Chapter Text
“I can just hear them now
How could you let us down?
But they don’t know what I found
Or see it from this way round”
- New Person, Same Old Mistakes (Tame Impala)
For the first three days, Harry slept.
He saw the end of the dark lord and then slept deeply for the better part of three days.
His body and brain gave him no choice in the matter, and there was not an ounce of him that bothered to fight it. He wanted and needed the unique bliss that sleep was capable of providing.
When he finally roused from his prolonged slumber, he found himself emphatically wishing he’d stayed asleep by the time it was lunch on the second day.
The wizarding world as he knew it was in utter disarray. There was nothing to distract him from the weight of what had happened, what was happening, and what would happen. The immediate aftermath following Voldemort’s defeat was pandemonium, and Harry, once awakened, had trouble recalling his waking hours with specificity. The countless faces he interacted with, the words that were exchanged, the surmounting problems that needed solutions… these were mostly blurs to him.
McGonagall and Kingsley were appointed as acting headmistress and Minister of Magic, respectively, during the three days Harry was unconscious, and they served as his go-to adults. He trusted them and they cared for him. The two did their best to shield him from the gravity of it all during their initial meetings, but, by the third, they could avoid reality no longer and laid it all bare for him. The implications were clear: Harry would need to be involved in certain aspects of reconstructing their society. People were missing, criminals needed to be captured, funerals needed to be held, the government needed an entire overhaul… they were without an official minister, the aurors were depleted, departments needed to be purged, trials needed to be scheduled. People needed to hold onto hope, and that hope would, inevitably, be projected onto Harry.
It seemed like an impossible mess. His first thought upon hearing the sheer scope of recovery was, “I’m still only 17”, which, of course, he did not voice. He did not have the energy. Instead, The Boy Who Lived told them that Hogwarts would be his base for the time being so he was accessible to them. If they were able to detect some of the detachment in his words, they said nothing of it.
Neville had been the first first person Harry saw upon waking in Gryffindor tower. The dark haired wizard had never properly hugged his friend in the seven years of knowing him, but he propelled himself into the mutual embrace without a second thought.
“Hermione? Ron?” were the first words out of his mouth, hands on the pureblood’s shoulders.
“They’re all right,” Neville reported, giving a tired smile, “They’ve spent their time between Hogwarts and the Burrow. They’ve checked on you all the while you were asleep.” Harry nodded, the lump in his throat receding at the information. He released Neville.
“And you? How are you?” he questioned, looking into the other boy’s eyes with concern (and guilt).
“I’m here, Harry. That’s the best I can ask for, all things considered,” came the answer. The lump returned and Harry gave one, additional nod.
Harry encountered Hermione before he encountered Ron. He used the marauders’ map to determine if his best friends were in the castle to begin with, and he saw the witch’s dot lingering somewhere on the fourth floor by itself. His entire body reacted to the sight of her name and he stuffed the map into his pocket as he rushed through the halls to meet her.
Their reunion was witnessed by the handful of people also on the floor but neither cared. Truthfully, neither of them noticed anyone else.
“Oh, Harry!” Hermione said in a watery voice, holding him like her life depended on it. Her eyes had closed, which kept most of her tears at bay. Likewise, he was clutching her tightly as his heart rate seemed to both quicken and calm, and his forehead dropped to her shoulder.
The muggleborn had been in so many of Harry’s dreams during the three day period where he wavered in and out of consciousness. Many of those countless, sleep-addled visions had been distressing. She’d been in grave danger or, worse yet, had not survived the war, but having her in his arms now, during his undeniable waking hours, was a balm that settled over his entire being. This was not a dream. Hermione was alive.
“You need a shower,” she half laughed when they released one another. The tears in her brown eyes remained but she looked so comforted to see him as she flashed a smile.
“I know. I’m sure,” Harry replied, giving his own fast grin, “I woke up and my first thought was to find you. Before I considered anything else… I just wanted to find you.” Hermione felt like hugging him again at the admission but refrained, choosing instead to squeeze one of his hands.
There were so many questions he wanted to ask, quite a few things he wanted to share, but she had not been the sole person he immediately thought of when rising from the four poster, had she?
