Fragmentation

A/N: This is going to be a series of 100 stories, some only drabbles, some ficlets, some short stories.

Disclaimer: Jo is the mastermind behind these characters, I only play with them

The First Movement:

Beginnings

Time is unforgiving. It seems so long ago that they knew innocence. This moment, surrounded by unspoken regrets, they sit in front of the fireplace watching the flames dance and flicker, casting an orangish glow over their skin. They sit so close they almost touch. She says softly “Everything is so changed.” Neither of them could define the timeline, unsure of when it became this - moments interspersed over the years, and silent realizations melted into whispered confessions.

“We knew,” he says quietly. “We knew everything would change. We couldn't expect time to hold its breath just for us.” She hears the sadness, the quiet desperation for something no longer tangible; she hears his soft regret.

She isn't sure what to say, or even what there is to be said. Sometimes, the silence is comforting (it's easier to remember the beginning when it's too quiet). She wishes for a moment that she could go back and capture the beginning and keep it always. The impossibility makes it seem even further from them. She looks at him as he stares intently at the burning wood.

“I wish I could fix everything, Harry,” she says softly, touching his hand (and she remembers the way his first touch felt and the way his skin felt against hers in the dark).

“I guess…” he says quietly “some things are meant to be broken, Hermione.”

(but not you not this not us)

Her touch on his cheek is gentle, and when he looks at her, he remembers. When their lips touch, when she opens her mouth to him; when their clothes are forgotten and they touch this way; when she feels him inside and he feels her around him, they know this is all they need.

(and they begin all over again)

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002.

Inside

She sits at the table surrounded by dusty books and parchments. The wooden surface is scratched and gouged, worn with time; she traces some of the grooves with her fingers, remembering what it used to be like during meals here. She looks around her and realizes that the Weasley kitchen isn't quite the same anymore; it seems empty without everyone crowded in for a meal, without everyone practically on top of each other. She misses the way it used to feel like home. There are some scorch marks on the far wall near the door and one of the windows has been boarded up since it had been shattered. Occasionally someone would pass through, get what they needed without bothering her and leave again. This wasn't how it always was. They used to have more than this, she thinks. She can't be sure anymore.

She turns a few more brittle pages, looking for something useful - anything at this point. She's tired (she's always tired) but she refuses to let this go; there has to be something useful, something that will help him in this that won't kill him in the process.

“It's one in the morning,” he says standing in the doorway. She doesn't look up. He's always trying to figure out ways to do this, and his conclusion is always that his life is a price he is going to have to and willing to pay. She can't agree with that; she won't let him do it. “What are you still doing up?” She hears his bare feet slap the floor quietly as he walks into and across the kitchen, sitting at the opposite end of the able.

“What you won't,” she replies.

“Don't do this,” he says quietly. “Just come to bed, Hermione.”

She looks up at him. His hair is a mess, he's wearing a grey tee-shirt and a pair of flannel sleep pants. She can tell he wasn't sleeping well again; she doesn't ask because he'll lie. “You don't do it, Harry. Someone has to figure out how to keep you alive.” She looks back at the pages again. There's silence for a time and she thinks he might just go back up to bed and leave her there. He sighs, instead. He sounds tired and when she looks up again he looks much older than he should.

“I wish you would let this go.” He shakes his head and looks out the kitchen window that isn't broken.

She slams the book shut and he looks at her. “Let it go, Harry? You're so willing to just… give up your life, and I'm supposed to let it go?” She shakes her head. “I would love to get inside your head. Maybe I would understand.” She can feel the prickle of tears and she fights it. She's sick of crying.

The legs of his chair scrape the floor as he pushes it back. Sometimes it hurts to look at him and she looks down at the table instead. She really wishes she could get inside of his head, inside of his thoughts; she needs to know why he thinks the things he does. She doesn't want to understand anymore because it's not a matter of wanting; she needs to know. His hands are warm on her arms as he touches her.

“If I die protecting you, protecting Ron and the rest of the Weasley's; if I die protecting Lupin and Tonks -“

“Stop it,” she cuts him off and looks up at him. “I don't need you to protect me. I need you to live.”

He watches tears slide down her cheeks. He brushes them away with the pads of his thumbs as he gently captures her face in his hands. He realizes that she looks older now. He couldn't promise her because he was tired of broken promises, of broken people and the tatters of what hung between them. He couldn't do that to her. Not this time. Not again. Not ever. He kisses her softly. “Don't,” she whispers. “Don't do that, Harry.”

“I don't know how to beat him,” he says quietly. “I don't know how to destroy him completely and then live like nothing happened.” She searches his eyes and he continues. “You want to get inside my head, Hermione? All I think about every day is who he is going to kill next; I wonder if it's going to be someone else I love - Mrs. Weasley, Lupin, Ron…you. All I think about every waking moment is how I'm going to save you, all of you, and I don't know how.” Watching the emotions flicker in her eyes, suddenly the thought of death was forgotten and her lips were pressing against his. What started gentle became insistent, tongues clashing and claiming. It was too easy to get lost in this. He pulled away resting his forehead against hers, eyes closed, and their pulses quickened. He slid his forehead away and nudged her to turn her head, placing soft kisses below her ear, at her pulse point; placing soft kisses along her jaw and down the side of her neck.

