The journey back took forever and no time at all. Nobody spoke except for Madame Pomfrey, who muttered to herself about the diagnostic tests and potions she would subject them to, and the occasional, aggressive questioning. Did they feel chills? Numbness? Nausea? Any dizziness or disorientation? Hermione loathed to think what sort of treatments they would have to endure before being allowed to return to their dorms. She wanted nothing more than to be safely ensconced in her bed, and yet the thought of being alone terrified her.

Hermione's legs wobbled as they emerged from the portrait. She was the only one who took a moment to look back to Ariana and return her wave. The girl in the painting looked solemn, and Hermione couldn't help but think of the Grey Lady. Both were silent and mysteriously tragic; Hermione wondered who Ariana was, if she had been real. There was something about her that made Hermione think she may as well have been a ghost trapped in canvas and paint.

The other portraits of the castle were stirring, restless, and they whispered and pointed at the small group processing to the Hospital Wing. Hermione wondered if they sensed something had changed. The castle's magic was so far beyond her understanding.

The Hospital Wing was also empty when they arrived, giving Hermione the impression that they were the only people in the entire castle, or even the entire world. They all sat together on one bed, Hermione sandwiched between Harry and Draco, and Madame Pomfrey did not hide her exasperation when she faced them, ready to ascertain just how distressed they were. Hermione didn't care. To feel them on either side of her kept her still.

She couldn't guess what time it was. Certainly well past midnight. If the sun had begun to show itself through the tall windows, she wouldn't have been surprised. As it was, it remained dark enough it seemed even the candles couldn't keep it at bay.

They were indeed evaluated thoroughly. The diagnostic spells wrapped around and slithered through her, causing all sorts of discomfort. The Calming Draught unwound that frightened, trembling creature which shivered somewhere too deep to name, though, and she felt the first suggestion of real fatigue. She would crash soon.

Instead of releasing them to their respective beds, however, Madame Pomfrey escorted them through the many hollow corridors, each seemingly longer than the last, to the familiar door of Professor McGonagall's office. When it opened, she found Professor McGonagall and the rest of the staff, all frozen as if in a Muggle painting.

"A bit shaken, Minerva, but they're alright," reported Madame Pomfrey. All her vigour had been exhausted; she just sounded forlorn. "I've given them each some Dreamless Sleep to take with them."

Professor McGonagall stood from her desk, her movements laboured. It cued the rest of the professors — except for Snape — to suddenly mobilise; they filed past the three of them, out the door, no doubt to implement whatever it was Professor McGonagall had instructed. Hermione, Draco, and Harry were ushered in in their stead, and Madame Pomfrey was dismissed with a grateful "Thank you, Poppy."

Standing in a line before Professor McGonagall's desk, Hermione couldn't shake the feeling that this was yet another scolding for reckless mischief, only with Draco in the place of Ron. It was an odd swap. She didn't dwell on it.

"I won't keep you long." Professor McGonagall surveyed them, and for the first time, Hermione didn't feel like a child under her gaze. "I merely think it's appropriate to inform you first, before the rest of the school, and with the strict understanding that you are not to tell anyone before the official announcements are made tomorrow. Am I understood?" They nodded. "Hogwarts has always had strict protocols in place. Headmasters have — have passed away" — her voice broke — "before, of course, though I think there are few with living memory of it! The castle, though, remembers, and as Deputy Headmistress, I will be the one to take over the duties of the position. Given the current climate, the staff agrees that searching for a new candidate would almost certainly make a delicate situation worse, and that is an added instability we simply cannot afford.

"The role of Head of Gryffindor will be assigned to another staff member, to avoid a conflict of interest. The details will be announced tomorrow. Now, before I send you to bed, is there anything I can do for you?"

Hermione was momentarily stunned by the question. What did she need? She wasn't sure, but she didn't think Professor McGonagall could provide it. She was unsettled, too, by the unmoving presence of Professor Snape. Neither she nor Harry nor Draco said anything, and just when Hermione thought they would be dismissed, Professor — HeadmistressMcGonagall stood with long, weary movements, and moved around her desk until they were standing face-to-face. She'd been asleep when Aberforth had called; it was clear in the disarray of her hair and the mismatching robes. Despite the time that had passed since then, she'd clearly not felt the need to fix any of it.

"Take the Dreamless Sleep," she advised kindly. "None of us will get enough sleep tonight — or for quite some time, I think, so we must do what we can. There will be ample time to grieve. Let these next few hours be sacred."

Without words, Hermione felt herself shuffled out the door, shoulders and arms bumping against Harry and Draco beside her. She almost couldn't tell whom was whom, anymore. Then, the door shut behind them, and they were on their own for the first time.

Her breaths felt deeper now, but fraught with an untameable emotion she didn't want to provoke here and now. If she could just make it to Gryffindor Tower, and take her potion, then she could make it to the morning in one piece.

