A/N: This is a long one. Thanks to all those who've favourited/followed/REVIEWED so far!

Hey little train, we're jumping on
The train that goes to the Kingdom
We're happy, Ma, we're having fun
And the train ain't even left the station

- "O Children" by Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds

It was a sour victory. Hermione was sure that the losses faced by so many mourners in this beautiful place would leave a permanent scar that was currently stinging her heart. It was so unfair. So many good people, so many children...

Hermione walked stiffly through the great hall, away from the despairing Weasley family. All her bruises and aching muscles made her body feel thick and heavy. She was so tired.

However painful her grief was, relief washed over her like water over coals once she was standing in the portcullis, looking out over the battered bridge and the sore forest. There was a breeze so pleasant, that this world was suddenly unrecognisable. There was no way that such peace could exist in a land where the utter horrors had occurred the night before. Still, at least peace was here now. No screaming, no banging, no death. There was a tranquil breeze and twittering birds. Such pleasant sounds were tainted, though, with the sad sounds of parents sobbing. Hermione swallowed thickly as her legs dragged her forwards, out of the castle and over the bridge. She had no idea where she was going, but she didn't care.

When the sun had truly risen, Hermione was sitting as the base of a large oak tree, overlooking the lake. The feel of grass underneath her sensitive, red fingertips was ever so calming and the gentle sloshing of the lake tide against rocks made her itch to go in, but she knew she needed hot water. She'd need privacy. Her clothes were fused to scabs all over her body and stripping would be a painful process in more ways than one.

"Harry's crying," said a voice she'd been hoping to hear for hours now.

Hermione looked round so quickly that her neck hurt. Ron Weasley stood there in his usual bulky, boyish stance. "In a good way, though. Happy tears. Mum's being all clucky with him, telling him she's like a son to him. Which is weird, I guess, 'cos Ginny is Mum's daughter. But she's offered him a home and everything. He's... well, he's pretty happy."

"That's kind of her," she held out her hand, gesturing for him to take it and sit down beside her. Instead, he grabbed her hand and pulled her up.

"Ugh," Hermione groaned as her whole body twanged with pain. She swayed when she stood, unable to command full use of her leg muscles yet. Ron's arms were around her waist instantly, steadying her.

"Thanks," she muttered. He was still silent. She looked up at him then. His face and hair really were filthy, as were hers probably. He did not meet her eyes. Instead, looked at the ground near them.

"We need baths," he said. "Unless you wanted to be alone out here..."

"Not at all!" she said, a little too enthusiastically. Whatever she did with her voice or face today, it would make no difference. She realised that when they started walking back towards the castle, hand in hand, in total silence.

Hermione thought of a thousand different things to say as they reached the castle once more. The silence was comfortable, in a deeply sorrowful way. In the way that silence usually is where death is concerned.

Ron's hold on her hand had not been tight not had it been loose, nor affectionate, nor impassive as they'd walked. It was entirely nondescript. Once they'd ascended the first staircase towards the Gryffindor common room, Ron's grip began to tighten. Hermione didn't know what to do. It was as soon as they were in the empty common room, having been let in without the need of a password by a mournful Fat Lady, that Ron suddenly squeezed her hand painfully. Hermione squeezed back. When she did, he stopped walking.

"Hermione..." said Ron, though it did not sound like him at all. His voice was much too high-pitched. When Hermione looked at him, his face was screwed up, fighting tears.

Hermione said nothing. She didn't even think, she just acted. She threw her arms around his waist and within nanoseconds of Ron's first sob escaping, the two of them were collapsed on the floor crying loudly into each other's shoulders. Hermione forced herself to picture a living, happy Fred. It made her cry harder. Each sob was detoxifying. Before long, they were even more exhausted than before. Their faces hurt.

"I hate this," said Ron, his voice muffled by her jacket as he nuzzled her shoulder. She hugged him tighter.

"I know."

Hermione let him go and stood up, ignoring her pains and holding her hands out to Ron. "Come on," she commanded. She pulled him up when she grabbed his hands. Every time his sad eyes met hers, she wanted to cry again. However, she would not let herself do that. Not yet, and not in front of him.

"Baths," she said.

She lead him to the girl's bathroom and locked the door. She sighed out of tiredness as she turned the knobs of the showers in two stalls next to each other. Steam began rising from the top of each stall quickly. When they took off their jackets, Hermione inspected hers for damage. There was a gaping, singed hole in the back of it. She didn't remember receiving a curse in her back. The cuffs of her sleeves were burnt and there were torn holes everywhere.

"Should I keep it as a memoir?" she chuckled darkly, discarding it with distain at her feet. She kicked sat on the edge of one of the baths to take off her shoes and socks. Some feet away, Ron pulled his t-shirt off. Hermione's eyes shifted to his bare torso and locked on to his stomach. He had no abs, no pecks, no physical traits of your archetypal quidditch player. Only muscular arms and a generous amount of bruises.

He glanced at her then. Although he did not look smug, Hermione quickly averted her eyes, going pink in the face. Just then, Hermione considered how he'd known she was looking at him. He'd been looking at his shoes. Her gaze hadn't been that conspicuous...

Hermione took hold of the hem of her t-shirt. As soon as she did, Ron cleared his throat and strode into the shower, his jeans still on. Once he'd pulled the curtain shut, Hermione heard a zip and rustling. Seconds later, his were draped over the wall of the next stall.

