False Fate
By MD1016

Part IV: The War
Chapter 23 – Happy Birthday, Harry

He heard a familiar voice. "Envenerate. Damn. Neville, you give it a try."

Then, there was another voice, a less certain voice. "Envenerate!"

"Try it on Ginny, then." It sounded like Lupin, only weaker, rougher.

"Envenerate!" the other said. There was a small, feminine groan.

"Good," said Lupin. "Now Hermione."

Hermione? Ron's eyes shot open, but his brain was still in a fog. He stared at the smooth, dark ceiling. The War Room. And Charlie was dead.

"Envenerate!" It was Neville, Ron realized, blinking. He looked terrible. Hermione moaned and curled on her side. She looked terrible, too.

"Good work," Lupin praised, and then glanced over at Ron. "And there you are. Nice of you to join us." The tired smile that turned Lupin's mouth was full of relief.

Ron found it difficult to move, so he settled for blinking and swallowing.

"Shall I try Harry again?" Neville asked.

"No," Lupin told him. "You won't be able to wake him."

"Harry?" Ron gasped. There was something wrong with Harry. He was lying there on his back, his head off to one side with his wand half-tumbled from his limp hand. Blood trailed from his lips, and he looked dead. Charlie was dead. Ron turned the other way and saw Voldemort's smoldering remains. His snake face was twisted with the agony of his final moment. Voldemort was dead. That meant…

"Harry?" Ron asked though there was little voice behind the word.

"He's alive," Lupin said.

Ron closed his eyes. Why was that not reassuring?

"Ron, can you feed him some energy? He won't need much. Just enough to wake him up so that he can open the door. Once we're through, Neville here can send his Patronus for help."

Just a little magic for Harry. Right. Ron began to reach down inside his well for his cold, but he found it floating at the top. Odd. It had never been there before. Then, with that floating cold Ron reached out for Harry. What he found shocked him. Harry's magic was there, but draining.

"Someone's…taking from him," Ron gasped out. But who? Hermione and Ginny, were only half-conscious, and Neville – well, Ron was fairly sure he didn't know the first thing about the technical aspects of energy transfer.

"There's no one here to take," Lupin told Ron, echoing his own thoughts.

"His magic is draining," Ron insisted.

"Draining?" Lupin asked. "Or leaking?"

"Leaking?" How could magic leak? Unless the well was cracked, somehow. Broken. Like Charlie and Hagrid and Professor McGonagall…and Snape - he'd been sliced in two. Right there, in the dining room. His intestines had sprung out all over Hermione like bloody springs. Ron looked over at her again. She was caked in blood.

"Ron. Concentrate. Harry's hurt worse than I thought," Lupin said quickly as he forced Ron to sit up, shoved a knee behind him to hold him there. "You need to feed him as much energy as it will take to get him to open the door, but no more, mind you. We need to get him to St. Mungo's immediately."

Grounding his resolve, Ron pushed into Harry, and his friend, from across the room, gasped. Thick, dark blood seeped out from between his lips and dribbled down the side of his face to the floor.

"Harry," Lupin said authoritatively. "Open the door."

Harry shook his head. His bloodshot eyes rolled, unable to focus. "Can't," he got out.

"Harry, listen to me," Lupin began again. "Voldemort is dead. You killed him. You've done what you needed to do. It's safe to open the door, Harry. He can't get to the outside world any longer. He can't hurt anyone else."

"Dead," Harry echoed.

Ron felt an odd sensation, similar to the burn he felt when he held his breath too long. He didn't know what was happening, he'd hardly sent any energy through to Harry, but his feed began to dwindle. He broke out into sweat again. His stomach cramped up. "Open the door, mate!" Ron urged. "You've got us trapped in here!"

"Harry, open the door!" Lupin commanded. He saw the expression on Ron's face, the shock and realization in Ron's eyes. There wasn't time to bring Harry to his senses – Ron's magic was failing.

"Oh, bloody…trust me, Harry. Trust Ron. Open the damned door!"

"Please, mate. Please."

Harry closed his eyes, swallowed. Then came the heavy whine of metal sliding against metal as the door slowly swung on its magical hinges. What was left of Ron's fine tether of magic to Harry snapped, and he felt as if he was falling backwards into his own drained magical well. He felt odd, like he was a cloud breezing through pudding. Somewhere far off he heard Lupin's voice.

"Neville, cast your Patronus! Send it to…blast it all! Who's left? Send it to…"

It was right about then that Ron passed out.

St. Mungo's wasn't a place Ron had spent a great deal of time, and even so, when he woke up he knew exactly where he was, and that something was very, very wrong. The lights in the long room were dim, and dozens of wizards in Auror robes stood around, watching and waiting. The healers were there, too, most of whom were huddled around one bed in particular. They talked in hushed voices, gestured, carried thick, heavy books. In that way they sort of reminded him of Hermione.

He found her two beds down, curled on her side, the blankets pulled up to her chin. Someone had cast a Cleansing Spell on her, and put a salve on the small cuts on her cheeks. Lupin was between them, softly snoring on his back. Both his arms rested above his head, and his wrists were bound to the bed frame with heavy chains that glowed with magic.

Ginny was on Ron's other side. She slept with her wand grasped tightly in her hand, her face frowning, her body rigid and straight. Ron's mum sat beside her. There were others in beds that Ron recognized as well; among them Dedalus Diggle and the twins.

But, it was the commotion that took place on the other side of the room that drew Ron's attention, and with an uneasy stomach Ron forced himself up, and then ever so slowly, out of bed. The smooth floor was cold beneath his bare feet, and the patient robes he'd been dressed in did little to conserve body heat. His head ached as if it had been smashed with a Bludger, his eyes swam a little. A gasp behind him told him his mother had finally realized he was up, but he couldn't turn around; it was far too hard to simply go in a straight line. Slowly, steadily, Ron made his way across to the other bed, past the Aurors, and between the healers.

Ron was stunned into stillness at the sight of his friend lying dead in the bed. His heart skipped erratically, his vision dimmed around the edges, and a strange chill filtered through him that brought with it tears of anger and grief. Harry Potter was dead. But even more than that, Harry, Ron's best mate, was dead.

He'd known it could happen, they all had known. But knowing and seeing were two different things, and Ron hadn't been prepared for the reality of it. Ron's knees gave out and he stumbled to one side. Someone caught him, someone else pushed a chair beneath him, told him to rest his elbows on his knees, told him to breathe deeply.

Harry, Harry, Harry, his mind reeled.

Ron hadn't protected him. He'd been Harry's Second, and he'd failed him. He'd killed him just as surely as if he'd cast that spell himself. He'd killed Harry Potter. He'd killed his best mate. Emotion boiled in his belly, his soul screamed in pain.

"Try to breathe deeply," said one of the healers.

Ron ignored her, and pushed himself up again. He had to be strong for Harry. He tried to push down the swell of emotion that threatened to erupt, to stamp it out like a grass fire. There was heat on his cheek, and Ron brushed away the tear. Harry wouldn't want tears. Not after what they'd just been through. Not after he'd saved the world.

Grey skin, black hair, lifeless. Harry. It just didn't seem real. It was more like a nightmare. Ron's head swam and his guts wanted to come out his throat. A nightmare then, Ron decided. It had to be. He reached out brush the tips of his fingers against Harry's cold arm.

Harry opened his eyes, and Ron nearly jumped out of his skin. A chair was shoved against the back of his legs, and this time he sank into it as he looked at his friend and his friend looked back. Harry's eyes were sunken, bruised; his lips as pale and chalky as the rest of him; his scar had bled and clotted black as if it were branded new. Harry had barely enough energy to blink at Ron, but his lips moved, and Ron, heart hammering, leaned close enough to hear him.

"Volde…dead?"

"You got him, mate," Ron assured. He touched Harry's arm just to be sure he wasn't hallucinating. His skin was clammy. Ron pulled the blankets higher.

"Ginny?"

"She's fine," Ron said. "She's sleeping over there." He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder.

Harry swallowed. "Love her…" he whispered.

"I know," Ron said.

"We all know. You said her name non-stop for the first three hours we were here." Neville was standing with his back to the wall next to Harry's bed, his arms crossed and his wand still in his fist.