“I didn’t see Ron on the map,” he cautiously said. The brunette shook her head, her expression changing to show some of the despondency that was, now, associated with her other best friend.
“He’s at the Burrow,” the witch attested.
“Of course.”
“I’d planned to go later.”
“Have you been staying there?” wondered Harry.
“At night, yes. But I spend more time here than there during the day.” Hermione revealed, “Ron’s been in and out of the castle; Bill and Ginny, too. Arthur’s been here a few, brief times.”
“How is he? How are they?”
He asked this in a low voice with downcast eyes. The Weasleys had been in his dreams, as well… sometimes with all members alive and accounted for, sometimes with the entire family decimated.
“They’re doing their best.” Hermione mentioned. A couple of her tears finally fell over, contrasting with the shaky smile she had.
Harry closed his eyes and exhaled, feeling a pit open in his stomach. He knew reuniting with Ron and his brood meant facing the heaviness of Fred’s death, and he was unsure he was ready for what that entailed.
“I’ll go with you. To the Burrow,” he mentioned, peering at her. Ready or not, this was his best friend and surrogate family. It would be an insult to not visit them as soon as possible.
“Okay,” she stated, nodding in relief at the promise of his presence, “I know they’ll be thrilled to see you.”
“Not if I don’t shower.”
The brunette laughed, and for the briefest of moments, it caught Harry off guard. It was a sound he had not heard in a tremendously long time, but as it settled into his awareness, it warmed him like butterbeer. Laughter in general, including his own, had become such a foreign concept in the past year.
“Shower. Eat. Do what you need to right yourself,” Hermione answered, “I'll be waiting. I'm not going anywhere.”
He nodded as he peered at her rather seriously. No, she was not going anywhere. After all they had gone through, he was eternally grateful for this fact.
Harry’s reunification with the Weasleys was the epitome of bittersweet. They welcomed him with hugs, tears, praise and food, but the absence of a core member was inescapable, as was the absence of the Weasley clock. Consequently, as days passed and Harry spent more time with the red heads, he realized his initial, post-battle encounter with them was a preview of their new dynamics for the indefinite future. The family had moments when its vivacious nature was on full display, the nature that had supported Harry for seven years, but those moments were now interspersed with the profound anguish that shrouded them.
Molly was inconsolable. Arthur was hollow. Percy was wracked with guilt, Ron was disturbingly colorless, and Ginny was unpredictable; her moods ranged from overly happy, angry, and dejected. Bill and Charlie appeared to be the most stable of the family and took it upon themselves to keep the others intact as best they could, choosing to quietly express their grief mostly with each other. And George… George was a shadow of himself. He was a ghost in the home that was hardly seen, a ghost that resisted attempts at connection that did not come from his mother, or Ron or Ginny on occasion.
The state of the Weasleys broke Harry’s heart twice over. Once for Fred himself and once for their pain, and it was difficult to ignore the mounting remorse whenever he was in their presence. He dared not voice any of this to them, not even Ron, but Hermione knew. Harry hadn’t needed to explain how harrowing it was witnessing their sorrow (that amplified his own) because Hermione felt it, as well. She was always there alongside him at the Burrow. There was not a time where they visited the home without the other. Accordingly, the two often blended into the background when the family’s grief was at its peak and seeping through the walls of the home. It was the closest they had ever felt to being something like outsiders with the Weasleys, and the helplessness pushed them to subconsciously fall back into relying on one another as they’d done so routinely during the hunt.
There was a bright spot amidst the heaviness that blanketed the Burrow, and it came in the form of Crookshanks. Harry witnessed the reunion between Hermione and her pet, and was alerted to it by way of screaming. He’d rushed downstairs with Ron into the living room, heart racing and wand out, only to see the muggleborn sat on the floor with her face in fur. She was cuddling the orange cat and crying, and he responded with repeated head butts and loud purrs. Since being left at the home last summer, Crookshanks’ routine consisted of absences for a few days followed by appearances for a day for pets and treats. He had apparently registered Hermione’s scent during one of his returns but not seen her, so he came back through the kitchen's kitty door the very next day to wait and see. The result was their living room encounter, and it lifted more than just Hermione’s spirits.
