DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter or anything related to Harry Potter. Those rights belong to J. K. Rowling, and I praise her for her incredible imagination—it's a rare adult who still has their imagination intact, and is willing to show it to the world.
HERMIONE GRANGER
Under the invisibility cloak--Harry's invisibility cloak, I remembered, wincing at the recollection--I headed outside. I carried a small bowl, still splattered with the blood I hadn't bothered to clean off--the bowl that would, without fail, make me cry before the night was over. It was after hours, and having just been made prefect again, I really shouldn't have been out of the dormitories, but I didn't care about the rules.
I hadn't cared about rules--or, in fact, laws--since Harry and Ron's deaths. Finding their bodies among the mass of corpses in the aftermath of the battle was without question the most horrifying experience of my life; and the moment I found them, I knew that the memory would haunt me for the rest of my life.
Strange to think that the entire battle--rapidly becoming known as the Nameless Battle, largely because no one could think of a name horrifying enough to describe it--hadn't really affected me. It was horrifying, oh yes: I still had nightmares about it sometimes. But those nightmares were rare; I had more horrifying dreams than those about the battle itself. My dreams were of the silence afterward, where those left alive crept forward towards the field that stretched forever in front of them; where the silence was suddenly pierced by a long, shrill scream as the first body was identified; where everyone left tried to find their friends, more often than not finding them as limp bodies sprawled in the coarse grass, wearing expressions of intense pain though they bore no mark of their suffering; others found them fatally wounded, a dagger through their hearts or an unbreakable spell cast upon them to kill them slowly and painfully.
That was how I found Ron: collapsed and half-hidden in the grass, lying still with his eyes flown wide open, his expression blank and empty. In that moment, I became furious with him and told him to stop playing games; begged him to get up, to live. But he didn't; he never would again. I don't remember what made me stand up and move away from his body; I think it was the fact that I had to find Harry; had to know whether he was alive or not--though in my mind, he had to be alive; because not only was he meant to kill Voldemort (who had yet again managed to escape, despite the fact that every one of his Death Eaters was now dead--and when I found Harry, I would have to be the one to break the news of Ron's death to him. It had to be me; if anyone else told him, Harry would snap. I'd known it was coming for years. If something horrible happened, it had to be either me, Dumbledore (who, I heard later, was in St. Mungo's in critical condition) or Ron who told him--anyone else, and the results were catastrophic.
I searched the field for over an hour, refusing to leave with the others as they took their loved ones' dead bodies and apparated away with them; there was a desperate need to give their dead a proper burial. Many offered to remain with me; I declined all of them. I continued to search doggedly, getting desperate now, when I heard his voice.
"Hermione," I heard Harry's voice plead desperately, and I spun around, expecting to see him. And I did. But he was on the ground like so many others, covered in so much blood that I knew there was no possible way he could survive whatever he'd been through. I, too, was covered in blood; but it was splatters of other's blood, cuts both small and deep on my arms, legs, stomach and back--the blood covering Harry was quite clearly his own, and nearly all of it was from one source: the dagger, protruding from his chest, exactly where his heart lay inside of him.
"Harry, no, you can't die," I said, kneeling down by him and struggling not to cry. "You can't, I'll miss you too much--you're the Boy Who Lived, Harry, you have to live--you have to kill Voldemort--think of Quidditch, Harry," I cried desperately when his focus began wavering. "Think of Quidditch, of your Firebolt, of school, of all the things you have not done yet; Harry, you can't die, we need you here, at Hogwarts. I need you," I added, tears streaming down my cheeks as more blood escaped from his wound.
"Hermione," he said weakly, desperately. "Remember when...you taught me how...to make a...Pensieve?"
"Yes," I said quietly, tears still falling. "Yes, I remember."
"I...did it," he told me, gesturing to a hole in the ground containing a silvery substance. "Look through it. It says...everything I know, everything...that happened. I knew...I wouldn't be found...in time to tell you it all. Hermione...it's important. Look at it...it's important."
