Malfoy's silver ring was a leaden weight in her pocket, and when Hermione fiddled with it between two fingers, it seemed to nearly burn her like a hot coal fished from the dying embers.

Her throat bobbed thinking about him. He saw ghosts too. Hermione didn't know if that comforted her or not. A part of her had hoped differently—had hoped Draco Malfoy wasn't as broken as her, but that other part of her had known otherwise. It didn't matter the level of pain they'd experienced because every single person—student and staff—had broken in some way. War did that to a person, and it only made things worse that Harry hadn't — Hermione swallowed that word down.

Lived.

Though she walked around Hogwarts, she had died in the forest that day. She suspected Malfoy had too. Neither of them had escaped fully intact.

First Voldemort broke their bodies and then he broke their spirits. Little by little, bit by bit, over a span of hours he tortured them. And she'd held strong. She hadn't said a word about safehouse locations, passphrases, codenames, or members. Even when Hermione had felt like her skin had been lit on fire and her muscles and flesh were searing from her bones, she'd kept everyone safe.

She'd willed Harry to stay away. She'd begged him.

And then her heart had dropped when a refraction of light had caught her pain-dazed gaze. She'd turned her head over the damp ground and nearly screamed when she saw the flash had been his glasses catching the pale light through the forest canopy. Hermione had tried to curse him out, had tried to threaten him away, but by that time she'd screamed her throat raw and she couldn't manage more than hoarse whimpers.

Harry had come. Noble Harry Potter, the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, had come to save her along with everyone else. Didn't he know he didn't have to do this alone? He had an entire army behind him and yet he'd gone up against Voldemort alone.

Alone.

He'd left her alone.

He'd sacrificed himself and left her and Ron alone.

So alone in this dark world.

She could still hear his voice, though sometimes Hermione wondered if she was starting to forget what Harry sounded like.

"Tom." His voice quieted the Death Eaters and brought a hush over the forest. Though he did not yell, his words were not meek. "Tom, expunging the Muggle and Wizard worlds of those without pure blood is not the answer."

Voldemort stared at him. When he spoke, his serpent-like words sent chills along Hermione's skin. "You could have had a place in my ranks, Harry Potter. You're a powerful young wizard of pure blood."

Harry shook his head. "My blood does not define me." He clenched his hands into fists, and it was at that moment Hermione came to the frightening realization Harry had no wand; he'd come to face Voldemort without a weapon.

"You've led your followers astray," Harry continued. "You've filled them with skewed, biased knowledge and cowardice of their fellow witches and wizards." His throat bobbed. "Your lies have made them fearful of Muggles, Squibs, and anyone else without full-blooded magic within them." He shook his head. "I would never join you, Tom, and you're too far gone to be reasoned with."

Hermione couldn't fully remember the battle between them. Had there been a battle? Had Harry simply given himself up right then and there?

She found her fingers curled around Malfoy's ring once more. She let it drop and pulled her hand out of her pocket.

The corridors were empty, and with it getting darker much earlier, she couldn't guess the time. Her stomach rumbled. Around dinner time, perhaps. Instead of going out of her way to the Great Hall, though, Hermione went straight through the courtyard to the staircase tower. If everyone else was eating, then she'd most likely have the Common Room to herself for a little bit.

"Good evening, dear," the Fat Lady said, and her voice made Hermione release her grip on Malfoy's ring.

She inhaled and glanced behind her as though she'd been caught in the act of something…salacious. She cleared her throat. "Good evening."

"Is everything quite alright, dear?"

"Yes, yes," she said. "Just tired is all."

"How was your Sunday?"

Although the Fat Lady was kind, Hermione didn't have the energy for small talk. "I apologize and don't mean to be rude, but I'd like to get in so I can lay down."

The Fat Lady shook her head. "No need for apologies, dear."

"Amor in fide," Hermione whispered, and the Fat Lady opened the door to the Gryffindor Common Room.

She nodded her thanks as she passed. "Have a good night."

"You too, dear."

The passphrase had changed at the beginning of the term and the words felt like a betrayal on her tongue.

Amor in fide.

Love over loyalty.

After what Rita Skeeter had dubbed the Second Wizarding War, everything about Hogwarts seemed ridiculous and a little tone deaf. On the battlefield, there were no courageous Gryffindors, no loyal Hufflepuffs, no clever Ravenclaws, and no ambitious Slytherins. There had been those fighting for the Wizard and Muggle worlds and those trying to destroy them. On that day, Hogwarts had come together and houses had been forgotten. There were no points, no competitions, no separate aid stations or team jerseys. It had been brutal, ugly, and unforgiving.

