A/N: Hermione's parents' names are Jean and David, and this is told through Jean's perspective.
Our Hermione had always been such a good girl. Perfect grades and manners. She was every mother's dream. Of course she didn't have many friends, was never so popular, but that didn't matter to David or I. Not ever. When she brought us home from Australia and told us what she'd done to protect us, I cried myself to sleep. Just think... having a daughter so selfless, so brave. Unfathomable. She lived in a world far more glamorous and terrifying that any I could imagine, and of course I had my doubts about it. What kind of parent wants their child in danger? But I could tell she was happy there, most of the time. Her cheeks were rosier, her smile nearly always bright. I could tell she'd found a place to fit in, and so David and I let her go. What a mistake.
Her friends were lost now. She hadn't been able to tell us everything, but she relayed enough of the story to make my heart ache for her. My darling daughter, suffering such tragedy before she was even twenty. Of course... it was hard to feel too sorry for our family when I saw the Weasley's. They'd always treated us with such kindness, I thought of them as fully exempt from any disaster. How could anything so horrid befall people so good-hearted? In my world of cavities and metal mouth guards, it did not make sense.
My ears buzzed in pain for the mother. No one should have to outlive their child. Never. They invited David and I to the funeral personally, you know. We visited their house at first, and I offered to help with the cleaning and cooking, but the mother - Molly - refused us tearfully. She said it was a distraction, and that it didn't take long anyway. After watching her straighten the pillows in the blink of an eye, I understood. We didn't stay at their house - the Weasley's - very long. The weight of grief was too suffocating, and they didn't need us intruding anyhow. We returned to our ransacked home and put it back together as best we could. But when we came to tea, for they wanted to attempt and keep things normal, they asked us if we would please come to the funeral. How do you say no to that request? Besides, Hermione might want us there. She didn't say so, being such an overtly independent young woman, but a mother senses these things.
So here we sat. David's hand locked tightly into mine, our sweat mingling and keeping my anxious. We were in the last row, wanting to remain discreet. I made sure to choose a pair of seats diagonal from Hermione, so we might see how she was faring. She seemed alright, considering. Steady. Tears were on her cheeks, staining the color of her blue "dress robes", but she was holding tightly to her... boyfriend. Ron. A mother never adjusts to that word, does she? She was grieving, obviously, but with such admirable strength. Enough to hold up a young solider whose lost his brother.
My eyes welled up, I couldn't help it. I didn't know Ron so well, as he hadn't exactly been to our house, but I certainly felt a connection to him through Hermione's tales. If anyone deserved my daughter, it would most likely be the scruffy redhead.
A plaintive sound caught in the wind, and I squeezed my husband's fingers instinctively. Molly, I knew immediately. We talked once about it all, woman to woman, and she hadn't made it through the first minute without a storm of sobs. As I said, my heart broke for her. With a feeling quite similar to watching a car wreck, my eyes found her over by the coffin. Draped in her husband's quaking arms, as helpless and wordless as an unsettled newborn, her primitive cries reached me as if I stood right beside her.
"Mother..." The entire audience had hushed (I hardly noticed the ceremony ending), allowing us to hear the quiet conversation up front. The oldest child - Bill - walked toward his mother, arms outstretched. Shaking, he took his mother from his father, allowing the older man a moment to mourn in piece. During our few days at the Weasley home - "the Burrow" Hermione says it's called - I learned a lot about the young man, just from watching him move through the house. He penetrated the stony grief with a tiny mallet of intention, plowing through work and arrangements as if possessed. Hermione mentioned in passing that he was bitten by a werewolf, and I could imagine. He moved with superhuman capabilities, shouldering more than I could imagine an ordinary person undertaking. It made eerie sense.
The other brothers rose. Two of the others. We learned all their names, but they are so identical that it is easier to refer by size and shape. Charlie has the square jaw and monstrous shoulders, Percy has the mousy hair and stark pair of spectacles. The boy lost, Fred, was one of the funny twins. His brother George is difficult to describe, especially with the broken expression that I cannot remembering seeing him without.
I wish I could say that I feel the family's pain. I wish I could say that I was able to empathize or at least comfort some of their grief, but I am ashamed to say that I let fear rule my. Practically seeing the bruises I indented on David's hand as I crushed it in mine, I scrunched my face in order not to witness the scene.
The first brother - Charlie, as I should remember to call him - advanced quickly, collapsing before the open casket with a sob that, again, I heard in anguished clarity from my seat. I wondered at why they would choose to have the coffin lid open. What parents, what siblings, wanted to see someone in that still form? The second brother - Percy - sat beside him, silently putting a hand on his shoulder. I watched him around the house too, for he mystified me. He seemed muted, stifled. Afraid to act out or make noise or give any outward display of need. I often saw him crying silently, sitting on the couch with a blank expression.
The father walked towards them then, touching both their backs. They rose slowly, Charlie stumbling, and all three men embraced. Well, I nearly wept at that myself. Again I wanted to go forward, help in any way I could, but I could not tell if it was my place. Seeing my husband's expression, grave and hesitant, I knew that we felt the same thing. I married my David for a reason.
