Chapter Text
The war ended in fire and silence.
In the days that followed the fall of Voldemort, Hogwarts became something holy and broken all at once. Survivors moved through its corridors like ghosts uncertain of their own existence. The torches were relit. The bodies were carried with care. Names were spoken softly, reverently, as though saying them too loudly might shatter what little steadiness remained.
They had won.
But victory, they learned quickly, was not the same thing as relief.
The Ministry scrambled to reorganize itself under the leadership of Kingsley Shacklebolt, whose calm authority felt like the first real sign that something stable might grow from the wreckage. Trials began. Azkaban filled. The Daily Prophet printed headlines that felt both triumphant and unbearably heavy. Everywhere, there were lists, of the fallen, of the missing, of those still in St. Mungo’s.
The trio did not separate.
They slept when exhaustion demanded it, ate when Molly Weasley insisted, and remained within arm’s reach of one another as if distance itself had become a threat. Harry carried the invisible weight of what he had done and what had been done to him. Hermione buried herself in quiet conversations about reform, her mind already reaching toward rebuilding. Ron stayed closest to home.
Because Fred was gone.
---
The funerals began two weeks after the battle.
They were not small.
The wizarding world had lost too much, too suddenly, and grief demanded ceremony. Black robes filled churchyards and magical glades alike. Wreaths of enchanted lilies floated in the air. White marble memorials rose from the ground where nothing had stood before.
Fred’s funeral was held at the Burrow.
It felt wrong that the sky was so blue.
The garden where he and George had once tested Canary Creams and Portable Swamps was transformed into something solemn. Chairs were arranged in uneven rows. A small wooden dais stood at the front, draped in red and gold. The pond reflected sunlight too brightly, as if unaware of what it witnessed.
Ron stood beside his family, fingers clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned white.
George did not look like himself.
The twin symmetry that had defined them was gone, and the absence seemed louder than any sob. One side of George’s face still bore the faint scarring from the loss of his ear, but now there was something deeper etched there, a hollowed-out vacancy. He stood unnaturally straight, as though posture alone might keep him from splintering.
Molly did not cry the way she had in the common room after the battle.
That had been something wild and primal. This was quieter. Worse.
She looked diminished, as if grief had carved something essential out of her and left behind only the shell. Arthur’s arm remained around her the entire time, his hand resting at her waist as though he feared she might drift away.
When it was Ron’s turn to speak, he thought he might collapse.
He hadn’t prepared anything. Words felt impossible in the face of someone who had always been laughter incarnate.
He stared at the casket for a long moment, at the polished wood reflecting the sunlight.
“He wasn’t supposed to go first,” Ron said finally, voice rough. “That was sort of the whole point.”
A ripple of broken laughter moved through the crowd.
“He was-” Ron swallowed. “He was the brave one. The loud one. The one who didn’t think twice.” His throat tightened. “I used to think I was just… one of too many. But he never made me feel that way. Not once.”
His voice cracked then, and he stepped back before he could say anything else.
Hermione reached for his hand immediately.
Fred was buried beneath the old oak tree near the back fence, where he and George had once hidden contraband fireworks from their mother. The irony was unbearable and perfect all at once.
George did not leave the graveside until long after the others had gone inside.
Ron stayed with him.
They did not speak.
---
The weeks after the funeral blurred together.
The Burrow became a place of constant movement, relatives arriving with casseroles and condolences, neighbors stopping by with awkward sympathy. Ginny retreated into long silences punctuated by sudden bursts of anger. Percy threw himself into Ministry work with near-desperate intensity, as though productivity might atone for past distance. Charlie returned to Romania eventually, but not before promising to visit more often.
And Molly-
Molly moved through her kitchen like someone performing muscle memory. She cooked because that was what she knew how to do. She folded laundry. She cleaned. But her laughter did not return.
Ron watched her closely.
He had expected her to object when he and Hermione began speaking about Australia. He had expected tears. Arguments. Pleas to stay close after so much loss.
Instead, when he mentioned it gently one evening over tea, she only nodded once.
“Of course, dear,” she said, her voice distant. “You must.”
It frightened him more than anger would have.
---
In between the mourning and the Ministry hearings, life demanded small forward steps.
George returned to Diagon Alley for the first time three weeks after the funeral.
The sign above the shop still read: Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.
Ron went with him.
The shutters were dusty. One of the windows bore a hairline crack from stray magic during the battle. Inside, shelves remained stocked with Skiving Snackboxes, Pygmy Puffs, and Extendable Ears. It smelled faintly of sugar and smoke.
George stood in the center of the shop, turning slowly.
“Feels wrong,” he muttered.
Ron nodded.
They spent the day cleaning. Ron climbed ladders to dust shelves while George repaired minor enchantments with steady hands. Customers trickled in cautiously at first, curious, hesitant. A few offered condolences. A few bought items with determined cheerfulness, as though supporting the shop was an act of defiance.
By the end of the week, the bell above the door rang steadily again.
Ron began working there most days.
It was something to do. Something Fred had built. Something tangible.
He discovered he liked it, the chaos of it, the irreverence. Testing new products in the back room, laughing despite himself when a prototype Canary Cream malfunctioned spectacularly. For a few hours each day, grief loosened its grip.
George never said thank you.
He didn’t need to.
---
Hermione, meanwhile, had grown quieter.
Not withdrawn, but focused.
There was something she had delayed long enough.
One evening, sitting at the small wooden table in the Burrow’s garden, she unfolded a Muggle map across her lap.
Australia stretched wide and distant beneath her fingers.
