Do not stand at my grave and weep.
Chapter One – Do not stand at my grave and weep.
"Do not stand at my grave and weep."
Harry's voice carried across the Burrows back garden. Hermione couldn't help it, tears were leaking out of her eyes. Her sobs were silent and controlled on the surface, her hushed sobs were unlike many others in the crowd of mourners sitting around her. They were sitting in rows of golden chairs, gathered around the carved casket that was resting under the old apple tree in the Burrows back garden. There were around 80 chairs, but they had been filled in the first few minutes of people arriving to pay their respects, more had kept coming, so there ended up being almost 100 people standing behind the flock of chairs. To the right of the gathering, was the patch of lawn where Hermione had often watched Ron, Harry and the other Weasleys play Quidditch every summer for the past 5 years. Ron always seemed happiest in the air, the wind ruffling his already messy hair. His bright blue eyes narrowing in concentration, watching the pumpkin be passed between his older brothers as he swerved around the makeshift goalposts.
Hermione had never fully understood the appeal of Quidditch, and watching Harry gracefully swoop and swerve around the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch, sharp green eyes searching for the miniscule flash of gold, didn't change that. But only when watching Ron in the air, taught muscles straining under his too small, hand me down t-shirt, sunlight bouncing off his sweat covered forehead. Only Ron could look this way, and could still be utterly, and completely, mind blowingly attractive. Hermione often found herself forgetting to read her dusty, worn book, open in her lap, and found herself staring at Rons firm and strong body as he deftly handled the pumpkin-Quaffle, giving her a strange warm feeling in her chest.
A heart breaking howl of desperation brought Hermione back to the present. Her seemingly endless trip down memory lane had only lasted a matter of seconds. The source of the distraction was Mrs Weasley breaking down, clutching the front of her husbands robes, howls of despair echoing off the surrounding fence and trees. Tears wound their way out of Mr Weasleys eyes, trailing hopelessly down his cheeks, down his neck and beneath his sombre shirt. They were sitting in the front row by the aisle, the setting sun behind them, painting the casket a warm and dancing gold, that sat a mere 5 feet away.
Harry finished reading out the poem, and after realising him and Ron needed no words of goodbye, blinked, resting a hand atop the casket, then mechanically walked over to Mrs Weasley and, hesitantly, kissed her forehead. Mr Weasley untangled himself gently from his wifes arms, he then stood and pulled Harry into a one armed hug, keeping one hand tight in his wifes. Mrs Weasley stood also, and gathered Harry into her arms, then patted his cheek clumsily as they pulled apart, her eyes locked with his green ones. She and Arthur then stumbled towards the open casket. Hermione sat there, numb as the other Weasley children stood and slumped towards the casket, Ginny leaning heavily on her eldest brother, Bill, who seemed to be the only thing keeping her upright. Each Weasley solemnly touched Harry as they passed. Charlie, unshaven, and sombre gently punched his shoulder. Percy, straight faced and red-eyed silently gripped Harrys upper arm. Fred and George, both supporting Chudley Cannons gear, George with a clashing orange hat, Fred with a matching tie. They stood silently in front of him, Fred then chucked Harry under the chin, and George ruffled his hair affectionately. Harry offered a pathetic attempt at a smile, the twins merely shrugged and loped off to join their family gathered at the foot of the coffin. Bill gently placed his scarred hand on the space between Harrys neck and shoulder, and Ginny took his hand in hers, now equally supported. Bill looked between them, gave Harry an affectionate squeeze, and moved towards his mother, who latched onto him. Ginny pulled Harry towards the red-haired crowd.
Hermiones' eyes softened at the sight. She was glad Harry had a family to call his own now. She had seen him during the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts, gazing at the Weasleys as they shared their grief. Wishing to join them, they were the closest thing they had to a family, yet he did not want to invade on such a despairing yet peaceful moment. These moments had always ended with a member of the Weasley clan noticing him and pulling him into the midst of them. Hermione kept to the shadows. She had had a family. Ron. He was all she ever needed. And now he was gone. Just like that. A bright warm flame extinguished by a cold, heartless draught. The flame was her only source of light. Then suddenlyshe was engulfed by darkness. The darkness seemed to live in the gaping hole in her chest, everytime she thought of him, which was almost always, she felt herself falling into the dark. So she shut it away, and concentrated on taking care of the wounded, on collecting bodies, on clearing rubble, fixing the place she had loved since she was an eleven year-old girl. She set herself tasks. One thing at a time. Anything to stop herself remembering. It was only when McGonagall sat her down, and forced her to have her wounds healed that Hermione had left to scar. The kind Head of House looked down at the young witch before her, that she understood the love between the two children she had cared for, as if they were her own. She left to find Mrs Weasley to look after Hermione, but when they returned, her chair was empty.
