Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or the song "Anthem of the Angels," but I do own this story in its entirety. I do not make any money from this fanfic.

Title: Anthem of the Trio

Author: Stardust of Orion

Rating: M

Warnings: Depression, Suicide/Suicidal Behavior, Character Death, Survivor's Guilt, Read Ship Info!,

Pairing(s)/Ship(s): Ron/Hermione, possible Harry/Ron/Hermione depending on if you want to read it that way. I could see both possibilities (an extremely deep friendship/almost familial relationship or romantic relationship), so I wrote the story to work with whichever lens you preferred to view it through. Either choice has its own beauty (for me anyways).

Summary: The war is over, but can the trio deal with the emotional repercussions? Harry has slipped into a deep depression and Ron and Hermione struggle to help him while putting their own needs on the back burner.

Author's Note: First, let me say that this is NOT a story for anyone who is depressed, so if that description fits you, please find something else to read. That being said, here is what you should know:

This is the first story in my theme series By Your Side. Note, however, that this is a stand-alone piece and you will NOT have to read any other fics within this series. For more info about my "theme series," please check out my profile (currently about half-way down the page).

The song lyrics quoted for each scene/section break comes from the song "Anthem of the Angels" by Breaking Benjamin. I recommend listening to it before/during/after you read this story (whatever you prefer) if you haven't heard it.

The story takes place over many months, so be aware that each section doesn't necessarily immediately follow after the previous one.

Anthem of the Trio

Cold light above us

Hope fills the heart

And fades away

"I wish I had died."

They both froze at Harry's words – a forkful of meatball halfway to Ron's mouth and Hermione trying to twist her fork through spaghetti. Harry didn't seem to notice their predicament and went on barely picking at his food, rarely taking a bite.

Ron stared at the other wizard, his mind slowly registering the words before repeatedly replaying them in order to find another meaning less painful than the obvious. Harry usually spoke of how he should have died, rather than all the other innocents – Fred, Remus and Tonks, Lavender, Dobby, Dumbledore, and Snape…and so many others – but these words were darker; a distortion in his thinking and an evolution in his soul down a path that only led away from them. Instinctively, Ron understood this idea though his brain continued to try and process the moment and create another outcome. When that failed, the redhead found he could barely draw a breath, though his lungs screamed for oxygen and his heart thudded painfully as it attempted to overcome the tight constriction in his chest. Across from him, Hermione continued to sit wide-eyed and unmoving, as if she too couldn't quite process the change in semantics; couldn't comprehend the transition from an acknowledgement of life to an actual desire for death.

Still struggling to breathe through the strangely deceptive phrase – such simple words filled with so much horror – Ron realized that the darkness curling at the edge of his sight was coalescing into the memory of the final battle:

The sky was cold and overcast with ash-choked clouds, hot breezes licking at their skin from the fires still raging through several sections of Hogwarts. When Voldemort fell, Harry had seemed so light for a few seconds – free and unburdened – and Ron felt euphoric to see his best mate smile so joyfully; to see hope come once more to the wizarding world. Harry had grinned at them with relief and happiness for a moment…but then he had looked away from them – looked around at the carnage and destruction around him – and the weight came crashing back down, like a visible mountain settling across the younger wizard's shoulders. As celebrations began and people lauded Harry for finally destroying the dark wizard, he remained quiet and sorrowful, blaming himself for everything. Ron didn't think Harry could see anything beyond the dead, even now after all these long months.

Just as quickly as they came, the memories swirled away and Ron shivered to find himself suddenly back in the small mundane kitchen of their flat, sitting at the table against the wall while behind Harry a warm gentle breeze blew through the open window and beyond that tiny stars twinkled in the sky. Across the small table, Hermione seemed to be waiting as expectantly as he was for Harry to take back his words; to rephrase and say once more that it should have been him who died rather than how he wished he had died. Nothing met their expectations but silence.

Ron finally shook himself enough to sit up and draw Harry and Hermione's attention away from the dreadful words. They stared at him unseeingly while he struggled to find his own words that might salvage the day – put the three of them back together – but couldn't find anything. He felt utterly adrift at sea, stranded alone and completely unable to figure out how to get through to Harry. Ron eventually settled on a gruff, "Don't say that mate."

Hermione seemed to wake from her thoughts and hurried to add her own two knuts. "We're glad you're here, Harry. I don't know what we would do without you. Please don't say things like that."

Harry barely nodded that he had heard them. Ron couldn't think of anything to say to his best mate and he silently berated himself for not being able to help Harry. He was a terrible friend, he decided angrily. The younger wizard had endured so much and now Ron couldn't even find the right words to convince Harry that they were all going to be okay – happy even – so long as they were together; couldn't find how to show him that life wasn't as horrible and hopeless as the world had tried to teach him so far. Across from him, Hermione appeared completely lost too.

Skin white as winter

As the sky returns to grey

Ron mechanically restocked the shelf with Patented Daydream Charms, his mind fixed on Harry. As far as he could tell, the younger wizard seemed to be completely stuck – unable to turn away from the sorrow and guilt that plagued him. No one blamed him for how long it took to defeat Voldemort or for all of the deaths during the war and the years of terror, but Harry blamed himself for everything that went wrong – for every pain and every horror. As the months ticked away, he only sank deeper into the darkness, until he was rarely interacting with his friends and family or registering the world around him. Nothing they tried so far had drawn him out of his melancholy.

The redheaded wizard felt tears biting at his already sore eyes as a familiar hopeless feeling crept over him; as the weight of his own failures began to overwhelm him. No one knew what to do for Harry, and Ron was left to flail in the dark and hope that something would break through to his best mate. Even Hermione couldn't give them an answer to fix Harry – to shine a light and make the darkness retreat. Ron was pretty sure the only thing he wanted now was for Harry to get better. Nothing else really mattered anymore.

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he hardly noticed when another customer entered the shop, the loud zipping sound of the joke spell attached to the door echoing across the store as it hit its target. A frantic hand shaking his shoulder snapped his head around until he was facing his father, forcing him to abandon his thoughts about Harry and focus on the store. Arthur Weasley's eyes were worry-laden and his face lined in deep crags of sorrow and weariness, but there was something now beyond the grief of losing Fred that haunted his eyes. Ron stared at his father for a heartbeat, mind still trying to process the sudden shift back to present reality and the bright-colored, loud store around him.

