Disclaimer: I don't own anything Harry Potter. He belongs to J.K. Rowling, whom I heartily thank for having created him. I just happen to have been knocked in the head by my muse one evening, and took it upon myself to write this bit of fiction based on the characters she created.

Author's Note: I've never written fanfiction before, so you'll have to bear with me. It's rated R for language and possible violence in later chapters, and because at this point I really don't know where exactly the story is going to go. At the moment, I'm letting inspiration guide my hand, though I suspect it's going to take some help. This piece was begun before Book 6 came out, and I've decided not to let that volume influence my take on events as I have them written here. Also, I'd like to thank, in advance, all my online friends who I'm going to pester into reading this, as well as those people I'll more than likely turn to for help when my muse deserts me. And, of course, my husband, who has always been my biggest fan as well as my most honest critic. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I'm going to try, very hard, not to disappoint.

Prologue

Harry Potter was dead.

That was my thought as I watched the coffin descend into the hole that had been prepared for it, although I still didn't know why they had bothered with a coffin. There hadn't been anything left, of him or Voldemort, and the empty coffin seemed an unnecessary gesture. A memorial service would have done just as well, but then perhaps the coffin was to remind us, all of us, that he was really gone. Forever.

Dumbledore had spoken at the funeral, and he was the first to drop a white rose onto the empty coffin, followed by a handful of dirt. He looked old, older than I ever remembered him looking, or maybe it was just my own grief that put extra lines in his face, comparing him to happier memories. Ron was next, Harry's best friend, and he gave my hand a reassuring squeeze before repeating the actions the Headmaster had just performed. He was pale, and his freckles stood out against the whiteness of his skin, making him look as though someone had gone berserk with an orange marker on his face. The notion struck me as funny, but my grief was too deep for the humor to make more than a dent.

We were all grieving, even those who hadn't known Harry all that well. As I stepped up to the grave, I happened to look up, and was surprised by the sheer number of people who had turned up for the burial. More than had come to the funeral, it seemed, but it was hard to tell. He'd touched so very many people. It was still hard to believe he and Voldemort had killed each other, but then the funeral, the burial of the empty coffin, was enough to remind us all that the worst had happened, Harry Potter was really dead.

I must have been crying, though I don't remember doing so, because the next thing I knew Ron was looking down at me with his grief-stricken eyes and offering me a tissue. "Are you all right, Hermione?" he asked, concerned, and I was aware that I was staring at him, with what I imagined was a rather stupid expression.

"Thank you, Ron," was what I replied, taking the tissue and using it to dab at my eyes, though I'm not sure it helped in the slightest. "How are you holding up?" I really didn't want to discuss my own emotional state, and it was so much easier to turn the question back at him than to answer it.

No sooner had the words left my mouth than I wanted them back. Ron had never been any good at hiding his emotions (none of us had been; I rather suspect it was something common to Gryffindors), and he'd taken Harry's death hard, not surprisingly. His expression seemed almost to fold in on itself, as if he'd been wearing a paper mask to hide his pain and was casting it aside at last, revealing all of his grief at once. I felt vaguely guilty, as if I'd punched him in the stomach, and looked down with the pretense of dabbing some more at my eyes, and eventually I heard his reply, "I still can't believe it's true."

There was a lot of that sentiment going around, and I nodded in agreement, though the gesture was mechanical. I wondered how much of the procession we were expected to watch, before it occurred to me that of course being Harry's best friends we were probably expected to stay until the end. Was it wrong of me to want to go sooner? Was I being a bad friend? A bad Gryffindor? The brave thing to do would be to stick it out no matter what, but I was sick of being brave. I knew what came of being brave: more coffins.

I hadn't been aware of moving all that far away from the grave, but when I looked up to search the crowd for Dumbledore, I saw that we were nearly on the edge of the mass of people. The Hogwarts Headmaster was nowhere to be seen, although I really wasn't surprised by this; there were plenty of people his height in the crowd. What did surprise me was that Ron was no longer at my side, and it took longer than I expected to spot his flame-bright hair some distance to my right. How long had I been absorbed in my own thoughts, I wondered, to not have noticed?

Deciding I'd stayed long enough, I began moving closer to the fringes, and the press of people lessened the farther away from Harry's empty coffin I got. I hadn't realized until I broke free that I'd been feeling a bit claustrophobic, not something that normally happened to me, but with all the other stress I supposed it was to be expected. After a moment spent catching my breath, I spared one last glance for the mourners and prepared to Apparate away from the cemetery, only to be startled when a hand touched my arm.

"I'm sorry, Granger." The words rang hollow in my ears, if only because Draco Malfoy had been apologizing practically every other word for three days now. I was tired of hearing it, tired of thinking, tired of the world in general, the world that had allowed one of my dearest friends to be killed in a single act of bravery.

"Let go of me, Malfoy," I replied. My patience had worn thin, and no matter how many times he said he was sorry, I was convinced, right at that moment, that I would never believe him. He let go, his expression unreadable as always, and I Apparated back to the funeral parlor, where I could catch a bus home to my parents' house. Home, where I could lie in my bed and sleep at last, and with any luck not dream.