Good, Evil, and Everything in Between

Chapter 1: Forget

Hermione spent many of her days reading her favorite book of poetry. There was one in particular that she loved, called "Forget." It talked about how things in the past couldn't be changed, an aspect of life which Hermione had come face to face with so many times during her twenty-three years. That poem had always brought tears to her eyes, and she knew as well as anyone that a good long cry was often the best thing for letting out one's feelings. Cheery sunlight filtered into the room, past the blood red curtains, casting shapes upon the floor. A young woman with long, curly brown hair sat in a patched and faded armchair, staring wistfully out the window. She was curled up, rather like a small, frightened child, with her feet tucked underneath her, a tattered book of poetry on her lap, and her head resting on her arms. There was a lump in Hermione's throat, a stinging in her eyes, and an ache in her heart. The tears threatened to come, but she fought the oncoming sobs. Hermione wished she could let herself cry, let herself grieve for her old friend.... Harry had been wounded in battle against the dark lord, and had died later that same night. Memories flooded into her mind at the thought of her old friend's name.

Hermione remembered their time at Hogwarts vividly. She had been a brainy little witch who no one would have suspected of anything even remotely interesting or adventurous. Harry had chosen the life of a mischievous, famous Quidditch player with an unnerving tendency for getting into life-or-death situations. Of course, there had been Ron as well. He never changed, never seemed to grow up at all. In some ways, this was cute and endearing. In others, it was just annoying. But, they were always together, and the other students found it odd if one was ever seen without the other two.

To pin-point a time frame for the disintegration of the "dream team", as Professor Snape had so condescendingly referred to the three friends, would be impossible. They had just...drifted. There had been no quarrel, no huge argument culminating in a fist-fight to justify it. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had simply grown apart over the years. By their seventh year, the only conversation between them was restricted to strained "hello"s in the hallway between classes.

Ron started to follow his older brothers around, eventually resulting in membership in their crowd, which consisted of the "class clowns" of Hogwarts. Harry had started hanging around with Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan more than ever, while Hermione drafted Ginny as her new best friend. The two girls got along fairly well, but Ginny's continuous gushing over Harry was enough to annoy anyone. The three old friends hadn't even signed each other's yearbooks come graduation, hadn't even said goodbye to each other as they stepped off the Hogwarts Express for the last time. Ron was drafted into the army straight out of school like a lot of the boys from school. Harry, of course, was made commander of his own platoon. Hermione had heard a rumor that Ron was actually serving with Harry as his commanding officer. She remembered thinking that they were probably either best friends again or at each other's throats day and night. The latter brought with it a very funny mental image of Harry hitting Ron over the head with a frying pan. She tried not to think about her old friends too much....

Now, Hermione was a very successful author. She wrote mostly instructional textbooks that were used in some of the best magic schools in the world, including the Salem Institute of Witchcraft, and even her old school, Hogwarts. She had a nice house, a cute little calico cat (Crookshanks had been hit by a car in the summer between her fifth and sixth years at Hogwarts), and she was engaged to a wonderful wizard. His name was James Silverton, and every time Hermione spoke his name aloud she had to work to keep her voice from trembling. Harry's father's name. It was eerie. James was tall, with sandy hair and clear gray eyes. He did have a rather large nose, but she overlooked that minor detail. He was a quiet, smart over-acheiver, rather like Hermione herself. He loved to read, and kept their little house stocked with books. On the surface, Hermione appeared to have everything a woman could want, but her life was consumed with guilt and sadness.

The night of Harry's death was the night that Hermione had met her fiancé.

She had gone to a popular London dance club with Ginny, hoping to lose herself in the loud music and forget her problems, if only for a few hours. The place was dark, since the only lighting came from flashing strobe lights and the huge, glittering disco ball suspended from the ceiling. It was also packed, which was to be expected on a Friday night. People of every race and origin were all dancing together, people wearing everything from the chic styles of Paris and Rome to people wearing almost nothing at all. One man's ensemble looked suspiciously as if it were painted on. Upon entering the club, Hermione had felt she had made a mistake in coming. She had chosen to leave her safe, comfortable little house for this? The music was deafening, the building was hot, and people piled onto the dance floor, jabbing and bumping into one another. She left Ginny to fend for herself as she strolled to the bar in search of someone relatively normal or a stiff drink, whichever shecould get to first.

