Chapter 1: Desolation and Torture

The sunshine and warmth mocked the Weasley family as they mourned. Under the large oak tree that shaded the graveyard, stood about thirty people, clad in black robes huddled around the closed casket. It was a warm day, the weather was nice—but it did little to cheer anyone.

The Weasley family stood together. Arthur clutched Molly, whose sobs continued to echo unevenly throughout the graveyard. George stood between Charlie and Percy, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably. Bill held a weeping Fleur, and Ginny sobbed into Ron's shoulder.

Hermione knew that Harry was trying to give Ginny the opportunity to mourn with her family, despite his certain instinct to go to comfort her. Instead he put an arm around Hermione, and they cried together.

Hermione had never felt so conflicted. Torn between grief and happiness, Hermione didn't know what to feel. She was happy that the war had ended—wizards everywhere were celebrating the fall of Voldemort—but her heart ached for her friends who had fallen. She had attended too many funerals in the past week. So many lives had been lost… Friends and classmates had been murdered before her eyes…

Hermione cried harder than ever, when Arthur spoke of his fallen son. Harry held her tighter, and cried onto her shoulder.

Words were spoken, and memories were shared, but George didn't hear them. He had lived his entire life as part of a pair… What would he do without his second half? He couldn't listen—it was too painful. Instead, he stared at the dark wood of Fred's casket, and cried.

As the funeral ended, and the casket was lowered into the ground, Harry, Hermione, and the Weasley family left through the gate of the graveyard. They made their way down the winding path, through the hills of Ottery St. Catchpole, in the direction of the Weasley Burrow. They could have apparated, but nobody seemed to have the strength to raise the question as to why they were walking.

Dinner at the burrow was a subdued event that night. George had refused to join them. After telling his mother that he wasn't hungry, he retreated from the crowded kitchen, and made his way to the sitting room, where he exited through the back door.

Harry, Hermione, and the rest of the Weasley family gathered around the tattered table, sitting in mismatched chairs. Now we're missing two people, Hermione thought, staring at the two open spots at the table. Her eyes watered with fresh tears, threatening to overflow.

Bread was passed around the table in silence, and Mrs. Weasley ladled large scoops of onion stew into bowls. Hermione knew that onion soup was Mrs. Weasley's comfort food.

Hermione tried to eat her soup, but found that she was unable to swallow. She wasn't hungry. She found it odd that things as simple as soup and bread could still exist, when the world around her had been altered so significantly by the war.

Hermione heard a sniff from the end of the table. She looked up, to see Ginny in a similar state of contemplation. Her gaze shifted to Ron, who offered a weak smile. She returned the gesture, but the smile did not reach her eyes. Her thoughts went back to the conversation they had earlier that day.

Hermione sat in the Burrow's sitting room, staring at her hands which sat folded on her lap. The funeral had ended a few hours before, but the grief remained. To her right, the occupants of the kitchen talked in low and mournful voices.

She looked up when Ron entered the sitting room.

"Hey," he said, as he took the empty seat next to her on the couch.

"Hey," she said simply.

He took her clasped hands into his own, and leaned forward, so that their foreheads were only inches apart. They sat like that in silence for several minutes, staring at their entwined hands, thinking.

Finally, Ron shifted slightly. "Hermione," Ron said quietly. When he spoke, his voice came out rough, and his eyes filled with tears. He hesitated.

Hermione looked up at Ron. "What is it?" she asked gently.

"Hermione," Ron began again. "You know that I've liked you for a long time, right?"

Hermione smiled weakly and nodded. "I've liked you for quite some time too," she said quietly.

"I know, it's just that…" Ron faltered. Several tears escaped his eyes now. He took a deep breath and continued. "Well… I had always thought that when we finally got together… I don't know… I thought that—"

"—that you'd be happy?" Hermione finished for him. He sniffed, and nodded. "I know what you mean," she confessed.

"I had always thought that no matter what happened I would be happy if I was with you. I thought that if we got together, then nothing would be bad."

"I've always really liked you Ron," Hermione said quietly, her own eyes filling with tears. "But I understand what you mean. I thought that being with you, was all that I needed to be happy…"

"I do love you Hermione," said Ron, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm just not sure if I love you in that way…"

She nodded knowingly at him. "I know what you mean. I don't know if we could make it as a couple."

They were both crying now, and Ron leaned in, hugging her, and kissing the top of her head. "We might not make it as a couple … But at least we know that we'll make it as friends…"

The scraping of a spoon against the bottom of a bowl brought Hermione out of her stupor. Looking as though she had just noticed the bowl in front of her, she picked up her spoon. She took several more bites, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't bring herself to do more than sip small amounts of broth from the tip of her spoon.

There was little conversation. The few words that were exchanged were reserved and quiet.

Hermione couldn't bring herself to look away from the empty spots at the table, and her eyes were filling with hot tears.

Picking up her dishes, Hermione stood up. "Thank you for dinner Molly," she said. "It was really delicious."

"Are you sure you're not still hungry dear? I can whip up something else," Molly said, moving as though to get up from her seat.