"Harry, no, you'll tell me yourself, you'll look through it with me," I cried.
"Hermione...you know better...than that. Look...at it. For me. I'm...I'm not going to survive this."
"Yes, Harry, you have to," I told him, "You have to live. I'll be alone. Live for me, Harry, please."
"I know about...Ron...and now me. I'm...sorry, Hermione. But I'll...get to see...Sirius again," he told me, trying to smile. I could feel the strength being drained out of him as quickly as his blood was being drained from his heart.
I actually began sobbing. I tried to laugh, to smile, for Harry, but all that came out was a wrenching sob as Harry went still and the vacancy I'd seen in Ron's eyes seeped into his.
I don't remember much of what happened afterwards; I remember having the sense to not only grab a small bloodstained bowl from the ground--why it was there, I don't know--and transferring Harry's memories from the hole in the ground into it, but also to conjure stretchers that would follow me wherever I went, putting Harry and Ron on them, and Apparating into Hogsmeade. How I got to Hogwarts, the hospital wing, or anywhere else I don't know, but I remembered drinking a Dreamless Sleep Potion and afterwards, total darkness.
I headed into the Forbidden Forest, to a small clearing I'd found on my first night out of the hospital wing. I put all my usual charms around it, including one to illuminate it softly, so that creatures from the forest couldn't get in while I was there.
So they couldn't get in as I viewed Harry's memories.
The first few days of my viewing, I would look through his memories at random, viewing them in the order they were presented to me. Pensieves were tricky: they grouped memories in ways you wouldn't even imagine. They would group memories according to how you felt, who you were with, what time of day it was even. They were unpredictable.
The fourth day was the only day so far that I hadn't viewed Harry's memories. On that night, I went to the library. I looked up Pensieves and learned several ways to group the memories; to make it easier for me, I'd grouped Harry's according to who he was with.
Harry and Ron died two weeks ago today, I realized, my eyes welling up with tears. I wanted to do something special in honor of them tonight; something from just me, for only me to know about. I needed to view memories, I knew that, because I had to view all of them eventually, and there were a lot of them to go through; but maybe something different tonight. Different memories; happy memories.
And then it occurred to me, so simple and obvious that it shocked me that I hadn't already thought of it: I'd view memories of Harry, Ron and I. No doubt it would make me cry to see them again--lately I'd been viewing Harry's memories of Voldemort, though I'd stayed away from ones of the battle--but seeing them again, even as memories, would soothe my soul. Or that's what I told myself. I had no idea how I'd feel when I saw them, but I decided to go for it anyway. Sitting in front of the bloodstained bowl, I pointed my wand at the silvery substance and muttered, "Vierne Harry, Ron, Hermione."
Close to half of the substance raised out of the bowl to hover a few inches above it.
"Wow, Harry," I whispered to the hovering mass before taking out my wand and touching it to the cloud. I immediately felt the falling sensation I had become used to over the past week. Silver shadows rushed past my eyes and I found myself in the girl's bathroom on the first floor of Hogwarts, watching myself being attacked by a troll as a first year. I watched, tears filling my eyes, as first-year Harry and Ron rushed in to save me, knocking the troll out with it's own club.
For the next three hours I sat watching memories of the three of us: memories of the flying-key room, chessboard, and potion room in first year, and afterwards winning the house cup; memories of Quidditch matches, long forgotten by most; memories of classes; talking and laughing, just the three of us: out by the lake, walking between classes, and a few after hours, beneath the invisibility cloak; finding the Mirror of Erised; second year, Harry and Ron going into the Chamber of Secrets; my cat's face; Ron, sitting across the table devouring everything within reach; the Yule Ball; Buckbeak; going back in time with Harry and helping Sirius to escape; finding out Sirius was Harry's godfather; meeting Professor Lupin; they just kept coming. I saw flashes of what went on when Harry was being possessed, being moved to Grimmauld Place, and just about everything else that ever happened to Harry while Ron and I were around. And then I saw the worst memory I'd seen yet--and not because Harry got hurt; it was because I hadn't seen it the day it actually happened, hadn't been there for Harry when he'd needed me most.