After sipping her martini for a few moments, Hermione came to the conclusion that there weren't any normal people in the whole club. The girl sitting next to her was a perfect example. She had at least six holes in each of her ears, blue hair that stuck out in all directions, and a large tattoo of a unicorn on her left upper thigh. She was wearing a shiny silver baby-doll dress that showed as much skin as the average bathing suit and silver ankle boots. She had also apparently tried to save time by applying two or three weeks' worth of blue eye liner. When sitting next to Hermione (who was wearing a black knee-length skirt printed with tiny flowers, a white blouse, black sandals, and no makeup whatsoever), this girl could have been labeled a hooker...a cheap hooker.

Suddenly, a tall, blonde man sat down on Hermione's other side. He was wearing a neatly pressed suit, minus the tie, and he looked like an angel sent down from heaven to snatch her out of the clutches of these weirdos. He ordered a beer, and then turned as if to introduce himself .

"Hi. Having fun?" he asked Hermione. She didn't hear him, due to the loud music and chatter of the other people.

"What?" she practically yelled.

"I was just wondering if you were having fun!" he yelled back. Even though the two were barely three feet apart, conversation was virtually impossible.

"No, I mean I can't hear you!" Hermione hollered. At that moment, the song had ended, letting everyone within a thirty-foot radius hear what she had said.

"Well, I'll just have to talk louder, won't I?" he asked with a small smile on his face. Then he asked her if she'd like to go for a walk with him. She accepted, desperate to get away from the noise and stifling heat of the club.

"Just let me find my friend and tell her I'm leaving, okay?" asked Hermione, struggling to make herself heard. He nodded his agreement and then motioned with his hands that he would meet her at the club exit.

After a few minutes of frantic searching, she located Ginny. She was flirting with some guy with spiky blonde hair, wearing no shirt, but covered in tattoos; Mrs. Weasley would have gone into cardiac arrest had she known her daughter was even conversing with someone like that.

"Ginny! I'm gonna go for a walk, okay?" Hermione said.

"Alone?!" Ginny asked incredulously.

"Um...well, not exactly," she had replied, blushing.

"I knew you had it in you! Who's the guy? Is he cute?"

"Very. Listen, I should get going. Don't worry about me getting home, I'll probably just take a cab," said Hermione, sounding very rushed and anxious to leave.

"Well, okay...I guess. You have your cell phone, right?"

"Don't I always?" Hermione had replied with a grin. She was legendary for never going anywhere without her trusty phone. While it wasn't that usual that you saw a witch carrying the Muggle device, they could be extremely useful in emergencies. If you suddenly needed to call an ambulance, an owl would not exactly be as quick as needed. It wasn't that she got a lot of calls either, it was just her paranoia that one day she'd crash her car into a ditch somewhere and be stuck. It was true that Ginny had driven her to the club, but what if Ginny had driven into a ditch? Hermione hadn't changed much since Hogwarts.

"Okay then. I'll call you when I'm leaving, and I can give you a lift home if you need one, okay?" said Ginny, with concern for her friend showing in her pretty face.

"Thanks, Ginny. I'll call you. Well, bye!" said Hermione. She walked away quickly, trying not to pay attention to Ginny's new friend's eyes on her ass as she left. She walked to the glowing red EXIT sign, where she met up with her mystery date. They introduced themselves as soon as they stepped out of the hot, noisy club into the crisp night air.

His name was James Silverton, and he was apparently a reporter for the Daily Prophet. If Hermione had not been so distracted by his eyes (light gray, almost silver) she would have remembered her encounters with one Rita Skeeter and headed right back into the club. But, fortunately for the young couple, childhood memories were the farthest thing from Hermione's mind right then.

