Twelve, part 1

[amfiguree]

[Het/Slash] [Harry Potter] [Harry/Ron, Remus/Sirius, Hermione/Remus, Fred/George] [NC-17 -- Character Death! Incest!]



Twelve

after-middle:

The war ends in three years, but after so long it hardly matters. No one survives, not even the Muggles, because the destruction is so wide-spread by then that those still alive wish they aren’t, because they’ve lost too much, too many, and Harry thinks with twisted humour that he can’t begin to pick up the pieces of this war even if he wanted to.

If asked, Ron can count the number of friends he still has alive on two hands. Neville, for instance. And Susan Bones. Oliver Wood. Dean Thomas. Viktor Krum. Lucca from work. He would go on, but thinking about who’s still alive in your own family is morbid, even by Ron’s standards.

Then there’s Harry. But Harry’s a given, naturally, because if there wasn’t Harry, there wouldn’t be a Ron Weasley left to ask, either.

During the funeral, on the one-year anniversary, Ginny’d cried just thinking about it. It’s two years now, and Ginny cries just the same. Her eyes are haunted with the image - Hermione plastered to the glass like it was her second skin, blood almost soaking into the windowpane, her limbs twisted awkwardly, her mouth and remaining eye wide open, naked flesh from the wounds on her face, her body, like a coat of paint on the blood-slick glass. Ginny flinches at the memory, and nearly screams when Charlie touches her arm.

She leans against him, wearied, and watches Ron at the reception at their front door.

Ron manages a detached farce as he greets the guests; Harry stands by his side, a clean slate of emotion, and keeps his hand inconspicuously on Ron’s elbow the entire day. When they have time to breathe, Harry feels like he ought to say something, anything, but then there’s a cough - the kind meant to announce an arrival - and Harry swallows his words.

“Professor.” Ron and Harry say in unison, when they see who’s at the door. Dumbledore doesn’t visit often, but that day he does, with Moody by his side. Harry can’t help thinking they’re both partly responsible for sending Hermione to one of the most gruesome deaths seen in the war, as he watches Percy help Dumbledore to the chair Oliver smartly conjures up.

Percy and Oliver share a quiet, subdued smile over Dumbledore’s head as he thanks them, and Oliver takes the chance to briefly cover Percy’s hand with his own. He remembers, though so few others do, that Hermione’s death wasn’t the only tragedy that night.

The guests are milling around now, and one by one they wander to Molly Weasley’s side to offer their condolences. But Remus stands alone, and it seems he might almost resent their presences, the least pragmatic thought to ever cross his mind. He thinks about the age difference, though, sometimes - Dumbledore’s and hers, his own and hers - late at night, and has to scream into his pillow to keep it to himself. It’s almost like reliving the pain of Sirius’ death, and the thought of a future alone, twofold.

Remus looks, if possible, more haggard than before, and Harry had had to resist the temptation to ask - about Hermione, about Sirius, about everything and everyone he lost - for a long time. It’s in the emptiness of Remus’s eyes, all the guilt he’ll never say he feels. And to Harry, it was swallowing both him and Remus alive, but It was Ron who blurted, one day over a private dinner, “did you love Sirius more?”

It was an insignificant question, in the grand scheme of things, but Ron’d felt he owed it to Hermione, and Remus had taken a long while to answer. “When he died, and her parents shortly after that, it was.” He’d paused, “mutual. We understood each other, and it felt like Sirius nodded his approval every time he saw her through my eyes.”

Ron hadn’t gotten his answer, but he’d heard enough to understand, and he’d watched Remus’ hand close around thin air beneath the table as though he’d expected someone else’s hand to be there.

Remus lost both his lovers to the war, Harry reflects, as they carry on inviting people in as stoically as they carry on with life. So having Ron here next to him is-

Dinner that night is a quiet, solemn affair. Mr Weasley sits at the head of the table, and Mrs Weasley next to him. “Please,” they say, gesturing, and though it’s inviting, Charlie feels a chill down his spine as he looks at the empty chair by his father’s side, and the other empty chair at the table that everyone knows not to take. Four of the five remaining Weasley children sit, at their usual places, and Charlie pales as he looks away.

“I’m sorry,” he says, quietly, because it’s the only thing that won’t show them his voice is breaking, “I need to be excused.” He all but flees from the table, from the memories, before his knees buckle and he lets Ginny put her arm around his waist like she used to do Bill’s. Fred looks up from where he’s been staring silently at his plate, glancing over at the door, then at the unoccupied seat beside him, and when he quickly looks back down again, Ron pretends not to see wet spots on the tablecloth. This is why, he reminds himself, they only have family dinners when it’s absolutely unavoidable. There are too many gaps that can never be filled again.

Harry touches the small of Ron’s back with a warm, reassuring hand, but the smile Ron tries to give him is shadowed by the threat of tears.

Percy sees this, exchanges a look with Oliver, and manages a faint smile at his parents before he clears his throat. “Remus, Harry, Oliver, this is no time to be shy,” his gesture earns a nod from Mrs Weasley, and by the time Charlie re-enters the room, there’s a soft murmur of conversation going. Charlie sits, silently, and makes sure not to look at the empty chairs again, the same way Fred does, and everyone else makes sure not to mention the redness of his eyes.

The night after, Ron finds Harry alone in their apartment when he comes back from work. “You’ll catch your death sitting like this, mate,” he says softly, reaching to touch Harry’s shoulder. And wouldn’t that be ironic? He finds himself following compliantly when Harry pulls him forward, though, and hooks his arms around Ron’s back.

“Thank you,” Harry says, after a minute of silence, after a minute of holding Ron and feeling Ron hold him back. It sounds a lot like ‘I love you and I’m sorry I didn’t say it before’ and with the slightest twinge of guilt, ‘I’m glad it wasn’t you’.

Ron says, “okay,” and gets them both on their feet, and that sounds a lot like ‘it’s okay, I love you too.’

middle:

“Weasley, Weasley, Granger, you’ll be stationed here, waiting for the Malfoys. They’re headed for Grimmauld Place; Fudge only knows how they found it.” Red dots appear on the page as Moody speaks, labelled L. Malfoy, D. Malfoy, Avery, approaching a green dot labelled Grimmauld. It’s something Fred thought up, like the Marauders’ Map, but on a bigger scale. Only Fred and Moody know how to operate it, for security reasons, and even then only Fred understands how it works as a whole.

“Yes sir,” it’s said in unison, and Harry looks at them in terror.

