"Ginny is dead."

She said it without emotion, without a hint of pain, and that was the way he took it. There were no tears, no shock on his face. The last time Hermione Granger had seen Ron Weasley cry was ten years ago, and she didn't expect to see such a reaction now, even at the sound of the terrible news she brought.

But something did change in Ron's face. It was subtle, almost unnoticeable. No one else would probably see it, she knew, only her, and only because by now she knew every line in his face, every scar, every freckle. Something had hardened in him at the news of the death of his sister, just like it had when his brothers died, and she could see it in him, reflecting back at her. Ginny was gone, his eyes said just for a second. Just like Fred, and Charlie, and Percy. And just like with Fred and Charlie, Ron couldn't even mourn her properly.

"How are my parents?" were his first words as he asked in a quiet, calm voice.

Hermione shook her head. This, she couldn't tell him. He had a right to know that his sister was no longer alive, but he was better off not knowing the way her death had affected the surviving members of his family.

He got up, pacing up and down the room. "We need some food," he said abruptly. He needed to get out of there, he was actually saying, but he didn't need to say it out loud. Hermione already knew. She felt the same, she wanted to say, but it was not the time to be irresponsible.

"Neville still hasn't managed to get any Boomslang skin," she reminded Ron. "We don't have any Polyjuice Potion left."

"I'll take the cloak then. We can't starve here, can we?"

Hermione looked outside the window. "It's dangerous out there," she said quietly. It was dangerous out there. It's been dangerous for a long, long time.

Outside, the skies were grey and cloudy, even now, at the end of July. There were no more summers out there, ever. Instead of the leisurely shopping of mid-summer, the way she remembered from her childhood, the few people outside were rushing from one place to the next, spending the smallest amount of time possible in the street, doing their necessary shopping in a hurry, their faces covered lest they be recognised by the wrong person.

Everything was darker now - both the people and the streets. The summer was colder, and autumn always came just a little bit earlier. Winter seemed harsher. These days, every Christmas was a white Christmas, but no one felt any happier over it. The Muggles called it 'global warming'. Climate changes all over the world were bringing colder winds, taking away warm streams from the ocean. It was, perhaps, one way to explain it. Maybe it was even true - Hermione wouldn't know. But like any other witch and wizard, she knew better. The changes were man-made, that much was true, but not in the way Muggle scientists argued over on telly.

Television! It had been eleven years since Hermione had seen a television set. Eleven long years since she had been to her childhood's home, since she had seen her parents. That house no longer existed, she knew, and if her parents were still alive, they had no idea it ever did.

But they might be dead. Her magic might not have protected them. She had no way of knowing. The wizard media had stopped reporting the deaths of Muggles a long time ago.

Was there ever a time when it was reported? There must have been, because Hermione could remember reading about the murders of Muggles by the Dark Lord's supporters before he had taken over. When it was still considered a crime, not a sport. But now, it seemed like a dream. The possibility that Muggles could be interesting enough for the wizarding community. The idea that it was once a crime. The fantasy that the Dark Lord had not always controlled their lives. Everything that happened before the war was over, before the bad guys won.

A bad dream, Ron once called those days. She looked at him then, surprised, confused, betrayed. Those were better times, she said harshly. Yeah, he agreed, they were better. But now, all this means is that we know what we could have had, we know what we lost.

She couldn't really argue with that.

That was Ron these days. His smiles and laughter and good mood were like the summer - becoming rarer and rarer. Sometimes she could still remember how he used to be before. She still remembered how he used to get stressed over Quidditch, look up to Fred and George, or complain about homework. He didn't complain these days at all, and sometimes she wondered how long the Ron in her memories would remain a memory, and when he, too, will become a dream.

She was afraid of that day. She didn't want to let go. No yet. Even when she knew Ron was right, that as long as she held on to those memories, this reality they were living was all the more harsher.

I'd rather know what I've lost, she told him defiantly. I'd rather have the hope of gaining it back. He answered that it was dangerous, dreaming like that. It was dangerous for her, for the both of them, walking outside the way they used to, the way they remembered, the way hope dictated they should. She replied that it was dangerous everywhere.

He agreed with her, of course. It's dangerous inside, too, he said.

Hermione stepped back from the window and sighed. She wasn't going to get into that argument again.

"I just think..." she said quietly, then her voice picked up. "I just think maybe it's best to wait until Neville returns. I don't think you should go out today."

"Why not?" he demanded.

"Because you'll want to do something foolish and heroic that will only end up with you getting killed, or worse, captured."

