Chapter Eight.

Five days passed quietly, intimately, and platonically. Hermione read books, wrote letters, and made arrangements to go back to Hogwarts come September. Harry met with Kingsley Shacklebolt, spoke at length with Professor McGonagall, and explored every square inch of Godric's Hollow. He found it a warm, amiable and welcoming place, and soon felt perfectly at home. It helped, too, that the girl he was in love with was there every night when he came home, sitting in the garden and reading, or trying her very best to put together an impressive dinner.

When Harry returned one particularly warm May evening, he found the house unusually quiet. The last, orange rays of sunlight came drifting through the big windows, and the flowers that Hermione had picked and put together in the morning stood on a cabinet in the hall, lively and bright. Still, Hermione was nowhere to be seen, and even when Harry called for her, there was nothing but silence.

He wandered eventually into the garden and found her sitting in the grass, her knees pulled up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them.

'Hermione?'

She turned her face as if in a daze and smiled. Harry noticed immediately that her eyes didn't.

'A letter came', she whispered. Harry spotted it in her fist.

He nodded, unsure of what to do. Hermione had been mostly cheerful, these days, but there'd be sudden moments where she looked as if her thoughts were running away with her, and Harry found it increasingly difficult to pull her back. He knew what was troubling her, of course. Her troubles were also his own. Still, it hurt him even more to see Hermione so affected.

He walked over to her, slowly, and gently took the letter from her fist. As he sat down in the grass next to her, the name jumped out at him. Fred Weasley. April 1, 1978 – May 2, 1998.

Harry swallowed hard.

'He'll be buried tomorrow', Hermione whispered, staring down at her hands. 'Mr. and Mrs. Weasley invited us.'

'And Ron?', Harry asked.

'No', she said softly. 'Not him.'

Though Harry had felt cheerful when he had walked into the door, now he only felt exhausted, and saddened. But when he looked at Hermione, and saw the trembling of her bottom lip, and the way she'd balled her hands into fists to control herself, he felt more inclined to take care of her, first.

'Do you want to go?', he asked, turning towards her.

Hermione looked at him with big, teary eyes, as if she couldn't believe the question.

'Of course I want to go', she sighed. 'But Ron-'

'Forget about Ron', Harry said, perhaps too brusquely. 'Fred was your friend, too. And mine. And if they want us there, and you want to go, well then… we'll go.'

Hermione opened her mouth, but Harry reached out his hand to her, adamant on snatching her from the jaws of despair. She looked at the letter, looked at Harry's eyes, and finally nodded.

'We'll go.'

The following morning at eleven thirty, Harry and Hermione found themselves staring at The Burrow, which looked strangely daunting from a distance. The weather was warm but not too hot, the sky blue with only a few clouds, and yet, from the corner of his eye, Harry saw Hermione shiver.

He looked across at her. She looked worried, but determined.

'Ready?'

'Ready.'

They approached slowly but steadily, Harry's eyes already searching the crowd that had accumulated outside. He recognised quite a few people, the Weasleys and Fleur first of all, and made first eye-contact with Seamus Finnigan, and then with Angelina Johnson, who stood with her arm wrapped around George Weasley's waist as he leaned into her slightly.

Harry then met George's eyes, and was relieved to see no sign of enmity. In fact, George nodded at him, and smiled weakly. Encouraged by this, Harry and Hermione slowly walked towards the group.

Harry, swallowing his 'good morning' as it rolled across his tongue, said awkwardly: 'Hello.'

'Morning', the three replied solemnly.

'How are you, George?', Harry asked, being painfully aware of the staring people around him.

'Decent, mate, thank you', George said. 'It's good to see you.' He looked at Hermione, then, and smiled another unconvincing smile. 'You too, Granger.'

Hermione blushed and nodded, not quite able to pull off a smile.

'D-does Ron know we're here?', she asked.

George nodded. 'He's been hiding upstairs.'

Of course, Harry thought. He didn't think he'd ever known someone who could keep a grudge like Ron. Well… maybe one someone.

Before Harry could dwell on it any longer, however, he suddenly felt an unnaturally big, warm hand clasping around his shoulder. Harry, knowing exactly who it was, looked up instead of around, and looked directly into Hagrid's welcome, hairy face.

'Harry', he said, smiling widely.