"Oi," Ron said, unable to hide the surprise of seeing him there. He was so tall now that he blended in with the Aurors. Or was it that new, hard expression that left him looking as chiseled and battle weary as the Aurors? There was something of Moody in his eyes. "Neville, you good? Why are you still here?"

"Where else would I be? With my gran?" He scoffed. "Sent her a message right after we got here, you know, just to let her know that I was alive and all. Said Harry'd done it; killed the bloody bastard. She sent a note back saying she didn't believe a word of it. Said the Daily Prophet has already announced Harry's untimely demise – eulogy and everything written by his Head of House, Professor McGonagall. They said Voldemort is in control of the Ministry now, and that all the Muggle-borns are to be rounded up. There've been Muggle murders all over the country. Never mind that McGonagall snuffed it and couldn't have written a word, or that I was there watching as Voldemort died, or that Harry's lying there looking at me – no I'm the liar!" He kicked the wall behind him in his frustration.

"Is that…are they rounding up the…Muggle-borns?" Harry asked. "Are they…killing…Muggles?"

Neville's angry face darkened. "There are hundreds of them, Harry. Death Eaters. Hundreds more than we fought yesterday. They've come out of the woodwork like roaches."

"Was it yesterday?" Ron asked, disoriented.

"I've got...to…stop them," Harry said, and made to sit up. He barely had enough strength to lift his head. "Ron, a little…help."

Ron shook his head. "I've none to give, mate. Voldemort was inside my well when you vanquished him. He took my Smisurato with him when he died."

Harry's brows rose in concern, and Ron felt the tiniest wiggle play across the cold that now floated at the top of his well. "Feels different," he said, his voice weak.

"Tell me about it."

Then something must've occurred to Harry because his eyes went wide. "Hermione?" he asked.

"Sleeping," Ron told him. "And Lupin, too. Though he's chained to his bed."

"It was the only way I could get them to bring him here," Neville said, glaring at the healers. "They kept calling him a half-breed. Half-breed! He's a bloody war hero, is what he is!" He turned to Harry. "Oh, and by the way, until Ron's up and about, I'm your Second."

"Er…" Harry closed his eyes. "Thanks, Neville…but the war's…over."

"Hardly," Neville said, and then glared back out over the room.

'Constant vigilance,' popped into Ron's head.

Both Ron and Harry looked at their friend. Neville had taken some damage; the front of his robes were burned, and a gash had been quickly Healed along his left ear. But it was the set of his brows, the hardness in his shoulders that spoke volumes of the changes he'd undergone in the past twenty-four hours. He was a wizard transformed.

"Ron, help me up." Harry held out his arm, and Ron eased him into a sit.

Protests came from every side. Healers mentioned the delicate spells they'd performed on Harry's well, and the internal bleeding they'd only hours before managed to stop completely. Ron understood and shared their concern. Harry was terribly weak, and he looked dead. And, he needed help balancing. Ron held him up at they limped across the room toward Ginny. Ron's mum hurried over.

"You're leg, Ronnie," she said in her gentle, imploring voice.

"It's fine," he told her. In truth it only twanged when he put weight on it, which was a vast improvement.

"No," she said. "It's not. The healers have given you a Pain Muffle, but your leg-"

"It's fine," he said again, and then added a quiet, "Later." There were other things they needed to worry about. His leg worked, and it wasn't killing him, and that's all he cared about at the moment.

He lowered Harry on to the side of Ginny's bed. When Ron turned his mother was looking at him with tears in her red-rimmed eyes. Her face was already swollen from crying.

"Oh, Ron. I thought…well, never mind what I thought. I should know better than to believe a word the Daily Prophet prints. I'm just so…proud of you." She hugged him tight and he squeezed her back. "I'm so relieved you're alive – and your brothers. Bill was here earlier with Fleur – they're all right. Nothing that some rest won't cure."

Ron pulled away from her. Embracing her felt like he was lying to her. He didn't want to say what he knew had to be said, but she needed to know. And, it had to come from him.

"Uh…Mum. Can we sit a moment. My leg…" he said by way of excuse. He led her over to the other side of the room, to an empty bed with no one in earshot. He wished he could tell her someplace more private. He wished he didn't have to tell her at all. Ron's attention was caught by Fred and George, both enjoying the deep sleep that came only with a potion. They looked reasonably well considering. It wasn't that they'd managed to survive – Ron had made sure that they would. He'd engineered it that way. He chose to protect the two of them, and had to neglect others.

With a sigh, Ron took his mother's hand and laced his fingers through it. He closed his eyes and told her the truth. "I don't know how it happened, or when…but Charlie…I'm so sorry, Mum."

"Charlie?" her voice squeaked. She didn't move, didn't breathe – she just stared into his eyes as hers filled and then overflowed.

"I don't know what or who…but he was fighting with Professor McGonagall and Mr. Diggory and Dawlish – you remember Dawlish, from the Ministry?"

She didn't nod.

"None of them made it. They're all gone."

Her head began to shake, barely a tremor at first, and then she yelled a "NO!" that just about stopped Ron's heart. Spit flew from her mouth as she cried. She pulled away from him, pushed his hands away. "No!" She stood, and Ron stood as well. She paced a little, shaking her head, and then she turned and slammed her fists against his chest. He held her while she hit him, unable to do anything more to stop her pain – one that he knew he shared only in fractions.

Then she retreated. She broke down and had to lean against a table at the end of the bed for support, knocking over several bottles of potions. They smashed on the floor, and healers came running. Tensions in the room were dangerously high. Several of the Aurors raised their wands at her before they realized there was no threat. Ron's mum was sobbing.

Harry was bent over Ginny, and they both turned. Ginny began to cry, too. Ron's heart felt like it was bleeding in his chest. Harry kissed her knuckles, and then somehow made it to his feet on his own and went to Ron's mum. He embraced her, consoled her as Ron hadn't been able. She wept on his shoulder.

Ron had put Ginny with Bill and Fleur because, although Ginny was a strong and powerful witch, Bill and Fleur had years of experience on her as well as sharp reflexes. It had been purposeful and calculated to keep her and Neville as safe as possible. Fred and George had been paired with the Aurors Cothwaith and Waddington. Charlie, though, had been matched with Mr. Diggory, who probably hadn't seen a duel since his days at Hogwarts (if then), and Professor McGonagall, who was an exceptional witch, but older and far less nimble in a fight. Ron had hoped that Dawlish would've been enough to help Charlie. He'd bet Charlie's life.

Had Charlie known? Had he looked around and seen the groups and understood? Had McGonagall? Had Hagrid?

Ron's own eyes burned and he turned to garner what little privacy he could. He needed to get out of there; to do something – anything. He fought the tears, knowing if they came they would overwhelm him, and once the dam burst Ron would surely be carried away in a flood of guilt.

Close it off, he told himself. Make it stop.

Over his mother's crying and the whispers of the healers Ron heard a baby coo. He turned, searched and then found little Jack next to his father's bed, swaddled tightly and lying in a basket covered in blue frills. The pressure in Ron's chest bubbled up, and he had to swallow convulsively to keep it down.

Suddenly dizzy again, Ron sat on the closest bed, and he turned to see it happened to be Hermione's. Her hand clutched reflexively at him, found his wrist, and she groaned his name in her sleep. He felt another tug at his heart as she pulled him down to her. Ron had no fight left in him; he allowed her to guide him down until he was lying on his side, his back to her. Her arm snaked beneath his and hugged his chest. She sighed against the back of his neck. As brilliant as it felt to be held, Ron found it impossible to relax. His mother's tears and Charlie's dead eyes consumed too many of his thoughts.

The following evening in the manse parlor Harry and Ginny shared a lap rug on the couch, and Neville was next to them in a chair. Hermione was curled against Ron on the floor in front of the crackling fire. They talked about what to do about the Death Eater problem, Voldemort's body, and their recently collected dead. The mood was somber and heavy, and they were all still exhausted when, under the cover of darkness, the Death Eaters set number 12 ablaze. Neville and Hermione fought the fire while Ron and Ginny tried to get Harry out, but the green flames were magical and couldn't be easily doused.

None of the five of them were in top form, having only just left St. Mungo's a few hours before, but they managed to get out of the manse well enough only to be surrounded by Death Eaters once out on the Muggle street. Ron immediately pushed an unarmed Harry behind him as the first blasts shot past. Earlier, Ginny had taken Harry's wand as the healers had suggested, for fear that any further casting would irreparably crack his well wide open.

