Hermione had never been to a funeral before, magical or otherwise, so she couldn't say how normal the funeral of Albus Dumbledore was. She suspected the venue was unusual, however, as was the particularly youthful attendance. The entirety of Hogwarts' student body was politely sat by the Black Lake, with the handful of adult staff only filling out the front two rows. Hand-selected, on-duty Aurors flanked the proceedings at strategic points, though their bowed heads and deferential postures identified them as mourners, too.
There were gestures from the merpeople and centaurs and other non-human residents of Hogwarts' grounds, but that was all. Dumbledore would receive no stately pomp and circumstance. Not even the Minister for Magic was welcome anymore. Hogwarts was a fortress now, and Headmistress McGonagall would not entertain open borders, not even to honour the life of the greatest wizard who ever lived. Those who wished to stay at the school would stay, and those who wished to leave would not be allowed to return, regardless of who they were or how much they begged. In the days since Dumbledore's death, Wizarding Britain had destabilised to such a degree that the Order no longer trusted the Ministry enough to maintain social order. Hermione suspected Voldemort was making aggressive moves to seize the government; she couldn't imagine what else could motivate such a strict, unforgiving policy.
But she would find out soon enough. When, precisely, had yet to be determined, but Headmistress McGonagall had made it very clear that whilst they spent their summer at Hogwarts, Harry, Ron, and Hermione would be formally inducted to the Order of the Phoenix. Finally, they would no longer be stuck trying to force ill-fitting puzzle pieces together. Hermione had high hopes for the next few months; with no schoolwork to occupy her, she would manage this new intelligence and work out strategies for the Order. Perhaps Ron might help; he'd revealed himself to be quite good at it, at least on the Quidditch pitch.
Several rows ahead, Hagrid blew his nose, drowning out the eulogy. Hermione's temper flared; his enormous back was blocking the view for everyone unfortunate enough to be seated behind him. As usual, Hagrid was oblivious to the inconvenience he caused, or the rudeness of his dramatic sobs and sneezes. She still hadn't quite forgiven him for causing her to lose the Resurrection Stone for the sake of his reckless nonsense.
Her unexpectedly vicious mood was not how she would have expected to spend Dumbledore's funeral, though she suspected her feelings were nothing compared to Harry's. He was sat beside her, looking both empty and angry, and there was a hard edge to his jaw which hadn't relaxed in several days, not since Ron had discreetly escorted her to the boys' dormitory to find Harry sitting on his bed, looking murderous.
Before him had sat the innocuous pendant, its long chain twisting over the rivulets in the scarlet bedsheets. The front of it had been opened, and Hermione had immediately been suspicious of the unblemished metal and generally tame nature of the thing. The parchment inside had confirmed the worst, and Harry had not yet recovered from the blow.
For once, she didn't blame him. How disgustingly unfair it was for Dumbledore to have died like that, and all for nothing. Harry's descriptions haunted her; she couldn't imagine what it was like for him to have actual memories of everything they'd gone through to get their hands on this perfect, useless decoy.
She let out a long breath and watched how it slightly disturbed the draping of her black robes. The weather was almost comically lovely. It made her want a thunderstorm instead — anything to mirror just how wrongly everything had gone. They had no right to be so comfortable.
But the sunlight shone, and the merpeople sang their ethereal songs, and Hermione watched, choked, as Dumbledore's body was hidden away forever. Something about the finality of it struck her and she reached for Harry and Ron's hands as the tears finally came.
When it was over, Hermione found herself near the centre of the large crowd now dissipating in different directions. Most were trudging back to the castle, embracing each other, but others were lingering, or drifting off towards the lake with their friends. Hermione saw those bracing themselves for tearful farewells. It was so easy to tell who was leaving, and who was staying behind.
Hermione had prepared herself to say goodbye to a handful of acquaintances, though she knew her closest friends would all be staying. She wandered the corridors, watching as the sun made its way across the sky and changed the angles of light striking the portraits. When it came time for her to say goodbye to the castle, she wasn't sure how she would do it. She didn't envy those leaving, despite the longing she felt to go out and act more decisively against the forces wreaking havoc outside the castle's walls.
