Yesterday

by BookyJuliet

She sticks her hand out, without thinking. It is trembling uncertainly and she feels like a lost child, there is a sudden wave of relief when Charlie takes her hand in his much larger one. His strong, warm hand cradling hers, burning her skin; and for a moment she allows herself to wonder if his hand is hot because she is cold on the outside, or because she is frozen to the core.

Title: Yesterday
Author: BookyJuliet
Genre: Angst/Hurt/Comfort
AU/CU: Canon Universe…possibly.
Rating: K+, possibly higher or lower depending on your tolerance for sadness.
Warnings: Deals heavily with character death. You've been warned.
Word Count: 3,777.
A/N: When I first started this one-shot, I was unaware of two things. The first, is that Charlie/Hermione was going to become a heavily implied theme throughout, as they rely very heavily on each other, while writing Romione, with no real explanation except that it just happened that way. And second, that upon completion, I suffered from far too much upset by the content, and the death of Fread Weasley to actually be able to properly proof it. I apologize for any grammar/spelling/confusion of words that is within the fic. And you can review all you want telling me what the mistakes happen to be, but I doubt I will fix them, because that requires reading to find them, and I simply refuse. Other than that, standard disclaimer applies, I am not J.K. Rowling, I just own the plot. Carry on then.
Summary: She sticks her hand out, without thinking. It is trembling uncertainly and she feels like a lost child, and there is a sudden wave of relief when Charlie takes her hand in his much larger one. His strong, warm hand cradling hers, burning her skin; and for a moment she allows herself to wonder if his hand is hot because she is cold on the outside, or because she is so frozen to the core.

Yesterday

She felt empty. She could write books on the functions of her body as she sat on the edge of the bed. The too old mattress sinking under her weight. On how so much of her body was dead, but her pulse still marched on. Because that's what it had always done, and no one gave it the memo that it needed to stop; and maybe it wasn't because of her body. Her body was fine, she supposed. It was her sprit that was broken. And in the silence she tried to remember who she had been before all of this. Before the death, and the fear, and the constant fight to survive that had tainted her person so strongly that Hermione Granger doubted she'd ever be the same again.

She counted the steady beats of her heart as she waited for the time to draw nearer. For the knock on the door that would signal she needed to get up. To step into the heels that waited for her and put on a brave face. Too many funerals. Too many of them on top of each other. Too many of her friends, and loved ones, and sometimes they were people she didn't know at all, but she wept for them all the same.

She was a fighter, a hardened soldier of the Second Wizarding War; she was Hermione Granger, best friend of Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley. She was the brains of the Golden Trio. A soon-to-be recipient of a Merlin First Class and a slew of other awards and certificates that she couldn't find it within herself to care about anymore because it was pointless. It didn't matter.

She hadn't done anything spectacular in the war. Nothing every other participant hadn't done. She fought the good fight, used spells that still made the bile rise in her throat, and her hand shake. She'd never forget that first breath taken after using the killing curse. She'd never forget how the light in their eyes would suddenly vanish, their last expression their death mask as their body toppled to the floor. A puppet on strings abandoned by its puppeteer; that would haunt her memories for the rest of her natural life.

Somewhere between point A and point B her breathing had become erratic. What was once slow, controlled and steady breaths, have become quick intakes of air, punctuated by broken attempts at exhalation. In a panic, she closes her eyes, leans her head between her knees and forces her mouth open for one, long, hitched breath which she holds. Holds until her lungs scream for oxygen. Holds it until black spots dance behind her eyelids and she has no choice but to exhale before she passes out, and then it's all a matter of quick, sharp pants as she catches her breath.

Today was a funeral she had no desire or strength to attend. Because as she sits on the edge of the bed, head between her knees, she is thinking of him. Of his smile, the way his eyes sparked when he laughed, or became shrouded when he was upset. Of the look of his hair in the morning, his warm body pressed against her side on the couch late at night, or crammed into a compartment on the train. Every breath is haunted by the fading echo of his laughter. Every reminder digging a knife into her heart and twisting it to remind her of what happened; that he was gone. His laugh was gone, and the smell of cinnamon candy, and the lecherous quirk of his brow after a dirty comment, or that mischievous grin when he was up to no good.

She wants to cry. But she is so emotionally and physically spent that all that greets her cheeks are a few hot, slow tears that carve their way along the curves of her face as she takes another stuttering breath in, and exhales trying to forget the way his hand felt locked within her own, his slender graceful fingers trapped within her own in those tense months leading up to the wedding, and the war. And she'd never been able to tell him good-bye. Or thank him for everything. Or tell him she loved him, and to be safe, and that if he died she was going to kill him. Kill him and bring him back to do it all over again. But it hurt.