As I stood next to Harry in the memory, I saw Sirius fall through that old stone archway, dead. I saw the same empty, glassy expression seep onto Sirius's face. He'd died with a surprised look on his face, as though he couldn't believe the spell had actually hit him.
I pulled myself out of the memory abruptly. Some other night, when Harry and Ron's and even Sirius's deaths weren't so fresh in my mind, I would watch that memory. But it was too late. I'd seen it, I'd watched Sirius die; and I'd felt the way Harry must have felt that horrible day--partly disbelief, as if it couldn't really be happening, he couldn't really be dead; and part despair and fury, because there was absolutely nothing anyone could do to stop it. Bellatrix Lestrange had thrown the worst, the ultimate, the most unstoppable curse ever created.
She'd murdered her own cousin.
I lay down on the dew-soaked grass, sobbing like I'd never stop, sobbing as if getting rid of the tears would rid me of the memory. I wanted to rip the memory from my brain, wanted to crawl out of my skin, wanted to die just to make all the pain go away. I wanted to see Harry and Ron and Sirius again, wanted to apologize because I wasn't smart enough, wasn't good enough, wasn't fast enough--and I hadn't saved any of them. I hadn't been able to do anything, and it was that knowledge that was killing me, killing me slowly so I'd feel all the pain of death, so I'd wish for death.
A few minutes later, through my tears, I felt strong arms around me and a soothing voice in my ear and I held on to them, to their arms and their voice because in that moment, they were all I had.
DRACO MALFOY
I was in the middle of my Potions essay, getting quite bored with it actually, when I happened to look out my window. Looking out at my somewhat boring view of the Forbidden Forest, I noticed something odd.
A small patch of the forest was lit up, and someone--a girl, so far as I could tell--was lying in the center of the light. Frowning, I stared for a moment, wondering who could possibly be out this late--it was one in the morning, after all--and stood up. I got dressed and headed outside, marching towards the lit-up patch of forest with every intention of handing out detention to whoever dared be out after lights-out. As I neared the clearing, I saw that the figure lying on the ground was, in fact, a girl. Even better, it was Granger. I had just decided to say something along the lines of "Look who's getting detention," but stopped short of doing so when I realized she was crying. Moreover, she was crying like her heart was breaking. I'd never heard anyone cry like that in my entire life. I hated to see a woman--any woman--cry. I'd seen my mother cry too many times not to hate it. It was a personal weakness of mine, something most of the Slytherin girls knew and used to their advantage. I would promise the world to a girl if she'd stop crying, though I'd stopped promising anything to most of the Slytherin girls because most of the time they were faking it anyway. Granger wasn't faking, that much was obvious. In fact, it was pretty clear she hadn't wanted anyone to see her cry at all, hence the reason for the location.
I glanced around, mostly at the castle for fear someone would see me out after dark, and knelt next to Granger. I touched her shoulder, half expecting her to jump up and punch me, but there was no response. Grimacing, I wrapped my arms around her and lifted her off the ground into my arms. To my surprise, far from screaming and pulling away, she held me like she'd never let go and sobbed into my chest. I began talking, telling her it would be okay, promising her everything I could think of if she'd only stop crying, stop sobbing like she was going to die and tell me what was wrong, tell me so I could make it all better.
I held that girl for over an hour before her crying began to cease. I rocked her gently, back and forth, trying desperately to make her stop crying and talk to me. Finally she stopped sobbing, stopped making any noise at all except for the occasional sniff, and looked up at me for the first time. I almost dropped her right then, her face startled me so badly.