Bill gives Ron an encouraging smile as Ron, clearly apprehensive, hugs him and Charlie in turn, but when he grabs Hermione’s wrist, all she says is, “this is like chess, Ron, remember? It’s the only way you get a clear path to check the King.” Then she hugs him, kisses Harry on the cheek, and they’re gone.

“No back-up?” Harry’s demanding, when Ron finally pulls himself together. “But there could be more of them that the map can’t detect! It’s failed before!”

“We have other Death-Eaters, Potter, ready to attack Hogwarts and the Muggle counties once Voldemort says the word. They’re all we can spare.” Moody’s magical eye swivels unnervingly from Harry’s face to Ron’s. “We need men here at the frontline to hold Voldemort off.”

“What if he doesn’t attack here?” Harry persists, because there’s a prickly feeling in his scar that he can’t ignore. “What if he’s there, with Malfoy?”

Snape sweeps into the room before Moody can answer. His hair is dishevelled, and his eyes are wild, “they’re here.”

The glass doesn’t shatter from the impact. Ginny looks up, screams. Molly runs in from the room next door where she was pressing red thumbtacks into the huge map, one for every fallen county in England. Ginny counts the blue and green spaces left untouched when she’s alone, and thinks, in consolation, that if they stuck all those small plots of land together, it’d be as big as her thumb.

Ginny’s not thinking about that now. Ginny’s not thinking at all, really. She knocks her chair over in her haste to move away, away from the window, stumbling into Molly’s arms in open-mouthed terror.

“Ginny, Ginny, oh Ginny,” Molly struggles for breath, gasping out her words like they’re air. Her cold, shaking hands map their way across Ginny’s warm skin, covering Ginny’s eyes with innate instinct that comes from six children before the one in her arms. But Ginny can see it even with her mother’s hand there and her eyes tightly shut.

The tears fall without warning, and Molly feels numbness tingling throughout her body.

Then Hermione begins to slide off the windowpane, and the glass is stained blood red; Molly averts her eyes. “They’re coming. He’s coming.” she hears herself say, mechanically, “Now, Ginny. Hurry. We must tell them.”

Ginny clasps her hands around her mother’s waist, and doesn’t cry until Molly pulls the picture of Hermione and Ron off the mantelpiece, gripping it to her chest, and there is the familiar tug at her naval as 12 Grimmauld Place is left empty once more.

Remus’ leaning against the door when they arrive, his eyes fixed on a distant point somewhere beyond the horizon, his eyes as dark as the circles around them. Molly collapses onto a chair, and Ginny sobs into her shoulder, reduced to the thirteen-year-old little girl she thought she’d outgrown for six years now.

They don’t speak; Molly knows Remus knows. And Remus knows she knows he knows.

Remus will retreat to the basement in a moment, where the werewolf charms have been put up, but until then they wait, wait to hear who else they’ve lost to the whole, pointless, fucking war, wait to have what’s left of their hearts bloody broken, and the whole time Ginny sees blood-matted hair pressed against her window, so red it’s the colour of her own.

“Charlie!” Ginny shoots out of her seat as soon as she sees her brother, and he takes her into his arms without really realising what he’s doing. His eyes are dead, and his robes are stained dark red. “Mum,” he says, and at that Molly Weasley stops craning her neck, because he’s back alone, and when Charlie collapses into her lap, they cry and cry.

Thirty-seven minutes later, Ron appears. He throws his portkey into the pile along with all the others, and almost trips over his own feet as he rushes to reach Molly’s side. But she doesn’t have to tell him, because Charlie’s presence says enough; her hand shakes on Ron’s shoulder, and his eyes are as red as his hair.

The first thing Harry hears when he joins the small company is the sound of Ginny’s quiet, uneven breathing. His stomach churns at the next; Ron throwing up in the kitchen. He barely registers this before he’s across the room, his fingers fisted as he fights the urge to tap Molly’s shoulder.

“Yes,” Molly whispers, without looking up, her hands still stroking Ron’s back through his robes as he heaves.

And Harry knows how bad it was, how bad it is, because Molly’s never so tactless. His stomach curls, and the lights flicker briefly before he manages to stagger out of the room.

Harry’s ready for Ron, later that night, and they meet with fumbling hands, salty kisses, and desperate, reckless sex. Neither of them cry; Hermione’s name is nothing but a faint, faint whisper on both their lips, and when they grip each other’s arms, they can almost taste the ghost of her scent on each other.

It’s too much to take in all at once, and Harry rolls out of bed as soon as they’re done. But Ron’s expecting that, as much as he expected-expected… he sits up as well, and grabs Harry’s wrist. “Mum says You-know-”

“You can’t fucking say Voldemort, and you think you can handle telling me?” there’s a hint of anger in Harry’s voice, and Ron knows it’s the only thing hiding everything else.

“You know he did it,” Ron says quietly, even though he thinks Harry’s right; Harry’s right because there’s no bloody way he can say this, no way he can listen to himself say it, “d’you want to know how?”

They’re both masochists, Harry thinks, ten minutes later when he’s in the bathroom with Ron, his hands where Molly’s hands were only hours before, Ron emptying the contents of his dinner into the sink for the fourth time. Downstairs he can hear Dumbledore, Percy and Arthur Weasley discussing the Order’s next move. Two hours is all the time you can afford for mourning in a war.

Harry clenches his teeth and look away.

step 9:

It only takes one spell to wipe out the entire Diagon Alley. When Ron gets there his first instinct is to kneel in the rubble outside his brothers’ joke shop, and start digging. Harry grabs him around the waist, forcibly dragging him back, and wrestles with a spell to clear the fallen debris. The mediwizards are on standby, collecting victims trapped beneath the collapsed buildings, and Harry barely has time to notice Tom being pulled out from under the signboard of ‘the Leaky Cauldron’ and laid out on a levitated stretcher, because his attention is drawn elsewhere.

“Fuck,” Ron whispers, tearing himself from Harry’s grip, “fuck. Fred.”

Fred coughs as he’s lifted from the litter of bricks, his eyes flicker open long enough for him to find Ron. “George,” he wheezes hopelessly, “George. Basement.” Then he passes out.

“I’ll look,” Harry hardly feels Ron’s white-knuckled grip on his shoulder. “Go with him.” Ron is pale beneath his freckles, ready to protest, and Harry gives him a ‘shut-the-fuck-up-and-listen’ look that he’s patented for years now. “Go.”

Ron snaps out of his trance, nods, and then hurries over to Moody, who’s already surveying the scene. “Sir, my brother. He’s. May I?”

