If you're reading this, much love. I've thought up a better way to list all my ideas for the fan-fiction, so that my story's more organised.

I own nothing. No-thing. It's J. who owns it all.

"Help will always be given at Hogwarts, to those who ask for it."

- Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

ENJOY!

Hermione Granger sat on her bed, staring up at the blank white ceiling. Blanker than a sheet of paper, blanker than an empty room... blanker than Hermione's mind.

Even though it has been two weeks since she hopped off the Hogwarts Express, Hermione still felt the graze of losing someone bleeding afresh every time she thought of Harry.

"I-I think it was my dad."

"Forget it!"

"Hermione!"

"Go!"

"I think it's a sign... it means danger's coming..."

"Not as much as you, though."

And, as sudden as a bolt of lightning, Hermione began to sob. It was as if all her despair had all been bottled up into 3 weeks and it all flowed straight out in one river of tears splashing down her face. It couldn't be that Harry was dead, no, how could he die so suddenly?

And the pain grew as she recalled how none of them had been able to explain what happened, not even Professor Dumbledore. Hermione beat her fists violently into her pillow. All through the previous years, she had impatiently waited for September to come, where she could snuggle deliciously under covers in her dormitory with Lavender and Parvati, and spend all day having fun with Harry and Ron and enjoying their times at home; but alas, without Harry, it wasn't their home now.

"Ron!" floated Mrs Weasley's voice up three flights of stairs to Ron's bedroom. "A letter here for you!"

Ron Weasley slouched out of his bedroom. All he can say is, the last two weeks haven't been fun. He had taken refuge up in his bedroom, burying his nose into Flying with the Cannons, forcing his glassy eyes on "Chapter One: How the Cannons came to be", without actually reading a single word. His family had kindly left him in his sulk; however, this was the first time in two weeks that Ron was called by Mrs Weasley.

As he descended down the a second flight of stairs, he glimpsed Ginny's huge brown eyes peering at him from a crack between her bedroom's door and the wall. As soon as she saw him walk past, she quickly whipped her flaming red locks out of sight and snapped the door shut.

Even though his sister wasn't usually like that, Ron didn't care; the current sad circumstances had affected each and every one of the Weasleys. Even his Aunt Muriel had came to visit on the day after they had arrived back from Hogwarts. Even she refrained from tut-tutting at Ron's rumpled hair, creased t-shirt and grim expression.

"Here's your letter, dear," mumbled Mrs Weasley absent-mindedly, handing him a thick yellow envelope sealed with wax. She was reading another piece of parchment, which had been scribbled all over in a thin, spidery-looking handwriting that looked vaguely familiar to Ron. Waving aside this information, he plopped himself onto the rug, slit open the letter and set himself on reading it.

Dear Mr. R. Weasley, it said,

We are sorry for your loss of your friend and/or relative, Harry James Potter. Thus, you are invited to attend a funeral at Godric's Hollow, at the graveyard next to the church.

All attendees are required to wear dark robes as a mark of respect to the lost. The service will commence at 5:00 in the evening on Monday, 31st of July, 1995.

All attendees are welcome to bring tokens, cards and/or flowers to lay on the grave. The ceremony will finish at 5:45 approximately.

Please let us now by the delivering owl if you are able/unable to attend the ceremony.

Yours sincerely,

Tedison Melifuer

Ron stared long and hard at the letter, even though he had finished it ages ago. It had seemed unreal, neglected, forgotten in his mind that Harry's funeral was going to take place. Even after 2 weeks, Ron still couldn't bring himself to think of Harry. He figured it would be too much pressure on him if he kept brooding about it.

But to ignore him all the time... now that he came to think of it, Ron thought that dwelling on it would be a much better option.

"Thinking about him?" whispered a soft voice. Ron whipped around to find his mother's gentle face in front of him. She had finished reading the piece of parchment, and had proceeded to kneel on her knees and hold her son's cheeks between her hands. He stared into her pupils, and noted that they had became dewy-eyed watching him read the letter.

"You know, Ron," continued Molly, her thin lips barely moving, "I lost a notable friend many, many years ago, back in the day when I was only fresh from my last year at Hogwarts. She was the heart and soul of my happiness; your friendship with Harry reminded me painfully of our's. She had died in a freak accident, an accident where lots of people blamed each other for the results.

"I was maddened with grief. I kept to my room and barely paid attention to anyone. I didn't even bother with my meals anymore; I thought that when she died, the world had ended and life would never be same without her company. I couldn't turn up at her funeral. I cut myself out from mentioning her, remembering her in front of anyone, because I was afraid that I would shed even more tears in her memory.

"Then one day, I met a wonderful person who seemed to have been sent to me as a guardian. They told me many amazing things; they told me that Madeleine would never have wanted me to live this heck of a life. They told me, unlike many people who told me to "move on", that shutting myself out from the world would never make me feel better about it. They shook me hard and told me that the world didn't end. I had just turned of age less than a year ago and there was much more to life that brooding about it.