“I need you,” she whispers. And then she feels his arms lifting her. She forgets everything around them, forgets everything for the moment except him and how he feels (and it's better than anything she remembers for so long). He tells her not to worry about getting inside his head, and for the time she doesn't (because it doesn't matter when he's touching her this way). When they are nothing but flesh against flesh, she swears she hears him whisper that the only thing that matters is being inside of her. She feels him, is full with him, and forgets the books and parchment, and there is no death here tonight.

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003.

Summer

The harvest time had passed for muggles; summer is nearly over and they are still not saved. It seems as though so much time had been wasted lingering, spending endless nights trying to find answers that proved nothing more than elusive. The days are dry with heat and the nights are suffocating with humidity. He found himself too hot and agitated at best during daylight, and at night he found himself too hot and restless. He can barely sleep for more than minutes at a time. He stares up at the ceiling listening to her breathe softly; a look over at her shows she's as uncomfortable as he, stripped down to nothing but a tank top and a pair of panties, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, and her hairline damp with sweat. He remembered someone telling him, one time or another, that summer was a time for friendships, maybe romance, but he hadn't really been listening. It had proved less than true all these years. During his school years his summers were the one thing he dreaded, living in constant unhappiness with the Dursley's until someone came to rescue him. And even now, with school behind them, summers still were not pleasant; now they spent summer hiding, looking and looking and looking for answers, trying to find solutions that never seemed right. He sits up, wiping sweat from his forehead; he leans over and kissed her head softly, sliding carefully out of bed.

[What happened to the days, the nights even, which were more than this?]

He finds himself, as it always seemed, in the kitchen. There were so many memories in this place, of all places, that he often found himself just standing, looking at everything and replaying it all in his head. Sometimes, he thought if he wished hard enough it would all come back and this nightmare might disappear. It never did. He knows it never will. On the counter is a plate of treacle tarts that Mrs. Weasley made with dinner, and without thinking he takes one and sits down at the table.

“I see that you can't sleep either, Harry.” He looks up at the source of the familiar voice and finds that Lupin is looking worse for wear. Harry watches him, too, take a treacle tart and sit down next to him. “I wonder though, if it's because of the heat, or because of the things that weigh on your mind.”

“Both, actually,” he says, and he thinks of Hermione asleep in their room; of Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, safe for now; of Ron, the twins, Ginny. He wonders how long he can keep them safe.

“You look like you're trying to carry the weight of the entire world, Harry,” Remus says. “That's not how it's meant to be.”

“Isn't it?” Harry replies. “I'm the only one who can stop Voldemort, and in the process everyone here, everyone I care about is in danger, and millions of other innocent people. I have to keep them safe.” Remus can see the desperation in his eyes, and he wishes once more, the he could do something, anything more to help him.

“You aren't meant to save the world, Harry. All of us, we're here to help you, not because you're meant to protect us.”

“I have to,” he replies quietly. “If… If something happened…” He looks up at his former professor, fighting against the knot in his throat. “None of it would be worth it if I stop Voldemort and he kills the only people that matter to me in the process.”

“You mustn't always carry the guilt of the dead, Harry,” he says softly and Harry has to look away. The knot in his throat seems to grow impossibly bigger, tighter. “Your parents were not your fault. Cedric Diggory was a victim of Voldemort, not of you. Sirius died in honor, Harry; that isn't your fault either. And Professor Dumbledore… he did what he thought was necessary, and I'm sure if he were here now and had to make that choice again, he wouldn't change a thing.”

The silence between them seemed to last longer than intended, but Harry was having difficulty finding his voice. “Remus,” he says quietly. “You know I love her. I love her so much it hurts sometimes. We know he would do anything to get to me, to make my life not worth living - because if he does that, even if I destroy him he wins.”

“Harry-“

“I can't lose her,” he cuts him off. Harry looks up at Remus and sees the sincerity in his eyes. He knows he's lucky to still have him, and it hurts to wonder if he'll still be here when this is over. “I need Hermione as much as I need to breathe.”

“I know how it feels to love someone that much,” Remus replies softly, looking down at his untouched tart. “I know that feeling all too well, Harry. And I know how it feels to lose that person.” When he looked up at Harry there was something unspoken but understood between them. Harry didn't need to ask who because he knew, he had known somehow for some time. “I would give my life, Harry, to make sure you never know that kind of pain. I would die to protect Hermione as much as you.”