As they strolled through the streets of London, they found themselves walking into a cozy little café. James ordered a cup of coffee (black, no sugar) while Hermione calmly sipped a tall glass of sparkling water. They talked, though if pressed, Hermione could not have told what about. After about an hour of flirtatious chat and stolen glances into each other's eyes, Hermione's cell phone rang inside her black silk purse (no leather for her). She lifted the phone to her ear, gazing into James' face as she mouthed the words "It's my friend, calling to check up on me." Imagine her surprise when the voice on the other end choked out the word "Hermione?" as if it were an extremeeffort to utter those three syllables. The voice was definitely male, and definitely NOT Ginny. But it did sound familiar....

"Ron?" she asked incredulously.

"Yeah. Yeah, it's me. Listen, there's been...an accident," came Ron's voice, soft and slow. It was as if he were gathering his courage for whatever it was he had to tell her. Hermione had wild thoughts running through her mind at that point, thoughts of injury, of the Dark Lord, of death....

"What happened Ron?" she asked shrilly, her concern mounting by the second.

"Its Harry. He's been...." Hermione's concern instantly mutated into panic. Her throat felt constricted and she could feel a wrenching in her middle, as if someone had ripped out her intestines. By then James had realized something was terribly wrong. Seeing Hermione's panic- stricken face growing paler by the second, he got up out of his seat, came around to her side of the booth, and sat down next to her. She held up one finger, motioning him to be quiet.

"Yes...?" she asked.

"Oh, Hermione. Harry's dead. Dead...dead and gone...." replied Ron. Hermione's world, her universe, was shattered into a million pieces in that split second that Ron spoke those condemning words. She never heard what Ron said next, missed his explanation of how Harry Potter had died. She didn't care how it happened. She didn't want to know. She didn't hear his instructions for the funeral, which would be next week. She didn't hear him when he said they had both been asked to speak at the service. All she heard was the buzzing between her own ears. She calmly bid him goodbye and dropped her phone into her bag, stood up, and walked out of the café, with James following close behind. He was full of questions. "Why are you crying? Who was that on the phone? Are you okay? Do you need a ride home?" The last was the only inquiry she bothered to answer.

She accepted the ride, but didn't remember any of it. Indeed, Hermione felt so out of touch, it could have been someone else in that car with James. It could have been someone else who said goodnight to him, climbed the steps to her front door, turned the key, and stepped into the shadows of the dimly lit front hall. It could have ben a total stranger who kicked off the black sandals (which were usually put away carefully in the hall closet, not kicked off in the middle of the floor), climbed the staircase to the second room on the left, locked the door behind her, and laid down on the bed without undressing. It could have been anyone on earth, except Hermione Granger. No, she was off in memory land, thinking herself into a figurative coma. Hermione had always thought that she thought too much....

Harry had been a child in so many ways, wiser than an adult in so many others. He had risked his life in the face of evil so many times. He had saved so many lives in his short lifetime.... And he was gone. She had never even had the chance to say goodbye, to tell him she loved him-had always loved him. What she felt for him was not love that spans all boundaries, but love that burns its way into your body slowly, until you realize that if this person is gone, they will take a part of your heart with them. He had never known, and he never would.

James came home from work to find his fiancé curled up in her favorite armchair, crying.

"Shhhhh," he said as he put his arms around her."Oh, honey. Please don't cry. He's gone. Just try and forget."

Chapter 2: Blame

Ron couldn't sleep. He'd been tossing and turning in his bed for hours, trying to get comfortable despite the fact that he felt like the sheets were trying to strangle him. Now he was standing in front of his refrigerator, swigging milk straight from the carton while he stood there in his boxers, his red hair all rumpled. After replacing the now half-empty carton in the fridge, he went into the living room of his apartment in downtown London and sat down on the couch. He picked up the sword, running his fingers across the blade.