And she wasn't the only one who thought so. Everything in the house, every inch reminded them that he was no longer there. Every meal, every conversation, every glance had them skirting around the elephant in the room.

Fred Weasley was missing.

Fred was the one of them who didn't make it home. And she sat in the room where he had sat with them so many times, plotting pranks, and playing games. And she feels like it was just yesterday that he was there, and his booming laughter filled the space along with his twins, and glorious, and oh how she'd taken it for granted. Because she was so worried about Ron, and Harry, and her own life that it never occurred to her that he would be the one who didn't make it.

In hind-sight she feels guilty for not sparing a single second to worry about his mortality in the face of battle. Of any ones mortality but that of the two boys turned men that she'd been risking her life alongside for so many months.

She forces herself to sit up, faltering for only a second before she pats her cheeks dry. Tries with all of her might to keep the trembling out of her jaw, pick up her broken pieces and pull them into herself and seal it up for the next time she can let her guts spill out across the floor. Tonight, probably. Before she passes out from exhaustion or cries herself sick. Already the broken sobs of the Weasley Matriarch fills the house, and Hermione silently thanks every deity in heaven and on earth that she isn't experiencing Molly's pain. The pain of a mother who is burying a child.

She wraps her arms around herself, knowing that in every room, on every floor of this beautiful, magical, damnable house everyone is doing the same as she is. Trying to sew up wounds too jagged and wide to ever be patched so quickly, and they should all be cursed for even trying.

She knows that he is there before he knocks. And she acknowledges that it's time, and that she isn't ready, and dear Godric, she will never be ready. But she forces herself to stand, suddenly feeling so cold, despite the warmth in the early spring air. She stumbles the few feet to her shoes, sturdy black heels with a wide base. She learned long ago that stilettos were impractical and sunk into the soft earth. Being swallowed by cemetery ground was too unnerving to ever be a situation she'd repeat.

Taking a final breath, she slides her wand into place in its holster, pulling her wrap on over that before she opens the door. Hermione tries to appear brave, hoping the world will ignore her tear stained cheeks, and the obvious redness around her eyes. She knows that they won't hold it against her but still she has the sense to hope.

She sticks her hand out, without thinking. It is trembling uncertainly and she feels like a lost child, and there is a sudden wave of relief when Charlie takes her hand in his much larger one. His strong, warm hand cradling hers, burning her skin; and for a moment she allows herself to wonder if his hand is hot because she is cold on the outside, or because she is so frozen to the core. "It's time," he breathes and she forces herself to nod, her throat locked up around any words she might try to utter. And she closes the door behind her with an air of finality as she falls into step beside him, their footsteps joining the chorus of heavy, heartbroken feet hitting the wooden stairs as they descend.

Charlie is her unofficial 'funeral buddy'. While Harry and Ginny are joined at the hip these days, as are Bill and Fleur, Ron has taken to nervously hovering about his mother who clings to George who is without fail tucked between Molly and Arthur. Percy is somewhere with his long-time Girlfriend. And she is grateful to Charlie in ways she will never express, but feels sometimes when their eyes meet, and his gaze stays trained on hers that maybe she doesn't have to try. Because he gets it. Gets it, because she is his funeral buddy too.

She gives his hand a gentle squeeze, the action is feeble, conveying a comfort she doesn't feel. And he returns it, the sheer size of his hands making the action more effective than her attempt. And her head falls against his shoulder as she closes her eyes. Counts to ten. Does everything she can think of, and then some to keep the grief from her face, and tears from her cheeks.

It is a slow, torturous process to get everyone through the house and organized enough to head out the front door of the Burrow and into the lawn. They disappear in twos then, doing side-along apparition with a booming crack until it's only the two of them left.

"Shall we, then?" He asks, his voice so tired and resigned that she once again feels the need to cry, or to give up and go back to bed. But instead she lifts her chin up, trying to summon the Gryffindor bravery that had gotten her through most of the war as he looks down at her with sad, careful eyes.

Hermione acknowledges the fact that if she chose to hang behind, to not go, Charlie would stay with her. He would forgo his younger brother's funeral and distract her from her grief, or rock her while she cries. Not because he has to, but because she would, and has done it for him. Taking a calming breath, she simple nods her head, her hand still locked in his shifts, and she links her arm through his, closing her eyes as she holds on. She hates the side-along method, and has since the war.