In that moment looking at Remus, sitting there with so much unsaid but recognized between them, Harry couldn't remember a time he felt so thankful. He only wished that he could protect Remus, too; but he knew this man well, and he wouldn't let Harry protect him. “I don't know how to tell you how much that means to me, Remus,” Harry says softly. “I don't know how to thank you for that.” He too, stares down at the tart he had been unconsciously picking apart. He looked up as Remus stood, looking too tired and too old.

He said softly: “Live.”

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004.

Fragile Things

He's forgotten what hope feels like. He's too willing to accept death and she doesn't understand because there is still too much life to give up. She watches him train, always training these days - hard, relentlessly, viciously; he sweats, he swears, he bleeds. She watches the two of them - Harry and Shacklebolt - firing curses and hexes back and forth. He's so determined; he trains as if once it's done he won't live to see another fight. [She won't accept that. She can't.] Ron refuses to watch anymore, and she understands why; he can't watch Harry like this, his best friend; he can't think anymore than she can that this could be his last fight, that he could take his last breath - that Voldemort could take him away. [No, that hurts too much.] When training ends his muscles are tight with exhaustion and tension; Shacklebolt puts a hand on Harry's back and tells him how well he's doing. He doesn't look at Shacklebolt when he nods and she can't look either. When he comes to eat dinner he pretends he's a stone pillar, pretends that he's ok, that he's strong enough, but she knows. He looks at her across the table and she just knows. He's barely holding it together beneath his carefully constructed guise. [She hates when he pretends everything is fine. It's all so far from fine. And it hurts. She wishes he would just hurt because it's better than his stoic front.]

She watches him like she does every night as he undresses, unsteady, trembling. She's worried for him [it's something she has always done other than love him] because it shouldn't be like this. She's afraid of what it's doing to him - what it could do to them. She thinks maybe she should just let it be, but she knows she can't. “Maybe you should take a break from training, Harry.”

“I don't have that luxury,” he says, pulling a grey tee-shirt over his head. He stands there while she looks at him in his grey shirt and navy blue sleep pants. He looks worn. He looks too thin.

“Kingsley would understand, Harry. He suggested it to me.”

“Did he?”

She is confused by his biting tone. “He thought maybe you might listen to me,” she says.

“I said I can't. I can't afford to take a break; I have to be ready. I have an obligation, Hermione. I need to be prepared.”

“You know,” she says quietly “maybe you can fool everyone else, but I'm not stupid, Harry. You're not ok.” She looks at him hoping he might open up, even just a little. He let her in not so long ago, and she's begging without words for him to let her in again.

“Would you be? How would you even know, Hermione? I'm the one who has to defeat Voldemort. I'm the one who has to save the fucking world!” His eyes are bright green, flashing with anger and frustration. It isn't something she is entirely used to and for a moment it takes by surprise. That surprise fades quickly, replaced by her own anger.

“Stop it. Just stop it, Harry! For one goddamn minute stop being The-Boy-Who-Lived!”

[And it's one more thing pushing them apart. She wonders if this will fall apart, and she knows it can't. They won't let it.]

“What do you want from me, Hermione?” The hurt on her face is real and immediate, and the tears burn her eyes. [He used to know everything she needed. All it ever was, was him.]

“Just be Harry,” she says softly. His expression softens and he looks away. She looks at the floor, at her bare feet, not bothering to wipe the tears from her cheeks.

“I don't know what's going to happen,” he says finally, quietly. She looks at him and instantly he's a little boy again, scared, unsure, and unstable. “I'm just trying to protect you. I'm scared, Hermione.”

“I know that, Harry,” she says. “Do you think I'm not? Everyone is scared, as well they should be, but mostly… we're scared for you. You aren't protecting me by pushing me away; it hurts, Harry. Just… stop closing yourself off from me.” She pauses. “That hurts the most, Harry, when you shut me out.”

He moves to stand in front of her, and pulls her close. There's comfort in his smell - something clean and something else uniquely Harry. The familiar feeling of his arms is something she doesn't ever want to lose. “I'm sorry,” he says softly. He holds her tighter. She can feel him breaking and she wonders how much longer things can last this way. One person can only handle so much, and there was already an excess. He was crumbling as she stood there clinging to him, as he was clinging so desperately to her, and all of his pieces were pooled at her feet.

[Fragile things break.]

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005.

Choices

There are no solutions, no easy answers. He just breathes deep and waits for it to subside. He only hears bits and pieces of conversation, not really paying attention to all the details he probably should be. He knows Mrs. Weasley's voice well, and he hears her saying something about not letting Mr. Weasley fight and something about his family (he knows she's right because Mr. Weasley has a family who needs him more and he should be there for them not him because they are so much more important than this). He catches clips and phrases and Remus says something about careful planning. He hears too many voices. He thinks he hears something about execution and it's all he can take (because he never thought he would have to murder to end this all never thought he would have to become a murderer to be the hero they needed him to be). They don't even notice as he slips away, quietly out the back door.

The sky is inky, black and cloudless, and it's dotted with stars that don't hold the beauty you remember the used to. He knows he isn't supposed to be out alone, but he had to get away from all of it, all of them. Sometimes even he needed to be alone, especially when everyone else was deciding for him. He just couldn't listen anymore.