"Shit!" he yelped, having cut his thumb. He wiped the blood off on his shorts and put the sword back down on the coffee table. It was a weird place to keep a weapon, but Ron didn't figure that it mattered. It wasn't like he ever had any visitors. And so, the sword lived on the coffee table, right next to the pile of magazines and the stacks of candy bar wrappers. Ron hated that sword. He never took the time to clean it; now it was all rusted and dull. He didn't care. He would have gotten rid of it, just thrown it into the garbage, if he hadn't felt that it would be wrong somehow. He felt he needed the sword around as a reminder, a reminder of the worst thing he'd ever done....

Ron sucked on his thumb for a minute, then sat back and closed his eyes, thinking about the sword and the part that it had played in his life. He replayed the images from his eighteenth year in his mind, as he had done so many times before. That year he couldn't forget, even when he tried.

The eighteen year old Ron sat in his hammock, polishing his sword. Dull and covered with rust, it hadn't looked like much when he'd received it. It had been his grandfather's, his father's father. Ron received it on the day of his graduation from Hogwarts. Not impressive at first sight, he'd worked to restore it. Now, as he sat in his tent absent-mindedly wiping at the blade with a rag, it glistened a bright silver. Engraved into the handle was one word: "Weasley."

Ron always brought the sword into battle with him, whether for good luck or for actual practical use he could never quite decide. He hadn't had to use it in combat...yet. There was always the possibility of becoming disarmed and needing to rely on the old weapon rather than on magic. A lot of the other soldiers carried Muggle weapons, too. Ron knew for a fact that his old classmate Seamus Finnigan always kept a small hand pistol tucked into his left boot. He'd had plenty of occasions to use it, too.

Ron's platoon had been involved in most of the major battles of what was beginning to be called the Second Children's Crusade. Almost all of the soldiers currently fighting against the armies of Lord Voldemort weren't even twenty one; boys who couldn't even legally drink were risking and, in many cases, losing their lives in the fight. They came straight from school, be it Hogwarts or Beauxbatons or some other magic school, to serve in the war currently raging between good and evil. And, like the first Children's Crusade, this seemed to be a lost cause. They were outnumbered, their powers outweighed, by Voldemort's armies.

Ron had left without a moment's hesitation after graduation to enlist. So had most of the boys in his graduating class, except of course for the Slytherins. Oh, they'd joined in the fighting; they were just on the other side of the fence, so to speak. So far, they were on the winning side.

Voldemort had been gaining power and followers steadily since the end of Ron's fourth year at Hogwarts. Now, the Dark Lord had an army twice the size of theirs, and at least three times as powerful. The Ministry told them that it was hopeless, that they could never win. When he heard that, Ron had thought to himself that they'd just described every great success story in history.

While Ron and his fellow soldiers felt no regret for joining in what had been deemed a lost cause, they did fear for their own lives and for the lives of their families and friends. As they often said to one another, what was left for the magical community if they gave up? Of course, there was one thing they could do that would stop the war cold. These people, these Dark wizards who had no discernable souls and knew not the meaning of the word compassion, wanted one thing. They wanted Harry Potter...dead.

Ron's commanding officer and former best friend, Harry Potter himself. The boy who lived, the famous face with the famous scar was going in to battle the next day. He was going in on the front line, no less. What an idiot, but Ron had to smile at his friend's bravery. It had always been this way, ever since their first year together at Hogwarts. Harry risking his life up front, right in evil's face. Ron should have been used to it by now. But how do you get used to your very best friend having near-death experiences all the time? The answer is simple. You don't.

Of course, it wasn't as though they had entered this situation with the same friendship that had gotten them safely through many a year at school. In fact, it hadn't become apparent that they were even both present until roll was taken on the first day of training. Harry was a captain, Ron a soldier. Ron was expendable. Harry was irreplaceable. He knew this and accepted it as a fact, knowing there was no way to change it.

On that first day, Ron had been gratified to see that Harry had at least recognized his name when it was called. He had even said hello, though the greeting had sounded strained. Ron couldn't blame him for feeling awkward; the situation was awkward. Harry and Ron hadn't even said goodbye to one another on graduation day, hadn't even signed one another's yearbooks. Now they were sleeping two tents apart, and Ron received all of his orders straight from Harry's mouth.