She was pale, so deadly white I was amazed she hadn't cried herself into unconsciousness, and her eyes were heartbreaking--drenched and red-rimmed, dark smudges beneath them. I would have been surprised if she'd gotten more than a few hour's sleep total in the last week. Her entire face was tearstained and soaking wet, her lashes clumped together and her lower lip trembling. And, amazingly, the tears were still falling. She kept wiping them away, clearly getting agitated because I kept staring at her, but it was clear she either didn't know or didn't care who I was, because even after she looked directly into my face there was no visible reaction, nothing to indicate she recognized me.
"Shit," I said finally, making her jump. "We need to get you to the hospital wing. You're a mess."
She wiped her tears away and stood up, straightening her robes and gathering up the small bowl and the cloak, both resting on the ground. Tucking them into her robes, she said, "No, I'm--I'm fine. Don't worry about it. I just--saw something, and I--never mind. I'm fine," she repeated, her voice dull and devoid of emotion.
"Hermione," I said, using her first name for the first time, "you're ill. I need to take you to Madam Pomphrey."
She shook her head slowly. "No, no, I don't need a nurse. I'm not sick."
"Oh, so you're always this shade of white?" I asked sarcastically. "You weren't last time I checked. You need some Dreamless Sleep Potion."
Hermione's reaction to this piece of news was startling. Her head snapped up so fast she might have given herself whiplash, and she shouted, "NO! I won't take any more of that. It won't do anything but delay the pain. It's not going to go away, none of it is, and by trying to make me sleep through it, you're making the pain worse. Everyone needs to let me view all of this in my own time, just like I'm doing, and Dumbledore wouldn't have made me sleep for a week first if he wasn't in the hospital. Just leave me alone," she shouted, wiping away yet another tear. "I'm fine."
"View all of what?" I asked.
She stared at me, horrified, like she'd just let slip some important information that no one was meant to know. "Nothing," she said far too quickly. "Nothing."
"What is it, Hermione? Whatever it is, it's what's causing your pain," I guessed, "So what is it?"
The tears began to well up in her eyes again, and I began sputtering, trying to take back what I'd said but not being able to find the words, when she said, "Please don't ask me about this. Don't make me tell you. I don't--" she stopped and swallowed, a tear making its way down her cheek. "I don't think I could stand it."
"No," I said, surprising both her and myself. "No, you don't have to tell me. It's okay," I added desperately as another tear fell. "I won't make you tell me."
She stared at me for a moment with tear-filled eyes and whispered, "Thank you."
HERMIONE GRANGER
Without knowing or caring who was holding me, I cried for who knows how long before the tears finally began slowing. I looked right into their face, but my eyes were so full of tears and I was so dazed that all I registered was a pale, watery shape standing in front of me. It was a boy, pale-skinned with blond hair. That was all I knew; that was all I needed to know.
The suggestion of Dreamless Sleep Potion, oddly enough, was what brought me back to my senses. After spending over a week in the hospital wing, taking the potion every night, I'd gotten so sick of it that in the end, it became unbearable to take it. I was meant to stay in the hospital for another three days, but I signed out for the sole reason that I was sick of being there. And now this boy--this nameless, faceless boy--was trying to bring me back, trying to make me drink it again. On top of that, he had the nerve to ask why I was crying. Not that he knew about the Pensieve, but honestly--wouldn't common sense make him assume I was crying over Harry and Ron's deaths? It wasn't as if it was new for any member of the school to see me, if not in tears, with tear-filled eyes. I'd asked everyone to just act the way they always had around me, not to turn and stare when I passed them in the hallway, not to whisper after I'd gone--all in vain. I still turned heads, whispers followed me, and it was considered normal for me to run out of classes without a reason. The same thing was happening to Ginny, and I had no doubt Fred and George would have attracted the same treatment if they were still at school.
