AN: Hey you guys! 9AlsoKnowAs9, thank you for reviewing—I'm glad you like my style. Anyways, this is the last chapter, everything gets wrapped up; I hope that you guys enjoy it, and thank you so much for reading! As always, please take the time to review!

It will take Harry two weeks to heal completely. At least that's what Ginny tells Hermione, the one time she comes by 12 Grimmauld Place. Hermione nods, and keeps on packing. Ginny stares at her, watches as Hermione throws a few pull-overs into her bag.

"Aren't you even going to visit him?"

"I doubt that I could, even if I tried." Hermione says shortly. On the battlefield, she'd given up on staunching the wound—even the spells she had learned weren't enough for such a serious injury— and simply apparated straight to St. Mungo's. Staggering under his weight, she'd carried him in until a veritable flock of medi-wizards and medi-witches came and whisked him away from her. She'd only gone in to see him once, and he'd been unconscious at the time, so he hadn't seen her lightly tap the silver wristband on his left arm. The wristband had dropped off easily, but at that moment the mediwitches had pushed her out of the way, scolding her, and that, for the moment, had been that.

Once she'd been out of the hospital, Hermione had taken the wristband out of her pocket. It had reverted back to a ring, and she pulled its match off her own finger. She stared at them for a few moments, then tossed them both in the air, hit them with a Blasting Curse. Before she apparated back to 12 Grimmauld Place, she saw dust from the explosion glittering in the pale winter light.

Hermione hasn't gone back to St. Mungo's since, but she knows from the Daily Prophet that everybody in the wizarding world who isn't dead or dying has gone to St. Mungo's to pay homage to Harry, whom they're evidently determined to re-anoint as their savior. Ginny snorts.

"Of course you could get in to see him—Harry made them let me in, I've been with him the entire time—" She stops short, blushes.

"Made up, have you?" Hermione pulls two raincoats out of the wardrobe, folds them before stuffing them in. Ginny looks at her for a moment, then says, "I don't understand either of you at all." Hermione almost smiles at that, but she doesn't turn around when Ginny disapparates without a word.

Harry shows up on the morning of the fifth day after the war, nine days early. There's a noise at the door, and Hermione looks up to see him standing there.

"You ready to go?" She asks him, zipping her bag shut. She'd packed his bag before hers, and she's just finished shoving a map of Europe in her own pack.

"Yeah." He catches the bag Hermione tosses him, slings it over his shoulder. "Where are we going first?"

They start in Romania, but after that yields nothing, they start looking everywhere. Cities, werewolf dens, vampire lairs, ruined castles, manors, cottages, marshes, forests, lakes, towns, villages. They chase down every rumor, every whisper of captives or prisoners, anything, anything at all. They see more than they ever wanted to, and yet after four months Hermione wakes up one morning and considers the distinct possibility that she may never see Ron Weasley again.

She pushes the thought away, but the next night in Norway, Hermione's in her sleeping bag staring up at the ceiling of their tent while Harry lies motionless a few feet away, fast asleep. Hermione tosses and turns until she can't stand it. She wriggles out of her sleeping bag, charms her robes so she won't freeze the moment she steps outside, and then quickly gets out of the tent so she won't let all the cold air in. She looks up at the sky and her breath catches; above her is a glorious display of the Northern Lights, curtains of rainbow ripples of light dancing right out of her reach, and suddenly she's reminded of a particular day that seems so very, very long ago, before the three of them left Hogwarts. She and Ron had been sitting in the common room, Hermione looking through a book, Ron sitting by the window and looking out pensively.

"You know, Harry might decide not to come back to Hogwarts next year. With the war coming, and all." Hermione put down her book, less shocked that she might have been.

"Well, if he does—I suppose we'll just have to follow him, won't we?" She says calmly, and it's almost worth it just to see Ron's jaw drop slightly as he turns to look at her.

"Well, that was easier than I thought." He mutters before getting up from his seat and sitting in the armchair across from her. "But you know what it might take to protect him, don't you Hermione?"

Hermione's about to retort back that of course she does, that of course she knows that it might take her life—when she realizes that yes, it really and truly might mean her death in order to keep Harry safe. And she's always known this somewhere in the back of her mind—known it ever since the Sorcerer's Stone from first year—but the thought of death suddenly seems terrifying. Dead. Gone. No return. Buried at the age of 18, and no amount of mourning on Harry or Ron or her parents' part would bring her back.