Moody looks like he might give Ron the being-an-Auror-comes-with-responsibilities talk, but seems to decide against it, and he lets Ron go with a gruff nod of the head. Ron runs to catch up with Fred, and faintly hears Moody yell, “bodies out of the rubble! Now!”

When Fred wakes up he’s in St. Mungo’s, and his mother’s sorrowful, nervous expression hovers at the side of his bed. The other Weasleys stand beside her, gripping at each other for comfort. Ginny has her face buried in Bill’s chest, sobbing relentlessly.

“Where-” he begins.

“The hospital, love. You’ve been unconscious for three days,” his mother interrupts, and her voice sounds shakier than it should. “But you-you’re all right, Fred. The doctor said you’d be fine with some rest. Your ribs are healing nicely.”

“But where-”

Mr. Weasley silences him with a look. “Rest, son. You don’t have enough strength to sit up yet. We’ll be here when you wake up.”

But Fred suddenly sees Percy, standing behind everyone else, looking very, very small. “But why is he here?” the venom in his voice is enough to make Ginny wilt.

Ron handles it with surprising ease. “Shut up, you git, or I’ll douse you in Skelegro myself.”

“You know, Ronnikins, if you wanted to volunteer as a test subject for our newer pranks, you-”

“Fred.” Bill’s voice is gentle, but he’s the only one Fred listens to - the only one who can control any of his younger siblings, really - and Fred knows he’s toeing the line, so he gives Bill a helpless look and shuts up.

When Harry returns to the hospital wing later that night, with a fresh change of clothes for the Weasleys, he doesn’t expect to see Percy Weasley talking to Ron. Actually talking, with no raised voices or anger. It’s been years, Harry thinks, since that last happened, and he feels a chill run down his spine, like Ron’s fingertips tracing patterns over his back. He remembers what Percy said before, in the letter Ron fed to the fire, and if Ron believes Percy now Harry doesn’t think he’ll be able to survive.

“I read in the papers,” Harry hears Percy saying quietly, almost like he’s been crying, “and when Fudge wouldn’t let them speculate about-”

“It’s got Voldemort’s bloody signature all over it!” Harry explodes, suddenly, fear knotting his stomach like a toy engine wound up too tight. Both Ron and Percy look up in shock.

“I know,” Percy says, recovering. “That’s why I’m here.”

Harry glances at Ron, stunned to see that Ron seems willing to accept this in place of an apology. There’s a moment’s silence, before. “Thank you,” Ron’s voice is hoarse, “for coming back.”

Percy stares at him. Then they hug, and Percy weeps - huge, wracking sobs - into Ron’s shoulder as he fists his shirt, and Harry understands why.

Ron sleeps in Harry’s arms that night, his long limbs folded awkwardly to fit the contours of Harry’s body, curled up together the way Ginny’s curled up into Bill, with Charlie next to them. Ron needs the comfort, but he won’t ask, and Harry’s just thankful they’ve been together long enough that he knows how to give it.

“I love you,” Ron murmurs, in Harry’s ear. Harry knows that he would say it back if he’d ever learnt how. And Ron knows it too, so that’s enough. Harry watches Ron’s chest rise and fall as Ron falls asleep, hearing the whispered ‘I love you’ which comes with each breath. It keeps him preoccupied enough that there’s no commotion when Oliver Wood, muddy Quidditch robes, windblown hair and all, enters the wing at three in the morning.

Percy’s asleep at Fred’s bedside, where he’s kept watch for the past six hours, and Oliver touches his shoulder gently, “Percy?”

“Oliver. Thank god,” Percy’s awake in a heartbeat, his voice choked as he scrapes his chair against the floor in his haste to stand up. Harry watches as Percy catches Oliver in a breathtaking embrace, burying his face into Oliver’s neck. Oliver’s arms slide around Percy’s waist, and he runs his hands over Percy’s back, offering what little solace he can. “But,” Percy’s voice is muffled in the folds of Oliver’s cloak, “what about the Quidditch World Cup?”

“I heard about Diagon Alley,” Oliver says simply; Percy nods, grateful. And Harry turns his head to allow them a private moment to mourn.

“I’ll be back after work with a change of clothes,” Harry says softly, as he leans over to kiss Ron, tasting a tangy hint of marmalade. The rest of the Weasleys are sitting around the small impromptu table transfigured out of a chair, oblivious to anything but breakfast, though the mood is more serious than usual.

“Yeah,” Ron replies, with a thankful nod, and a mouthful of toast. Harry leans over to steal a sip of Ron’s coffee before he leaves. It’s bitter and cold, and it covers the taste of Ron’s lips completely.

“Harry,” Bill’s smile is warm as always, like his mother’s, but Harry can sense the undercurrent of… something else in Bill’s voice as he walks over. Ron gives them an odd look, but doesn’t ask. It’s Bill, and that’s answer enough.

Bill rests an arm round Harry’s shoulders, and leads him towards the door. He keeps his voice friendly, but quiet. “Ron and you. You saw them too, last night?”

Harry doesn’t play games; he knows where this is leading. “Ron was asleep by the time he came. And in any case, it’s not my place to tell. He’ll tell your mum when he’s ready.”

Bill’s smile is genuine this time, and his arm falls back to his side. “He’s my brother,” his voice is laced with the protective streak he’s famous for, “I’m obligated to worry.” There’s a pause. “Ron’s a lucky man.”

Harry nods his agreement as he continues down the hallway, calling over his shoulder, “yeah. He’s got you.”

“So do you, Harry,” it’s a quiet admission that Harry almost misses as Bill returns to Fred’s ward, but he enters the Ministry feeling a considerable lot more cheerful than the day before anyway.

When Fred wakes up again, his bones are fully healed, and still the entire Weasley family is there. As is Harry, whom Mrs Weasley insists is family enough that he could be her adopted son. This time though, Fred wants to know. Through the various interruptions, he’s undeterred, and when Mrs Weasley tries to feed him a third bowl of soup, his eyes turn dark with panic as he pushes her hands away.

“What’s happened to him?” There is a long hush of tearful silence.

“Tell me!” Fred’s voice quavers; he knows, Ron thinks, he knows.

“Fred, I-”

Fred’s face contorts as he looks at Harry. “You found him?”

Harry heart clenches with guilt at the accusation, as hard as Ron’s hand is grasping his own. Fred looks around the room at the stricken, helpless faces that are suddenly more foreign to him than anyone else’s he’s known in his life. “Why did you bring me here?” there’s more animosity and anguish in his voice than Harry thinks any of them can handle, and none of them know the right answer.