The Weasleys were a wreck lately--I went to visit them every chance I got and wrote often, comforting when I could, which more often than not consisted of crying with them--something I'd become quite good at. Bill and Charlie had both been given time off work and had returned home to comfort their parents and siblings; Fred and George had not only closed their shop but hung a huge sign over the door reading, "CLOSED IN MEMORY OF RON WEASLEY AND HARRY POTTER." Percy had returned home, oddly enough, though none of his siblings were very kind to him, and they all grieved together.
The funeral is tomorrow, I realized dully, until I remembered that I was standing in front of this poor boy without saying a word.
"Sorry," I said suddenly. "I can't tell who you are."
There was silence for a moment, then, "Draco."
I nodded, not really paying attention, until it sunk in: this wasn't a nameless, faceless boy. This was my rival, my enemy, who had probably participated against me in the Nameless Battle. I backed away from him slowly until I was standing against a tree.
"I know what you're thinking," he told me.
"No, you bloody well do not know what I'm thinking," I growled. "Don't you dare say that to me."
"Well, I know what you're thinking about me," he amended. "You think I support Voldemort and that I fought with him in the Nameless Battle. Well here's some news for you: all of Voldemort's Death Eaters, including my parents, died. Every single one. Not only did I not fight for Voldemort, but I fought against him. I fought with you, Hermione, not against you. I fought against my parents, Voldemort, and all of my parent's friends. If every last one of them hadn't died, they wold have killed me for betraying my family."
I was floored. It was a moment before I realized that my tears had finally stopped. I stared at him, wiping away the last of my tears, as his face finally came into focus.
"Did--" I choked out, "Do you know who killed--Harry and Ron? Did you see?"
"No," Draco answered quietly. "No, I didn't, but you can rest assured it was a Death Eater, which means they're dead. And Harry's murderer--and maybe Ron's, I don't know--might be in his memories."
"What?" I asked, startled. "How did you know about that?"
"Snape," he told me. "I heard him talking to McGonagall, asking her if he should let you go through Potter's memories on your own or if he should take that bowl away from you."
"They can't," I told him. "I've charmed it so it only works for me, and it can't get too far from me."
"And that's exactly what she told him," Draco replied smoothly. "She said--and I quote--'Severus, you don't really think she'd allow us to take it from her, do you? She is a very gifted witch, Severus, and our chances of taking it from her--voluntarily or otherwise--are slim.'"
"She said that?" I asked, dazed. "Remind me to give that woman a hug."
Draco smiled. "Give that woman a hug," he parroted obediently.
I smiled for the first time in two weeks, my cheeks still wet fom all my tears. "Thank you," I said quietly.
"No problem," he answered, lifting a hand and wiping away my tears with a thumb. "I hate seeing women cry."
I smiled faintly. "What time is it?"
"Three in the morning," he told me, glancing at his watch.
My mouth fell open. "Oh, Merlin," I said suddenly. "What were you doing awake at three in the morning?"
"I wasn't, I was awake at one. I was doing potions homework."
"I cried for two hours?"
"No. It takes awhile to get out here from the Slytherin Common Room."
"Oh," I said, smiling weakly. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to keep you awake for so long--I didn't mean to keep anyone awake, that's why I came out here."
"I know," he told me. "Nightmares, huh?"
I looked at him, my eyes filling with tears again as I remembered. "Nightmares," I said, though it came out as a whisper. "Oh, Merlin, the nightmares."
"Yeah, that's what I figured. Did you--find them?"
"Yes," I replied quietly. "I was the last one there. I kept looking, I had to know. And then I found Ron--" I stopped, swallowing. "And I had to find Harry, I had to find him before someone else did, and he was just lying there, covered in blood--" I felt the tears streaming down my face again and abruptly stopped talking. I wiped my face, sniffed and straightened my robes, and turned to look at Draco. "Anyway," I said briskly, "I should be getting back inside. Thank you for staying with me, sorry to keep you awake. I'll see you around."
