Disclaimer: Not mine. Sue, if you like. All you'd get is an old flute and a very tempremental cat.
A/N: Written for grangerweasley on livejournal who requested: "I'd love a short little one-shot of Hermione's POV during Dumbledore's funeral."
Enjoy!
Detachment
TheGiantSquid
"Hermione."
The steady brush strokes cease and the brunette in question gently lowers the hairbrush to the counter.
"Hermione...it's time."
She swallows thickly, fighting the urge to scream and cry and moan, before turning around and facing her friend.
"I'll be right there, Ginny."
The redhead gives her an odd look, a sympathetic look, before nodding and exiting the bathroom. Hermione does not turn back to her reflection. She cannot stand to look herself in the eye.
oOo
"Hermione."
She had only been to one funeral in her life. She'd been nine at the time when her grandfather on her mother's side had passed. She didn't remember much about the ceremony, only that her mum had been crying and her dad had never stopped holding his wife and stroking her hair.
"Hermione...they're starting."
She does not look at him because she fears she will lose all control. If she looks at him, she will surely break down. She tries desperately not to listen to the eulogy; she needs to be strong, for Ron, for Harry, and for herself.
She didn't realize how hard it would be.
The tears begin to flow, but Hermione is only dimly aware of them. She feels so detached from everything. She knows that man is speaking, knows that others are weeping, knows that...Oh God...Oh God, she moans inwardly. He's dead. He's dead he's dead he's dead and he's never coming back.
It's as if a knife has pierced her soul. Before she knows it, her body is shaking, she is sobbing, and her mind is screaming, He can't be dead! No no no no, please, God, please...
oOo
"Hermione."
The voice, his voice, the one she loves to listen to, the one she loves to hear rise in anger and be directed at her. He's speaking to her now. Her mind is blank, her logic failing her yet again, and all she can do is gasp and cry and struggle to hold on to some semblance of control.
"Hermione, please...you're all right. Everything's going to be all right."
It's not, she thinks, somewhat viciously. He's gone. He's dead dead dead--
She feels long arms suddenly wrap around her.
Like her father did for her mother so many years ago. He squeezes her tightly. The fog that has been surrounding her brain begins to lift.
Her breathing slows and evens out.
She stops trembling because of his warmth and he strokes her hair tenderly. Her throat is tight and she remembers that she feels vaguely astonished when his tears begin to drip into her hair.
"It's all right," he murmurs in her ear. "It'll be all right, Hermione."
And she knows this to be true, because he is Ron.
He is Ron, and that's all she needs.