"I'm so glad you got the message." Harry's eyes were flat, his body unmoving as he sat rigid in his chair. He may as well have been a doll, arranged for the benefit of a higher power. "I wasn't sure you'd see it, but I should've known better. You're always prepared…" Then his eyes found Draco and slid into focus. "Oh, right. You were brewing. Sorry."
The barman thunked another stein on the table beside Harry's forearm. Hermione wondered if he'd actually finished his first drink. Her own throat had contorted into a tight knot; she could have been starving to death and would have objected to food. Some things simply didn't matter anymore.
It was foolish to ask, but someone had to. "Harry, what happened?"
Harry's gaze turned to the floor, unfocused, just enough that Hermione was certain some part of the headmaster's robes were in his field of vision. "He took us to this cave…"
Hermione listened as Harry told his tale, offering just enough information without exposing the true purpose of their journey. The cave, the boat, the potion, Dumbledore's order and the horrific bravery it must have taken for Harry to continue to feed this dying old man a potion that had reduced him to a sobbing, quivering child…
And then killed him.
"He protected us from the Inferi," Harry explained softly, "but he was so weak and — and delirious. He told me to bring him here. At first, I thought he just meant Hogsmeade, that maybe it would be easiest to get to the castle that way, but he wanted to come here. To the Hog's Head."
There was a snort from behind the bar. "'Course he did, the selfish old bugger."
"He was talking gibberish," Harry went on, ignoring the gruff old man's commentary. "He kept going on and on, saying that he had to see her again, tell her how sorry he was. I kept asking who he meant, but he wouldn't tell me. It was like — like he thought — like if he didn't get to do that before he died, then he would — I dunno. Be damned."
Hermione had gone cold long ago, her whole body still and unfeeling as waves of fear and frigid reality washed over her, each one submerging her deeper than the last.
"He was so weak, I could barely get him here. And then he just… he was still talking and — and begging, really — and he" — Harry nodded in the direction of the old barman, whose eyes had gone hard — "helped a bit, and sent a Patronus to the castle, but it was… there was nothing we could do anymore." Harry's voice broke and with it, Hermione felt herself break free of the paralysis.
"You did everything you could," she promised, obligatory.
Harry nodded and finally turned to look at the body laid out in front of him. "I think the Felix Felicis is wearing off now."
"You took it?" She'd forgotten it even existed.
"Weird, isn't it? That this was the best outcome? I felt it, though. Everything worked out just right, and I knew everything I had to do. Now, though…" While Hermione couldn't bear to look at the corpse, it seemed Harry couldn't look away.
"If you've lost your nerve, then allow me," growled the barman, his voice deep and sonorous. Hermione didn't remember him being quite so imperious, or tall.
"I'm sorry, sir," she said self-consciously, "I don't believe I know your name."
Hermione did not enjoy the way he smirked, as though this were all some amusing game no-one but him was privy to. "That'll be Aberforth Dumbledore, madam." The three of them gawked, but the gruff old wizard didn't allow them time for much else. "Now, you have a very limited amount of time before the world finds out he's dead, and believe me, you want to have as much control over that situation as you bloody well can. So, before Hogwarts' entire staff beats down my door, where in Merlin's name is his wand?"
Hermione could see Harry return to reality in fits and starts. "He must've dropped it outside, when I apparated us. He could barely walk — I — I basically had to carry him down the street —"
"I'll go get it," declared Hermione, suddenly desperate to be moving, and she was halfway to the door before Aberforth stopped her.
"You'll do no such thing. I'm not sure what you've been told up there, locked away in your castle, but even Hogsmeade isn't safe these days. And you," he scowled at Hermione, "are just about as undesirable as your friend. Go out there and I guarantee you'll be accosted by an unsavoury wizard at best."
"I'll go." Draco's voice was the steadiest of them all. Hermione's heart lurched at the thought, and her eyes struggled to come into focus on Draco, whose jaw was set and posture rigid. Suddenly, she felt completely helpless. Dumbledore was dead, and there was nothing she could do here to protect the people she loved.
Aberforth considered it a moment but didn't argue that Draco was the most logical choice of the three of them. Hermione wondered what he thought would happen if Aberforth himself ventured outside. Was it so dangerous for him, too? Or did he think the three students in his pub would run off with the body of his brother, never to be seen again?
