Chapter Text
Birds chirped softly in the distance, their calls weaving together as a gentle breeze stirred the air.
The wind brushed past stone and glass alike, cool and unhurried, slowly climbing higher into the open sky as though ushering the world awake.
Pale light spilled over the horizon, stretching long fingers of gold across the waking land, signaling the arrival of a new day.
A peaceful day.
The kind of morning that promised quiet, the kind that suggested nothing terrible could possibly happen beneath such a calm sky.
However, it was not a very peaceful day for Ron Weasley.
He stood alone on the balcony, the chill of the early hour seeping through his thin jumper as he leaned lightly against the railing. Below him, the world was still half-asleep, wrapped in that fragile moment between night and morning.
In his hand, a mug of black coffee steamed faintly, the warmth pressing against his palm as if trying futilely to offer comfort.
Today marked the anniversary of Fred’s death.
The thought sat heavy in his chest, familiar yet no less painful for how often it returned. Ron released a slow, weary sigh, his breath fogging slightly in the morning air as his gaze drifted toward the rising sun.
The sky was beautiful soft oranges bleeding into pinks, gold melting into blue and somehow that only made it worse. Days like this felt unfair. How could the world look so whole when something so essential had been torn from his own?
He lifted the mug to his lips, pausing just long enough to stare down at the dark liquid inside. His reflection stared back at him, distorted and faint, eyes tired in a way sleep never seemed to fix. A quiet, humorless laugh escaped him.
Coffee.
If anyone had told him years ago that he’d start his mornings with black coffee, he would’ve laughed in their face. Ron had always been a tea person strong, sweet, comforting tea, usually shared in noisy kitchens or over cramped tables with people he loved. Coffee had been too harsh, too bitter, too unforgiving.
And yet, here he was.
He took a slow sip, letting the bitterness spread across his tongue. It burned slightly, sharp and unapologetic, lingering long after he swallowed. Ron didn’t grimace. He didn’t add sugar. He simply drank it and breathed out softly.
It tasted like his life now.
He had never liked coffee to begin with, yet somewhere along the way, he had come to adore the hellion of a drink, the way it demanded to be endured rather than enjoyed, the way it always left a bitter aftertaste no matter how used to it you became. Maybe that was why he kept choosing it. It felt honest.
Ron lowered the mug and looked out over the view once more, the sunlight climbing higher as the morning grew bolder.
Every time he stood here, he felt the same tangle of emotions knot inside him gratitude for still being alive, guilt for surviving, sorrow that never truly faded. Five years felt both like a lifetime and no time at all.
The war was over. Hogwarts had been rebuilt. People had moved on.
He wasn’t sure he ever truly had.
It had been five years since that devastating war that took place in hogwarts and five years since Fred had lost his life making him shook his head.
Sleep had never truly come easily to Ron after the war.
Some nights were manageable restless but quiet while others dragged him back into memories he desperately wished would stay buried.
He would wake with his heart hammering against his ribs, sheets twisted around his legs, the echo of screams and fire and laughter-that-should-not-have-ended ringing in his ears. Fred’s grin, frozen in his mind at the worst possible moment, always seemed to appear just when Ron thought he was safe.
He had tried everything.
Calming Draughts sat half-forgotten in his cupboard now, their effectiveness dulled by overuse and stubborn nightmares. Even doubling the dosage barely took the edge off anymore.
Once..only once he had muttered something about stronger sleeping potions, desperation slipping through his exhaustion.
Hermione had not taken that well.
She’d fixed him with that sharp, terrifying look of hers and told him very calmly that if he even thought about using sleeping draughts strong enough to knock out a dragon, she would personally sic Harry on him.
The image alone had been enough to stop him. Harry, awkwardly concerned and hovering at his bedside, armed with lectures and that quietly disappointed expression it was enough to make Ron back down instantly.
The memory tugged a short, genuine laugh from his chest.
It faded quickly, but it was real.
Hermione.