They were greatly outnumbered thirty to five, but Hermione, Ginny, and Neville immediately returned fire. Ron cast his Patronus in an attempt to Shield them all, but he'd forgotten about his weakened well, and almost immediately his Patronus dissolved. Even a Jelly-legs Jinx was beyond him at the moment. Hermione stepped in front, her arms out-swept to provide cover for both him and Harry. They were going to be slaughtered.

Ron tried to force his brain to think. If they couldn't fight, they needed an escape.

And then it happened. Ron saw the Death Eater as clear as day - a man he'd known, but whose name escaped him. He saw the short, dark wand aim at him, and the green flash of spell let lose. He felt the impact, the shock of what had happened, the indignity that he'd survived Voldemort only to be cut down by an underling as little more than an afterthought. He felt the ground slam hard against his head, reawakening the wound he already had there. And, as darkness crowded the edges of his vision, Ron registered the word that had come from the Death Eater's angry cry. "Die!"

Only he didn't. Ron waited for his heart to stop hammering in his chest.

"RON!" Hermione cried, unable to turn because of the fight, but he heard the panic in her voice. "Ron Weasley, answer me!"

"He hit me with 'Die'," Ron said, grunting at the renewed pain in his head. The front of his shirt and Hermione's amulet were smoldering. "When you get a moment, you might just put me out," he said. "If it's not too much trouble."

"What?" she cried, and turned to catch a glimpse of him. "Oh, honestly, Ron, you scared me to death!"

Harry was beside him, then, to smother the flames with his own balled shirt. "We've got to get out of here," he said quickly. "To the Burrow?"

"I don't want to bring these lovely people home to mum," Ron said. His head was ringing, and sparkles danced in the darkness.

"The Ministry, then," Harry said, and then louder so that Neville, Ginny, and Hermione could hear above the casting. "To the Ministry!"

The Minister didn't refuse to see Harry this time because Harry didn't give him a chance. The Undersecretary was struck dumb when he saw Harry stride into the office pulling his sooty shirt back over his head, and the wizard sat motionless as Harry slammed the Minister's door open and walked right in. Ginny, Neville and Hermione followed, as did Ron, dizzy and sick to his stomach. The back of his head throbbed. They might as well have been invisible, though. It was Harry that the Minister's shocked, disbelieving eyes were on.

"Merlin's beard," said Scrimgeour, gaping. "You're…you're…"

"Alive, yes," Harry said impatiently. "And, wondering why you're allowing Death Eaters free reign over the country!"

"I…I…" the Minister stammered.

"Muggles and Muggle-borns are being targeted and nothing's being done about it! The Daily Prophet's been taken over by Death Eaters – not even Death Eaters, really because the real Death Eaters know that Voldemort's dead, don't they? They've surely felt it through their Dark Marks by now! But they're running amuck anyway, and you're doing nothing to stop them!"

"He's…he's…dead?"

"You're looking at me, aren't you?" Harry demanded. "Only one of us was meant to survive, and I'm standing right here!"

The Minister shook his mane and blinked rapidly. "By my stars, you are!" And slowly, the Minister sank down into his chair again. "How-how did you do it? How did you get You-Know-Who?"

"What's important now is that I did," Harry told him. "And you need to get out there and tell everyone. St. Mungo's is being over-run by casualties, and something needs to be done with Hogwarts. We've already collected our fallen, but there are a thousand rotting corpses up there that lay where they dropped when their necromancer fled."

"What? " the Minister gasped.

"Infiri," Hermione said impatiently. "When the wizard controlling the Infiri fled, he released the spell controlling them. Now all the bodies are just baking in the sun."

"And when I'm ready," Harry said, cutting in again, "I want to talk to you about adding a new Department to the Ministry. Something that will study Archaic Magic. But that's for another time. Right now you've got a country to save."

"But…but they'll demand proof," the Minister insisted. "They already believe You-Know-Who has power-"

"You can say his name," Harry stated dryly. "He won't be coming back this time."

"-and they'll be afraid to believe anything that I say. You'll have to come, Harry, my boy. Stand up next to me." His eyes glinted as he said this, and the shock of a moment before became a look of triumph.

"I rather think no," Harry said.

The Minister narrowed his gaze at Harry. He'd spent years trying to get that particular photo in the papers. "I suppose I could show them a body."

"We don't have a body," Harry told him. "The Death Eaters have made sure of that. They burned my home, and Voldemort's body with it."

"That's…convenient," the Scrimgeour said slowly. "And unfortunate. You had the body at your house?"

"It's hardly convenient," Harry snapped. "It was my home."

"Harry," Hermione said hesitantly. "I think the Minister is right. Well, I'm sorry, but I do! You need to stand up beside him, and you need to answer the reporter's questions. And when the Minister tries to take any credit at all for your victory, you can tell the whole country that it was the Minister who put innocent Stan Shunpike in Azkaban, where he still sits, while fake Death Eaters are now out and about trying to take over!"

This lit a new fire in Harry, and he turned to the Minister, who looked less and less certain of himself. "That's right. Stan Shunpike. As you'll not need a scapegoat any longer-"

The look of triumph on the Minister's face turned to fury. "Yes, yes…I'll see what I can do."

"You do that," Harry told him. "And I'd expect Mr. Shunpike would like a full pardon from you personally. I know I'd like that very much."

"Well, first things first," the Minister said. "We need to find someone that passes as a reporter in this town. And a photographer!"

They went to the Burrow because, really, where else would they go? With the shop gone and number 12 flattened, Ron and Harry were basically homeless. Hermione had her parents, of course, but they were Muggles, and Ron couldn't imagine her going back there to live for any length of time. Which meant they were all there – he and Harry, and Ginny, Neville, and Hermione. And his mum, of course. It was far too crowded for a wizard who just wanted to be alone.

Hermione didn't seem to understand. She looked at him when she thought he didn't notice; she watched him as if his head might explode at any moment (it still ached, and Ron wasn't entirely certain that it wouldn't). She held his hand for far longer than was even comfortable, and she got him sandwiches. She said his name over and over when she talked to him, like he might forget who he was. Or, he thought, maybe she was trying to remind herself.

The first night after the Ministry they had a row. She tried to climb into his bed, which was pathetically narrow. He needed some breathing room, and she threw it back in his face.

"It's like when your dad died all over again," she insisted. "You're trying to push me away!"

"I'm trying to get some sleep!" Ron shouted. His ears rang, and every time he shouted lights prickled in his vision. "I can't breathe with you hanging all over me!"

"You're angry at me, but I haven't done anything!"

"You're mental," Ron grumbled. "Have this bed, then. I'll sleep on the couch."

When he stormed past her he caught the glare on Harry's face, the muttered, "Watch yourself."

And then he heard the muffled sob he knew could only be Hermione's. His heart contracted in his chest, and he did stop on the stair for a moment. But it was too difficult to force his legs to turn, and so he went down to the living room and threw himself on the sofa. He couldn't offer her comfort when he had none for himself.

For a while he listened to Hermione cry. And then, his mother began to cry as well, and Ron's chest began to hurt so much he half-hoped he was having a heart attack. And he remembered the last time he thought he was having a heart attack back at Hogwarts, and the look of confusion on Hermione's face when he asked her to go with him. The smile he discovered on his own face disgusted him. How could he smile when Charlie was dead?

And Hagrid. What had Hagrid ever done to anyone? The image of his great, headless body turned Ron's stomach, and the sandwich Hermione had all but forced down him threatened to come up again. Ron lurched off the couch and propelled himself out the kitchen door as the nausea quivered through his middle. He doubled over just inside the garden, hands on knees, and waited. Nothing happened. He didn't vomit. And he didn't cry. And he wished he could just walk into the night and be swallowed up by the darkness. It would be so much easier that way. Less painful.

It was cooler now that the sun had been down for hours, and the stars seemed to be out in force. Ron's withered thigh began to burn, and he lowered himself to the damp grass. He didn't care if his pajama pants got wet. He didn't care that he could hear his sister and Harry's rhythmic love-making through their open window.

