A/N: This one is a bit angsty. It takes place the night before Dumbledore's funeral, so that's probably why. Tell me what you think.
Disclaimer: And now, a haiku: Jo Rowling owns this / I am merely borrowing / To write my story.
Feast
The last feast of the year had always been unusual for Harry – as had many of his school days been. He could still clearly remember the one in his first year, where Dumbledore had awarded Gryffindor enough points of win them the House Cup.
His throat seized up. Dumbledore. His eyes glanced involuntarily to the seat the Headmaster had always occupied – it stood empty now, left alone by McGonagall. The funeral was the next day, but he didn't know if he could take it.
Hermione followed his gaze to the chair.
"Harry—" she started, but he put up a hand to quiet her. He didn't think he could talk now.
On Hermione's other side, Ron was doing what he did best – eating. But while normally even he had his limitations, now he couldn't stop. The food nearly flew from the table to his mouth nonstop, and he had eaten more than twice the amount Harry and Hermione had eaten that night.
Hermione rested her hand on Ron's shoulder.
"Ron, you have to stop eating. It's not healthy," she said softly. Ron stopped for a moment, and their eyes met. His eyes were glazed over. He shook his head and slowly returned to devouring the chicken leg that was in his hand.
"Come on, Ron," Hermione said, "you're eating like you're never going to eat here again." Ron choked slightly, and swallowed. On Hermione's other side, Harry got up and quickly exited the Great Hall.
"That's what it's all about, isn't it?" Hermione said softly, as if she was talking to herself. "Are we really coming back? Harry isn't, I can tell. And – and we're following him." She took a deep breath and stood up, her hand lingering on his shoulder. He nodded.
"Yes, Hermione," Ron replied, his voice hard. "That's what it's all about."