It would be preposterous to try anything else. There was nothing that could be said, or done, and she wished she could have told him so before Harry opened his mouth.

"Hey, Malfoy?"

Hermione was staring blankly ahead and could barely catch the boys' shifting body language in her periphery.

"Yes?"

A contemplative silence.

"I just… After everything you've said… about him, the school… are you happy he's gone?"

For the first time, Hermione wanted to scream. To properly wail until she felt it in her guts and her throat bled. It was a ridiculous question, and if it weren't for the quiet, speculative nature of his voice, she would have accused Harry of looking for a fight. It wouldn't be out of character for him; a year ago (had it only been a year ago?) when Sirius had died, by all accounts Harry had nearly gone mad from it.

She wanted to cry and screech until the corridors echoed with it forever because she couldn't deny that she washappy Dumbledore had died. When she had seen his body laid out there on the tables, cold and grey, she'd felt horror and fear and relief so potent she could have collapsed.

Draco was safe now.

What would Dumbledore have thought of her for feeling such things at his death?

"No."

She thought she'd hallucinated it. Draco's answer was strong, though his voice was soft and a little husky from misuse. He offered no explanation. Just, no.

Harry must have been satisfied, though, because then he thanked him. "For coming with Hermione, I mean." Hermione got the distinct impression she had ceased to exist. "It probably wouldn't have been good if she'd come to Hogsmeade by herself... So, thanks, Malfoy."

Before anyone could say anything else, the door behind them opened again and Hermione knew without looking that it was Professor Snape. "Mr Malfoy, a word?"

Hermione and Harry began the long journey to the tower with heavy, even footsteps and low breaths. They didn't speak; the castle's silence felt alive with feeling. Hermione imagined the heavy blackness of the night as funeral draping, with she and Harry as the sole members of a long procession to an end she didn't know. Tonight was sacred, McGonagall had said. A brief window through which Hermione could see the world as it had been, whilst knowing that it never would be again.

The Fat Lady let them in without expecting a password. Hermione didn't think she'd ever seen that before, even when Cedric had died, or proof of Voldemort's return had thrown the castle into despair and chaos.

She felt Harry's absence keenly when they separated. Alone with only her sleeping peers, that heavy emotion began to claw its way up, perilously near the point of no return. Hermione knocked back the entire dose of Dreamless Sleep and dropped the vial carelessly onto the floor, already halfway through tearing off her clothes.

Hermione crawled into bed in only her underwear and sent a grateful prayer when the heavy bedding dragged her to sleep moments before the anguished, frightful beast inside could open its lungs.

The quiet bustling of morning activity pulled her out of the grey haze of weak sleep. The light diffusing through the windows was faint. Dawn had barely crept across the horizon. It was not too dark, however, to require candles; the other girls in the dorm were all quietly dressing themselves in the shadowy light.

"Oh, good, you're up," remarked Lavender with relief as she tied up part of her hair. "I was worried we'd have to wake you soon."

Hermione pushed herself up into a seated position, uncaring of the fact she was wearing only a bra. The air was cold, and she immediately missed being cocooned in her bed.

"Something's happened," Lavender explained as she hurried to dress. "We've been told to wait in the common room for some sort of announcement, so you should probably put robes on. I wonder what's going on?"

Hermione threw on the same dirty robes she'd been wearing the night before, though they did nothing to keep out the chill. She felt so profoundly cold, like all the blankets in the world wouldn't be able to keep her warm. Her legs were numb as she followed her dormmates to the crowded common room. In fact, she couldn't feel any part of her body at all.

She found herself on a sofa next to Ron, who was surveying the common room with alert curiosity.

"Hello," he greeted. Far too chipper, in Hermione's opinion.

"Hello."

"What's wrong with you?"

She didn't bother explaining; there would be no point soon enough. Instead, she maintained her empty stare in the middle-distance and wondered when feeling would return to her extremities.

"Hang on." Ron swore and the accusation was plain in his voice as he exclaimed, "You know. You know what this is about!"

"Don't."

"But —"

Her glare cut him short. "Please," she begged, "you'll find out soon enough."

Ron grit his teeth. She imagined that in his position, she wouldn't tolerate it, either, but there must have been something in her face which prevented him from interrogating her further. Instead, he said, "Harry left already. When we were woken up, Nearly Headless Nick told him that McGonagall needs to speak with him."

Hermione wondered what for. Perhaps to gather more details about what exactly happened, this time without curious ears close by. It seemed cruel not to allow Harry even half a night's rest, though Hermione understood why.

The dull noise around her suddenly clarified into language. The students old enough to remember were comparing it to the Chamber of Secrets, and nervously wondering if Hogwarts was to be closed. Dimly, Hermione wondered the same thing, but Professor McGonagall's voice, low and sturdy, echoed in her head once again.

Dumbledore may fall, but Hogwarts will not.

