The enforced merriment of Fred's funeral gradually morphed into something more genuinely celebratory. George got just drunk enough to become extremely funny, but not so drunk as to collapse into a screaming, bawling mess of grief. He was very careful about that. Fred would have approved. On some level, George was extremely pissed off about the whole thing, especially seeing as they had shared their tragedies with each other, and no-one else. Ever. And now, here he was, in a bevy of family and friends, having to set the scene alone.

He sent ribbons of brightly coloured bubbles spinning out into the crowd of increasingly raucous mourners. Ginny was on fire. He'd dragged her aside earlier, and asked her to be. For Fred. She'd tried so hard not to cry, and he'd cracked and hugged her tightly. His pluckly little sister. Promise me, he'd said, for Fred. No one can hold a party like you, Gin, we have to bring the house down. It's got to be a night to remember. And so she was. Sparkling and dancing, and flirting outrageously, not just with Harry, but with everyone. And gradually, spurred on by desperate and pointed looks, everyone unwound into a party mood. She'd got Hermione in on it pretty quickly- he'd noticed her glance at him thoughtfully, and then declare that she needed a drink. Damn that girl was smart. She drank a bright pink cocktail, kissed Ginny on the cheek, and they began an impressive campaign to get everyone up and dancing.

Harry was grinning like an idiot- George had seen him drink a firewhisky with Ron, and most of one of Ginny's orange cocktails, and two butterbeers… If he wasn't actually drunk, he very nearly was. Lightweight. Kept trying to slip people Canary Creams… George grinned as Lee turned into a bird and back again… that was one of their better products, he thought, a smooth transformation, and surprising rather than embarrassing- people sometimes ate them on purpose. Like Luna- she'd told him days ago that she loved being a bird for a minute, and suggested he make some that lasted for a bit longer. Not tonight though…

His parents were giggling and sort of jiving about; Bill and Fleur were salsa dancing, having passed baby Victoire over to McGonagall, who was tapping her foot in time and appeared to be giving the infant a lecture on basic transfiguration. Seamus, Dean and Neville were singing loudly and stomping out beats in between spilling butterbeer, and the quidditch players had decided that 'broom drinking' was the order of the night, and kept swooping about, tipsy and upside down. George suspected that Ange was about one shot away from taking her top off, and giving everyone her rendition of 'Cauldron of hot, sweet love'… fifth year, they'd all snuck out after the yule ball and got trashed out in Hogsmeade… and Angelina revealed how much she loved what she called the 'Warbeck Wardle' by giving an excruciatingly accurate imitation of the singer, while Fred howled with laughter. It seemed far away, somehow… even though Percy was still standing around looking awkward, and bopping uncomfortably… no wait, Luna to the rescue- she took Percy's hand and sort of twirled around him like a spinning fairy- Percy laughed, and twirled himself as well.

Charlie was serving drinks like a demon- Hermione kept dragging people over and insisting they try the cocktails- fancy that, Hermione pressuring people into drinking! George grinned again, howled like a wolf, and swung Katie into an enthusiastic dance of indeterminate style. There was nothing to be done about Ron- he'd been looking bludgeoned ever since the battle, and no-one had been able to get through to him, not even Hermione. George personally felt that the plunging neckline and clinging green and orange dress she was wearing ought to slap anyone out of a funk, but then, he supposed he wasn't as used to seeing Hermione dressed up as Ron might be. And the tipsier she got, the wilder and sexier her dance moves- George found he was annoyed that Fred wasn't around to wolf whistle.

Ron sat in the corner, an empty tumbler in one hand. On Harry's insistence, he had drunk one firewhisky, but there he drew the line. It made no difference. There was nothing that could be done, and the curdling shame that was chewing him up from the inside was not altered by the burning alcohol. He felt faintly warmer, but the deep biting cold that had him in thrall couldn't be thrown. He should have been the one. He'd made sure he would be. He had prepared himself. Mentally. He'd had the highest probability of all his family. He'd known what sacrifices he would make. He had never expected to survive. It should have been him.

And at the same time, as he watched Hermione shake her hair out and sway and laugh, he was so relieved that she was ok that it made him sick, as though his desire for her to live had caused Fred's death, had caused all their deaths.

He had never told her, never asked her out, because if she'd said yes, if there was even a chance that she might be what he wanted her to be, he wouldn't have been able to die. He wouldn't have been able to face his death. And now… now it was far too late… he was alive, he had no future, and the girl he would die for was flirting with two of Charlie's dragon training friends…

Ron felt the dark burn of jealousy and clenched his teeth. At least he could still feel that. He closed his eyes and sent up a millionth prayer, a desperate plea to the gods to take him in exchange for Fred. Fred, who was brilliant and funny and loved by everyone. Fred, who had a future. Who had a life. Fred who-

The faint scent of strawberry cocktail and lavender shampoo wafted over him, and his eyes sprang open as the warm, curvy, slightly sweaty weight that was Hermione landed on his lap. She was twinkling up at him, a second cocktail in her hand, a mischievous smile on her lips. She saw his grim expression and her smile faded a little.

"Survivor's guilt," she said loudly, to be heard over the music. Ron tipped his head, confused.

"It's a thing," she said, putting her glass on the table beside him and running her hand over his chest. "A war thing. I read it in…" she frowned and thought for a minute. Ron couldn't help but smile a little. So cute. "In a book," she concluded, "I don't remember which one. I read a lot of books," she beamed at him, "Lots and lots. Survivor's guilt is awful." She took a sip of her drink and put her face up near his so she could whisper in his ear. "Stop wishing you were dead and come and dance with me,"

Bloody know-it-all. Seriously. How did she do that? She was pretty well near sloshed as well. He half smiled despite himself.

"Ah, I can't Hermione. I'm not really in the mood for dancing-" he glanced down, realising she was undoing the top buttons on his shirt, and when he looked back up, her expression sent a lightning bolt of lust tearing through him. He half laughed in surprise.

"That's better," she said approvingly, "Drink some pink stuff," she held up the glass, "You'll feel better. Or pinker! It's nice, I promise,"

"I don't-"

"Drink it!" she said imperatively, frowning at him- god, pouting really. What he wouldn't give just to-

"Bossy boots," he muttered, taking a big swig. It was sweet and smooth and strawberry, and somehow light and swirly. Delicious actually. Faintly minty too.

She was looking at him inquisitively.

"Ok, I'll drink the pink stuff," he said, feeling strangely lighter.

"All of it?" she said, a typical Hermione question that was actually a command. Ron found he didn't mind. The pink stuff was nice. And besides, Hermione was sitting in his lap, and even though he was trying not to look, he still had a pretty excellent view down her dress.

"Good," she said, that twinkling mischievous look returning. Ron suddenly thought she must know about the dress. "Afterwards, come find me. You owe me a dance."

And before he could say anything, she had kissed him on the mouth, hot and wet and sweet, and then slipped off his lap and into the crowd, with an absolutely meltingly seductive backwards glance.

Someone let out a whistle, and Dean was suddenly slapping his shoulder, and saying something about sassy ladies. Ron felt his face burning. He took another swig of the cool swirly pink cocktail and wondered if Hermione had slipped a little something extra into the glass. A little extra what, he wasn't sure, but a soft butterfly feeling seemed to be undoing some of the dark knots of despair in his stomach. She was so smart. And so sexy… and she'd kissed him… Ron decided the sooner he finished the delicious pink stuff the better.