'The Dead Boy': Part II

[akissinacrisis]

Continued from Part I

The Dead Boy

II: Something More Solid

And I have forgotten your eyes,
And the way that your hair spun curls in the beating of rain.

~ Kathleen Coates, ‘A Year and a Day’

They get back together. And then they break up. And then they get back together again. And then they break up again. But this time - this time, Hermione knows, it’s different.

They get back together again, of course, and one day, they buy a nice house together. Another day, lying in bed in this nice house, Hermione says, ‘Ron?’

‘Yeah?’ he murmurs, running his hand lazily down her back.

‘Do you want to have a baby?’

He sits up. ‘You’re pregnant?’

‘No!’

‘Oh, so ...’ He lies back down. ‘Do you mean ...’

‘I mean ...’ She can’t meet his gaze. ‘In, maybe, a year or two. Not right now.’

‘Yeah, I do.’

‘Oh, good,’ she says, propping herself up onto her forearms. ‘Shall we get married?’

‘What?’

‘Well, it’s just ...’ She forces herself to look into his eyes. ‘If we’re going to have children, I think we should be together forever, don’t you? All the evidence suggests that married parents -’

He pulls her down to him and kisses her. ‘Hermione Granger,’ he says, ‘of course I’ll marry you.’

The next year, they are married, and nine months later, there is Eliza.

*

‘Pity it’s not a boy,’ says Fred. ‘You would have called him Harry, right?’

‘We thought about it,’ says Hermione softly, stroking the face of her newborn daughter.

Fred shrugs and pulls a face. ‘What about Harriet, then?’

Ron snorts. ‘I think Harry would have been more offended than honoured by that, to be honest.’

Hermione smiles.

She is pulled out of her contemplation of her daughter’s exquisite dark strands of hair by the shout of a child from the corridor. Three seconds later, the door flies open and Ginny and her ten-year-old burst into the room. ‘Is that her, is that her?’ cries Harry’s daughter and she bounds up to the bed. ‘Can I see? Can I see?’

‘Oh for God’s - Hermione, sorry,’ says Ginny. ‘Come here and give them some space -’

‘Do you want to hold her?’ asks Hermione.

The girl’s eyes are wide. ‘Really?’ She spins around to look at her mother. ‘Please?’

‘If it’s OK with Hermione,’ says Ginny.

‘Of course it is,’ says Hermione. ‘Come up here and sit next to me, on the bed.’

Ron obligingly stands up and the skinny ten-year-old scrambles up and fills his space.

‘Now,’ says Hermione, ‘lean back against the pillow ... OK, here you go ... Be very careful, now ...’ She hands over the baby.

‘Wow,’ gasps Harry’s daughter as she clutches the baby to her chest.

‘How about Molly?’ asks Fred.

‘Fred, if you say that in front of Mum -’ threatens Ron.

‘You know,’ whispers Hermione as she and her niece gaze at the baby, ‘I was the first to hold you, after your mum.’

‘Seriously?’ she asks. ‘Wow.’

‘So she hasn’t got a name yet?’ asks Ginny.

‘Not yet,’ says Ron.

‘How about ...’ Fred screws up his face. ‘Something flowery?’

‘What, like ... Rose?’ Ron looks thoughtful. ‘Maybe.’

Ginny makes a noise of annoyance. ‘Just because it’s a girl doesn’t mean she has to have a flower name.’

‘Rich coming from the woman who named her daughter -’

‘Elizabeth,’ says Hermione. ‘I want to call her Elizabeth.’ She looks up at Ron. ‘I mean ... do you -?’

He looks at his daughter. ‘Yeah,’ he says after a second. ‘Elizabeth.’

‘Damn it,’ says Fred, looking put out. ‘I had money on a month-long fight.’

It is then that Bill, Fleur and their children, Frank, Clement and baby Pierre appear in the doorway.

‘Cool!’ cries Frank. ‘Can I hold it?’

‘No,’ say Ron, Hermione and Bill.

Harry’s daughter smiles smugly.

*

‘Hermione,’ asks Harry’s daughter, ‘can I talk to you?’

‘Of course,’ says Aunt Hermione. They are sitting at Ginny’s kitchen table (Eliza is in a very old high-chair eating a banana) and the almost-teenager is fiddling with a quill, her long, straight, dark red hair falling across her face. ‘About anything in particular?’

She chews her lip. ‘A boy.’

‘Oh?’ Hermione tries to hide her smile.

‘It’s just, I can’t tell my mum about this.’