“Wotcher, Harry,” Tonks said and he could hear her feet in the grass. He turned to look at her for a moment. He didn't remember hearing her voice inside, and he was silently thankful. She stood beside him and he could see her wand clearly in her hand.

“How come you're not inside?” He asked, looking out at nothing in particular.

She shrugged (he felt it more than saw it). “I guess, the same reason you're not.”

“I just had to get out,” he said quietly. “I couldn't take anymore of it. I was suffocating in there.” She looked at him and nodded slightly.

“I understand,” she said. There were a few minutes of lapsed silence that didn't seem to bother either of them. The quiet was better than the din of voices inside (all of them worrying and worrying about his life and planning and trying and thinking of ways for him to kill end the life of the worst evil and they didn't even know he was afraid).

“There isn't much time left, you know,” he said, looking over at her. “It's going to be soon, Tonks.”

“How soon?” she asked and the pink of her hair seemed to falter for a moment. He was thankful for her concern, and for some reason unknown, felt particularly close to her in that moment. He shrugged, however, watching the sky (he didn't really want to tell her because if he didn't he might be able to keep her out of harm's way a little longer and if he didn't tell her then it didn't seem so real imminent unavoidable).

“You'll watch over Hermione, won't you?” he asked quietly as he looked at her again. “I need to know that she'll be safe.”

“She'll want to go,” Tonks said quietly. “You know she wants to fight with you, Harry.”

“No,” he said shaking his head, and his tone left no room for question.

“You have my word,” she said. “I'll protect her.”

“And Ron. Protect them both, Tonks. None of this will be worth it if I don't have them when it's finally over.” She nodded, swallowing with some difficulty. “And Remus?”

“What about him?” she asked, and he noticed that her eyes seemed to shimmer in the moonlight.

“Keep him away from harm, too?” He was looking at her and for a moment she didn't answer. “I know you love him.” There was the sound of her breathing. “I know how much he loves you, Tonks.” Looking at her he could see the conflict, the pain in her eyes (and he wished she wouldn't care about him because she would be safer that way and he could save her some of this hurt).

“I'd die for him,” she whispered. He nodded and they stood in silence. He didn't need to ask her not to tell anyone because he knew without words that he could trust her. He wished there was something more he could do to make this easier for her. “You're planning on leaving, aren't you? You're planning on going alone, and fighting him alone, aren't you, Harry?”

He looked away. She realized then that he looked so much older. He looked tired and he looked broken. In the few moments he took to think, all the things he feared played in his mind: Hermione's death. Ron's death. Fred, George, Ginny. Mr. Weasley. Remus. Mrs. Weasley. He couldn't let them die. He wouldn't let them die (and the only way to save them was to run when they thought he would stay the only way to save them was to fight for them alone even if in the end he lost himself because at least they would all be alive ok and they could live again someday).

“You've made up your mind, haven't you?” she asked softly. He didn't look at her as he nodded.

“It's the only way,” he said softly (and in that moment he saw Hermione's face remembered what it felt like when her body was pressed to his and he was so afraid he would never see the light in her eyes again and the thoughts filled his mind too quickly to turn them away I don't want to die and he knew that he had to fight win live)

“Just… come back,” she said softly. He looked at her and he could see her eyes glistening. “Come back, Harry. Fight him and win, and come back to us, okay?” (the tears in her eyes made his heart hurt and he remembered her tears when Sirius died and her tears when she thought she would never be with Remus and he knew that her tears were never wasted and without words promise)

He said softly: “I will.”

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006.

Colourless Grief

There are more people in the house than there has been in some time. They said it might not be safe to do this, and Harry told them that he didn't care. The dead deserve more than silence. The emotions ran high and from room to room were omnipotent; things like this are never easy (they were never meant to be). The sounds of voices were far more hushed than normal and the sounds of crying seemed everywhere and nowhere are once.

“I hate funerals,” Harry said quietly, sitting perfectly still all in black (there was so much black). Hermione remained silent, slipping her hand into Harry's. Ron looked around the room at everyone and then back at his lap. Neither of them really knew what to say to him; Harry knew how he felt (he could still see Sirius falling), but there were no words to make anyone feel better. When someone you love is gone, all the words in the world aren't enough.

“I hate the colour black,” Hermione said in an almost whisper, looking at everyone around her.

“Black isn't a colour,” Ron said softly. He looked up at the two of them. “It's the absence of colour.” It's the only thing he has said the entire night. He looked again at the people in his house. “The absence of something doesn't make it hurt any less, either, once it's truly gone.”

“Ron…” Hermione whispered, tears in her eyes. She and Harry both felt so helpless.