The next day their company was to march on the Dark Lord's forces; a sneak attack, in the early morning hours. They would probably have to leave at three o'clock in the morning in order to have the advantage of surprise. Needless to say, Ron was not looking forward to it. He glanced down at his watch and was shocked to find that it was past ten already. Light's out were always called at nine...had he missed it, he'd been so lost in thought? He stood and walked to the front of his tent, poking his head out of the door. Sure enough, he couldn't see a light on anywhere else in the camp, except....

"Can't sleep?" he asked Harry, whose lantern was still burning brightly on his small desk. He took a good long look at his old friend. He still looked like a little boy. Hell, they all did. Sometimes Ron just wanted to scream that they were too young to die and should just go home, home to where their mothers could hold them when they were scared and home to a place free from death and suffering. He could tell that most of them felt the same way he did, with the exception of Harry. Harry had faced death so many times by now that it must have seemed, at least to him, that he was running out the clock, that his time was short.

"No. You?" Harry replied. Despite the deep shadows underneath his eyes, he looked wide-awake.

"I'm here, aren't I? I saw your light."

"I'm just working out some plans for tomorrow," Harry said, gesturing to the maps and charts littering his desk. But Ron knew Harry better than that.

"You were thinking about your parents, you mean?" he asked, knowing full well what the answer would be. Harry always thought about Lily and James when he was faced with danger, and the upcoming battle would be plenty dangerous.

"Yeah, I guess," Harry sighed, looking down at his lap. "Ron? I want you to know that, well, this is gonna sound so hokey but...I never stopped thinking of you as my best friend. I just want you to remember that, okay?"

After speaking, Harry rose from his seat and gave Ron a quick hug; the two friends had never embraced before. Sure, they'd hugged Hermione plenty of times, but never each other. Ron cringed as he remembered Hermione, and quickly pushed all thoughts of her out of his mind.

"I know that, don't even worry about it," Ron replied, taken aback by Harry's sudden display of emotion. This was a good thing; all was forgiven.

"Now get back to your tent and get some sleep. I need you ready for tomorrow," said Harry, suddenly all business.

"Yes Sir," said Ron, confused by what had just happened. He pondered it on the walk back to his tent, but forced his mind to go blank as soon as he had gotten into bed. Harry was right about one thing; he did need his sleep.

When Ron awoke less than three hours later, he found the camp in utter chaos. From what he could gather from the garbled bits of conversation he overheard from soldiers walking by his tent, someone on their side had turned traitor and informed one of the Dark Lord's minions, not only of their plans for the attack, but also of their location. The Dark army had come, in full force.

Ron struggled to get dressed, putting on his pants backwards twice and his shirt on inside out once before he finished.

He grabbed his wand and shoved his sword into one of the belt loops of his jeans. He left the safety of his tent and came face to the face with the madness that had engulfed the camp. Tents had been torn asunder, clothing and other personal items belonging to the soldiers were lying haphazard on the ground. No one was around, they were all heading to the battle now raging on a hillside about two hundred yards from where the ruined campsite now rested. Ron's immediate concern was finding Harry. Not only was he worried for his friend, but Harry was his commanding officer. He needed orders. Ron found him shouting orders to a group of panic-stricken soldiers while trying to pull his shirt on.

"Harry! What should I do?" called Ron into the tent.

"Bloody Hell! Just go kill something, Weasley!" Harry shouted in reply. Ron had never heard him swear before, let alone call anyone besides Draco by their last name. But Ron didn't stop to wonder, he just charged past the tents to the hillside where all the action was.

He passed many wounded soldiers on his way to the battle, and had to force himself not to look down to see if he recognized any of them. He did pause, however, when he heard Seamus Finnigan screaming like there was no tomorrow. Ron looked down to find Seamus writhing on the ground a few feet to his left, clutching his foot.

"What happened?" Ron shouted over the din.