On the battlefield, Hermione wasn't fighting for her house, for Gryffindor, she had been fighting for her friends who were part of every house and her family who lived in the Muggle world. There were no labels, no cliques. Everyone fought and died as an equal.

So now, having to return to such separation of her peers just seemed absurd.

Having to wear those atrocious maroon and gold ties and black robes felt like putting on a costume and playing pretend. She'd experienced the real world, so this one—this world called Hogwarts—felt like a farce. She'd outgrown the school experience. No, not outgrown. Hermione had been ripped from this innocent world long before the battle. She and her trauma didn't fit within these walls anymore.

Hermione found herself fiddling with the ring again. "Stop it, Hermione," she muttered to herself. "Get a grip. Let it go." She slid her hand from her pocket once more.

As she climbed the few stairs up to the Common Room, the emptiness of it hit her like a weight. Though nothing physically looked different from other years, everything about it had changed. The people, specifically. There was less laughter and less warmth even though the colors were like a blazing sunset.

Despite the fire crackling—

The fracture of Harry's body falling to the earth caused Hermione to jump.

She turned her face from the flames, but Harry didn't make an appearance. A small reprieve from earlier. She loosed a quiet breath and leaned her palms on the back of the nearest chair.

"Where have you been?"

A hand flew to her mouth. She took a breath but didn't need to peer around the chair back because he stood from the cushion to face her. "Don't do that, Ronald."

Ron didn't laugh. Didn't even crack a grin. "Where have you been?" he repeated, an edge to the fatigue in his tone.

"What time is it?"

"Half six in the evening."

Hermione closed her eyes and sighed. She'd been gone for over three hours. She shook her head. "I'm sorry, Ron. I lost track of time."

Ron approached, hands out. "I've been worried sick, Hermione."

"And that's my fault." Partly. She put up her hands, halting Ron's movement toward her. "I'm sorry."

Ron's eyes sliced up and down her body. "What the bloody hell have you been doing? Your jumper's all dirty." His nose wrinkled. "And why do you smell like lake water?"

She didn't have the energy for this. She hadn't told Ron about her hallucinations—about Harry. And she wasn't sure if right now was the best time to tell him.

Hermione tried to shrug nonchalantly, but it came out stiff. "I was reading." She bit her lip. She'd dropped her book when she fell, so she looked like an utter liar.

"Were you rolling down a hill while reading?" Hurt limned Ron's eyes. "Why are you lying?"

A cold chuckle exited her nose in an exhale. "I'm not lying. I was reading."

"Alright. Fine," he said, hands raised. "So you didn't lie." He stared at her, gaze hard. "But I know you're not telling me the whole truth. I know you, Hermione."

No, you don't, she wanted to say. Not anymore.

She didn't even know herself anymore. Not to mention she wasn't sure how much she could trust Ron these days. If he thought she was going mental, he might make the mistake of calling for Madam Pomfrey thinking he's helping, when in reality, he'd only make things so much worse.

"Hermione," Ron said again, his dejected tone drawing her attention to him. "What's happening? You're scaring—"

"Harry."

That word cut off the end of Ron's sentence and he blinked as though he'd heard her wrong. Several different emotions passed over his face, but Hermione could only pick out one—disbelief.

"What?" he breathed.

Hermione dropped onto the sofa and placed her face in a hand. She licked her lips and took a breath before whispering, "It's Harry. I've been seeing Harry."

The cushion next to her sank low, and within moments, Ron's body heat had spread to Hermione. She leaned her head on his shoulder and breathed him in. He was warm like freshly baked cranberry tart, spicy like cinnamon, and sweet like honey.

Ron reminded her of sourdough bread, cozy nights by the fire, and hand-stitched quilts.

He was home.

A home Hermione had begun to move her stuff out of one suitcase at a time.

They were a home whose foundation had started to crack, whose walls had become infested with mold.

Ron nudged her with his shoulder, bobbing Hermione's head lightly. "What do you mean you've been seeing Harry?" Ron said his name as though his mouth had forgotten how to form the letters.

Hermione sucked in a breath. "I think I'm going mad," she whispered. "I think I'm hallucinating him. I see him every day; in the shadows of the corridors, in the mirror, on the bridge—"

Ron leaned away, causing Hermione to fall over. She righted herself, but before she could scold him, he said, "You were at the bridge?"

She exhaled. "Yes. I was reading."

She could feel his gaze running over her, and a tentative hand reached out to touch her thigh. "How did you get wet?"

Hermione closed her eyes. It was such a long story and she had neither the energy nor the want to explain it to him. But she also didn't want to lie to Ron either. So she took a breath and said, "I...fell from the railing."