They had broken up a year after the war, quietly and without drama. No shouting. No slammed doors. Just a long, honest conversation that left both of them drained but strangely relieved. They had come to terms with something neither of them wanted to admit at first that they were better as friends than lovers.
They had tried so hard to make it work.
.
.
Too hard.
Every little disagreement had turned into an argument, every difference in perspective a point of friction. Ron’s insecurities clashed with Hermione’s stubborn certainty, and neither of them knew how to bend without breaking. Eventually, they reached the same conclusion at the same time: if they didn’t stop now, they would only end up resenting each other.
So they ended it.
Just like that, the flame burned out not in a blaze, but in a quiet dimming. And as much as Ron hated himself for feeling it, there had been relief. A strange, unexpected lightness. As though a weight he hadn’t realized he was carrying had finally been set down.
At first, guilt had eaten at him.
He told himself he must have been the problem. That if he had been better braver, less jealous, less of an insecure prick maybe things would have turned out differently.
Hermione, ever kind even when it hurt, had assured him again and again that it wasn’t his fault. That they simply weren’t right for each other in that way.
Ron believed her.
Mostly.
Deep down, though, he knew his own flaws too well to pretend they hadn’t played a part.
The sun had risen higher now, warmth slowly chasing away the morning chill. Ron exhaled softly, the air leaving him like a surrender, and finally set his tea down on the table with a quiet clink. He turned away from the balcony, shoulders slumping just slightly, and headed toward the bathroom to take a bath, knowing he would need to visit his brother’s grave later.
_____
The streets were quieter than usual as Ron came to a stop in front of the flower shop.
It was small, tucked neatly between a bakery and a bookshop, its front window always carefully arranged with fresh blooms no matter the season.
He had been coming here every year without fail, the routine so familiar it felt almost ritualistic.
Ron exhaled slowly, adjusting the scarf around his neck as a gust of wind brushed past him, carrying the faint scent of earth and flowers. For a moment, he simply stood there, steadying himself, before reaching for the door.
The wind chime echoed softly as he stepped inside.
Warmth greeted him instantly both from the gentle heat of the shop and the atmosphere itself. This place was not owned by witches or wizards, no enchanted blooms or self-watering pots in sight.
It was a Muggle flower shop, humble and real, run by an old couple Ron had grown unexpectedly attached to over the years.
They never asked questions he couldn’t answer, never pried into scars they couldn’t understand. They simply welcomed him every time with smiles, warmth, and hot chocolate so rich and comforting it put even his mother’s to shame.
“Little Flame!”
The gasp was sharp with delight, and Ron’s lips curved into a genuine smile as he turned.
An old woman hurried toward him, her face lined with deep wrinkles earned from years of laughter and kindness. Her white hair was neatly tied into a bun, and she wore a floral dress that somehow always smelled faintly of lavender.
“Uma,” Ron greeted warmly.
She didn’t hesitate, pulling him into a tight hug. Years ago, Ron would have stiffened at such sudden affection, but now he melted into it easily, arms wrapping around her in return. There was no pressure here. No expectations. Just warmth.
“Don’t suffocate Little Flame, dear,”
Another voice said with gentle amusement.
Ron glanced up to see the old man approaching them, white long-sleeved shirt rolled neatly at the cuffs, dark trousers pressed, and a black apron tied around his waist. Gardening shears and a pair of gloves peeked out from its pockets, well-used and familiar.
“Umi,” Ron said, his smile widening as he stepped forward to hug him as well.
The old man patted his back fondly before guiding him toward a small table and chair near the counter. Ron sat down obediently, feeling oddly younger in their presence, while Uma shuffled off toward the small kitchen at the back.
“So,” Umi asked, eyes twinkling mischievously as he leaned against the counter.
“ How’s life?”
Ron laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck as he settled into the chair.
“Nothing new.”
Uma returned moments later, carefully balancing a tray with steaming cups of tea. She set it down between them with a satisfied hum. Ron murmured his thanks and lifted the cup, the warmth seeping into his hands as he took a slow sip.