“He was still my brother,” he said softly. The tears are easily visible in his eyes now. “Why did he have to be so stupid? Why couldn't he just… swallow his pride and come home?” He was quiet for a moment, looking down at his hands, tears dripping onto his skin. “He would have been safe,” he whispered. “He would still be alive…”

“I'm so sorry,” Harry said, so quietly and Ron looked up. “I know you said you don't blame me - that all of you said you don't blame me - but I…” Harry's eyes were bright with unshed tears. “I feel like… if they weren't after me… They did this to Percy to try and get you out in the open, so I would be out in the open… I… Ron, I'm so sorry.” Hermione squeezed his hand, trying to blink back her own tears, seeing the guilt in Harry's eyes as tears rolled down his cheeks.

“Promise me something, Harry?” Ron asked softly.

“Anything.”

“Don't let him win,” he said so heartbreakingly. “Please, Harry… don't let him win.”

“Ron -“

“Promise me that when it's time, you'll fight like hell, Harry. Promise me that.”

“I promise,” he replied in a choked whisper. Ron nodded, barely, and looked at Hermione. The look in his eyes was ripping her apart inside; he didn't deserve this. She had come to think of him as not only her best friend, but that big brother she never had, and seeing him hurting this way was killing her.

“Hermione… in all those books you read… isn't there anything about how to make this…” he touched his chest subconsciously, swallowed hard, and looked at her once more with tears in his eyes. “…this hurt go away?” he whispered hoarsely. Her eyes burned with tears as she shook her head slightly.

“No,” she whispered. He said nothing. She said, I'm sorry.

The two of them stood watching Mrs. Weasley and Ginny, watching as all of the Weasley boys and Mr. Weasley held her up, and George comforted Ginny. Mrs. Weasley's legs just wouldn't seem to work properly, and her eyes were red from crying. Harry hated this - he hated the grief and the mourning, he hated the Death. Hermione took his hand again and tugged gently. “Let's go upstairs; we should give them some time alone,” she said quietly, leading him up the staircase.

He sits on the bed and watches her pull the hair back and something made him stop her. “Leave it down,” he said softly. She didn't protest and moved to pull her shirt over her head instead. He stood up and stayed her hands. “Let me?” he whispered. Her eyes answer without words. He slipped his hands under the hem of her shirt, feeling the warm expanse of skin of her back, her stomach. She closed her eyes for a moment, just feeling. His hands were cool against her body. Gently, he pulled the black shirt over her head. She didn't protest when his hands were at the back of her black skirt, sliding down the zipper. The skirt slid easily down her legs, pooling at her feet in a puddle of black silk. He took her hands and she stepped out of the skirt around her feet. She took off the constricting black nylons. His fingers brushed her cheek and she turned her head into his touch. His fingers trailed down her neck, stopping at the hollow point of her throat, feeling the gentle rhythm of her heartbeat. So much death. He only wanted to feel life.

Her fingers slid each tiny button of his black shirt through its hole. She splayed her hands against his bare chest, she too, feeling his heartbeat. She slid her hands over his shoulders, pushing his shirt down his arms and dropping it on the floor. He stepped toward her, closer, sliding the straps of her bra down, watching it fall away from her body. He closed the small gap between them, his arms encircling her, her lips warm and soft against his. He could feel her breasts pressed against his body, feel the hard peaks of her nipples against his skin. He needed her. She needed him. They needed this.

The sheets were cool and crisp against her back, her body warmer from Harry's touch. His trousers, his boxers, her panties were all forgotten on the floor by the bed. Without words (because there's no need for words here tonight) she urged him on. She could feel him, hard, warm, pressed against her. There was no describable feeling when he was inside of her; she was suddenly full with him. His thighs rubbed against hers with each slow, deliberate thrust. She held on to him. She felt him. He tried to memorize the feeling of being inside of her. She drew him down to her, crushing their lips together - lips, tongues and teeth clashing. But this - this - was life. They were alive.

She arched up against him, feeling his body tense; she held her legs tight around him, feeling her muscles still contracting, her body still shuddering. His breath caught, and he was so deep in her… She relaxed, feeling pulse after pulse of warmth as he emptied himself in her. He was trembling. She held him.

“I won't lose you,” he said in a choked whisper. “I won't go through what they're going through.” He lifted himself, still trembling, to look down at her. She touched his face, feeling the warmth of his skin. “Promise me, Hermione,” he whispered, so close to tears. She drew him down gently, pressing her lips to his, kissing him deeply, searchingly, promisingly. She wrapped her arms around him, loving the feel of his weight on her, feeling his arms sliding around her, under her. She closed her eyes listening to him breathing.

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007.

Broken

She didn't deny the inevitable - reality would always win out over delusion so she never bothered with pretending (it would only make the hurt worse in the end). The truth was that they couldn't stop others from becoming involved in this of their own choice. She hated that he blamed himself constantly; he needed to learn that people's own choices were not his responsibility. All the years she had known him he took the blame for things he couldn't stop from happening, things he had no control over, and sometimes it made her so angry; she just wanted him to realize he didn't have to carry the faults of the world on his shoulders. Not everything was his burden. She watched Ron getting a butter beer from the refrigerator, open the bottle, and watched as he swallowed a mouthful. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and strode towards them. She looked down at the map in front of her, pretending it was where her attention had been all the time.