"Ron, I want you to know that even though Harry would be sad to leave you, he would never want you to be sad for an awful stretch of time." There were tears flowing freely down her age-wrinkled skin, but she didn't lift her hands up to wipe them. "He was a noble and loyal friend; you should be more of that to every other friend of your's - including Hermione. I'm sure she needs extra support at the moment."

Mrs Weasley put an arm around Ron's shoulder and he rested his head on her shoulder. The minutes ticked by, as their chests rose and fell steadily. It would have been a more dramatic scene if smoke hadn't came out of the oven, with Mrs Weasley leaping suddenly off the floor and yelping, "Oh dear! The chicken!"

Ron simply smiled.

Hermione gently slotted open Ron's letter with her hands. As the invitation letter for the funeral lay opened and carelessly waved aside, she pulled out a sheaf of parchment and began reading.

Dear Hermione, Ron had written,

I know that you're still very sad about what happened.

I just want you to know, my mother's inviting you to stay over at our's after the funeral. I know that you need plenty of support after this ordeal, I know both of us has been shut up in our rooms for the past two weeks. But there's more to our holidays than doing this. There's something very important I've been wanting to ask you about.

Don't you remember how Harry's scar hurt very bad throughout the past year for us at Hogwarts? Dumbledore told us that You-Know-Who was getting stronger. And remember Trelawney's prophecy in our third year? She said that You-Know-Who's servant will set out to find their master... and the same night, Pettigrew broke out?

And on the train, Malfoy said it himself! That You-Know-Who's behind it all! Lucius Malfoy's right in You-Know-Who's inner circle, I bet this was a clue, don't you think it's possible that the Death Eaters, especially the one who cast the Dark Mark into the sky, had a lot to do with it?!

Anyways, meet me at Godric's later, I've still got heaps to tell you.

Love,

Ron.

Hermione fixed her eyes on the letter, digesting what Ron had written. It was no secret that Lucius Malfoy had not been under the Imperius Curse during You-Know-Who's first reign of terror. She tucked the the letter in her desk drawer, jotted down a few notes and stood up for a walk outside. There was definitely something extremely fishy about this.

It was the eve of the 31st of July. Hermione was sitting on her dimly lit room, feverishly packing her trunk, as she was due at the Burrow after the funeral. As she carefully folded a spare set of robes and pressed it onto an ever-growing pile in one corner of the trunk, her mind was working frantically. How could Harry have been killed while in the maze? The maze was watched for 2 hours straight, and no-one could Apparate or Disapparate at Hogwarts.

So Harry could've been killed by one of the other champions, thought Hermione as she reached for a pair of t-shirts and folded them absent-mindedly. But Fleur and Viktor's wands were searched thoroughly by the Ministry of Magic during the shebang that had happened after the two Hogwarts champions emerged dead, and no evidence of an Unforgivable Curse being forged out of their wands was traceable. As Hermione smoothed out a pair of socks and rolled them into a rather taco-shaped lump, she glanced at the invitation letter that was pinned to the wall. She still didn't forget that she had to attend Harry's funeral the following morning. Even though Hermione wanted to pay her last respects to one of her best friends, she didn't think she could ever make it. Hermione creased a pair of pants into a square and added them to the pile, which now resembled the Astronomy Tower in miniature.

So that leaves the option that Harry was somehow brought unwillingly out of the maze, and killed. Hermione racked her brains for a way of possible magical transport that could be used for kidnap. Side-Along-Apparation or -Disapparition is ruled out, of course - there were brooms, but Harry could easily operate one. And anyway, he couldn't have been taken to a nearby place. Hermione grabbed various pieces of underwear and began to fold those too, fixing her eyes on her closet.

The closet was always a place full of surprises for Hermione; as she dug in the memories that had dust laying on their shoulders, she found a giant gobstopper that had been won by her Dad at a local fair oh many, many years back. She gazed at the French Horn that lay untouched ever since it was brand new. It was brought to her as a Christmas present from her great-aunt Sheila, but that was the Christmas where she was at Hogwarts, so she never had a chance to blow it. Hermione fiddled with the tiny buttons of her pajamas as she fixed her gaze at her skiing kit.

The sticks were long decayed by the frost that had been on it ever since her 8th birthday. It lay leaning on a pair of white winter boots lined with white fur. It was three sizes too small now, and Hermione didn't even know why she kept it for so long, but something about the boot reminded her of the Quidditch World Cup. They had taken a boot which had been turned into a Portkey, so they can reach the campsite. They had taken the Portkey with Amos and Cedric Diggory.

And the realization hit Hermione with the force of a stampeding troll. She frantically searched for something to fold, but as her hands groped the blank space of floor where a pile of unfolded laundry had sat half an hour ago, the problem that had challenged Hermione was now even clearer that a completed jigsaw.

If you're reading this, much love.

Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who supported me by following my story. It's pretty awesome knowing I've actually done something interesting, and I'm so sorry that I was unable to write another chapter for so much time.

Have fun everyone!

- The Walking Fan-Fictionary