Every step I take

I get a little less afraid

Of giving in to love, love

Let it out

Believe me when I say

It gets better every day

Once you get used to the pain

"Used to the Pain" by Keith Urban

Sans the tears cascading down my cheeks, I'm completely motionless. My hand is painfully clenched over my heart and a sob or two occasionally peels from my throat, but I refuse to move. I just can't move.

I'm at the front, among a crowd of what must be over 400,000 people. All of wizarding Britain has come to pay their respects.

Bubbles of anger are rumbling through my body, and there's nothing I can do to stop them. They care about him now, don't they? I thought bitterly. After everything he's done for them, everything he accomplished for everyone but himself… they damn well ought to care.

Ron steps up to give the eulogy, but I don't hear it. Any of it. They asked me to do it first, and I fiercely and emotionally declined. I wouldn't be able to properly address everything he gave me – everything he's done for me. I couldn't find the words to express what a wonderful man he was. There are no words in the English dictionary, or any other dictionary for that matter, that could possibly give him a deserving tribute.

People keep rubbing my shoulders, and whispering soft words of encouragement and comfort. I'm itching so badly to lash out at them. They hadn't known him. They hadn't known my Harry. They probably hadn't even supported him. They'd probably all believed the fucking Daily Prophet.

Speaking of which, I think there are about a hundred bloody reporters here, and the only one I hold even the tiniest bit of respect for is Luna, representing The Quibbler. She was fucking there. She had believed him. The Daily Prophet, Evening Scribbles, Wizards' Digest… Every single fucking one of them has done nothing but aim to shoot down his reputation. Witch Weekly and Cosmowitch… well, they're probably only here to spew off a disgusting and ludicrous article about how many bloody people came to say one final goodbye to the wizarding world's favorite bachelor.

I furiously wipe away at my tears. The only things keeping me from shouting, hexing, and cursing at them are my respect for Harry, and my lack of energy. So instead of fueling my anger, I force myself to listen to Ron.

"…and he was." Ron says mournfully, fueled with nearly as much as I am, trying so bloody hard to keep from losing it in front of everyone. "He was the world's best mate. He was everything he's cracked up to be. And you know what?" Ron says angrily. "Nearly every single bleeding one of you thought he was a liar. I hope you don't think that by coming here, you're forgiven. It doesn't fucking matter what amount of respect you pay him now, because he's gone. And if it weren't for the Ministry, he'd probably still be alive! So rot in hell, all of you."

I laugh wearily, and clap. I think I'm the only one who does, because everyone else is in too much shock over what he said to do anything but gawk at him. Ron lacks the control that I keep over myself – or he just has more energy to express himself than I do.

Ron's mum will probably give him hell for it later, and Fred and George will clap him over the back for it, but I think I might be the only one who can understand exactly what he's feeling. It's such a blind hate and anger toward everyone who thought little of him. It's a big splotch of red, heated emotions directed toward every single one of them.

And I'm proud Ron's actually got the gall to say something about it.

For once, I'm glad that Ron has the worst temper out of anyone I've ever known. And I'm bloody happy he's letting every one of those frauds know that we don't forgive any of them for what they've done.

They don't deserve it.

I gather my purse and walk toward Ron, hugging him. "Nicely done," I whisper in his ear, and he clings to me. I cling to him. And we stand there for Merlin knows how long, just clinging.

And not a damn soul has the guts to tell us that we're wasting their time.

That's probably in their best interest, because I can only control my wand to a certain extent, and they're all pushing my patience to the limit anyway.

An hour later, Ron and I are collapsed on his bed, in his old bedroom, quiet, just remembering. Crying.

It only seems fitting that we would be in Ron's bedroom on this day. Four years since we've graduated, and still the most vivid memories we have of Harry being happy are in this house. He was home here. He had family here. And even though it took him a while to realize it, he had life here.

We don't say anything. There's nothing to say.

And when Molly comes up to tell us that the food is ready, we still haven't changed out of our funeral robes.

We change separately and slowly, because we're both too exhausted to do anything quickly.

Once we're downstairs, Molly dishes us each a plate, perhaps overflowing each of them a little more than usual. And come to think of it, I'm not even hungry. I pick up my fork and start moving my food around, staring at my meal.

Eleven years. It's been eleven years since the three of us met; eleven bloody years of friendship, of war, of love, and of laughter. And suddenly I'm angry. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I know it's misdirected anger, and I know he doesn't deserve it.

But I'm angry.

And I'm angry with Harry.

Eleven fucking years of doing everything together. Making trouble, going through school, finding careers… Eleven years. How could he die without us?

