AN: Inspired, chiefly, by Rowling, and secondly by Crookshanks22's profile (or at least, what it used to be.)
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Harry believed it had something to do with Hermione's (awful) head-band that had started it. Her head-band and a lewd joke from Ron—although he could not fathom how a head-band could translate into a joke, albeit anything lewd—had sparked a stretch of annoyingly petty banter across their Herbology table where Hermione, astonishingly, had laid her smoking quill down for longer than five minutes to extend said petty banter. This meant that Harry could not look over at Hermione's paper to catch up, which meant that Sprout was now spouting gibberish about a Class A rarified species that had an ungodly amount of consonants strung together in a row.
Harry desperately wished for a diversion.
The class was stirring now to pair up into working groups, meaningful, acquiescing, hopeful glances exchanging over the coughing of an unfortunate somebody who was now under the mercy of Professor Sprout's thick palms hammering into her back. Harry nudged Ron briefly, received another jab back, and finally picked up Hermione's quill because hers always seemed to be loaded with ink.
A hand draped menacingly over his. He looked up in mild shock and saw that Hermione was still flushed and talking but managed to notice Harry's little moment.
"That is JUST what I mean, Ron, how—useyourownpenHarry—HOW could you use that as SUPPORT, for Merlin's sake, that's not even evidence—"
Harry wanted to know, against his own well-meaning self's alarm, what sort of topic required evidence and support. He also considered jerking his hand away, but Ron had stopped talking suddenly.
"What is this?" Ron said quietly. He nodded at Hermione's hand covering Harry's. She lifted her hand from the pen and crossed it with her other arm.
"Nothing," Hermione spoke more quickly than normal, "Harry was trying to steal my—"
"Professor?" Professor Sprout yanked a shovel that had tangled in her hair. "Minerva?"
Ron and Hermione stopped drawing in a heated breath and turned to stare at McGonagall. She wrapped a stiff black shawl around herself tightly, even if the greenhouse was already stifling.
"Pomona," McGonagall began shakily, Harry noted with concern, "I'm afraid you'll have to excuse Ms. Abbott for the rest of the day."
Her lips were drawn together in a dry wrinkle, gathered and unmatched in sage pain. Hannah collected her books and stood up, pushing down her blouse and pulling up the hips of her slacks. A murmur and a whisper hovered behind her disappearing back. McGonagall held the door open for her, rearranged her hair (and what was there to rearrange?), and followed the girl without a farewell.
Half of the class discreetly craned heir necks in seconds when they thought no one was looking; the other half actually stood up and plastered their hands across the windows. Even Sprout, it seemed, dumbly looked askance before clearing her throat guiltily.
"Well—boys—BOYS!"
Colin Creevey and Ernie Macmillan had not yet turned away from the windows.
"Ernie!" Sprout rapped a knuckle on the tray in front of her.
"Look—Professor—I think McGonagall is crying!"
Hermione squeezed in a glare at Ron, who scoffed before nudging Harry again. Sprout dropped her pretense and trotted to a better window.
"Ernie, go back to your seat," she breathed faintly before gasping. She splayed her fingers across the fogging glass like a child before a toy-display, eyes wide and hair obstructing the view for everyone else. Harry and Ron, relieved that they could pretend to follow a teacher's example if all else failed, slid from their stools also and joined the crowd by the window.
Professor McGonagall was, indeed, wiping her eyes—although one could hardly say she was bawling. It was a noble kind of grief, in which her shoulders remained tall and her hand steady. It was the kind of grief one felt for another, somewhat affected by the other person's pain but still aware of being that rock to lean on. She drew the shawl around herself again and mouthed something inaudible to Hannah.
Hannah—
Harry heard Hermione stifle a sob.
In his shock at seeing a teacher cry, Harry had not noticed Hannah. No, even his ears chose to shut down and fail him. He saw, and heard, now why Hermione was acting so.
Hannah was not making a scene. She was not screaming her head off, nor was she beating her chest and tearing her hair in the ways Harry had assumed a bereaved person would act. For Hannah was kneeling motionlessly in the grass, looking for all the world like she was a paper doll a fickle child cast away, swaying slowly in the breeze and crumpling up in the process.