Ron shot to his feet, eyes wide. "What?" he breathed. In the next breath he shook his head, hands reaching for her once more. "Are you alright? You're not hurt?"

Hermione put a hand up. "I'm fine, Ron."

Since the battle, Ron had gotten...clingy. Overprotective. She didn't blame him entirely since they'd both lost their best friend, but most of the time he just made Hermione feel suffocated. He walked Hermione to classes and always requested her location if she went somewhere alone, and if she was in the same room as him, he'd end up sitting close to her in some way, shape, or form. She already felt overwhelmed by the things going on in her head that Ron's added layer of anxiety only made Hermione want to scream.

She savored the two hours every other day when she had a free period during Ron's Potions class. That's how she'd been able to escape down to the bridge to read.

She liked Ron, but he'd changed since the battle and so had she. Perhaps they'd changed in opposite directions; instead of growing closer, they grew apart.

With Ron out of her personal space, Hermione took a deep breath in an attempt to calm the chaos in her mind.

Ron moved forward, but Hermione must have instinctively shifted away from him because he halted, hurt flashing in his eyes. "Hermione..." He exhaled. "I know you're hurting. I know returning to school has been difficult. Trust me, I know."

No, you don't, she wanted to say. He knew of his own trauma, but hers wasn't the same. She had been tortured. She had watched Harry die. And now she saw Harry even when she wasn't sleeping. So no, Ron didn't really know.

"We experienced so much death here." His throat bobbed. "Nearly everyone we loved is gone." Ron knelt before Hermione and placed a tentative hand on her knee. "I know what you went through and I want to be here for you. I want to be someone you can rely on to help you heal, but I can't do that if you don't talk to me."

A humorless chuckle shook her chest. "You don't know what I went through."

He inhaled slowly, his shadowed eyes looking up at her. "Then tell me. Please."

Without her wanting them to, every moment, every memory came flooding back. She shut her eyes to them, but she still saw, still felt the phantom pain. Hermione swallowed the fear and sat on her hands to keep from shaking. Voicing the words...

She feared that if she said them, then that would make them too real. She feared the ghosts of her past would appear and she'd have nowhere to hide.

She couldn't.

She couldn't.

Hermione shook her head and stood suddenly, hands waving on either side of her face. "No," she breathed. "No, I can't. I'm sorry." She turned from Ron, but he caught her wrist. "I can't. I can't —"

"Hermione." Ron's voice halted her. It wasn't angry or hurt but sorrowful. Gentle. The kind of gentle that if his words were pebbles and Hermione was a ceramic vase, he spoke so as not to break her. "I'm sorry."

How she missed Harry. Even though she saw his ghost, she never saw his smile, never heard his laugh, never felt his warmth as he hugged her. She could still remember how he smelled of ash wood, sugared apples, and toffee. He'd smelled so much like the Burrow. Had spent so much time there that he'd return to school smelling of the Weasley home.

Hermione exhaled slowly. Ginny. She should find her and see how she's doing since she hadn't talked to her in a week or so. Though with Quidditch still ongoing, she bet the youngest Weasley was out on the pitch as she sat in here with Ron.

At last, Hermione turned and faced Ron, her gaze falling to where he gripped her wrist. She pulled free and slid her hands into her jeans pockets. The burn of cool metal against her index finger felt like a brand. "I know."

"I know you're sad," Ron said, finally receding a step. "We've all lost people. But—" He paused and seemed to process his next words. "But you can't pull away now. You and Ginny are all the family I have left at this school, and I—I can't lose you too."

In a way, he had lost Ginny. She'd shut Ron out almost entirely. Quidditch dominated her days, and Hermione believed that was because if Ginny stopped for even a moment, then her brain would have time to process the loss. Ginny kept going so she didn't have to feel the pain of Harry's absence. Though she also wondered if the Gryffindor team were still attempting to fill the gap Harry's death had left. She didn't even know if they'd found a new Seeker yet. Didn't know if they would this term or not.

Instead of giving a half-hearted reply, Hermione asked quietly, "How is George doing?"

The faint light in Ron's eyes banked. "I'm glad you weren't there when we returned home after the funeral." His throat bobbed as he ran a hand through his short hair. "Fred's spoon had fallen from the clock." Hermione had wondered if that would happen but had never voiced the dark thought out loud. "When we got back to the Burrow, George found it first. He collapsed to his knees and cried with the spoon tucked against his chest. I'm pretty sure he has it on a necklace, and I don't think he takes it off. Ever."

Hermione's heart cracked a little more at that. Oh, George. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Ron shrugged. "You hadn't asked, and I couldn't bear to put more grief on your shoulders."