‘Why not?’ asks Hermione.

The girl looks up with anguish. ‘She’s so embarrassing.’

Hermione laughs and tries to hide how flattered she is. ‘If you want advice, you might be better off talking to your mum. She’s always known more about boys than me.’

‘You’re the one who’s married,’ says the girl in front of her, and Hermione is rather startled to realize that she has a point. ‘And my mum used to talk to you. She says.’

Hermione remembers weighing up the pros and cons of Dean Thomas as a boyfriend with Ginny in her dorm; she remembers Ginny in her bedroom at The Burrow, about the same age as her daughter is now, fixing Hermione with her piercing gaze and saying ‘He saved me, Hermione. It’s fate.’ Hermione has to hide another smile. ‘Well, what’s the problem?’

‘I don’t know if he likes me.’

‘Do you like him?’

The girl’s face is hidden almost entirely by her hair. ‘I think so.’

What should Hermione say? Twelve-year-old Hermione would have said ‘Just ask him; honestly, it’s not hard’; twelve-year-old Ginny would have said ‘Ask his friends to ask him! And then, write him a note ...’ What has Hermione learnt since she was twelve? Judging by who she ended up married to, not much. ‘Why do you like him?’ asks Hermione, rather more sharply than she intended.

Harry’s daughter mumbles something like, ‘He’s funny.’

‘Is that all?’ asks Hermione.

A beady eye emerges from the curtain of red hair. ‘You like funny men.’

Hermione ignores this, although the evidence does suggest she’s right. Well, she’s a sharp girl. ‘What does he do that makes you think he likes you?’

‘Carries my books,’ she mumbles. ‘But he says he fancies Genevieve!’

‘Does he carry Genevieve’s books?’

‘No.’ Her eyes shine. ‘So do you think ...?’

Hermione nods. ‘Actions speak louder than words. Especially when it comes to men.’ When did I turn into Molly?

Her niece looks hopeful. ‘Thanks, Hermione,’ she says, before jumping down from her seat, giving Hermione a hesitant kiss on the cheek, and running upstairs.

It is five minutes before Hermione realizes she just spent the last five minutes thinking dreamily about what it would have been like to have Ron carry her books around for her. With an embarrassed start, she gets up and starts cleaning up Eliza’s bowl.

*

It starts when they can’t conceive again. They try and try and try, and go and see the specialists, Muggle and wizarding, and have sex at all the right times, but baby Harry never emerges.

And then, when Eliza is four, Mrs Weasley makes a casual comment about how she doesn’t seem to do much accidental magic, and Hermione’s world starts to crumble again.

*

Sitting with Ginny, Hermione works up her courage and says it. ‘I think Eliza might be a Squib.’

The silence is horrible. Eventually, Ginny says, ‘Hasn’t she done ... anything?’

‘Nothing,’ Hermione whispers. ‘Not one drop of magic.’

Ginny swallows. ‘They say that you can’t know for sure ‘til they’re seven.’

‘Eight, actually,’ says Hermione. ‘There are new studies ...’

‘Maybe ... maybe she’s done some magic and you just didn’t see it ...’

Tears start to roll down Hermione’s cheeks.

‘Oh, Hermione, don’t,’ says Ginny quickly, getting up and coming round the table to rub Hermione’s back. ‘I’m sorry, I’m being insensitive - there’s nothing to worry about, she’s only five - and, and anyway, it’s not that bad ...’

‘No,’ whispers Hermione blankly. ‘No, it’s not that bad. She’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.’

‘What does Ron think?’

Hermione wipes her eyes briskly. ‘We haven’t really talked about it.’

‘What?’ Ginny’s face is shocked.

‘I’ve been very busy with work and so has he, actually -’

‘I thought he switched from the Auror Office to the MLE patrol so he could spend more time with you,’ says Ginny with a raised eyebrow.

‘Yes,’ snaps Hermione, ‘but -’

‘Are you two fighting?’

It’s easier than the truth. ‘Yes,’ says Hermione.

Ginny makes a noise of exasperation. ‘Then stop fighting! You need to talk about this.’

‘It’s just a fight,’ says Hermione, looking at her hands.

‘But you two are all right, right?’

It’s different now; this isn’t fodder for girly gossip. ‘Yes,’ says Hermione.

‘Then talk to him,’ says Ginny. ‘God, Hermione, this isn’t - I mean, it might resolve itself, we don’t know - but if this is what it - what it could be - then you have to talk about it. This isn’t something you can afford to ignore.’

