This is a slightly shorter chapter but I say again, this is a dark fic. It is unnerving to sift through the shards and the broken edges that are left behind after a suicide of someone close. There's no gentleness about the emotions and no pretty way to cover up the howls and cries of guilt and anguish.

Welcome to another chapter of the shards that are left behind. Try not to cut yourself.

Chapter 8: An Example to Live By

Somehow it's only as I walk down the line of solemn and silent lines of people that the truth starts to really hit me. Harry is dead. Ron is not coming back to Hogwarts. Ginny is not coming back to Hogwarts. I am completely alone in this new world that I have welcomed as my own for the last six years. I have to walk down the aisle knowing that my place is at the front, but desperately wishing that I could sit somewhere at the back enfolded in the comfort of my family. Of course, mum never met Harry. Neither did Dad. So there is no reason for them to be here, and that doesn't stop me from wishing that they were. I'd give anything right now to just have dad hold me tight, his arms around me and the musky smell of his aftershave all that I can smell. I know now that he can't make everything work out right now. That childish innocence is long since gone.

So long gone. I almost can't picture the Hermione Granger that walked into Hogwarts all those years ago. I can't see that wondering child as me. The innocence and the nativity is gone, shattered into shiny, sharp pieces, each a small piece of my soul lying scattered carelessly on the floor. The Hermione Granger that once was, that had faith in the adults to take care of her, that thought all teachers deserved respect and all authority figures were to be trusted. The Hermione Granger that had never felt the true sting of betrayal or understood that all the walls of authority were based on flimsy and uneven foundations. That the ground could crack and tremble and split beneath her feet.

I feel as though I should be recording this day for those who can't be here, yet I can't. The sky is bright. The wind is mild. All of that bears no comparison to the fact that my best friend, one of my only friends, is going to be carried down this same aisle in a casket. Not long now. Red wood, dark wood, oak, ash or pine, I really don't care. All that matters is that the cold, still body of my dearest, most treasured friend is lying there in that wood. There's nothing that can change that. It doesn't matter how beautiful the casket is. It doesn't matter how much it cost. It doesn't matter who chose it or what it stands for. The decomposing body of my best friend will be inside it. That is all that matters.

I stumble rather than slide into my seat, with Bill Weasley catching my elbow at the last second, preventing me from falling flat on my face. I wish I could smile at the man to thank him, but I suspect the contortions of my mouth look more like a grimace. I suppose it doesn't matter. A smile would be out of place here anyway. The seat beside me is empty. It's Ron's seat I realise and of course it is empty. How could it not be? I had hoped to the last that he would be here today. That he would stand beside me as we send our final farewells to the air and the ash and the pine.

I knew he wouldn't though. This was always going to be too much for him. It is almost too much for me. When Harry died, Ron lost a part of himself even greater than the hole I feel inside my own chest. He became a shadow of himself, always waiting for Harry to turn a corner, grinning bashfully at him. But that is never going to happen now. Tears fall down my face as I grip the arm of the chair so tightly my fingers ache with the strain. It's never going to happen. We are never going to see Harry again. I feel the comforting squeeze of an arm around my shoulder.

It is obvious when the procession is beginning. The hush that suddenly settles on the grounds, is somehow greater than the pregnant silence of before. I can hear those behind me stand, even if there is no vocal indication that this is required. I can't move though. It's one of the twins who takes my other elbow this time and gently guides me to my feet. Hearing the steps behind me, knowing what they mean, my knees buckle and if not for that steadying arm I would once more have fallen. I don't think I would have the strength to stand up.

My eyes stare straight ahead as I hear the solid steps, walking in time with each other. I refuse to turn my head, I refuse to look around. I don't want to see the cold wooden box, I don't want to make this real. Yet I have no choice as the figures carrying all that remains of my friend step inexorably forward, until my eyes are drawn almost unwillingly to them as their footsteps carry them past my place. Somehow I had expected it to be like a muggle funeral; each pall bearer carrying a section of the weight on their shoulders. How stupid can I be? None of them touch the wood, instead thin lines of red and golden threaded light shine forth from each of them.

