A/N: And we're back! Much later than I thought I would be, but I had an unfortunate run-in with a low ceiling and have been out of commission for a few weeks. It's only recently I've been able to look at a screen again! Much love to those who have read Kicked in the Teeth and Holidays Not Celebrated. This story starts off exactly where the teaser at the end of HnC was, so nothing missed there.

A little more to my usual disclaimer today: I am not JKR and do not own any of these characters. I also do not own the following poem, from which the title of this chapter and the title of the story as a whole comes from. It is called Outlook by Archibald Lampman (a favourite poet of mine.) Lots of well wishes to all of you!

"Not to be conquered by these headlong days,

But to stand free: to keep the mind at brood

On life's deep meaning, nature's altitude

Of loveliness, and time's mysterious ways;

At every thought and deed to clear the haze

Out of our eyes, considering only this,

What man, what life, what love, what beauty is,

This is to live, and win the final praise.

Through strife, ill fortune and harsh human need

Beat down the soul, at moments blind and dumb

With agony; yet, patience-there shall come

Many great voices from life's outer sea,

Hours of strange triumph, and, when few men heed,

Murmurs and glimpses of eternity."

All the colours seemed wrong. Everything was either much too bright, or so muted and watered down it was hard to tell which was which. Except for the brown beside him. Curls bobbing up and down as they walked. Singed, static-y, slightly less bouncy than they had been earlier. If he had a wand to his head, he could give the colour of her hair in such detail. For years it had been right next to him, spilled over cushions when she curled up to read, blowing in the wind when she went to Quidditch matches, sparking when he continually beat her at chess, filling his dreams as he imagined running his fingers through it.

Now he was just starting to memorize the feeling of her hand clasped in his. Her fingers, so small as they curled into his own, the callus on her palm from pressing deeply into countless quills, the soft skin peeking through a layer of ash and dust. Ever since they'd been with his family, her hand had been there. Some part of him felt like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Every step felt like a mile. His body ached. His skin burned. His heart felt like it had been ripped in two, because Fred…

He let out a shuddering breath, and immediately felt that small, wonderful hand gently squeeze his. His eyes shut tightly for a moment, trusting that she would take him in the right direction. Harry was leading the way. His footsteps echoed along the corridor, one of the few that didn't look terribly destroyed. Merlin, it was going to be such an effort to rebuild. And how were they supposed to rebuild? This whole year, their whole friendship had been focused on defeating You-Know-Who. Now that his body was lying with a sick finality in one of the dungeons, a future was more visible than it had ever been before.

Only it wouldn't be a perfect future. Suddenly he was without a brother. And it felt wrong. Fred should have been the one following Peeves around, finding better lyrics to that stupid song. He should have been laughing at the fact that the only reason Ron could even stand right now was that he was holding her hand. Ron swallowed hard, feeling a few more tears begin to trickle out.

Her thumb rubbed against his palm, and for a sick moment he was filled with joy that she was there, that she had made it. The memory of when he thought he'd lost her came rushing back, and now it was his turn to grip her harder.

'Do you want to eat?' Harry asked, rather tonelessly. Ron looked up to see that they had reached the Fat Lady, who was whispering furiously with her friend Violet. Harry had his arms folded; his eyes half closed. He was almost swaying on his feet, and Ron realized that not only had none of them slept in 24 hours, but Harry had also…

No, he didn't want to think about that either.

'I'm not hungry,' he heard himself say. It seemed to come from someone else, whose voice was more nasal and darker than his own. Harry stared at him.

'It would be wise just to get some sleep,' Hermione cut in, looking between the pair. 'I'm sure the House Elves need a while to prepare everything.' Harry nodded and turned back to the Fat Lady.

'Er, do we need a password?' Her perfectly coiffed hair swivelled and she burst into tears.

'Of course not! Oh my word, the castle, safe at last!' Placing her lace hankie between her eyes, she began to bawl, as Violet patted her on the shoulder. The portrait swung open, and the three stepped into the common room.

It was as if nothing had happened. There were some books strewn half-hazard around the various tables, the fire was nearly out, and some decidedly contraband Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes items were along a windowsill. Ron forced himself to look away as the pain in his chest increased.

'Do you think our beds will still be there?' Harry asked, peering blearily up the staircase. Hermione nodded, and Harry looked back at her.

'Right. I'm knackered. I'd say goodnight, but it looks like it's already well past that-' his words were interrupted by Hermione throwing herself into his arms.