“Ehh… you sure?” Uma said, sitting down across from him. Her smile turned playful.
“No girlfriend… or boyfriend?”
Ron nearly choked.
“Bloody hell! No!” He sputtered, face flushing a deep, unmistakable red as he shook his head frantically.
“Absolutely not!”
The two elders chuckled knowingly, entirely unbothered by his reaction.
He hadn’t dated anyone since Hermione. After they broke up, something inside him had simply… shut down. The motivation never came back. He told himself he was too busy, that work demanded his attention, that relationships would only be a distraction but the truth was more complicated than that.
Hell, he didn’t even do one-night stands.
No casual flings, no drunken mistakes, no reckless attempts to fill the quiet. Even the blind dates his mum relentlessly tried to set up ended in awkward refusals or polite disasters that left him exhausted and annoyed beyond belief.
It was bloody irritating, really but Ron couldn’t bring himself to care enough to change it.
“Same as always?” Umi asked, lifting an eyebrow as he poured himself a cup of tea.
Ron hummed thoughtfully, raising his teacup in a mock salute, lips quirking into a familiar, crooked grin.
“Same as always.”
Uma smiled at that, but her eyes softened in a way that told Ron she didn’t quite believe him. She never called him out on it, though. She never pushed, never pried into wounds she knew better than to touch. That quiet understanding was one of the reasons he kept coming back, year after year.
They talked a little longer about the weather, about the shop, about nothing important and everything comforting. For a while, Ron almost forgot why he had come in the first place.
Eventually, he stood.
Uma carefully wrapped the flowers in brown paper, her movements slow and practiced, as though each fold carried meaning. She tied the string neatly, then pressed the bundle into Ron’s arms. He cradled them gently, fingers tightening just slightly around the stems.
As always, the couple walked him to the door.
“Stay warm, little flame,” Umi said softly, resting a hand on Ron’s shoulder.
Ron smiled, something quiet and sincere in the curve of his lips.
“I’ll try.”
The bell chimed as he stepped back into the cold, the warmth of the shop fading behind him. He didn’t look back immediately.
He knew they would still be there, standing side by side, watching him go as they always did.
Inside the shop, Uma and Umi remained by the door, their gazes following Ron until his red hair vanished into the distance after a moment, they turned to each other, sharing a knowing smile.
No words were needed.
They simply shook their heads gently before returning to their tasks, the quiet hum of the shop resuming around them.
By the time Ron arrived at the cemetery, the sky had dulled into a heavy grey, clouds hanging low as if the world itself was holding its breath.
The iron gates stood tall and cold before him, their dark metal etched with runes of protection and remembrance.
The place was silent..no birds, no wind, no distant voices only a stillness so deep it pressed against his chest. Ron stopped just outside the entrance, fingers tightening around the bundle of flowers in his arms even after all these years, his heart gave a small, traitorous lurch.
He did this every year.
And still, it never got easier.
Ron took a deep breath, the cold air burning slightly as it filled his lungs. He shook his head once, as if to steady himself, then stepped forward through the gates.
The crunch of gravel beneath his boots echoed far too loudly in the quiet. Almost immediately, Ron had to force his gaze straight ahead. He knew if he looked around..if he let his eyes wander over the countless headstones his heart would start to tremble in earnest.
There were too many.
Row after row of graves stretched across the land, neat and uniform, each marked with a name that had once belonged to someone young, someone hopeful, someone who should have had more time.
Students
Professors
Fighters who had never asked to be heroes.
Many of them had fallen during the Battle of Hogwarts, and now they rested here together.
This cemetery hadn’t existed before the war.
It had been created afterward, when the scale of the loss became impossible to ignore.
The sheer number of deaths had sent shockwaves through the wizarding world, triggering emergency alarms all the way up to the International Wizarding Court.
The IWC had intervened swiftly, their presence overwhelming and unavoidable, stepping in when it became clear that Wizarding Britain’s government had utterly failed its people.
