A Beautiful Day
Chapter 13: A Beautiful Day
The procession reached the end of the open grounds, and took a moment to pause for Hagrid to join them.
Hagrid stood hunched at the edge of the forest. His eyes were shining with tears, and Harry didn’t think he could bear to see the half giant start blubbering. Hagrid had been a true father figure to Harry since the moment he’d met him nearly eight years ago, and while it was a comfort to have him there, his emotional display would make it even more difficult for Harry to control his own.
Thankfully, the half-giant didn’t say a word, he just placed his large hand heavily on Harry’s shoulder as he blew his nose into a tablecloth-sized handkerchief. Harry felt his face grow warm with unexpressed emotions; his cheeks were practically burning and sweat beaded up on his brow. He could swallow them down for just an hour…maybe.
There was an emptiness in his gut, urging him to keep moving lest he drop to the ground and never move again. He supposed the hollow feeling would never go away, and he briefly considered what his life would look like trying to move forward with a constant hole through his body. He was in line with Mrs. Malfoy now, her shoulders squared back resolutely as she looked to the path ahead of them, the tiniest tremble in her hands, the only hint at her true distress under the mask.
Two marble caskets stood side by side, one a polished onyx with silver huckles, the other a smooth, matte white with faint gray veining and gold adornments. Both were fixed in the air, charmed to hover a few feet off the ground.
Harry had never been to a funeral prior to Dumbledore’s, but he instinctively knew his place for one so personal. He stood to the right of Hermione’s head with Ron following suit to her left—her chosen family. Neville, George, Arthur, and Hagrid lined up to take the remaining handles, lifting her to shoulder height.
Theo, Blaise, Pansy, and Daphne Greengrass moved to do the same for Draco. They cast a featherlight charm and the lovers were carried side-by-side along the forest’s earthen path.
It was rather poetic, Harry thought—a picturesque send off, being carried through the forest by their most dearly loved ones; as though they, themselves, were walking hand in hand into the next life.
Every few steps, the sun would peek through the canopy overhead, lighting the way for them; the melodic trilling of the birds a sort of hopeful funeral march. Harry imagined them singing lyrics akin to Amazing Grace, and hummed along under his breath. He didn’t have much strength left, but what he had he’d give for her.
She would do it for him.
They were moving in a direction Harry hadn’t gone before, his many journeys into the Forbidden Forest taking him to wildly different parts of the woods. The deeper they moved, the brighter the sun shone, and Harry couldn’t even fathom to find it odd. Of course even the sun and the somewhat sentient forest would cooperate on the day the great Hermione Granger was laid to rest. Even the heavens and the earth knew how important she was.
A light breeze rustled his hair, and he thought he could almost hear her laughing at his conclusion as she rolled her eyes. “Oh, Harry, don’t be ridiculous. I’m just another witch.”
It was quite the opposite of his “but I am the Chosen One…” statement just last year. He had definitely deserved to be taken down a peg or two.
Reaching the end of the path, the two groups of pallbearers halted as one at the edge of a clearing. A bright spring meadow blossomed before them—the trees along the edge waving gently in the wind, and blooms still twinkling with dew stretching across its entirety.
Narcissa heaved a deep breath, holding it in her chest as she took the first step in, the grasses rustling softly underfoot and against her robes. Harry, Ron, Theo, and Pansy led the rest of the gathered in behind her.
She stopped in the center and turned around to face them. The two caskets were released in front of her, hovering white and black, head-to-head, never far apart. As the pallbearers formed a semi-circle around the center, Narcissa flicked her wand and the lids slowly opened to reveal the frozen features of Hermione and Draco.
Her skin was reminiscent of her pale pallor when she had been petrified in second year, except the smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. The cool, ashiness of her skin caused her to appear…
Dead.
She was dead.
He’d tried so hard, and still he had lost her. Surely there was more he could’ve done—more someone, anyone could’ve done.
Neville sneezed loudly, bringing him away from the depressing train of thought. “Sorry!” he whispered into the quiet.
Bill sniffled loudly behind him, “I think it’s the flowers.”
Embarrassed at breaking the silence, both men tried to reign in their discomfort, but Bill’s comment brought Harry’s eyes to the ground.
The field was filled with asphodels.
The great meadow of the dead.
Harry’s heart stopped beating for a moment. It really was poetic, but more than that…it was real. He felt like he’d been rubbed raw; wounds unseen to the naked eye fleshed open and packed with salt. Persephone and Hades themselves—Hermione and Draco—welcomed home to their domain in the Underworld. The goddess of spring shining into the morning, harkened away with her prince of darkness.