Charlie makes a sudden move, to hug Fred or to touch his shoulder, but they don’t find out. Bill puts his free, restraining hand on Charlie’s shoulder, his other soothing Ginny as she leans weakly against him, and Charlie hesitates, pulls back, and they watch Fred in ineloquent silence.

Then the dam breaks and Fred’s chest heaves with the effort of screaming through his pain, though so few know the real extent. “F-fuck you a-a-all!” Fred sobs, in wrenching gasps, like he doesn’t know how to stop, “w-why didn’t you l-leave me th-there?”

So that’s how the war starts: Voldemort, one; the Weasleys, grieving.

step 8:

Harry kisses Ron quickly on the lips before he rolls out of bed, “wake up, Ron. You’ll be late for work if you don’t. And then you’ll be in for a row with Moody.”

“Five minutes, Mum,” Ron mutters, and Harry splutters indignantly.

“Mum?! We’ve been living together for a year now and you…” he trails off as an idea hits him. “Christ, Ron! Do you fantasise about your Mum kissing you?”

Ron takes a moment to process that, and he jabs Harry in the stomach with an elbow as he blearily opens one eye, “say that again and you can shower alone this morning.”

They never really had a choice about becoming Aurors after they graduated, Harry thinks, because with Voldemort still on the loose, they’re all on edge. And like it or not, Remus would never agree to letting Harry out on a quidditch field at present, anyway. “Potter!” Harry almost ducks his head as he jerks; Moody still has that effect on him. Ron laughs from his seat at the table opposite, and Harry flings a whole string of expletives at him that just make him laugh harder.

“We have a family dinner at the Burrow tonight, and Remus and Hermione are coming!” Ron calls, as Harry walks resignedly towards Moody’s office, “so try not to stay in there too long!”

As it turns out, Harry’s kept in Moody’s office for over an hour, being railed at for his sloppy handwriting and his indecipherable reports. When he finally regains his freedom, even Ron looks a little impatient. “Come on then, we’re going to be late.”

By the time they reach the Burrow, Harry’s all but knackered. “You need to freshen up before we see Mum,” Ron tells him, a bit of a grin beginning to form on his face. “And I know just the thing.”

He leans over, kissing Harry squarely on the mouth, guiding him towards the staircase, in the direction of the toilet beside his old bedroom. Harry’s back hits the door as Ron fiddles with the doorknob, but neither of them notice. Harry’s hands have already shucked Ron’s shirt up.

“Locked?” Ron mumbles against Harry’s lips distractedly, “odd. Aloho-mmm’arry, bloody hell. Alohomora-ahhh, fuck, Harry!”

They stumble into the room as the door opens, Harry gasping for breath as the door slams shut and Ron works his way down Harry’s neck. “Christ, Ron,” he groans, his eyes slipping shut.

“Oi!”

They freeze, like first-years caught in the Restricted Section of the library with the wizard-karmasutra in their hands. Then Ron pulls himself free from Harry in shock. “Fred? George? What are you doing in here?”

“Shit,” George mutters, buttoning his shirt, looking at Fred. “Couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you, Fred? Let them get on with it while we left the toilet?”

“Shurrup, George,” Fred says, clearly dumbfounded now that the tables are turned. “Err, well. Nice to see you, Ron. You too, Harry. And you, Harry’s lovebite.”

“I’ll gladly tell Mum about Fred’s lovebite if Fred doesn’t shove it.” Ron threatens, without heat, his face still etched in surprise.

“We’ll give you free samples for a year!” George pleads, before Ron can go further. “Don’t tell Mum, Ron. She’ll flip. You know she will.”

“Isn’t that exactly what I said when you told Mum about Harry and me last year? You bloody-”

“Language, Ronnikins,” Fred teases, albeit half-heartedly.

“So you’re. Together?” Harry asks when he finally finds his voice, in complete and utter disbelief. “What, for how long?”

“Oh, no,” a voice says from outside the toilet, “you’re not leaving us out of this.” And then Bill, Charlie, Hermione and Ginny come tumbling in as Harry pulls the door open. “To think this is the first time we tried listening in to The Toilet conversation. What else have we missed?”

“Charlie!” George groans, and judging from the look on his face, Harry thinks George might just strangle Fred before this conversation is over.

Fred gives a weak laugh, “Eh-heh. So, err, you all know now?”

When they finally leave The Toilet, Harry feels a little dizzy. He’s been force-fed far too much knowledge about Fred and George’s love - make that sex - lives that he never wanted to know (and then sworn to secrecy on Gryffindor’s honour).

Apparently, Ron doesn’t feel the same way. “They started when they were Sixth-years and they never told us?!”

“We never even guessed,” Hermione says, dazedly, as they wander into the kitchen.

Fred and George trail behind them, almost nervously, exchanging glances and readjusting stray bits of clothing.

“Hello, loves!” Molly greets them, her smile as warm as the hot afternoon sun. “Come sit down, and tell me all that you’ve been up to.”

This, Harry thinks, after a satisfyingly large dinner and two glasses of wine, is why he loves the Burrow. The people, the food, and the pretty colours of the window, though not necessarily in that order. “I really don’t think you should be drinking that,” Hermione says, reaching for the glass in Harry’s hand.

“Yeah,” Fred agrees with a drunken smile, “you should.”

So Hermione’s made to down that glass. And the glass after that, and the glass after that. And when Molly and Arthur tipsily excuse themselves from the room, Bill locks the kitchen with a silencing spell, and then turns to them. “Fred? George?” he’s only slightly drunk, and he wobbles on his feet, but he might be the most sober of them all. “You may continue.”

By this time, everyone’s too drunk to care, or at least, Fred and George are, so Fred grabs George’s shoulders and proceeds to snog him senseless, much to Remus’ amusement.

“We can do better, ‘arry.” Ron leaves no room for argument, as he pulls Harry onto his lap and peppers wine-flavoured kisses over his collarbone before pressing their mouths together in a wet, wet kiss.

Hermione, not to be outdone, leans over the table and blinks owlishly at Remus. “They’ll laugh if I don’t,” she tells him, her voice slurred, “do you mind?” Remus answers by covering the distance between them and learning the taste of her mouth.

“Good,” she whispers, to Charlie’s catcalls and Ginny’s girlish giggles. They’ve been dancing around each other for months now, with shy, darting glances and careful smiles, and brief, fleeting touches.

“Good,” Hermione says again, as she sits back and smiles at Remus, ignoring Ron and Harry’s shocked expressions.