Crookshanks stared down at him from Charlie's room – well, it had been Charlie's and Bill's room once upon a time. But for as long as Ron could remember it had been the coveted guest room and his father's study (even if it had technically retained the title of Charlie's room). And now Crookshanks was perched in the window there. Ron supposed Hermione was in there as well, if Harry was in with Ginny – and judging from the amount of heavy breathing and occasional feminine moan, he was. Ron's body began to stir against his will. He disgusted himself. And now he cared that he could hear them, so he picked himself up and trudged farther into the garden, toward the swing. A gnome tripped him, and giggled as it ran away.

"Are you all right?" It was Hermione's voice, and very small. Ron looked up and saw her peer down at him from Charlie's window. He'd been right.

"Oh, brilliant," he said from between the begonias and the turnip patch. "Never better."

"Are you hurt, Ron?" she asked, exasperated.

He stared up at her, her white night robes glowing blue in the moonlight, and her hair was wild. It had grown, and almost brushed her slim shoulders. Even from where he lay he could see the scars on her neck and cheek. Funny. Most of the time he didn't notice them.

"Oh, never mind," she said, with a defeated sigh. "I'll come down."

She disappeared into the house before he could stop her. Not that he could really stop her, he was willing to admit. Hermione had always had a very independent mind. It was one of the things he loved about her, and one of the many reasons he loved spending time with her. She kept him on his toes, and always left him guessing.

Right now, though, he rather wanted to be alone. She stirred things in him that he couldn't deal with at the moment. Everything inside him was so very close together, and the simple act of touching her let loose an emotional chain reaction that he simply couldn't contain.

"The ground is wet, you know?" Hermione said, hands on hips, when she reached the garden.

"No kidding," Ron said.

"Are you hurt?"

"Not even my pride," Ron told her. "I've been bested by a garden gnome, and I can honestly say it doesn't bother me a bit."

"Then why are you still in the mud?"

"Well, it's terribly comfortable. And the view-"

"Ron." She closed her eyes and schooled her expression from exasperation to concern. "I need you to be serious for a moment. And I promise not to be upset, no matter what the answer is, but I need you to be honest with me."

"This doesn't sound good." In fact, it sounded terrifying.

"Nothing has changed for me – I mean, how I feel about you hasn't changed. I thought it might, after Voldemort. If the Fates only linked us for Harry's sake, so he could fulfill the prophecy, then once we were done…then, perhaps, we'd be done…"

"You thought we'd stop being Fated? Really? And you didn't say anything?" Ron sat up. The thought hadn't even occurred to him.

"It was a possibility. I knew I'd still love you, even if I didn't Love you. I'll always love you, Ron. But, well… Has anything changed for you?"

"How can you ask me that? If you're Fated, then I'm still Fated, too."

"You haven't touched me, Ron. Not once since the battle. You rarely talk to me, and when you do you don't look me in the eye. It's like you can't stand to be around me, or maybe that you don't want to be…around me anymore. I thought maybe you were angry with me, or you were trying to punish me, or punish yourself, but, well…maybe it's more than that. Is it? Is that why you're there in the mud not looking at me instead of upstairs asleep in the bed beside me?"

Ron realized he'd been staring at the moon, and he forced himself to meet her gaze. She looked pained, worried, and sad. He looked back at the moon. "No," he said weakly. He just didn't have the words to set her mind at ease, and she needed them so badly. He felt helpless and useless, and so very unworthy of her love. Or even her Love.

And the thing was, he knew that he wasn't. He knew that he was a good, decent bloke. A man his father would've been proud of – wasn't that what his mum had said? But the heaviness in his chest weighed too much, and it colored everything so completely. He didn't want to push her away, he just wanted to be alone.

"At least this time you've not been hurling insults at me, but it does feel like you're trying to push me away again. But I wont let you, Ron Weasley. Not if you still love me."

"You've no Viktor to run to any longer, have you?" A knee-jerk reaction. He heard his voice as if it came from someone else, and he winced.

She sighed. "And the insults begin."

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "This is why I want to be alone."

"You haven't done anything wrong, you know. Not one single thing, Ron. Ron. Look at me!" She had her hands on her hips. "Charlie's death is not your fault."

"I know," he said. Technically.

"Do you? Honestly? That's what this is about, isn't it? About Charlie and Professor McGonagall, and then rest of them. Just like it was about your father before. But you didn't kill your father, and you certainly didn't kill your brother. If anything, you saved Fred and George and Ginny and Bill – you saved us all, Ron. You saved Harry! You saved the whole blasted wizarding world! We're alive because Plan A worked. Your plan worked!"

The moon was waning, and there were clouds slowly making their way across the stars. Hermione gave a huff of frustration, and then dropped beside him.

"The ground is wet," he warned.

"No kidding," she deadpanned. She stretched out beside him in the grass and dirt and stared up at the sky. "I've been thinking about what you said before. You know, the last time. And, I know you don't want to Love me-"

"No," he said quickly, and then added quietly: "I do now. I do."

He could feel her looking at him. "But you don't want to make love to me?"

"I do that, too," he admitted. "It's just that it feels…wrong."

"It feels wrong to want to have sex? Or to have sex with me? Or is it the act of sex-"

"Could you stop saying sex?" His body was beginning to rouse a little more each time she said that particular word, and his chest tightened as much as his lap. "I shouldn't be happy right now." He tried to find the words to help her understand. "I shouldn't feel wonderful and giddy."

"Do you feel wonderful and giddy?"

"It's wrong."

"But why? The war's over, Ron. People all over the country are celebrating."

"My mum is crying," he told her.

She rolled over to face him, her cheek propped up on the palm of her hand. "I know. I'm sorry for that. Honest, I am. I'm so sorry you had to lose someone else in your family. And your mum…but it wasn't your fault." She ran a hand over his belly and up across his chest. His nipples tightened, as did his groin. Tears burned his eyes.

"And, what about the funerals? I'm expected to say something – at all sixteen of them. What am I supposed to say? It was my plan that got them all killed."

Her fingers splayed over his heart. "You're supposed to say that they all died defending what they knew to be good and just, and that they're heroes – each and every one of them."

"They weren't warriors. They weren't soldiers. They were ordinary wizards – teachers and shop keeps, and retired clerks, and they didn't have to die. There was another way – there had to have been. I just didn't find it."

"Plan A was the right plan. It kept Harry alive, and killed Voldemort. Yes, people we loved died, but what about the people we love who lived? The world is a better, safer place because of what you did."

But how could the world be better for Hagrid's loss? For his mother's pain? Ron couldn't wrap his brain around it. A tear slipped from his eye and he quickly wiped it away.

Stop it, he told himself. Cut it off now.

"You're grieving. And this is how you grieve, I get that now. You need your space to beat yourself up and work it all out." Hermione sat up, brushed grass from her bare arms. "I'll give you as much space and time as you need, Ron, but you are not alone in this. We're all grieving, and we're all here for you. None of us are going to let you push us away again, so don't even try." She made to get up, but he grabbed her wrist. When she turned, he met her gaze.

"Nothing's changed," he told her. "Well, nothing and everything. But nothing between us."

Her smile was small but genuine. "You're my hero, Ron Weasley."

"I'm no hero," he said, shaking his head.

"Come up with me. Let me hold you."

He closed his eyes, swallowed. Held his breath. But his chin trembled anyway, and his throat closed up, and he felt the pressure build in his stomach and he couldn't stuff it down fast enough. A sob choked him, more tears escaped from under closed lids. No, no, no, his mind chanted. Not here. Not in front of her.

"Oh, Ron," she sighed, and he lost it.

He rolled on to his side, curled himself into as tight a ball as he could. The tears came hard and fast, his nose ran, he couldn't catch his breath for the sobs. His gut twisted and his heart lurched, and he wanted nothing more at that moment than to sink into the earth.

She touched his shoulder, but he hardly felt it. She might as well have been a million miles away; very little got past the pain. He couldn't fight the grief any longer, it was simply too much. Anger came with it in great, black waves, tearing and gouging at his insides. He stopped struggling, stopped trying to turn himself inside out. He allowed himself to be rolled on to his back.

"Breathe, Ron."

"Hurts…" he managed. His sobs started to hiccough.

"I know," she whispered to him, and pressed her cool hands against both sides of his face. She was a soothing blanket to his fever. "Just look at me and try to breathe."

"Go away," he said half-heartedly.

"Not until I know you're all right. And you're far from all right-"

He lurched at her. He hadn't intended to, it just happened. He wrapped his arms tightly around her shoulders and crushed her against him. She was half-kneeling beside him, and half-tumbling into his lap. Her arms circled his middle, and he wept against her neck long past the point where his back began to ache and his thigh to cramp. When at last she shifted to straddle his lap, and he pulled her even tighter.