Why wouldn’t it be real? The Hallows were real. Magic was real. This was real.
“We gather to celebrate the lives and mourn the passing of our beloved son and daughter, brother and sister,” Narcissa paused to look at Harry and Theo, “friends and pupils.” She looked to the rest of the gathered mourners, a curtain of black in the sea of gold and white. “Their magic and love will be burned into our hearts for eternity…,” her voice broke into a soft sob unable to continue, and Theo strode forward to console the mourning mother, her sister joining from the other side. She had lost her husband and only child too.
Everyone looked to Harry. They always looked to Harry. He was so tired of being that person. He could do it just once more…
He cleared his throat. “Hermione was the brightest, bravest, and most loving person I’ve ever met. She never turned her back on anyone, even if it was done to her in turn,” he and Ron grimaced at the words. How many times had they withheld their friendship from her over a petty argument? Too many…
“She never wavered in her beliefs, and stood up for anyone not strong enough to do so themselves. Hermione loved everyone here dearly, and would want us to face this day head on. Tears will come and go, but her love, her loyalty, her fearlessness can always be found within each of us.”
He looked to Theo, but that beautiful man was sobbing now against Narcissa, equally inconsolable. So he continued.
“Draco Malfoy was also bright, brave, and strong. While he and I share a colored past, I think, in some ways, I knew him just as well as I knew myself. He knew fear, and real pain. He also never let it hold him back. He was courageous in the moments it mattered the most.
“He, too, was loyal to those he loved, and took care to guard their safety. I have found, in the days since his death, a strong sense of respect for the man he has become.” Harry looked to see Pansy sobbing into Blaise’s shoulder, with Luna rubbing a hand in soft circles on her back.
“So, today we celebrate the love they have brought us; the friendships they fostered. We remember their brilliance and look for hope that we may one day be reunited in the Afterlife.”
Everyone seemed to have broken down in tears, even Bill and Mr. Weasley had misty eyes. Mrs. Malfoy had regained some semblance of composure and invited them all to come forward individually to say their goodbyes. While Narcissa went to her son, Harry was first to see Hermione.
He looked down into the silk lined casket at her delicate features. She looked so peaceful, her eyes gently closed, long lashes kissing her colorless cheeks. The periwinkle robes she wore complemented her in every way, not unlike her dress from the Yule Ball. Even in death, her beauty was resplendent. Her hair reflected faint strands of gold woven in with the rest of its warm brown, giving her a glowing effect.
“Hermione, I’m so sorry. I tried, I promise…I know this is how you chose it to be, but I wish I could’ve done more. I wish you would’ve come with me…” he sighed, rubbing his burning eyes under his glasses. “I love you, ‘Mione. Always.”
He withdrew the small beaded bag from his pocket, placing it in one of her hands before he kissed her forehead and stepped away, letting Theo envelop him tightly in an embrace, not caring who was watching them. Ron, then the rest of the Weasley’s went to say goodbye, with Neville and Augusta waiting for their turn behind them.
Ron took Theo’s place as his boyfriend went to bid farewell to his own lost family with the Slytherins and Luna. Two thirds of the Golden Trio stood alone…incomplete. They would be like this from now on. It was a devastating conclusion to come to, that they would always be referred to in that way. Two thirds of a whole, always missing a piece. He’d known it since she was pronounced dead, but all of this made it so much more real, so cemented.
Harry watched as Neville and his Gran stepped up to the white casket. He reached in to squeeze one of her hands, and like he and Ron had done, leaned down to kiss her forehead when he froze. Neville’s muscles went rigid and he urgently stood up, searching for Harry and Ron.
“Neville? What’s wrong?” Harry approached the werewolf cautiously.
“I’m not sure. I smell…,” he whipped his head toward Malfoy’s casket, elbowing Blaise and Theo out of the way.
“Longbottom! What the hell?” Pansy snarled.
Luna smiled wistfully as she whispered, “Finally!” and Blaise eyed her suspiciously.
“It’s the same,” Neville growled, his eyes searching Narcissa’s, but her shocked look told both Harry and Neville she had no idea what was going on.
“What is it?” Harry asked again, desperate to be clued in.
Neville moved back to Hermione, leaning toward her lips and inhaled again. “Wormwood…and valerian root, and…” he looked at the field around them, “asphodel.”
Harry’s eyes went wide.
“Harry, what—?” Ron recognized the minuscule change in his demeanor, that only a best friend—a brother—would notice. Harry had a feeling he knew what happened after he and Theo returned to the present.