Remus takes Hermione home that night, when they’re a little less tipsy and there’s no sway in their step. He stops at her apartment door, and gives her a small smile. “I’d kiss you again,” she tells him, mock-seriously, “but I’m not the kind of girl who invites men in on first dates.”

He laughs, with a nod, “then I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

“And after, I hope,” Hermione ducks her head to hide the flush rising on her cheeks.

“And after,” Remus agrees, the corners of his mouth curving upwards. Hermione stands at her doorstep and waits till he apparates before going into the house.

Harry nudges Ron when Remus enters the Ministry the next morning. There’s a smile on his face a mile wide, and an equally bright one on Hermione’s.

Step 7:

“When you’re ready, he says; we’ll do it on your terms, he says,” Ron mutters to himself as he walks down Diagon Alley, his feet finding a familiar path without any real conscious effort. “Idiot. This is a good lifetime earlier than what I had in mind.”

“If you didn’t frown so much, neurotic behaviour would be rather attractive on you.”

Ron scowls as he stops short of what looks like a mirror, glaring at Harry, who’s leaning against the large, brass frame. “Oh, so now we’re talking again, are we? Well, at least one of us isn’t scared out of his bloody mind.”

“Does it really look that way?” Harry asks as he uncrosses his arms, and stands up properly, what’s left of his good mood promptly evaporating. “Good, because that’s the effect I’m going for. Now stop putting this off and let’s go inside.”

“Putting this off?!” Ron’s tone fair reeks of disbelief. “I try to get you to say three, little words-oi! Harry, don’t you dare run away from this again!”

But Harry’s already stepped into the mirror - through it, really - and out of Diagon Alley. Ron follows, too caught up in his anger to appreciate the mild traces of magic rippling over him as he enters a messy little shop stacked from ceiling to floor with various odds and ends that read ‘Delipscious: give them a whopping banger of a kiss they’ll never forget’, and ‘Uppies: the wizarding world’s replacement for undies!’ and in fine print, ‘retailers are not in any way responsible for lingering side effects’.

Harry snorts as he wanders through the seemingly endless shop, knowing one of the Weasley twins will pop up soon enough. Ron’s not far behind him, but Harry hopes to keep it that way.

“The door is bloody brilliant!” they can hear someone, who sounds uncannily like Ron from their younger days, thumping his hand on the second-hand table that serves as the cashier/counter in the shop, and Harry thinks ‘saved’ with a small stroke of guilt. This, he’s sure, will put Ron’s lecture off at least for now.

“Thanks,” Ron can see George handing a bag to a boy as he rounds a corner that puts the counter into plain view. “A stroke of genius, we like to call it. Now you just pop that into your brother’s pudding this evening, and he’ll be sneezing yellow, lemon-flavoured snot all over the place by tomorrow.”

“Wicked!” the child holds the bag to his face with more than mild fascination.

“Are you actually allowed to sell that?” Harry grins as he props his elbow on the table, watching the boy wander off.

“Are you asking me if ‘Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes’ deals in illegal business?”

Ron puts in placidly, “actually, if you’ve got something along the lines of Veritaserum in stock-“

“Deal,” George says, quickly, like Ron might change his mind. “Let me just…” he disappears down the narrow, winding staircase hidden carefully behind the counter, yelling his twin’s name as he vanishes into the basement, where it’s said they keep their stock (read: the stuff that won’t fit on the shelves).

Ron has a Cheshire smile on his face, silky smooth and not at all like the Ron who’d yelled at Harry the night before, certainly nothing like the Ron Harry’d yelled back at. Harry’s furious, and his cheeks turn almost pink as he clenches his fists. “You’re out of your mind,” he states, flatly.

“Aww, Harry, don’t bowl me over with your emotion!” Ron smirks, watching Harry roll his eyes with a flare of triumph. They’re going to hash it out if he has to steal actual Veritaserum from Moody himself. “It was bound to-Bill!”

“Hello, you two,” Bill’s tan is darker than he remembers, and when they hug, Harry feels a little more muscle than before. “I thought I’d pop in to see the two idiots before I go off traipsing ‘round India for a lark.”

“If by lark, you mean job,” Ron begins, unhappily, as Bill tugs him to his chest.

“You know that’s exactly what he means,” Fred interrupts, as he enters the room with a huge grin on his face. “Hallo, Bill. Thought you’d get a few pranks to frighten the Curses, did you? Come to the right place, you have.”

“Well, I can’t say you’re not doing well for yourselves,” Bill greets the twins with a quick smile, but it’s gentle in its own right, and Fred’s expression softens. Ever since Dumbledore sent Bill back to his Cursebreaking job around the world at the end of Ron’s sixth year, Bill’s visits have been a rare treat for Fred. Rarer, even, than before.

George pushes Fred forward, giving Bill a quick squeeze around the stomach before leaving the path wide open for Fred to take.

“Come here,” Bill says, before pulling Fred into a bone crushing hug that Fred willingly returns.

“Why’d you take so long down there anyway?” Ron asks George, turning his attention away from his brothers, to give them a moment to catch up and revel in each other’s presence. But he fancies he sees George dart a glance at Fred before surreptitiously turning up the collar of his shirt, so quickly Ron can’t be certain if the purple-red mark he thought he’d seen there is imaginary or not.

“We, ah. Well. There’s a new product we were testing, and-”

“Perfect timing, Ronnikins,” Fred smirks, with absolute composure, as he shifts to face Ron, cutting George off quickly, “George was just telling me about your lover’s spat.”

“Our what?!” and if they hadn’t given it away before, Harry thinks remorsefully, that just did, because there’s no logical reason he can come up with that covers telepathy and mutual gaping between two male just-friends.

“But-but. How-” Ron splutters, aghast.

“’d you know?” Harry finishes.

“And for how long?”

“And why didn’t you say anything before?”

“Why, so we could spare you the pain of confessing?” George looks like he’s about to laugh, but Harry, for the life of him, can’t see the faintest spark of humour in his current predicament.

“That’s a nice thought,” Ron says, acidly, “you should bottle it up for Christmas.”

“How d’you plan on telling Mum if you can’t even tell us?” Bill’s matter-of-fact, as usual, and Harry’s thankful for it. It grounds the situation a little, makes it less surreal. Bill pauses for a moment as Ron flails hopelessly for an answer, then, “in any case, the both of you are bloody obvious and it makes no sense to try to keep it quiet. Charlie already saw it that time, after Harry’s first task in your fourth year.”

“We weren’t together then!” Ron sounds defiant, or tries to, but that tone of voice doesn’t work on Bill.

“We figured that out too.” Bill says with a smile, almost tipping the scales between condescending and knowing and wise.