"Dad?" Ron, struck by a sudden sense of loss, could barely breathe out the question. His father quickly pulled him into the storage room at the back of the shop and he followed numbly behind, fear leaching through the fog.

"Son – he's all right, but something happened to Harry today." Arthur paused and Ron frantically searched his father's face for reassurances, yet found very little to calm his sudden terror. "Apparently Hermione forgot a file at the flat and apparated back to pick it up. Ron –" He hesitated, sadness filling his eyes once more, leaving Ron feeling crushed and defeated. "He tried to take his life."

Ron slammed his eyes shut and slumped against the wall, willing himself to wake from this terrible dream. He wanted to scream at his father – call him a liar – but he knew that his Dad was telling him the truth. A gentle hand on his shoulder roused him from his thoughts.

"She made it in time and there won't be any lasting damage."

"Where is he?" Ron whispered, almost to himself.

"Still at the flat. Hermione was able to perform emergency healing and then sent for Poppy Pomfrey."

Ron nodded mutely as he listened to his father, dimly thinking that Hermione made the right choice to call the school matron if Harry was no longer in critical danger. Harry hated hospitals. "I have to get home," he mumbled before apparating just outside their building, not caring if he left without saying goodbye though dimly hoping his father would understand his rudeness for what it was: he simply needed to be with Harry and Hermione; had to make sure Harry was all right.

The tall complex towered above him where rough grey stones bled into the leaden sky. Once again, he felt as if he were in a dream and desperately wished he could wake up. He stood a moment in the warm rain, staring up at the window of their flat, before he finally made his way into the building. He trudged, bone-weary, up the stairs and down the long hall to their door. Feeling as if he were floating somewhere outside of himself, he cast a quick drying spell. It didn't dispel the chill within him and he quickly stepped into the flat. Profound silence greeted him at the door and Ron felt a moment of panic before the rain tapping monotonously at the windows finally gave way and allowed the low murmurs of his family to seep around him.

He bypassed the living room, only wanting to see Harry and Hermione, and headed straight toward Harry's bedroom. The door was cracked open and he pushed inside, finding an armful of Hermione as soon as he entered the room. Her eyes were red-rimmed and she clung to him, sobbing silently into his neck. Over her head, he could see Harry lying on the bed, sheets pulled up around his torso. The younger wizard's eyes were closed and he was deathly pale, grey tingeing his skin. Ron almost let his imagination run away into nightmares, but the slight rise and fall of his friend's chest held the horrors at bay, if only briefly. He pulled Hermione closer to himself, though her warmth did little to relieve the coldness that had penetrated to his bones.

Days go on forever

But I have not left your side

Hermione stood to the left of their flat's fireplace, waiting anxiously to greet the last of the Weasley clan. It was becoming more and more difficult to see their family, both because it was difficult to convince Harry to leave the flat and because of the often awkward and painful family get-togethers, also due in part to Harry's ever-deepening depression. They had compromised and agreed to occasionally host a gathering of the Weasley family at their own flat, since they often couldn't make it to the weekly meals at the Burrow.

Beyond the living room, she could hear most of the Weasleys in the kitchen; friendly squabbling over Fleur's freshly baked rolls already in full-swing. Hermione startled from her thoughts as the floo roared to life and Arthur appeared, carefully dusting the soot off himself before stepping fully into the room. He smiled kindly at Hermione before turning to Ron who was leaning against the doorjamb.

"Molly busy in the kitchen already?"

"She's in there with Fleur unfortunately. I think Bill is trying to referee, but I heard Mum complaining about the type of bread Fleur brought."

Arthur merely nodded, used to the tension between his wife and their daughter-in-law. Hermione watched carefully as the older wizard glanced around the room, letting his eyes linger on a picture of the trio from fourth year. "And how is Harry today?"

Ron glanced toward her, but Hermione swiftly looked away and straightened a picture on the fireplace, focusing all her attention on it as if it was the most important thing in the world. He sighed and she instantly felt guilty for abandoning him to discuss Harry on his own. "He's all right, Dad. Same as he was a few days ago when you fire-called. Mum immediately started fussing over him and pushed him into the kitchen, though I doubt he'll eat much…even for her," he added quietly.

Hermione noticed that Arthur's shoulders drooped almost imperceptibly, but before she could think of something to add to Ron's assessment, the older man was smiling reassurances at them that none of them felt. He patted Ron on the shoulder before disappearing into the kitchen in search of his wife. Ron's mouth opened to say something to her, but slammed closed when several of the younger Weasleys came out of the kitchen and flopped down on the sofa and chairs around the room.

"Well, Ron, let's get this over with," Ginny said with mock-exaggeration, pulling an old battered chess-set from beneath the couch.

He glanced toward the kitchen, no doubt worrying about Harry, before he turned back to his sister and nodded a little absently. "Sure, Gin." He glanced over at Hermione and she nodded once before heading toward the kitchen to check on Harry, knowing that neither of them would feel comfortable until at least one of them was once again with him. She almost collided with Molly, quickly sidestepping to avoid being hit by the swinging door.

"Oh, Hermione, dear, we'd like to speak to you and Ron before you two get involved in other things." Molly looked expectantly between the two of them as she dried her hands on a towel, smiling kindly when she noticed their hesitation. Behind his wife, Arthur gestured down the hall towards the study, indicating their desire for a private conversation, which really didn't bode particularly well, Hermione realized.

She felt her heart try to leap from her chest, her muscles immediately coiling for battle, though she knew she was just being silly. Nevertheless, Hermione diligently followed Ron into the room and watched stiffly as Molly quickly transfigured several chairs and took one of the seats closest to the door. Arthur shut the door quietly behind them and Hermione watched with no small amount of trepidation as he silenced the door and stuffed his wand into his pocket. The older witch waved her hand at the two chairs across from her, indicating that Ron and Hermione should sit too. Arthur still stood in front of the door, effectively blocking their escape from the room though Hermione very much doubted he intended it that way.

Hermione suddenly felt overwhelmed and stood frozen to the spot for a brief moment. "I should get back to Harry," she said a little too loudly, wincing as her voice echoed in the quiet.