-
Harry’s initial interactions with Andromeda Tonks were reflective of his experience with Ron's family in that he was privy to her heartache. However, she was still much of a stranger to him, which made things more complicated, yet they were now intricately linked through Teddy. Conversely, where the Weasleys were plentiful in number and had each other to walk through the anguish, Andromeda had no one. She had lost her daughter, husband and son-in-law, and was left with a one month old grandson to care for and raise. She could not completely submit to the gravity of her loss because, if she did, Teddy would be lost with her; he depended on her being present for his very survival. And this was a saving grace for the woman, in actuality: the baby gave Andromeda a reason to hold onto hope, purpose and joy, and these kept her afloat in the midst of her stark pain.
With the help of Hermione’s observations, Harry recognized the risk of Andromeda being alone and the strength in her having Teddy. He resolved to be a dependable godfather for countless reasons, and this necessitated that he have a relationship with his godson’s grandmother. Andromeda realized this, as well, and quietly welcomed Harry’s ever increasing presence in her life. They connected for the infant but slowly comprehended that this also allowed them to bond, and she surely needed new people to whom she could attach.
Hogwarts. The Burrow. Andromeda’s home. These were the three structures Harry cycled through like clockwork during May, Hermione alongside him the vast majority of the time. They slept at Hogwarts and spent more days than not in Scotland, toiling away at the rebuilding with many of their friends, classmates, and professors. Neither Mrs. Weasley nor Ron had said a word about his decision to make the castle his home base instead of the Burrow, nor Hermione’s decision to join him instead of continuing to stay with the Weasleys. This was a testament to the depth of the family’s preoccupation and its emotional state.
Consequently, some of the red heads consistently came to contribute to the work on Hogwarts, and Hermione and Harry were found in Ottery St. Catchpole frequently enough. They visited Andromeda (usually as a pair, occasionally as a trio) whenever she extended an invitation, something that happened once or twice a week, and they never turned it down. The opportunity to see Teddy was too important – too tempting – especially since, like for his grandmother, the baby seemed to be a rare, genuine source of happiness. Harry’s encroaching thoughts and emotions were held at bay when he was with Teddy, and the reprieve felt like fresh air.
Because the dark thoughts and overwhelming emotions intensified for Harry with every day that passed. Guilt. Helplessness. Exhaustion. Anger. Despair. More guilt. Anxiety. Confusion. Restlessness. Guilt.
It was becoming consuming.
He did his best to distract from it all, to minimize it all, to suppress it all, if only for the fact that he had so much else to occupy his time and head space. Voldemort had been vanquished but there was just as much work to do as when he was alive and terrorizing an entire society. Unfortunately for Harry, this technique was not effective, not completely, and there was always a point where he lost the fight with his brain and became overrun. When that happened, the oppressive thoughts and feelings culminated in what scared him the most: the thought of death.
The actuality of how much death had occurred could be processed now that the dust had settled and that particular face of evil was no more. There was so much death… the amount of loss was incomprehensible to Harry half the time. He himself had died! His own death was another facet of the topic that he struggled to come to terms with, and how could he when literally everyone else that lost their lives had no opportunity to return? Harry did his best to mentally distance himself from the crushing reality of the death the war left in its wake, but this was near impossible when the funerals began.
He did not attend them all. He could not, for they were too numerous. But he acknowledged every one, every person who was gone, by sending a handwritten note of condolences and gratitude to the families when he was not in attendance. His mood varied at the funerals. At some, Harry felt numb; at some he felt the expected sadness, at some he felt detached, and at some he felt angry. At all he felt guilt. And at two in particular, he was so riddled with emotion that he did not know what to do with himself.
Fred’s funeral was devastating. It was devastating and beautiful, and it was well attended: a sign of the influence of the Weasley twins. Amongst the guests was nearly all surviving Hogwarts staff, the original Gryffindor quidditch team of Harry’s first three years, and half the people that had been at Bill’s and Fleur’s wedding not even one year prior. (The contrast of their visit then compared to now was lost on no one). George was catatonic throughout the service and Molly routinely had to be physically supported by her husband and great uncle, even when Kingsley presented the family with an Order of Merlin, Second Class on behalf of Fred. Harry did his best to keep his attention on the casket and the casket only as fixating on it helped to keep him from spiraling.