The thought buoyed her, even when the chatter hushed as the portrait swung open to admit Professor Sinistra, coming through the hole almost elegantly. She surveyed the crowd around her, a serious frown drawing her features downwards. She had that same fatigue about her that Hermione felt, too, but it was easily disguised by her usual air of thoughtful otherness. Hermione had been intrigued by the Astronomy professor since Hermione had first met her. Whilst her pupils struggled to keep themselves awake for her late night and early morning lessons, Professor Sinistra seemed to thrive in the night. Hermione often thought Professor Sinistra seemed to run on different time than the rest of them.

The entirety of Gryffindor House shifted anxiously, unsure of what to expect, and Hermione savoured that brief, breathless moment before it all came crashing down.

In retrospect, Professor Sinistra was the ideal candidate to act in McGonagall's stead. Hermione couldn't imagine Hagrid, or Madame Hooch, delivering the news with the low, steady metre of Professor Sinistra's resonant voice. Perhaps without her, there might have been outrage, or chaos, but here there was only shock and grief. Hermione heard whimpers as this new reality was outlined before them: As McGonagall ascended to the role of headmistress, Professor Sinistra would take over the duties of Head of Gryffindor. Hogsmeade visits were cancelled indefinitely. End-of-year exams would be cancelled, too, except for O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s; and all classes except exam preparation for fifth and seventh years were to be cancelled until after the funeral.

A funeral. Hermione hadn't even thought of that, couldn't even conceive it. But that was what happened when people died, wasn't it? And Albus Dumbledore had passed away last night. Of natural causes, they said.

"I suppose he was very old…" mused a student behind Hermione.

Having fulfilled her duty, Professor Sinistra lingered to answer questions from nervous students whilst the rest of the pupils turned to one another in shock. Beside Hermione, Ron looked to her with fear and betrayal in his eyes.

"I'm sure Harry wanted to tell you, but McGonagall told us not to," she told him flatly before he could open his mouth. "It would have been too dangerous. I'm sorry."

Ron worked his jaw. Hermione found herself grateful that she wasn't in his position, to have to learn this all at once, with everybody else, and to feel so distinctly left out. "But why were you there?"

Hermione sighed, pressing her eyes closed tightly. "We'll tell you later, when Harry gets back. Promise." She was developing a headache. When was the last time she'd drunk anything?

It seemed the student body collectively decided to go to the Great Hall all at once. The corridors and stairwells were filled with pupils like it was the first day of term all over again. By the time the crowd arrived at the Great Hall, all the houses were so intermingled Hermione could not have said where the Hufflepuffs ended and the Ravenclaws began. Perhaps it was easier that way, to face the black draping and the heavy veil on the headmaster's vacant chair together. Hermione heard sniffles and wondered when her own grief would come. It seemed that for now, her body was determined to keep going, cold and numb though it was.

Most people sat wherever they pleased, though Hermione and Ron followed habit and sat midway down the Gryffindor Table. Hermione only knew Harry had arrived when a single piece of buttered toast appeared on her empty plate. She looked up from the cup of black tea she'd been staring into and found Harry looking exhausted, yet alert. He smiled at her.

"Don't make me tell Madame Pomfrey you're not eating."

"You wouldn't dare." She bit off a chunk and pretended not to notice Harry shoving his Invisibility Cloak under the table.

"I was in the Headmaster's — well, Headmistress' Office," he explained lowly. "She'll need to speak with the three of us — yes, you, Ron."

"When? Why?"

Harry shrugged. "In the next month, I think. Whenever we're ready…"

Hermione contemplated that as she struggled to finish her single piece of toast. The noise in the Great Hall had taken on an odd cadence; there was crying, laughter, chatter speculating on everything from Quidditch results to funeral music. It made Hermione's headache worse, and her eyes darted to the Slytherin table in search of comfort. It seemed nearly everyone at that table (which had remained nearly pure Slytherin, despite the mingling) was a little more smug, their heads a little higher. She spotted Draco looking tired, more grey than usual, but he sat amongst his year-mates looking just as pompous as the rest of them.

Hermione was considering a second piece of toast when he shifted in her periphery. Having barely touched his breakfast, Draco was excusing himself from the table and walking almost too casually from the Great Hall. There was a shift in the shadows by the door, and Hermione realised he was following Professor Snape.

"Harry, could I use the Cloak?"

Harry swallowed his pumpkin juice. "Why?"

"It's just — I left my bag in the lab last night, and I'd like to go get it, but it's near the dungeons and I'm worried about the Slytherins —"

He discreetly pushed the Cloak into her lap. She got to her feet, trying to obscure the bundled cloak by her robes as she stood. "Thank you. I'll give it back when I see you in the tower?"

She didn't wait for an answer and started in the direction of the door, arms crossed awkwardly to conceal the bundle of fabric she held. As soon as she was out the Great Hall and alone in the corridor, she drew the Cloak around her, and ran after them.