"He's with Fleur, dear. She'll keep an eye on him," Molly assured.

Seeing that she needed to just face what was ahead, Hermione turned nervously from the door – freedom – and took her place beside an equally distressed Ron. She didn't want to face the serious discussion on the horizon, nor did Ron, but worse was the dread that filled her at being away from Harry. She and Ron were always with him – hadn't been apart from Harry in months, except for the times when she left them do research or attempt to go to work. Ron had even quit going into the shop so he could stay with Harry while she researched ways of helping the younger wizard. Since the day Harry tried to take his life, one or both had always kept him within their sight.

Ron twitched beside her, clearly uncomfortable and Hermione felt briefly sorry for him before a quick glance between Arthur, Molly, and the shut door made her decide she should feel rather sorry for herself too. Arthur was the first to break the silence, clearing his throat and shifting uncomfortably. "We think it's time to discuss Harry…and you two."

"Dear," Molly looked them in the eye, indicating that she was speaking to both her son and Hermione. "Harry isn't getting any better."

Hermione's heart pounded and she willed this conversation to go away, though normally she wanted to face things head-on and had, in fact, been expecting something like this for some time now. Knowing it was coming didn't make the moment any less frightening or painful. Though Molly had spoken gently, Hermione couldn't help wincing at the woman's words and realized she was subtly shaking her head in an attempt to deny the validity of what Ron's parents were trying to say. She rubbed her hands over her chilled arms, trying to calm herself. Beside her, Ron drew in a sharp breath but didn't comment out of respect for the quelling look his mother sent him.

"Your mother and I have discussed this many times," Arthur interjected and quickly held up a hand when Ron bristled. "It's our right as parents. We consider Harry, and you Hermione, our children too. This situation can't continue the way it has been. It simply isn't healthy for any of you and we think that we need to discuss what should happen in the near future."

Hermione's eyes slid to Molly, whose hand was lightly patting her husband's arm in agreement and encouragement. The younger witch had a difficult time pulling her eyes away from the movement and looking up at Molly as she picked up where her husband had left off. "Ron, you and Hermione need to move forward with your lives – with your relationship together – and Harry needs a place he can truly get well again. St. Mungo's has a very good ward for people in Harry's condition."

Ron glanced angrily between his parents, his words biting as he lashed out at them. "He hates St. Mungo's! He hates any hospital! How could we possibly abandon him to a place like that!"

"It would hardly be abandoning him, dear," Molly interrupted mildly, clearly hoping to calm the sudden increase of tension in the room.

Ron's anger seemed to subside to a degree, but Hermione could barely see what was happening through the sudden tears filling her eyes. She and Ron had always managed to avoid this topic before but, in her mind, having it suddenly thrown in their faces only served to highlight her own failures. Shakily, she answered for herself and for those failures: "I've done a lot of research on this subject – in the Wizarding and Muggle world – and we've tried the techniques, potions, and medicines that were suggested but there hasn't been any change for the better. He only seems to get more depressed as the months go on, but I also know that Harry would be miserable at St. Mungo's. I'm sure there isn't anything they could do differently anyways."

As silence swept across the room, filled only by the loud ticking of a Muggle clock, Hermione willed Arthur and Molly to agree that perhaps the wizarding hospital wasn't the best option. From the looks on their faces, however, they remained stoic in their resolve. Molly's lips pinched, but before she could say anything, Hermione found herself frantically thinking of something else that might convince them not to take Harry from them. "I'll keep researching," she said, desperation tingeing her tone. "It's my fault really. I just need to look harder. Please don't put him in that place," she added pitifully. Ron linked his arm with hers, tangling their fingers together and squeezing gently in reassurance.

"This isn't anyone's fault," Arthur replied gently. "Harry is ill. We aren't trying to take Harry away and we aren't trying to push you two into sending him there immediately."

"We are very worried about you two as well," Molly added. "I'm not sure you realize how difficult it's been for all of you, nor how much energy you need for yourselves – energy that you're using up as you try to help Harry."

Ron huffed, but his father spoke once more before Ron had the chance to object. "We just want you both to start thinking about your other options, especially since we can see how this is affecting the two of you – your relationship with one another and your family and friends, as well as affecting your careers."

Hermione felt her face heat, knowing she had been neglecting so many things in her life in the hopes of getting Harry back to his old self. She particularly hated the distance between her and Ron now. They were just as connected as they had always been, but neither could they truly pursue their romantic relationship with Harry so unwell. They had once talked every day about getting married, but Hermione couldn't even fathom doing such a thing now. Beside her, Ron fidgeted uncomfortably, but continued to watch his parents resentfully, waiting for them to finish.

Molly nodded throughout Arthur's speech and, unfortunately, decided to add one final word on the subject. "We love all three of you and want you to be happy, but you two are old enough now to take on the responsibility of doing what is best for Harry, even if it isn't something he wants. St. Mungo's will take good care of him."

Hermione cringed back into her chair as a blur of weight surged up beside her. Ron stood glaring at his parents; desperation and fury making his entire body vibrate with tense energy. "If you really wanted what was best for us, you wouldn't suggest sending Harry away from us! He belongs here with me and Hermione! We know what's best for him and we'll take care of him, no matter how hard it gets. St. Mungo's can't have him and neither can you!"

His parents gawked at him in shock, clearly not expecting the strength of his outburst. He continued to glare at them a few seconds more, his hands curled tightly into white-knuckled fists, before he fled from the room. The door slammed loudly behind him, echoing sharply across the small cramped room. Hermione stared at Molly and Arthur for a beat, tears still burning her eyes, before she too couldn't stand to be there anymore and followed swiftly after Ron.

We can chase the dark together

Hermione found Ron in the living room, still fuming as he paced back and forth. Bill, George, and Ginny were also in the room, watching with wide-eyes as their youngest brother slammed a fist into the wall. Unthinkingly, Hermione flicked her wand at the wall, repairing the cracking though it did little good when Ron punched the wall again. Hermione sighed, but before she could fix it once more, she noticed George opening his mouth as if to speak to them. She instantly turned to fling a silencing spell at the kitchen doorway so Harry couldn't overhear what might be said.

"What in Merlin's name is wrong?" George looked expectantly between Ron and Hermione, waiting for one of them to answer.