Incidentally, his resolve crumbled without his permission once the ceremony was complete and Fred had been put in the ground. He was approached by Oliver Wood, Alicia Spinnet, Katie Bell, Lee Jordan and Angelina Johnson, all of them solemn, tearful, and genuinely glad to see him. They conversed for a bit and Harry was unexpectedly struck by this group of witches and wizards. They had bracingly accepted him as one of their own, like older brothers and sisters, when he was brand new to the wizarding world and the world of quidditch. They had experienced victories and losses together, celebrated and wallowed, and now they were without one of their own. Just like the Weasleys were.
Because of the war, because of Voldemort.
Before Harry realized what was happening, he found himself hunched over and crying silently on Alicia’s shoulder, while Katie and Angelina each hugged him from one side. The humiliation and frustration he’d been conditioned to feel since childhood whenever he cried reared up but it was not enough for him to stop. This was the first time he’d cried since the battle. There was so much he’d been holding back that he may not have been able to stop if he actively tried.
The release was much needed, and when it ran its course, Harry did his best to compose himself as quickly as possible so he would not have to admit to it.
Many of the guests had been personally invited back to the Burrow in order to continue their communion, and Charlie and Bill were the ones to shepherd the mass of people to their family home. They took this charge as their parents, George, Percy, and Lee Jordan were staying behind at the gravesite, still too warped with grief to integrate into the fold of everyone else. This left Harry and Hermione (and Luna and Neville) to support Ginny and Ron, the latter of whom was quiet and shaking as they crossed the threshold of the crooked home.
“I’ll make tea,” Hermione stated, taking a step closer to Ron. She looked at him in concern with a hand on his upper arm.
“Yes, tea. For everyone,” Neville commented in a sure voice, “Luna and I will help.” The blonde Ravenclaw nodded emphatically as Ron peered at them all, his gaze settling on his female best friend.
“Okay,” he uttered.
Harry watched as Hermione ushered Ron into the kitchen where a few others were, with Luna, Neville and Crookshanks trailing behind. He then turned to his ex-girlfriend.
“Do you wa – ” he commenced.
“No,” Ginny interjected, staring in the direction the small group had walked. She took a beat before finishing, “We just buried my brother.”
Harry’s mouth pulled down, but when the witch gave a single laugh and turned on her heel to head for the staircase, his face fell.
“Gin,” he stated. It was to no avail, conversely, as she ignored him and continued on, “Ginny! Wait.” The dark haired wizard threw one glance at the kitchen before following her, knowing he could not leave her on her own at this moment.
They went to her bedroom. Ginny walked in first and made a beeline for her bed, sitting down in a mechanical manner. Harry hesitated before pushing the door in enough to only leave a crack, and stood by the door for a bit before joining her and perching on her right. Nothing was said immediately.
“We buried Fred,” she declared after some time.
He gazed at her, feeling at a loss for proper words. How was he to possibly comfort her in the way she needed? Consequently, Ginny’s face went into her hands an instant later and she began weeping. Harry’s heart sank. He felt useless. He could feel a part of himself start to panic. He grasped onto the first thing his brain offered as a solution to avoid this, so he turned and gathered the red head into his arms. She melded into his embrace without complaint; her arms encircled him as she continued to cry.
Harry closed his eyes at some point while he listened to Ginny’s sobs. There was absolutely nothing he could think to say and he felt worse for it. For some reason, simply being here with her did not seem adequate, not when he was a factor as to why her brother was dead. He remained quiet while she openly cried.
“Harry,” the witch said after some time. Ginny sniffed and disentangled herself enough to look into his face. Her eyes were bloodshot and her face was quite wet.
“Yeah?” Harry replied, looking back in dim anticipation. He wanted to be able to help her. Perhaps she would share something that would give him clarity in how to do so.
“Will you kiss me?”