He looked startled at my abrupt change in attitude, but I merely said, "Good night," and took off running. I heard a shout behind me but I ignored it. I didn't want to talk to him anymore, didn't want to hear his words of comfort. It had all been said before, I'd already heard it all, there was nothing he could say to make me feel any better--
Something large and heavy collided into me, knocking me forward onto the dew-soaked grass. Looking up, I realized Draco had just tackled me. Blinking, I sat up and looked at him. He was lying on the ground not two feet away, breathing hard. "Damn, girl," he said finally. "You run fast."
I stared. "Please don't tell me that's the reason you tackled me."
"Sorry, I wouldn't have tackled you. But honestly, was there any other way I could have stopped you? I could have proposed to you and you would have kept running."
"I don't know about that," I replied, a smile creeping across my face. "I might've stopped long enough to ask you if you'd lost your mind."
"But you wouldn't have stayed put long enough for me to answer," he shot back.
"No, probably not."
"So there you go."
"Why did you tackle me in the first place?" I asked after a few minutes of silence.
"I wanted to ask when the funeral is."
"The funeral?" I asked, blinking. "Oh. It's tomorrow. Why do you care?" I asked suddenly, realizing who was asking. "You didn't even like either of them."
"Not true," he replied, wincing at my words. "My father didn't like them. Therefore, I had to 'not like them' as well. Get the difference?"
"And why did you have to 'not like them'?" I asked. "What would he have done if you made friends with them--or even, for that matter, left them alone?"
"He would have killed me," Draco sad dully.
I was thrown. "Your--he would have killed--"
"His own son, yes," Draco answered, his voice completely devoid of emotion. "But that's not the point. I want to go to that funeral, if you'll tell me when and where it is."
I pulled out a quill and ink and grabbed his hand. He looked startled and said, "What are you doing to me?" But I ignored him and opened the ink well, dipped my quill in it, and wrote the time and place of the funeral, in ink, on his hand. When I released his hand, he read what I'd written and grinned. "You know, telling me might've worked," he teased.
"Yes, except you're male and you would've forgotten by tomorrow," I told him sarcastically, smiling faintly.
"Thank you," he replied.
"We really should go inside now, because one or both of us is going to get caught out here, and then we'll really be in trouble."
"Okay then," he replied, and we entered the school together, separating at the foot of the marble staircase. I waved and mouthed, "Thank you," and he merely mouthed, "See you tomorrow," and saluted me.
When he disappeared into the dungeons, I sighed and headed upstairs, pulling out the invisibility cloak and throwing it over myself just in case. Thanks to the Marauder's map (also Harry's, I thought, grimacing--before the battle, everyone had gone through their things and picked out someone to have each item, similar to making a will; both the cloak and map, thanks to Harry, had been left to me and Ron) I knew every passage of the school and who was in them, and I made it back to Gryffindor tower in record time.
Resigning myself to another night of nightmare-filled sleep, I headed upstairs and fell into bed.
I dreamt of Sirius.
HERMIONE GRANGER
Thanks to the Healers of St. Mungo's, Dumbledore was out of critical condition and, in fact, out of the hospital not six days after the battle. Though he'd been gone for just under a week, his return to Hogwarts caused widespread happiness and relief. As soon as he'd gotten back, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley--who were in charge of the funeral--went to see him and asked him to speak at Harry and Ron's funeral. Afterwards, they asked me make a speech; I accepted without hesitation and immediately began writing it; it took me several days to write, as I wanted--needed--it to be perfect. I had to do this one last thing, for them. After Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, each of their children, and I had spoken, the Weasleys decided to have an open microphone, so that anyone with anything to say about either of them could do so.
The day of the funeral, I woke up at around six. Looking at my wand, which I'd charmed to display the time above it whenever it was set on my end table, I groaned. I'd only gotten three hours of sleep, and I had a long, emotionally draining day ahead of me. I pushed back the covers and went to take a shower, then changed into a simple black dress. I knotted my hair in the back of my head like I had at the Yule Ball back in fourth year; I smiled, tears in my eyes, at the memory.
