. It didn't matter that Harry was the one who was standing at the podium and telling a sea of rapt faces all about Horcruxes and horror; she wanted to bolt. Her face was burning, both from mortification and due to the room's bright lights. The constant clicking of cameras, the scratching of numerous quills running over parchment, the sporadic gasps from the crowd at pivotal moments: It was all so dizzying.
Hermione clasped her hands together and tried to focus on what Harry was saying.
"...erus Snape was loyal to Albus Dumbledore till the very end of his life. He sacrificed much for our cause, and I will always be grateful to him. If I am standing here today, it is as much thanks to him as it is to Dumbledore.
"He made certain that I had the means to destroy the last of Riddle's Horcruxes, and he did his best to ensure that ultimately, the Elder Wand would end up in my possession."
An astonished buzz floated across the room, and Harry waited patiently for it to die down. Six cameras went off.
"So here's the thing: You have made me out to be some sort of lone hero... the saviour," Harry's mouth twisted, "But that's... well... a load of bollocks. We have won the war, not me. People died for it. Families have been ripped apart, lives destroyed... and to hail one person as the saviour is disrespecting all those people. All I did was deliver the final blow, and that was only made possible by my mother's love, my father's sacrifice, by Dumbledore's careful planning. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for Snape's loyalty, and the support of Sirius Black and Remus Lupin. The real heroes are the brave fighters of the Order of The Phoenix, so many of whom have lost their lives: Nymphadora Tonks, Alastor Moody, Dedalus Diggle... Fred Weasley. The real heroes are the teachers and students of Hogwarts; Dumbledore's Army who stood up to the atrocities taking place in their school. The resistance – the people behind Potter Watch and The Quibbler – they are the real heroes.
"These two sitting here – Ron and Hermione – they're... they're... they're the best friends anyone could ever ask for."
And straight away, the sights and sounds of that overfilled room disappeared. Hermione stared at Harry's profile with a breath stuck in her throat.
"They stuck by me through everything –" (Ron lowered his eyes with chagrin,) "– Since I was eleven years old and had my first little rendezvous with the arch nemesis I never asked for. I would've been lost without them – without Ron's quick-thinking and spiritedness, and Hermione's unmatched brilliance and tremendous magical skills. They're the real heroes.
"So now you know everything I know. I have told you everything, and this is the last time I'm going to speak about this. Tom Riddle took my parents away from me. He stole my childhood, robbed me of my freedom, killed people I loved... but it's over now. I won't let him claim another second of my life after this. I would thank you to respect that."
And he stepped away from the podium and walked straight to the door, his mouth set in a straight, determined line, and his eyes hidden behind the glare that reflected off his glasses.
"Harry Potter!" The crowd cried, "Wait! Mr. Potter! A question, please, Mr. Potter!"
Hermione exchanged a startled glance with Ron, with Kingsley, with Mr. Weasley, and the four of them jumped up to follow Harry out the door.
"Show the reporters out, please, Matthew," Kingsley told one of the Aurors outside.
They caught up with Harry in front of the lifts.
"I'm sorry," he muttered.
"No, no, Harry," Mr. Weasley said promptly, "You did wonderfully."
Hermione, Kingsley, and Ron nodded in earnest agreement.
They didn't speak as they rode back up to the atrium, and only exchanged brief goodbyes once standing before a fireplace.
But then Hermione cleared her throat, "Minister," she began.
"Come now, Hermione," he chided gently, "That's Kingsley to you."
"Right," she replied, averting her eyes.
She'd thought about saying this so many times in the past three days... as objectively, as dispassionately as she could manage. But now her chin wobbled, and mouth dried up... oh but she had to say it.
"Kingsley... I need a portkey."
"A portkey...?"
"Yes. To Melbourne. Australia. I'd... uh... My parents moved there, before the war. I'd like to bring them back."
"Oh. But of course," he affirmed, and she finally found the courage to look him in the eye, "When would you like it?"
"Um... ten days from now?"
"Consider it done, Hermione."
She couldn't sleep that night so she wandered out in the garden by herself, breathing in the heady smell of jasmine. She looked heavenwards and sighed.
When he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun.
The next morning, nobody looked at the papers.
"How's Luna?" Hermione asked.
"Fine," Theo said with a sigh, running a hand through his shaggy hair, "She has to tend to Xeno all day. He isn't doing too well."
She winced. "I thought the healer's had fixed him?"
"The best they could. His right side is still almost completely paralyzed."
He'd come to visit her that evening, four days after the fall of Voldemort, and Hermione was so grateful to have a reason to be away from the oppressive gloom that shrouded everyone at the Burrow. She'd never felt like such an unwelcome stranger in that house before.
