A Day in the Life

Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts, surveyed the multitude of students before him. Most were eating their breakfast or talking with their friends; a few stragglers were just now filing groggily into the Great Hall.

Dumbledore watched one of the late arrivers, a certain Hermione Granger, slide into a chair next to Ron Weasley. She downed her mug of coffee quickly, ran a napkin along her lips, and reached for the half-empty mug in front of her friend.

Albus turned his gaze to the tall windows lining the Hall. Yellow light was seeping through the glass, warming the students pleasantly, and he smiled softly, basking in the morning sun.

A lone grey owl flew in through the far window. The old man squinted, watching as a horde of others followed. He brought both his hands together, elbows on the table, and rested his chin on the bridge his fingers made. As the first owl reached it’s owner and deposited a copy of the Daily Prophet in the Hufflepuff’s lap, he smiled slightly to himself.

“So it begins.”

*

Ron Weasley, seventh year Gryffindor, grabbed Hermione’s copy of the Prophet as she moved piled some sausages onto her plate. His blue eyes scanned the front page, then widened, and he promptly choked on the piece of egg.

“Ron?” asked Hermione, setting down her fork and leaning over to read the paper.

“My God,” she murmured, tightening her grip on his knee and raising a hand to her mouth.

*

I read the news today, oh boy.

*

Across the Hall, Draco Malfoy’s eagle owl had deposited the Prophet in it’s owner’s lap alongside a letter and what looked to be a Quidditch magazine. The blonde handed it a scrap of bacon from his plate, and it took off.

Draco inspected the cover of the magazine first. He flipped to a page near the back, snorted, and tossed it aside.

The letter was in a parchment envelope, addressed in emerald green, and his eyebrows ran together as he read it. An irritated sneer formed on his peach lips, and he jammed it harshly into his backpack. Reaching for the Prophet, he glanced around the Hall. A few first year Hufflepuffs cringed at the supercilious leer he threw their way.

Draco let his eyes drop to the paper. The picture before him was more familiar than it should have been; with a small gasp, he felt his grip on the paper relax.

*

About a lucky man who made the grade.

*

Severus Snape leaned across his plate to murmur something into Minerva McGonagall’s ear.

“Today?”

She nodded tersely, raising her full goblet of pumpkin juice to her lips.

Snape shrugged slightly, the familiar feeling of distrust emanating from the Transfiguration professor.

“Why?” he asked finally leaning close enough to catch her scent on the morning air; she smelled of kitchen spices and rain water and the rose perfume that all women over sixty two wear.

She blinked once, twice, hard, and he wondered if she would cry. She didn’t. With a tiny sniff, she tilted her head to the side to see him better. “It’s the only way, Severus,” she whispered eventually. “You know that.”

*

And though the news was rather sad, well I just had to laugh.

*

Cho Chang smiled as her tawny owl dropped a handful of letters beside her goblet.

“Who’re they from?” asked a quite acne-free Marietta, unrolling her copy of the Prophet.

“Mum and Dad,” said her friend, flicking a strand of jet hair behind her shoulder. “And one from Hugo,” she laughed.

“Hugo?” asked Marietta off-handedly, absorbed in a lipstick ad on the back of the Prophet.

“My boyfriend from home,” Cho reminded her, leaning over her shoulder to better read the ad. “The Muggle one, remember?”

“Oh,” breathed her friend distractedly.

“That color’d look good on you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you,” laughed Cho, pointing out the peachy pink shade. “Spring Roses,” she read.

“Thanks, Cho,” the red head said, flipping the paper over.

Silence.

“Hugo says he misses me,” giggled Cho, eyes on her letter. “And look at this, Mari, look what he-”

“Cho.”

“But-”

“No, Cho. Just…look,” murmured Marietta, shoving the paper towards her friend.

Reading the page, Cho’s eyes widened. “Marietta-”

“I know,” mumbled her friend, looking away. “I know.”

*

I saw the photograph…A crowd of people stood and stared; they’d seen his face before.

*

Back across the Hall, Hermione’s copy of the Prophet had fallen onto the floor. She had buried her face in Ron’s chest; her fingers scrabbled at his robes. He rested his chin in her russet curls, kissed the top of her head, and he looked over her shaking shoulders to read the front page of the Prophet.

Boy Hero Dies in Tragic Accident

This statement was accompanied by two pictures of Harry. One featured him somewhere on the Hogwarts grounds; he was laughing with Ron and Hermione, the wind blowing to reveal his scar, and the photo looked like it had been taken recently. The other showed him, a baby with no scar, supported on his mother’s hip. James was laughing behind them; putting bunny ears over his wife’s head and tickling Harry’s feet.

Ron swallowed, eyes glazing over to the point where no vision is possible. Glancing up at the Headmaster, he saw that the old man was gazing at him, eyes hard yet shining, and something in Ron stirred.

“…He couldn’t know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: ‘To Harry Potter - the boy who lived!’”

-Harry Potter, book 1, chap. 1, pg. 17

And right now, Harry was gone. He couldn’t know that at this very moment, people all over the country were setting down their glasses in shock and saying in hushed voices: “Harry Potter - the boy who lived…gone.”