She's jolted out of her thoughts when Ron puts his hand over hers, looking at her intently.

"You—you don't have to, you know." He says, a little awkwardly. Hermione looks at him, uncomprehending for a moment, but when she realizes what he's saying she jerks back.

"Of course I do." And the words bring her back to reality, remind her that this is the cost of devotion. "Of course I do, there's the entire stopping Voldemort from winning bit, he'd make everybody get those horrible snake tattoos, the thought doesn't bear contemplating—" that manages to startle a surprised laugh out of Ron, at least. "And, and Harry's my best friend and I love him. That—that's enough for me." She looks up at Ron a little defiantly, but when she sees the expression in his eyes she knows that that's always been more than enough for Ron too. Ron smiles, a little sadly, doesn't remove his hand from hers.

"Well," he says lightly. "You know I love you too, Hermione." She almost chokes at this, at the words themselves and the promise behind them, but she manages to catch her breath long enough to look Ron in the eye.

"And I love you." She says with difficulty, and if somebody had told her that one day Ronald Weasley would make an emotional declaration with more ease that her, she would have laughed herself sick. After that, Ron had smiled and gone back up to his room, and Hermione had stared blankly at the same page of her book for a very, very long time after that. Their devotion to each other may be the death of them all in the end, but there's a strange sort of comfort in the knowledge that it's circular.

The cold is beginning to cut through even her newly charmed robes, and with one last glance at the sky, Hermione goes back into the tent. And all right, she's been reliving every moment she's ever spent with Ron ever since he disappeared, but still, Hermione thinks to herself, there was no reason for that particular memory to pop up just now. No reason at all.

On the seventeenth day of the fifth month, Moody catches up to them.

"Come back," he says. "The Ministry of Magic's in a right bind, nobody gives a damn what the Ministry says anymore, they just all want to know what the hell happened to the two of you—yes, you too, Missy—" He says when Hermione raises an eyebrow. "The tripe the Daily Prophet's printing, s'all about the two of you, like to start a riot one of these days." Moody hesitates, then plunges ahead. "They think you've deserted them." Harry snorts, turns away.

"And I know the two of you need to do this, but they need you too—" Moody says. "And the Ministry's got information that the two of you could use—the trail's running cold by now, isn't it?" When there's no response from either of them, he sighs. "Come home, Potter, Granger. You can search for Weasley just as easily from home, the missions the Ministry wants to send you on are the sorts of places that you'd be going anyways, they want you to clean up mess that's been left after the war. The kind of mess—" Moody pins them with a sharp eye. "The kind of mess that Weasley's probably lost in right now."

Harry doesn't turn back to look at Moody, but Hermione can tell he's thinking about it.

"One condition," Harry says finally. Moody dips his head, listening. "Hermione works with me. Not negotiable." Moody nearly cracks a smile.

"Not a problem—the Ministry was counting on her stopping you from going mad," he says, and Harry and Hermione look at each other, and the two of them start laughing at the same time. It perhaps has to do with the fact, Hermione reflects, that both of them passed madness long, long ago, and the only one who could take them back is nowhere to be found.

So they start working for the Ministry, and Harry is a little non-plussed and just the slightest bit disconcerted when they shove him in an office—very spacious, Hermione notes, beautiful view of the city—slap a badge on his chest, and unleash a team of enthusiastic—a little overenthusiastic—young Aurors on him, never mind that most of the Aurors are at least five years older than he is. None of the Aurors managed to come through the War without having been in the line of fire, but none of them approach Harry or even Hermione's experience, which accounts for the inverted power dynamic. Hermione laughs a little, privately, but when Harry, smirking, tells her it's her turn to hold the 'ducklings' in line, she suddenly finds it not quite as amusing.

But the Ministry doesn't try to attach too many strings to their work, and it is true that they get intelligence that Hermione and Harry had no access to on the road. They see more cities, more werewolf dens, more vampire lairs, more ruined castles, more manors, more cottages, more marshes, more forests, more of everything. Everything except Ron.

