This is a bit short. Everyone was still in depression mode, since it was only a week after the Battle. In the seventh book, Harry often felt a bit alone when Ron and Hermione were having their moments. I decided to create a little one like that, but ultimately, I wanted to keep the friendship between them strong. After all, they were all friends before Ron and Hermione began crushing on each other. So, enjoy. Reviews are most welcome. :)
Drawing up the guest list was no feat. Not that she didn't know who to invite (though that was, in itself, an extremely difficult task, given the foul impression most had of Snape), but that she was reminded constantly of the time when she drew up guest lists with her mother for her seventh birthday. She remembered how she had insisted on a bushy-haired theme, just to make sure no one could tease her about her uncontrollable hair. The smiles of her parents now floated before her, only to vanish when she tried hard to see them properly.
Her parents. They were now safely tucked away in Australia, oblivious to the fact that they had a daughter back in England, who suffered what no person of her age should have endured. A blow hit her heart as the fear of not being to be reunited with her parents struck her. No, she shook her head, focus at the task at hand. She could think about her parents later. She'd waited for more than a year; it couldn't hurt to wait one more month.
She knew that it would not do to just invite anyone to the funeral – Snape's story had to be explained first. Hermione flinched at the idea of having to talk to Skeeter again. Perhaps there was someone else she could talk to about this? Surely, there must be someone.
Hermione was sitting in Ron's bedroom in The Burrow, drawing up the list of possible guests, whilst Harry wrote down a list of possible locations in which to hold the funeral. Ron lay in his bed, snoring lightly in the afternoon sun. Funeral matters aside, Hermione was extremely worried about Ron, and this concern was mirrored in Harry's eyes. When Ron was awake, he stared only emptily at them, occasionally a cloud of despair and guilt would crowd in his eyes; when he was asleep, his brows knitted tightly together, the trace of a tear lingering in the corner of his eye.
"Blimey; I'm starving. I'm getting a snack; Hermione, you want some? I'll bring it up here." said Harry, throwing the parchment off his lap and stretching as he stood.
"No, I'll be alright. Thanks. I think I've got pretty much everyone in this list. When you come up we'll cross out the bad ones," replied Hermione, as she ran her eyes over the list on her parchment. Ron began to stir after Harry had gone downstairs. "Er-my-nee?"
Smiling at the way he always said her name whenever he woke up, she turned to look at him: "Afternoon, sleepyhead."
"What time is it?"
"Just a bit past three. You fell asleep after lunch."
"Blimey… why didn't you wake me up?"
"I thought.. a bit of sleep might do you good."
"Oh." Past his initial protest, Ron withdrew back to his sullen self, eyes masked by emptiness.
Seeing this, Hermione decided that the guest list could wait. She reached over and took his hand in hers. "Want to talk about it? You know it's impossible for you to carry on like this for the rest of your life. Think of how… how Fred would feel, seeing you like this." She was unsure whether she had gone too far, but she stood her ground. She would not take back what she said. It was the truth. He simply stared at the hand that held his, as if her knuckles were a new wonder to behold. Much to her surprise, Ron raised her hand and pressed it against his lips. She knew her cheeks ought to flame at this; but they didn't. Instead, tears came to her eyes. She felt heat flowing down her hand as she saw that he, too, was shedding his share of tears.
It had been a week since the Battle of Hogwarts (as they call it now, the Daily Prophet) and Ron had not shed a tear since they were at Hagrid's cottage. Not until now. Now, positioned in the strangest way possible, Ron cried into Hermione's hands, whilst her own tears strained her cheeks. Together, they mourned for Fred, for all who had died, for the part of themselves that was lost with the War. A click sounded as the door opened and closed again.
Harry, coming into the room and seeing Ron holding Hermione's hand, knew that it was best for him to leave them alone. He closed the door again, collapsed against the wall and slid down until he sat on the floor, his back against the wall. Fred, Lupin, Tonks, Mad-eye, Snape, Dumbledore, Sirius, Cedric, his father, his mother. He closed his eyes as the ghost of their faces flew before him, tears finally breaking free. Previously, he'd not allowed himself to break loose like this – he somehow felt that by letting the free reign of his tears he would disappoint others. He was the Chosen One, a sort of a symbol; and symbols didn't cry. Symbols stayed strong and remained standing. Symbols didn't break down. But seeing his friends in tears had done it.
Hermione had heard the door click. She looked towards the door and knew that it was their best friend. Ron had heard too. Standing up, their hands firmly clasped in each other's, they walked outside to find their friend in tearful misery. They sat down around him and together, the three held each other's hands and mourned.