There had been protests, outrage, denial.
.
.
But they hadn’t lasted.
The evidence had been damning years of incompetence, corruption, and negligence laid bare for all to see. Fudge’s reign had been dissected piece by piece, revealing a trail of disastrous decisions that led to a domino effect no one could stop in time.
Secrets long buried were dragged into the light, horrifying the wizarding world and shattering whatever trust remained.
Arrests followed. Trials. Public reckonings.
And healing..so much healing both magical and otherwise.
Ron exhaled deeply as he walked, the weight of it all pressing down on him. The war hadn’t ended when the fighting stopped. In many ways, it had only begun then.
.
.
.
“Ron?”
.
.
The sound of his name cut through his thoughts, sharp and unexpected.
Ron blinked, momentarily disoriented, before lifting his head. His breath caught.
“Angelina?”
Shock laced his voice as he stared at the woman standing a few steps away. For a moment, his mind struggled to reconcile memory with reality.
The last time he had seen her was at Fred’s burial her face hollow with grief, eyes dull, standing so still she had looked more like a shadow than a person.
After that… nothing.
She had disappeared from their lives so completely that Ron had sometimes wondered if she had left Britain altogether.
“Y-you’re here…?” Ron stammered, pushing himself to his feet, disbelief written plainly across his face.
Only then did it truly register.
Angelina was pregnant.
The loose coat and thick scarf couldn’t hide the gentle curve of her stomach, the unmistakable roundness visible even beneath layers of fabric. Ron’s gaze dropped instinctively before he caught himself, heat rising faintly to his ears.
“You’re… pregnant,” He said softly, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
Angelina didn’t look offended. Instead, she offered him a wry, almost sheepish smile. She stepped closer, kneeling carefully as she placed the flowers she carried beside the others at Fred’s grave. Her movements were slow, deliberate, one hand instinctively coming to rest over her stomach.
“It’s been a long time, I guess,” She said quietly.
Ron stood there, unsure what to say, watching as she gently rubbed her stomach in a way that was absentminded yet deeply protective. He studied her face then, really looked at her and something inside him eased.
The heaviness that had once clung to her was gone.
There was softness in her expression now. Warmth. A quiet steadiness that hadn’t been there before. The grief was still present he could see it in her eyes but it no longer defined her. It no longer swallowed her whole.
Ron felt a strange sense of understanding settle in his chest.
She is happy, he realized.
.
.
Truly happy.
.
.
And for the first time since arriving at the cemetery, the ache in his heart eased just a little.
“Indeed,” Ron replied quietly.
Silence settled between them, not uncomfortable, but heavy with things neither of them needed to say.
The breeze passed through the cemetery, rustling the grass and stirring the ribbons tied to nearby bouquets. For a moment, the world felt suspended caught between memory and the present.
“It was nice seeing you again, Ron,” Angelina said softly.
She turned to look at him one last time. Ron met her gaze and nodded, something unspoken passing between them an understanding born of shared loss and survival. No bitterness. No regret. Just acceptance. Angelina smiled at him, a small, grateful smile, before turning away and walking down the path, her figure slowly fading into the distance.
Ron watched her go.
There was no resentment in his heart toward her. He understood her pain better than most losing the person you loved didn’t leave room for judgment. Seeing her now, alive with hope, building a future and moving forward, eased something tight in his chest. Ron was genuinely happy for her, the same way he was happy for anyone in his life who had found a way to keep going.
Eventually, he lowered himself back down beside Fred’s grave.
Ron tilted his head back and looked up at the sky, which had brightened quietly while he hadn’t been paying attention. The clouds had thinned, allowing soft light to spill through, bathing the cemetery in a gentle glow. It was peaceful..so peaceful it felt unreal.
He leaned against the cool stone of the tombstone, exhaustion finally catching up with him. The stillness wrapped around him like a lullaby. His eyes grew heavy, lids slowly sliding shut as his breathing evened out.