She holds her breath as the world morphs and mutates, only exhaling when they have come to a stop, landing with a punctuating crack that goes unnoticed as she opens her brown, tired eyes, and he leads her forward to join his family in the front row. To the credit of Fred Weasley, he could not have asked for a more beautiful funeral.

As he leads her through the rows of seats, she manages to look around, a lot of the faces she recognizes, a few she does not. But every face holds the same crushing grief and loss that she feels eating away at her heart, and her fingers tighten against the material of his dress robe, bunching the fabric until her knuckles are turning white.

As they take their seats, the Wizard cemetery has a pleasant glow cast around the glorious and enchanting flora that decorates the grounds. It is the exact opposite of what she feels is appropriate for a funeral for someone as loved, and as a missed as Fred. But her mind admits softly, in a voice gone ignored. He would have wanted it this way. Molly's tears have become silent, shoulder wracking sobs, and Ron stands next to her side, an arm slung around her shoulders uncomfortably as silent tears mark his cheeks.

Shifting her grip, she wraps an arm around Charlie's waist, leaning into him. He feels more pain than she does, because this is the funeral of his little brother. No, maybe that is not accurate, but the pain he feels is on a different level. He probably won't cry, she doubts he will, because he is the second eldest child in the family, and much like Bill, he is cursed with the constant need to be a pillar of strength. She knows it, but she holds him anyway, as she tries to ignore the pain that fills her soul at the sight of his coffin stretched out before them, the purple and gold flag covers the casket the bronze insignia of the Ministry of Magic displayed proudly as the early spring breeze ruffles its edges.

A few rows back, is the Minister himself, Kingsley Shacklebolt. He was a Phoenix. He was a friend, and his head was bowed like so many others as he pays his last respects to the fallen war hero. From her right, there is a nudge, and she looks over, kindly accepting the roses from Fleur with a watery smile, and she hands one of the crimson flowers to her companion silently.

It isn't long before the drums start to sound; everyone takes this as a cue to stand. She has been at so many funerals, that she doesn't have to think as she stands from her seat, sucking in a breath as she hugs tighter to Charlie. And as the bagpipes start to sound out over the reserved graveyard, she tilts her chin, hearing his voice softly in his ear, as people fall into soft sobs around them.

"Seamus Finnegan insisted upon them," he explains, his voice hitching slightly. "Said he needed to give his mate a proper Scottish send-off." The bagpipes are haunting, and she feels the welling of tears in her eyes, and the tightness in her throat, and she draws strength from him to hold them off. It is when Katie Bell starts to sing, her broken and emotional voice striking chords that were previously untouched that she forced herself to speak. Speak, so she can't give in to her tears.

"Was nice of him, really." She chokes out, "Nice of everyone to be here." She sucks in a quick, breath, closing her eyes, feeling the hot wetness of her cheeks.

They are silent through the funeral proceedings, through the many speeches, and he stays by her side, until it is his turn to give a speech about his brother. And she sits quietly, remembering these things about Fred Weasley that he speaks of, and some that he doesn't. And it is not until it is her own turn to stand in front of his friends and family, her friends and family, that she properly admires him for his strength and courage as she tries to swallow the pain, and speak through the tears that refuse to disappear and the ball of grief lodged in her throat.

"Fred…" She had to pause, calling on her bravery to continue on, "Fred Weasley was an exceptional Wizard." She sniffed; her hands are trembling, making her pre-written speech almost illegible as she soldiers onwards. "He was bright, terrifyingly intelligent, and had a flair and finesse for charms, and life, that I have only ever seen in one other individual in my life." Her brown eyes, do not flick towards George. Because if they do, she will see his face, and if he is crying, she is done for. So instead she looks to her pillar of strength, eyes settling on Charles Weasley like he will somehow make this easier.

"When I first met Fred at the start of term feast, I was instantly drawn towards him, as were the others of our house. You would be hard pressed to find a Wizard who is as open, accepting and charismatic. To the first years, though they played pranks, the Twins were always the Gryffindors who managed to ease the homesickness, and they made a habit of extending their compassion as far as it could reach. The first holiday I spent with the Weasley family, is when I recognized that I had found in him a soulmate of sorts. We would stay up late, discussing charms, and potions, runes and books. And while he was constantly teasing me, or pranking me in one way or another, I knew we would be friends from that point onward."