They were sitting by that same damned scummy pond where Moody had deposited George and... Fred... less than a year ago.
Theo was – as always – wearing the scarf she'd made for him. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen him without it.
"How's everyone in there?" he asked, pointing to the burrow with his thumb.
"Not good," Hermione whispered, "George never leaves his room. Ginny is angry most of the time. Mrs. Weasley keeps crying. Ron doesn't talk... Percy and Charlie don't talk... Mr. Weasley is always away at the Ministry – I think he hates being at home. Bill and Fleur come by sometimes... but they barely talk as well."
She squeezed her eyes shut before she could cry.
"And Potter?"
"He's actually doing better than anyone else. He is... free."
They lapsed into a bout of silence, watching tiny frogs splash in and out of the water. The radial ripples they caused, green and silver waves of motion, were hypnotic, especially when shot with the bright purple of the reflected sky of dusk.
Eventually, Theo leant back on his hands and said, "I'm selling Nott manor."
"Seriously?" Hermione spluttered, glancing at him with wide eyes.
He tipped his head back, and his hair, tinted blue, fell away from his face. "Yeah. It's never been my home. I don't want it. There are some Dittany cultivators who're interested in buying the land, and I'm getting a nice tidy sum for it. They're going to tear the manor down and I couldn't be happier."
"But... but where will you live?"
"Malfoy manor for now –"
"You aren't staying with Luna?"
"No," he ground out thinly, "Narcissa and Lucius are in custody... Draco shouldn't have to deal with all that alone."
Guilt tickled Hermione's throat – this was the closest Theo would get to berating her for tearing into Malfoy; and it was enough. More than enough. She stared vacantly, awkwardly at the pond.
"But anyway..." Theo went on, "the chap who's helping me negotiate the sale has found me a nice, spacious flat near Diagon."
"Wow," Hermione breathed.
With a nonchalant shrug, he turned to look at her.
"But what about you? When are you going to get your parents back."
"Soon," she said shakily, "After the funerals. I've spoken to Kingsley... asked him to fix me a portkey..."
Theo nodded, then reached out to put an arm around her. She laid her head on his shoulder and took in a deep breath.
"Um... Theo?"
"Yeah?"
"Would you... I mean... do you think you might maybe consider... that is... if you want..."
"Spit it out, darling."
"Right... do you think you could... come with me?"
Hermione braced herself for his refusal. It was a little selfish of her to ask, what with his real estate issues, and Malfoy and Luna needing all the help they could get, and –
"Are you seriously asking me that?"
"Sorry," she mumbled.
"...What the hell?" He jostled her off his shoulder, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Did you think I'd refuse? You shouldn't even have to ask, Hermione. Tell me the time and place, and I'll be there. Of course I'll be there. Silly fucking goose."
She laughed a watery laugh.
"C'mere," he said, and pulled her back into his side.
The sun set on another day.
"Theo. Thank y–"
"Shut up."
Late in the morning of day five, Hermione slipped into plain black dress robes that she'd borrowed from Ginny, and had had to shrink more than the usual amount. She pulled her hair back into a prim bun, stepped into plain black shoes, and walked out of Ginny's room. She heard sobs as she passed the bathroom.
Harry and Charlie were the only ones in the garden when she arrived. Charlie was smoking, blowing perfect rings into the air. Harry tried to smile at her, but all his face did was twitch awkwardly. The three of them waited in silence. Bill and Fleur apparated in a few minutes later. Then Ron stomped across the lawn... then Percy... Mr. Weasley. Ginny walked over with her splotchy face held high. Harry took her hand. But all the while, they only exchanged terse nods, and nothing more. All in black, all hyper-aware of what they were about to do...
It was only after an undertaker had portkeyed into the garden with a simple wooden casket that, finally, Mrs. Weasley showed up, a white lace handkerchief obscuring her face, and behind her, walking stiffly with his eyes locked on the progression of his feet, was George.
He looked old, which was something neither of the twins had ever looked before, but everything else about him was perfectly in place. His hair was combed back, revealing the hole on one side of his head. His robes were neat and free of creases. His expression was stoic.
The party walked slowly through grassy, sun-dappled fields full of dandelions, daisies, bluebells, and poppies; through flourishing trees out of which wafted the intoxicating aroma of ripe fruit. A gentle, constant breeze flirted with the hems of their sombre robes.
