28. In the Chill of Mourning
Hermione Granger prided herself on a practical approach to funerals: don dark clothing, mostly black; arrive late; look harried enough to repel even the most clingy fellow mourner; shed a tear but divert the earnest floods inside and drown in the rhythm of eulogy, watching the happy moments flash by. Go home and work even harder to prevent any future funeral visits.
As the priest droned in the background and Hermione daydreamt of Quidditch matches, quills, red rags and patches, a silent whisper brushed against her neck and broke the soothing rhythm of remembrances. Practical gave way to panic as icy breath chanted 'honest heart, honest heart, honest heart', beating against her mind, penetrating her chest, enveloping her shivering heart.
Hermione did not dare scream, but her mind cried out in noiseless agony. She could do nothing but wait, her heart adapting to the rhythm of the cold lament.
At least, she thought, people may cling as much as they bloody well want if I am in the coffin and quite, quite dead.
And then, her life flashed before her eyes.