"Best take the Cloak," Harry said flatly, "otherwise if people see him, they'll think he did it." Hermione suddenly noticed the heap of silvery fabric draped over the chair beside Harry. Without questioning, Draco picked it up and drew it around his shoulders, obscuring everything below his neck. Hermione hadn't told him about Harry's Invisibility Cloak, the nature of it or where it had come from, but there was hardly time now. She wished she could read his thoughts; his expression was unreadable, and then completely invisible as he drew up the hood of the Cloak and the door opened and closed seemingly on its own, offering a moment's glimpse to the dark street outside.
Hermione imagined the cool night air must feel nicer than the stuffy interior of the Hog's Head. She imagined, too, that despite the horrors unfolding before them, Draco must have been feeling that same, shameful relief that he had been spared the task of murder.
The bell rang dully as the door shut, disturbing the sombre quiet which hung heavily in the air. No-one felt the need to talk, it seemed, whilst Dumbledore's wand was retrieved from the cobblestones. For the first time, Hermione allowed herself to look at the body. Properly look.
He seemed taller, oddly, laid across the tables. His robes were discoloured in places, corroborating Harry's tale of water and fire. His skin was unearthly pale, and when Hermione finally brought herself to look to the face, she was struck by the looseness of his features. How long had he been carrying pain in his eyes, in the tightness of his lips? For the first time, Hermione realised the magnitude of the agony he must have been in; both because of the slow rot of his hand, and the knowledge of his impending death in the exposition of a war which was already tipped out of their favour.
Looking at him now made her feel eleven again, awed by the presence of the greatest wizard in centuries. Albus Dumbledore, who held all the answers and the most expansive knowledge and power, who could always be turned to when a Basilisk roamed the walls or children lay bleeding in the Ministry's depths. In Death, he was fully succumbed to his human frailty, yet still he held more inherent power than Hermione could conceive.
And now, he was gone.
A muted knock on the door nearly sent Hermione into a fit of terror. Harry, by contrast, was still too shocked to move at all, while Aberforth strode to the door unbothered. Hermione couldn't hear what he said as he cracked the door, but he must have been satisfied, because he opened it wide and admitted nothing at all. After it had shut, Draco appeared in the middle of the room. He rid himself of the Cloak in a quick motion and folded it on the back of the chair where it had originally been. Then, with a seriousness Hermione hadn't expected, he took several short strides to the makeshift altar and laid the familiar length of Dumbledore's wand beside the crippled black remnants of his right hand.
Hermione knew nothing of wizarding burial customs, but the act felt far too significant for the dingy darkness of the Hog's Head.
Harry was in too much shock to do anything but sit and stare. Draco resumed his position beside her, similarly silent, and Aberforth lingered by the door, eyeing the shuttered windows.
But Hermione couldn't keep still. If she tried, she would explode.
"You said you contacted the castle?" she queried, her voice sounding inappropriately loud in the hollow silence.
"Aye, I sent a Patronus. I imagine they'll be a little while yet."
"They're walking?" Hermione gawked. "Why not just use the Floo?"
"Haven't got one, have I? And I intend to keep it that way. I'll not have people appearing in my establishment whenever they please. You either come through the door, like everyone else, or Ariana will let you in."
Hermione ignored the wave from the aforementioned portrait. She didn't know who "they" were, or who knew Dumbledore's brother (or that he even had a brother!) well enough to take a summons seriously in the middle of the night, or even what he'd told them at all. Could it be possible that no-one would come 'til morning, when they realised three students and the headmaster were missing?
She was halfway to convincing herself to steal the Cloak and run back to the castle herself, her fingers frantically toying with her sleeves as she tried to rein in the frenzied need to do something with herself, when a stern rap on the door broke the silence.
Aberforth once again cracked the door, muttered an exchange with whomever was on the other side, and then opened it just enough to admit one person at a time. When it shut again, their party had grown by three: Professors McGonagall and Snape, and a very harried looking Madame Pomfrey.
"Aberforth?" Professor McGonagall sounded half-hoarse with sleep and very winded. "What is the meaning of this?"
But Aberforth was precluded from answering by Madame Pomfrey's cry of "Out of my way!" as she charged to the table, eyes ablaze. Everyone stepped back, though it was pointless, and Hermione spotted a heavy bag rattling with potions bottles. Aberforth must have called when Dumbledore was still alive, then. She had come ready to save a life.
"There's no need," said Aberforth, and for the first time, Hermione heard grief in his voice. "It's too late, I'm afraid."