Of all the magical ailments he could have been affected by, of all the battles we've been through – anything we might have expected him to die from, he prevailed through. And a car brought about his demise. A bloody muggle car, driving to Surrey. We had offered to go with him. We had offered our support. He was trying to patch things up with his family. So he'd said no. He needed to do it alone, and he died before he could get there. And he did it without us.

I guess I'm crying again, because George tries to plaster on a smile and throws his arm around my shoulder. The lump in my throat hasn't moved for several days now, and I don't expect it to disappear any time soon.

I try to smile back at him, but I just can't muster up the energy or the will to do it.

And that's exactly how it stays for the next week or so. None of us feel ready to go back to work, but I'm really suffocating myself in this house. All of our depression is just catalyzing more depression and I can't take it. I have to leave.

The clothes and toiletries I brought with me the first night have been shrunk, and packed into my purse. I sigh, take one last look around Ron's room, and start on the steps.

When I reach the kitchen, looking for Molly, I instead find Ron sitting at the table, quiet, remorseful, and alone.

He glances up, takes one look at my purse and seems to get the picture. "I think I'm taking off soon, too," he admits quietly. "It's tough being around here, and I think I just need to get away from the grief."

It's right then that I marvel at how much Ron has matured since Hogwarts. I think there was a time where he might have been livid that I was leaving him here alone. He's starting to get a bigger understanding of other people's emotions in relation to his.

He stands up and pulls me to him, hugging me closely.

"Eventually we're going to have to get our lives back," I say quietly, "and as much as I love your family, I can't stand being around all this sadness. I need to get out, or do something… I don't know, Ron, I just… I need to do something to ensure myself that life goes on."

Ron nodded. "I understand, 'Mione. I'm right there with you," he says softly, rubbing my back. He lifts my face from his neck and carefully runs the pads of his thumbs over my cheeks. I didn't realize I was crying. "Look," he chuckled lightly, "I'm not good with sentimentality. You know that. But if you ever need me, you know how to reach me."

"Thanks, Ron," I whisper. "It means a lot. And you know that goes both ways?"

He smiles and nods again, pulling me into one last hug. "I'll see you soon, yeah?"

"Yeah," I smile back at him. "Tell everyone bye for me?"

"Sure."

"Goodbye, Ron," I say, kissing his cheek lightly. I walk toward the door and slip on my shoes and cloak, as it's only fitting that such a miserable event would occur in the midst of winter. I tuck myself in tightly, and listen to the snow crunch as my feet hit it, closing my eyes briefly before I Apparate to my flat in London.

I fall into the couch, staring around my flat.

It doesn't matter how many times I return home to my flat and it's exactly the same as I left it; every time I leave my home for extended periods of time, I always come back and expect it to be different.

I expect the furniture to be moved, the kitchen floors to be scrubbed, the carpets vacuumed, the dishes washed, the trash disposed of, the refrigerator and cupboards restocked, and my mail to be completely organized, just the way I do it when I'm home.

And I think this is the first time that I'm actually going to accomplish all of that at once.

I may have ignored it and learned to adapt to it in the past, but maybe now is a time for a fresh beginning. I need something to keep me busy, and cleaning seems rather appealing at the moment.

My flat really isn't that dirty, and in comparison to Ron's… well, let's just says mine looks about as spotless as a five-star bed and breakfast.

I like the furniture to be rearranged, and the floors to be spotless. I like to have the trash taken out, and I like the dishes to be clean. I hate when the refrigerator and cabinets are empty, and when my mail isn't arranged just the way I need it, I really get upset.

But when I complete all these tasks, I do them all in bits and pieces as the need arises. I never do it all at once, because I know it'll take a long time to finish, and that's time that I usually don't have.

So now that I need something that takes up a lot of time, and something to occupy my mind, I think I will get started on fixing up my flat.

I change into lounging clothes, and start with the kitchen and bathroom floors, scrubbing away. I despise cleaning the wizarding way; it's great for when you're having company over soon, and you completely forgot to clean up… but it never lasts as long as the muggle way. And besides that, the entire sense of completion you get when you're finished just isn't achieved the wizarding way.

It's not until a couple hours later that I deem the counters and floors spotless, including vacuuming and sweeping, and then start on my other tasks. I continue on until the floo in my living room flares to life. I glance up from the mail in my hands and drop it on the counter when I see who it is.

Draco Malfoy.

I sigh.

He's been my partner ever since we shot out of Hogwarts and into the auror academy. Actually, he's been a pretty nice friend since then. He's apologized, in his own Malfoy-esque way, for the way that he behaved, and we've moved on from there.

And now he's probably wondering when the hell I'm coming back to work.

"Hi," I say quietly, picking up my mail again and sorting through it in an attempted nonchalant manner.