Her fingers played over his back in slow, soothing patterns, and she whispered: "Ron, it's all right," in his ear every now and then. His sides and belly began to twinge from over exertion, and his head throbbed behind the hot sheet of tears that washed down his face.

He kissed her, his wet lips against her warm, dry mouth, and then he kissed her again. She didn't stop him, but she didn't encourage him, either. She allowed him to kiss her, and to touch her breast. She even touched him back, under his shirt on his chest and sides. But her caresses were gentle while he groped. As his tears began to slow he felt drained, numb.

"I can barely feel you," he told her. His hands felt as if they were made of clay. "Why can't I feel you?"

"Come with me upstairs," she urged.

"No," he whispered.

"You're tired, Ron. Over-tired." She cupped his face, wiped the tears away. "Come with me. Just to sleep."

His head throbbed, and he rested it on her cool, bare shoulder. He fondled her breast again. "My hands aren't working."

She cleared her throat. "They're working quite well from where I'm sitting."

"It's like I'm wearing mittens."

"Come with me," she urged again, and pulled away. She held out a hand to help him up, and the rest of his body felt just as clumsy, just as foreign. Even that odd bit of him tenting his wet pajamas.

She led him up the stairs to his room, and closed the door behind them. He stilled her hands when she pushed his pants down.

"I can't," he told her.

"You're wet, Ron. Step out of those, and I'll find you something else to put on." She turned and bent over the trunk by his bed. He could make out the shape of her bum through the loose drape of her robes.

Ron looked down at himself, and then back at her. He stepped close behind her before she had a chance to turn, grabbed her hips and pressed himself against her. She gasped. He moaned. He bunched her robes up, hiked them high enough for him to get to her knickers and shove them down her legs. She looked at him over her shoulder.

"Ron…"

He wasn't thinking any longer; speech was beyond him. Numbness had taken over inside, and all he felt was a tremendous wanting. It ached. He thrust against her aimlessly, blinded by fresh tears, his fingers dug into her hips. Frustration gurgled from his throat. "I need…"

It was all he had to say. He felt her fingers curl around him, and his eyes rolled back. She tugged him gently forward, and he was at her heat, pressed firmly against her giving body. He looked down at their connection where his body ended and hers began. He thrust again, this time with her guidance. His body no longer ended, it had simply become part of hers.

He closed his eyes as his hips pumped, and let his head fall back. His whole existence became that part of him that was inside her, everything else fell away, muted and forgotten. He sprinted toward his finish, wanting it to be over so the numbness could take the rest of him as well. But release remained elusive. After a while his bad leg began to shake, and his knee gave out. He fell forward on to her, his cheek between her shoulder blades.

"Ron?"

"I can't."

She turned, carefully, and caught him under his shoulder. She led him to the bed. Then she knelt between his knees. She took the corner of the bedspread and cleaned him off, and then looked into his eyes. He had to look away.

Then her mouth was on him, her tongue licking over him. He gasped. "No."

"Let me take care of you," she whispered.

"I can't." There was no voice behind the words.

"Trust me."

Her eyes were so dark, so imploring, so full of love for him that some part of him flared and he realized it was that place within him that had gaped empty not even a year ago. That place where Hermione was Fated to him. She was so beautiful.

Heat ran up his chest, up his neck and into his cheeks as he watched her look at him and lick her lips. Her hand tightened at his base, and Ron's body lurched. Pressure built before he even had a chance to warn her properly.

"Stop-" he got out before he crested, and he made a feeble attempt to push her face out of the way. "Sorry," he mumbled, and made to wipe at her cheek.

She brushed his hand away and licked the side of her mouth, giving him one of her enigmatic smiles. "Lay back."

He complied, and flopped down. The pillow seemed softer than ever, and the bed cradled his body.

"Close your eyes," she whispered, and covered him with the sheet.

He inhaled and exhaled, over and over. Eventually he felt himself sink into the mattress.

"Are you going to leave?" he whispered into the darkness.

"No," she told him, and he felt her crawl over him and slide between his body and the wall. She pillowed her head on his shoulder, and sighed.

"Good."

Never in his life had Ron ever truly appreciated the couch at the Burrow. It was soft and lumpy in all the right places after so many decades of use. Thirty years of Weasley bums had created the absolute perfect piece of furniture.

Hermione was on his left and, having slipped into the dip, she leaned heavily against him (no longer able to fight either gravity or the geometry of the cushion). Her head rested against him. The drama in the garden three nights before that had ended in his bedroom had left him feeling drained and raw, and her closeness now felt like a balm on his soul. Yes, he liked the couch very much, indeed.

Harry dozed lightly on the loveseat, his head in Ginny's lap and his legs thrown over the plush arm. He'd been doing a lot of that since they'd returned to the Burrow with Neville and Moody in tow. Moody was out and about on his two magical false legs, testing and retesting all the protections that blanketed the Burrow. But, since the Minister's announcement, with Harry by his side, there hadn't been any further attempts on Harry, or any of the Order. And the incidence of crimes against Muggles and Muggle-born had almost returned to normal.

"Now, how did they even find Harry's house?" Neville asked. He sat beside Ron's mum in her rocking chair by the window. She had several sets of knitting needles going, and was once again working on a maroon something that looked suspiciously like a sweater. "It was un-chartable, for magic's sake!"

"Voldemort must've followed Lupin when he Apparated," Hermione said. "And when he made it through it broke the charm."

"That's ridiculous," Ginny told her. "If the charm was broken the other Death Eaters would've followed as well."

"It's not ridiculous at all," Hermione insisted. "They did follow, didn't they? And, Voldemort was a very powerful wizard-"

"Hermione, please!" Ron's mum said harshly. "Not in my house!"

"Sorry, Mrs. Weasley," she said guiltily, and brought a hand up to her mouth. "I'm really sorry."

Ron's mum wearily nodded, and went back to her knitting. She had taken Charlie's death understandably hard, and Voldemort's name was particularly painful for her. The funeral that morning had been grueling, the reporters had been merciless. And, it had been just the ninth of eleven. They had five more in the next two days.

"Ginny!" Harry startled himself out of a dream.

"I'm here," she assured him, and spread her hand wide over his belly. He flopped back down on to her lap, chest heaving. He reached up and cupped the back of her head, and pulled her down into a kiss, her lips and an odd angle to his.

Ron quickly looked away, but not before a small thrill played through his belly. "That's just wrong," he said under his breath.

His body knew it was being deprived, and the physical attention Hermione had paid him earlier hadn't quenched that particular thirst. He was starting to feel as if he would come out of his skin every time he looked at her, or Harry and Ginny together, or even his mum's bosoms that morning before breakfast - which had scared the bloody hell out of him. In a panic he'd turned to Hermione who'd been just beside him in the kitchen and pushed her up against the pantry door. Her gasp had been lost in the kiss he'd planted on her right there in front of everyone. He, of course, had made a larger problem for himself, and he'd had to walk sideways out of the room to hide it. Snickering, Hermione had followed, but he waved her off. He was too out of control at that moment, as that kiss had been evidence. "More time," he'd whispered. She'd nodded, and left him alone.

But now, hours later, she ran a lazy finger through his hair and behind his ear. "It's not wrong. It's lovely. It's love."

This made Harry smile. Ginny looked more solemn about it. Neville just looked ill. He got up and left through the kitchen door.

"Oh, dear," Hermione said quietly. "I'm really worried about him."

Ginny looked back over the couch after Neville, too. "Has he said anything to you about his gran since we left St. Mungo's?"

Hermione shook her head. "He got an owl, and I had assumed it was from her. He stuffed the letter in his pocket, though. He didn't seem happy to have received it."

"Suppose she still doesn't believe him?" Ron asked. He knew there were a small few who were holding out hope that Voldemort's death had been greatly exaggerated, but Neville's gran couldn't possibly fit into that category. And anyway, she was nothing if not pragmatic. When faced with the reality of Harry standing there next to the Minister, how could she not believe what Neville had told her?

"I think Neville's not quite right," Hermione said. "I think…maybe I'll go and talk with him."

"I'll go," Ron said. He had a feeling he understood a little of what Neville was going through.