‘I’m not ignoring it,’ Hermione says. You can’t even bring yourself to say it, she thinks.

Ginny’s eyes narrow. ‘I’m going to give you a time limit. Mum and Dad’s party, on Saturday. You are coming, right?’ Hermione nods. ‘I will be mentioning it to Ron then, so if you two haven’t talked about it by then ... you’ll be in trouble.’

Hermione tries to look scared, and then she says goodbye and leaves as fast as she can.

*

It’s the guilt that’s destroying Hermione, really, because it’s undeniable: her primary reaction to the fact that her daughter might be a Squib is one of horror.

*

She stays late at work that night. When she gets home, the house is dark: Ron is in bed and Eliza has long been asleep.

When she climbs into bed Ron stirs but doesn’t say anything. She can tell he’s awake, but she pretends she thinks he’s asleep; it’s easier that way.

Ron, she thinks, we need to talk about Eliza.

But she doesn’t know what the point would be; he hasn’t touched her in months.

A tear slides down her cheek and lands on her pillow, but she makes no noise, and eventually, he falls asleep.

*

The night of the party starts badly. First, she fights with Ron about something inconsequential - but not a proper fight; not a plate-throwing followed by violent sex fight - and then they spend the first half of the evening in a pub with Ron’s law enforcement patrol. Nobody seems interested in talking to her and Hermione certainly has no interest in talking to any of them, so she leaves Ron to laugh loudly with his friends while she sits with her daughter on her knee and helps her draw a picture. Eliza sips a pineapple juice with stately dignity; Hermione throws back glasses of red wine.

They arrive at the party at nine thirty; late enough, Hermione hopes, that Ginny won’t notice their entrance, but the second they enter The Burrow’s crowded kitchen, Ginny shrieks ‘Hermione!’ and wraps her in a huge hug.

‘Nice to see you too, Sis,’ says Ron from behind her.

‘Oh, shut up,’ says Ginny; Hermione notices that her cheeks are flushed. She hopes she doesn’t look like that. ‘Drinks are next to the sink, youth are in the garden or sulking in the corner.’ She gestures towards the table, where her daughter - her sixteen-year-old daughter - is sitting at the table, which has been pushed to the side for the occasion, looking slightly depressed.

‘Alcohol,’ says Hermione. ‘I need some.’

‘Atta girl!’ cries Ginny; Hermione bursts out laughing. ‘This way! Ron -’

‘In a second,’ he says, touching Hermione’s elbow in a vague way.

Hermione leaves Eliza with him and goes with Ginny to the sink. ‘Why the sulking?’ she asks.

‘Oh, impending OWL results, she just broke up with her boyfriend, embarrassing mother, I don’t know,’ says Ginny, pouring herself a glass of wine. ‘Wine?’

‘Stronger,’ says Hermione, grabbing a bottle and squinting.

‘Have you spoken to Ron?’

‘Does this say Firewhiskey?’

‘Have you spoken to Ron?’

‘Yes,’ says Hermione. ‘Yesterday. Only,’ she adds on a stroke of genius, ‘it’s a bit of a touchy subject, Ginny, so I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t bring it up with Ron right at the present moment -’

‘You haven’t done it, have you?’ asks Ginny.

‘Is this Firewhiskey?’

‘Yes, it’s Ogden’s, and you’ve got until -’ Ginny glances at her watch - ‘midnight. Then I’m telling Ron that you’ve been talking about it with me rather than him.’

Hermione feels vaguely that this is spiralling out of control. She pours herself a shot.

*

Countless conversations and Firewhiskeys later, Hermione’s head is starting to spin.

‘Did you hear Cho Chang’s just had a baby?’ asks the slightly-merry Neville.

‘Slut,’ says the now-plastered Ginny, looking around the room. ‘Someone needs to turn the music up -’

‘Old wounds run deep, apparently,’ says a voice from behind Hermione. She turns around to see Fred. ‘Care to dance, my beautiful sister-in-law?’

‘Oh no, I couldn’t possibly -’ Hermione starts, but before she finishes Fred seems to have dragged her into the throng of people in the middle of the kitchen. He grabs her hand with his right and puts his left on her waist and spins her around, and Hermione feels carefree and as light as a bird - but she also feels a little bit like she’s going to be sick.

The music suddenly cranks up a few levels and everyone around her cheers. She needs to breathe. It is then that Fred throws her into someone else and as they both say sorry she recognizes her husband’s voice. ‘Ron?’

‘Hermione? Are you all right?’ His eyes are moving fast in the way that means he is not entirely sober himself.

