The End?


Hermione swallowed the sob that was threatening to break free of her throat again, almost unable to see past the tears that were clouding her vision. So many losses, so many unnecessary deaths. Yes, they did manage to save a few, unexpectedly, but the losses (what a cruel, clinical way of saying it!) were so much higher. She had seen it happen, she had seen the final blow, she watched and stood quietly by – she had been unable to do anything – and when it was done they took her aside, along with a few others, and repeatedly and relentlessly cross-examined her testimony of the final happenings.

When Harry had said, at the beginning of sixth year, that he was the one in the prophecy that was supposed to defeat Voldemort, she had thought that so long as she and the others had made sure that Harry would be adequately prepared, and had helped Harry along, that all would be well. One cannot live while the other survives. Was that how it went? In her grief, she could hardly tell, much less see straight. She was sure her face was red and blotchy – she knew her eyes were – and she must look a right mess. She didn't particularly care at the moment.

She straightened her skirt. She needed to keep up appearances since those jackals from the Ministry were still lurking around.

Yet another Ministry official was droning on, extolling the virtues about the Boy-Who-Lived, but she couldn't hear him over the buzzing in her ears. She wondered how she managed to keep sitting up straight when her heart was pounding so loudly in her chest, and her shirt was constricting her breathing, and the whole room was spinning, spinning, spinning, but she was glad that she could manage sitting at least when all she wanted to do with lie in her room, her room at home, not here, and just cry and wail and beat up her pillows till the fluff spilled out in a white rush.

A hand closed around hers and she pulled away, clutching her hand to herself. She knew it was rude – it must've been Ron… or was it Ginny? She couldn't really tell right now – but she couldn't help herself. Her nerves were on fire, still, from a hex she had been hit with, not that she minded because it was the perfect excuse to not have to touch anyone. She didn't think she could handle it yet – it seemed just yesterday that she was drenched head to foot in blood. Actually, it was the day before yesterday. Mustn't forget the technicalities.

A bleating noise nearby caused her to lift her head slightly and, squinting, she made out the trembling forms of Dobby and Winky, Winky, for once, being the one to give comfort to the traumatized figure of Dobby, his clothes in disarray for once, clutching to himself the black sock Harry had released him with and wearing Christmas socks from Harry from years past. For a brief moment S.P.E.W. floated through her mind but she quickly shook it off – now hardly seemed the appropriate time to bring that up, and Harry did say they seemed happy in their situations (though for Winky nothing could ever make her happier than to have her Master Barty returned… if only a wish could bring him back, bring them all back!)

Everyone was rising. The speaker had gone quiet, Hermione noticed belatedly, and quickly pushed herself to her feet, feeling the rush of what felt like liquid fire sweeping over and through her body but did not wince. Slowly each row of people moved solemnly towards the white casket that was open so the world could see who lay within, despite the protests of the people who knew the deceased best. Even in death he was given no reprieve.

As she neared the casket her body began full out trembling. Was it really worth defeating He-Vol-Voldemort, if it meant giving up such a wonderful, kind

But he seemed to think so, willingly stepping in Voldemort's line of fire (directed at, of all people, Snape, who was protecting her and several other younger students), to ensure that they'd survive, flinging his own lethal curse at Voldemort. She remembered how each curse hit the other dead on and they both crumpled, pale, to the ground, both dead, Voldemort's face was contorted in shock – he hadn't made any new horcruxes and Harry, before the final battle, had just destroyed the last of them so that all that was left was destroying the figure himself, the Dark Lord.

Looking tearfully up the row she saw Snape, somehow paler and more sour looking than ever gazing down at the body and visibly (visibly!) shivered, eyes closing and muttering something she couldn't hear and couldn't read on his lips. Snape, reluctantly it seemed, moved on, his head drooping, as if still stunned at what he had done. She was almost certain he was muttering on about his hero-complex, he liked to call it.

The Weasley's descended up the casket in a horde next. The twins were both pale, faces drawn – they offered up a trick wand, a ton-tongue toffee, and a canary cream to the body in the casket, carefully stowing the treasures to the side where they wouldn't be disturbed. Mrs. Weasley blew kisses and fretfully tried to fix his hair while Mr. Weasley added a collection of his own (rubber ducky, battery, and electrical plug outlet) to the twins. Ginny's head was buried in Charlie's shoulder and Ron was so white that the back of his neck, the only part of him she could get a good look at, reminded her of a ghost… or at least a muggle version of a ghost. Bill and Fleur were clutching at each other, Fleur managing to hold on to both her sister and new daughter as well, half smothering her face in her husband's chest.

Hermione looked around – she could see Remus and Tonks, Minerva and Hagrid standing off to the side – she had been so dazed she hadn't seen them go up ahead. The Weasley's slowly drifted away from its side, sobbing raucously amongst themselves and Hermione moved closer, closer, peering into the casket. Her heart stuck in her throat.

So many little gifts, much more than she had seen added, surrounded him, lying so still in the velvet-lined casket. Hundreds of trinkets, photos, letters, flowers littered the last bed he'd ever lay in. Thoughtfully she pulled out a chain with four items on it – Ron's, Harry's and hers DA galleons – and a shrunken volume of Hogwarts, a History. She tucked it under his hands the best she could before slumping forward, sobbing quietly.

She never noticed her tears spilling down his lightening-shaped scar.


Ooh, I ended with a funeral this time. I wonder what's going on through my lil' noggin. Please leave a review - I'd like to know what you think.