"They want us to send Harry to St. Mungo's," Ron growled angrily.

"They want us to think about possibly sending Harry to St. Mungo's," Hermione corrected automatically, wincing when Ron swung around and glared at her.

"What does that matter? He won't be happy there. Don't tell me you agree with them?" he added nastily.

Hermione felt her own temper and over-wrought emotions flare to the surface and she found herself screaming at Ron insensibly, though she dimly recognized calling him an arse among other things. It was completely undignified and something she normally would never do, but at the moment she felt like pulling her hair out and screaming until she was hoarse. She was so frustrated, angry, and frightened that she couldn't stop. When she finally came back to herself enough to realize what she was doing, she immediately closed her mouth and noted that Ron was still glaring at her but his siblings had now turned their wide-eyes onto her. It would have been comical, if she didn't feel so upset.

Bill bravely cleared his throat, finally pulling everyone's attention away from her and she took the opportunity to hastily wipe her eyes and try to compose herself. "I know you don't want to hear it but, regardless of how Harry feels, St. Mungo's might be the best place for him. We all want him to get better and maybe the hospital would help."

Hearing another person she dearly loved say that Harry should go away from them was simply too much. Hermione suddenly had difficulty swallowing enough oxygen and she realized she would soon be having a full panic attack if she didn't calm down. She reached out and grabbed hold of Ron as though he was a life preserver and she drowning. He was still seething and looked ready to pound Bill into the ground, but he turned from them and forced himself to relax as he drew her closer to his body, putting a protective arm around her. She immediately felt herself relax against him and gratefully sucked in a large gulp of air.

"Harry is fine here. We'll find a way to get him back to his old self," Ron reiterated, gritting his teeth and clearly making a valiant effort to rein in his temper. He momentarily buried his face in her hair, whispering in her ear assurances that the two of them would help Harry even if no one else would stay with the younger wizard.

"He hates hospitals. He won't be happy there," Ron continued aloud for the others to hear, giving his brothers and sister a hard stare, challenging them to disagree again.

"All he does is sit and stare out the window," Ginny murmured quietly, almost to herself, "or talk about how he should have been the one to die – not so many others. Now even that has changed and when he does speak to anyone, it seems to only be about how he wants to die." Ginny finally glanced up from her folded hands, looking straight at Hermione and her brother. "He isn't happy here."

Those words stung deeply, and whatever reply Hermione had been about to make was lost under the weight of knowing the two of them weren't enough for Harry. Ron sank onto the sofa, pulling her down next to him. Ginny looked pained, though Hermione doubted she understood why it hurt so much to hear those words. Hermione would give anything to help Harry – knew Ron would as well – and maybe they could if only he wouldn't shut them out anymore, but clearly they couldn't give him what he needed. Friends should know how to help each other, but they were both completely floundering and could barely keep Harry's head above the water, let alone their own.

There is nothing left of you

I can see it in your eyes

You're dead alive

Hermione finished slicing another potato and, deciding it wasn't enough for their stew tomorrow, turned to grab a few more from the basket on the table. Harry was no longer sitting there and she frowned, worry immediately setting in – the same as ever when she wasn't in the same room as the younger wizard. Her fear of letting him out of her sight had been increasing since he tried to commit suicide, but after the now 'infamous' talk with Ron's parents a few weeks previously, she had found it even harder to not be in the same room as both Harry and Ron. Secretly, she thought that some part of her believed someone was going to come in and take Harry away from them and they would never see him again. She wasn't quite sure if it was merely the thought of sending Harry to St. Mungo's indefinitely that caused her panic, or if it was something left over from the war when she had been certain that Harry was going to die and leave them. She did know, however, that it was impossible to fight the anxiety that threatened to overwhelm her when she was away from her 'boys.'

She drifted from the counter and out the swinging door, leaving behind the rhythmic monotony of carrots being chopped as Ron finished his portion of vegetables for the stew. She peered through each open doorway, many with doors completely gone following an incident, not long after his attempted suicide, where Harry had barricaded himself in a room out of anger at her and Ron. They'd practically had a heart attack out of fear for his life and Ron had blasted the door and frame, along with some furniture, just to get to the younger wizard. Harry had only been sulking at the window after she and Ron had made him promise to never try and kill himself, but the incident had terrified the two of them and they once again made him promise to not commit suicide. They had then proceeded to take many of the doors off the hinges.

After that day, Harry's despondency had grown but he had never tried to kill himself again. It was the one miniscule hope that she clung to daily as she searched for something that would help him. She hoped she could find something before whatever bound Harry to them – kept him from going against their wishes – was severed and he once again tried to kill himself. For now, she simply felt grateful that Harry was at least able to care enough about them – remember how much they meant to each other – to keep his promise.

Those rooms that still had doors had been spelled carefully to prevent them from locking or latching, making it easy to peer in each empty room as she passed. In fact, she had found a way to put a slight repelling charm that would prevent any objects from being set right against the doors to hold them shut. Harry hadn't protested, proving all the more how listless and depressed he had become. He had barely even stirred when they took his wand from him, something that he never would have allowed before.

When she came to the bathroom door it was shut, but of course not latched, and she hesitated, wondering if she should invade Harry's privacy. Making her decision, she finally pushed the door open with the tip of one finger and peeked inside, gasping at the sight in front of her as her heart plummeted. Time had run out and she had failed them all.

Harry was sitting on the toilet lid, a shard of glass in his hand and blood staining the dingy tiles. He made no move as she entered, so she slid to her knees in front of him, cringing as the cold floor contrasted sharply with the warm red wetness seeping into her jeans. She moved carefully, hoping not to startle him.

"Oh, Harry," she whimpered, pulling the glass from his hands and briefly thanking Merlin that he didn't put up a fight. She immediately began healing the wounds, which weren't quite as bad as they looked. She noted that the blood wasn't as much as she had first thought either. Perhaps he was merely trying to hurt himself and she still had time to help him. Small miracles, she thought rather bitterly.

Hermione glanced up, planning on attempting once more to reach out to him, but the emptiness in his eyes tied her tongue and shook her to the core. He simply didn't seem to be there anymore. When he finally focused on her, a haunted expression entered his eyes, though it was scarcely better than the emptiness. At least he seemed to still recognize her - some place within still cared enough about her and Ron to not abandon them completely.