“They'll be here soon,” he said to the both of them. Harry looked up at him.

“It's not right,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “They shouldn't come here. This isn't their battle.”

“It's everyone's battle,” Hermione argued. “You just seem to bear the brunt of it.”

“You know you can't go it alone, mate,” Ron said quietly. “They're your friends, too; they'd never let you do it alone, and neither would we.”

“They shouldn't come,” he said again. He looked back down at his book; it was hard to look Ron in the eyes lately.

“They'll be here soon,” Ron repeated and left the kitchen.

It was late evening when they arrived. Harry and Hermione could hear their voices floating in from the other room. Neville's voice had gotten deeper over the years but still very recognizable, and Luna's voice was still melodic and slightly sing-songed at times. They could easily hear Ron's distinctive voice as he was talking to them. Harry and Hermione closed the books they were reading, researching ways to keep him alive (because she refused to accept he wouldn't live through this, not after all they had been through, and what he still had to go through). She ran her fingers through his hair as he closed his eyes.

“You're exhausted, Harry,” she said softly. “Maybe we should save the proper greetings for breakfast.”

“I don't want to be rude,” he replied as he opened his eyes and she took his hand, lacing her fingers through his.

“I think they'll understand, Harry,” she replied. “Besides, I think Ron has it under control.” He nodded and kept hold of her hand as they stood to leave the table.

The sitting room was warm from the crackling fire and Ron, Luna, and Neville were standing in a half-circle by the sofa. Harry noted that Remus and Tonks weren't present, meaning they had gone to patrol the area, making sure any dark forces stayed away.

“Hello, Harry,” Luna said softly. Somehow, her eyes looked different than he remembered. Ron and Neville followed her gaze. It still felt slightly awkward around Ron. He hadn't lost his temper like they expected him to when they told him they were together, but things had been tense. He fancied Hermione then and the way he averted his eyes told them he fancied her still. He didn't make a fuss, at least not to Hermione's knowledge. He and Harry had had words and it ended there, and neither of them felt Hermione need know about it.

“Why her, Harry?” Ron asked quietly, his face pained with no anger present. “You could any bloody girl you want. Why Hermione? Why did you have to pick the one girl I could see myself with?”

“Because I love her,” Harry replied softly. “I love her so much, Ron. I need her.” Ron looked away and Harry hated that it had to be this way. It wasn't fair, and he wished it were different; he would do anything for Ron, he would die for him, but he couldn't give her up.

“So do I,” he whispered, looking out the frosted window. Harry didn't ask which part of his statement that pertained to - he was sure he knew.

“We hate to seem rude,” Hermione said, bringing him back to the present. “It's just been a really long day and we're exhausted.”

“It's alright,” Ron said.

“We understand,” Neville added.

“Ron, would you mind showing them their rooms?” she asked. He shook his head and she and Harry both thanked him, and he watched the two of them went up the stairs.

“Love can be a painful thing when it involves loss,” Luna said softly.

“Yeah,” Ron replied in much the same softness, and without really thinking.

“Before we turn in,” Neville said, “maybe there are some things we should talk about?”

“The kitchen has pretty much become the meeting room,” Ron replied, motioning for them to follow.

Neville listened intently as Ron explained the rules to him. They were to go nowhere alone, and should have an Order member with them for safety; if the need to go out arose, they were to disguise themselves as much as possible, speak to no one, and a member of the Order must be present. He explained some tactics they had been practicing and studying, safe places to go if by some chance they were found out and attacked.

“At least we know Harry has a fighting chance,” Neville said.

“We're not going to let him die,” Ron said. “He should be able to really live; he deserves that much. I'd rather die than…” he swallowed harshly.

“You're a fierce friend, Ronald,” Luna said, reaching a hand across the table to cover his. For a moment her hand on his took him by surprise, unsure of how to react to her gesture. He just looked at her hand over his.

“Harry is my best friend,” he replied, and realized he was thankful for her warm touch. “Nothing in the world could ever change that.” We've always been there for each other; he's never let me down. I won't ever stop being his best friend - even if we're both in love with Hermione. I just want things to be ok.

“I just want one promise,” Neville said, interrupting Ron's thoughts; his warm eyes were suddenly painfully serious.

“What is it?”

“I want to fight, Ron. I don't want to be a back up or sit on the sidelines; I want to fight,” he said solemnly, and then his voice softened. “I deserve that…for my Mum a-and my Dad.” Tears shone in Luna's eyes and Ron swallowed hard against the knot in his throat.

“We would never take that right from you, Neville,” he said seriously. Neville nodded a wordless thanks, blinking back tears, and excused himself to bed.

“Ronald,” Luna said, “would you like to get some fresh air with me?”