His expression morphed into an array of different emotions.
“Ginny…” he remarked, appearing unsure.
“Please,” she stated.
Harry felt torn. It was hard to think on all the reasons why he felt this way yet he did, but even more than that, he felt desperate: desperate to stop his helplessness and her pain. It was for this reason that he decided to comply, releasing an inaudible sigh before moving forward and connecting their lips.
A part of him flared at the familiar sensation of kissing Ginny. He felt a thrill tainted by nostalgia for what had been, before his life changed in such an irreversible way. That seemed like a lifetime ago now, and even then, being with her had seemed surreal – so distinct from the chaos of his lived reality. And at the moment, under the oppression of a funeral, it seemed like a time in his life he'd never be able to duplicate.
Accordingly, when Ginny pressed closer against him and deepened the kiss, Harry knew it had to stop. This was not how it was supposed to be. There was so much left unsaid between them… what their respective years on the run and at school had entailed, that she now had to live without a sibling, that he’d died. The chasm between them seemed gaping at this point. Many significant things had happened since they’d broken up and they’d experienced them without the other, without discussing them. How could they account for all of that?
This didn’t feel right.
“Ginny,” Harry mumbled, pulling back and away. He peered at her tiredly, “Let’s not. This isn’t… this won’t help.” She watched him for a bit, appearing befuddled.
“Maybe I'm not doing it because of that. Maybe I'm doing it because I've missed you!” she claimed.
“Then let's not do it now.”
They looked at one another in something of a standoff before the red head dropped her eyes and wiped her face.
“Still noble, huh Harry? Won’t snog the mourning girl?” Ginny murmured. She gave a dry laugh and he quirked a partial smile.
“ ‘M just not keen on any more wet kisses in my life, if I can help it,” the wizard answered. She gave a proper laugh this time before they lapsed back into silence. It did not take too long for Ginny to start crying once more, and Harry dutifully wrapped an arm around her shoulder as they settled into her sorrow.
It was a little more than an hour later when Harry woke suddenly. It took a long moment before he realized he’d fallen asleep, something he had no recollection of. He peered down and saw that Ginny, too, was asleep, and he was still holding her (albeit loosely). She appeared grim, even in her slumber. There was a dull throb in Harry's chest as he looked at her for a second longer before carefully disentangling himself with bated breath. He was relieved when the witch did not stir, and he left her to rest as he slipped out of her room and down the stairs.
The kitchen was Harry's destination, but he did not make it there before coming across Hermione.
“There you are,” she remarked, approaching from his right. She was wringing her hands, “I, erm, noticed you and Ginny were gone, but that was a while ago, and I wasn't – ”
“Oh. No. Yeah… er, she's asleep,” he replied, glancing back at the staircase, “She was pretty upset. I didn't want her to be alone.” The brunette nodded.
“Ron seems to be feeling a bit better. He's talking with your old teammates right now… Fleur and a couple others have started cooking, and the rest of the Weasleys returned not long ago.”
It was Harry's turn to nod in understanding, and Hermione took the opportunity to quickly study him. She wanted to know how he was doing. She saw him crying on Katie's shoulder at the funeral but hadn't dared mention it then. She had no plans to mention it now, in actuality, but she was worried about his state and she suspected he was not in the mood to be transparent.
“You missed tea. Would you like some?” Hermione asked instead.
“Yes. Yes, actually,” Harry stated, his shoulders dropping from tension release, “A cuppa would be great.” Her simple suggestion sounded heaven sent, and the dark haired wizard followed her to the kitchen while marveling at how frequently she knew just what to say or do.
Evening came and brought a beautiful dusk that found Hermione outside in the back garden. The young woman was taking respite from all the bodies inside the house while watching her cat gleefully hunt critters. At this point, the only guests left were extended Weasley family members and Lee Jordan, but the effect of the day had long ago seeped into her bones. It was only now that she was doing something about it. It was only now that she was considering herself instead of tending to others, and what she needed was to be alone.
Hermione felt quite hollow, after all.