“Oh.” It’s not a nice thing, Harry muses, to find out that everyone’s known about you before you know about you. He exchanges a look with Ron.

“Does that mean you’re not arguing anymore?” that’s George, a lot relieved and a little mischievous.

When Ron doesn’t answer, Harry follows suit, and Fred pushes them gently towards the door. “I think you two should go home and talk,” he tells them, uncharacteristically serious. Two pairs of shoulders sag at the words and he hastily adds, “but I’ll keep the Veritaserum handy just in case.”

“I think he did well,” George says with a sunny smile, after they’ve gone, “don’t you?

Fred looks at Bill disconcertedly, and collects himself only after Bill nods. “I’ll just put myself away, shall I?” George knows how Fred and Bill are, but before he can make himself scarce Bill shakes his head.

“I’m just on my way out,” he tells them, clapping his hand on Fred’s shoulder briefly. Fred doesn’t have to say ‘take care’ for Bill to hear it. His outline hangs in the air, sparkling green for a second, after he apparates, and then falls to the floor like a cloak.

“Well, err, I suppose we could get back to… trying out that new product?” Fred announces, to the empty shop, and George’s answering look has both of them scrambling to get down to the basement.

They’ve been sitting in the booth for over an hour now, chugging their beers and watching the flow of wizards in utterly frigid silence. If this is Harry’s definition of talk, Ron sighs, they’re going to be stuck in the bar for a long, long while. He tips the last of his third bottle of Butterbeer into his mouth, and just as he’s about to call for another, he feels a knobbly knee settle comfortably against his own.

There’s a pause, then, and Ron holds his breath. When Harry finally leans closer so they’re pressed against each other, from shoulder to ankle, Ron relaxes against Harry’s side, and thinks that maybe there’s enough space for Harry’s definition of talk in his Dictionary after all.

Step 6:

It’s in the middle of a Potions class when McGonagall calls for Hermione. “Professor Snape, I’d like to see Miss Granger, please.” Something in McGonagall’s tone makes Harry certain Hermione won’t be back for the rest of Potions class. He half expects Ron to lean across his cauldron and whisper, ‘Lucky bird! I’d give anything to get out of this class.’ but to say things have been strained between them lately would be an understatement.

“I’m afraid I have bad news for you, Miss Granger,” Harry can hear McGonagall saying as they step away from the classroom door. “Come with me, please.”

Harry sees Ron look up at the door for a small eternity, before sighing and going back to scribbling furiously at his parchment. He never looks at Harry once.

McGonagall leaves Hermione alone in her office, her face taut with distraught, and Hermione hardly has time to take a breath before Remus suddenly joins her in the room. “Remus!” Hermione exclaims, and at the look on his face she feels her chest tighten, like she’s been winded and she can’t catch her breath again. “Tell me, what is it?”

When he opens his mouth, it’s all she can do to hear, “your parents… car accident… thought it best I broke the news…”

She stares at Remus, uncomprehendingly. The words hold no meaning to her, less meaning even than the page-long passage in the ‘Advanced Book Of Transfiguration: For Wizards Of The Highest Order’ she’d tried to decipher only last night. Remus looks at her in concern when she laughs, the sound shrill and constricting.

“Hermione…” he reaches out to her, grimacing. He can’t think what it was that possessed him into agreeing to this; he knows he’s hardly curbed his own grief - the proof is written all over the long, angry, red lines that are hidden beneath his cloak, signs of an agitated animal gone wild without a human mind to restrain him, signs of the feelings he hides so well; to deal with Hermione’s pain now will only undo him.

Hermione is strangely silent as she backs up against the tall, oak cupboard leaning against a wall. She’s silent as she slides to the floor, silent as she presses her knees to her ribs, her face hidden by a curtain of wild, brown hair. She remains silent as Remus kneels by her side, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, and it’s only the shaking of her entire body that tells him of her pain.

Remus sits beside her, his thigh snug against hers, his arm warm and heavy around her, and he looks up at the ceiling, desperately not remembering the nights he’s spent in the exact same position, carrying the same burden, the same useless guilt.

Someone out there, Remus thinks, is playing a joke on him. This scene is too much like the one a year ago, the pallbearers are the same - himself, Hermione, Harry, Ron - even if the positions are slightly altered. The guilt is a dead weight on his hands, as palpable as the coffin, and he struggles not to falter in his step.

Hermione’s face is set in stone, Remus imagines it is much like his own was, last year, when the coffin he carried meant more to him than the death of distant acquaintances, when lowering the coffin had meant giving up his entire world. He wonders if Hermione feels the same, if her agony surpasses his. He doesn’t know that any kind of sorrow can measure up to his own though, not when their history had been so interlinked, not when their shame and sharp edges had kept them together as much as their laughter and their childish pranks.

There’s a roar in his ears so loud by then that all he sees when Hermione stands to give the eulogy is himself standing in the rain by Sirius’ grave, tasting salt in his mouth, feeling the sting of water on his face, even after the rain stops.

Hermione’s a wreck after the wake, and Ron only just manages to get her into bed. Ron feels drained himself, and in no mood for vanquishing evil overlords, so when he sees a moving shadow in the dorm, he’s startled.

“Harry?” Ron tilts his head, squinting in the dark, trying to make out if it’s really Harry’s outline he’s seeing. Harry looks up from where he’s sitting - the edge of Ron’s bed - and offers Ron a weak smile that only serves to alarm. “What’s wrong, mate? D’you need Pomfrey?”

“I’m sorry, Ron.” Harry whispers, and at that admission, Ron’s eyes grow wide and he presses his hand to Harry’s forehead. “I’m sorry it took so long for me to realise I’m sorry.”

Ron backs away a little, the look on his face ranging from shock to fear to distrust, and he says, in a tone meant to threaten, “what’ve you done to my best mate? And what do I have to do to get him back?”

Harry feels himself growing desperate, “Ron, it’s me.”

He suddenly understands Ron’s guardedness; two months ago, Snape’s Occlumency lessons had proved their worthlessness. Voldemort had managed to possess Harry in his sleep, and Ron had borne the brunt of it. Ron’s the only one who really knows what happened that night, because Harry can’t remember a thing, and Ron maintains his silence on the whole issue.

Harry will never know why Voldemort hadn’t simply blasted everyone in the room with a simple killing curse, but he knows they found him and Ron in the toilet, Ron on his back on the floor, arms raised, and Harry with his wand drawn, ready to slice Ron’s neck with a well-placed spell. Seamus had knocked him down with a petrificus totalus and hauled Ron to his feet before running to get Dumbledore. But Ron hasn’t been quite the same since, and Harry doubts Ron’ll ever properly heal, like the faded scars mapped across his back that Ron never talks about.