“Sure,” he replied, figuring Lupin and Tonks weren't far. He knew they never left the property, and Moody and Shacklebolt were somewhere close by as well.

The nights were getting cooler as the last days of late summer drew to an end. They looked up at an inky, starless sky; it reminded them both of velvet. Ron leaned up against the garden wall and Luna sat down in the grass beside him.

“It must hurt,” she said, “seeing them together.” He didn't look at her, but she watched him swallow.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he replied quietly.

“Harry and Hermione.”

“That's rubbish, Luna. I'm happy for them. We've all been through enough hell; if they've found a little bit of happiness then I'm happy for them.” He looked at her briefly and then back out at the darkness.

“You're an awful liar, Ronald. I can see the hurt in your eyes,” she said softly. She watched him swallow harshly again, and crossed his arms over his chest.

“You're dead wrong,” he snapped. “They are my best friends, Luna. I'm happy for them.”

“But it hurts.”

“So what if it does?” He looked at her again, his eyes a mixture of hurt and anger, possibly annoyance. He didn't like that she knew his private thoughts; even he didn't like to acknowledge them. “I can't change anything. I wouldn't change anything,” he said. “I just… They really love each other. That's all that matters.”

“But you still love her,” she said softly. He closed his eyes for a moment. He'd always thought Luna was a bit mental, but after the Department of Mysteries he had realized no matter how quirky she could be, she was devastatingly loyal and she was true in her intentions as their friend. He breathed out slowly.

“Yeah,” he whispered. He slowly slid down the wall to sit beside her. “But what difference does it make? I mean, she's my best friend, too, and we're too… different. It never would have worked, Luna.” He didn't look at her as he spoke, looking down at the grass instead. He never was good at talking about this sort of thing.

“But it still hurts,” she said softly. He looked over at her and nodded. She put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed for a moment, before dropping it back down to the grass.

“I suppose I'll learn to love her like I love Ginny,” he said and looked at her. For the first time all night a soft smile touched her lips.

“Perhaps,” she replied mystically. She looked at him and he smiled a little, too. “You're doing a really good thing, Ronald. It's a very selfless thing, putting their feelings before your own. War isn't the only thing that takes courage.” He felt sort of a sense of pride; it felt good knowing that someone else admired him for this, and that he really was doing the right thing but letting this go, letting things take their course.

“Thanks, Luna,” he said genuinely. She smiled and nodded, but he could see tears in her eyes. “What is it?”

“I miss Daddy,” she whispered.

He wasn't quite sure what to say. “Well, I suppose we could have a member of the Order escort you home; you don't have to do this, Luna.”

“Do you know why I'm here?” she asked softly, looking at him. He never realized how much he hated to see anyone cry, especially people he cared about.

“Well, I expect to help us fight,” he replied. He didn't hide his concern for her - her happy face was rarely ever shattered by tears.

“That's part of it,” she replied. “The other part is for protection.”

“What about your dad? He should be protected, too.” He watched as tears rolled down her cheeks, unsure of what he should do, or what was wrong.

“They killed Daddy, Ronald,” she said softly. “It happened earlier this evening; you don't know because the Ministry wanted to keep it quiet. They didn't want any undue attention, didn't want to stir things up. They're so afraid he might see it and…” she shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks.

“Luna…” he was at a loss for words. He tried to think of how she felt, how it would feel if they killed his father, and it hurt too much to even think it. He found it hard to speak around the knot in his throat. “I…I'm sorry.”

“Me too,” she whispered. She wiped a few tears, quickly replaced by new ones. She looked at him. “I miss him so much…” her voice was barely above a whisper, and the hurt on her face made his stomach churn, and produced a dull ache in his chest. He opened his mouth to say something, but found no words would come out. He hadn't expected her to turn into him, to wrap her arms around him. With her head rested on his chest, her tears dripping onto the front of his jumper, he sat still for a few moments, unsure of what he should do. He'd held Hermione at Dumbledore's funeral, and found that this was much the same circumstance. She was his friend. She lost her father; she would comfort him if he lost his. His arms slowly came to rest around her, unsurely settling across her back.

“We'll get them,” he said, his throat uncomfortably tight. He rubbed her back a little bit awkwardly. He wasn't used to being a comfort to anyone, but she had told him, not the other people there with them; for some reason she had confided in him. The ache in his chest sharpened a little. “I promise Luna, we'll get them for everyone they've ever hurt, and for your dad.”

“I don't want revenge. I want Daddy back,” she cried softly. He felt helpless. The tears burned his eyes and he fought them back. Not now. She needs someone right now. It was hard to see her so broken and in so much pain; he relaxed as he held her, the awkwardness disappearing. They couldn't bring her father back, no matter how much he wished he could in that moment; revenge was the best they could offer,

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008.