She puts her hands on his shoulders. ‘We need to talk about Eliza.’

‘Right now?’

‘Yes, right now.’ The room is swaying.

‘You’re a bit drunk, love, maybe you should sit down,’ he says, starting to manoeuvre her towards a chair.

She buries her head against his chest. If she shuts her eyes and holds very still, the world stops spinning. A bit.

‘Hermione -’

‘Eliza hasn’t done any magic,’ she says into his shirt.

He is quiet; she doesn’t know whether or not what she just said was a shock to him. After a moment, he says, ‘Should we really talk about this right now?’

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Please, Ron.’

He leads her through the packed room and out into the dark and empty garden.

A good distance from the house, he stops and turns to face her. ‘Right,’ he says, sticking his hands in his pockets in his non-committal way. ‘You want to talk.’

‘Eliza,’ she says nonsensically.

‘Yeah, I’ve noticed,’ he says.

‘Fuck you,’ she says, but it doesn’t stop the tears coming.

‘Jesus, Hermione,’ he says, tugging at his hair. ‘We don’t talk for - months, and then it all comes out like this.’

‘You’re saying it like it’s my fault?’

‘Hermione,’ he says. ‘Let’s not fight.’

‘We’re not fighting,’ she says stubbornly.

Neither of them speak for a minute or two. The light from the house is spilling golden over the dark grass; Hermione has to resist the temptation to sit down on it.

‘We’ve got a lot of stuff to talk about,’ says Ron tiredly.

Hermione blinks a lot; she would really like it if her mind would focus. She succumbs to temptation and sits down on the grass; it’s a bit wet. She shakes her head. They have a lot of things to talk about. They are going to talk. ‘Elizabeth’s never done accidental magic’ she says slowly. ‘As far as we’re aware of. We need to talk about this. We need to - sort this out. And, and we can’t conceive anymore.’ Speaking calmly (maybe it’s the sitting, but she doesn’t think so) is steadying her, but as she wipes her eyes briskly she sees that it seems to be having the opposite effect on Ron; he looks rather taken aback. ‘We are two apparently healthy adults by both Muggle and wizarding standards,’ she continues, ‘but after eighteen months of trying I didn’t get pregnant.’

There doesn’t seem to Hermione to be much else to say, so she decides to wait for Ron’s response. It takes him a while, but after the while, he comes and slowly, with a creak of his knees, sits down so that he’s facing her. ‘There’s other stuff, too,’ he says.

‘Probably,’ she says dully.

He looks down at his hands; after another while, he says, ‘Hermione, I know ...’ He clears his throat. ‘I know you feel like you’ve failed, but, you know, um, the physical aspects of a love relationship -’

‘The what?’

‘Well, I mean, you know, sex isn’t just for babies.’

‘Babies don’t - oh.’ She hiccoughs. ‘You mean not just for ... making babies.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, of course it isn’t,’ she snaps.

‘But ...’

‘What?’

‘You flinch when I touch you,’ he mumbles.

‘When you touch me?’ she says, probably louder than she should. ‘When does this happen? And,’ she adds, ‘what do you mean, I’ve failed?’

‘Well, you know,’ he mutters quickly, ‘how you must be feeling that you’ve failed in producing another child, especially as Eliza was conceived so easily -’

‘It’s biology, Ron, it’s got nothing to do with failure, when there’s not much trying involved -’

‘I’m not telling you you’re a failure,’ he snaps, ‘I’m saying that I know you, so don’t tell me you’re not a perfectionist.’

‘Why don’t you feel like a failure?’ she demands. ‘It takes two to tango.’

‘Well, because it’s ... biology,’ he mumbles.

She rubs her forehead. ‘So neither of us feel like failures.’ She decides to try and make the conversation make more sense. ‘Listen, Ron,’ she says. ‘I wanted a bigger family. I want a bigger family. I want to know what to do about Eliza, I don’t want to have to worry about her every day, I don’t want her to have that life ... that awful outsider existence Filch had ...’

‘Come here,’ he says gruffly, and without a thought, she does: they shuffle awkwardly towards each other on the slippery grass and they wrap their arms around each other.

‘Listen,’ he says. ‘Listen. Firstly, no matter what Eliza is, she is never, ever going to turn into Filch. She’s got your brains, hasn’t she? And we can do it. Whatever the problem is, we can take it on, all right? And secondly, we’re gonna keep trying for this baby, but if we don’t get it, it’s not the end of the world. And if it’s not happening, then there are other options - we can adopt a war orphan, or something.’