'Hagrid', Harry smiled, and he embraced the giant tightly.

'It's good to see ye, Harry', Hagrid whispered. 'And you, Hermione. Ye look well.'

Hermione smiled, and soon the three were engaged in quiet, separate conversation.

At ten minutes to twelve, the crowd, which Harry estimated to be of around fifty people, started moving to the plot of land behind The Burrow, and Hermione saw Ron slip out of the house to join them. She broke free from Harry and Hagrid at once and hurried towards him.

Hagrid, aware of a sudden and unwanted shift in the winds, hastily broke off their conversation and hurried after the crowd. Harry remained where they had stood, watching.

Ron kept walking stubbornly, despite Hermione's obvious attempts to talk to him. When she finally grabbed his arm, he spun around, shook it loose, and hissed something at her.

Hermione's hand dropped immediately, and even from a distance, Harry saw the pain flash across her face. He felt suddenly angry. He didn't care if Ron yelled at him, or even if he hit him, but to see him do it to Hermione, who had made every attempt at repairing the damage done, angered him more than it should.

He walked over to the two, looked Ron quietly in the face, and placed his hand protectively at Hermione's elbow. Ron, who still refused to acknowledge Harry's presence, walked off without another word.

'Are you okay?', Harry asked.

Hermione looked at him with sadness in her eyes, but clenched her jaw and nodded bravely.

Together, they walked after the crowd, towards the Weasley burial site.

The entire event was over before Harry knew it, but it was an utterly painful experience.

Though it was a warm and beautiful spring day, the mood had been dismal. Harry had never felt quite comfortable around crying people - and there'd been plenty -, but he felt especially uncomfortable around crying people who were also staring at him. On top of feeling awkward, though, he felt concerned for Hermione, irritated with Ron, and heartbroken about Fred. Hermione, in a similar, depressing way, had wanted desperately to comfort Ginny, and reach out to Molly and Arthur and even Ron, but Ron's glares were enough to discourage her, and so she'd stayed in the background, with her arms wrapped tightly against her chest.

After the formalities, and the tears, and George's failed attempt at making light of the situation, the way he felt his brother would have wanted – he'd crumbled halfway, crying, and was taken aside by Arthur, so that Percy stepped in and finished George's speech in a very… Percy-ish way -, the crowd assembled in and directly outside The Burrow, drinking and snacking, talking quietly about Fred Weasley, and his smile, and any other feature of his that people could bear themselves to think about. Fred's legacy was palpable in the air. He'd loved well, and he had been loved just as fiercely, and to Harry, that seemed like life's ultimate achievement. That, and chasing Dolores Umbridge from Hogwarts with a dragon made of roaring fireworks.

Hermione hadn't said much all day, and even now, as they were standing with Arthur, George, Hagrid, and others, she was looking around restlessly, her fingertips tapping uncontrollably against the cup of juice in her hands.

When Ron finally re-appeared for the first time since before the burial, he was pacing fast from the garden towards the house. Hermione wasted no time, and quickly hurried after him. This time, Harry was close enough to hear.

'Ron!', Hermione hissed, as quietly as possible so as not to draw attention.

Ron ignored her.

'Ron, please, listen! You must understand-'

On The Burrow's doorstep, Ron spun around suddenly, causing Hermione to bump into him and spill some of her juice over both their outfits.

'I must, nothing', Ron hissed.

The conversation around Harry continued without a glitch, but Harry had stopped listening.

'But Ron, you're not being fair!', Hermione begged. 'You haven't responded to any of my letters, and I-'

'When are you going to get it, Hermione?', Ron snarled, stepping closer to her. Harry turned slightly. 'I haven't responded because I want nothing to do with you. We're not friends, we're not acquaintances, and just because you were invited means nothing. We –', he pointed from himself to Hermione '-are nothing.'

Ron stepped back, slammed the front door, and Hermione was left staring at the dark wooden surface.

The bang of the door had drawn attention, and suddenly over thirty pairs of eyes were staring at Hermione. She became aware of this, too, looked around, flushed bright red, dropped her cup of juice, and hurried as fast as she could without running from The Burrow, towards the hills.

Hagrid said 'Go, Harry', but Harry had already put down his beverage and was hurrying after her.

'Hermione!'