'Get some sleep,' she murmured into his hair. 'And don't you ever pull a stunt like that again, do you understand me?' Harry gripped her back.

'What, you telling me third time won't be the charm?' Harry laughed, and Ron felt his face pull into a small smile.

'Don't you bloody think about it,' he told Harry firmly, before moving forward and joining the embrace.

'Don't swear,' he heard Hermione mumble from where she was squished between them. Harry and Ron laughed, and Ron was struck by how foreign a feeling it already was.

Finally, Harry pulled away, and began making his way up the staircase. They watched him go. Once he was out of sight, Ron went to grab Hermione's hand again. It didn't feel right not to be touching her. But she had already taken a few steps forward.

'Well, get some sleep,' she told him. Reaching upwards, she pressed her lips light as a whisper on his cheek. He was too tired to feel self-conscious at the stubble and grime that he was sure was on his face. He was not too tired to marvel at the moment of contact, and he was momentarily distracted at the thought as she began to make her way up the girls' staircase.

'Where are you going?' he asked, incredulously. She turned and looked back at him, confused.

'To my bed?' Her face was a mottled mix of grey dust, black ash, and pale white where two perfect tear tracks made their way down her cheeks.

'No,' he heard himself say as he moved to reach for her hand. The idea of her sleeping so far away was too difficult to bear.

'Ron,' she began, in a tone that told him that he was doing something she disapproved of. He didn't care. Their hands entwined and he started tugging her back towards him.

'Don't go,' he said, softly. He tried to will his eyes not to start watering again. Her expression changed, became somehow softer, and she moved to stand beside him.

'You need to rest,' she told him gently. 'And it's far too bright to sleep down here.'

He snorted at the idea. Pulling her with him, he began making his way up the stairs to his old room.

'Ron!' Her voice had gone squeaky, and he turned to look at her over his shoulder. Now there were two bright pink spots on her cheeks.

'What?' he asked her, confused by her reaction. Hermione had come up to their dorm before, and never once had she seemed so squeamish by the idea. 'Neville's still got loads of fans downstairs. He won't be sleeping any time soon. You can kip in his bed.'

Hermione visibly relaxed. She nodded and began following him back up to his old, familiar room.

The hangings were the same muted scarlet that his eyes could take in. The room was missing much of its usual debris and without the collection of chocolate frog wrappers, he almost couldn't pinpoint where his old bed was. Luckily Harry had already pulled the curtains closed on his own four-poster, so Ron could figure out from context where his was. He sighed, and walked over before sitting with a groan on the bed, Hermione coming down with him.

'Are you okay?' she asked, reaching for her bag. 'What do you need? Dittany?'

'You,' came the honest answer in his brain. But he was too tired to say it out loud. Instead he shook his head and swallowed again. Hermione studied him for a moment, and through the exhaustion, he realized that her hand was still in his. The thought filled him with warmth. He tried to squeeze her fingers, but soon reached the point that he didn't have strength to do much else.

'You should get some sleep.' Her voice had gone much quieter. He could see the exhaustion in her own eyes.

'So should you.'

Hermione nodded, and swallowed. They sat there on his bed for a few more moments, neither of them daring to move. Ron remembered that only a few hours ago, she had kissed him. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Before Harry defeated Voldemort. Before Fred.

'Hermione,' he started to say, but she shook her head.

'We don't have to talk right now,' she said, removing her hand from his and pushing her curls back furiously behind her ears. 'There will be plenty of time for that later.' He grunted at her, both grateful that they didn't have to do anything further, and mildly worried that maybe she didn't want to have the same sort of talk that he did. Leaning back onto his covers, he watched her dig through the beaded bag. Eventually she pulled out his very worn-out pyjama bottoms, and a threadbare tee-shirt. Her eyes looked at him questioningly, and he nodded. Honestly, he didn't much care what he wore to bed at this point. He didn't even know if he had the energy to take off his shoes.

It was in the middle of contemplating this, that he noticed Hermione looking deeper through the bag. There was a quiet tinkling noise as she pushed her arm further in, searching for something. From the next bed over, he heard Harry give a light snore.

'What are you looking for?' he whispered at her. Hermione lifted her eyes to his.

'My nightgown, but I can't seem to find it. I don't think I would have left it behind.' She continued searching, finally pulling out a bit of fabric that he understood to be his old Chudley Cannons jersey.

'So wear that,' he motioned to it with his head. Hermione stared at him.

'But it's yours.'

'So?'

'I'm filthy.' Ron snorted at this response.