"Please – let me go," he murmured quietly. He glanced past her and then looked down at his hands once more, the emptiness returning to his eyes. She froze in place, the simple pleading words breaking her more than anything else up to this point.

She sat for several minutes, the dull ticking of the clock on the wall reminding her that she needed to get up; that they couldn't sit here forever. She stiffly pulled herself up off the floor, turning and catching the sight of Ron standing in the doorway as she stood. She wasn't sure how long he had been there, but he had the same sorrow and defeat written across his body as she felt.

Ron noticed she was watching him and seemed to shake himself because in the next moment, he was flicking his wand at her, Harry, and the floor as he cleaned them up. The redhead pulled the other wizard to his feet and held him close to his side as he helped Harry to his bedroom. Hermione followed numbly behind them, unable to stop the image of Harry begging them to let him die from replaying in her head. Dimly she was aware of Ron tucking Harry into the bed and speaking gently to him.

"Harry, mate, we care about you so much. Please, please, don't hurt yourself anymore. Please – for us…" Harry stared blankly at the ceiling for a moment before nodding his head slightly in acknowledgement and shutting his eyes to them. "Are you warm enough, Harry?" he murmured quietly. The redhead sagged in defeat once more as Harry turned away from them, refusing to answer. Ron pulled another blanket carefully up around Harry's shoulders anyways.

Hermione felt completely detached from the world around her, but was finally able to grasp that Ron was telling her he'd stay with Harry for the first half of the night. It was supposed to be her turn to sit with the younger wizard as he went to sleep, but she merely nodded mutely and allowed Ron to push her toward their bedroom. She felt the pang of regret when he didn't follow her into the room, but swiftly pushed the emotion aside as best she could. She missed going to sleep with him beside her; missed waking up to him sprawled out next to her.

She missed, too, the long nights during the war when the three of them would curl together to keep warm; to find comfort and safety being so close to each other as they slept – best friends always. Harry was still with them then – still himself – whispering with them in the dark, his breath rustling her hair or his own messy hair tickling across Ron's shoulder making them both fight furiously to keep from laughing aloud. It never worked and they'd all end up laughing, disregarding the terrors of the darkness; not understanding that someday the weight – the burden of life and the dead – would be too much to carry anymore. She hadn't realized how precious those times would be amongst the horror and sorrow of the war, nor amid their present misery. She wished she could go back and hold onto those moments.

Tears burning hot trails down her cheeks brought Hermione back from that time. She tried to shake the memory from herself, knowing it was too late to return; too late to change the past. She didn't know what she could have done differently when Harry looked across the gruesome sight of the battlefield; didn't know what she could have done to make him see beyond those images and back to light and goodness – back to her and Ron; back to life and love. For those reasons, she couldn't dwell on it anymore. She had to look forward and find some way to help him now. She couldn't fail him; couldn't fail Ron or herself anymore.

Hermione pulled the duvet tightly around her and lay in bed, unmoving and quiet, as she watched the darkness creep in shadows around the room. Their laughter still rang hollowly around her – echoing across her brain and mocking her with the past. She felt like her mind and soul was shaded in twilight, unable to find a way to bring Harry out of his own darkness and back into the sunlight. A small terrifying part of her whispered that perhaps some sorrows couldn't be mended, just as some wounds simply couldn't be healed. Maybe the thought had always been with her but now, after seeing Harry's eyes and hearing his desperation, she understood what that whisper was telling her. She didn't want to hear it – didn't want to believe that they couldn't find a way out of this problem – but once understood, the frightening possibility refused to be put aside. Perhaps there really was nothing that could be done to heal a soul so badly hurt.

Rain taps the window

As we sleep among the dead

Ron sat sluggishly on the couch, fiddling with the latest letter from his Mum. He knew he should have sent a reply back with the small, drenched grey owl that had suddenly melted out of the stormy skies earlier that day. It had appeared so surreal as it rapped urgently at the window that he had at first thought it was his imagination conjuring another life beyond their own; another place beyond their small flat, but then he had untied the letter and saw it was simply another letter from his Mum and suddenly he couldn't find it in himself to care if his Mum got an immediate reply or if she had to wait a few days.

He just couldn't think of another way to say what he had been saying all along to his family's letters and fire-calls. He knew they were simply worried about Harry – about all of them – and wanted to do whatever they could, but sometimes it felt as if he could send a thousand letters and no one would ever really answer. They sent letter after letter, always saying the same thing; never hearing him and Hermione.

Sometimes he felt like the the three of them were trapped on a tiny, storm-tossed island – alone and lost – where no one would ever find them. Unless they somehow found their own way back, they would be lost forever. Struggle as they might, they hadn't been able to help themselves so far.

He sighed and glanced dully between Harry and Hermione. Harry was occupied in his usual manner, staring out the window where rain still fell in grey rivulets. The other wizard used to pace listlessly around the flat, but over the past week he had stopped moving almost entirely. Now Harry opted to stay in one spot, though he seemed to favor the window seat in the living room when forced from his bed. Not that it had been easy to pry him from his room for several months, but now he seemed to have sunk into a place where he couldn't even see or hear either of his best friends. Harry was lost somewhere in the past – down amidst the dead and the ruins of Hogwarts.

Hermione had called into work again, claiming illness – he was sure she was going to get fired soon for all the times she had skived off in order to research anything that might help Harry – and now sat at a transfigured table in their living room rereading books and notes for the umpteenth time; only, as far as he could tell, she had given up on reading. She had been staring at the same page for the last hour, as if she were in a trance just like Harry seemed to be most of the time anymore. It perhaps would have been alarming, if he hadn't realized that he had been staring blankly at his Mum's letter for an interminable amount of time as if he were also in a trance.

Ron, too, had read those very same books and her notes on them, something completely unusual for him, but he'd do anything for Harry – not that he thought he'd have any luck if she didn't, but it made him feel like he was actually doing something. Whenever she would shake her head and set off to another library, he'd open the books and notes back up and read over them again. They never did any good, just as her continued research never helped.