Determined footsteps came towards her, then, and Hermione turned, expecting to find a housemate or distant peer come to say goodbye. Instead, she found a face she hadn't thought about in over a year, looking determined and furious, with the faint letters still visible beneath the charms and cosmetics. SNEAK.
"Hello, Hermione," greeted Marietta with a kind of precarious politeness that left Hermione speechless. "I just thought that, seeing as I'm leaving and you've never bothered to talk to me, I'd have a word with you before I go away forever." Marietta swallowed; her hands were trembling. "Not that you ever asked, but I just wanted you to know that I did it — I did it for my mum. You see, she works — worked at the Ministry. I'm only a half-blood — my dad's parents are Muggles — and so I did it to protect her job, alright? B-but — but it doesn't even matter, because they've killed her anyway."
Marietta was breathing shakily, barely keeping the tears at bay. "She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, apparently, but it doesn't really matter, does it? Wasn't even worth it, in the end. My dad and I have to go into hiding now, so I hope you and Potter win, or whatever, and make all of this mean something, because right now, it's all pretty fucking useless. And," she snarled, the ferocious bitterness making Hermione lean backwards as Marietta's spit landed on Hermione's front, "for your sake, Granger, I hope this" — she gestured to her own face — "is the worst thing you ever do."
Marietta turned away, then, and stormed off around the corner. Her footsteps were uneven, and Hermione could hear them echoing as the sobs caught up with her; Marietta was crying as she ran away, leaving Hogwarts behind.
Hermione swallowed, turned the other way, and walked to the Great Hall with shaking hands.
Dinner felt different that night, as everyone looked around to take stock of who was left. Most of the seventh years — like Marietta — had chosen to depart, though a few remained. Hermione wondered if they would simply mill around the castle, now that they were done with school, or if the headmistress would utilise them somehow. She didn't blame them for wanting to take advantage of Hogwarts' security.
Hermione couldn't speak for the other houses, but the Gryffindor table was noticeably sparser. The younger years, in particular, had been reduced to only a handful of names. From her own year, Parvati was gone, and she spotted a similar vacancy at the Ravenclaw table. Lavender looked bereft, having lost her best friend and Cormac in the same day, and Hermione promised herself she would be a bit kinder to her roommate.
Seamus was gone. Hermione suspected to Ireland, where his family had better luck of hiding than in Britain. As a half-blood with direct Muggle parentage, he was at high risk of being targeted, and Hermione prayed he would get away before it was too late. A few seats down, Dean was sat, eyes blotchy, and Hermione's heart broke all over again for the families and loved ones torn apart by this madness. She wouldn't see her parents again until this was all over, she knew. But when she looked around the Great Hall, she knew there were many others in her position, and that meant something, didn't it?
She hated to leave — it felt almost rude to do so — but the Moon would rise soon, and so she quietly removed herself from the Great Hall, selfishly grateful to be away from the low chatter and funereal hangings. The whole castle was draped in black, it seemed. It was suffocating; she hated the sound of her own breaths as she made her way to the dungeons. Everything had been so quiet since Dumbledore died.
To her surprise, the lab was empty when she arrived. She couldn't remember the last time she'd got there before Draco, and a sudden panic seized her. What if he couldn't brew anymore? If he couldn't come up with an adequate excuse for why he still cared about an extracurricular Potions project, it could be too dangerous for him to come to the lab every day. Could she do it on her own? How was she supposed to cope with any of this without him here, with her, in theirlaboratory?
She stood dumbly by the workbench, stricken, until the door opened.
"Sorry I'm late," he apologised quietly, "had to — oh!"
Her arms were around him before he could explain what had kept him for those long, torturous minutes. Head buried in his chest, she wished she could smell him through the Bubble-Head and was surprised to find fresh tears in her eyes. How much crying could be done in one day? It was exhausting, and she didn't think it would ever be enough to properly get rid of all this misery.
He held her like that for a long time, the only sound between them being the rustling of their clothes against each other and their long, heavy breaths. If she ever got her hands on another Time Turner, she would come back to this moment, she decided. When everything was still and safe, and she could pretend it was just the two of them forever, away from the grief and the terror.