"Granger," he nods at me, looking slightly amused at the way I stack my letters and bills. "I always pictured you to have some interesting sort of filing system."

I smile as much as I can, but after four years of working with me, he knows me better than to actually believe that it's real. I hear him sigh.

"I suppose you're here to tell me to get my arse back to work."

He frowns and shakes his head. "No," he says firmly. "I came here to offer my assistance."

"Assistance?" I ask. We talk, we've been friends, and yes, we've been out for a couple drinks every now and then, but we've never quite been on the level where we delve into each other's personal lives.

"Yes, Granger, it's called help," he says impatiently. "I came to offer you my help."

"I know what it means," I snap crossly, massaging my temples in frustration, "I just don't know what the hell you're offering to help with."

Draco sighs agitatedly, and finally asks, "Do you need me to tell anyone at work anything? Because if not, then I have better things to be doing with my time."

He's walking back towards the floo and I frown. "I'm sorry," I say quietly. "I didn't mean to shoo you away. I'm sorry."

He nods, and he smirks triumphantly, flopping back on my couch. I itch to tell him to get off, that I was just about to vacuum those cushions and move the sofa to the other end of the room, but I can't find it within myself to tell him off when he clearly only came as a concerned friend.

"I'm sorry, you know," he says solemnly, not looking at me, but instead leaning forward with his elbows on his knees as he browsed through the notepad I'd left on the coffee table before the funeral.

I feel the tears threatening to overwhelm me again, and that lump in my throat is back. I turn away from him and continue to sort through my mail. Despite whatever I'm doing to distract myself, the tears just won't relent, and neither will Draco, apparently.

He's moving behind me. I can feel him. And I refuse to look at him because I don't want him to see that I'm crying, even though I'm sure he already knows that I am. "Granger," he says softly, "look at me."

Something in his voice is so… compelling, and almost loving that I feel as if I have no choice but to look at him. So I do. I look at him, and all my eyes are met with are the sight of his, and Merlin he looks completely shaggable.

And then I look closer.

His grey eyes are swarmed with emotions, and his mouth – for once – isn't curved up into that delicious smirk of his; it's relaxed into a frown, and I dart my tonge out to lick my lips absently, tasting the salt of my tears.

"Don't," he mutters carefully. "Let me."

Before I have the time to let my muddled brain process what he said, his lips have descended on mine in the most breathtaking kiss I've ever experienced. My knees start to shake, and I find myself leaning back against the counter to support myself.

His hands are everywhere. My hands are everywhere. And everywhere our hands go leaves a trail of hot skin, and, before long, instead of being backed against the countertop, my back is pressed against my bed, and I'm hastily removing any piece of cloth I can get my hands on, be it on me or him.

And he fully matches every move I make for the next four hours. But as we lay in bed afterward, I have to ask.

"Draco?"

"Yeah?" He whispers back, stroking my hair lightly.

"Did you mean it? Are you sorry?" I ask carefully, placing my chin on his arm and looking at him in what I imagine is a helpless manner.

"Yes," he answers back. He doesn't sugarcoat it, and I don't expect him to. I don't want him to. The simple answer is enough.

"Good," I mutter back, kissing his bicep lightly.

Here's to the strong; thanks to the brave.

Don't give up hope: some people change.

Against all odds, against the grain,

Love finds a way: some people change.

"Some People Change" by Kenny Chesney and/or Montgomery Gentry

Four Months Later—

Everyone is thrilled when Draco and I announce that we're together via The Quibbler. I don't know if they're more pleased about the match, or the fact that I'm moving on – that the world is moving on.

After everything we went through, it wasn't a shock that it took Ron a couple months to come around, but he eventually did, just to make me happy.

Sometimes, people do change. I'm very happy to announce that Draco is one of those.

It took people a while to realize that Draco and I were real, but I can assure you that our relationship is about as real as they come.

We fight, we cry, we laugh, we tease… Our relationship has everything a good romance comedy would. But he never walks out on me. He never leaves me alone. And it's a good thing he doesn't, because I couldn't take it. I've lost one too many, and that loss has impacted my life more than anything else.

And Draco understands.

He wasn't Harry's biggest fan. He made that very clear. But he did come with me to visit Harry's grave, and he does hold me when I start to cry because I miss him. He'llpull me off to the side while we're at a restaurant that features a memorial to Harry (as many good establishments have done) and he does comfort me when I start to panic.

We don't have the perfect relationship, but we have something close to it. And that's all I could ever ask for.

Author's Note:Every time I go back to look at my older works, the italics drive me insane – especially on this one. I went way overboard with them. This is an old story, but I just had to fix it up a little.

Thanks, everyone!