“I’ve been a selfish git for over a year now, and I don’t know why you put up with me,” Harry continues, earnestly. “And I might’ve had a chance to tell you before but then there was that idiot scare with Voldemort,” Ron winces, and Harry kicks himself because he’s saying all the wrong things, but he can’t shut up now, “and the Occlumency lessons got even harder, and I was just pissed off at the bloody world and wallowing because of Sirius, and I never really got the chance to think about you, or Remus, or Hermione, or. Or.”

Harry pauses to take a breath, and he sees Ron relax a fraction, “and then this happens, and it made me think about someone else’s pain for once, instead of always thinking of my own, and.” He licks his lips, and sees Ron move an inch out of the corner of his eye. “So I realised. Realised how much I should’ve said to you but…”

He doesn’t know what to say anymore, and if he doesn’t have Ron convinced by now he’s going to be hexed into the middle of next week. Then the terse silence dissolves along with the tension, because Ron crawls closer and says, “yeah, Harry, you’re a right selfish arse.”

Harry laughs, the relief coming so suddenly that he’s not quite sure what to do with it.

“Come here, you self-centred git,” Ron spreads his arms, and Harry goes after only a moment’s hesitation. Ron’s arms are tight around Harry’s back, and as they lie down together, Harry turns his face to Ron, and when Ron smiles at him, Harry feels the building guilt of the past few months stirring in his stomach.

“Take off your shirt, Ron,” Harry whispers, as Ron touches the corner of his mouth with a gentle finger.

“Only if you take yours off, too,” Ron whispers back, with a startled laugh. But he can tell from the look in Harry’s eyes that this is important, so he complies. “What’s wrong?”

Harry sits up, leaning over Ron and nudging him gently so he’s lying face-down. “Harry,” there’s a hint of panic surfacing in Ron’s voice, “Harry, don’t.”

Harry is quiet - Ron’s not going to talk about it now, not if he hasn’t already. So he touches the jagged line of a scar, softly, and there’s a burn beneath his finger from the remnant magic that Ron can’t wash away. Dark magic; powerful. His mouth replaces his finger, and Ron shudders as he feels Harry’s warm breath ghosting across his skin. Each kiss says ‘I’m sorry I hurt you’ more eloquently than Harry can.

“S’all right, Harry,” Ron says, almost soothingly, as Harry’s lips continue on their path down the scar, before moving on to the next one, and the one next to that, and the one that trails below Ron’s waist. “The pain washed away.”

It’s a lie all the same, Harry knows, and his eyes burn like Ron’s skin beneath his finger when he sees how tightly Ron is gripping the pillow. “Ron,” he says, just as Ron says, “Harry,” and Harry decides this is turning out exactly like last year. He finds himself crossing his fingers.

This time Ron moves first, rolling over so he’s on his back, and he stares up at Harry, assessing, like he’s deciding if he can survive a mistake on Harry’s part a second time.

Then Harry shifts to meet him halfway and their mouths are hot, and wet, and uncertain, but it’s the same as before, only better, and oh, oh Merlin. But then Harry stops thinking coherently because Ron pulls away and Harry’s mind and lips are shouting, ‘come back! Come back!’

“Are you sorry this time?” Ron asks, after a moment, a wary glint appearing in his eyes.

“What?” Harry nearly laughs at the incongruity of the question. Then he remembers, and his voice dies in his throat. “Only that you’ve stopped,” he says instead, and Ron’s smile is like the sun coming out.

Then Harry leans over, and when they kiss again, Harry stops thinking altogether, because Ron tastes like something he thought he’d lost forever when Sirius died, cliché as it sounds. Ron tastes like home.

“Hurry up, Harry, or Malfoy’s going to be all over the quidditch field and we won’t get to practise!”

Hermione frowns at that. “Don’t you have homework to-”

“If I get into a row with Hermione, it’s your fault,” Ron all but yanks Harry out of his seat, ignoring her, and Hermione squawks indignantly as he cuts her off.

Hermione turns to Neville, who’s sitting on her other side, “can you believe how irresponsible… Neville?”

But he’s not listening, and Hermione follows his gaze to where Harry’s hand is fitted snugly into Ron’s. “Harry!” Neville suddenly finds his voice, and the name spills out before he can stop it.

Harry cottons on quickly, though, when he turns and spots the look of distress and utter confusion on Neville’s face. “Ron,” he says, lowly, trying to jerk his hand away.

Neville can see Ron, clearly refusing to let go, from his seat at the table, and he can also see the ghost of a smile on Harry’s face as he walks out of the Great Hall with Ron, hand-in-hand.

Step 5:

Charlie doesn’t get to come home very often, and on the days he gets lucky, he doesn’t expect a welcoming party sitting in the kitchen waiting for him. “’’lo, Mum, Dad,” he kisses her cheek once he enters the room, trekking mud and rainwater all over the floor. “Hello you two, when’d you get back?”

“Charlie, love,” Molly says, distractedly, her eyes moving from Percy to Charlie, and back again.

“Hello Charlie,” Percy draws himself up superciliously. “Your timing is impeccable. I was just about to talk some sense into our parents, and your help would be invaluable. You see, Mum, the Minister’s already shown deep tolerance and fortitude-”

“Right, Percy,” Charlie raises an eyebrow, unable to curb a snort of laughter, “leave your pomposity at the door. It’s bad enough on the Fudge, and it certainly doesn’t sound much better on you. Now don’t let the big words confuse you and repeat what you said - d’you really mean to tell me you don’t believe Voldemort is back?” Bill’s the only one who doesn’t flinch at the use of the name, and Charlie ponders the effect of a working environment on a wizard for a brief moment.

When Percy opens his mouth indignantly to answer, Bill knows instinctively that his hopes for a quiet family dinner are dashed.

Later that night, after Arthur’s broken all the cutlery in the house, and Molly’s cried enough to do both Ron and Bill’s laundry for the next week, Bill helps Charlie ice his bruised knuckles. Charlie hisses, his eyes still bright with anger, and Percy’s slumped, unconscious body jerks involuntarily at the sound, as if preparing itself for a second blow. “That’s a nasty bit of work,” Billy says lightly, as Percy’s head lolls forward and the big purple-black bruise forming on his cheek down to his chin becomes even more prominent.