"I want to do something, Hermione. I can't sit down here when she's - "

"I don't think Ginny would have wanted you to risk your life for nothing. Remember what Luna said? The only thing that kept her going was the knowledge you were free."

"Freedom," he spat. "It's overrated."

"Not to them," Hermione said quietly. "And not to us, either."

He looked at her in silence. After a while, she went back to staring outside the window, looking at the gloomy Diagon Alley going past. The day grew darker. The streets became even more empty than they were before. And someone walked straight towards their door.

She didn't recognise Neville when he walked in, of course. They had a random set of hairs, and could never remember who looked like who when they left. It was an awful security breach, Neville pointed out. They won't be able to know they've been compromised until it was too late. But none of them had a better idea yet, so they continued with it anyway, hoping their protective spells were enough.

Still, she recognised Neville as soon as he walked through the door. She could recognise that expression everywhere. "Found Boomslang skin!" he said in a victorious voice, much deeper than his usual one, from a body taller than his own, and slightly balding on the top of his head. "Also - " he threw a sack at Hermione, and a second one at Ron - "potatoes and onions and peas in yours, leeks and turnips and mushrooms in yours, and Luna is bringing in the chicken."

Now Ron's smile was genuine. It sounded like a much better meal than anything they've had in weeks. "I'll go warm the oven," he dashed to the kitchen.

Neville's face turned serious as Ron left. It was almost comical - this face, with its too big ears and watery eyes. But Neville's expression was anything but comical. "I didn't want to say anything in front of Ron," he said almost in a whisper, "but I've heard this rumour about Ginny that - "

She shook her head. "It's not a rumour," she sighed. "I went scouting earlier and..." she couldn't complete the sentence.

"Did you tell him?"

"Yes."

She looked straight at him, daring him to contradict her, to say that she shouldn't have. But he said nothing. After several seconds, he shuddered and turned away - the Polyjuice Potion's effect was waning, and he was becoming plain old Neville again. For a moment, Hermione was worried - not about Neville, but about Luna, who hadn't entered the hideout yet. If she were lost, if she were caught, they would all be in danger. She sighed in relief as Luna finally entered the room a few moments later, her hair still jet black, her eyes still brown and bespectacled.

"I better put these chickens in the kitchen," she said gently.

"I'll join you," Hermione said, allowing Neville the time he needed to fish for his proper clothes.

Of course, it was only half-way to the kitchen when Luna started changing back to her old self, and Hermione finished carrying the chicken all by herself.

Ron was already labouring above the fire, aiming his wand at the self-peeling onions and potatoes while making sure to boil the water in the large pot.

"Is this the chicken?" he said in a voice that was almost delighted when she walked in.

"Yeah, all of it - there must be three whole chickens here!"

"Sounds like we're going to actually eat like human beings for the next two weeks," he said, and started taking out one of the chickens. As soon as he did, however, he stood staring at the thing.

"What is it?" she asked him.

"I was just trying to remember... Mum used to make this great soup. I'm sure we have everything here... d'you remember?

"I'm sorry, Ron. I don't remember."

"I should have paid more attention," he said, his voice no longer happy. He threw the onions into the pot in disgust - or perhaps in anger. Hermione wasn't sure. They hit the bottom of the pot and started bubbling merrily, the carrots soon following. In the meantime, she put the chicken in the oven. It was better not to let Ron start messing with it too, she thought as she saw the violence with which the turnips met the pot.

"This smells great," Neville announced as he walked into the kitchen.

"It's actual fresh food, of course it smells great," Ron answered, his bad temper evident from his voice.

Neville exchange a look with Hermione.

"Listen, Ron. We heard about - "

The knife came down on the potatoes hard, almost cutting Ron's finger together with the vegetables. Neville stopped talking, just stared at the knife.

"I won't talk about it if you don't want me to," Neville said quietly. Ron nodded briefly, and concentrated on cutting his vegetables and throwing them into the pot. Soon after he started thrashing about the small kitchen so loudly that Hermione started fearing they would be heard outside or by one of their overly-curious neighbours, even with all of the protective enchantments over their small flat.

"Ron," she said, but he ignored her, opening cupboard after cupboard, drawer after drawer, rattling every pot and frying pan in the kitchen. "Ron!" she said again, loudly, and he stopped.

"There's no salt anywhere," he said.

"Oh," Neville offered, slightly bashfully. "We forgot the salt."

"We need salt."

Hermione sighed. "Come on, Ron. It's too dangerous. We can live without salt. Next time someone goes out - "

"No," he cut across her, and she looked at him, worried and confused. "We've got all this food, we should eat like normal people. I'll go get some salt." Without another word, he grabbed the Invisibility Cloak, and was gone.