The undertaker was leading the way: Charon ferrying the gathering to their personal hell. Fred's casket was being carried by his siblings: Ron, Percy, and Bill on one side, and George, Ginny, and Charlie on the other. It was too plain, too austere to be Fred's final resting place. It wasn't right – wasn't right at all.
The Weasley parents followed behind, clutching each other for support. Hermione and Harry brought up the rear. Nobody spoke, the birds sang, the bees hummed, and the leaves rustled.
More people joined them along the way. Aunt Muriel, (her feathery hat replaced by a black netted veil,) Theo, Luna, and (Hermione blinked uncomfortably,) Malfoy. Then there came a few Weasley cousins, Kingsley, and Angelina. Lee Jordan, looking utterly faded, hastened to the front of the line to walk silently by George's side.
There were more people gathered around the spot where Fred was to be entombed, amongst the graves of a hundred other Weasleys. Oliver, Alicia, Katie... many people from his year whose names Hermione didn't know. She nodded at Neville, Seamus, and Dean. McGonagall was there, with red-rimmed eyes, as were Hagrid, Hooch, Pomfrey, Sprout, and Flitwick. She was immensely surprised to see Argus Filch, of all people, standing to one corner, looking solemn.
Unlike Dumbledore's funeral – the only other magical funeral she'd attended – there was no minister-like figure presiding over the event. The Weasley siblings lay their brother down on the ground, and Mr. Weasley stepped forward. He stared at the unadorned casket for a long while, before finally whispering, "Goodbye, my boy," and waving his wand. The tomb he constructed was sleek and made of deep amethyst. On the headstone, in bright orange, was written:
Here lies Fred Weasley, beloved son and brother.
Wherever he goes there will be joy and laughter.
Purple and orange.
Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes colours. Now that was fitting.
Mr. Weasley stepped back, and immediately his wife fell into him, crying dreadfully. One by one, the attendees walked up to conjure flowers before the tombstone.
Flitwick outdid everyone by conjuring lilies made of what appeared to be stardust. Angelina bent and pressed a gentle kiss against the stone. Lee was trembling to badly his tulips were wonky.
When it was Hermione's turn, she created a dense bushel of yellow and orange nasturtiums to grow around the entire tomb, encircling it in a vibrant ring. Someone squeezed her hand as she lowered her – Bellatrix's – wand, and she turned to see Ginny, offering her a weak, watery smile.
Hermione stepped away then, and watched the show go on from a distance. She watched as Alicia all but collapsed and had to be carried away. Theo and Luna, together, produced a delicate archway of bellflowers. Malfoy's tegetes and Sprout's sunflowers rather complemented Hermione's nasturtiums.
Most people left after they'd made their offering – the crowd thinned. Hagrid gave her a sorrowful wave as he trudged by.
Ultimately, just the Weasleys, Lee, Angelina, Harry, Theo, Luna, and Malfoy remained, the last three of whom walked up to Hermione. Well, Theo and Luna did, and Malfoy lingered stiffly some distance away.
"We'll be leaving now," Theo told her, "Luna needs to get back to her dad..."
"How is he now," Hermione asked, puckering her brow at Luna.
"Better," Luna whispered, "Healers come to check up on him every day. And of course, pickled Gulping Plimpy fins are helping immeasurably."
"That's good news," Hermione muttered.
Theo smiled down at Luna with a great deal of affection before looking back at Hermione.
"So... I'll see you later?"
"Yes. Okay."
They walked away, and as Malfoy made to follow, Hermione said goodbye to prudence, and called out, "Malfoy! Wait!"
He froze. Theo froze. Luna froze. All three of them turned back to gape at her.
Right.
Hermione cleared her throat. "Could I – May I – have a word. Please. Malfoy."
He was looking at her so blankly that she wanted the ground to swallow her up.
It was Theo who spoke in his stead: "Er... Hermione... Are you –"
"It's fine," Malfoy interrupted suddenly, "Theo, it's fine. You go on. I'll meet you there."
With an uncertain, worried glance between the two, Theo nodded... but made no move to actually go on. Luna had to take his hand and drag him away; and even then, he kept looking over his shoulder...
"Well, Granger. What is it?"
She jumped and looked up at Malfoy, now standing much closer. He was so tall, and having him stare down at her with those cold grey eyes of his stole away the last of her nerve.
"Um," she stammered.
"Well?" he demanded. His hair was still uncharacteristically unkempt, hanging in locks over his brow.
"Okay," she started awkwardly, "Look. I just... I wanted to apolo–"
"No."
"Excuse me?"
"I said no, Granger. Don't fucking apologise."
"Why on earth not?"
Had she been nervous? All she felt now was affronted and annoyed.