…
Harry and Ron exchanged looks with raised eyebrows. Hermione was on the edge of her seat and looked desperate to start proving that she wasn’t, in fact, a dunderhead.
“Potter!” Snape said suddenly. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”
Powdered root of what to and infusion of what? Harry glanced at Ron who looked as stumped as he was; Hermione’s hand had shot into the air.
“I don’t know, sir,” Harry said.
Snape’s lip curled into a sneer.
“Tut, tut—fame clearly isn’t everything.”
…
Harry swiftly bent over the tattered book Slughorn had lent him. To his annoyance, he saw that the previous owner had scribbled all over the pages, so that the margins were as black as the printed portions. Bending low to decipher the ingredients (even here, the previous owner had made annotations and crossed things out) Harry hurried off toward the store cupboard to find what he needed. As he dashed back to his cauldron, he saw Malfoy cutting up valerian roots as fast as he could.
Everyone kept glancing around at what the rest of the class was doing; this was both an advantage and disadvantage of Potions, that it was hard to keep your work private. Within ten minutes, the whole place was full of steam. Hermione, of course, seemed to have progressed furthest. Her potion already resembled the “smooth, black currant-colored liquid” mentioned as the ideal halfway stage.
Having finished clipping his roots, Harry bent low over his book again. It was really very irritating, having to try and decipher the directions under all the stupid scribbles of the previous owner, who for some reason had taken issue with the order to cut up the sopophorus bean and had written in the alternative instruction:
Crush with flat side of silver dagger, releases juice better than cutting.
“Sir, I think you knew my grandfather, Abraxas Malfoy?”
Harry looked up; Slughorn was just passing the Slytherin table.
“Yes,” said Slughorn, without looking at Malfoy, “I was sorry to hear he had died, although of course it wasn’t unexpected, dragon pox at his age…”
As he walked away, Harry bent back over his cauldron, smirking. He could tell Malfoy had expected to be treated like Harry or Zabini; perhaps even hoped for some preferential treatment of the type he had learned to expect from Snape. It looked as though Malfoy would have to rely on nothing but talent to win the Felix Felicis.
The sopophorous bean was proving to be very difficult to cut up. Harry turned to Hermione.
“Can I borrow your silver knife?”
She nodded impatiently, not taking her eyes off her potion, which was still deep purple, though according to the book ought to be turning a light shade of lilac described by the textbook.
Harry crushed his bean with the flat side of the dagger. To his astonishment, it immediately exuded so much juice he was amazed the shriveled bean could have held it all. Hastily scooping it all into the cauldron, he saw, to his surprise, that the potion immediately turned exactly the shade of lilac described by the textbook.
His annoyance with the previous owner vanishing on the spot, Harry squinted at the next line of instructions. According to the book, he had to stir counterclockwise until the potion turned clear as water. According to the addition the previous owner had made, however, he ought to add a clockwise stir after every seventh counterclockwise stir. Could the old owner be right twice?
Harry stirred counterclockwise, held his breath, and stirred once clockwise. The effect was immediate. The potion turned a pale pink.
“How are you doing that?” demanded Hermione, who was red-faced and whose hair was growing bushier and bushier in the fumes from her cauldron; her potion was still resolutely purple.
“Add a clockwise stir—“
“No, no, the book says counterclockwise!” she snapped.
Harry shrugged and continued what he was doing. Seven stirs counterclockwise, one clockwise, pause…seven stirs counterclockwise, one clockwise…
Across the table, Ron was cursing fluently under his breath; his potion looked like liquid licorice. Harry glanced around. As far as he could see, no one else’s potion had turned as pale as his. He felt elated, something that had certainly never happened before in this dungeon.
“And times…up!” called Slughorn. “Stop stirring, please!”
…
“It couldn’t be…” Harry said aloud. “It can’t be that simple.”
Neville eyed him curiously. “What were they poisoned with? We could finally solve what happened!” He anxiously leaned forward, his muscles taut and waiting for Harry to give the order.
“I don’t think they were poisoned, Nev.” He turned to make eye contact with Ron. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”
“I don’t think now is the time to pretend to be Snape, mate,” Ron said nervously, his voice wavering with the anxiety creeping up all their spines.
“A Draught of Living Death,” Narcissa breathed. “Mr. Potter, do you think—?”
He nodded.
They both frantically dug into the pockets of their robes searching for their wands. Harry reached his first, and pointed at Hermione’s chest, shouting “Rennervate! Rennervate!” But nothing happened. Her body was just as still as it had been before.