She kept moving, her dark dress fluttering wildly in the wind.

'Hermione', Harry tried again, 'he'll come around, he-'

'No!', Hermione cried, walking furiously. 'You don't understand, Harry.'

'Then- then help me to.'

Hermione stopped and spun around at once. Her eyes had filled with tears, her chin trembled, and she'd balled her fingers into tight fists.

'Fred is gone', she said, and she bit her lip, hard. 'Ginny loathes me, Ron hates me, and-'

'He doesn't hate you, Hermione', Harry started, but this only made things worse.

'You didn't see his face!', Hermione yelled, and the tears started rolling across her reddened cheeks.

Harry had never felt quite comfortable around emotional people, let alone emotional girls. However, he felt a certain responsibility for these emotions, and he felt, for his unspoken affection towards Hermione, inclined to help her navigate them as best he could.

'You know Ron, Hermione. Ron is… well, Ron. He'll come around. He-'

'He won't!', Hermione cried, and her voice cracked. 'I saw. I've lost Fred, I've lost Ginny, I've lost Ron… and my parents-', she spun around, wiped furiously at her cheeks, and hurried further across the hill. 'I can't find them, Harry!'

Harry recalled the nights she'd sat in the garden, bent over odd-looking folders that he hadn't been able to see clearly from a distance, but which he now understood to be brochures, and maps. He started after her, trying desperately to come up with anything comforting to say.

'I have no one, Harry!', Hermione continued. 'I'm utterly, completely, stupidly alone, and it's all my own fault. I should have never-'

'That's not true', Harry protested. 'You have-'

'You?' Hermione stopped, turned around, and looked at him, breathing hard. 'Do I?'

Harry stopped and stared back. Yes, he thought. Of course you do.

There were a hundred things that rushed through his mind and that he could have said. He could say, for example, how him and her had always made sense, but that he never understood it until they danced that night in the tent. Until they were so close to each other, and so close to losing each other, Harry had never realised just how… good, she was. He could tell her how he had told Ron that the horcrux was lying, but that he wished that it hadn't been. He could tell her that he'd leaned in as they'd danced, ever so slightly, with a heart beating like a sledgehammer. He could tell her that he had felt heartbroken, as well as relieved, when she'd walked away. He might say how the last few days, with her, had been the most peaceful in his life, and that she'd given him rest that he had never found anywhere else, or even thought would be possible.

He could say all of those things, but he said instead: 'You have me. Always.'

Hermione's heart skipped a beat, and she took her first deep breath of the day.

Harry opened his mouth again to speak, to tell her that he'd help her with whatever and whatever the cost, but Hermione's lips, pressing suddenly, almost apologetically against his own, shut him up at once. There was a split second of shock in which Harry felt as if he had no control over his limbs, and then he melted into her. The wind blew around them, tugging at their clothes, but Harry couldn't feel it. He only noticed her fingers, pressed to the side of his face and the back of his neck, and her hair, swirling around their faces, spreading a scent of spearmint and… coconut, Harry thought. Harry leaned in closer, desperate to take it all in, welcoming the relief that washed over him like a warm, waited-on wave.

But then it flashed through his mind. Ron, with bulging eyes, tear-stained cheeks, and clenched fists. What felt like a flash of lightning struck the wave that Harry floated in, and he jumped at the shock.

Hermione's eyes opened, confused, and looked puzzled at the distance that was suddenly between them. Then a look of pain spread across her face, her hands fell to her sides, and her eyes filled with fresh tears.

'I-', Harry stammered, but Hermione didn't listen. She felt as if her heart had just dropped from her chest and shattered. She stepped back, slowly, and turned to walk away.

Harry's body felt frozen, petrified, nailed to the ground, but he was in turmoil within. He felt grief, relief, anger, frustration, desire, love, regret, and guilt, all at once, and was so busy processing which of these feelings he wanted to give reign to that he had no thought to move after her.

By the time he finally unfroze, Hermione had become a small dot on the horizon, and when her name finally rolled across Harry's lips, and his legs began to move, Hermione vanished in a swirl of blackness.

Harry stopped running and, breathing hard, stared at the spot where she had just disapparated. A final breath of spearmint swept across his face before the scent of oncoming rain chased it away. In the distance, a crack of thunder rolled across the suddenly gloomy hillside.