Now though – well, they had fallen into some sort of malaise over the last week. He knew that the episode in the bathroom had really shaken her up and the first few days afterwards had been frantic. She had redoubled her efforts looking for something that, quite frankly, probably didn't exist. Ron didn't want to say it – to even think it – but he was losing hope fast and, apparently, so was she. Hermione had spent the last couple days drastically slowing down until, only an hour ago, she had finally stopped. He didn't want to know what that meant.

Harry, for his part, merely sank deeper into depression until Ron could barely recognize his friend. Not even a glimmer seemed to remain of his spirit, except in that brief haunted glance he had bestowed on them. It was the last time Harry had looked at them and actually seemed to notice their presence. Ron had felt utterly alone in that instant – useless, unforgiveable, bereft. He wondered if Hermione felt the same; wished he could hold her again, but felt wrong somehow whenever he did try to embrace her.

Sometimes he thought that if they could just wake up – shake each other hard enough – they would be all right again, but they would never be okay unless they could all wake up.

White walls surround us

No light will touch your face again

Hermione turned the last page and let the book fall closed. She had reread it many times – as well as hundreds of other books on the subjects of depression, survivor's guilt, grief, suicide, and other related issues – but there was simply nothing else to find. There was no magic spell – she had once trusted so deeply in magic – that would unlock Harry's soul. The thought was a rift in her heart and she looked over at the younger wizard, her own vision blurring like the water-splattered window when she realized the rain was reflecting through the glass pane onto Harry's face, making him appear as if he were crying. She wished Harry would cry and perhaps then he would actually be able to heal. She wished they could all cry – hold each other and heal together...

She turned away from the sight – not truth, but not a lie either – and watched the shadow of rain streaming down the walls, making it appear as if the entire flat was flooding, drowning them in the deluge. It was all a bitter illusion.

Ron sat brooding on the couch and the only thing left to her now was to speak to him – to say the things she didn't want to say; to think what she had been trying to sear out of her mind but which Harry's pleas and the look in his eyes wouldn't allow her to forget. She was literally at wit's end and the thought was extremely lowering. She hoped Ron would forgive her some day, but she was sure she would never forgive herself for this madness.

"Ron?" she called tentatively, rather hoping that he wouldn't hear her. His dull eyes shifted and came to rest on her, killing that particular possibility to put off this conversation. "Help Harry to bed, would you? Give him a sleeping potion tonight – the Dreamless Sleep if that's the one he wants."

Hermione willed the redhead to not question her, though it was still light outside and wasn't a night on her schedule where Harry could be given a sleeping potion. Normally they only used sleeping potions once in a while to give them a night where they didn't have to watch Harry constantly and Dreamless Sleep specifically when Harry seemed to need a break from his terrible nightmares.

Ron nodded mechanically and stood up, not even giving a second glance at the overcast daytime sky or her color-coded schedule pinned to the kitchen's swinging door. She wondered if he was even paying attention anymore – if he even cared – but of course he did care and that's why it hurt so badly. They cared so deeply about what happened to each other, but sometimes it made her feel like she was suffocating.

"You ready for bed, mate?" he murmured quietly to Harry. The younger wizard didn't answer of course, but he did allow Ron to pull him up from the window-seat and lead him down the hall to his room.

Half an hour later, Ron was back in the living room, standing in front of her and waiting patiently for her to make the next move. Clearly uneasy, he pulled the sleeves of his jumper down around his hands, shivering as a blast of wind hit the window beside them. Hermione wasn't sure where to start – didn't want to start, just as much as he didn't want her to start – but she drew a deep breath in preparation for the coming conversation.

"We need to talk about Harry," she managed to say, though her voice trembled. At least it was a simple enough place to begin, she decided. She watched as Ron's shoulders sank in weariness, but he nodded for her to continue and, gathering her Gryffindor courage, she dove forward before she could change her mind. "Your family is right. Harry isn't getting any better, but St. Mungo's isn't a good answer either."

"Of course it isn't."

"He's so unhappy Ron and maybe –" her voice broke quietly against the next words, but she pushed through them, "maybe we need to…let him go, like he asked of us."

Ron's eyes went wide, clearly not expecting this conversation and trying valiantly to think of some other meaning to her words. He stood frozen a moment, simply staring at her, and she rushed on headlong, unable to discern another course of action. "It's all he asks of us anymore. It's all he wants."

"What do you mean?" the redhead screamed, horror at her suggestion lacing his voice. Dark fury turned his face almost purple as he continued to splutter. She waited in sick silence, knowing she deserved his wrath for her thoughts.

"You're the know-it-all," he raged and she winced at the term, but stood her ground. "You're our brilliant, clever Hermione – the brightest witch of the age!" His voice cracked with pain, but he plunged on bitterly, "You always have an answer! You always know what we should do! How can you say something like this?"

He paced in front of her and she swallowed painfully, her reply coming out as scarce more than a whisper. "This is my answer." That simple response stopped him in his tracks and he stared at her, tears brimming his eyes in stunned grief.

She needed him to understand; to not hate her too much. She wasn't sure if she could bear losing him too. "You know how important you and Harry are to me. You know how I've tried," she wept, willing him to comprehend her own anguish. "I'm just so tired, Ron. We've tried everything. I don't know what's right, except that Harry isn't okay. Looking into his eyes the other night – I don't think he's going to get better. This is what he wants."

That was clearly not the right thing to say because Ron burst into a flurry of movement and screaming. "He's sick! He doesn't know what he wants or needs!" He slammed his fist into the wall, causing the bare white plaster to crack. "I can't talk to you right now!" he finally yelled as he fled the room. Seconds later she heard their bedroom door slam, followed closely by the sound of shattering glass as he swept a picture or vase off the nightstand or perhaps off their dresser. She slid despairingly onto the couch, sobbing into her hands.

I keep holding on to you

But I can't bring you back to life

You're dead alive

It was dark by the time Hermione chose to seek out Ron, having checked on Harry several times to make sure he was still sleeping. She quietly opened the door to their room, hoping that the redhead would be ready to face her once more. Ron was standing across the room, leaning against their dresser and staring into the huge mirror that ran the width of the long piece of furniture. He had a curious, wide-eyed expression on his face that stopped her in her tracks. 'Like a deer in headlights,' she mused grimly, the saying she had once read, long ago, flitting back through her memory. He seemed…stunned.