One day in early February, Harry and Hermione take the team and storm a once elegant but now decrepit mansion in Bulgaria. Most of the hostiles go down without much of a fight, and the ducklings work on clearing the first floor while Harry and Hermione search the rest of the house. Hermione's the one who flings open the second door on the third floor, but it's Harry who emits a hoarse, strangled cry and rushes toward the corner of the room. Hermione whirls around, wand drawn, but her heart almost stops when she sees Harry hoisting Ron in his arms. Ron's eyes are closed, and the pallor of his skin only underscores the rust-colored wounds that show through his shredded cotton shirt. When he disappeared, Ron was at least half a foot taller than Harry, but now it seems like he's not much more than skin and bones, cradled within Harry's arms.

"Hermione—help me—" Harry says, his voice cracking in desperation, and Hermione runs forward—and oh Merlin, sweet Merlin he's real and he's alive he's alive— and together the three of them disapparate back to England.

And it's a little like carrying Harry back to St. Mungo's all over again, except it's entirely different, because Hermione managed to force the last dose of the highly illegal, moderately dangerous, but extraordinarily powerful Panacea potion down Harry's throat before they came and whisked him away, and Hermione could afford to go back and pack and wait for Harry because she knew of course he was going to be fine anyways, and Hermione's trying tell herself the same thing about Ron, but here's the thing, here's the kicker—she doesn't know, she doesn't know, and if she thought she'd gone mad before she's sorely mistaken, because this waiting, this not knowing is what real madness is.

Harry looks about ready to climb out of his own skin. He's not just pacing up and down the hallways, he's fidgeting and absent-mindedly kicking the walls and biting his lip and trembling and breathing too fast, and even when Ginny puts out a restraining hand (the entire Weasley clan's waiting out in the hall with them) it only stops Harry for a few seconds before it starts up again.

It's six hours later when the medi-witch emerges and says, "All right, you can go in, but his eyes—" before she's nearly bowled over as they all rush in to the room at the same moment.

But then they all stop behind some invisible line, because Harry's there first, and Hermione would hate Harry for the first time ever for the way everybody always defers to him, except that Harry's got his forehead pressed against Ron's, (but—but—Ron's wearing a blindfold?) his hands gripping Ron's, the two of them talking in low fast voices. And Hermione's never seen anybody light up from the inside the way Harry does, now, the way Harry's expression is such a strange mixture of love and fear and sorrow and guilt and utter happiness, and Hermione knows that he feels like he's seeing the most beautiful thing in the world but if he blinks too hard Ron will disappear right in front of their eyes. She knows that's how he feels, because it's how she feels too.

Harry's shuddering so hard now that it seems like he's going to fly apart at any moment, but slowly, gently, Ron pulls Harry into a hug, and the shudders gradually slow, then disappear. After a few long moments, Harry pulls back, and he smiles—the smile's fucking incandescent, it's that bright—and slides off the bed. Hermione takes a step forward, but suddenly Ron's buried beneath a pile of crying, laughing, sobbing Weasleys, and they're so thick around them that Hermione can't even see him.

Hermione closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and turns around and leaves. The Weasleys have done so much for her and Harry that she can manage to give them this time, at least, but she's coming back later and the hospital regulations regarding visiting hours can go to hell for all she cares.

It's past midnight when she manages to sneak back into his room. A muttered lumos lights up the place, but she frowns when Ron doesn't react at all; he's still wearing his blindfold. It's not until Hermione takes a few tentative steps forward that his head comes up, turns towards her.

"Hermione." And she takes the last few steps at a dead run, stops short at his bedside, afraid that if she touches him he'll shatter into a million pieces.

"Ron—" She says, and even she's surprised at how violently her voice is shaking. "Ron—" He smiles, he reaches a hand towards her.

"C'mere, Hermione." She puts a hand in his, marvels at the feeling of his skin beneath hers, but up close notices the suspicious emptiness beneath the cloth covering his eyes, gasps.

"Ron—your eyes—what—" and Ron sighs, shakes his head.

"It would be—it'd be easier if you'd just take the blindfold off. " Hermione hesitates, and Ron's mouth twists wryly. "It's all right, Hermione—really, it—" And because she can't bear to hear his voice like that, she reaches up and gently undoes the cloth tied around her head—

And the blindfold nearly drops from her nerveless hands when she sees that his eye sockets are empty, covered only with scar tissue, and she suddenly feels sick, as if she's been punched in the stomach.