"Ron!" Hermione called after him, but Neville grabbed her hand, stopped her from going out as well.

"Let him go," he said. "He needs to leave this place for a bit. He needs a change of scenery."

"But he's not thinking straight," she answered, all the more angry because she knew Neville was right. "He's going out there to do something stupid and angry. He's going to get himself killed!"

"Nah," Neville said sagely - as always. "You know Ron. As long as he's angry, he's going to come back. To tell you the truth, it's when he's not angry that I'm worried."

He was right, of course. She knew that. As long as Ron was angry, there was still hope. It was his anger that had kept them alive in those crucial hours and days after the defeat, his anger that pushed them forward, to find Neville, to find Luna, to find the other survivors, the few who were free. It was his anger that pushed Neville to form this resistance, Neville once admitted to Hermione - he just couldn't see Ron so angry and not do anything. And it was his anger that had kept him alert and determined, and had got them out of several tight spots in the past. Neville was right, Hermione knew. She, too, was only really worried in those moments when Ron would stare at the wall, when there was nothing but pain and defeat left in him.

"I'm just scared for him, Neville," she sighed. "I couldn't bear to lose him too."

Neville nodded. He knew what she meant. "Hey," he said quietly, "remember when I took her to the Yule Ball?"

"How could I forget?" she laughed, remembering that disastrous dance from their time at Hogwarts. "Or that prank she pulled on Professor Flitwick? You know, with that awful frog..."

"That was her?" Neville asked in amazement, and they both started laughing, remembering Flitwick's face.

"There was also that time in Herbology when she convinced Hagrid to dedicate a whole class to Pygmy Puffs," Luna, who had entered the room in the meantime, joined in. "He kept on saying that he couldn't see the point because they don't even bite or anything, but it was the same year he insisted to teach us about Acromantulas all year long, so we all begged him until he agreed!"

They told one story after another, and all the while, time went by. Hermione could never have admitted it out loud, but it was a bit of a relief that Ron had left just then. She knew he couldn't handle being reminded of Ginny right now. That was Ron, and she didn't mind. But she wasn't the same. Ginny was her friend, and having the chance to simply reminisce about her, to simply remember her, was exactly what she needed to lift some of the pain away. They had lost so many people, so many friends, and for those precious few hours, they could remember them all.

But as the hours grew longer, and outside night had fallen, the laughter stopped and turned into fear. Ron should have been back by now, Hermione knew, and she knew that Neville and Luna knew that as well. None of them said as much - none of them was going to be the one to say it out loud, but they were all thinking it. Ron was late.

Locked in that room, Hermione only stopped pacing to stare out of the window. She couldn't get out to search for him, as much as she wanted to - he had taken the cloak and it would be a while before their Polyjuice Potion was ready. Hermione's real face was plastered on every Wanted poster, from there to Scotland, as was Ron's. Going out meant she'd be recognised, and being recognised meant certain death. So all she could do was stare out the window and pace back and forth, waiting for him to show up, dreading the possibility he was not coming back.

He staggered in just after midnight. She couldn't contain her anger.

"Ronald Weasley! Where have you been?" she almost shouted when she saw his face appearing from beneath the cloak.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled.

There was blood on his lip, and next to his nose. His cheek was cut, a new scar to add to the collection of those he already had. His hair was a mess. He had the general air of someone who'd had the wind knocked out of him. For a moment he only mumbled "I'm sorry" again, and then hugged her with so much need and desperation that she couldn't stay angry, not anymore. His anger had left him too, and only Ron remained, Ron who needed her more than anything else in the world.

She hugged him back tightly. Behind them, at the door, Neville and Luna showed up. Equally angry at first, their faces mellowed when they saw the expression on her face.

"So much for dinner," he mumbled when he finally let go and collapsed at the nearest armchair. He pulled three packages of salt out of his pocket, and a bottle of cheap wine.

"S'alright," Neville replied, sitting in front of him. "We can warm it up. What's happened to you?"

"I bought the groceries in Muggle London," Ron answered. "I wasn't stupid enough to try and get them in Diagon Alley, so I went to that Off-Licence near the Tube station. And then - well, I ran into Death Eaters. I don't know, either they have that place watched, or they're buying there as well. Anyway, time we found a new place."

"Did they recognise you?" Neville asked, leaving the discussion of their shopping habits for another time.

"'Course they recognised me, what d'you expect?" Ron pointed out. "I only have my face on every poster in this bloody country."

"It is a ten-year-old photograph, though," Neville pointed out, but Ron shrugged.

