A Summer's Day

It is strange to think that at this moment in time, there is probably someone, somewhere in the world, dying.

And it is stranger yet to think that when you are just eighteen years old, that on a bright, cloudless day in August, you will be forced to watch the body of one of your closest friends sink slowly in the earth.

She died this month. In the middle of the day. No one ever told her that a summer's day could kill.

It hurts, physically. I feel as if my heart follows that coffin every centimeter of the way.

I am young. I have not known death, beyond the sad tidings of a letter many years ago - an aunt whom none of us had met.

No, I am little acquainted with death. But not all are so lucky as me. I lower my eyelids and glanced at the boy - the man - to my left. Last year he reached, and then surpassed my brother's impressive height. He towers over me now, and oh, how safe I feel when I stand at his right.

But now, now I do not feel safe. He looks old. My heart cries out to his - he is only nineteen. No one should have to bear all that he has been forced to, and he is so very young.

As if he knew my thoughts - and sometimes I think that he can - he takes his hand from behind his back and clasps mine.

Is he trying to give me comfort? This is ridiculous. I wish to speak his name, to throw my arms around him, to tell him that I love him; I love him so very much.

But I will not do that. I will not disturb his farewell. And deep in my heart, I know that if I were to do what I wish, the whole time he would be wishing it were her.

I loved her. We all did. She was so strong, so brave, so bold. But I had seen her comfort him, and her touch had been as gentle as a lover's. That had been the root of my jealousy. Oh, I knew he loved her. Everyone knew, everyone but the three of them. But to anyone on the outside, it was plain that they were meant for each other.

God, what a shock we all had when she chose my brother. Many asked what had possessed her to choose that gangly, freckled fool over him. I defended my brother to others, but I asked myself the same question often. Sometimes I think that maybe it was just out of pity - no. She was the not the kind of woman who would do that. I suppose no one will ever know now.

He looks at me. He is drawn and tired. I squeeze his hand just a little tighter. He tries to smile, but it becomes a grimace in the process, a grotesque stretching of his lips in order to console me. His skin is so pale.

The crowd - yes, it is a crowd, she was well loved and already rather famous in our world - is dispersing. The coffin is in the ground, and she is really gone for good now. He and I still have flowers in our hands. He tosses his into the grave. I am the only one who gives it a second glance. It is a lily.

Finally, it is only her parents and us. I touch his cheek. He is cold. And now, finally, he is crying.

Oh. This is hard. Can it really be him? He has always seemed so strong to me, and now he is sitting on the clipped grass, weeping as if he has nothing left in the world to live for.

A freezing tendril of jealousy snakes its way around my heart.

Would he cry like that for me?

This is neither the time nor the place to even think of such things. I banish it, hopefully forever. He needs comfort, and if I can't give it as well as she could, well I still have to try.

"She'll be cold! I - I should have - she left it home, but - "

It is her mother, hysterical. She has ripped a ragged swatch of cloth out of her purse.

I recognize it. It is her blanket, or what is left of it. She had brought it to school every term, folded in the bottom of her trunk. It was the only concession she made to childhood and insecurity. In the first attack during their 7^th year, all of the dormitories had been ransacked. The blanked had been shredded, save for one tattered square.

Her mother is fighting her father, fighting to reach the grave. She finally stops, sagging against her husband. I watch, my arms around the man I love, as this woman mouths a goodbye to her daughter.

She turns on us.

"You're those wizards she was always talking about. Ginny...and Harry." She says "wizard" as if it is distasteful. There is a slight madness in her eyes, brought about by sorrow, I hope.

"Yes, she told us about you especially. `The Boy Who Lived'. If it weren't for you, she would never have been in danger. She would have done her schoolwork and come home and forgotten all about this witchcraft. She would have gotten married and lived a normal life. But you...you killed her. You killed my daughter."

I can see the impact that this has on Harry, and I can see that he more than halfway believes it. I want to shout at her, to lash out and hit her, but I cannot. She is grieving, and grief has driven her to say things she does not - must not - mean. But Harry doesn't know this.

Hermione Granger is dead, and my world is in disarray.