‘The war ended sixteen years ago,’ she mumbles.

‘Right, well, then we’ll have to find some country ravaged by war or something and find some orphans. We’ll go to the Middle East and nick a few kids.’

She giggles. And suddenly it just seems easier to cling to him, especially with her mind the way it is; yes, they need to have a conversation - multiple conversations - and yes, communication is something they need to work on, but another thing she’s missed is touch. So she clings to him as tightly as she can and doesn’t say a word.

They have work to do and she knows it, but now that she’s touching him, it feels like it’s all going to be all right.

‘Jesus, Hermione,’ he says, holding onto her so tight it hurts, ‘Jesus. What’s wrong with us?’

‘I don’t know,’ she whispers.

‘We’re gonna be all right,’ he says.

She believes him.

*

The day the OWL results come, Hermione meets Ron at the Leaky Cauldron. She has explained to him, hastily, through a fireplace, what happened this morning at Ginny’s house, but it didn’t make much sense and she’s having to explain again to Ron while trying to remember the directions given to her by Frank, Bill’s eldest.

‘OK,’ says Ron, as they turn off Diagon Alley, ‘so Ginny was giving her a bollocking for being late -’

‘No, Ron, it was because she lied to her - she didn’t know where she was! She told her she was going to Frank’s, and then when Ginny Floo’d Bill and Fleur later, she asked what the kids were up to and was told that Bill had thought they were both at Ginny’s! Can you imagine? If Eliza ever -’

‘All right, all right,’ says Ron quickly, ‘so she told Ginny it was a sleepover, Ginny found out otherwise, Ginny paced around all night in a fret, and then finally her darling stumbled home an hour after all three of you were supposed to open the OWL results, and all hell let loose.’

‘More or less,’ says Hermione distractedly. Did Frank say Bancroft Way?

‘And then somehow ... it all came out?’

‘I don’t remember exactly ...’ Hermione starts. ‘There was quite a lot of shouting, and I was sort of trying to remind them that the results were just sitting there, on the table, in plain sight, and yet neither of them seemed interested ...’ She shakes her head in disbelief. ‘Anyway, in the end, she started going on about ... well, she started accusing Ginny of pretending to be innocent and “morally superior” ...’

‘And then it turned out that Ginny once sneaked out to go to the exact same place her daughter was at last night?’ asks Ron, slightly befuddled.

‘Yes.’

‘And that there is a photo of Ginny and Harry on the wall of this establishment as one-time “celebrity guests”?’

‘Yes.’

‘And now we’re going to go and look at this photo?’

‘Yes,’ says Hermione. ‘Because, I mean, you know how few photos there are of him, and -’

‘No, it’s all right,’ he says quietly. ‘I get it. It’s just ...’

Chitterton Alley? Is that where Frank said it was? ‘Just what?’

‘How is this photo even real? When was it taken?’

Hermione smiles; she didn’t have time to tell him this bit earlier. ‘Well, Ginny was denying she’d ever been in the place - and I think she was genuinely confused at that point, she seemed to have never heard of it - it must have changed its name - and then she got hit with “You were there, you were in this sleazy bar with my dad nine months before I was born!”’

‘Wow,’ says Ron. ‘That’s pretty disgusting.’

‘And then Ginny sort of whimpered “That hole?” And then she sat down really quickly. And then there was lots of crying and hugging, so I slipped out.’

‘What a mess,’ says Ron, shaking his head. ‘And then you barged in on Bill and Fleur’s family bust-up to demand directions?’

‘Oh, theirs was a much more simple argument,’ says Hermione. ‘They just seemed to be in the middle of reciting a list of everything Frank is never allowed to do again, which seems to be anything that involves leaving his room. The thing with him is that he was in trouble already, Fleur was telling me all about it at the party, McGonagall’s been sending letters home and everything, so now ... well, now they’ve gone a bit ballistic.’

‘Well, Bill’s always been a bit strict, and Fleur’s kind of insane, so ...’ Ron shrugs. ‘Was she all right with looking after Eliza?’

She pulls a face. ‘You know what Fleur’s like,’ she says, pulling a face, ‘but as long as we’re back in an hour I don’t think she’ll complain - oh.’

They have arrived. Just as Frank said it would be: halfway down the street, the Chitterton Grove. It looks more up-market than she imagined it, but shut up at midday it has the forlorn look of a place without a purpose.

‘Do you think the owners live above?’ asks Ron.

‘Oh, God, Ron,’ she says. She is suddenly unsure of whether or not she wants to see what’s inside.