She'd been so wrapped up in her pain that she hadn't considered everyone else's—hadn't considered the grief of those who also lost Harry. While she did miss Harry so very much—and it pained her to say this—his absence was bearable. Awful, but bearable.

Her nightmares of the torture, of that day in the forest, which had slowly become tangible during her waking moments were not. She'd been scarred too severely.

Hermione's hand curled around her left forearm, cuffing over the word engraved in her flesh. Though her body had dozens of physical scars, it was the invisible ones which tormented her.

From the corner of her eye, just over Ron's shoulder, stood Harry half covered by the deep red window curtains. She stared at him, waiting for him to do something—anything—but he just watched. He'd just watched earlier as she tumbled from the bridge railing toward the Black Lake. He'd already saved her once. She supposed it was someone else's turn.

She looked away. Draco Malfoy's turn, apparently.

Hermione yanked her hands out of her pockets and inhaled sharply. "I'm sorry." She wasn't sure if she said it to Harry or Ron, but she said it nonetheless.

Ron shrugged again.

She'd grown to hate that. Instead of showing emotion, he just shrugged. As if that would suffice as a replacement for feeling.

He stopped playing Quidditch and lost weight over the summer which made him look older, hardened. Actually, it made him look a lot like Fred and George—her thoughts stuttered over their names. His name—Fred. Just George now, she supposed.

He'd also cut his hair close to the scalp on the sides and nape of his neck and left the top bits longer, so his thick hair swooped into his eyes. Along with that, Ron had stopped shaving, so he had the starts of a light red beard.

Hermione placed the palm of her hand against his cheek, the stubble poking at her skin. Ron's eyes widened—most likely both at her apology and her action, yet he didn't move.

She rubbed her thumb back and forth, caressing his jaw with a light touch. "This suits you," she whispered.

"It's itchy," Ron said with equal quiet, his breath kissing her hair. "It always is when it begins to grow back."

She lifted a hand and ran her fingers through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes. "What made you cut your hair?"

"You don't like it?"

Hermione almost smirked. "I didn't say that. Just curious."

The little gleam in his eyes faltered and shadows gathered. Even his ghost of a smile disappeared. "I saw bits of Fred in my appearance."

Hermione stroked his jaw with her thumb as she listened. Perhaps the distraction would help keep her heart from cracking further.

"Although we don't really look alike, the resemblance was too much, too painful. At least right now. George—especially George—he couldn't handle looking in mirrors. A few weeks before term, I rushed into the Burrow by the screams of my mum. Bloody hell," he breathed, and Hermione knew he was reliving the moment just as she did in the forest. "The upstairs was destroyed. I rushed in to find mum cradling George amidst a spray of glass, and he was curled in on himself, rocking back and forth.

"George had shattered every single mirror and reflective surface we owned because every time he caught his reflection, he saw Fred." Ron's chin rested on the top of Hermione's head as he held her to him. "He couldn't stand it. Couldn't stand seeing only one—and not even seeing himself but the brother he'd lost."

Hermione didn't have a free hand to wipe away the tear that trailed down her cheek. Fred. Her friend and older brother.

"I found out later that mum had sliced her palms trying to tear a large shard of glass from George's grip. After breaking the mirrors and picture frames, he had tried blinding himself."

"Oh, Ron," she muttered.

"Lucky she was there." He exhaled. "She's watched him closely after that."

"How's he doing since then?"

"Destroying the mirrors wasn't enough. He still knew he looked like Fred, still caught glimpses of our brother in other reflections. He dyed his hair brown the night I cut mine."

Hermione found herself counting Ron's freckles and staring at his lips. The memory of their kiss in the Chamber of Secrets felt distant. Felt like another lifetime. Foreign in a way that it didn't even belong to her—as if someone else had lived in that moment.

That had been right before her entire world changed. Before Voldemort—

Hermione slammed the door closed on that memory.

"What are you thinking of?"

She opened her eyes to find she had been gripping Ron's jumper between white-knuckled fingers. "I'm sorry," she whispered and released her hold. She'd probably wrinkled the back of it.

"It's alright," Ron said softly. "What were you thinking? Where did you go?"

She swallowed her nausea. "That day." Ron cupped her jaw with a hand but moved no further. "Of the events leading up to—"

Hermione had destroyed Helga Hufflepuff's cup and then they kissed—she shook her head. That wasn't important.

Though she didn't touch it, she could feel the weight of Malfoy's ring in her pocket. That damn silver ring.