Harry had Ginny, and there was no doubt that they were going to get married, have lots of loud, kind and brilliant red-headed babies and live happily ever after. Harry was connected to the Weasleys with mutual love. And Hermione had nothing. A future she once saw as her own was now Harrys. She had nothing tying her to the family she so desperately needed.
So when the Weasleys were preparing to leave, she slipped away from the Great Hall, finding refuge in the remains of what was once the library. Only to be found by Charlie, who fetched his mother. She pulled the young girl into her arms. This was the first contact she had had with the witch she considered a daughter since the wedding. She had sent her sons all over the castle searching for her, she had asked at the infirmary, and discovered that Hermione had not had her wounds healed, and it had been two and a half days since the downfall of Voldemort. She placed her hand on the young witches cheek, the older, wrinkled eyes searching the younger, smoother brown ones.
"I have always thought of you as a daughter, always. I knew that if Ron hadn't proposed by the time you were both twenty, I would have smacked him silly. I don't know what, if anything, happened between you over the past year, but if I know anything for sure, it's that you captured that boys heart. He loved you. And we love you. I can't lose you, you need us and we need you. So, you are coming home with us, and we will get through this together. And if you make this difficult, I have a son, standing a few feet behind me, who will carry you home if I tell him to". Charlie waved. "Don't let you lose yourself in this, let us help" Mrs Weasley ended her little speech, and paused to wipe away her own tears, then Hermiones, who offered her a watery nod, the possibility of a smile playing across her young face. Mrs Weasley noticed the hollow, heart-breaking look come over the young girls eyes, and another tear leaked down her sorrowful face. It was only when a small hand slipped into the slightly larger one and gave it a gently squeeze in gratitude, that the older womans eyes softened, and she pulled the girl towards the rest of the family, who welcomed her with open arms, taking in her broken body, and sorrow filled eyes, that matched the eyes of everyone there.
Hermione couldn't imagine what would have happened if she hadn't come home with them, she was so glad she did. She knew they were worried about her, it had been two weeks, and she hadn't spoken, hadn't laughed or even cried. She had shed tears, but she hadn't howled with pain and anguish, hadn't released the pent up emotions like the Weasleys had. She hadn't eaten, or slept properly since the Battle. The Weasleys found that helping to heal Hermione was, in turn, helping them heal themselves. Bill had sat with her outside, during the days after the battle, gazing out towards the horizon. Percy had found all her favourite books, and each day returned with a new one for her. Mrs Weasley had helped her to eat, she spent most of her time in the kitchen, cooking continually. It was as if her family had increased, not reduced. She was often found giving food away to the continual stream of friends and Order members that still continued to meet at the Burrow informally. It was as if everyone still needed the safety that the familiar surroundings provided. Ginny had helped her wash, removing all traces of blood and dirt from her body. When Hermione found herself flying towards the toilet, suddenly overcome with nausea, that seemingly had no reason or point, Charlie was always there to hold back her hair, stroke her back, and to hold her when she could no longer be sick anymore. One of her greatest comforts was the twins. All the Weasleys had found it hard to sleep after the battle, but most had made it, exhaustion taking over their beaten bodies. Harry had fallen asleep at the kitchen table when they arrived. He had then slept for four days straight. But at night, Hermione couldn't escape the darkness, both literal and mental. It was Fred and George, who sat either side of her on Rons bed, their backs pressed against the wall. They didn't speak, just let the silence continue uninterrupted. All the Weasleys had taken her in. Their scars were healing, but she felt as if she couldn't stop her soul from bleeding.
Harry untangled himself, and walked over the where she still sat, the only one left in the row. Her eyes were unfocused, and he knew she was remembering the past month. He held out a hand, and Hermione looked up, taking in his emerald eyes, shining with tears, and took his hand. She allowed herself to be pulled up, and although her legs shook, she stood fast. She held her head high, tears still steadily falling, and she walked forward, hand in hand with the Boy who Lived, towards her love, who didn't.