October

He stood by the window watching the wind blow the last of the orange leaves from their branches, watching the rivulets of water run down the glass pane. The summers they used to spend here, before so many lives hung in the balance, seemed so far away. So much had changed - it hardly had begun and he couldn't help wishing that it were already over. It had been eerily quiet over the past few weeks, neither sight nor sound from any Death Eaters (save Bellatrix LeStrange, and that was only to further Harry's torment). Hermione was calling it their calm before the storm; she told them all that this was the time for them to train, to figure out plans of action, and to figure out how to survive. He reckoned she was right, because she's always right (and he'd found that it was comfort knowing so).

Luna and Neville were meticulously reading over and studying tactical spells and approaches. He couldn't help but notice that she just wasn't the same after they murdered her father. He would know; he's spent significant amounts of time with her since she'd arrived, letting her confide in him for whatever reasons she chose to, and confiding in her little-by-little the things he normally would've kept hidden below the surface. He wasn't sure why, but there was a certain trust between them. Besides, he'd changed, too; he wasn't the same person anymore.

“Ron, are you alright?” Luna's voice floated over to him much like it had during their time at school. He thought it must be hard to mask her pain in front of everyone but him, when they were alone.

“I think I will be,” he replied, turning away from the window. “You two alright if I go up to see Harry for a bit?” Neville and Luna both nodded, and he could see the concern in her eyes; he let her know silently that everything would be fine.

Outside Harry's bedroom door he felt a sharp pang in his stomach - maybe it was jealousy, or maybe it was regret. At this point it didn't much matter anymore - he would have to let go of both. He could hear them both talking and hesitated a moment before knocking. “It's open,” he heard Harry call from the other side of the door. He opened it slowly, seeing Harry and Hermione sitting closely together on his bed.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “You think you have a few minutes?” Harry and Hermione exchanged glances before she rose.

“I'll go,” she said to Harry and he nodded. “You two need some time.” She looked at Ron as she made her way to the door. He stared mostly at his feet until she stopped beside him; he looked at her then. “Please,” she said softly, taking his hand. “For me.” For a moment or two the air in the room felt impossibly still, and then he nodded.

“For me, too,” he said quietly. “I need things to be ok, too.” He could see tears shining in her eyes as she nodded, squeezed his hand, and then she was gone. The door closed quietly. “I just wanted to talk,” Ron said quietly. He noticed that Harry was wearing an old orange tee shirt that used to be Fred's.

“Okay.”

“I wasn't ok with this at first, but…” he looked away from Harry for a moment, finding an invisible spot on the floor to stare at, finding this difficult to do.

“I'm sorry,” Harry said before he could say anything more. “Ron… we never meant to hurt you. I just… I love her so much.”

“I know you do,” he replied quietly and Harry stood. “Maybe I'm not in love with her - maybe I just thought I was, I don't rightly know to be honest, but I do love her, Harry.”

“I know - she knows, Ron,” he replied quietly.

“Just… take care of her, alright?” Ron said, looking at his feet, the knot in his throat powerfully tight. “Be good to her.”

“I will,” he promised. “You know I will, Ron.”

“Don't hurt her, Harry,” Ron said quietly.

“Never,” Harry replied, quietly as well. “I couldn't.”

There was a moment's pause, and Ron swallowed hard. “Don't let anything happen to her, Harry.”

“I'd die first,” he replied solemnly. They held eye contact for a moment and Ron nodded slowly. Harry remembered their fourth year, the first row they ever had. He remembered what it felt like then, to feel like he'd lost his best friend - what they had now was even stronger, they were closer, and he didn't think he could stand it if he'd truly lost Ron. “Ron?”

“Yeah?”

“Are… Are we ok?”

Ron gave him a lop-sided, sort-of-smile that didn't quite seem to come so easily anymore. “Always, Harry.”

“Good,” he replied. “Good.”

Ron turned to leave slowly, and for just that moment everything felt like it used to - he forgot about death and war, forgot that nothing at all was as it used to be. And the moment faded, like it always did. He turned in the doorway to look at Harry. “You know, you'll make it through this, Harry,” he said. “We'll see you through this.”

Harry nodded slightly. “Everything will be ok again, Ron, I promise. You'll all be ok again.” Ron nodded, unable to speak around the knot in his throat. Something in him ached when Harry didn't say it, when he didn't say he'd get through it - it wasn't right that for all of them to live he could have to sacrifice his own life. That' wasn't how it should be. He didn't want to have to think that Harry was so willing to die for them all - he shouldn't have to.

He passed Luna's room to find she was sitting on her window sill, knees drawn up to her chest. The look in her eyes was distant as he made his way to her and her face became visible in the semi-darkness. They could hear the low, ominous rumble of thunder in the distance. “Luna, are you ok?” he asked softly. She turned toward him then, and something in her eyes was painful, frightened, and it caused that ache in his chest again.

“Storms devastate, Ronald,” she said softly, distantly, the old mistiness of her voice replaced with that of something resembling fear and hurt. The knot in his throat returned and tightened. He knew what she meant, somehow, and knew that no one else could have understood in that moment.

And he remembered: Everything is going to change now.

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