“Would’ve been worse if Mum hadn’t been there,” Charlie laughs, painfully, “I think Dad would’ve socked him, too.” Then he changes the subject, like thinking about it too long will prompt another reaction at Percy’s expense. “So. Desk-job, eh? No more roaming around the world.”

“Dumbledore thinks it best,” Bill nods, replacing the warm towel with a cold one with a flick of his wand. “And this way I get to keep an eye on the kids.”

Charlie grins at the tone in Bill’s voice. “You’d think they were yours, the way you go on about them,” he says. “I’ve heard of housewitches, but you, a housewizard? Absurd, Bill.”

“Temporary, with any luck,” Bill replies, ducking his head, although Charlie fancies there’s a faint note of longing in his voice already. “The Order’ll need all the help they can get, soon enough, and cursed tombs are ready for the taking all around the world.”

Charlie smiles, tenderly, and pushes a strand of hair out of Bill’s face. There are times Bill seems to forget his kids know him better than he thinks. “I’ll have enough fun for the both of us,” he promises, and that somehow seems like the right thing to say.

It’s in the early hours of the morning, before the moon disappears and the sun comes up again, and Bill can hear Molly’s agitated muttering in her sleep as he ‘accio’s another cold towel to the table. Charlie’s asleep in Bill’s room, and Bill’s alone in the kitchen with Percy. He presses the chilly cloth to Percy’s cheek; it would be grudging, but Percy’s his brother, and Bill values that more than his anger.

“Bill,” he’s stunned, momentarily, when Percy sighs his name, but he recovers before Percy’s noticed.

“Shh,” he says softly. “Let me finish, or it’ll be worse in the morning.”

But Percy’s persistent, and even through his drowsiness, Bill can hear the conviction in his voice, “Bill, you must help me convince them. If they don’t co-operate, the Minister could very well expel-”

“Percy, stop your sanctimonious little sermon before I’m tempted into giving you a matching bruise on the other cheek.” Bill says this sternly, but there’s an inborn tone of gentleness that he can’t resist slipping in. This is Percy, he has to remind himself, and there’s silence as he changes the towel again.

When Bill wakes up the next morning, both Charlie and Percy are already gone, and no one gets the whole story besides the five people in the room that night. The twins are told the abridged version: the one that doesn’t involve fists and Charlie and Percy passing out. By the time Ginny’s told, the matter’s been condensed into all of three sentences: ‘Percy yelled at Mum and Dad.’ ‘Then he disowned us, packed his bags, and left.’ The last line has to be censored for Ginny’s sake.

But there’s no time to dwell. Because the Order is rounded up, discussing strategies, making plans, and then Harry arrives, and everything’s such a big mess that Ron doesn’t have time to breathe till he’s in the middle of a battle with a bloody Death Eater and all he can remember are warbled words and blood everywhere, and purple sparks, and clinging to Harry like his life depends on it. He remembers trying to say, “Harry! Help!” but all that he can manage is feeble laughter and a joke about ‘seeing Uranus’ that he fervently hopes Harry doesn’t understand.

Then even that’s all over, and suddenly the whole year’s worth of events hits him like a troll’s club to the head, and he’s standing outside Harry’s Muggle family’s door, knocking fervently, only hours after he’d left. Except, when Harry opens the door, Ron finds himself scrambling for words he can’t find. There’s a long pause, during which Ron tries to catch his breath.

“Err,” he manages, “I couldn’t find the fellytone.”

When Harry doesn’t smile, Ron pushes his way in, and follows Harry up to his room, ignoring Uncle Vernon’s bristling moustache. They sit on Harry’s bed for a long time, silently, and Harry thinks about the fight in the Ministry, about how Ron had clung to him, about missing Ron’s first Quidditch match, about Ron standing up to Seamus for him, about the look on Ron’s face when he’d realised he was a Prefect, about how, for the first time in five years, they’d had to sit in separate compartments on the Hogwarts Express, and about Molly’s worst fear - the dead Boggart-Ron had lain, as pale and cold as marble, on the floor - and Harry can’t get rid of the rising panic in his chest.

“Ron,” he says, just as Ron says, “Harry.” And they both stare at each other, the silence descending on them like the pale moonlight through Harry’s window. Harry moves, suddenly, and catches Ron’s mouth with his own. He’s not sure he meant to, but then they’re kissing, and Harry can hear Hermione saying, ‘oh, this is not a good idea’ over and over in his head…

“Harry,” Ron whispers, like he’s not sure what just happened.

“I wasn’t thinking,” Harry says, breathlessly, because there’s Sirius, and Umbridge, and Dumbledore, and Moody, and Percy’s letter, and a million things have happened this year, and they’re too young, and he should never, never have done that. “I didn’t mean to-I wasn’t, I wasn’t thinking.”

Something flickers across Ron’s face, an odd expression that Harry can’t place, and he leaves as silently as he came.

“Ron! Err, what are you doing home so la…” Fred trails off as Ron walks right past him, sullenly, and he raises an eyebrow at his twin, who shrugs.

“At least he didn’t ask what we were doing in the broom closet,” George says, relieved.

“I’ll be sure to lock it the next time,” Fred nods.

“Make next time now,” George tells him, and Fred pulls the closet door shut, locking it with a tiny click, and a half laugh-sigh can be heard from where Bill sits quietly in the next room.

“Professor,” Hermione’s voice is as small as she feels as Remus walks her home, “are you all right?” Hermione’s pragmatic, and sensible, and Remus is much the same, and neither of them know how to voice the emptiness he feels.

Remus’ hair shadows his face in the light breeze, like a tragic hero who doesn’t die in the war, who watches, instead, as everyone he cares about die in his place. “I’ll be fine, Hermione,” he says after a pause. He’d gone without Sirius for almost thirteen years before, the rest of his life doesn’t seem all that daunting.

Apparently it’s daunting enough for Hermione to say, “I’m so sorry, Professor.” Her sincerity touches him, more than anyone else’s can, “I’ll. Ron and I. We’ll keep an eye on Harry for you.”

Remus surprises himself by saying, “thank you, Hermione.” It only just occurs to him that seeing Harry now will be too much for him to handle, so soon after Sirius’ death. He gives her a tired smile, the youth long gone from his haggard features, and as they reach her doorstep she touches his hand, quickly.

“Professor, my parents are away on a business trip for a few days. I’d. I’d feel safer if you stayed.”

Remus knows what Hermione’s trying to do. The thought of returning to Grimmauld Place, and so soon, is beyond him. Everything there belongs to Sirius. Everything there holds a little memory of the two of them, the ghost of a lover he’ll never see again. Remus nods at her, and follows her into the house.

Continued in part 2