Fighting Without Hope

Ron relaxed against the side of the small gully. Well, if one can be said to relax when they are sitting in three inches of muddy water, with rain pounding down on their head as though the heavens had decided to tear down the dam and let every drop of water fall at once. No, he definitely was not relaxed. It didn’t matter. Ron was pretty sure the knowledge that his chances of ever being warm, dry or safe again were practically non-existent, the knowledge that at that moment there were at least twenty Death Eaters on his trail, destroyed any chances of him relaxing.

He had been out here for six months now, fighting. And running when he couldn’t fight, and fighting again when he could no longer run. Right now, he was running.

That had been the extent of his life for the last two years. Fighting and running, broken up by occasional stretches of safety.

And all of it was pointless, so completely pointless. He fought, though he knew there was no hope of winning. He ran, though he knew there was no hope of escape. Technically, the war was already lost. It had been lost that night in June. That night that Harry died. But, still he fought. What else could he do?

Not much. His future had been decided that night, along with the outcome of the war. He had sealed it in his defiance.

That night. He tried not to think of that night, but his mind always drifted back there during quiet moments like this. To the panic, the screaming and the running. The flashes of spells flying in all directions. And most of all, to the sight of Lord Voldemort striding through the big double doors of Hogwarts at the end of their last year, framed by the darkening sky and surrounded by Death Eaters.

That was the night his best friend died. The night his father died, breaking his mother’s spirit. The night Fred died, shattering it irreparably. That was the night he lost his hope. The night he killed for the first time.

That thought brought the image of Lucius Malfoy swimming into his mind’s eye. Lucius Malfoy, sneering after slicing Ginny’s arm off with a single curse. Sneering while standing over her bloody, unconscious body. Sneering still, dead.

She lived though, he told himself.



So many didn’t. Harry had been cut down by Voldemort, all of Dumbledore’s teachings not being enough in the end to make Harry’s end any different than his own. Fred and their father died in the slaughter at Diagon Alley launched at the same time. Percy, and then Charlie, had followed their father and younger brother to the grave within months. Bill just disappeared a few weeks later. And then there was their mother. Sometimes, Ron thought it might have been better if she had died as well, and then hated himself for it. She had never been the same after news of their deaths reached her. Her mind had not been able to accept the loss of so many she loved. She was nothing but a shell of the woman she had been. He had not seen her in over a year, not since Ginny had taken her into hiding out of England. Voldemort was ruthless, and would not stop until he had destroyed the remaining Weasleys. And, though the loss of her wand arm had meant Ginny would have been a liability fighting alongside her brothers, she was still Ginny, and more than capable of protecting their mother. Ron tried to convince himself that even Voldemort would not bother with hunting down a crippled young girl and a crazy old woman, but it was difficult to let go of worrying about them.

Ron found himself drowning in depression; it was these thoughts he needed to avoid if he was to go on, to keep fighting. Instead, he turned his attention to the one thing that remained in his life capable of bringing a smile to his face.

Hermione was leaning back against the muddy wall across from him, her head tilted back and her eyes closed. The hand on her lap, however, was tightly clenching her wand, so Ron knew she was still awake. Just looking at her calmed him. Her hair, which had once been so bushy, hung about her head, limp with dirt and sweat, and her face looked as though the smudges of dirt were tattooed on, despite the driving rain. He found himself grinning, reminded of the day the two of them had first met.

He pushed himself up, careful of the leg he’d injured months ago, and staying low, crossed the gully to join her. He flicked the tip of her nose with his finger, and said in a low voice, “You’ve got something on your nose, do you know?”

Her eyes opened, and at the sight of him her mouth spread into a smile. He kissed her, and lowered himself gingerly down beside her. She ignored the fact that he favoured his left leg- he knew it killed her that she had been unable to heal him, but as long as he managed to keep up the pace he could convince her that it was healing well.

“Shouldn’t you be resting?” Hermione asked softly. “We came so far today, you need your energy.”

“I love you,” he answered simply.

She rolled her eyes, but said nothing, instead slipping her free hand into his own. He leaned his cheek against the top of her head, content to be near her, and turned his eyes to survey the rest of their battered group of fighters.