He didn’t notice the single tear that escaped the corner of his eye, trailing silently down his cheek before falling to the ground below.
The air remained calm, almost tender, as though the world itself was holding him in that moment quiet and fragile, like a calm before the storm.
.
.
.
At the Ministry, Hermione Granger sat behind a desk that had long since disappeared beneath stacks of parchment.
Paper after paper lay spread across the polished surface, reports, decrees, revisions, petitions all bearing the weight of a world still healing from war. Her quill moved swiftly, signing and reviewing with practiced efficiency, ink flowing in clean, decisive strokes. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t falter until she did.
Hermione paused mid-signature.
The quill hovered for a heartbeat before she finally set it down, fingers loosening as she leaned forward, elbows resting against the desk. A tired sigh slipped past her lips, heavier than she intended. She tilted her head back and stared up at the ceiling, eyes unfocused.
Five years.
Years ago, she had been just a girl one who hadn’t believed in magic, who had lived an entirely ordinary life before a letter changed everything. Hogwarts. War. Loss. Victory. And now—
Now she was here.
A Muggle-born witch sitting in the highest office of the wizarding world.
Minister for Magic.
The irony of it all wasn’t lost on her. Hermione let out a quiet, bitter laugh, the sound echoing faintly in the vast office. The same society that once whispered that mudbloods didn’t belong, that Muggles were inferior, now took orders from one. From her.
“A Muggle shouldn’t belong,” She murmured under her breath, the ghost of old prejudice lingering like a bad taste.
She sighed again, placing the quill aside before rubbing at her forehead as a familiar migraine began to bloom behind her eyes. Stress, lack of sleep, responsibility it all blurred together before she could dwell on it further, a knock echoed against the door.
“Come in,” Hermione said immediately.
Her posture straightened at once, shoulders squaring, expression smoothing into something professional and composed. Prime and proper. Ready especially in case another old, scowling traditionalist pureblood decided to test her patience.
The door opened.
“Harry,” Hermione said, surprise flickering briefly across her face.
Harry stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
Gone was the skinny, awkward boy she’d grown up with. Gone was the perpetually rumpled teenager who had once looked like the weight of the world might snap him in half and now standing before her now was Lord Potter-Black taller, broader, self-assured, carrying himself with a quiet confidence that filled the room without effort.
If Hermione were to compare him to the Harry she had known years ago, it was a complete one-eighty.
A surprising glow-up.
“Hermione.”
Harry’s voice was warm as he strode further into the office, a confident smile playing on his lips. Hermione rose from her chair immediately, the stiffness of formality melting away as she stepped around the desk.
They embraced without hesitation familiar, easy and exchanged a brief peck on the cheek, the kind born from years of shared history rather than romance.
“How are you?” Hermione asked as she pulled back, already guiding him toward the sofa near the window.
“Since when did you arrive?”
She gestured for him to sit, taking the seat opposite him once he had settled with a casual flick of her fingers, a tea set appeared on the coffee table between them, steam curling gently upward as she poured two cups with practiced ease and handed one to him.
“Just now,”
Harry replied, taking the cup and lifting it to his lips. He took a slow sip, shoulders relaxing slightly as the warmth spread. Hermione watched him over the rim of her own cup, a soft smile touching her face.
After Hogwarts, Harry had left.
America, specifically.
He hadn’t been able to bear staying any longer in a place that had tormented him for most of his life every corridor of Hogwarts, every street of wizarding Britain heavy with memories that refused to stay quiet.
Hermione had understood. She couldn’t fault him for wanting distance, for choosing somewhere new where he could breathe without ghosts whispering in his ear.
He visited sometimes. Rarely. Mostly on special occasions.
Now, he was different steadier. Therapy had helped; Hermione wasn’t surprised by that. If anyone deserved peace after everything, it was Harry yet still, she could see the remnants of old shadows in his eyes, softened but not entirely gone.
