A/N: Alright, I definitely lied when I said that this fic runs four chapters. It's been a while since I actually wrote this and I had forgotten a little. It's actually three chapters, the longest of which is the one before you. This story runs less as a cohesive plot and more as a series of moments, particularly this chapter. This chapter is a series of interactions between Hermione and other characters, focusing on 'Mione and the progression of her grief, as I stated in the last chapter. Please forgive any characterization errors, as well as grammatical or spelling mistakes. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Why do I always forget these? Must be wishful thinking.

II.

She found Mrs. Weasley in what had been his room, holding one of his sweaters close to her chest and crying in a lost kind of way. Not the loud sobs she was known for but a quiet, helpless crying.

Hermione pushed open the door enough to slip in and then closed it gently behind her, approaching the woman who was like a mother to her. Mrs. Weasley looked up and gave her a watery smile, hastily wiping away her tears.

"Hello, Hermione. Do you need something?"

Mutely she shook her head, stepping further into the room. She breathed in and was shocked to realize that she could smell him. In this room, in this little corner of the world, it was like he was still there. Her eyes closed for a moment as she inhaled; she could imagine him right in front of her, so close that she could almost touch him, giving off that warm cinnamon scent.

"Hermione, dear?"

Her eyes snapped open and she stared at Mrs. Weasley, her lips trembling.

"I loved him." She whispered. "Do you know?" Her voice was faint and distant, as though she were speaking from a thousand miles away.

Mrs. Weasley stared at her.

"I loved him more than anything." She was losing the battle against tears; the older woman looked at her and then rose, stepping through the space separating them and wrapping her arms around her. The woman stroked her hair and held her tight.

"I know, dear. I know."

They stood in the middle of the room littered with his belongings, his scent, his essence. They stood in the middle of the place where he had been and held onto each other, trying to fill the hole his absence had left them with.

"Hermione?"

She lifted her gaze from the page that she had been staring at for ten minutes without reading a single word. When she saw who stood in the doorway she closed her eyes for the briefest moment, fighting down the wave of fresh grief. She heard him shift in the doorway.

"I'm sorry."

She tried to smile. "What are you apologizing for, George?"

"For looking exactly like him. I know that I can't change how I look and I didn't choose to look like this and I wouldn't change it but…everyone looks at me and sees him. Mum still can't look at me without breaking into tears. I-I can't even look in the mirror anymore."

Hermione shook her head little. "Don't be sorry, George. You keep his image alive." She tucked one leg beneath her. "And you don't look exactly like him. The differences are minute, but they're there. His eyes had a touch more gray than yours, and the freckles across his nose were fainter. He had a mole beneath his left ear too, which you don't have."

"He had a left ear." George said, a little smile on his face as his hand touched the hole on the side of his head lightly. "You really loved him."

She lowered her gaze. "Yes." She whispered. "I did."

He stepped into the room and approached; she couldn't help but tense up a little bit. There was part of her that wanted to just launch herself at him, because he had his face, and his body; she held that part of herself in strict control, because George was not Fred and never would be. He pulled something out of his pocket and her gaze followed it, the breath catching in her throat when she saw the small black velvet box.

"I found this at the bottom of one of his drawers." He said, in a quiet voice, handing her the box. She took it with trembling hands. "I knew he'd been acting funny for a few weeks, nervous especially when he was around you and his hand kept going to his pocket. I think he was carrying it around, waiting for the right time."

She opened the box and stared at the ring. Set in gold the princess-cut diamond was flanked by two pear-shaped rubies. It was the essential Gryffindor ring.

It was beautiful.

With trembling fingers she drew it from the velvet confines and slipped it over her finger.

It was a perfect fit.

"He would want you to have it now."

She nodded, her throat constricting around the lump lodged there. George made a tactical retreat, leaving her in the darkening room with a book lying abandoned on the floor and a ring glittering on her finger.

"Ginny told me."

She didn't look up at the sound of Harry's voice, didn't lift her head from the pillow or tear her gaze from the perfectly blank ceiling above her head. She heard him step into her room, walking towards her.

"She didn't want to betray your trust," he continued, "but she thought that I needed to know." She felt the bed sink beneath his weight as he settled on the end. "'Mione?"

"I lied to you." She said. Her tone wasn't broken, wasn't filled with grief and tears, wasn't angry or accusing; it wasn't sad or guilty or regretful. It was empty.

"It's alright. I understand."

"I lied to you." She repeated. "I've been lying to you for years. Did Ginny tell you that? How long we kept it a secret?"

"Two years."

Finally she sat up, facing him. "I lied to you for two years. You should hate me." Her eyes stung; now her voice was full of emotion, raw with pain and fear and blind anger. "You should be angry at me. You should yell and curse me and be hurt. I didn't trust you. I betrayed you. I lied to you and I kept secrets from you and—."

She broke off as his arms went around her and he pulled her close.

