He makes a promise to a widow, though he knows he cannot keep it. He has never seen true grief before, despite the wars he has fought, but the naked expression on Molly's face makes up for any deficit he might have felt.

She weeps brokenly, kneeling in the grass near his feet, her face buried in her hands. Her body shakes uncontrollably as she begs the sky, the world, him, to keep her children safe. Keep all the children safe.

She raises her head and looks him in the eye, and her gaze is more coldly calculating than any he's ever seen. "Swear it to me."

Peter shifts in his magical bindings, held prisoner and headed for questioning, and nods. "I swear."

Hermione is surprised when his shirt comes off, sure that his chest would be covered with the same delicate dusting of freckles as his hands and face. "No sun," he whispers as he leans in to kiss her, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her closer. She sips and drowns in the taste of him as his tongue slides inside her mouth, a prelude of things to come.

She pulls away with a playful grin and takes off her shirt, tossing it aside as he grabs her. They tumble to the grass, moving together in the sunshine, freckles be damned.

It was three days into the voyage, and the American still hadn't shown himself.

Remus worked his way down to the bowels of the ship, not looking so much as sensing the presence of another. Of Another. He found him in the kitchen, peeling potatoes like something out of one of the movies Remus used to watch at his father's knee.

His hair was blue turning to brown. "I don't think this is the room you're looking for," he stated before looking up, his eyes dangerously clear. His head tilted and he smiled as those eyes surveyed Remus. "Right."

Remus nodded, wondering how much of the lines, scars, years and gray the young man actually saw. "Yes. I'm Remus."

He extended his hand, his nails painted purple. "Oz."

She's not one to suffer from romantic fantasies. She's never been one to dream anything other than what was likely to happen.

At least, that was the case until she met him, learned from him, got to know him. Suddenly her dreams were about secrets and keeping them, running away and living a life of mystery and drama that had nothing to do with what would happen, and everything to do with what could.

It wouldn't have worked out though, she thinks as he walks toward the gates of Hogwarts, his suitcases trailing along behind him. These things never do.

His eyes burn her from across the room.

Her hand stays tucked into Ron's elbow as they talk to the other members of her new family, as they laugh and tease and joke. No one says anything, so she knows they don't notice.

She's prey in his predator's gaze.

They approach and he's polite and sincere as he kisses her cheek and welcomes her to the family, hopes she'll enjoy being one of them.

Then he smiles and she knows he's slipped something into Ron's drink again and she'll be spending her wedding night in his arms, in his bed.

Ron glanced nervously at Hermione as he guided her down the long aisle to the last empty seats in the room. She smoothed her robes, a deep blue that he noticed matched his eyes, as she sat, leaning back in the seat, her gaze locked on the opaque ceiling above.

The noise died and the air above them shimmered, dissolved until the entire clear arc was covered with the glide and sparking light of the fairies as they danced, spinning and twirling and colliding in glorious bursts of color.

Her fingers twined with his. "It's the most lovely ballet, Ron."

Green light.

Pain.

His eyes widen. He knows nothing of the world but warm and flesh and breast and laughter. He senses fear and cries, senses pain and wails. It consumes him, threading through his blood, something warm and sweet chased with fire and flames, licking at his skin.

Green light.

Loss.

Heat and pain curl together in his head in his heart then warmth. It's rough and soft and tender and strong all at once. Voices he doesn't understand, though one strikes a memory. Blurry. Flying.

Pain.

He will not remember tonight. If he knew how, he'd feel grateful.

"Trick?" George asked as the door opened, extending his hand, offering the small orange box, his grin laced with mischief.

"Or treat?" Fred added as he moved beside his brother; his hand outstretched in an identical gesture, an identical box, an identical smile.

Oliver looked from one to the other several times before smiling a grin worthy of a Weasley. He hooked a finger from each hand into the waistband of their jeans. He tugged gently as he walked, the twins following him willingly into his room.

The door closed behind them and he guided them to the bed. "Both."

There are disadvantages to living with three other boys, he thinks as he stares around the room. The house elves clean up as best they can; their efforts thwarted at every turn by socks and sheets, books and parchments, ink stains and wrinkles.

He sits on his bed, the unmistakable scent of Sirius coming off the shirt he's wearing, the shirt he'd found draped across his duvet. He sits and watches as Sirius drops the towel he's wearing and starts to get dressed.

There are disadvantages to living with three other boys. But, Remus admits, there are advantages as well.

He can name a thousand ways they're different, but no one else can. He wonders if anyone can do better than noticing that they don't have the same name, even though everything else seems a perfect match.

He watches as George disappears, moving quietly, thinking he's asleep. He watches as she follows his twin out of the room, hiding her hushed giggles behind the hand that had lain on his skin just moments before.

He knows George's routine. Will hear the moans and gasps. Knows what he does. What he doesn't. He notices the differences.

He wonders if she will.

It's snowing outside and she knows it. Knows she should be out in the swirling white, dancing and playing with her friends, reveling in the brisk cold until they're all shivering so hard it hurts, invisible wounds to be assuaged with hot chocolate and warm fires, chocolate biscuits fresh from the oven cooling on the tray.

Instead, she looks down at the warm cinnamon hair that's splayed over her lap, the pale skin that's flushed with sleep and leans forward, resting on him, breathing him in as her eyes close, the shouts of her classmates ringing distantly in her ears.

There are moments that are perfect. Moments captured easily and forever, few and far between.

All of her moments came during seven years in a school she'd never heard of until an owl gave her a letter. She hasn't had one since Graduation Day; the day Harry defeated Voldemort, the day Ron died, Neville died, Dumbledore died.

She doesn't remember much after that, her life a swirl of hurt and pain and too much to do. She doesn't remember those thousands of days, but she'll never forget the day she met the Boy Who Lived and the Boy She Loved.

He's always been an afterthought. Which sounds worse than it is most of the time, but is perfect for those few times that it hurts more than he ever could imagine.

When he asked her to the dance too late and too wrong. When he sees Harry fall in a blaze of green light too magical to be real, for all the sense that makes.

And it's perfect for when the blazing red eyes turn toward him and another curse flies, death in two words, no blows.

He was supposed to die protecting Harry. There's no honor in dying after.

Ron frowned at the book, shut it, opened it, frowned deeper then threw it across the room. Harry looked up but didn't speak, too preoccupied with trying to hide his smile at Ron's distress.

Deliberately ignoring Harry, Ron levitated the book back into his lap and sighed, opening it and forcing himself to read.

"Try chapter fifteen," Harry offered.

Ron sighed again and turned a few pages. His eyes darted wildly to Harry's before he slammed the book closed. "Warn me next time, mate."

"Sorry, Ron. But you have to admit there are some good things about Muggle biology books."