“Mister Potter! If it is indeed as we suspect, then there is an antidote!” She cried out, pulling him back from his desperate attempts at revival.
Narcissa pulled her wand from her delicate lacy robes, but a folded up bit of parchment dropped out beside her. Crouching down to reach it, she carefully unfolded the note, her brow crinkling in confusion.
Mother,
I hope this letter finds you at the right time. If all should fail, I want you to know that I love you and I hope you can live a long and happy life even without me, and likely father as he most certainly will be sent to Azkaban.
If all goes to plan, however, I want you to know that my heart, my soul, and the answer to all our troubles lie with Miss Hermione Granger. She would never leave without it on her person. I implore you to keep her close, and should we both be lost, may we be lost together.
All my love,
Draco L. Malfoy
Her face went white and she looked between her son and Hermione, trying to puzzle the pieces back together. Shaking, she held the note out to Harry to read, silently asking for his assistance with their deepening mystery.
Harry scanned the letter with Ron reading over his shoulder, both their foreheads mimicked Narcissa’s. “The answer to all our troubles lie with Hermione…do you think he meant the memories? Like if he’d been sent to Azkaban?” Ron asked.
Mrs. Malfoy’s hopeful face drooped ever so slightly. Harry knew that she was wishing for them to be correct—for Hermione and Draco to simply been in such a deep sleep they appear to be dead, but he just couldn’t assume either option was more viable than another. “What is the antidote?” Harry asked her eagerly.
“Wiggenweld,” Narcissa said instantly. “It will take some time to brew, and they’ve already been under for so long, I worry about any lasting effects…” Her face dawned with horror. “What if we’d buried them alive?!” She broke into fresh sobs.
Harry, not letting his emotions have enough time to react yet, reached into the white casket, plucking Hermione’s beaded bag out of her hand. He pulled the drawstring closure and pointed his wand at the opening. “Accio Wiggenweld!”
Relief flooded his chest as a large phial of purple and green liquid flew out of the bag. Harry caught it reflexively, holding it up to Narcissa for inspection. “Is this it?”
She hastily wiped her tears and took the potion from his hand, lifting it to her nose as she removed the stopper. Without answering, she made eye contact with Harry as she leaned over Draco, dripping some of the potion onto her son’s lips. She handed it back to Harry to let him make the decision for Hermione, but there wasn’t really a decision was there?
He’d do anything for her, and if she truly was dead, there was no real harm in giving her an antidote. He leaned over her, dripping the potion over her lips.
Everyone waited silently, holding their breath should their own breathing drown out any sound of life from their loved ones. Harry had never wished for Snape to be alive and well more than in this moment. The one person who would be able to definitively give them hope and administer the potion properly…
Malfoy’s lips parted and he dragged in a rattling breath. Harry turned and poured more of the potion into his now-open mouth before turning back to Hermione to see if she would respond in the same manner.
She did.
A tiny gasp was enough for Harry’s heart to kickstart its rhythm. His pulse thrummed in his veins as the adrenaline leached into every cell of his being. He poured more of the potion into her mouth just as he’d done with Malfoy.
Hermione spluttered and coughed as she gasped for breath—her lungs expanding to their full capacity for the first time in days. Malfoy sat up violently behind them, doing much of the same.
Her eyes flew open, then shuttered quickly at the blindingly bright light that had enveloped the field. “Draco? Where’s Draco! We have to find him—did he take it? He needs the antidote—it’s in my bag…” her underused voice crackled.
She felt around her, slowly inching her eyelids open to aid in her search.
“Where am I—?” She slowly looked up, finally realizing she was sitting in a stone coffin with several people watching her as if she’d…well…come back from the dead.
Oh.
Harry quickly handed her the beaded bag, an apologetic look on his face.
“Did it work?” She asked desperately, but before Harry could answer her, another voice spoke up.
“We’re alive, aren’t we, Granger?” Malfoy rasped from behind her.
She couldn’t clamber out of the casket fast enough, and Harry did his best to stabilize her as she made the unceremonious drop to the grass below.
“Draco!” She reached up, grabbing his face between her hands. “You’re really alive? It worked?” Her voice quieted, disbelief still ringing in her words.
A slow, genuine grin spread across his face, and while it was a completely foreign expression to Harry (coming from Malfoy, at least), Hermione melted under his gaze. Draco leaned down to meet her lips as they parted, pulling her into a deep, languid kiss, only parting once Narcissa cleared her throat with displeasure at their very public display.