Out the door, though, he was surprised to see Neville halfway down the path toward the edge of Moody's magical protections. And Ron reckoned if he was heading out, he meant to Apparate somewhere.

"Oi! Neville! You leaving?"

Neville stopped, but didn't turn around. His shoulders visible sagged.

"Going to see your gran, are you? Will we see you tomorrow at Professor McGonagall's funeral?"

"Sure," Neville said quietly. Ron took that to mean 'No.'

"You want to take tea before you go?" Ron asked, feeling a little like his mum, but knowing that if he said good-bye to Neville right now it might be a long, long time before he saw him again.

Neville stared at the ground, his eyes hooded and brooding, his face longer and less full than Ron remembered. Had he not been eating? Ron's own appetite had been absent of late, enough so that Hermione had commented.

"You're not going to your gran's," Ron said. Neville looked up at him, considered him darkly. "She does believe you now, doesn't she? She sent an owl-"

"Hardly matters now, does it? If she believes me or not. Now that Harry's told everyone."

"Of course it matters. Did she…you can go home, right? I mean, you're a true friend, Neville, and you're always welcome here – Mum knows what you did with us. But, we've sorta been wondering just why you haven't gone home yet. I'm sure she wants to see you-"

Neville mumbled something and stared out past the last protective crystal along the path.

"Sorry," said Ron. "Didn't catch that-"

"My mum and dad are dead," Neville said. "Death Eaters got to 'em. Inside St. Mungo's. Were looking for Harry, I suppose, but we'd already gone to the Ministry."

"No," Ron gasped. "Neville-"

"Hardly matters," Neville said. "It wasn't like they were my parents anymore. Not really. They've been gone a long time."

"No, it matters," Ron told him. "I'm…I'm really sorry-"

Neville shook his head, took a step back, and looked uncomfortable, pained. "It's so bleeding unfair!"

"Yeah," said Ron quietly. "We'll find out who did it, Neville. We'll make 'em pay."

"They got 'em, already," Neville said. "They're already in Azkaban. There's nothing to be done." He kicked a small stone a couple of meters away, and then pulled out his wand and blew it to bits. His aim was dead on.

"So…" said Ron. "Er…Neville, so you're off to your gran's?"

"I don't think so," Neville told him. "No."

"You can stay here, if you like," Ron told him. "Not forever, of course, but the funerals are only a couple more days, and then Hermione's going to her parents' for a week. We've decided not to worry about anything until she gets back. She's calling it our mental holiday."

"You're mum…"

"Yeah," Ron said with a nod. "I know. She was like this after dad died. Trust me, she's better with people in the house, at least at first. She'll need some time to herself later, of course, but for now, even with the crying, it's best someone is with her."

"And then what?" Neville asked. He toed another stone.

"What do you mean?"

"After the funerals, and after Hermione's holiday, then what? What are we supposed to do now?"

"Dunno, really. That's the point of a mental holiday. You sorta leave the rest for another day."

Neville nodded, shattered the stone at his feet with a bang and some smoke. "Suppose you and Hermione will get a place of your own, won't you? And Harry and Ginny?"

"Uh…well…I suppose." Ron honestly hadn't thought about it. But letting a place would take money, which meant finding a position somewhere now that the shop was gone. And living with Hermione…he'd done it for years, sort of. At Hogwarts. But this would be living with her, sleeping with her, officially. That thought didn't panic him as much as it once would have.

"Lupin's got Jackie, now, doesn't he? And what do I have? Nothing." Neville sighed, shot off a blast, and in the garden Ron heard a gnome squeal in pain.

"What are you on about?" Ron asked. He turned Neville so that his back was to the garden. "You've got us, mate."

Neville looked up at the evening sky. "No," he said quietly. "No, I don't. But you don't understand that, because you've never been alone. Not really alone. Harry understands, though." And Neville looked over Ron's shoulder. Ron turned and saw Harry in the doorway.

"You don't need to go," Harry told him. "Stay a while."

"Can't," Neville told him.

"Our birthdays," Harry said. "You'll come back for that? Come here? We can celebrate together."

Neville's eyes narrowed, and then he looked down the path as if longing to flee. "I'll come for your birthday. If I'm in town."

When he Apparated away Ron wasn't sure he'd ever see Neville again.

"Don't worry," Harry told him. "He'll be back."

Three nights later Ron went to Charlie's room. He'd debated with himself and tried to sleep in his own bed alone, but his body hummed with a want that could no longer be ignored. Need overcame the grief and guilt that had been dulled by the deluge of the previous week. They'd attended the last of the funerals, and Ron had said good-bye to Hagrid with one of Buckbeak's feathers and a loaf of soda bread, heavy on the rocks – just the way he liked it.

Tomorrow Hermione would leave for her parents for a much deserved holiday with her parents. The thought of her leaving made Ron anxious, though he couldn't say just why. He knew she would be safe enough now, and that she could probably handle any trouble that might go looking for her.

She was asleep when he closed the door behind himself. He could hear her deep, regular breaths. The night was warm, and her window was open, and the thin curtains played in the breeze. The moonlight streamed down on top of her like a blue spotlight, and he stared at her chest rise and fall beneath the thin little top that had driven him to distraction more times than he could count. He loved her breasts, her tight little nipples, and the shallow valley between them as she lay on her back. She had one arm flung over her head, her hand lost in the wild tangle of her hair. Her other hand lay limp across her belly.

She woke when he took a step toward her, and her wand was instantly pointed at his heart. "Ron?" she asked, groggy and blinking.

"Yeah."

She lowered her wand and shoved the heels of her hands in her eyes. "What's wrong?"

"I miss you," he told her.

She held out her hand to him and her wand zoomed into it. "Oh, bloody hell!" she cursed, and flung it at the wall. When she saw the look in Ron's eyes she had second thoughts, and held out her hand again. The wand quivered and wiggled until it worked its way free. She cast a Contraception Charm on herself.

"That wasn't necessary." Ron crossed the room to her.

"Oh."

He knelt by the bed and sat back on his heels. "Lay back."

"What? Why? Are you all right, Ron? You look…odd."

"I think I'm good. I love you. Lay back."

She pursed her lips and complied without taking her eyes off him, and scooted a little to the side. "I could double the bed. There's enough room in here-"

He pointed his wand at her robes and whispered, "Delesquio." Then he made her knickers disappear, as well.

"You could've just asked me to take them off, you know," she snipped, less than pleased at losing the clothes. She rose up nude on one elbow.

"Lay back," he said once more.

She huffed and dropped down to the pillow, and jumped a little when he cupped her knee in his hand. "Are you all right?"

He gave her a small smile that he truly felt down to his toes. "I will be."

And then his seduction began. He wanted to touch her - not like he had before, searching and discovering - but to enjoy her. He wanted to please her. His fingers tickled and smoothed up her leg to the soft, smooth inside of her thigh. Her thighs seemed to glow in the moonlight. They parted for him, and he took his time teasing her into ragged breathes. He watched her as he drove her closer to home, enjoyed the small mewling and catches in her gasps. Her eyes screwed shut, her hands fisted in the blankets below her. Sweat beaded on her chest, her trembling legs, and Ron wasn't close enough. He needed to be inside her. He needed to merge with her.

"You're not done," she warned.

He crawled on to the bed, between her legs, and she watched him with a hungry grin. She brought her knees up and open like a butterfly. Immediately Ron's strategy changed course, and instead of burying himself inside her, he dived in face first.

He didn't know what he was doing exactly, more of what he'd done before, really, but now with deep kisses instead of firm caresses. The smell of her was amazing, her taste had him pressing his pelvis into the edge of the mattress. She actually screamed when he sucked her inside his mouth; a sound that rolled out of the very depths of her body. Her nails scraped his scalp. She whimpered and bucked beneath him.

He came against the end of the bed.

His strangled cry had her peering breathless down at him, and she wore a look of absolute adoration. He knew that look. He had become Viktor Krum, Harry Potter, Miguel Amoro, Dumbledore's journals, and the entire contents of the Hogwarts' library all rolled into one in her eyes. His whole being convulsed.

Ron looked back down at what he was doing, grinned, and doubled his efforts. He could tell she was trying to hold out, but he had her in ecstasy before he'd completely come down from his own.

He slept that night with her curled tightly against him, and despite the heat he slept better than he had in recent memory. That night, at least, with their friends buried and their family safe, snuggled together, his demons were kept at bay.