Hermione took a moment to clear her throat, her professional façade breaking under the weight of her emotions as she reached the part of her speech that she knew, knew as she was writing it would be the most difficult. "While he was always be remembered as a hero, a co-founder of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, and a brother, son and friend. The things I will remember about him, are the menial, everyday things that I took for granted during his life. I cannot bring this to any more satisfying conclusion than to say that I will miss Fred every day, for the rest of my life. I will miss the conversations, and the afternoons spent bent over a cauldron after being tricked into assisting them with some product or another for the shop."

She found a bittersweet strength to smile at this, "I will miss his hair first thing in the morning as it defied gravity, and the heated, often volatile and dangerous debates we got into over the subjects we disagreed upon. And the sound of his laughter when our arguments deteriorated into nonsensical banter that only we could understand." The brunette took a short pause to gasp for breath, feeling like she was suffocating under the gaze of so many people. "I hope that all of you got to know this Fred Weasley. And you were able to appreciate and benefit from his natural inclination towards inclusiveness, and we all go on, remembering a life that impacted us so strongly."

"In everything we are reminded of what he has done for us, of the mark he has left and the hope he gave us for the future. And while admittedly it is hard to come to terms with the face that life goes on, the point in this senseless tragedy is not that he died, but rather that he lived. That he gave to each and every one of us a piece of himself, inspired us to go on, gifted us with his goofy, happy-go-lucky smile, and his work in the joke industry to do everything in his power to keep that smile intact. We should never forget such a life. We should aspire to be as amazing. But we should never bring such a legacy down to death. We miss you," she breathed, taking a shaky breath as she neared the end of her too long speech. "Your spirit, memory and inspiration will always live on in your family and friends. Be happy, healthy and loved in your next adventure…"

Closing the parchment the clutched it tightly as she left the podium, all but collapsing into her seat as her legs finally caved to the stress of her emotions. Chocolate eyes slid closed as she silently shed the tears that had been threatening to fall throughout, and she was happy for the millionth time that Charlie never said a word. Simply wrapping an arm around her shoulders as she leaned into him, and cried her heart out.

"Thank you," he breathed, the sudden words combined with the pain in her voice, making it harder to lasso her emotions and pull them back under control. "That was…thank you."

Hermione Granger simply shook her head. "N-no thanks necessary," she objected, voice weak with tears. Not this time…

It was moments later, moments that stretched on for what felt like an eternity before they were standing as the coffin was lowered into the ground, in Molly's arms the flag that had been on his casket, and in the flags place was a plethora of roses, letters, gifts and sweets, all of things he had loved so much in life. Ever faithful, hand locked around her own, the second eldest Weasley stood, waiting until the last measure of earth was placed over his younger brother before anyone dared to move.

"You reckon Fred is watching all of us, thinking we're all daft for all this?" Her head turned towards the voice, a sad smile settling on her lips.

"I reckon so, yes." She answered primly, laughing, empty at George who was the last to stand with them, eyes locked at the freshly erected marker for his twin brother. This was a sight she would never get used to. "Alright there, George?" She asked, because it was the first thing that popped into her head, even though she already knew the answer.

"I reckon I am, 'Mione. Thanks." The grin he flashed her way was a far cry from what she was used. But he laughed because this was one of those moments in life where you had to choose to laugh, or surrender forever to the crushing sadness and disappointment.

The witches hand squeezed the hand in her grasp, for assurance as she did her best to return the grin. "How long bomb goes off?" The inquiry was accompanied by a raised brow, and she wondered if she was seconds from getting blown up by a Weasley special creation.

His answering mischievous smile caused her heart to clench and stomach drop. "Don't worry, Bookworm, you've still got time," he assured her, as he motioned for them to fallow him back to the apparition point. Slinging an arm around her shoulders he sucked in a breath. "Do you like fireworks, Hermione?"

Sandwiched between two Weasley brothers, she couldn't help to feel a little lighter as they left the funeral. A little less like she was drowning under a surface she just couldn't break. Nothing was alright, they were all still a far cry from okay, and it was written in the lines in their faces and haunted look in their eyes. A step forward, but not the final hurtle.

"You know George, I have to admit, I do." She let her head fall back as she laughed. It wasn't perfect, it still sounded hallow and rang to high, but it was a start. They hard to start somewhere.

"Then you are going to like this bomb, I reckon."

As he grinned, the sound of explosions filled the air, the quick crackle and pop, and she turned in time to see his name written ten feet high in bursting gold letters that crackled as they twinkled in the sky. All around it were bursts of red, and gold and purple, fireworks that seem to swell and burst with the collective pain of the people who had come to mourn, and she felt a soothing kind of inner silence.