His eyes caught the movement behind him and they flickered up and caught her gaze reflected in the mirror. They watched each other through their reflections while Hermione waited patiently for Ron to say something – anything really. She wasn't sure how long she waited there in the doorway, but was infinitely grateful when he finally spoke to her once more.

"It's terrible to watch someone die and know that you can't save them, no matter how hard you try – no matter how much you love him." Ron's soft words caught in her heart and she didn't fail to miss the change from 'them' to 'him.' She squeezed her eyes shut, no longer able to bear the agony reflected in his eyes. "But that's what he's doing, isn't it? He's dying inside…and…I can't help him." Ron's voice choked on the words and Hermione forced her eyes open.

She watched as he blinked back tears and once again sought out her eyes through the mirror. "I can't let him go, 'Mione." His voice sounded incredibly small and helpless and she wanted to run to him and pull him into her arms where he would be protected from everything, but before she could, his expression changed once more, back to the same expression that had arrested her attention when she first came into the room. There was pain and sorrow, but something else revealing in his eyes – something unburdening; something letting go.

She drew forward, mesmerized by the look in his eyes, as he spoke softly to her reflection – not yet ready to tell her, she noted dimly.

"I promised to stick by his side so I could protect him," he murmured quietly.

She stopped beside Ron and held his gaze in the mirror as if in a trance. When he finally turned toward her, she followed his reflection until she was staring into his real eyes, warm and loving. Her breath caught, realizing she felt connected to him once again – more so that she had in many long months.

"'Mione," he whispered gently, "I promised to follow him wherever he went."

The words crashed upon her and tears instantly filled her eyes, her heart fully understanding the simple sentence even as her brain sluggishly tried to comprehend and articulate that knowledge. "I know," she managed to choke out before she was enveloped safely in his arms, time passing around them in a blur.

She spent that time reveling in the heat he radiated until she could finally find her voice again. "We both promised the same thing." His arms instantly tightened around her in an attempt to protect and defend her, but she nuzzled his neck letting him know there was nothing to fear here, nothing to harm them. His grip around her gentled further when she continued to speak quietly to him. "We're a trio. We're meant to be together…always." She looked up at him, seeing the silent tears tracking down across his freckled cheeks. She traced a finger along their crooked path, marveling at their warmth.

"As it should be," he murmured across her lips, all tension slipping out of his body as relief settled around him; as the burden was finally released. He pulled her into a kiss, perhaps the sweetest that they had ever shared – would ever share, she thought with a pang. But sorrow was dying and she felt more like herself than she had in months. She finally had something she could do for Harry; she finally had an answer for their despair.

Days go on forever

But I have not left your side

We can chase the dark together

If you go then so will I

The night was spent spooning together, both feeling lighter than they had in a long time. They barely spoke, but words ghosted quietly through the air when they did try to talk with one another. They spoke of their love for each other and Harry; wondered if things would have been better if they had only done things differently, but the dark kept many things secret and they soon fell completely silent, simply enjoying the time they had together and letting go of their own guilt.

Hermione was up with the dawn – doing what he had no idea, – but Ron didn't mind. He was simply grateful to wake up next to her once more. He loitered under the duvet for half an hour before finally pushing himself out of the bed in order to check on Harry.

He spent the majority of the day sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with the younger wizard on the sofa, sometimes simply enjoying the feel of his best mate beside him; sometimes reading quietly to him from a book about Quidditch history, or asking him questions about what he thought of the teams this season. He doubted the words penetrated through the darkness of Harry's mind – certainly Harry never responded. Still, the younger wizard seemed content enough to sit next to the redhead rather than at the window. Ron decided that was enough.

He watched Hermione hurry about gathering ingredients and then, later, opening windows as the rank smell of a potion she was brewing wafted through the flat. The smell of damp earth and the occasional smattering of water droplets blew in through the opening, but Ron decided that was okay too. It was rather nice to feel the refreshing air after being confined so long within their tiny flat.

Ron didn't question her about what she was doing, merely nodded when, in the late afternoon, she called for his help in the kitchen. He pulled Harry into the kitchen with him and settled the other wizard at the table before joining Hermione at the counter as she began supper. They didn't speak while they simply worked together to unconsciously make favorite foods, including treacle tart for Harry that they hoped to coax him into at least taking a bite or two.

Ron took the mixture and sat down, noticing sadly that Harry had put his head down on the table and was now staring at the wall. "Harry, we're making treacle tart for you."

The younger wizard didn't respond and Ron sighed, glancing over at Hermione as she pulled a chair over to a high cabinet – still so much the Muggleborn witch, he mused – and grabbed a bottle of white wine, which they had received shortly after the war ended. She held the bottle out to him and he uncorked it, handing it back to her once it was open. He continued to watch silently as she poured some of the clear liquid into a thin-necked, elegant decanter. He had no idea they even owned such a thing.

She left the room, returning quickly with a small cauldron and set it on the counter with a dull thud. She ladled out a large measure into the decanter and topped it off with a small vial of sleeping potion, though he noted it was not the Dreamless Sleep potion. She carefully stoppered the decanter and swished the contents around. Next she pulled down a silver platter, which he had also never seen, and set the decanter on it. Realizing what she was doing, he jumped up, found three wine glasses and held them out to her. She smiled gently and set them onto the platter with the decanter. Wordlessly, they went back to preparing the meal.

They lit a merrily crackling fire in the fireplace and spread out the food, picnic-style, on the floor. They even managed to convince Harry to try a few bites of several dishes, including the treacle tart that Ron had so carefully made for him. When the delicious supper was finished and food cleared away, Ron moved as one with Hermione and pulled Harry up onto the sofa between them. They spent the remainder of the evening staring into the flames and merely enjoying each other's presence.

Ron relaxed against Harry, calm washing across him as they all sat close to one another just like they used to sit together in the common room of Gryffindor tower. After a while, Hermione caught his attention and he let his eyes fall shut as he drew a deep breath – both savoring the moment and drawing courage. When he opened his eyes, he nodded at her and they turned solemnly toward Harry, who didn't seem to notice the exchange and continued to stare into the flames.

Ron watched with quiet fascination as Hermione traced lazy circles across Harry's hand. "Harry? Do you –" she paused, drawing a breath, "do you still…want to die?"