Thinking of David, my mind returned to Hermione, and my eyes darted to her in the second row. She and Ron were still pressed so closely that I thought they might never come apart, his face hidden in the mane of her brown hair. I could see her mouth moving, speaking to him in gasps, but I could not hear the words. I settled on the pair for a while, eyes misting. They deserved time to be together in happiness, not sorrow. They deserved this relationship to exist in joy. They pulled apart then, surprising me, and Hermione's hands went to his shiny red cheeks. She caressed him tenderly, in a way so mature that I felt a spark of pride. We'd done something right in raising her.
I sighed. This day would never leave me, would it? I let my gaze travel down the line, finding Hermione's other close friend - Harry Potter - and the only Weasley daughter. Ginny. Who could forget a girl like that? She was so bright and charismatic and, well, beautiful, it made her memorable. She sat stiffly in Harry's arms - I'd nearly forgotten that Hermione said they'd begun dating a year ago - the occasional tear slipping absently from her brown eyes. Her mind was not at the funeral, I could tell. It's easy to spot with girls. I knew that she was locked away in her head, too afraid to fully listen to the words of the ceremony. I could not blame her; had I been in her place, a young girl left to face a crumpled family and deceased family, I would have done the same thing. I hoped silently for her, wishing that things would eventually become okay again. For all of them, actually. Of course.
Molly was in her husband's arms again, their intermingled bodies swaying to the sound of an invisible song. The brothers stood in a tight line, unmoving and facing towards the casket. It was then that I realized the person missing. ...George. The twin. This would be harder on him than anyone, that made obvious sense. But where was he? I realized I had not seen him earlier either, or perhaps I had not looked hard enough. Where was George?
I did not mean to speak aloud, and I only noticed that I had when David answered me. "There, love. Across." And it was true. In the last row, across the aisle, sat George. Why was he not with his family? I could understand wanting some privacy, that made sense. But why had no one gone to him now? They were absorbed I knew, but they had always seemed so compassionate to me. Surely someone could consider him long enough to go and give a soothing hug. His shoulders jerked manically, back rising and falling with unnerving force. His large hands hid his stricken face, muffling his sobs.
"What should we do?"
"Do? What do you mean, Darling?" David petted my hair, his own eyes damp behind his glasses.
"Should we... should we get his mother or father? One of his brothers?"
"I don't follow...?"
"Well we can't just leave him alone, now can we?" An older woman and her baby turned to glare at us for speaking.
"I don't see how we can tell his family, Dear. We don't want to... interrupt."
Summoning a shaky mouthful of courage, I asked my real question. "Should I go over to him?"
"You Dear? You don't... you don' t know him really, do you?" He took my hand in his again, ceasing the affection for my hair.
"No, I s'pose not," I replied. "I... I feel as if I do. Hermione told me so much, and so did his mother." When Molly and I spoke, she mostly gushed with memories of her precious twins. Of Fred really, but George was always a part of the story.
"I'll just... I'll just offer him a handkerchief," I protested. I could not help my persistence. Being a mother, there is a certain sense you get. You can tell when a child wants to be alone and when he doesn't. It's just apparent.
"Alright, Darling. Be careful." Be careful. Ominous words. I shouldn't have taken them as such, coming from as tame a man as my husband, but they instilled a sharp reluctance in my high-heeled steps.
I reached him slowly, and by now I could hear his sodden voice, his unsteady gasps for air. "Here," I said, buttering my voice to its gentlest degree. "I thought you might like this." I held out the piece of cloth to him, inclining my head softly in his direction.
He looked up with another gasp, this one shock, and stared at me for a moment. His eyes the color of blood, his face slick and twisted in freckly contortion, I wanted to run screaming from such a deep expression of sorrow. But I didn't. I stood my ground, trying to emulate my daughter's strength by imitating it.
His hand rose shakily to take it, and he made a noise at the back of his throat. I think he was trying to say 'thank you'. Smiling sadly, I reached forward and put a hand on his shoulder. "I am so sorry for your loss," I said, meaning every word with a new crack to my heartstrings. He hunched forward, clenching the handkerchief in his hand as his face returned to his hands. Not really the purpose, but if it helped him...
Taking another swallow of bravery, this one nearly harder, I took the vacant seat beside him. "I am so sorry George," I said, putting my hand on the small of his back. I sat there, wondering whether to pull away or not, when he leaned into me. It was barely an inch, but I took it as a sign that I'd been correct. He wanted - needed - someone beside him, so he didn't have to shoulder this alone. As if reading my thoughts - which mostly blamed his family for ignoring him all this time - he muttered something in a raspy half-voice.
"I didn't come out of my room, told them I wasn't coming," he whispered. "Don't think they saw me come in."
"Oh," I murmured softly, beginning to move my hand up and down his sweaty robes. "Would you like me to get them?"
He looked at me through blurry eyes, flat expression crumbling as he shook his head. "No. No, that's alright." He went to hide again, and this time I caught him with an outstretched arm. Shocked, I nearly jumped from my seat when he shifted positions, pressing his tear-filled face to my sleeve. I regained balance quickly though, loping my free arm around his shoulders. Empty of words, unable to do anything else to comfort him, I repeated the only phrase I thought could be sincere. "I'm so sorry... I'm so sorry..."
A/N: Reviews would be absolutely lovely and most appreciated. Thanks for reading!