"I don't want to hear it."
"That's not – why are you –"
"Now if that's all..." he said gruffly, and made to turn away.
"That is not all!" she hissed.
She grabbed the sleeve of his robe and pulled him back to face her.
He glared with incredulous antagonism, "What the hell –"
"Why won't you let me say it?" He simply continued to glare. "Do you think you'll have to apologise too? Oh, don't worry, I don't expect any repentance from you for your behaviour in the past –"
"Shut up. Neither of us is going to apologise, alright? Nobody is going to forgive anybody. I just hope, for Theo's sake, you can keep things civil from here on forth."
"Me?!" Hermione fumed, "Me? Because, historically, Malfoy, you're the one who's been a prat!"
"And you're the one who seems to love living in the past," he snapped.
They glowered at each other for five seconds. Five seconds that Hermione counted in her head – five seconds that allowed her to document the near-imperceptible way in which his left eyebrow twitched, the way his nostrils subtly flared. Five seconds after which his gaze left hers and travelled to the side of her neck where... where she knew her tiny mole resided. Almost subconsciously, she lifted her hand to touch the spot, and his eyes snapped back to hers.
She sucked in a breath through her teeth.
"I can be civil," she whispered.
"Good," he whispered back curtly, "And thankfully, I doubt we'll have to interact all that much anyway."
Then suddenly, he spun around and left... forcing her to watch him walk away. The sunlight on his hair was dazzling as he made his way past gravestones –
Gravestones.
They were in a graveyard. She blinked up at the cornflower blue sky and shuddered. For a while, she had actually forgotten.
She rushed back over to Fred's tomb – now as blossoming and bright as he had been – and took her place beside Harry, Ginny, and Ron.
No sooner did they arrive back at the burrow, than George charged back indoors. They heard the slam of his door closing all the way out in the garden.
Later that night, Hermione sat alone by the window in Ginny's room, once again watching the stars as sleep evaded her. Her eyes ached for repose, her head throbbed, but she remained one hundred percent alert. All the lights were doused; the temperature in the room was perfect. She felt like shit.
There was a knock on the door and she jumped, without there being any reason to do so. It could only be a Weasley. Or Harry.
"Come in," she called out and stood up and faced the door. Ron shuffled in.
"Hey," he mumbled, "Mind if I kip here tonight? Gin wants to be with Harry, and... you know..." he trailed off, making a face.
"Um, sure," Hermione replied hesitatingly.
She watched him in the delicate light of the moon, his pale face, his ragged hair, and he watched her back, intensely... too intensely...
With the abruptness of a thunderclap, his head dropped and he started to cry. Hermione raced forward to throw her arms around him.
"Hermione," he gasped, "Hermione – my – my – family – is broken. It's ruined. Fuck, Merlin, shit... Fred."
For a long, long stretch of time, she held him and gently patted his back, all the while standing on the tips of her toes and fighting to hold in her own tears. He sobbed into her hair, crying for his brother, his family... but that did eventually peter out. And then the character of their embrace changed.
Ron's hands drifted upwards, pulling her t-shirt up as they went. His head turned so that his lips brushed against her temple...
Hermione was a good three feet away from him in a flash.
He swayed as though in a daze, and blinked blearily at her. "Hermio – wha–?"
She swallowed, and looked away.
"I'm sorry, Ron. I'm sorry. I can't."
"What are you talking about?" he demanded, "You can't? It's us, Hermione – you and me –"
From the corner of her eye, she saw him take a step towards her, his hand lifted... and so she backed away some more.
"I'm sorry," she wailed, "I... I can't..."
"Hermione. Look at me." She shook her head. "Look at me."
She did, and wasn't he just the most wretched thing she'd ever seen?
His brother was dead, he was a frayed, devastated mess, his eyes were full of anguish and he said, "Please."
"Ron, I ca–"
"I'm in love with you," he declared, "I've been in love with you for years. But you know that. And you... you're in love with me, aren't you? This... us... it's meant to happen. Innit, Hermione?"
His brow creased with sincerity, his sad, cobalt-in-the-moonlight eyes pleaded with her. She bit her lip and just... shook her head. Again. And he recoiled at the rejection. Again.
"You – you – are in love with me, aren't you?"
She couldn't speak.
"Hermione. Say it. Say you love me."
"I can't," she said in the smallest voice she'd ever used.
"What."
His expression sucked all the air out of the room, out of her lungs, and left the world in a crushing vacuum. Hurt, fury, and disenchantment claimed his face, all at once. And he stood there long enough for its image to be imprinted onto her brain before storming out of the room.