A peaceful silence settled between them, comfortable and unforced, filled only by the faint clink of porcelain and the distant hum of the Ministry beyond the walls.
_____
“Where’s Ron?”
Harry’s question broke the quiet, his hand setting the cup down on the coffee table with a soft clink.
His brow furrowed as his eyes scanned the office, looking for any sign of the redhead but there was nothing. No coat tossed on a chair, no forgotten scarf, no flutter of movement from the familiar energetic presence. Hermione blinked slowly, a quiet, sad smile tugging at her lips.
“Cemetery,” She said simply, her voice low, almost reverent. One word, but heavy with meaning.
Harry’s face darkened immediately, understanding settling like a weight in his chest.
“It’s the day, isn’t it?” He asked softly, his voice barely more than a murmur.
Hermione hummed, nodding slightly, her gaze dropping to the tea cup in her hands.
The polished surface reflected her own face, pale and tense beneath the soft glow of the Ministry’s overhead lights. She traced the rim absently with her thumb, thinking of the weight that day carried not just for Ron, but for all of them who had survived, and for all those who hadn’t.
The memory of Hogwarts flashed unbidden across her mind. The war had ended, yes, but the scars it left were more than physical. Fred’s death had been a blow that had sent shockwaves through everyone who had known him.
Hermione had seen it in George..the quiet moments when his laughter faltered, the way his hands would tremble slightly when he touched something that had belonged to his twin but he never expected that Ron would be the second most affected by Fred’s death.
Hermione thought back to her own struggles, the ones less visible. When her parents’ memories had been partially restored after the war, the confrontation that followed had been brutal in its honesty.
Her mother’s slap had been sharp, sudden, and though Hermione had tried to defend herself, she knew deep down that she had been in the wrong. She had been careless in her judgments, harsh in her words, and selfish in moments that should have been selfless.
It had taken her two years to repair that fragile bond with her parents, to prove through action and reflection that she could be trusted, that she had learned from the mistakes of the past yet they were still wary of her especially when she was using magic when she was in vicinity of them.
Acceptance hadn’t been easy acknowledging their feelings, owning her missteps, attending the therapy sessions they had insisted on it had all been part of her path to understanding herself, and mending the relationships she valued most.
Hermione exhaled softly, her fingers rubbing the edge of her teacup as if to anchor herself.
She lifted the cup again and took another slow sip of tea, feeling the warmth seep into her hands and chest. Each breath felt deliberate, a small ritual of calm amidst the constant weight of memory and responsibility.
Fred’s absence, the grief that lingered, the quiet mourning in places like the cemetery all of it weighed on her but she knew that Ron needed this time. He always had, and she trusted him to find a moment of peace amid the ghosts of the past.
“Why don’t we go to the cemetery?”
Harry’s voice cut sharply through Hermione’s thoughts, pulling her from the labyrinth of memory she had been wandering.
She blinked, startled, and noticed him staring intently toward the side of the office. Following his gaze, her eyes landed on a photograph hung on the wall in a polished frame.
It was an old photo, taken years before the war, a time when everything had still felt whole. A time when life seemed simple and unbroken. Hermione felt the sharp sting of nostalgia as she looked at it, every detail a reminder of what had been lost.
The Weasley family filled the frame, smiling broadly at the camera. Fred stood proudly, arms wrapped around his girlfriend, Angelina, her hand resting lightly on his chest, her smile soft and genuine. Sirius and Remus were there too, alive and free of the shadow that would later hang over them.
In the center of the photo were Hermione, Ron, and Harry together, unscarred by grief or fear. Harry’s smile was bright, almost radiant, nothing like the weight he now carried on his shoulders. Ron’s hair shone in the sunlight, Fred’s laughter frozen in time, and Hermione herself looked younger, lighter, unburdened by responsibility or guilt.
The sight of it made her chest tighten. Her throat caught, and she felt tears welling in her eyes, each one sharp with memory.