She hoped Draco felt it, too, even when his breathing changed too soon, and he softly pulled away. "Come on, the Moon is up," he whispered, and she knew he was afraid of breaking the little spell they'd created, too. "Let's get to work."
They brought the silver cauldron to a boil and sat together quietly. Hermione undid her black robes, relieved to feel cooler air on her skin and to be rid of the heavy burden of grieving. Draco followed suit and rolled up his right cuff, revealing the sinewy length of his unblemished forearm. Hermione undid the top buttons of her shirt, shifting herself so that the fabric didn't touch her scar so much. It had been aching and irritated for days now; she barely registered the pain anymore.
"I'd never heard merpeople sing before," he said suddenly, thoughtful. "Or a phoenix cry, either."
Hermione rested her chin on her palm. "Harry had told me what they sounded like — the merpeople, that is — since he heard it during the Triwizard Tournament, but I didn't think it would be like that, either." The candlelight cast curious shadows across the wooden worktop; she watched them until purple shapes slithered across her vision. "Did you see what the centaurs did? The arrow salute?"
"I tried, but I couldn't see…"
"Hagrid?" Hermione scoffed. "His wailing was unbearable."
"Oh, thank Merlin, I was worried you'd hate me for saying it."
Hermione gave him a wicked look. "Maybe another day I will, but I think I'm in a terrible mood, and Hagrid will simply have to tolerate it, like we tolerated him ruining the funeral of one of the most important wizards of all time."
Draco surveyed her curiously. "I don't think I've ever seen you like this before. Should I be worried? You won't hex me on my way to bed, will you?"
Hermione remembered a day a long, long time ago when she'd threatened him in Snape's pantry. The notion of hurting Draco was preposterous now, and she laughed. "I don't think I've ever been in this mood before. How often does everything completely fall apart like this?" Everything about her was bitter, and she regretted saying it as soon as she saw the shuttered, cautious look on Draco's face.
"Are things really that bad?" he asked. He must have seen Harry's demeanour, too. Hermione was tempted to lie, to tell him that she was overreacting, that Harry was just as equipped to win this as before Dumbledore had been taken by a decades-old booby trap, but Draco deserved the truth as much as anyone. His life, after all, now depended on it as much as hers.
"It's not good," she admitted, "but… but it will be, eventually." She was surprised to find she meant it.
Draco nodded and she got the feeling he was desperate for news. With only the Prophet for guidance now that he was no longer a regular guest of Voldemort, Hermione couldn't imagine how murky the future must seem to him. She, at least, knew the direction they were going in, and had the power to do something about it. Draco was a sitting duck, isolated and ignorant for his own protection. Hermione would have gone mad in his position.
"I think it's nearly done…" Draco peered into the cauldron, the rising steam outlining the edge of his Bubble-Head in purple mist.
They resumed their wait in silence. Hermione found it difficult; she couldn't stop oscillating from restlessness to exhaustion to fear to the unshakeable need to make lists. She would spend the next week before the Full Moon researching to try and work out who on Earth this "R.A.B." might be, and then, hopefully, official Order intelligence would point her in the right direction.
The Wolfsbane shifted, settling into its completed state. Hermione evaluated it, ascertaining the viscosity and deep indigo colour were both within the acceptable, nonlethal range. Only then did she do away with the charm on her head and gratefully push hair out of her eyes, breathing in the odd aroma of well-brewed Wolfsbane. Perhaps if she ever saw Remus again, she'd ask him if the taste was comparable to the smell. She could hardly test it herself, not unless she fancied aconite poisoning.
It occurred to her then that she may not ever see Remus again, not if Hogwarts was truly as locked down as McGonagall said. The thought was a sad one. And if he died, there would be no need to brew the Wolfsbane —
What a selfish thought.
But she couldn't help it; she was greedy for this time with Draco. For nearly two years now they'd been brewing this potion together. Hundreds and hundreds of hours of sweating and stirring and pruning. It was entirely possible, she thought, that when she looked back on her latter Hogwarts years, it would be this that she remembered most.
Assuming she lived that long.