When I looked in the mirror, I realized that my lack of sleep--and lack of appetite--were clearly visible. I'd wondered why all my clothes suddenly felt looser on me, but I hadn't really bothered looking in the mirror. I hadn't cared enough. Hell, the first few days out of the hospital wing I hadn't even brushed my hair. With another glance at my thin, exhausted-looking face, I cringed and transfigured a handkerchief into a black veil. I attached it to a clip and slid it into the knot in my hair, then flipped the veil forward so that it fell over my face. Looking back at my reflection, I examined the veil and sighed. It was going to be a long day.
I finished getting ready as the rest of the seventh-year girls woke up, all of them quite somber as they began to get dressed. Ordinarily, for any important event, they would all be debating what to wear, borrowing each other's makeup, and fighting over mirror space. There was none of that today; the five of them seemed to read each other's minds. If someone needed lipstick, it was handed to them before they even asked; if someone needed to use the mirror, everyone else would move over a bit; they took turns going into the bathroom to take showers, there was no banging on the door to see if the other was done yet.
"How ironic," I said to Lavender as she applied black eyeliner around her wide, dark eyes. "We all get along when we have to, and we don't really need all the yelling every morning."
Lavender set her eyeliner down on the table and looked around the quiet room. After a long moment, she sighed. "How horrible that it takes a funeral to get us like this," she replied simply.
I bit my lower lip and nodded slowly. "How horrible."
Lavender looked at me, compassion in her gaze. "Are you going to be okay with this?" she asked quietly, referring to the funeral.
I looked at her and sighed. "I hope so," I replied, barely audible.
She looked at me for a long moment, clearly wondering what she could possibly say that would make me feel any better. Finally she decided on, "I'm here if you need me, Hermione, if you ever need anything--even if you just want someone to listen to you. I'll listen--always."
Caught off-guard, I felt my eyes fill with tears. I quickly blinked them away, refusing to cry. I had to hold up until the end of the day. Then I could be alone with my tears. Instead, I hugged her tightly and whispered, "Thanks, Lavender. I really appreciate it."
"Anytime," she replied, casting me a worried look. I wasn't usually the hugging type. "Anytime."
The day that followed was the longest I have ever experienced. The funeral took place outside the Weasley's home, and all of Gryffindor House and a good portion of the rest of the school had shown. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, all their children, and I sat in the front row, as did Dumbledore.
The man from the funeral parlor stood up and began telling us what wonderful people Harry and Ron had been. It made me so angry--this man hadn't know either of them, was getting paid to read off their achievements like they were a speech to a class of first years. He spoke for what felt like an eternity, then finished with, "And now for the speeches. Mr. Weasley will begin."
The next hour was devoted to speeches by Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, followed by Charlie, Bill, Fred, George, and Ginny. Surprisingly, Percy had asked to go last for the Weasleys, and his parents had agreed.
Percy stepped up to the microphone. "I wonder," he said slowly, "if there is any way in the world to apologize for the things I've said and done. I wonder," he continued, "if my remaining family members will ever be able to find it in their hearts to forgive me for my own greed; it took the death of my youngest brother and one of his best friends, Harry Potter, to make me realize how much I had hurt them all. The worst thing of it all is that even if my parents and siblings forgive me, there are two people who will never hear nor be able to accept my deepest apologies..."
Percy's speech was my favorite of them all thus far; it was sincere and completely, horrifyingly true. And it made me feel, if not good, slightly better.
After Percy came Dumbledore; Dumbledore's, of course, made several people cry with it's passion and intensity--and honesty. That was what struck me the most about it--it was honest.