When she heard the kitchen door open, she did not bother to turn around to see who it was. Incidentally, there was no need for this once the person was close enough. She could smell them, and she registered that it was Harry. (Being in the confines of that tent for months on end had made her hyperaware of him in many senses, including his literal scent).
He came to a stop next to her yet remained standing. He took some time before speaking.
“D'you mind company?” Harry questioned.
“Not yours,” she responded truthfully.
Her eyes stayed on Crookshanks as he sunk down on her left. They both watched the feline stalk and then chase something with vigor, and a faint smile made its way onto Hermione’s face. She pondered that she and the boy next to her seemed to endlessly gravitate back to one another at some point, no matter what they were doing, whom they were with, or where they were. This was something else the hunt had left her – them – with.
She wondered if he noticed this about their dynamic. (She wondered how long it would last).
“I haven’t asked after you today.” Harry said in a low voice.
Hermione finally transferred her gaze from Crookshanks to her best friend. She felt a wave of emotion break through the hollowness from that single statement. He may not have done it, but knowing that he’d been thinking of her mattered. At this moment, it felt like enough.
“I’m doing as well, or as poorly, as anyone,” the witch answered, “It’s been easier to focus on everyone else. And with how most of the Weasleys have been positively distraught...”
He thought of staying with Ginny until they both crashed from exhaustion. He thought of how Molly and George had been so lost to pain at the gravesite. He thought of how they would never be the same - any of them.
“I hate this, Hermione,” Harry said at the end of a weary sigh. The witch watched him rub his face, “I never thought of how it'd be once it was over. Most of me didn’t think I’d be around for this part, so I didn’t think about how it’d be once he was gone.” She looked away and nodded, taking a moment for silence.
“He's gone, without question. You made sure of that.” Hermione replied.
“We made sure of that,” came the correction. She looked at him once more with a fond smile before murmuring:
“However… it's not over. Not completely. I think this is a part of it: recovery.”
Harry sighed again, more quietly but just as fatigued. His gaze fell to the ground and he ran a hand through his hair, deciding he was out of words. Words had eluded him most of the day, in fact. Hermione did not mind, of course, and she demonstrated she understood by softly taking his right hand in hers and threading their fingers together. Falling into the nonverbal communication that had become second nature to them, he tightened the grip.
-
After enduring the raw ache of Fred’s service, Harry decided he could not do it again. Remus and Tonks were being honored and buried together at Hogwarts only days after Fred, and the wound was too fresh. He informed his best friends of his decision as they worked on the exterior of the east side of the castle, prompted by their speculation of whether they should speak at the ceremony on Remus’ behalf as a pair or individually.
“What about you, Harry? How prepared do you feel?” Hermione inquired.
Andromeda had asked all of them to speak but Harry was the first she approached. He had been like family to Remus, and he’d also had a small hand in some of the planning for the service.
“Not very,” the dark haired wizard commented, eyes riveted to the work he was doing, “So I’m not going.”
Ron halted his ministrations as he and Hermione gawked at Harry, but he gave them nothing else and stayed focused on the stone before him.
“Are you having us on?” wondered Ron, looking quite uncertain.
“No,” the other boy said. Hermione started shaking her head in disbelief.
“You can’t be serious,” she remarked. Harry made a noncommittal noise that cemented to the other two that he was, indeed, earnest about not attending.
“Wow.” Ron noted.
“Harry, you’re supposed to speak! You must go!” the witch stated.
“I've had my fill of funerals, thanks.” Harry replied.
“We all have, mate.” Ron declared. This caused the other boy's mouth to tighten. He said nothing as he continued with his repairs.
“What about Andromeda, Harry? And Teddy.” Hermione tried next.
“She’ll have everyone else there with her. And Teddy won’t remember this,” he countered.
“No, you’ll just have to explain why you weren’t there when he gets older.” Ron retorted, his tone hard. Harry paused from his work to scowl at him.
“What about Remus?! What he meant to you? You’d not pay him the respect he deserves?” Hermione implored. Her look of dismay was growing and he turned away so he would not have to see it.
“Would you have done the same had Sirius been able to have a funeral?” the pureblood questioned, “You wouldn’t have gone?”
“Maybe,” uttered Harry.