She sealed the silver flask with care. If she could not see Remus, at least she could do this for him. Draco took the ladle and swiftly cleaned it whilst she did the same to the cauldron, the carved wolf watching them from atop the flask. When it was done, she surveyed the tidy little lab with a frown. Restless.
"Are you ready to go?" asked Draco; she saw the curious darkness in his eyes as he surveyed her and that impatient ball of something in her suddenly ignited with purpose.
"No." Professor Snape could wait a little longer for their delivery. Within seconds, Draco was upon her, and her arms wrapped fiercely around his neck, clinging to him as she kissed him with everything she had. In the week since they'd gone through that tunnel, their only time together had been spent in shock or utterly consumed by the potion's needs whilst their heads were safely ensconced in protective magic. Now, all that was gone, the shock had faded into desperation, and when his arms came around her waist, she moaned into him like it was Christmas night all over again.
Everything was magnified; every part of him felt hotter than it should, like her skin was twenty degrees colder than usual. She felt herself shivering, too, but her insides were molten. Her back bumped the edge of the workbench and, a second later, she was lifted onto it. Her legs parted and wrapped around his hips, holding him captive against her, though he hardly seemed tempted to leave. Instead, he leaned over her, one arm braced on the table whilst the other held her neck, keeping her still and steady while he ravished her mouth. Her fingers were in his hair — his shirt — clawing at his chest — desperate to bring him infinitely closer to her, so close that he could never go away again.
The palm against her neck was replaced by his mouth, the same second she felt his fingers on her bare calf. After a moment's hesitation, he gripped the back of her knee, tugging her an inch closer to the edge of the table, pulling her even closer against his front. Sounds came unbidden from Hermione's throat — desperate pleas and gasps as his tongue did sinful things to her neck and his fingers crept upwards, past her knee. His palm swept along her bare thigh, exploring the long expanse of flesh there, beneath her clothes. She could sense his hesitancy, waiting for her permission or rejection; she answered by arching against him so that he groaned against her collarbone.
His hand darted up, finally, to where her thigh met her pelvis. She whined against his cheek, barely hanging on to her own sanity. He was going to take her apart from the inside out, and she was desperate to let him.
But when his fingers toyed with the edge of her knickers, teasing, she found herself staring at the bookcase on the opposite wall. The silver scales on it were wobbling; had they bumped it? The lab was so tiny — not exactly the ideal location for sex.
"Wait," she gasped, her cheek pressed against his as he explored her collarbone with his lips. "Wait. Stop."
He stilled; she could feel his laboured breaths, hot against her throat. "Stop?"
"N-not like this." She pushed herself up to sitting; he withdrew his hands from her quickly, instead moving them to the benchtop to support his weight. Her legs loosened from around him and dangled limply instead. "Not like this. Not today."
"Not today," he repeated, licking his lips. Draco was deliciously flushed, and her fingers had left his hair in such disarray; he looked like he'd just been flying.
For a second, she wondered if he would be upset with her, but once he'd caught his breath, he smiled at her with such warmth she couldn't stop herself from wrapping her arms around his middle, drawing him close in a gentle hug. His hands rubbed up and down her back and righted her clothes, covering the part of her shoulder he'd exposed with his desperate lips.
"Come on, then," he sighed as he unwound her arms from his torso. "Let's go before Snape comes looking."
"Don't make me think about that," Hermione teased as she slid off the table onto wobbly legs. She averted her eyes as Draco sorted out his own clothes and instead pretended to adjust the freshly cleaned tools in the leather roll.
They donned their black robes again and Hermione felt the heavy weight of grief settle across her shoulders as they left the laboratory. The castle was hushed as they brought the potion through the dungeons; even the portraits seemed to be observing a mournful silence.
Hermione averted Professor Snape's eyes as they handed over the potion. He dismissed them with a nod, and Hermione began the long procession back to her tower. How strange it felt to be doing that in July.
Draco's hand found hers in the shadow between them and squeezed her fingers gently before they separated. Hermione thought about the sweet heat of his hand around hers all the way to the tower and hoped it would be enough to carry her to the Full Moon.