Dumbledore's speech ended, and I heard him announce my name. I stood and made my way to the podium, determined to make a good speech and not to cry. t was halfway to the podium that I stopped, horrified at my own thoughts. I heard mutters and whispering behind me, and continued my way to the podium. When I reached it, I turned and faced the crowd. I saw Malfoy in the back row; he lifted two fingers to his brow in the merest hint of a salute; I nodded slightly and turned my attention to the note cards I had prepared. And I made a decision.
"Hello, everyone," I said stupidly. "I--you have no idea how much it means to me to see you all here for Ron and Harry. I'm not going to read my prepared speech, because on the way up to the podium today, I had two thoughts in my mind: I wanted to make a good speech, and I didn't want to cry. But--" I stopped and looked at my feet, swallowing, then looked back up at all of them.
"Harry James Potter and Ronald Arthur Weasley were my best friends. They were the light in my life, I suppose you could say; at the moment, my life seems darkened, because I have no family, and my two best friends were taken from me. Harry and Ron were too young; they were far too young. Life is not meant to end this way, so soon after birth. Yet it happened, and it will continue to happen until Lord Voldemort is dead.
"I'm not comforting anyone here," I realized out loud, and a few people smiled faintly. I took a deep breath. "You know something? I need to share a few things about Harry and Ron with you.
"In first year, the two of them saved me from a mountain troll; Ron used a spell I'd taught him not an hour before, and Harry actually stuck his wand up its nose. In second year, the two of them went into the Chamber of Secrets and saved Ginny," I gestured to the youngest Weasley, who flashed me a quick smile, "from Lord Voldemort. Third year, Harry saved two lives, of which I will not mention names. Fourth year, Harry won the Triwizard Tournament alongside Cedric Diggeroy. Most importantly, they were friends to many. The list of their achievements goes on forever.
"People used to tell the three of us that we were much stronger together than apart; this, more than anything, kept me sane when I found them both on the field where the Nameless Battle took place." I stopped; it was the first time I'd mentioned the finding of their bodies since it had happened. Swallowing again, I continued. "Knowing that I don't have them anymore, that they're not with me, terrifies me; but I know that wherever they are, they're together--and they are strong.
"Harry and Ron gave me a wonderful birthday present this year," I said, smiling through the tears that were threatening to fall. "It wasn't a book, or school supplies, or anything tangible even. They simply took me outside to sit by the lake, and we talked about our hopes and dreams and thoughts. It was wonderful. I think we learned more about each other in those few hours than we did in all the years previous to them.
"And when it got dark and I said we should go inside, they stopped me and said, "We haven't given you your present yet.' So I sat back down, and they took out a piece of parchment, cut into a triangle; three matches; and a quill. They had each written their names on one corner of the triangle, and told me to do the same. So I did, and Ron wrote one word in the center of the triangle: forever.
"And then they handed me a match, and lit their own, and we each touched a match to our names, and the three flames burned their way to the center; and just before the word 'forever' was burned, the three flames joined into one; and the ashes blew away with the breeze."
After telling the entire story while looking at my feet, I looked up. Tears stained my cheeks, but I smiled.
"It was the best birthday present I've ever gotten."
And with that, I walked away from the microphone to the table I'd set up before the funeral began, covered with a single piece of paper. I wrote my name on it, then the word 'love' in the center; then I went back to the microphone.
Ginny understood what I was trying to do, and stood, followed by the rest of the Weasleys and Dumbledore. They went to the paper; each signed it, then remained by the table. Following their example, everyone went up and signed, standing by the table when they were done.
I went around and handed everyone a match, tears still streaming down my cheeks. Then, standing by my name, I lit my own match and held it to my name. Everyone else followed suit, most of them crying; then I went back to the microphone and everyone returned to their seats.
As the paper burned and the ashes blew away, I said simply, "To Harry James Potter and Ronald Arthur Weasley: wherever you are, we send our love."
I looked around to see that I wasn't the only one crying; in fact, there wasn't a person in the room who wasn't.
I returned to my seat, and cried along with all the rest.