She pulled her t-shirt off and shuddered. The showers may've been steamy, but the stone-walled room was still freezing. Once her jeans were off, her skin had broken out in goose bumps.

"Don't come out!" she called to Ron.

"Er- I won't!"

As quickly as she could, she whipped her knickers and bra off and shoved them into her beaded bag.

"Oh, Hermione?"

She froze. "Yes?!" she squeaked, praying to God he didn't have to come out.

"Could you pass me a towel?"

She disguised her sigh of relief as one of annoyance. She went over to the linen cupboard at the back of the room and fished out two Gryffindor-red towels. Walking around naked in the same room as an equally-naked Ron gave Hermione a painfully strong adrenaline rush, in a similar way to when they'd broken into Gringotts. Beneath the monstrous fear of him opening that curtain, she was a little aroused.

"Here you go," she said, draping the towel over the shower curtain pole. Once he'd thanked her, she stepped into her own shower.

She had to stifle her groans. It was a painful pleasure that she felt under the spray of the shower. The hot water penetrated her cuts and grazes and it stung, but it also massaged the knots out of her muscles and extinguished her shivers. It felt so good.

Ron's shower cut off and his curtain opened.

"I don't suppose we have any clean clothes, do we?" he asked.

"Hang on a minute," she replied. She shut her own water off and wrapped the towel tightly around her. "I'm coming out," she said. She rolled her eyes. She hadn't meant it to sound like a warning.

She pulled her curtain open to find Ron standing there with a towel wrapped around his waist, looking blankly at the beaded bag. He turned round to say something to her, but as his eyes dropped lower, he seemed to decide to save it. Hermione allowed herself a little smile.

She went over to her beaded bag and shoved her arm inside, her other hand clutching the knot of her towel. She pulled out an old t-shirt of Ron's.

"Here you go," she said, holding the t-shirt out to him. She regretted it as soon as his eyes landed on her arm.

"Keep it," he said quietly. "I can sleep without a top. It'll be weird if you do too."

As soon as they looked at each other, the lighter subtext of last night's battle came to the forefront of Hermione's mind. They both exchanged silent queries of: where do we stand? They'd only just kissed a few hours ago. What... how... when... what now?!

As Hermione drank in Ron's appearance: clean, with brighter hair, brighter eyes and an expression that she couldn't quite place, she wondered whether he'd look the same tomorrow. Or next week... next week. Next year. In the future, at any rate. It suddenly dawned on Hermione that for the first time in many years, there was absolutely nothing in front of her. She could do anything. There was no Voldemort. There might not even be a school to go back to.

"We should... probably sleep," said Ron after clearing his throat.

"Er, yes... sleep," she agreed awkwardly.

They both stepped into dry shower stalls with their clothes to change for bed. Hermione had to muster up all of her Gryffindor courage to emerge from the stall in knickers and his t-shirt. Luckily enough, Ron was similarly indecent. He wore his jeans how on his hips, with no shirt. Hermione's stomach flipped when Ron's eyes practically bulged out of their sockets.

"Shall we go to bed? I mean, shall we have sleep? I mean, shall we go to sleep?"

Hermione giggled and bit her lip. Ron swallowed. If Hermione hadn't been so desperate for sleep, she might've prolonged this tense moment. She held out her hand.

"Come on, then," she said, and he immediately took her hand. They walked in silence out of the bathroom and up the stairs to the bedrooms. Hermione felt a little anxiety rising inside her. Ron stopped them both outside the boys' dormitory and pushed the ajar door open.

Only one bed, Ron's, was empty. The others were filled with Weasleys and other survivors, all crammed into beds, deep in slumber. People were sleeping on top of each other, on the floor, and some even with strangers. In the bed in the far corner, Ginny slept in the arms of Harry Potter.

"Well, this saves us an awkward debate about sleeping arrangements," Ron joked, causing Hermione to giggle quietly.

Ron tiptoed over the sleeping people on the floor and flung his blankets back. He quietly climbed into the bed as far back as he could go and looked to Hermione. Instantly, she followed suit. She made her way over to the bed and slid in after him.

Now, what on earth do we do now?

Hermione had watched movies and read books. She knew how it worked. She turned away from Ron and faced the door. It was a little disconcerting that the scattering of parents who were sleeping on the floor would wake up and see her face in all its hideous glory, but all that was quickly forgotten when Ron wrapped his strong arm around Hermione's waist. She shifted backwards, closer to him. He radiated warmth and his own Ron-ish scent. That, combined with the comfy mattress, soft pillow and worn blankets, Hermione was in heaven.

"We survived," she sighed, stroking the soft hairs on Ron's arm.

"We survived," he agreed, hugging her tighter.

"You owe me a date."

The silence that Hermione had anticipated went on for a little too long. She almost regretted bringing it up again, but what else could she do? Suddenly, she felt Ron's lips at her ear.

"I definitely owe you a date," he whispered. He pulled away, but not before brushing his lips lightly across her damp hair. It wasn't a kiss, but it sure was endearing.

"Night, 'Mione,"

"Night, Ron."

It wasn't night. But the sentiment stayed the same: when they woke up, they would be new people. The world would be new, but recognisable. There was something to look forward to, and they sure as hell would not be children anymore.

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