Turn to Dust

Doors, where my heart was used to beat

So quickly, not as one weeps

I come once more; the city sleeps;

I smell the meadow in the street

I left the Burrow at dusk, the air still smelling of the verdant musk from an unusually hot and humid day. I could feel the family's eyes on me as I exited the door. What did they think was going to happen? I refuse to tremble and weep. If I started I would not stop.

Was it just last week that I got your letter? You always were one for keeping in touch, letters over the summer and then that Muggle f-mail contraption you got me at graduation. Still don't know what most of it does.

This summer was no different. You sent me those c-notes (what letter of the blasted alphabet was it?) every week, it seemed, with the occasional Owl Post thrown in for a surprise or a particularly odd Muggle device you found for Dad.

He liked that door ringer you sent. He installed it just a few days ago. I think my ears are still ringing from his constant "testing." "That girl sends the most ingenious things!" he said.

Harry fire-called me this morning, asked how I was doing. He looked terrible, just returned from Rome. His look reminded me of how it was before our fifth year, all lines and creases as if his vitality was lost. See, you've rubbed off on me. I never would've said words like "vitality" before I me you.

How you drilled us for the O.W.L.S! Kept dithering about Quidditch rotting our brains. I think if he'd had the heart to do it, Harry would've hexed your mouth shut for a while. I know I came close to doing it.

We did manage not to for the nest year's O.W.L.S. or the N.E.W.T.S.

But I digress. We're all doing so wonderfully. I work for Gred and Forge Wheezes; their promotions expert. Harry, as you know has been rounding up the rouge Death Eater here and there when he's not being a man of leisure. Lucky bastard. And then you.

You went to right the wrongs. Fixing broken bodies at St. Mungo's and at the Royal Hospital in London.

I move across the lawn and open the gate separating our magic from the world. I apperate to Harry's flat.

~ * ~ * ~

He looks worse than he did this morning. I can see dried tear tracks on his face. He notices me and blinked rapidly, as if to prevent more crying.

He's my best mate, you know. I feel my world crack. Seeing him like this makes it real.

"I remember after that last battle when she was stuck in the hospital wing for a month," he said quietly, "We were so used to her flitting about researching the odd curse or hex, it scared us to see her so still and quiet. I don't think we breathed the whole month she was out, and then she finally woke. She was given those potions by Snape to make her stay still and keep her mind a bit sluggish. I think she would have hexed the professor and us if she had been able to. I thought she would go completely nutters there."

"I remember," I whispered.

Then we were both quiet for a long while, lost in our own memories.

We looked at each other and silently agreed we should be on our way.

Look, they are all here for you. The family was already there. Fred and George were as stoic (See, Hermione, see how much you've affected me!) as I've ever seen them and Ginny's eyes burned with redness. Remus, Sirius, and Professor McGonagall are whispering together in a group. Snape's here there, too, looking paler than usual. All the Gryffindors who survived that final battle are here: Seamus, Pavarti, Dennis, and others.

I can't help but wonder if they would all be here for me as they are here for you.

You affected so many lives. A sound toned and we moved to take seats. We went to joint the rest of my family. Harry hung on my arm as his lips moved wordlessly.

What was he thinking? About the stupid-ness of it all? About how magic couldn't have saved her this time? About the last time we three were together and didn't have to rush off to our different lives? I know he's thinking these things. I thought them too.

My eyes traveled to the front of the room and I wanted to deny what I saw there. It only made this unreal day more real. You are so quiet and still. Won't you wake up?

A man in official clothes approaches the podium and speaks.

"We are everyday moved by uncontrollable tragedy. Senseless acts that no one can reason out. Even the best of us are not immune to this tragedy. But here we can mourn and, hopefully, joyfully remember the life of Hermione Granger whose life was cut so short by a stray bullet."

And that is the irony of it, isn't it love? No matter what you do to correct wrongs and fight for what you know is right, something you have absolutely no control over comes and claims you.

We will miss you.