Dumbledore leading from the front, of course, his face set in a sombre expression, and although he is gone too quickly for me study his expression, I suspect there is no hint of that trade-marked twinkle in his eyes. Mr Weasley, standing parallel to our august Headmaster on the other side of the coffin, his hands clenched tight beside him. McGonagall and Snape, of all people, next in line; the Potions Master's face still in that perpetual sneer and my Head of House looking old, weary and grey faced with loss, grief and regret. My heart catches a beat as the final two bearers come forward. A shock of red hair. Tear tracks are clear down his face, his eyes fixed firmly on his wand, but after all this, Ron made it. I barely notice Remus as I fixate on the back of his head.

A sob catches in my throat as behind the coffin Filius, Sprout and Hagrid make their way up, between the crowds of silent people. So many people have turned up for Harry's funeral. Even Hogwarts seemed crowded. People from all over the country, all over the world even, have come to pay their final respects for the Boy-Who-Lived and it makes me want to scream. I want to scream at them, to rage at them, to swear and shout and flail, because why couldn't they have shown this support, this solidarity, this outpouring of love when Harry was alive? Why is it now that he is dead that people who whispered behind their hands about him, others who accused him of insanity, madness, delinquency, how are they allowed to be here to grieve now?

The procession stops several feet away from the front row of chairs and the six of them raise their wands in unison, bearing the coffin further up until it is high enough for all those gathered to see. I hear a faint murmur and a tabard of red and gold sparks into life beneath it and it slowly settles down upon this shining bier. Each of them step away, walking slowly back to seats reserved for them, the four Heads of Houses sitting together, Remus and Hagrid gently steering Ron towards his family. Towards me. His blue eyes catch mine briefly and I suck in a breath at the pain I can so easily see there.

"We are gathered here today for a sorrowful occasion." Dumbledore's words echo across the grounds, his voice sombre and respectful. "It is to my deepest regret and sadness that we are here pay our respects to one of our own. Harry James Potter, son of Lily Jasmin Potter and James Fleamont Potter, the last surviving member of the Potter House. Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, was beyond a doubt an extraordinary young man, shown in part by just how many of you have come today to mourn his passing.

"It is a matter of great pride to me that it is not just witches and wizards here today, whether pure-blood, muggle or half-blood, for that never mattered to Mr Potter. Among us today however, we have house-elves, centaurs, goblins and even veela and giant blood in our midst." Those blue eyes rake across the crowd, catching the gaze of many in their passing. If Dumbledore is aware of the muttering that his proclamation has caused, he shows no sign of it. "Of Mr Potter's greatest gifts, one comes to mind above all and that was his talent for friendship, love and trust, regardless of blood or species. Many can learn from his example and how he treated everybody around him, even those who many wizards will not give the time of day."

It can't be ignored that the muttering from behind me has grown louder and yet I cannot fault Dumbledore for making what should be Harry's day a place for political statements. Because Harry always was kind, he always did show consideration. He befriended muggle or house-elf with equal ease. He was the only one to show Sirius a measure of mercy when the entire wizarding world had written him off as a murderer. He treated a werewolf as a member of his family and bought a house-elf Christmas presents. If there was one thing you could say about Harry, it was that he based his opinions on how you treated those around you, not on the value of your blood or your status.

"Mr Potter meant something very different to all of us here. To many he was a friend. To some a symbol. To others a saviour. To a few, their hope for the Quidditch House Cup." I imagine a few smiles behind me. "Many of us forgot though, that he was also a boy. A boy who stood strong against challenges many of us could never imagine. A boy who faced Voldemort -" The disgruntled murmurs stop suddenly as there is a collective gasp. I can imagine the fearful looks and the shifting bodies. "- not once, not twice, not even three times but on five separate occasions.

