Phoenix stones and Stars

Ch 1

As Neville Longbottom's casket was lowered into the earth, the loud sobs and gleam of the sun scattered across the coffin lid did not pay any attention to Hermione. The small zephyrs that passed occasionally, did. They brought whispers to her ears. Each time, it was the same repetition.

A number.

Eleven. Neville had been the eleventh to die that month. It was August nineteenth.

Most fatalities where wizards from all over the globe, most had packed up their entire lives to join the oh-so-hopeful resistance. Most weren't fortunate to get a proper burial. Apparently, Harry only thought it necessary to show a merciful death to people whom he were acquainted with.

Hermione stared at the flakes of dirt dancing in the wind. She was silent. She didn't cry. She didn't scream. She didn't blink. She didn't breathe. Nothing else existed outside of her gaze on the box of wood containing Neville's corpse, like the word had fallen from beneath her feet. She couldn't remember if it had always been like that, or if she had just now noticed the endless void inviting her in to fall with the rest.

Somewhere near by, Luna Lovegood fell to the ground, a heaved cry escaping her throat. Many glanced at her, shedding looks of pity, while the women surrounding her tried to raise her by the arms. A tragic sight.

Luna had been asked by Neville to marry him days prior, before he was sent on a raid that would strip any happiness that clung to the air.

She said yes, and their wedding had already started being planned. Parvati and Parma Patil had already begun the process of stitching together a dress. It was a lovely orange with a thick skirt of pink. An unusual wedding color, but perfectly fit for a girl like Luna.

12 Grimmuald Place was filled with such joy. Two days filled with celebration and laughter. Everyone, like a sponge, seemed to be soaking in as much happiness as they could, while Hermione stood in the corner, like she always did. Watching. This time with a glass of champagne in her hand to accompany her usual lonesome self.

She liked to watch people. How they talked and walked, if they where the type to avoid eye contact during conversations, how they fidgeted according to different situations, the twitch of their fingers or eye when angry. She could tell people intentions before they even laid eyes on her. Everyone knew it wouldn't last, the way their smiles where inhumanly wide gave that away.

Then the happiness abruptly ripped itself from their grasps, as it tended to do. Harry apparated back to the parlor, Neville's body slumped in his arms, his hair stained a nauseating red, his eyes rolled back into his skull, smothered with a thick sheet of milky white, void of any life, his skin pallid and creamy.

Dead. Murdered. At twenty one years old. His life had ended before it even had the chance to begin.

"There was just too many of them," Harry had said, as the room broke out with cries. Hermione stood in the doorway, her whole body tingling. She did not cry. She did not scream. She did not blink, nor breathe. She watched as people filed out of the room slowly, some ran to Luna, who was where she is now. Puddled on the floor, tears staining her cheeks.

Hermione didn't feel sadness then, nor did she now, watching Neville's casket being covered with dirt. The boy she once considered a close friend, family even, was dead. Dead at the hands of death eaters. Killed because there was no one there to protect him. Because there forces had been cut in half, since women where forbade into battle, and fighters where forced to duel alone, rather than have protective partners.

There was never a tear she shed, or a cry she let the world hear. She didn't feel the universe was deserving enough to see how much she had been broken.