After the war ended Molly Weasley took to her bed and wept hysterically for two solid weeks.
"None of us died, you see." Ron glanced sheepishly at Hermione, who had to strain to catch his words over the wails emanating from his mother's bedroom.
"Yes," she answered, eyes on their special clock. The hands representing each Weasley all pointed to the same thing: Lucky.
Voldemort was dead, that was the most important thing. Harry had killed him, as he'd been destined to since he was barely older than a year. It was perhaps fitting that the final battle took place at Hogwarts on what should have been his graduation day.
It was uncertain now if anyone would ever graduate from Hogwarts again. The castle lay in smoldering ruins. The Great Hall was open to the sky; the long tables burned brightly orange through the harsh gray smoke. The Astronomy Tower was blessedly reduced to rubble.
When Harry had emerged from what was left of Gryffindor Tower—alone—and collapsed face down on the grass, wounded but most certainly alive, the Order realized they'd won. Counting the bodies, they'd told themselves they'd got off remarkably lightly.
That day.
Wave after wave of destruction had devastated Wizarding Europe in the final months of the war. Refugees were still converging on magical London—itself greatly damaged—with more coming every day.
They honored the fallen of the Battle of Hogwarts as best they could—state funerals were hard to manage when the state itself barely existed anymore: Susan Bones, Michael Corner, Hestia Jones, Nymphadora Tonks... It was hard to keep track of all the hastily arranged memorials. It seemed they would never stop.
And then, somehow, there was only one left.
Hermione smoothed the pleats of her black dress robes and glanced backward in the mirror to make sure her stockings were not laddered.
"You look very nice, dear," said the mirror. "Somber."
"He wouldn't have liked it." Hermione frowned.
"One must be appropriate," replied the mirror, a note of sympathy in its motherly voice.
"Must one?" she asked distantly, kicking off her high heels.
Hermione could hear the mirror clucking in the background—something about traditions, and precedents, and things that were not done—as she dove back into her wardrobe, but she paid no attention. Mirrors were always judgmental; it was their job, after all.
Ah, that was better. Her hand closed over a light cotton frock. He'd have liked that color.
Her eyes suddenly flooded. She yanked the dress out, causing several papers to dislodge from atop the wardrobe and flutter chaotically to the floor. Hermione cursed, then forced herself to calm, wiping the tears away. She'd never get through the day like this. She bent to gather the papers.
It was a brochure and pages of a university catalog. St. Brigid's College, Oxford, the glossy pamphlet proclaimed. Britain's Foremost Wizarding College. She stared at the picture—a group of fresh-faced wizards and witches studying on a grassy square. One glanced quickly up at her and waved before diving back into his book.