He'd been wearing it when he'd come looking for Harry to—she didn't actually know why Draco had followed them into the Room of Requirement. And then everything had gone up in flames. Literally. Crabbe perished in the fire he'd conjured while her and Ron had managed to save Goyle.

After just barely escaping, Harry kicked Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem into the magic flames and destroyed it.

That's when he'd had his final vision of Nagini being the purported last Horcrux. It's the snake. She's the last one.

Being Harry, he'd run head-first into danger without barely more than a few words of a rubbish plan, and Hermione and Ron were left to hold their own in the fray. Only until Ron had noticed the twins taking on a group of Death Eaters and had raced off to aide them.

Seconds after he left her side, Nagini slithered out from between some rubble and attacked. Hermione had held off the snake using her wand and the Basilisk fang, but Nagini had only been a distraction.

When the snake had coiled up to strike and Hermione's full attention was on her, Voldemort apparated only a foot from her in a cloud of inky shadow. His cold, bony fingers wrapped around her throat and his lips parted to reveal a yellow-toothed grin. "Perhaps you will give Harry Potter a reason to show himself."

She didn't even remember disapparating out of Hogwarts. Her next memories were of the damp forest floor below and the canopy of trees looming over her.

Ron's fingers curled against her cheek. "I never should have left your side."

"If you hadn't, then you might have lost both brothers," she said. "You saved them in that moment."

"And I lost you."

She placed her hand over his, pressing his palm flat over her cheek. "I'm right here."

He tapped a finger against her temple. "But you're not here. You haven't been for months."

"I know. I'm working through things."

"I want to help."

"You can't."

"How do you know?"

"Because you don't know," she said, pulling out of his touch. "You weren't there. You don't know. Not really. I know you can empathize and imagine what it was like, but you don't truly know."

Ron reached for her again, but Hermione stepped back, so he closed his mouth, jaw muscles feathering. She knew that face. Knew he was searching for the right words so he didn't cause more damage. After a moment, he peeled his gaze from the floor and looked at her. "I'm scared, Hermione."

"Of?"

"You fading away to a place where I can't follow—don't want to follow."

"Ron—"

"You're not well, Hermione," he said. Concern and pity gleamed in his eyes. Damn him and his pity. She didn't mean to think that, but she couldn't stand to see him pity her. That made her feel weak, and that was the last thing she needed. She'd spent months trying to convince herself that she wasn't—that surviving what she did made her strong.

Ron walked around her like she was too thin ice over a lake.

"You haven't been the same since that day and all I want to do is make it better. All I want to do is have you back."

Hermione tilted her head. "And what if I never come back? What if you're holding your breath for someone who no longer exists? Some part of me died in the Forbidden Forest, Ron. Voldemort killed it." She took a breath when she realized her spark of anger had let her say the words aloud.

Ron blinked as if she'd slapped him. "Hermione, I didn't mean—I lo—you're perfect as you are."

She ignored the words he didn't say and crossed her arms over the torso of her dirty sweater. "You would rather I sink into darkness alone than you hold my hand and bear it with me?"

"No, Hermione," he whispered.

"Really? Then where, exactly, am I going that you wouldn't be willing to follow?" She looked up at the ceiling and scoffed.

"I feel like you're slowly sinking in your own trauma and I don't want you to drown in it."

Hermione flexed her fingers. They remembered a hand—Draco Malfoy's hand, not Ron's—which squeezed hers and held her afloat in the midst of suffering. When the torment threatened to suffocate her, his grip was a reminder to come back up for air. To keep treading in that ocean of pain even when wave after wave pummeled her under.

Although he fought to stay above water too, Draco didn't let her drown. He was her buoy in the storm.

"If I'm sinking, then take my hand."

Her words echoed in the quiet chamber. Ron stared at her, his Adam's apple bobbing. She should have known better. He had his own trauma to deal with; he couldn't handle hers too. He wouldn't risk her pulling him under.

After what seemed like minutes of Hermione standing with her hand extended, Ron shifted away ever so slightly. Her heart dropped because she knew she had her answer.

His fingers clenched and unclenched, his gaze on her hand. Then he stuffed both hands in the pockets of his trousers. "Hermione…"

She cared for Ron, but if fighting to be with him meant constantly fighting to stay afloat within her nightmares, then she wouldn't put herself through that. Couldn't put herself through that. She could barely breathe as it was and paddling through waters of the past left her exhausted.

"I don't understand—"

Hermione held up a hand, cutting him off. "I know you don't."

That crack in her heart spread as she pushed by Ron and up the staircase because moving on without him felt final. For the person she had become—the girl that had been created in the forest that day months ago—staying with Ron would ensure her asphyxiation in the clutches of her nightmares.