Hermione scoffed as tears started to form in her eyes. She was frustrated enough to cry. She considered mentioning the selfishness of the situation before hurriedly discarding it. She would never dare call Harry selfish, even when she was this desperate to say something to get him to see reason.
“I don't believe that!” claimed Hermione.
“Nor do I,” added Ron.
“You can believe what you want,” Harry attested, his voice rising a hair. He turned away from the castle, at last, and peered at them, “I won’t be there. I can’t.” Without another word, he walked away from the pair and missed the looks of consternation they directed at his back.
Harry made himself noticeably sparse following this, making sure to avoid his best friends. To further ensure this, he took the marauders’ map so they could not track him down. Hermione’s distress was undeniable but much of it was rooted in conflict. She fundamentally understood he did not want to go because he was at the end of his emotional rope, but she also knew he would regret it (and sooner rather than later) if he followed through. Ron may have also comprehended the deeper reasons why Harry was refusing to go but he was much less diplomatic with his words.
“He’s being an idiot.”
Ron encouraged Hermione to focus on delivering their joint speech at the funeral instead of fretting over Harry’s decision. He also, grudgingly, acknowledged they would be questioned over their friend’s conspicuous absence and should probably devise an excuse for it. When the next day dawned – the day of the funeral – Harry was still nowhere to be found as the clock ran down, and each second that passed settled heavier on Hermione’s heart. She and Ron arrived 15 minutes before the service began and made a beeline for Andromeda, who was speaking soberly with Professors Sprout and Flitwick. When Andromeda asked about Harry’s whereabouts and received the briefest moment of hesitancy from Hermione, and a minute grimace from Ron, she understood. She bowed her head and exhaled. She understood he was not coming, and she understood the emotion behind it.
The fabrication that Hermione and Ron had concocted to explain Harry’s absence never had to leave their lips, as it were. The dark haired wizard strode his way to the front two minutes before the service commenced, eyes trained on the caskets and ears blocking out the fervid murmuring that was always reserved for him. At the sight of him, Ron clenched his fist and gave a resolute nod; Hermione closed her eyes and felt a hot tear slip down her cheek. Relief flooded her.
Harry sat between Andromeda and Hermione (Ron to the left of her) with an impassive expression for most of the funeral. When it was his time to address the crowd, his monologue was concise but struck a chord, and it was truly the only time he opened his mouth to speak. Accordingly, he disappeared once the service ended. Harry took a bit of time to converse with Andromeda, Minerva and Kingsley, gave the rest of the trio a knowing look, then disappeared. Hermione did not feel distressed by his withdrawal this time around for she knew the mental effort it had taken for him to come, and she desired nothing more of him.
Ginny, however, wanted to find Harry. Her worry for him was heightened by the fact that he didn't acknowledge her during the funeral, yet when she became rather insistent in her desire to seek him out, Hermione instructed her to leave him be. The older witch had years of experience sharpening her instinct of when to encroach on Harry’s isolation and when to respect it, and she knew today was time for the latter. Yesterday had been the same, in fact. Even though Hermione had been upset over the declaration that he was forgoing the funeral, she’d left him alone, knowing it was necessary.
Ginny did not seem to think much of Hermione’s suggestion, but Luna chimed in and proposed an idea before it could devolve into a proper disagreement.
“Let’s take a jaunt,” she said.
Intrigued, tired, and ready for a distraction in any form it came, the other two asked no questions and followed the blonde girl to her destination: a field on the grounds rife with daffodils. Hermione smiled absentmindedly as she gazed at them wavering in the spring breeze, and her smile strengthened when she saw Luna plop down amongst the flowers.
“Sit,” she directed, “Enjoy the daffodils.” Ginny looked at the brunette and they exchanged a grin before doing just that.
The young women sat in the field for a handful of hours. They talked, they occasionally laughed; they reminisced, they lamented; they basked in the sun’s light, and they casually put flowers in their hair. Hunger is what finally prompted them to take their leave, and Hermione looked around wistfully before they trekked back to the castle. For those few hours, the world had not seemed so heavy, and the brunette expressly thanked Luna for the reprieve.
