LanguageWarning/SuggestedRapeWarning. Harry discovers a dark secret Ron has kept from him and the war catches up to him after he thought it was all over. The lives of our favourite war heroes are changed forever, yet again. CanonHistory/PostWar/Action/Adventure/Love/Hurt/Healing

The War That Never Ended – A Harry Potter Story

A/N: Please take the time to review my first FanFiction story. Your advice and time is valuable to me and also encourages me to keep posting more chapters (I have many written/in the process of being written).

Disclaimer: I love J.K. and would never try to steal her thunder. Just let me play.

XxSeekerxX

Prologue: It Was Over

Two figures, a young man and woman, sat on a new couch in Grimmauld Place. Once a place of dark memories, it had become a safe haven for new beginnings…or so Harry had thought.

He held the distraught woman roughly in his arms as she cried. Soft curls of hair spilled gently over his hands like a coffee-coloured drape. Rigid fingers dug into his arm as he tried to loosen his grip around her. This had become a routine for the two lost war heroes. Every time Hermione and Ron fought she would run to Harry. Harry would offer his arms to fall into and hold her closely, deep into the night until she had the strength to go back. But tonight was different.

Harry tempered his anger with deep breaths, trying to steel himself for what was to come. Blood thudded through his brain as he rested his chin on her shoulder, staring intensely at the Grimmauld Place pantry door. Its worn edges were in severe need of replacement and lay crooked against the wall. If his eyes held magic, in that moment there would be no damaged door, possibly no house, and certainly no Ronald Weasley.

"This is the last time…You will never go back…" he whispered gently in her ear, his fingers shaking with barely restrained control as they rested gently against her shoulder. "I promise."

Harry crooned tender nothings in her ear as he stroked an ugly purple-black bruise that bloomed like an ugly tattoo across her arm. Harry had healed most of the damage only moments before. For the umpteenth time, he cursed his abysmal healing skills. He could take away the pain of the wound, but the scars would remain, at least until he located some of Fred – his heart dropped to his feet at the thought of Fred, as it did every time – and George's bruise cream.

He felt ill as he reflected on Hermione's state mere moments before. She had arrived at his doorstep weakened; her face was so pale she nearly rivalled Sir Nicholas. White bone, visible through the torn flesh of her arm, led his eyes to a dark red puddle dripping steadily onto his new entryway carpet.