"The first time was when he was less than a year old and is what many of you will know him for. What you don't know, what you have failed to realise and what you wilfully ignored, is that Harry Potter stopped two real threats of Voldemort's return before his thirteenth birthday." Dumbledore's tone has changed. It is sharper, more cutting, anger seeping from it in a way that can't be unheard. "And when Voldemort finally managed to return, it was Harry Potter who was there to bear witness, who was strong enough to escape and bring back word. And still you would not listen. Still you would not make a stand. You turned your backs and you scapegoated a fifteen year old boy whose only mistake was to trust in the wizarding world."

His voice has become a roaring thunder, silencing everyone. There is no option but to listen, no possibility but to sit and bear witness to the sheer power that reverberates through his tone. I couldn't have moved if I had wanted to. It was as though someone had coated my seat in superglue, even though under a third of those here would even know what that was. His voice lowers once more.

"Any death is a tragedy. Any young death, doubly so. And to lose someone in this fashion, to their own hand is beyond even that. It is easy to become angry, at others and even at the dead himself; how could he do this to us? How could he hurt us so? How could he leave us behind? It is easy to get lost in a fog of guilt and self-reproach; why didn't I do something? How did I not see how badly he was hurting? What did I do wrong?"

I can hear sobbing; harsh, violent sobbing and it is only when a thin hand covers mine that I realise these strange, awful sounds are coming from me. It is as though he has read my mind, made worse by the fact that I know he actually can read my mind. How much has he seen? How much does he know? Does he know how badly I have failed my friends; both of them? Does he know how angry I have been, how self-absorbed, how ungrateful? Despite myself, I look up only to find that Dumbledore's gaze is strangely gentle as he looks at me, silently. I meet his gaze, knowing I must look an absolute state and not caring.

My mind is suddenly filled with an image of Dumbledore sat in his office and weeping. For such a distinguished man, he is an ugly weeper. Mad-Eye Moody beside him pours a glass of an amber liquid from a bottle and somehow I know that this is not the first drink that has been poured this night. Nor will it be the last. "What have I done, Alastor? What have I done?" The words are ripped from the old man's throat almost as if by force, they are ragged and broken and I can see the weight of guilt and responsibility he has laid upon his own shoulders. "How can I have failed him so utterly?"

In that moment I realise that Dumbledore hasn't invaded mine or anybody's mind. He knows how I feel, but not because he has riffled through memories that do not belong to him. He understands because that is how he feels. The calm, collected front of the man speaking a eulogy to thousands is a just that; a front. He is grieving, he blames himself and Merlin help us, he is also struggling not to blame Harry. It is cold comfort, but comfort nonetheless.

"There are some among us who have nothing to blame themselves for," Dumbledore continues gently, his gaze still holding mine. "They alone amongst us all stood by their friend, carried his burdens and fought with him to the last."

Those blue eyes flick up to take in the rest of the congregated masses, suddenly cold and hard as steel. There is pain there, yes. But there is also turbulent wrath just waiting for the chance to erupt.

"They are in the minority."

The gasps don't quite cover the edge of ice in his tone nor the rage lurking, almost unseen below the surface. I have never seen Dumbledore lose his temper and I am absolutely certain that it is a sight I do not wish to see. There is no echo of reverberating magic, there doesn't have to be. There is no denying the sense of potent danger beneath the man's very skin.

"For the rest of you, you would do well to be ashamed. You would do well to feel guilty. You would do well to hang your heads in shame. For it is by your actions and your inaction that a strong, wilful, caring young man is dead. Everything Mr Potter did was for you. Everything he was, he was for you. He put himself in danger time and time and time again, all for the sake of others and how do you repay him? With lies, slander, hatred and abuse. Abuse he sorely did not need. You all but flayed a fourteen year old boy alive and you think you can sit before me and take no responsibility? You are wrong.