"No, no I'm fine," Hermione reassured the older woman, setting a hand on her shoulder. "I think that I just need some fresh air… maybe I can clear my head a bit."

Molly nodded knowingly, offering Hermione a sad smile, and patting her hand.

Hermione crossed the kitchen, and rinsed her bowl and spoon in the kitchen basin, leaving them to dry on the rack beside the stove.

She avoided looking at anyone as she moved towards the door. It wasn't difficult—everyone was so consumed in their thoughts, that they hardly took notice as she opened to kitchen door and stepped out into the summer night air.

She started walking, not really sure where she was headed. All she knew was that she wanted to get away from the rest of the others. Hot tears threatened overflow, and spill out onto her cheeks.

After a few minutes, she found herself at a bench that sat along the path that led to Mr. Weasley's shed. She sat heavily and buried her face in her hands. She didn't want the others to know that she was crying. Of course she had been close to Fred, but what she felt must have been nothing compared to how the Weasley's were feeling. Nothing compared to how George must have felt…

Looking up, Hermione saw a lone figure across the lawn, sitting in the garden swing. George? She wondered.

As if summoned by the thought of his name, the lone figure rose. He slowly crossed the weed strewn path, kicking at the dirt as he walked. Hermione wiped her eyes as he approached. He stopped a few feet in front of the bench.

"Hey," he said. His voice was rough, and through the dark, Hermione could just barely make out the tears in his eyes.

"Hey," she responded in a brittle voice, as he sat to her left on the bench. "Are you doing okay?" Hermione was afraid of the response that she would get from him.

"No," he said flatly, "but neither are you." He scooted towards her, so they now sat shoulder to shoulder. After a moment, he leaned forward, and buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook violently as he cried.

Hermione leaned forward, and put an arm around his shoulder. "It's going t-to be okay G-George," Hermione stuttered. She was crying now too.

George sat up quickly, and turned towards Hermione. He wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her to him. He cried on her shoulder, and she buried her face in his chest.

"W-what are we going t-to d-do without him?" He gasped through his tears.

Hermione shook her head against him. "I don't know," she whispered.

They sat like that for several minutes, George clutching Hermione to his chest and Hermione scratching George's back soothingly. As their tears subsided, George loosened his grip on Hermione, but he kept his arm around her waist.

"Everything is going to be different," said George. It wasn't a question, but a fact that he stated firmly.

Hermione hesitated. "You're right," she said quietly. Her eyes darkened. "Everything is going to be different. The war may finally be over, but the scars could stay forever."

He looked at her curiously for a moment, before shifting on the bench, turning to display the left side of his head.

Hermione gasped. The gaping hole that had once been so dark and uneven was now clean and pink. A soft ring of flesh and cartilage surrounded his ear canal. "I thought that you couldn't regrow it!" Hermione exclaimed.

"Mum thought so too," George explained. "After the battle, Madame Pomfrey had a look at it. She was able to fix me up in a blink."

"I thought it was dark magic that severed it though?" Hermione asked.

"That's what mum said too," said George, "But Madame Pomfrey explained that the curse that Snape used, wasn't so bad that the damage couldn't be undone." He looked offered her a weak smile. "Not all scars are forever."

Hermione's face fell again, and she looked away slightly. "But some of them are."

"What do you mean?" asked George furrowing his eyebrows.

Hermione turned back to him and hesitated. Her fingers fiddled with her left sleeve for a moment, before pulling it back to reveal the word 'mudblood,' which had been etched into her arm.

George gaped. He stared at the word, pink and fading scarlet against her pale porcelain skin.

He clenched his fist so hard, that his knuckles turned white. "Luna and Dean told us… They said that you were tortured at the Malfoy Manor… But… but I hadn't any idea that she did… this," he finished, gesturing to her forearm, which Hermione had already covered with her sleeve again. "I thought that she used the Cruciatus Curse?"

Hermione looked at George solemnly. "She did… but she used her wand to carve up my arm first," said Hermione bitterly.

"Have you used any ointments or potions on it?" asked George quietly.

Hermione nodded. "She used some form of the Cruciatus Curse to do it though… It'll heal, but it will leave a scar no matter what I do." Hermione began to tremble slightly at the memory.

George wrapped his arm around her shoulder again, and rested his head on hers. "Don't think about it," he said quietly. "You're safe here."

They sat in silence again. A few minutes passed, before Hermione spoke. "We should probably go back in. Your mum will be worried."

George nodded, and got to his feet. He offered his hand to Hermione, and after helping her to her feet, they set off in the direction of the Burrow together. When they reached the kitchen door, Hermione cast George a sideways glance. He looked so defeated…

She put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. He looked at her questioningly. "George, we'll get through this."

He looked down at her. He stared into her eyes. Her brown iris's sparkled with the reflected light from the porch light. He nodded. "I know we will."

AN: Hey, so I wrote another fic, but I ran out of steam. If you want me to continue, PLEASE review! I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with this story! Any ideas?

Also, I'm looking for a beta reader! If you're interested, let me know! Thank you so much for reading!