The empty look flickered away to be replaced by the same haunted expression. "Yes." Simple, concise, choked in grief and anguish. Ron flinched at the pain, but Hermione gently kissed Harry's cheek. Ron watched her pull away slowly before he brushed his own lips across Harry's temple, trying to give whatever he could of himself into that one small gesture; trying to show his best mate how much he was loved. Ron wished it was enough to break through to Harry, but knew deep down that it wouldn't.

"It's all right, mate. We understand now," he murmured into Harry's ear. "You can go."

The other wizard looked at him and, surprisingly, made eye contact. Ron held his gaze while Harry looked for the truth of his words. Something in his frantic search made Ron realize that perhaps Harry was not only looking for permission, but also for forgiveness. Ron smiled sadly but reassuringly and Harry finally turned his attention to Hermione, who nodded gently and squeezed his arm.

"Please just have a little wine and then come to bed with us – sleep together like we used to during the war when we needed the comfort of each other... one last time." Hermione's voice was soft, but pleading with Harry to allow this final moment together.

Harry nodded slightly, a grateful expression finally penetrating through the void within him and between them. The younger wizard seemed to relax, as if a burden was being set down. Ron looked over Harry's head and smiled a little sorrowfully at Hermione, who returned it with a mournful smile of her own.

She poured the wine, now gooseberry green, into the glasses and passed them around. Harry didn't seem to notice the strangeness of the color or taste. They sipped the wine for several minutes and Ron was surprised at the flavor, which he had expected would be wholly distasteful. Instead, it had taken on a pleasant, tantalizing quality and he swished it around his mouth, letting it linger on his tongue before finally swallowing the last of it. When they were all finished, Ron set the glasses onto the table and led the way toward their bedroom, knowing that Harry and Hermione were following close behind.

He turned to help Harry into the bed and then lay down beside him as Hermione slid onto the other side of the bed. They cuddled close to the younger wizard and linked their arms together over Harry's stomach. Ron sighed peacefully – finally having Harry cradled between them felt right – and smiled at Hermione. She leaned over and kissed him before turning to Harry and doing the same.

Hermione pulled back and laid her head on the pillow. "We both love you, Harry," Hermione murmured quietly, her breath catching as she tried not to weep, "so very much." Ron felt his own tears gathering in his eyes and gently turned Harry's chin toward him. He pressed a soft, chaste kiss on Harry's lips, savoring the warmth before he too pulled back and pillowed his head next to the younger wizard.

Harry brushed his hands down their arms and came to rest on their interlinked hands, tracing lightly over each finger. Ron's heart soared to see this small display of affection – something Harry had been unable to do in many long months. "I love you both too," Harry whispered back, his hands suddenly gripping theirs tightly. "I'm so sorry, I just – I can't…be here." He choked on the words, but his eyes begged them to understand.

Hermione murmured soothingly to Harry and the younger wizard relaxed further, quieting at her whispered words of acceptance and forgiveness. For his part, Ron nuzzled gently and tiredly against Harry's shoulder, hoping to calm his mate and let him know that it was going to be all right. Harry drew a deep breath and let his eyes slide closed, still holding their hands tightly. Ron's eyelids grew heavy but he saw the sad, loving smile Hermione sent him before she looked back toward Harry. Ron finally let his own eyes drift closed and he shifted even closer to Harry and Hermione, breathing them in as sleep overtook him – winding down peacefully into soft darkness.

Sing the anthem of the angels

And say the last goodbye

Hermione slid her hands over her boys, drowsily relishing the steady rise and fall of their chests and the warmth that radiated from three bodies lying together. This was what was right and true and beautiful – them together, always. She snuggled in closer and slipped into pleasant dreams about brighter days – running down to see Hagrid, discovering secret passages at Hogwarts, watching her boys fly high above her while she read a book or listening to their banter as they played chess, and so much more that they had shared. Her dreams twirled around her – away from her – and she laughingly chased after them.

Somewhere along the way, she slid into thick darkness where she felt disconnected from everything. Soon, the whirling shadows coalesced into the sorrow-bent shape of friends and family under ashen skies as they stood solemnly together staring at the ground. She knew Harry and Ron stood beside her, though she could not reach out to them to give or receive comfort. In that confining space, she had a brief moment of heart-rending sadness, unbearable grief, and devastating loss – for herself, for Harry and Ron, for their family and friends – a moment where she felt weighted down by their crushing agony which she could no longer relieve and which she knew would not end for them. And then she was gone again, drifting away into brilliant light.

She tipped her face toward the sunny sky and the warm breeze blowing gently around her. Unconsciously, she laced her fingers more tightly in Harry and Ron's hands, not stopping to wonder why suddenly she could hold onto them. She looked at her boys in time to see Ron glance confusedly around before he squeezed her hand back. He must have tightened his grip on Harry's hand as well because the other wizard looked down from his own view of the sky and smiled at them both – a true, genuine, and joyous smile.

Hermione was momentarily perplexed, wondering why it seemed like she hadn't seen him smile in such a long time – why she thought she would never see him happy again – but Ron's answering radiant smile prompted her to respond to their grins with her own. The last vestiges of something – sorrow perhaps, or something more akin to despair – fled away; scattered like chaff in the wind, and she suddenly no longer cared to know or understand what it all meant. She was here with her boys under the wide cloudless sky and their Harry was smiling again.

Author's Note: An 'anthem' is a hymn/song of loyalty, devotion, or praise (often with patriotic or religious/sacred tones). It is also usually considered uplifting or stirring.

As inherently tragic and even selfish that suicide can seem (after all, the trio made the choice for themselves and each other, without regard to anyone or anything else, leaving devastation for their friends and family), I didn't want to leave you all in the depths of a depressing story where all three main characters were locked in their own form of depression. I wanted the trio's lives as a whole, including their death, to reflect their own version of an anthem – to show the ever-continuing love, devotion, loyalty, and need for one another (even though sometimes it led down dark and unknown paths).

I should also mention that the idea of some wounds never being able to heal comes specifically from the end of Lord of the Rings, but fits with my own view of the world and spirituality and, therefore, was very much present within my mind as I wrote this story.

Hope there weren't too many mistakes. I don't have a beta, unfortunately. Let me know what you think though. I always like hearing from people.

Copyright 2012 by Stardust of Orion