Dean and Luna sat together, not far down from Hermione and himself, Luna snoring softly and Dean scanning the gully around them with hawk eyes. George sat by himself across from them, the sense of loneliness emanating from him evident even here. Like their mother, he had never fully recovered from his twin’s death, though he had not gone as far down the road of madness as she had. Yet one more thing Voldemort had taken from them - laughter. In the other direction Lavender and Seamus huddled. Lavender muttered under her breath and fussed over Seamus, who pushed her away and wrapped his cloak even tighter around himself.

All of them following him. Looking to him as a leader. Looking at him, and Hermione, in the same way that people used to look at Harry - as if their hope, their reason for continuing, hinged on him. Ron now knew how Harry must have felt, and he bitterly regretted ever feeling jealous of his friend.

He sighed and squeezed Hermione’s hand. He was tired, but knew he would not sleep today. Appearing from the mists, Neville came up to them and crouched in front of them, driving thoughts of rest from his mind.

“Sorry, hope I’m not disturbing you,” he said quietly.

“No Neville, of course not. What do you have to report?”

The round faced man pushed the hair from his eyes before answering. “I scouted around, there’s no sign of anyone. I don’t like it though. I can’t see them giving up that easily. Oh, I did manage to find out what Seamus is hiding, though. He got clipped in the skirmish back there. Lavender about had a cow trying to get rid of me, but I caught sight of the wound before he pulled his cloak closed.”

“The fool,” Ron cursed. “I thought it might be something like that.”

“Don’t worry Ron,” Hermione placated him, pushing herself up. “I’ll take care of it.”

She made her way over to where Lavender and Seamus sat, bent double. Ron watched as they argued quietly for a minute or so before Seamus grudgingly pulled his robe back, a scowl on his face. Ron couldn’t help but curse the Irish man’s stupidity, but admitted to himself that he probably would have done the same had their positions been reversed. Heck, he had done the same.

Seamus knew, just as Ron had known, that if Hermione found out he had been injured she would insist on healing him, or at least trying. She was going on four days without sleep, having refused to rest during their last stop, instead working to heal the various wounds they had all accumulated. She had become something of a mother to their little group, having decided that if they were all going to look to her for guidance, she would protect them as best she could. She couldn’t afford to spend any more of her energy on healing spells, or anything else, without getting some rest, but Ron knew better than to try and stop her. He would just have to make sure she slept once she was finished.



It happened almost before Ron knew what hit him. Hermione finished healing Seamus and began to make her way back to him and Neville. There was a sudden shout of triumph, and a flash of brilliant blue fire shot overhead, hitting her right in the chest. Her eyes widened, and her mouth opened in shock before she crumpled silently to the ground. Ron’s heart instantly plummeted into his stomach with such force that he was surprised that he was not pushed several inches into the mud. Ignoring the shouts and scrambling for wands around him, the sudden appearance of Death Eaters within their midst, he scrambled desperately over to Hermione’s motionless form. Taking her head in his lap, he brokenly cried out her name.

“ Hermione? Oh, Hermione, come on, open your eyes, please. Hermione!”

Ron was certain it was pointless, but surprisingly, her eyelids fluttered. “Ron?”

“Hermione! Oh Merlin, Hermione.”

“I’m going to die, aren’t I?” Her voice was too calm to say something so gruesome.

He couldn’t bring himself to answer. She looked so pale, sounded so weak. He didn’t dare allow his eyes to leave her face, knowing what he would find. He knew she had just moments. He was losing her.

From somewhere she found the strength to smile. “Give them hell, love.”

Her eyes closed again, and Ron knew it was for the last time. She was gone from him. But, she was with Dumbledore. And his father, and brothers. With her parents. With Harry.

Ron wasn’t sure if the water pooling in her eyes was rain or tears. He leaned down and gently kissed her on the lips, whispering in her unhearing ear, “Wish I was with you.”

He allowed her body to return to the ground, and his face a mask, stood to face the wizard he knew would be waiting for him. It was Dolohov. Of course. Hermione had taken his eye two years ago, now he had taken her life.

He dimly noted as he raised his wand that George fell lifeless mere feet from him, that Neville was fighting off three Death Eaters single-handed, and there was screaming coming from behind him, sounding as lost as he felt.

“Are you ready to die, boy?” Dolohov hissed with a manic grin on his face.

Ready to die? Yes. Ron was ready. But not today. Today, he would still fight.







A/N: Thanks so much to PythonBlossom, my beta, for her help and encouragement. Without her to point out my mistakes, this story would not be near as good!