She quickly looked away, pressing a hand discreetly to her face to wipe them before Harry could notice. She knew he had seen it anyway, of course Harry always noticed but she refused to let him call attention to her moment of weakness.
“Sure,”
She said softly, her voice steady, even as her eyes lingered on the photo a fraction too long. She blinked rapidly and forced a small, genuine smile, lifting her gaze to Harry.
He simply nodded, a quiet understanding in his expression that needed no words. No questions, no probing, just recognition of the shared grief and the knowledge that sometimes, presence alone was enough.
Together, they stood. Hermione reached for her coat instinctively, though Harry made no move toward his, as if the familiarity of the action had been carved into their friendship.
The tea cups sat abandoned on the table, steam long gone, marking the passage of time and the calm before the next moment of remembrance.
It had been too long since the three of them..the Golden Trio had been together in this way. Free of meetings, assignments, and the invisible burden of leadership that now rested on both Hermione and Harry.
For once, they were simply themselves, drawn together not by duty or history, but by the quiet, enduring bond that had survived the war and everything that had followed.
Hermione inhaled deeply, letting the moment settle around her, and together, they prepared to leave the office, stepping out of the polished, busy world of the Ministry and back into the stillness of memory and the cemetery waiting beyond.
.
.
.
“So, Harry? How are you and George?”
Hermione asked, her tone light, teasing, as they walked toward the door of her office.
Harry paused mid-step, brow raising in surprise. Confusion flickered across his face as he tried to process her words.
“Pardon?” He asked, a small crease forming between his eyebrows.
Hermione let out a quiet laugh, the sound warm and playful, shaking her head as she continued forward without giving him time to recover.
“Oh… nothing,”
She said, letting the words fall casually, though her lips curved with amusement. She didn’t bother explaining further, her stride confident and smooth as she led the way.
Harry quickened his pace to catch up with her, glancing at her in mock frustration.
“Nothing? Hermione, come on—what’s that supposed to mean?”
But Hermione offered no answer beyond another soft laugh, one that trailed off into the hallway as she closed the door to her office behind them. The faint sound of the door latch echoed, marking the moment as private, between just the two of them.
Harry could only shake his head, a bemused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Hermione, walking a few steps ahead, couldn’t help the small, thoughtful smile that crossed her face.
‘Same old oblivious Harry,’
She thought, shaking her head gently. Even after everything, some things never changed.
As they stepped out into the quieter hallways of the Ministry, her mind wandered briefly to the thought she had teased him about. She could imagine his reaction now if he knew how often people had assumed he and George were a couple.
A chuckle rose quietly in her chest at the image Harry, red-faced and sputtering, trying to explain, stammering like he sometimes did when caught off guard.
Hermione’s smile lingered as she strode forward, leaving the memory and the laughter in her mind, ready to accompany him to the cemetery.
By the time Hermione and Harry arrived at the cemetery, the afternoon sun had dipped low enough to cast long, slanting shadows across the rows of tombstones.
A brisk wind swept through the grounds, tugging at their coats and scarves, carrying with it the faint scent of freshly turned earth and flowers both carried bouquets in their hands, chosen carefully for the occasion, their colors muted but still bright against the pale light.
Hermione paused at the entrance, taking a deep breath as she adjusted her scarf one last time. The gate loomed before them, wrought iron dark against the fading sky, and the silence beyond it seemed almost sacred.
She met Harry’s eyes, and he nodded at her with that quiet, steady reassurance that had always been part of him. She returned the nod, and together they stepped inside, the crunch of gravel underfoot the only sound to mark their passage.
They walked slowly, each step measured, neither speaking. The wind whispered around them, stirring the ribbons on nearby graves and bending the tall grass just enough to make the place feel alive despite the absence of its inhabitants.
There was a calmness here, yes, but also a quiet heaviness, a weight that pressed at the chest and reminded them both of the lives lost, the friends and family who would never come back and eventually, they arrived at Fred’s grave.