Hermione watched as the undeniable reality swept through the unkempt trio. Madame Pomfrey's hands kept moving, gently seeking to diagnose, and it seemed she refused to believe the obvious truth until she could feel it with her own fingers. Professor McGonagall looked gaunt in the shadowy light, her hair haphazard beneath her hat. There were hollows in her cheeks and beneath her eyes that Hermione would have sworn had not been there seconds ago. For an unguarded moment, Hermione could see profound fear in her mentor's eyes, coupled with a deep pain that Hermione suddenly felt, too. Heavy tears burned her eyes, and she desperately forced them away; if she started crying now, she wouldn't stop until she had gasped and screamed everything out of her.
But now was not the time. Hermione saw Professor McGonagall arrive at a similar decision; the anguish disappeared, replaced with a clarity and authority that reminded Hermione for the first time that there was a new headmaster.
Beside her, Professor Snape looked the same as ever, eyes inscrutable as they surveyed the tableau. His eyebrows shifted when he spotted Draco, slightly obscured by Hermione.
There was a cumbersome explanation by Harry, during which Professor McGonagall grew only more and more appalled. So, Dumbledore hadn't told anyone else about the Horcruxes, then, or even that he would be taking Harry off the grounds at all. It was not a very encouraging thought.
Madame Pomfrey's bag rattled vigorously. "Potter," she ordered, holding out a piece of chocolate the size of Hermione's fist, "pass it 'round."
Harry didn't even try to argue, instead breaking off a small piece of chocolate and passing it to Hermione, who did the same before handing it over to Draco. She'd barely bitten down when a sharp knocking on the door sent her jumping backwards, bumping into Draco's chest.
"Invite someone for a nightcap, did you?" sneered Snape, wand drawn and aimed cautiously at the door.
But Aberforth ignored him, instead cracking the door in the same manner he'd done before. Hermione glimpsed the familiar yellow of Auror's robes, and the suspicion-laced voice of —
"Tonks?"
A beat, then, "Professor McGonagall?"
The witch in question hurried to the door. Hermione looked helplessly at the body, unguarded and unhidden. She understood, now, what Aberforth had meant. They were losing control of this situation rapidly.
"What are you doing here?" Tonks sounded exhausted.
"I might ask the same of you."
"I always patrol Hogsmeade. You know that. We're just doing some investigating about the Dark Mark —"
"Dark Mark?!"
"— just making sure everyone's alright."
Harry shook his head adamantly. "There wasn't a Dark Mark when we got here. I would've seen it."
"Is that Harry?" wondered Tonks in disbelief from the doorstep.
Hermione felt as though no-one had breathed in several minutes. She couldn't help but look desperately to Harry, Madame Pomfrey, Professor Snape, even Aberforth, but everyone else looked just as helpless as she felt. Professor McGonagall's back stiffened, and despite the painful silence, Hermione nearly thought she could hear the calculations being made. Hermione did not envy that position; she had no idea what ought to be done. Nothing felt safe anymore.
When McGonagall spoke, her voice was so low Hermione could barely make out her words. "There's been an incident, Nymphadora. Tell your colleagues to be on alert. Perhaps increasing the patrol would be wise; see if you can get a few more Aurors here. Before dawn, if you can."
"Done. And after that?"
Hermione couldn't hear the rest of it. It seemed that Madame Pomfrey would not tolerate idleness. Hermione recognised the need to do something, but it didn't make it any less frustrating when the mediwitch ordered the lot of them to report to the Hospital Wing.
Harry shook his head. "I have to stay with him."
"Harry," begged Hermione, "there's nothing you can do."
"Not to mention you're very clearly in shock!" cried Madame Pomfrey, her voice nearly breaking.
In the end, it was Professor McGonagall who finally persuaded Harry. Hermione had never heard such softness in her voice before; it made her uncomfortable and brought tender emotions to the surface that she wasn't ready to feel quite yet. The notion of mourning felt absurd. Tomorrow, the world would reshape itself into something she couldn't fathom. Who would have time for grief?
Aberforth asked Ariana to escort them home, and Hermione heard such tenderness from him, too, as to make her uncomfortable all over again. She was glad that she, at least, had not broken down into irreconcilable sobs. She clung to that feeling of cool stability, focused on the chilly air of the tunnel and the presence of Harry in front and Draco behind her as they followed Madame Pomfrey's shaking wandlight back to Hogwarts.