Chapter Text
Hermione stood in front of the freshly covered grave, adorned with flowers. It was right there before her, yet her eyes refused to rest on it—on the place where, just minutes ago, Ron Weasley’s body had been laid to rest alongside the others who had bravely fallen in the war.
Her hands gripped the umbrella tightly. It was as if the weather had conspired with her grief, sending a relentless rain that hadn’t ceased since dawn. At least it helped mask the tears that occasionally slipped down her cheeks.
Summoning a burst of courage, she lifted her gaze for the first time, taking in the scene before her. Mrs. Weasley stood by the grave, leaning on her husband’s shoulder with one hand resting on his chest. She looked utterly devastated, but the rest of her children stood beside her, offering the strength she needed. Even Harry was there, standing with Ginny, holding her hand as they both stared at the grave, their pain as palpable as everyone else’s.
That was what broke Hermione the most. The Weasleys seemed so united in their grief, and yet Hermione could barely bring herself to meet their eyes without the overwhelming urge to collapse into tears. Since the war had ended, she had distanced herself, remaining expressionless in front of others while falling apart in solitude. The family had chosen to respect her way of mourning, understanding the depth and uniqueness of her relationship with Ron. It had been strong and special—just not long enough.
Her gaze dropped back to the dark, rain-soaked grass. She could feel the lump forming in her throat again. Her hands tightened their grip on the umbrella, knuckles white, as if holding it firmly could stop her from trembling.
A pair of black shoes entered her limited field of vision. It took her a moment to turn and see who they belonged to.
Harry stood beside her, dressed in a dark suit, his glasses still as cracked as ever—he was nothing if not consistent. Hermione could sense the dullness in his expression, the emptiness of someone who had lost his best friend, someone who had fought by his side. She couldn’t begin to fathom how Harry was feeling.
Neither of them spoke. Instead, they reached out and pulled each other into an embrace, firm yet gentle, as though trying to hold together all the shattered pieces to keep them from falling apart. But it wasn’t that simple.
They were the only ones at the funeral who weren’t part of the Weasley family. Ron had been their connection, and now he was gone. He had been murdered.
Hermione’s lip quivered as she fought back the sob threatening to escape. Ron had been murdered. Murdered. He hadn’t even finished Hogwarts or started an independent life. He had fought alongside his best friends for a just cause, only to die an innocent victim.
Hermione lowered her umbrella, feeling as though she couldn’t bear it any longer. She sank to her knees on the damp ground in front of the grave, the drizzle soaking her hair and face. The weight of Ron’s loss crushed her completely. She knew every spell, every potion—yet she hadn’t been able to save him. She hadn’t been able to protect him.
Harry knelt beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. He, too, let silent tears fall as they faced the grave of his best friend.
A few meters away, some of the Weasleys had noticed the scene. The twins were the first to act, exchanging a nod as if silently assigning themselves the unspoken task of bringing Hermione and Harry back to the group.
George approached first, resting a hand on Harry’s shoulder. He could only imagine how Harry must feel; it was likely similar to what George himself would feel if he lost Fred. Ron had been Harry’s closest friend. The pain was unbearable, and there was nothing anyone could do to ease it.
“Mum would like you both to stay at the Burrow,” George said softly. Harry nodded. Mrs. Weasley needed them as much as they needed her. There was so much to talk about, so much to process.
Harry gave Hermione’s shoulder a small squeeze, but she didn’t look up. She continued crying quietly, her black coat curved against her back in a posture that spoke of surrender and deep anguish. Defeat, even when the war was won.
George conjured an umbrella with his wand, and Harry hesitated before doing the same.
Fred, who had remained silent until then, patted Harry on the shoulder before glancing at George. The twins shared another wordless agreement. Fred would stay with Hermione— he had always been a touch more patient than his brother, better equipped for the gentler approach Hermione clearly needed.
Fred crouched down slowly beside Hermione, resting his elbows on his knees. His chest tightened painfully as he found himself even closer to his younger brother’s grave. Swallowing hard, he reached for the umbrella Hermione had discarded earlier and held it over them both as best he could.
“It’s time to go, Hermione,” Fred murmured gently, using the name he learnt years ago, back when they were all just kids and war hadn’t yet cast its shadow over their lives. Hermione’s crying subsided, but she still couldn’t bring herself to look at him. “Mum wants you at the Burrow with us. If you’d like to stay, that is.”
Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, knowing he was right. She had nowhere else to go. Her parents were gone, Hogwarts would take a long time to rebuild, and even if it reopened soon, she didn’t think she could bear to set foot there again so early.
Slowly, she rose to her feet, and Fred stood with her. He kept the umbrella over them both, though Hermione could only meet his gaze for a fleeting second before looking away, afraid to let Fred’s features remind her of Ron. Together, they began walking.
Fred, lost in his own grief, didn’t know what to say. So he stayed silent, matching her pace as they made their way toward the rest of the family.
The Weasleys were waiting by the car they had managed to find. Apparition was out of the question—none of them could concentrate enough to make it safe. A Portkey had been ruled out as well—after the chaos of the war, they craved some semblance of calm. The car, though simple, felt soothing in a way.
Fred struggled to maneuver the umbrella as they reached the vehicle, their height difference making the task awkward. Hermione didn’t seem to notice or care. When they arrived, Mr. Weasley and Harry stood outside the car, waiting silently. For a moment, the four of them lingered in quiet reflection.
“I’ll drive,” Harry volunteered, his gaze shifting to Hermione. He knew the idea of a Muggle car made Mr. Weasley uneasy, given the circumstances, especially with his limited experience with them. His enthusiasm for Muggle things seemed extinguished now, maybe the car reminded him too much of the one that Ron stole from him in his second year at Hogwarts. It was clear the emotional toll of Ron’s funeral had left the Weasleys drained. Driving was one less burden Harry and Hermione had agreed to shoulder for them, though Harry seeing Hermione's state, knew he was the only one fit to take the wheel.
Mr. Weasley opened his mouth as if to protest, then closed it and gave Harry a sad smile. He climbed into the car with Mrs. Weasley and Ginny, leaving Harry with Fred and Hermione.
“Are you two okay?” Harry asked, knowing full well the answer would fall somewhere within the realm of manageable.
Hermione kept her gaze on the ground. Fred and Harry both watched her nod once, almost imperceptibly.
“And you?” Fred asked Harry, his tone quiet but steady. He had lost a little brother, and Harry had lost his best friend. Harry nodded too. Fred stepped closer, giving his shoulder a firm squeeze. “Thank you.”
Fred offered the umbrella to Hermione, but she shook her head, insisting he take it. He pressed his lips together but didn’t argue, retreating to the car. He climbed into the backseat beside George, and the twins exchanged a somber smile. It was over.
Harry turned to Hermione, who now stood a little straighter. The drizzle had lessened, but it had already soaked her, the wet hair clinging to her face.
“We’ll get through this together, you know that,” Harry said after a pause, his voice tight with the knot of guilt that always surfaced when he thought about being the catalyst of the war.
“I know,” she murmured, her voice soft and heavy. “Drive carefully.”
“I will.”
She stepped forward to hug him briefly before climbing into the only available seat, beside the twins in the back. The Weasleys watched her silently as she settled in.
Hermione sank into the seat, pressing a hand to her forehead to shield her eyes. She was embarrassed of how disheveled she must've looked. Worse, she feared that if she caught sight of the Weasleys together it would only make her break down again.
Mrs. Weasley glanced at her with quiet sorrow but said nothing, turning away as the car began to roll gently down the rain-slicked road.