Disclaimer: I own no part of the Harry Potter franchise; all characters and ideas belong to J.K. Rowling.
The simple act of caring is heroic.
-Edward Albert
The memorial service was big and beautiful and very, very grim. It was everything the wizarding world imagined it would be and Hermione desperately hoped it sated the press's curiosity. She was seated right up front with Viola, her parents, the Weasleys and most of the ministry department heads, officials and the faculty of Hogwarts. The face of the faculty hadn't changed too drastically since their generation's school days and it was almost comforting to see so many familiar faces.
Not that Hermione was paying too much attention to the attendees. She was staring straight ahead of herself, trying not to see the garish monument they had erected on the grounds, just a few meters from Dumbledore's sarcophagus. She was holding Viola upon her lap, her daughter's hands in her own, held very tightly, as they both fidgeted and ignored what the oh-so-lofty speaker (the tenth that morning) was saying. The monument had a large, tall marble base and the names of all the wizards and witches whose lives had been lost recently were inscribed upon it. On top of the base was a statue of Harry in his auror robes, broomstick in one hand and wand held out high in the other. It was an exact replica of Harry, right down to the scar on his forehead, and yet it wasn't like him at all.
The effect was one of the most horrifying and ludicrous things Hermione had ever seen. To see her beloved husband and best friend's face immortalized in cold, grey stone now, after losing him barely two weeks ago…after knowing him in full living, breathing color, his flesh and bone a part of her life in such an inextricable way…she held Viola more tightly and took a deep, steadying breath.
The next speaker stood then, the last before the service would end in a flurry of auror formations, Weasley fireworks, and a final, horribly sad song by the Hogwarts Chorale. Neville took the podium with shaky steps, but his head was held high. It had been a long, chilly morning despite the sun that streamed down upon them all and Neville knew, as well as any of them did, that nothing he could say would warm them. There was nothing left to say, in fact. Even for an award winning journalist. Even for someone who had been great friends with The Boy Who Lived (and had finally died, as we all do, even if it was at far too young an age). Even for the boy who had almost been The Boy Who Lived.
Neville spoke.
"There is nothing I can say that will make these losses seem acceptable," he began. "And there is especially nothing left to say about our friend- my friend- Harry Potter." His eyes swept over the crowd and then rested upon Ginny and his in-laws. Neville looked down at his hands, which held no notes for once, and he brought his gaze up to the monstrosity to his left. "Or perhaps, there is everything left to say." He paused and watched Hermione from the stand.
Hermione heard his words and she knew he was watching her. Asking her permission, silently, to continue. And as much as she wanted to scream and cry and yell at them all to leave her alone, she knew that the rest of the world needed this time. They needed some time, set aside especially to honor and remember the lives of those they held dearest and in highest regard. She brought her eyes to his and he smiled sadly at her. It was an apology, she knew. Because in order to remember someone truly, one had to place that person's entire life on display.
And that life had included herself. She nodded once at him and deferred her gaze again before he continued. He did not clear his throat, he did not wipe his eyes which were bright with dew. He simply spoke to them as if they had all sat down to tea at a knitting circle, or an engagement party.
"First of all, I am grateful to Harry. His sacrifice was not intentional, but it saved my life nonetheless. I do not think I could have lived the life he did. Harry was…well, he was brilliant. But it didn't matter how many times you told him that- he'd always pat you on the back and return the compliment, insisting he never did anything. And he didn't, really, except to just be himself." Neville looked up at the crowd, tears in his eyes. "I think- I'm certain, in fact- that we are going to miss him an awful lot. Not just because of the friend and father he was- but also because, for a great many of us, he a living symbol. He was the person that represented our lives, especially for my generation.
"Harry was more than a hero. He was the one who not only stopped it all, but who helped us to stop it all as well. He helped us find hope and courage. He helped us discover the strength of our characters." he paused and gazed out at Hermione once more. She wanted desperately to look at him, but she daren't move her eyes. If she did, she knew the tears that she was barely holding in would come spilling out.
She had to be strong for her children. Especially for Viola. Especially for the little one inside her who was completely helpless.
Hermione gave her head a small shake and looked up to Neville anyway. She couldn't help herself- she wished she could be the one to say those wonderful things, but she couldn't even stand. Her mother's hands grasped her forearm and her father's arm went about her shoulders tightly. She could barely see for the tears, but she knew that Neville was crying, too.
