4.3 | Astoria ✓

07 | 1999

"Hello, Ron."

In the year that has passed, the boy has grown into a man. And the man, in her esteemed opinion, looks like shite. Unshaven, not in a roguish but unkempt way. His fingernails are bitten down to the quick; his clothes rumpled and stained in some places. The small tufts of red hair beneath his hat hang lank around his face and he reeks of alcohol.

All in all, he looks like a man who's barely alive.

"Didn't expect to see you here," he mutters. "I was worried...I thought..."

"You thought that I'd become a Death-Eater, or that I'd died?"

He flinches at that. "Not a Death-Eater. Just...the other one."

A quiet settles between them. She takes a sip of her beer, then wrinkles her nose and pushes the mug aside. She's just waiting for Ron to speak. Eventually, he does.

"He's gone." His voice is so broken that her heart squeezes when she hears it. "My brother, I mean. Fred died in an explosion at Hogwarts and...well, we lost Hermione too."

"So I've heard."

He shoots a quick glance at her. "Who told you? Harry?"

"Andromeda Tonks." Ron looks up in surprise at that, and she shrugs. "Andromeda is the only one we Slytherins can trust at a time like this. I'm sorry to hear about your brother. And Hermione, too."

Ron lets out a heavy exhale and runs a shaky hand through his hair. "When we fled Hogwarts, Hermione was on the back of my broom. The next thing I knew, she was falling and falling... I saw a black figure catch her. We don't know where she went; we don't know who took her. Harry and I went back. We snuck into Hogwarts. We looked everywhere. We searched endlessly for days, and then weeks, and then months. The Order finally stopped us because we'd gotten caught a couple of times, and it was risky business to get us out. But Hermione..." He brushes a hand roughly against his cheek. Astoria realises, with a start, that he's crying. "...She's my best friend. And I let her down."

"So what, you've just...given up?"

"I haven't given up."

"Seems to me like you have. It's the middle of the day, and you're half-drunk in a bar wallowing in self-pity."

His head snaps up; his blue eyes flashing in clear anger. "I am not—" His gaze meets hers and she stares back evenly. He lets out a sigh of resignation. "I know you're just riling me up. But I just—I can't anymore, okay? I failed. I lost my best friend. And if I go back out there, who knows how many more people I'm going to lose? Now are you going to drink that?"

He reaches for her beer, but she holds it out of reach. From the moment she's met him, this is the only time she's felt truly disgusted by his behaviour. Okay, there was that one time he'd shagged that Lavender bint, but this is a close second. "Get up."

He rolls his eyes and thumps his head down on the table. "I don't want to—"

"That's not a request."

"You can't make me—"

"I'm a Slytherin. Do you really want to see what I'll do to get my way? Get up."

With a groan, he peels himself off the table and gets to his feet. She doesn't wait for him. She tosses down a wad of Muggle cash and leaves the bar, grabbing her coat on the way out.

Ron stumbles out soon after and drags his black trench coat after him. "Look, Astoria, I know you mean well, but this isn't—"

She shoves him against the brick wall. His eyes fly open in shock and he moves to stop her, but she's quicker than he is. Either that, or the alcohol has dulled his reflexes. She holds his face between her hands and stares right into his eyes.

"Look."

And then she shows him. It's the first time she's ever showed anyone her Visions without them having asked for it. Legilimency puts her right into his mind, and with that connection, she shows him what-will-be.

Three years into the war and everything is dust. The Magical world will be run over by the Death-Eaters. Nothing is left of the Ministry. Homes and neighbourhoods swallowed whole by destruction. A Rebellion will rise from the ashes—innocent wizards and witches who will fight for the glimmer of Light. But Voldemort's army comes in the hundreds—Death-Eaters, Snatchers, werewolves, giants, magical creatures, Imperiused victims.

All that is left is disaster and despair and doom.

Ron staggers forward, clutching her by her elbows. His face is pale; his breaths ragged. "What the—what the hell...?" he rasps, his blue eyes fixed on her. "What was that?"

"The future," she says quietly. "This is what our world will be, whether you want it or not. So you can spend the next two years wallowing in your failure, or you can try to save as many people as you can. You have a choice because you're still alive, and you have a responsibility because I've shown you what is to come."

She takes a step back from him. He collapses against the wall, still pale with shock from the horrors that she'd shown him. But in his eyes there is a fire that her words have kindled. And she knows, without a doubt, that he will fight again.

On a whim, she pushes herself up on the tips of her toes and presses her lips to his cheek. Rough stubble beneath her mouth; his skin warm like summer despite the cold. Unable to help herself, she lingers for a moment. She tells herself it's only because she may never see him again. It's a war, after all. She refuses to believe it's anything more than that. He shivers and she pulls away, watching as his eyes slowly open. He looks at her and swallows hard, but doesn't say a word.

"Get up and fight, Ron," she tells him softly, "Because the war's not yet won."