Ron sat opposite her, elbows resting on his knees.
“We’ll need names,” he said.
“I gave them new ones,” she replied softly. “Wendell and Monica Wilkins.”
Saying it aloud seemed to cost her something.
She had altered their memories before the war. Removed herself from them. Sent them to Australia to keep them safe from Voldemort’s reach. It had been logical. Necessary.
But logic did not soothe the ache of absence.
“I don’t know exactly where they settled,” she continued. “I modified their memories so they believed they’d always wanted to travel. To start over somewhere new. I thought- if they were far enough away-”
“You saved them,” Ron said firmly.
She met his eyes.
“I erased myself,” she whispered.
The silence between them stretched thin.
They both knew the journey would not be simple. Australia was vast. Muggle systems were unfamiliar territory for wizards raised in magical households. Hermione understood more than most, but even she could not conjure certainty from thin air.
“I think we should go the Muggle way,” she said after a moment.
Ron blinked. “You mean- planes?”
She nodded. “It’ll be easier to search that way. We can look up registered dentists. Ask around in neighborhoods. Blend in.”
“Blend in,” Ron repeated faintly.
She almost smiled. “You’ll manage.”
He exhaled slowly, nodding.
“It won’t be easy,” he said.
“No.”
“But it’ll be worth it.”
Her eyes softened.
“Yes.”
---
They set the date quietly.
One month after the war’s end.
The announcement did not go as Ron expected.
It was not Molly who objected.
It was Harry.
They were sitting in the orchard behind the Burrow when Hermione explained the plan in full: flights, rental flats, searching through dental registries. Harry listened with increasing tension in his posture.
“You’re leaving,” he said finally.
“For a while,” Hermione clarified.
“We just got back,” he snapped.
The sharpness in his voice startled all three of them.
Ron frowned. “Mate-”
“We’ve barely had time to breathe,” Harry continued, running a hand through his hair. “We’ve been safe for five minutes and you’re already planning to disappear across the world.”
Hermione flinched.
“It’s not disappearing,” she said carefully. “It’s finding my parents.”
“I know that,” Harry shot back. “I’m not an idiot.”
But the anger in his tone did not match his words.
Ron studied him closely.
Harry looked tired. Not just physically, though there were shadows beneath his eyes—but bone-deep weary. Haunted in ways that had not eased since the forest.
“You think we’re rushing,” Ron said quietly.
“I think,” Harry replied, jaw tight, “that maybe we should stay in one place long enough to feel what it’s like not to run.”
The word hung heavy between them.
Hermione’s cheeks flushed faintly.
“I don’t want to run,” she said softly.
Harry’s expression shifted, just slightly. Regret flickered there.
“I know,” he muttered.
But Ron understood.
This wasn’t anger.
This was fear.
They had all learned, over the past year, that movement meant danger. Packing bags meant pursuit. Leaving meant loss.
“Harry,” Ron said gently, “if it weren’t her parents, we’d stay.”
Harry didn’t respond.
“We’d stay at the Burrow. Help George. Let Mum fuss over us until we couldn’t breathe. But this-” Ron gestured toward Hermione. “This is just as important as winning.”
Hermione’s eyes widened slightly at that.
Harry looked between them.
“You could wait,” he insisted weakly.
“For what?” Hermione asked.
He didn’t have an answer.
Because there was no perfect time to reopen wounds.
Ron leaned back against the tree trunk, crossing his arms.
“You know what it’s like,” he said quietly. “Not knowing. Wondering where someone is. If they’re safe.”
Harry’s gaze dropped.
He knew.
“They’re out there thinking I don’t exist,” Hermione continued, voice trembling despite her effort to steady it. “I can’t leave it like that.”
Harry closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them again, the anger had drained away, leaving only reluctant acceptance.
“I just-” He exhaled. “I don’t want anything to happen to you. Not again.”
It was the closest he would come to saying it outright.
Ron’s expression softened.
“We’ll be careful,” he promised.
Hermione nodded.
Harry stared at the grass for a long moment before finally shrugging.
“It’s not my decision,” he said quietly.
It wasn’t.
They were no longer children following him into danger.
They were choosing their own path.
“I’ll owl,” Hermione offered gently.
“You’d better,” Harry muttered.
The tension eased slightly, though something unspoken lingered beneath it, an understanding that healing would not come neatly.
---
The night before they left, the Burrow felt heavier than ever.
Ginny hugged Hermione tightly. Percy shook Ron’s hand with surprising warmth. Arthur pressed a small envelope of Muggle currency into Hermione’s palm, his eyes shining with quiet pride.
Molly embraced them both for a long time.
“Be safe,” she whispered.
Her voice was still distant, but there was something like flickering life behind her eyes when she looked at Ron.
As though she could not afford to lose another son.
When they stepped beyond the crooked fence the next morning, trunks in hand, Ron glanced back at the house he had grown up in.
For a moment, he felt the familiar tug of doubt.
Safety.
Familiarity.
Grief shared within walls that understood it.
Then Hermione slipped her hand into his.
Australia awaited, vast and uncertain.
A continent filled with strangers and the faint possibility of reunion.
It would not be easy.
They would navigate airports instead of Apparition points. Muggle transport instead of Floo powder. They would search through dental offices and city records instead of magical registries.
They would likely argue.
They would likely get lost.
But they would go together.
Ron squeezed her hand.
“Ready?” he asked.
Hermione looked ahead, eyes steady despite the fear beneath them.
“Ready.”
And with that, they stepped forward, not into battle this time, but into something quieter and just as brave.
The long road toward bringing her parents home.