'Oh no, if only there was some way to wash it afterwards.' Hermione blushed at him, and moved to smack his arm, but stopped part way.

'Are you sure?' she asked him, the blush still creeping through the grime on her face. He nodded. Whatever tiny part of him was not completely overtaken by exhaustion realized the intimacy of her wearing this particular piece of clothing. She got up. Ron immediately tried to get up as well but she held up her hand and looked at him with a soft expression.

'I'm going to wash my face,' she explained. 'I won't be long.' Ron leaned back down, and put his hands over his eyes. Trying desperately to focus on his breathing, he was comforted by the faint sounds of running water coming over from the loo. He couldn't imagine if she'd gone to sleep in the girls' dorm. It was too far away. Even when she'd been sleeping upstairs with Luna at Shell Cottage, he could still hear her footsteps on the floor, hear her calling out in her sleep. It was only a matter of climbing the steps to see her. So it was with a warm feeling in his chest that he knew that she was only going to be in the next bed over. At least this way he could hear her breathing, and, if she slept deeply enough, that adorable little nose whistle she did. He was caught up reliving the last time he'd heard her do that in the tent, and so didn't notice the water shutting off, or the small shuffle of footsteps coming towards him.

Suddenly, a hand seized around his ankle and he whipped upwards, wand out, convinced that a Death Eater had been hiding out underneath his bed.

'Sorry!' she exclaimed in a loud whisper. 'I thought I'd help untie your boots since you seem so knackered.'

He stared down to where she was on her knees, fingers on the laces of his very beat up boot. While she'd been gone, she'd put her hair up on the top of her head, but some of the singed bits were sticking out in all directions. She'd managed to get most of the grime off her face, but the grubby white of the bandage on her neck showed that below was still covered in the same layer of soot and dust. And she was wearing his jersey. He felt another wave of tenderness rush over him, and not for the first time, he wondered how on earth he ever got so lucky to have her in his life.

'Thank you,' he whispered, and watched her deftly undo the tight knots before pulling the leather off one by one. Thank merlin he'd changed into one of the few pairs of socks he had left that weren't full of holes. He could only hope his feet didn't make her recoil in disgust.

'Do you want some potion?' Hermione asked, still from her position on the floor.

'Did you take some?' he asked instead. He watched her nod, though he didn't quite believe her. She reached into her bag again, and pulled out the small, pearly vial. Indeed, it didn't look as though she'd taken much, if any, and Ron frowned at her. But he was too tired to pick a fight, and too desperate for some unencumbered rest that he reached out his hand and she placed the bottle in it.

'Is there anything else I can do?' she asked, getting up from the floor, and pulling down the hem of the jersey. Ron took a swallow of the potion to try to distract himself from the sight of her nearly bare legs, glowing faintly in the growing sunlight. He shook his head. She watched him, worry present in her eyes. He wanted to ask if she was okay, but he knew that the answer would be a resounding no. But she was alive. And for the moment, that was enough.

'I'm glad you're here,' he said softly. Her lips curved into a small smile.

'Me too,' she agreed.

He tried to push himself up off of the bed, to wash his face, or do something, but his limbs felt so heavy all of a sudden.

'The potion works fast,' Hermione told him gently. 'just rest. Everything else can wait.' He nodded softly at her, and with what felt like tremendous effort, pulled his legs up onto the bed. He then realized that he would have to move to actually get under the covers. With a heavy sigh, he went to pull the sheets, but was beaten to it by Hermione pulling over a quilt from Dean's bed.

'Thank you,' he murmured as she covered him. The warmth and weight of the cover relaxed him yet further. He felt tears form at the corner of his eyes. They'd both been so close to death, and here she was, still trying to take care of him.

Things were silent for a moment, and he realized that Hermione must have thought he'd already fallen asleep. With a small creak of the springs, almost inaudible compared to Harry's light snoring, Hermione sat back down on his bed. Then those wonderful fingers, capable of producing such incredible magic, were gently pushing his fringe back from his face. He was horrified for a moment, knowing full well how disgusting it must be. Full of ash, dirt, and some sort of odd pus that had gotten in there when Neville had hugged him. He expected Hermione to take her hand away, but instead she began to softly stroke his hair, as though she didn't care one bit. It was so soothing, and he felt himself fall deeper into the blissful arms of an uninterrupted slumber.

'I'm so glad you're alive.' These feverishly whispered words were the last thing he heard, her lips darting forward to kiss him gently on his stubbled cheek the last thing he felt as he finally drifted off to much needed sleep.