"I made many mistakes, all of which I will take with me to my grave. At least I can be comforted by the knowledge that most of my mistakes were just that; mistakes. Accidental. I had no intent to harm. I had the decency to trust in him. You on the other hand have no such relief. From the ignorance and stupidity of the Ministry to the venomous pens of those at the Daily Prophet, from those of you who penned cruel and malicious letters to others who gossiped behind his back, spreading slanderous and cruel rumours. You have no such excuse. Your deeds will be etched upon your very souls until the day of judgement and you had best hope that the afterlife is judged by a kinder power than me."

I know the words are not meant for me and I cannot help but flinch regardless. If ever there was a God, this must be comparable to his wrath.

"Harry was, above all, a caring, considerate and loving young man. He was decent, dedicated to others and never put himself first. You did not deserve him. He did not deserve you. He was a saviour, even though he was far too young for that burden. He was the Chosen One who faced Voldemort and lived, and now you must fight without him. What he had which Voldemort knows not, is something you must now find on your own. And you only have yourselves to blame. He was a friend to many, despite the pain others had put him through. He believed in unity, in equality and in working together. He threw himself at danger in order to protect those he cared about… and sometimes even those he didn't.

"His parents would have been proud of him. I am proud of him. We all have something to learn from the loss of such a vibrant young life. I hope you learn it well. For we will need those lessons in the years to come. We have lost a shining beacon, not of hope of salvation, or even of leadership, but a good young man who could have shown us all what we are fighting for. Harry Potter was brave and forgiving and kind and, above all, good. Let that be said. Harry James Potter was a good man. That is an example we would all do well to live by. If the only thing said when my time comes is that, I will consider my life well lived and I believe Harry would be proud."

I watch Dumbledore step back just as a hail of flaming arrows fly overhead the coffin along with a cacophony of noise from the direction of the Great Lake. And with that it's over. People begin to shuffle, I can hear the sounds of chairs being pulled back and Hagrid's grief overtaking him, but I can't move. I sit staring at that box of wood and realise with a start that it's the exact same shade as Harry's wand. Holly. They've made his casket from holly. It seems fitting somehow. But it's as though I feel that it will disappear the moment I take my eyes from it. He will disappear. Harry will be gone, forever. I know it's stupid, ridiculous even, but it's how it feels.

Except that choice isn't mine to make. I feel Ron softly disentangle his hand from mine and stand beside his father. Together they walk back up to that box and Dumbledore slowly lowers it back down to the ground. The six bearers are once more assembled, but before they can do anything, Ron steps closer and lays his hand and then his forehead onto the wood. I can see his shoulders shaking from here, can almost feel the wealth of grief that is rolling off him in uneven waves. His father steps forward, but Ron doesn't look forward, he looks back. He looks back; to me. And he holds out the hand that is not pressed so lovingly against cold and solid wood.

There is only one thing I can do and I stand on shaking legs, aware of that reassuring presence lingering once more at my elbow. I turn to see a twin standing beside me, face white and grim but resolved. Molly always did want the twins to grow up. I doubt she meant it this way. Together we walk towards the group at the front; I only stumble once, a strong grip catching me and supporting me and then passing me into Ron's arms. Only then does Ron nod to Dumbledore, tears still streaking down his face, breath still uneven. I look behind us to see that the rest of the Weasley's, Luna, Neville and a few others are hovering uncertainly.

The spellwork is simultaneous. Six wands making identical motions until bands of light once more lift and support the coffin beside us. No words are spoken, other a few muttered incantations from those who couldn't manage wandless magic. Under any other circumstances, I would have been impressed. But I know where we are going. I know what is going to happen next. I know that there will be no escaping the sense of finality as the coffin is once and for all lowered into a deep cavernous pit in the ground. The sounds of the dirt hitting the lid, the sight of all that is left of Harry buried by mounds of sodden earth. A lock of my hair to float down and join it. So some part of me will be with him and even in this final dark place he will not be alone.

More words will be said. Offerings will be brought forth. More arrows may be unleashed as a sign of respect and of honour. None of that matters. Not anymore. Our hands are knitted together tightly. We have lost a part of our heart and it will never be returned to us. We have lost our best friend. But we still have each other.