Hermione’s eyes softened at the sight of the freshly placed flowers, the neatness of the grass, the care with which the space had been maintained. Yet as she looked closer, a pang of concern stirred in her chest yet...
.
.
There was no sign of Ron.
.
.
“Ron?”
Hermione called, her voice quiet but cutting through the stillness. She scanned the graves around them, scanning the path behind them, half-expecting to see the familiar mop of red hair appearing from somewhere.
Harry’s brow furrowed, the line of worry forming almost instantly.
“Ron should be here…” He muttered under his breath, voice tight.
He moved a few steps forward, looking left and right, peering between the rows of tombstones. The cemetery was empty. Not a single familiar figure in sight. The emptiness pressed down on them, a strange contrast to the carefully tended grave in front of them.
Hermione and Harry turned to each other, confusion mirrored in their eyes, worry etched across both their faces. Neither spoke at first, letting the silence stretch, letting the concern build between them.
And then, in the quiet of the afternoon, one thought took root in each of their minds, unspoken but heavy with implication.
.
.
.
.
' Where is Ron? '
.
.
.
' Soft. '
That was the first thought that fluttered through Ron’s groggy mind as consciousness crept back into him.
He felt as though he were floating in a cloud, the kind of weightless, enveloping softness that made him snuggle deeper into it without questioning.
The warmth, the cushion beneath him it was foreign, yet comforting in a way that made his limbs relax despite the faint tension in his chest.
Then, without warning, it felt as though a thunderclap had struck directly inside his skull. His eyes shot open, and every muscle in his body tensed.
' Wait a bloody minute…'
The softness wasn’t right.
He shouldn’t be in some plush, cozy bed.
He should be at the cemetery, surrounded by cold stone, with the chill of the autumn wind biting at his cheeks and the solemn weight of Fred’s absence pressing on his chest. The thought made his heart jump.
Slowly, hesitantly, he opened his eyes all the way.
Marble. Gleaming, polished, impossibly smooth marble stretched above him, forming a ceiling adorned with intricate patterns that glimmered faintly in the light. His mouth fell open for a brief moment, and he could feel the urge to mutter praise rising to his lips but the thought of admiration barely registered.
' No. This isn’t right. I’m supposed to be looking up at the gray, dreary sky over a cemetery. Not… this.'
He blinked repeatedly, trying to force reality back into focus. The patterns above shimmered with delicate, golden filigree, and somewhere inside him, Ron realized that the unfamiliarity itself was almost more jarring than the luxury.
Startled beyond reason, he let out a scream that echoed sharply in the otherwise silent room.
His back hit the mattress or whatever soft surface he had been lying on and he scrambled upright, panting, heart racing like a wild creature trapped in his chest.
His eyes darted frantically across the room, scanning walls, furniture, corners, anything that could explain the impossible situation then, a glint caught his eye: a mirror.
Ron froze.
The reflection staring back at him was him, but not entirely. Something was… different.
His features were sharper, more refined, as though someone had sculpted them overnight. His skin was fairer, his freckles so unmistakably him before gone entirely. His hair had grown longer and seemed a deeper, almost glowing shade of red rather than the familiar ginger.
And then there was the most alarming detail: a bandage wrapped tightly around his head.
Gingerly, almost afraid of what he might find, he lifted a hand to touch it. The fabric was soft, clean, and smelled faintly of antiseptic and from experience, he knew it was fresh.
His fingers brushed against it, tracing the contour of the bandaged wound underneath but his memory refused to cooperate.
He couldn’t remember ever getting injured, let alone badly enough to require bandaging. Confusion churned in his stomach, twisting with a growing unease and before he could process any further, the door slammed open with a force that rattled the walls.
Ron’s entire body jerked violently.
'Death eater!!!!! '
The thought hit him instinctively, sharp and immediate. His pulse raced as adrenaline flared, muscles coiling for attack or flight.
He snatched up the nearest object. A pillow lying innocuously on the side of the bed and hurled it at the figure stepping into the room.
“BLOODY MERLIN!”