"But I'm not angry." He said. "I'm not angry and I don't hate you. You're my sister, 'Mione, and I love you." She felt the wave of tears break over her and she sobbed into his chest.

"I'm sorry." He whispered as he held her and rocked her; as she wept in his embrace. "I would take the pain away if I could. I'd turn back time and I'd make sure none of it ever happened. But I can't. I wish I could, 'Mione. I really wish I could."

She hated that she was crying again but she couldn't stop. She let him hold her, let him tell her how much he was sorry and how much he wished he could help.

She wished too.

The whole room seemed dimmer.

Closing her eyes she could remember Weasley dinners before the war. In those memories the room was full of light and the table stretched forever and was packed with shade after shade of endless red hair mixing with the varying shades of the "adopted" family. In those memories the room was anything but quiet, filled with loud chattering and hearty laughter, muted only when their mouths were too full to carry on conversation.

Now the room was dimmer, as though the light had been dulled. The table didn't stretch forever; it seemed small and compact, always with that single missing spot, the one that no one would ever fill. It was his spot, and no amount of time would erase that. Now the room was quiet, the silence broken only by the quiet, polite murmurings of perfect strangers trying to ease the awkwardness.

And the laughter, on the rare occasions that it still visited, was stilted and unnatural.

Before everyone had sat straight-backed, their eyes roaming around; now she sat with her head bent over her plate, not daring to glance up, and neither George nor Mrs. Weasley would meet any other gaze either.

She shoveled a forkful of pot roast into her mouth, tasting only ash. It was the same pot roast as before the war, but there was something missing from it. Her taste buds registered only the texture and the dullness; she tasted nothing but sorrow.

She reached for her glass, taking a swig of pumpkin juice to chase the taste out of her mouth. As she placed the glass back onto the table the light caught her hand, and the diamond on her finger sparkled, throwing little darts of light across the dark surface.

She knew, without even glancing at him, that Ron's gaze was settled on her ring finger. She knew from the catch of his breath in the back of his throat, that involuntary little gasp. She raised her gaze and saw his eyes narrow, staring at the circle of gold. She watched as a little furrow formed on his forehead. Glancing around the table she saw that she wasn't the only one who had noticed. Ginny sat frozen in her chair, eyes darting between the ring and Hermione's face. The girl's elbow jabbed Harry in the side and he jumped, before looking.

"Hermione, what's that on your finger?" Ron said, his eyes never leaving the ring. Hermione pulled her hand back a little, almost protectively. She suddenly found herself at the center of attention, every gaze focused on her. She fought down the panicked urge to cover the ring and brush it off.

She had promised that she would stop hiding. It didn't matter that the promise was made to a dead man. It was also a promise she had made to herself.

"It's a ring, Ron." She said, startling herself a little. The voice didn't sound like hers; it sounded…stronger. It sounded like the voice of the person who had existed before the war, before everything. She rubbed the side of the ring with her middle finger, taking comfort from the cool solidity of it. "An engagement ring."

His gaze snapped up to meet hers. She saw the myriad of emotion swirl through his eyes, reading each emotion as it passed; confusion, the fleeting moment of sadness, anger, confusion, anger again, before finally settling on some mix of both anger and confusion.

"From who?"

It was as if her vocal chords locked. She parted her lips, sucked in a tiny breath, and couldn't speak. She couldn't say a single word.

She pulled her gaze from him, looking down the table. Ginny and Harry met her gaze squarely, offering her silent support. From where she sat she could see their hands intertwined beneath the table. She let her gaze travel farther, like a leaf tugged onwards by the current of a stream. Bill, his face a mess of scars, stared at her, a silent kind of knowing in his eyes. Charlie, who inclined his head the tiniest bit, a bitter smile on his lips. Mr. Weasley, with a dawning light in his eyes. Mrs. Weasley, whose gaze held only gentle strength.

George, who finally lifted his gaze and met hers, with eyes just a shade too blue, who did nothing more than look at her.

It was that moment that she realized her secret—their secret—wasn't as secret as they had thought. Except for Ron, they knew.

The knowledge filled her and coursed through her like a transfusion coursing through a hospital patient, renewing her strength.

For the first time in a long time, she didn't feel like crying.

She met Ron's gaze again, her lips tugging into an almost smile. "From the person I loved. From the person I would have spent the rest of my life with. From Fred."

He gaped, mouth opening and closing like a fish, his jaw going slack. She glanced around the table again, quickly, and saw the smile on Mrs. Weasley's face. Just the tiniest smile, but it was there.

"Well," Charlie said, speaking for the first time that night, "it's about bloody time."

The giggle welled up in her throat, sticking there for a moment before roaring out. Moments later the room filled with sound, with laughing, honest to God laughing. If there were tears mixed in with the guffaws and the giggles and the snorts it was okay.

Because, for just a moment, it was like the world was whole again.

And the room seemed brighter.

A/N 2: The next chapter concludes everything and wraps up the loose ends. It should be posted soon. Reviews?