"Shot myself...Damn pistol, forgot it was there!" replied Seamus, gritting his teeth against what Ron could only assume was terrible pain. "You go, I'll be alright!" he yelled.

Ron did as he was told and rushed into the fray, flinging his sword aside in his hurry to start cursing. The words Avada Kedavra flew from his lips and into the darkness. The entire hill was lit with bright flashes of green as wizards fell lifeless to the ground, one after another. The battle raged for nearly two hours, Ron barely escaping death countless times as he fired curse after curse into the blackness. He had stopped thinking, stopped aiming, even. Now he was just shooting in the general direction of the Death Eaters. He had even stopped praying.

Suddenly he heard a laugh that stopped him right in his tracks, made his blood run cold, and sent a shiver of fear running up his spine. He looked to the very top of the hill and saw none other than the Dark Lord himself, an ominous figure clad all in black standing tall against the rapidly lightening sky. And what was worse, he had Harry by the hair. He was holding him up off the ground, while Harry writhed and struggled to free himself from death's grip.

To his credit, Harry didn't scream. He didn't open his mouth once, and his face was locked in an expression of what one could only call pride. Ron rushed forward, as did many other soldiers. They couldn't reach Harry, though. There were just too many Death Eaters, who had now formed a protective circle around their master.

"Finally!" came the voice of the Dark Lord. "Finally you will die, Potter!" he shrieked. Ron offered a quick prayer to God, if He even existed, to spare his friend's life. As he looked upwards for that one second, he saw that the sky was lightening from black to gray, the stars winking out one by one. It was like they were dying...

"You can kill me, but you will be defeated in the end," Harry replied, in a strong voice devoid of any fear. He spoke not just to Voldemort, but to the Death Eaters and, most of all, to his own soldiers. Just then, Ron saw the Dark Lord draw something long and shiny from his belt...His sword!

"Prepare to meet your parents, boy!" Voldemort cackled, raising the blade into the air.

"I always did wish to die up to my knees in blood," was Harry's perfectly calm reply.

"And how ironic, I've just noticed something, "the Dark Lord spoke again, pausing with the sword still raised. "This sword I have, do you see that it bears an engraving? Weasley, it says. That is wonderful, the famous boy who lived, killed with his best friend's own sword. I couldn't have written a more perfect ending for you!"

Then he brought the sword crashing down, impaling Harry as he fell to the ground. Voldemort disappeared, along with what remained of his entire evil army.

Harry died before he was reached by anyone who could have helped him; indeed he was beyond help and closing in on death's door. One Ronald Weasley, who could do nothing but grasp his friend's hand, reached him, however. Harry saw those familiar eyes fill with tears, and forgave him without question, without words. His eyes rolled back, and the famous Harry Potter passed out of this world.

It was really too bad that the dying Harry couldn't speak though. Ron never knew that he was forgiven, only knew that he was, at least in part, responsible for his best friend's death. Ron held onto Harry's hand for a long time, until he felt a hand on his soldier. It was Seamus, holding out his sword, now clean of blood.

"Its alright; it wasn't your fault, not really," he said. Ron just burst into tears.

Yes, Ron felt that that night on the battlefield would stay with him forever and for always. He had dreams about it almost every night.

He remembered making the phone call to Hermione; that had been the hardest thing of all, to tell his childhood friend that Harry had died. In a way, Harry and Hermione had been closer to each other than either had ever been to Ron. They had had this sort of bond, and oftentimes Ron had wondered if they didn't like each other and were just afraid to admit it.

Ron shook his head, lifting himself from the couch. A few hours had passed since he'd first sat down and started pondering the past. He padded back to his bedroom, thinking about the funeral and how he'd never seen so many people crying at once, not before and certainly not since. He'd given a short speech, as had Hermione. God, she'd looked so devastated. She had to stop in the middle of her speech because she was crying so hard.

Ron slipped between the sheets into bed for the second time that night. He put both of his hands behind his head and gazed at the ceiling. But, he knew he wouldn't be getting any sleep, not with that sword in the very next room.