It was two weeks later that Ron heaped another spoonful of eggs on to his plate, and added a couple more slices of toast. Harry watched him, his own plate mostly untouched.

"Not hungry?" Ron asked. He'd woken that morning to the bright, yellow, summer sun feeling as if he hadn't eaten in a year. His appetite had come back with a vengeance, and each day it sought to reestablish its importance in Ron's priorities.

"Reckon not," Harry said. He glanced over his shoulder, and then back down at his plate.

"You sick?" Ron asked, now a little concerned. Harry had made a quick recovery since the final battle, but as the healers had pointed out just the previous day, his magical well was still delicate, and Ginny still had his wand.

Ron, on the other hand, had made a full recovery - minus one sorely missed Smisurato ability, and a withered thigh that the healers said would keep him limping for the rest of his life. Ron hardly noticed that.

"Just not sleeping, I guess," Harry said.

"You might try actually closing your eyes at night," Ron quipped, and flashed him a pointed look. "Ginny's looking tired, too, you know."

"She had another nightmare," Harry told him, and Ron swallowed his grin.

"Oh." They'd all continued to have their share of nightmares, but Ginny seemed to be suffering with them the most. She'd been given some sleeping draughts by one of the healers at St. Mungo's and Ron wondered if she'd already run out.

"But, Hermione, right?" Harry said, changing the subject. "Bet you can't wait to see her. I can't wait to see her."

"Yeah," Ron said.

"I kinda thought you'd go with her. You know, meet the parents…"

Ron swallowed down another bite of eggs. "I've met her parents. You know that."

Harry rolled his eyes, and then glanced over his shoulder again. Was there something out the living room window? Out in the garden. "Is Ginny out there?"

"Oh. Yeah." Harry made another attempt at his bacon.

"Everything all right? Are the nightmares that bad? Have you talked to Lupin about them?"

Harry looked up, and Ron got the impression Harry hadn't heard him. "I've decided," Harry told him. "Today's the day."

"Really?" Ron asked. "Wow. Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"You look miserable."

Harry gave him a frustrated look. "I'm not miserable. I'm…concentrating."

"You're nervous!" Ron teased, and then laughed with Harry's cheeks flushed dark pink. "You really are nervous! But, you're The Harry Potter! You're the brave bloke who defeated Voldemort, the courageous chap who saved the wizarding world!" The Daily Prophet had said that and a whole lot more about Harry, as well as their own never-wavering confidence in both him and his role as The Chosen One.

Harry rolled his eyes and dismissed Ron with a scowl. "I had help with that. Keep your voice down."

"Well. I'm not helping you with this," Ron said. "Defeat the most powerful evil wizard of all time – yes, this? No."

Harry's eyes narrowed on him. He went very still. "You're not telling me not to do it, are you?"

"I'm telling you I'm a coward," Ron said.

"Hardly." Ginny had just stepped in the kitchen door, hands and knees covered in dirt, her pink face glistening. "No one in this family is a coward. Idiot, maybe. Silly git, perhaps. But not a coward." She leaned over Harry, who tilted his head back, and she kissed him soundly on the mouth. "I'm going to shower before people start arriving."

"Shower. Right," said Harry, clearly still thinking about that kiss. He got up and began to follow her up the stairs. Ron gave Ginny a roll of the eyes and a smirk, and she shrugged.

"Oi!" Fred and George rushed leading a girl each by the hand. The girls were twins judging from their identical height, blond, wavy hair, heart-shaped faces, and overly long, straight noses. One wore blue, the other green. "Missy and Julie," Fred said, by way of introduction. Then the four of them trampled up the stairs.

Just as they disappeared, Ron's mother breezed in the door, red-faced and sweaty from working in the garden. "Was that your brothers I saw sneaking in here?" she demanded, as she tossed her wide-brimmed straw hat on the counter top. "Who else would it be? Skiving off helping in the garden!" She poured herself a glass of water from the pewter pitcher, and turned to lean against the cabinets. She considered Ron. "Going to loaf all day in your pajamas, are you?"

"I might," Ron said airily, and chomped on another piece of toast.

She studied him for a moment, narrowed her eyes. "Remus sent an owl this morning. He and Jack should be here before long."

It had been three days since Ron had seen Jack, and Ron was itching to hold him again. Now that the baby was sitting up on his own and chattering happily, he was a lot more fun to play with. Hide and seek with his fuzzy toy wand was endlessly entertaining – at least for Ron.

His mum snorted. "You're just like your father, you know that? He got that same look on his face every time he held one of you. Or played with your feet. Or burped you. That man was a natural father – just like you."

"God father," Ron corrected her.

"Yes, well, I can't see how it'll take much time," she said, and set her glass down on the counter.

"I'm eighteen, mum."

"Yes, dear, I'm aware. I also know what I heard just before Hermione left for her parents." This she said pointedly. "I know the score, Ron. I may just be a mother in your eyes, but I was once young and in love-"

"Oh, Mum! Not now, all right? It's Harry's birthday."

"Happy Birthday!" It was Bill in the doorway, with Fleur just beside him. They both held brightly wrapped presents and something that smelled like freshly baked pumpkin cake. "Oh, I thought he was in here," Bill said, and stepped in to lighten his load. He embraced his mother. Then she turned to Fleur with a warm hug, and kisses to both cheeks.

"And how goes it, my littlest brother?"

"Fine," Ron said.

"Nicely recovered, I see." Bill sat next to him, and leaned in to ask, "How's Harry?"

"Oh, he's fine. The healers told Ginny she could give him is wand back at the end of the week. He's been doing everything the Muggle way."

"Enough of that," said their mum. She sat down opposite them, and motioned for Fleur to join her. "Bill, I need you to talk some sense in to your brother. He's gotten too old to listen to his dear ol' mum."

Bill gave Ron and appraising look. "What have you done now?"

"Nothing," Ron insisted.

"It's not what he's done," she said. "It's what he plans to do."

"What are you on about?" Ron asked. "I'm not doing anything."

Just then there was a knock at the door, and through the small, curtained window Ron saw Lupin's form. He took the opportunity to jump up from the table.

"Come in!" Ron greeted his friend.

Lupin said a general hello to the room and handed Jack over. Ron willingly took the baby, kissed his checkered forehead. Jack laughed. So did Ron.

"Do you see that?" Ron's mum said, and she gestured to Ron. "Now, who does that remind you of?"

"Uh…" Bill didn't seem to know what she was getting at. "Well, he sorta looks like Tonks, what with the pink hair and happy smile-"

"Not the baby, Bill. Honestly! Pay attention. I'm talking about your brother. You see how he holds young Jack, there?"

The all turned and looked at Ron. Lupin gave him a friendly smile as he sat at the table. He still seemed tired – not that Ron had never really known him to not look tired – but his wounds were healing, thanks to the time at St. Mungo's. Ron though he might suggest he take Jackie over-night, though, to give him some more time to catch up on sleep.

"He looks like your father!" Ron's mum cried in exasperation. "When he was holding you, or Percy, or even Ron. Look at his eyes!"

Bill stared at his mother. "Are you feeling all right?"

"He thinks he's ready to start a family!" she exclaimed and jumped up from the table. "He thinks he's ready for fatherhood!"

Again all eyes turned to Ron, who gaped at his mother. "Er…Mum? What are you on about?"

From her sweater pocket Ron's mum pulled a small black ball, about the size of a Rememberall. It had glowing with a red window on the bottom. "You think your mum doesn't understand what's going through your head? I've got a Magic 8 Ball!"

Bill immediately snatched it up. "Where'd you get one of these?" And then he peered at the window with the light. "'Son to propose.' Is this a joke?"

"Never you mind," she said, taking it back. "That's all it's said since late last night, and no matter what question I ask it, that's the answer."

"Zis is not a yes or no question, non?" Fleur said.

"No," Bill said, still excited, and staring at the ball in his mother's hand. "This is a British Magic 8 Ball – the Americans are too limited in their approach."

"It's not me," Ron said.

"Well, it's either you, or Fred and George," she said, thrusting the ball at him.

"What about Fred and George?" George asked, as they trampled down the stairs in a herd of blond and red. Ron's mum stared. Then she discreetly put her ball away.

