Disclaimer: All Jo Rowling's, characters, locations, hell, even one of the lines.

A/N: Okay, first piece of Post-HBP fanfiction with very Minor HBP spoilers. Ron's POV, stream of thought, DARK (darker than my usual stuff anyhow). Contains character death and angst. And a little of the crazy. I was trying something with the format and over all style . Anyway, read enjoy as much as you can, and let me know what you think.

'After this is over…' She used to say that a lot.

No one says it now.

They live in The After now, and nothing is really how they used to envision it Back Then.

Voldemort's gone but the attacks persist as Death Eaters struggle to finish his work, take his place.

End the world.

There is no time to rest, no time to smell the roses or enjoy a late breakfast at the Burrow on Sundays, one big red headed family. Maybe because the Burrow burned down soon after the real fighting got under way. Maybe because the kitchen is a haunted room no matter what house it is they dwell in, Molly Weasley always present in every corner.

'After this is over…' Hermione used to say that a lot. She would plan trips for them, holidays where they would recover from the

death

guilt

heart break

war, late at night while they laid in whatever cheap motel or inn they happened to be staying in at the time. And he remembers these nights everyday as he scrambles around trying to Do Something but the truth is all there is to do is Wait and Die and Ron has grown weary of both.

All there is really left to Do is Remember and, this; he'd rather just fight off because remembering Hurts.

Remembering belongs in a tattered book in the dusty corner of his closet, where all her things have gone (except for her battered copy of Hogwarts, A History which remains in his trunk because that seems disrespectful). Remembering belongs to the Burrow and Hogwarts and his own mother.

But somehow it finds its way out of the book daily, attacks him with visions of her laughing, the smell of peppermint and yellowed pages, the sound of her saying his name on a loop that torments him as he tries to Live.

She is dead after all, and The Dead ought to remain with The Dead and ('Excuse me, are you the imprint of a departed soul?') not in the memories or dreams or nightmares or hearts of those who Remain (he'd wish he weren't, but that would insult her memory too).

He does not want to Think of her, lying on the filthy floor of the tunnels, her eyes unseeing, her hair singed, her pale skin dotted with her own blood, almost translucent. Cold.

'After this is over…' She begins lying on the lumpy bed among her clutter of books and papers, tapping her lip with a Sugar Quill.

'Yes, we know, we ought to go on a holiday.' He teases her, since she has taken to speaking of this almost every night. He does not tire of it though.

'Yes!' Hermione smiles and laughs, a sound that seems out of place in the dimly lit room. 'But more than that.'

'Oh there's more?' Harry asks absentmindedly from his seat on the floor.

'Yes,' she seems younger then, smiling at them.

(He knows this day, knows it is only four days from The Day. Four days before he fails her. It is Halloween and she is more than a bit drunk from the rounds he and Harry have talked her into sharing with them).

'Like in fairytales. We live happily ever after…'

End

Fun fact: This is the first time I have EVER killed Hermione or Mrs. Weasley in any of my stories.