Almost the entire crowd behind her was crying, in fact. Despite the sun's rays upon their shrouded and chapeau covered heads, the mourning was palpable- like a very humid day, or a foggy London morning.
Neville looked out over the people: his coworkers, his companions, and many of his friends and continued once more. He didn't have much left to say, really. What else could he say?
"Behind every great figure in history are many, many people. People just like ourselves. The survivors. Those that were lucky- or is it unfortunate enough? It's gotten hard to tell, hasn't it? Well- we're the ones who get left behind. And more often than not, the greatest ones of all are those that history forgets about.
"I know that some of you will think it unfortunate- as some are bound to think it vain of me to include myself in the same category of hero as Harry…but the truth is that some of us want to be forgotten. Harry was one of those people. You've all read it in the biographies, in the endless newspaper and magazine articles and some of you even heard it from his own lips: Harry hated publicity and notoriety. He wanted to live a quiet life and be allowed to do his job and love his family in private." His voice dimmed abruptly as he remembered the hours spent with such a driven, yet self-effacing young man. He felt his eyes mist once more and he looked down to Hermione again. Then he continued to speak his final piece- it was the most he felt he could do for her at that moment. "Most of us feel exactly the same way. We may be heroes to you and your children and grandchildren, but it was the circumstances and the people leading us that made us icons. To us, to ourselves and our families and loved ones, we are nothing more than ordinary witches and wizards living in extraordinary times.
"All I can ask of you in remembering Harry is that you also remember his desire for privacy. For the simple life. For love and peace and quiet, despite his choice of career. Please, remember him and all those who have passed recently in your hearts and minds…and know that although we do it behind closed doors, in the privacy of our own homes, we are grieving with you. And this morning, we all grieve together."
No one spoke after him. No one seemed to want to speak. They were all too busy weeping- hugging, exchanging significant glances, and- perhaps the best part of the morning- casting nasty looks at the other journalists and photographers. Eventually, someone did stand up to inform the crowd that there would be spiced pumpkin juice and cider being served in the entrance hall of the school and later in the day, they would be showing picture slides of Harry's school days and old Quidditch matches. It hadn't been Hermione's idea, but she pretended not to mind. She supposed, in fact, that someday she would want to watch things like that herself and share them with Viola. Just like all the photo albums she and Harry had stashed away for that rainy day that never came.
Her daughter tugged on her hand and she looked down. Viola's eyes were wide, but tired. They'd had to get up early in order to take the train out to Hogwarts. She secretly hoped it would be Viola's last visit to Hogwarts for at least another six years. Imagine how the girl would feel, having to come to school here everyday and seeing that ghastly statue of her father?
"Mummy, when do we get to go see Da?" She yawned suddenly and rubbed at her eyes with her free hand. Hermione caught her breath and then reached down, swinging the little girl up into her own petite arms.
"Soon, my darling. Viola," she paused, and the girl turned her face to her mother. Hermione brushed some hair from her forehead. "Vi, you know that it won't really be Daddy, right? We talked about this last night. Before you went to sleep?"
The girl nodded again and then, before Hermione could continue the conversation, she leaned her head upon her mother's shoulder and was fast asleep. Hermione sighed and looked about the crowd. It had thinned already near the front of the seating area and she could easily see through the groups of people, picking out familiar faces. It was amazing to her how many people had come. She supposed that her and Harry's life together had flown under the radar so easily that she never realized how many people still thought of him and the rest of their generation as an inspiration.
It would have been creepy and disturbing in any other circumstance, particularly since Neville had been right: the last thing Harry had ever wanted was to be canonized. She rolled her eyes in a rather depressed fashion and turned her head, kissing the top of Viola's head soundly. A voice behind her suddenly interrupted the moment and she turned around.
The equally depressed face of Cho Chang greeted her. It wasn't entirely depression, though; there was also pity staring at her from behind those big, dark brown eyes. Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes again.
"Hello, Hermione," Cho said softly. "I wanted to tell you- that is, I thought I should say-" she paused, watching the other witch's face for some sign that the intrusion was unwelcome. None came and Hermione seemed quite content to let yet another old comrade flounder about for words. Cho let out a small sigh and pushed forward. "I'm so sorry, Hermione. Harry was a good man. I've been thinking of you a great deal this last week."