"You've got lady friends!" Bill said, and then stood and introduced himself to the girls. Ron thought they looked a bit older than his brothers, but he knew that wouldn't bother Fred and George. Both sisters had ample bosoms and backsides, and identical dimples puckering their chins.

Lupin touched Ron's shoulder, and he nodded out the kitchen door. They went out into the already warm morning, and walked down the path a little, and then out into the grass. It was dry and crisp against Ron's bare feet.

"You would make a good father," Lupin said, and he laid a hand on his son's head. "If you need to be one."

"Er…thanks." It was a great compliment, but an awkward one to accept.

"Do you need to be one, Ron? Are you going to be one? Has something happened? Is Hermione…?"

"No!" Ron insisted. At least he didn't think so. "The ball wasn't talking about me."

Lupin stared off into his own quiet thoughts for a moment, and smiled. "Often when so much happens to us, we forget to take a step back every now and then and put things back into perspective. You've done a lot of growing up in the last seven years. A tremendous amount. More than a wizard twice your age might. More than many men ever do." Lupin pushed his hands into his pockets, and he looked off toward the orchard and the bottomless baskets that had served as the Weasleys' Quidditch hoops ever since Bill got his first broom.

"But it's important now that there's time to take a breath, that you do take that step back. Enjoy being eighteen, Ron, because it'll be gone in the blink of an eye. You're not a child anymore, but you are still young. Be young. Allow yourself that gift. Enjoy it."

There was a deafening crack, and Ron turned to see Hermione appear just outside of the magical boundary of the Burrow. She waved excitedly, and hurried toward them. Her hair was fluffy and flying in the warm breeze, her skin tanned a rich gold, her smile a mile wide. Ron had missed her terribly while she was gone, but in seeing her now he realized he'd missed her even more than he'd imagined. He quickly handed Jack off to his father, and opened his arms. She ran into them. Their lips met hungrily at first, and they squeezed each other tightly. Then he felt her smile against his mouth, and her kisses turned playful. She nipped at his lips, at his tongue before pulling away.

"Hello," she said smiling at Lupin.

He gave her an embarrassed smile back.

Then she looked deep into Ron's eyes. "A kiss of the seventh Order, I think."

"That's what I was going for."

There was another crack, and Neville appeared with a girl on his sleeve. A very familiar girl.

"Ron? That's never…is that your friend?" Hermione asked. "What was her name?"

"Gretta," Ron said, stunned. "Gretta Sweet."

"Then I'm not seeing things," Hermione said.

"Hiya," Neville said. He glared down at the ground. "You know Gretta? I thought I'd bring her…no one said no dates."

"Hello, Gretta," Hermione said happily. "And of course you're welcome!"

Just then the door slammed open and it was as if the kitchen exploded, and people spilled out. Fred, George and Bill ran toward the orchard, each with a broom in hand, followed quickly by Ginny with her hair still wet, and Harry.

"Oi! Neville! Just in time!" Harry called. "Care for a spot of Quidditch? We're going to have a game before dinner!"

"Come on, Neville!" Ginny yelled. "You're on my team!"

Ron's mum followed the twins' twins out with a nervous expression on her face. They were all heading for orchard.

Hermione turned back to Ron, still smiling. "I missed you."

He kissed her again, brushed his bottom lip across hers. "I'll go in and get dad's spare broom for you."

"Oh, that's all right," she said. "I don't think I'll play."

"Come on," he urged. "We're young. Let's be young a while longer."

Her expression turned quizzical.

It took him no time at all to race up to his room and grab his broom. On the next landing down he froze. His parents' door looked just the same as it had all his life, and yet, he had trouble bringing himself to open it. He held his breath as the door swung, and he peered into the dim room. Bed, drawers, lumpy flowered chair; she hadn't changed a thing since his father's death. His dad's spare broom hung on its pegs by the closet, just as it always had. It wasn't very fast anymore, but its handle was comfortable – smooth and glossy from years of use.

He heard laughter, and he went to the window. He could see them through the trees full with leaves and unripe apples, flying and laughing and taunting each other. Ginny had the Quaffle, then George, then Fleur. There was Harry with a Beater's bat, smiling as wide as Ron had ever seen him. He looked younger, somehow. So did Neville, when he flew by Gretta and she gave a wink. The scowl almost left his face. So, the harshness of war could be undone, Ron realized. Or, he decided, at least softened a bit around the edges. Pain could be eased. Grief could scar over. Life went on.

Ron raced down to join them, but by the time he reached the orchard they'd all landed. There was tension; the light mood was gone, something had happened. Ron stepped up beside his mother to ask what, but she already had tears rolling down her round cheeks. Her eyes were full of her daughter, and the wizard who knelt in front of her.

"…always have," Harry said. "It took a while to understand it, it took Loving someone else to believe it, but it's true. I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life making you happy, helping you do whatever it is that you want to do, and be who ever you want to be. And I hope, Ginny - you have no idea how I hope - that you want to be my wife." He pulled out a small box, and then took her wrist and placed it delicately in her palm. "The only thing I want to do is love you, Ginny Weasley, and the only thing I want to be is your husband. Will you, Ginny? Will you be my family? Will you marry me?"

She was very still in front of him, deceptively so. Ron saw her hands shake as she opened the box. Her eyes grew wide, tears fell. And then she was laughing while she cried, and she nodded as she wiped her nose on the back of her hand. Everyone cheered, joined in with more laughter and tears. Harry helped her take the ring out and he slipped it on her slim finger. She laughed with real joy, as he lifted her, spun her around, hugged her close. He kissed her, and for some odd reason Ron didn't feel the need to look away.

"My son proposed," Ron's mum said breathlessly. And then her voice caught in a sob.

"It's a good thing," Ron told her.

"Oh, I know that," she said, and swatted at him. Then she turned and looked hard at him, and her tears were forgotten. "Are you next? Tell me, Ron. My heart can't take this kind of anticipation!"

"No, Mum," he said, and rolled his eyes.

"Ronald Weasley, you look at me. Tell me the truth."

"I am!" he insisted.

"You're not going to propose?"

"No," he said, and slammed his fists into his pockets. It wasn't any of her business either way!

"Look at me when you say that, Ron!"

He glared at her. "No, Mum! I'm not going to propose to Hermione!"

"Well, then," she said.

They both turned, and realized that everyone in the orchard was now looking at them. Including Hermione.

"Oh, no," he wheezed, as the panic flooded through him. But, then she smiled at him, and suddenly everything was all right again.

The twins tried to start the Quidditch game up again, but it was a lost cause. Everyone headed back to the house to celebrate with bramble wine and cake. Hermione linked arms with Ron as they walked back.

"You're not Harry," she whispered to him, "and I'm not Ginny. Their time isn't our time. I rather like being us. And, you're right. We are still young…"

They walked in step together without even having to adjust their stride. All those years of walking the halls of Hogwarts, he supposed. "You think it would've been different for them if they had been Fated? I can't really see how."

"Maybe that's why they weren't…and why we were," she said. "I can't imagine not being Fated to you."

"You weren't for a while there."

"It feels like forever ago – like a dream." They walked in silence for a hundred heartbeats. "Ron…when do you think it'll be our time?"

"Our time for what?" he asked, and she rolled her eyes. "Oooh. You mean to get married? 'Dunno, really. Whenever you get around to asking, I reckon."

"Me?" She looked horrified at the thought.

"Well, sure! Why should the bloke have all the pressure?"

"By bloke you mean yourself."

"Well, I am the bloke in this scenario, yes."

"Not if I'm proposing," she muttered. "Ron it's the boy who's supposed to ask the girl."

"Says who?" Ron asked. "And why?"

"Well…" She was really thinking, which Ron found both amusing and a little disconcerting. "Because he has to give her a ring."

"That's silly. The bloke should get an engagement ring, too," Ron told her. "And I expect bended knee. And you'd better ask my mother's permission before you do anything. I expect her to walk me down the aisle."

She glared at him from the corner of her eye. "So, you're telling me our time isn't any time soon."

Ron just grinned. He wasn't sure if the Fates had known the true scope of what they'd done when they'd linked him and Hermione together. But Ron was so very glad that they had.

"Did I say that?" he quipped lightly. Her frustration grew and he had to chuckle to himself. He could do this all day. "You know, Hermione, I don't think those words ever came out of my mouth…"

End of chapter 23
End of Part IV
End of False Fates