He turns to look at her in this new, gentle way he’s started doing since the party; she doesn’t know if she likes it or not yet. ‘Do you want to go home?’

‘No!’ She strides forwards and bangs on the door. ‘Excuse me! Excuse -’

A side door opens and a long-faced youth stares out at them. ‘What d’you want?’

‘Erm,’ says Hermione.

‘Erm what?’

Ron steps forwards as Hermione bristles with annoyance at the impudent teenager. ‘Excuse us, but we’ve got a particular interest in one of the photographs hanging - that we believe is hanging in this - establishment,’ he says. ‘There are photographs of famous witches and wizards in here, right?’

‘Oh, sweet Mary and Merlin,’ says the boy. ‘Come on in and have a gawp, then. But make it quick.’

He vanishes into the building and Ron and Hermione follow him in and down a dark corridor. Round a corner, they wait for the boy to unlock the door to the bar. ‘Don’t touch anything,’ he says as he pushes the door open.

The room they enter is full of a cold light: the roof is made of glass. The bar that runs down an entire length of this first room is made of some kind of chrome-like material. Hermione is rather unimpressed; but of course, this is the sort of place that would impress Frank.

‘Photos are over there,’ grunts the boy. ‘Behind the bar.’

The two of them walk up to the bar and stare at the odd collection of black-and-white photos of celebrities shaking hands with a man who grows steadily more elderly as the photos progress - the owner, presumably; some have been signed.

‘Which one are you here for?’ asks the boy.

But his help is unnecessary: Hermione found what she was looking for.

‘Ron, that’s - him,’ she gasps, reaching for his hand blindly.

Harry is two left of the centre, sitting at the bar with a smile, a drink, and eyes full of laughter; Ginny, to the right of the picture, has her hands on his arm and an extremely mistrustful look on her face.

‘It is, isn’t it?’ Ron whispers, awestruck.

They stare at it.

‘Don’t they look a sight?’ he murmurs.

‘They look so …’ She tails off. She was going to say gorgeous, but it hardly seems appropriate. Young, maybe. Happy.

‘Brilliant,’ he whispers. ‘They look brilliant.’

Suddenly, Hermione becomes aware of the young man watching them.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says, stepping forwards. ‘It’s just - we were his friends, once.’

His friends. She sounds like a - a try-hard, some kind of groupie, one of those dangerous women, a psychotic stalker who collects Harry Potter memorabilia and claims that she had some kind of relationship with him … We were his friends. We were, honest!

‘We were! We were his … his best friends, and … and there aren’t many photos of him, you see …’ She wipes her eyes.

‘Whatever, lady, I don’t care,’ says the teenager. He shrugs. ‘As long as you don’t steal anything, we’re cool. Some of these pictures are valuable.’

Ron puts an arm around her waist and pulls her away from the boy and back to the photograph. ‘We’ll only be a minute longer,’ he says loudly, and then, to her, he continues, ‘anyway, as I was saying: brilliant.’

‘Yes,’ she whispers. ‘Brilliant.’

‘And maybe a bit drunk,’ he adds in a slightly less respectful voice.

‘Perhaps a little bit intoxicated,’ she concedes.

She never really saw Harry drunk, and so how he looks in this photograph isn’t exactly how she remembers him; but it’s more than that, the difference is greater than the blur of Firewhiskey - she does not remember having ever seen Harry look so peaceful.

After a moment, he asks, ‘Do you remember where we thought he was?’

She laughs tremulously. ‘Godric’s Hollow.’

‘God, we were mugs,’ says Ron, looking up at the picture admiringly.

‘I think ... maybe we would have accepted any excuse. To get him out of that tent,’ she clarifies.

Ron looks at her; she smiles wickedly and his eyes twinkle. He squeezes her hip and she rests her head on his shoulder.

They stare at the photo again.

She thought it had nothing to do with Harry, but maybe it had everything to do with him. All Hermione knows is that it - Harry’s part in her romance - doesn’t really matter anymore. All that matters is that they exist - Ron and Hermione, the couple, still exists. And more importantly, Ron exists. Hermione exists. With a full stop between them.

And so did Harry, once. And he will always be remembered - or, he will be for a good long time.

It isn’t enough. Harry didn’t want remembrance - Harry wanted life.

But he’s going to live forever; long after the world has forgotten the names of the rest of them, it will still remember his. Still remember him. Hopefully, still remember what he died for.

And that, Hermione thinks, is the next best thing.

THE END