They returned to find that some of the boys and men, including Ron, were finishing up rounds of flying or bludger-less quidditch. They all took a late lunch together in the Great Hall, which was a subdued yet pleasant affair, and Hermione idly hoped that Harry had eaten something that day.
When The Boy Who Lived did at last emerge from solitude, early night had just begun. Harry entered the Gryffindor common room with his hands stuffed in his pockets and a sullen air. He had hardly made it past the portrait hole when he noticed a particular group of people, and he took them in before they noticed him. His closest friends, the friends that had gone with him to the Department of Mysteries, sat around the bare fireplace fraternizing in a familiar way. Harry exhaled as he watched them for those fleeting moments, but he realized someone was missing at the same time the group of four realized he was present.
Luna gave a wave while Neville smiled encouragingly, and Ginny looked hopeful. The dark haired wizard slowly put up a hand in a tentative greeting as his brow pulled downward a bit. Where was Hermione?
“Hello,” a gentle voice sounded from his left.
Harry quickly oriented to the noise and saw the muggleborn witch. She had come down the staircase of the girls’ dormitories and she was peering at him with the ghost of a smile. He opened his mouth to reply, but whatever he had planned to say died in his throat at her appearance.
Hermione had flowers in her hair. A bunch of flowers. Daffodils, specifically. And they were striking.
Harry was taken aback. He’d seen Hermione look winsome at different times since knowing her, but not quite like this. And he’d observed that both Ginny and Luna had the same flowers in their hair (the former had a single one placed by her ear; the latter had crafted six or seven into half a crown), which looked lovely, but it was not like hers. Not like Hermione’s. Perhaps it was because her hair was the most bountiful… her curls were perfectly suited for securing and displaying items, such as the plentiful daffodils that were woven into her mane.
It was unexpected, and she was quite the sight to behold.
Before he consciously knew what he was doing, Harry reached out and touched a flower that sat near her left temple. When his fingers grazed the top of the shell of Hermione’s ear, her eyes widened a fraction and her lips parted. Consequently, this is when he seemed to come back to himself. Harry snapped his hand back in a flash and felt a mild flush overtake his face.
“Sorry,” he muttered, glancing at her, “I just… er, they look nice. The flowers.”
“Thank you,” she said, “Luna, Ginny and I sat in a field full after the funeral. They’ve removed most of theirs by now.” He nodded and peered at the carpet at the mention of the service while she looked over to their friend group.
“Were you going up to the dormitory?”
“Erm, yes. I’d planned to. Didn’t know you lot were in here.”
“We haven’t been long. Most of the day has been outside, or in different parts of the castle.” Hermione stated. Harry nodded again. He’d been in different parts of his head most of the day; it had been unpleasant, indeed.
“Will you join us?,” she asked. The wizard gave her proper eye contact again at the inquiry, which she reciprocated, “It’s all right if you don’t.”
His solemn gaze turned from her to the Weasleys, Luna, and Neville.
“Sure,” he agreed after a long beat. Hermione’s smile was minute yet true, and she led the way over to their loved ones like a harbinger.
All six teenagers had chosen to stay the night at Hogwarts, a rarity in the days since Voldemort had fallen. When they as a collective finally chose to retire to bed, the young women and men gave their temporary goodbyes before rotely separating by gender to trek to their corresponding staircase. Conversely, Hermione had more than mere words for Harry in her farewell. While the other four chattered around them, the brunette plucked a daffodil from her hair and swiftly put it in his hand. The action thoroughly surprised him. He was immobile for a few seconds before his fingers automatically furled around the flower to shelter it.
It was the one that had been situated by her left temple, the one he had touched.
Harry looked at his hand intently before transferring the gaze to his best friend.
“Good night, Harry. Please sleep well.” Hermione beseeched. She put her arms around him and hugged tightly, and he was able to match its strength with just one arm curving around her back. The other was held aloft, keeping the flower out of the path of potential crushing.
She slipped away without a second glance, but Harry watched her go with a force that would have unnerved most.
And it was with careful precision that he put the daffodil in his pocket, thinking of where he would store it in order to keep it intact.