"Ron—" she croaks.

His breath catches at her voice, and he says, a little unsteadily, "I'm sorry, Hermione, I wasn't thinking, I know I—it can't be very pleasant to look at—"

"No—no, Ron, never." Hermione can feel her heart twist at the sound of Ron apologizing—apologizing—to her. She wants to tell him that he's the most beautiful sight she's ever seen, she wants to tell him that she could just sit here and look at him forever, she wants to tell him she wants to Crucio whoever did this to him, she wants to tell him she's so, so, sorry, she wants to tell him that if she could, she'd turn back time and she'd be the one pushing Harry out of the way that day—but her breath catches in her throat, and all she can do is take his right hand again, and look at their entwined fingers.

Ron's silent a little while before he speaks again.

"They took my right eye when they realized I wasn't going to talk." He says, finally. "Then they took my left after I tried to escape. The—there's not really very much they can do for me here, Hermione, I think you should know that. Simple truth is that even magic can't grow eyes back, even if mum and dad don't want to believe that right now."

"It doesn't matter," Hermione says fiercely, "Nothing matters now that you're back with us. That's all that matters, Ron, that's all that ever mattered." Ron smiles, a strange and sad smile.

"Well. In any case, thank you for taking care of Harry for me. I—we never talked about it before, but I know what making those rings must have cost you, Hermione." Hermione looks down, shakes her head before realizing he can't see her.

"We did what we had to do, Ron." She tilts her head. "You don't have your ring on—I suppose that means you've spelled off Harry's wristband now?" He utters a small laugh.

"Yes, Harry's finally free." They're silent, and Hermione can almost feel Ron withdraw into himself, for some inexplicable reason. She tightens her hold on his hand—she's not going to lose him, not after all this, and casts her mind around for something to say.

"Ron—" Hermione swallows. "You need to know—I— do you remember that day in the common room?" and she knows how incoherent she sounds, but there's no help for it. " The day when we were talking about protecting Harry, and I said I loved you?" Ron nods silently. "Well," she says, and she has to swallow to talk around the lump in her throat. "No matter what you look like, no matter what happens to either of us, I love you. I love you as—as much as you'll let me, Ron. As much as you'll accept," She ends in a near whisper, and she can hear Ron's breath grow decidedly more uneven.

"Hermione—" Ron takes a deep breath, utters a strange little laugh, and Hermione can feel her heart starting to try and climb out of her throat; did he not understand what she just meant? Or—or worst, does he just not care? "It's interesting that you say that, Hermione—and you'd better not go back on those words, because at the beginning of the war I asked Harry to guard a little something for me." Ron gropes around with his free hand in the drawer of the nightstand, lightly swats Hermione's hand away when she tries to help.

"I wanted to ask before, but I didn't think it was fair to you with the war going on and then—and then I suppose Harry didn't want to say anything after I disappeared—" Ron's voice breaks briefly. "But today Harry finally gave it back to me—probably half the reason he was looking for me, so he could get rid of it—" He smiles shakily, but he opens his hand and lying in the palm of his hand is a pearl ring. Hermione gapes at it, utterly uncomprehending for a moment.

"Now," Ron says hoarsely, "I know I'm not much to look at anymore—never really was anyways," and he takes the ring finger of her left hand, just runs his thumb over her knuckles for a moment. "But Hermione, would you—" his voice breaks, briefly, as he slowly, gently, fits the ring just over the tip of her left ring finger. He is, she realizes, giving her time to pull away. "Would you mind terribly if I belonged to you now?"

And the last words are scarcely out of his mouth before Hermione's pushes her finger all the way through the ring and launches herself on him, her face against the milky-white curve of his shoulder. "You always have," she whispers into his beautiful, scarred skin. "And when I lost you, I knew then that I belonged to you too," She brings his hand up to her mouth and begins to kiss each knuckle, index to pinky, top to bottom. "Because I found that I was lost myself."

Ron pulls his hand away from her and suddenly she finds herself wrapped in his arms, choking quietly in St. Mungo's in the arms of a man who should have died a thousand times a thousand lifetimes ago, a man who has his face pressed tenderly against her hair, breathing deeply and silently, as if she smells of spring.

Now is the time she starts to cry.

She is crying for them both.