"They recognised me. As soon as they saw me, they said 'Weasley!' and pulled out their wands - just like that, in the middle of the street. They didn't care it was packed with Muggles and tourists and whatnot. They didn't care who saw them - or who they hit. They killed three Muggles trying to get to me and I didn't even get any one of them."

"What did you do?"

"What could I do? I cursed them back and ran for it! Anyway, they had their people watching all the entrances to Diagon Alley for hours. I couldn't risk sneaking back in even with the Invisibility Cloak."

"Are you sure they're gone now?" Neville asked sharply.

"'Course I'm sure."

"If you were followed..."

"I wasn't followed, Neville, give it a break."

"If you were followed, we're all dead," Neville insisted.

"Can we stop speculating on how we're all going to die and eat dinner instead?" Ron answered in irritation. "I'm starving."

"We could speculate how we're going to die while having dinner," Neville suggested jokingly, and even Ron gave a small smirk before wolfing down the chicken and soup. The tension was broken. Another disaster was averted. Another day passed with success - they were all alive, and that was the only criterion that mattered these days.

By 2 a.m., they were sitting in the small living room. There were half-empty glasses of cheap wine on the small table, the empty bottle reflecting the light of the fire. Hermione was sitting curled in an armchair, her book almost slipping out of her fingers. Neville was already snoring. She looked at him for a moment and smiled. Alcohol always made him sleepy. Luna was sitting on a pillow next to the fire, immersed in an old Muggle book. And Ron - she lifted her gaze. He was no longer sitting in his own chair. Instead, he got up and walked all the way to Hermione.

"Move over," he said quietly, and she made him some room in her own chair. It was uncomfortable, to sit like that, but she didn't mind. They were together, and that mattered more than sitting on the most comfortable chair in the world. She thought he had something in mind, but instead, he just stared at the fire, passing his fingers absently through her hair.

"Your hands are cold," she whispered when he accidentally touched her neck and sent shivers down her back.

"Sorry," he said and made to pull his hand back, and she stopped him with her own.

"Don't stop," she said. He smiled in response. For a moment, she thought he might kiss her, but instead, he just stared at the fire again.

"Maybe she's better off," he said after a while. "No more pain, no more fear... she's free."

Hermione wanted to tell him to stop it, that Ginny would have kicked him, or subjected him to a severe case of her famous Bat-Bogey hex. But she didn't have the heart to do it, not tonight. Not when Ron was finally talking.

"I managed to talk to her once, you know," he continued. "A couple of years ago. One of those coincidences. She kept on looking over her shoulder. She was terrified we'd get caught - that I'd get caught. The only thing that kept her going was knowing that I was out here, she said. That we're still fighting." His voice was full of bitterness. "I couldn't tell her the truth then."

"There was no point in telling her the truth," Hermione said gently. "Not if hope helped her go on."

"Yeah, well, she probably caught on by now that there was nothing we could do anymore. That we've given up." He stared at the fire for such a long time that Hermione thought he fell asleep. When he did spoke at last, she jumped. "We shouldn't have given up."

"There's nothing we can do. Every time we tried to fight, people got hurt. Got killed."

"So? We can sit here and hide like rats for the rest of our lives, or we can go out doing something."

By now, even Neville was awake, listening tentatively to Ron's words.

"I'm tired of hiding. I'm tired of being afraid. Let's do something crazy and ridiculous and get it over with."

"Funny you should say that now," Hermione muttered.

"How d'you mean?"

"Do you know what day is it today?"

Ron thought about it for a moment, and then something in his expression became hard. "Thursday," he said with such finality, that she didn't dare challenge him.

"I think Ron's right," Neville interrupted her thoughts. "Time we stopped hiding. Time we did something. For all the people we've lost." He grabbed his glass and raised it slightly, as if to give a toast to all those dead people, and the three of them did the same.

"For Hannah," he said, and drank in his late girlfriend's honour. Hermione, Ron and Luna drank, too.

"For Seamus," Luna mentioned their last fallen comrade, the last man who had shared the flat with them before he, too, fell to the Death Eaters, and they all drank in his honour, too.

"For Ginny," Ron said grimly, and they didn't need any incentive to drink.

"For Harry," Hermione said almost in a whisper, stealing a glance at the calendar. Only three of them drank this time. Ron had put down his glass in visible anger, still refusing to forgive. Hermione knew this would happen, but for just one day, for just this day, she didn't care.

"It's agreed, then," Neville said. "Tomorrow, we start fighting back."

"Tomorrow," they murmured in response, and each one went to sleep, their hearts set. All around them, the early hours of the 31st of July 2008 dawned on the world.