It wasn't exactly what Hermione had been expecting from the older witch, and although it was close enough to what she was used to hearing by now, for some reason Cho's attempt at comfort touched her. She returned the smile.
"Thank you, Cho. I hope that none of this has awakened too many memories for you."
Cho shook her head. "It didn't awaken anything. Some memories never leave us, do they?" Her eyes shifted away and Hermione knew she was looking up at the monstrosity. "It isn't very like him, is it?" she murmured.
A giggle escaped Hermione's lips and she choked back the laughter. There was no telling when it could turn into hysteria. Cho looked back to her and smiled again. It was a serious expression this time though, and Hermione looked down at Viola, swaying back and forth a little.
"Hermione…I know this is probably a little unwelcome right now, and you certainly don't have to- or need to- take my advice. If you want, you can yell at me after I say this, I won't mind, honestly. But I wanted to let you know how I got through losing Cedric." She paused and watched Hermione's face for another sign, but again, the Harry's widow was quiet. If she hadn't known her so well, Cho would've assumed she wasn't even listening. But Cho knew better, so she kept talking.
"I wasn't in very good shape emotionally back then. Even when I tried to move on, I didn't really- I still saw him in every classroom. I cried myself to sleep most nights." Her eyes misted and she swallowed hard. Even now, it was difficult to speak openly about her struggle, but she forced herself to continue. Usually, once she got the first few sentences out, it got easier to talk. "My parents were very worried about me- so was my house head. They all suggested that I go to a support group for young people who had also suffered a similar loss. I know it seems like the hardest thing to do right now- to share your pain with others- but it helped me a great deal. I still attend group sessions a few times a year…and I also work with the surviving family and friends. I try to encourage people to join, even to come to just one meeting…" She paused again and retrieved a small card from her pocket book; then she held it out, offering it to Hermione.
"Please stop by my office any time, Hermione. Don't hesitate to call me if you ever need anything. And I truly hope to see you at our adult meetings, when you're ready."
Hermione reached out and took the card, reading it carefully. Then she looked up at Cho and nodded. Her eyes were brimming over as well. "Thank you, Cho," she responded, her voice belying her surprise. "I don't know-" she stopped, unsure of what to say.
"Please, don't make any decisions right now. And don't worry about coming right away, or hurting my feelings if you never come. I just want you to at least consider it. And thank you, Hermione. Harry was the best and he deserved someone like you. Please, take care of yourself. I'm sure I'll see you soon." The taller witch leaned forward and gave Hermione a small hug before turning and walking away.
Hermione watched her go, still unable to speak. She looked back to the card in her free hand and then put it carefully in her coat pocket. Cho meant well…and perhaps it wouldn't be a bad idea to have some support. She wasn't ready to sit around with a bunch of strangers yet, but perhaps soon. There was no harm in trying, anyway. She sighed and gave Vi another kiss. Her daughter began to stir again and she felt a hand on her shoulder just then.
Molly smiled softly at her. "It's almost time to head to the port key, Hermione, love. Why don't you walk with Arthur and me?"
Hermione managed a nod. "That sounds nice, Molly. Thank you."
Neville and Ginny watched the two women walk off towards Arthur and then looked at one another significantly. Ginny held Ronald's hand a little more tightly and gave her husband a stiff smile. They had left their three youngest at home under the watchful eyes of Neville's swiftly ailing, but still spunky , grandmother. Ginny would have been more nervous about it if she hadn't known that the large, orange mongrel that lived next door had also taken an interest in protecting her babies. When it wasn't feeding them crayons, of course.
Neville raised an eyebrow. "Well, it looks like we won't have to broach the subject anymore, thank Merlin."
"Quite," Ginny replied. "Remind me to send Cho a lovely gift basket for Christmas this year."
AN: I think I may skip the funeral service. I hate writing eulogies. They suck. I'll probably refer to the event, but don't expect a full scale chapter description or anything. Also, I think some of you may have gotten the wrong idea about the smiling going on- they aren't happy smiles, people. They're the kinds of smiles that people give one another out of habit, in the hope that smiling will eventually make them happy again, or make things better somehow. It's not a sign that they're over the disaster or anything of the sort, ok? Thanks!