Disclaimer: As always, not mine and I am making no money off of this.

War

Ron stood in the middle of the over packed infirmary, trying to catch his breath. His shirt was stained with blood and dirt, creating a reddish brown, sticky mess that made the material stick to his skin. It occurred to him then that, even if the battle ended, and the bad guys were ultimately finished, the war was never really going to end. Battle scars still marred the tall, proud walls of Hogwarts, some people were still bleeding, and other people had already died. They had won but it didn't change the fact that wizards and witches had lost their lives. His own brother was among them.

Voldemort's spell had rebounded on him less than four hours ago, but it already felt like it had happened days ago, perhaps even years ago. Since that fateful moment when Harry had finished the Dark Lord off with no more than Expelliarmus, many of them had been shifting through the rubble, trying to find anymore bodies. A few were still missing and were feared to be dead. The west side of Hogwarts had been badly damaged, and parts of the upper portions had been completely destroyed, leaving heavy stones littered on the surrounding grounds. There might be people under there, and there were. The first time Ron had come across the heavy smell of blood and the body of one of their own fighters, he had fought to keep back his tears, along with the contents of his stomach. He wasn't too sure of who that person was, but thought it might be a seventh year Hufflepuff he couldn't remember the name. It felt like a crime, or a sin, not being able to remember her name.

He had never cried like he had cried that night. There were tears shed upon Fred's death, there were tears when he had to tell his mum about it, there were tears when he had clutched Hermione to his chest, as they were gathering around Fred's motionless body, and tears of bitter sweetness when Voldemort had died. He had never cried so much in his entire life.

"Mr. Weasley?" someone whispered next to him, a worried note in her voice.

He had been so lost in his thoughts that he had forgotten that he was still in the infirmary. He had been able to forget for that one moment that he had just helped Oliver Wood carry a body up to the room that they were using as a makeshift morgue.

Next to him stood Madame Pomfrey, her face set into grim lines as she looked at him. Her normally crisp white apron was bloody, just like shirt, and her graying hair was damp with sweat.

"What?" he asked.

"I think you should stop now, Mr. Weasley, before you collapse from exhaustion. Someone can take over for you," she whispered again, her voice soothing.

"But I can't, there could still be people under there, I can't just leave them."

"You are one of the few that have to rest, Mr. Weasley. You will be of little help to anyone if you collapse, in fact it will only cause more trouble for others," she replied, her voice turning crisp as she pointed to the Gryffindor Tower. "Go and sleep now."

The thought of a warm, comfy bed was actually appealing, so he followed her advice, only half reluctantly. He climbed the stairs in a haze and reached the portrait hole a few minutes later. A Death Eater had ripped the portrait of the Fat Lady off its rightful place, and it was now leaning against the wall. The Lady was not there, she was visiting another painting somewhere in the castle. With the Fat Lady ripped from the wall, there was no door or other barrier, so one could just climb through, to the Gryffindor Common Room. He climbed through, and the dying fire in the grate met his eyes.

At first, he thought no one else was there, but then he saw the bundle of blankets, placed on one of the sofas in front of the fire. He approached quietly and listened to the even breathing of the sleeping figure. It was Hermione, and most of her face was obscured by the large quilt. While she was sleeping, all traces of war were gone from her traits, and all that was left was peacefulness.

He remembered their kiss, and, like the moment of Voldemort's death, it seemed to have passed days ago, too. The kiss had been something so amazing and breathtaking, in that moment of living hell. The light of the dying, flickering flames made her skin glow, and, all of the sudden, Ron longed to hold her and to kiss her. He longed to wake her up and just do that, but he firmly stopped himself when he looked down at his filthy clothes. There would come a time for that, later. Hermione suddenly seemed to be the light at the end of a long, crumbling tunnel.

He left her there and walked up the boys' staircase, immediately heading to the boys' restroom. His hands on either side of one of the sinks, he looked up at himself in the mirror, and was shocked by what he saw. His cheeks were streaked with dry blood, and dried tears, and through all that there was heavy red stubble across his jaw. He looked nothing like himself. He breathed in and out, deeply, and stripped out of his clothes, jumping inside one of the showers, trying to wipe off the evidence of war from his skin. He bore the image of Hermione, sleeping peacefully, in his mind as he washed.

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