The funeral, with so many people she knew yet didn't know, so many that looked over her, through her, but never at her. So many that gazed at the coffin, at each other, but never at the solitary figure numb as darkness, all alone.

So many people, yet she's still empty.

Her hair is black like the dying heart inside of her, scorched by grief that has yet to fully settle in her mind. Her skin is pale with lack of sleep, a symbol of the energy that has fled her.

In the coffin a leader's lifeless body lies in peaceful eternal rest. He's left everyone, left the world, his old, old body unable to take the pain.

He left her.

So she sits and waits and watches as everyone speaks for him but not as him. No one captures him, who he was, empty words flinging themselves through the mourners and the grievers. The coffin is lowered into the ground, forever to be buried beneath the grass and dirt as the man inside would forever be buried in the past.

And the empty woman still sits after everyone has left long before, too caught up in their own grief to see the lifelessness in her once emerald eyes turned gray. Finally she leaves, hollow, the words of the funeral previously ended echoing in her empty depths.

Suddenly she finds herself in his office, his old office, and she gazes at the desk and the papers and the quills, still waiting for his return. She looks at the chair he sat in, pushed back from the desk, and she absently pushes it forward.

The portraits around her are empty, leaving her to grieve and say goodbye to the remnants of her best friend, and someone she wishes could have been more. But fear, work, shame, they slaughter the words in their tracks.

So she harbors unspoken words within her like dead weights on her soul.

A long-fingered hand reaches out and opens a drawer, the contents inside a testament to his love for sweets. She reaches in, feeling like an intruder, and takes something out.

She closes the drawer and a single tear manages to escape as she chokes back a sob. Tiredly she rests her hands on the desk, leaning on it as she had many times before leaned on its owner.

But he's gone, his magic with him, this office all she has left of him.

The days pass by, filled with grief, anger, emptiness, but finally the deep, deep wounds begin to heal and she sits now as Headmistress in the office, his portrait smiling down at her.

She passes through the hallways like a ghost, a phantom, seemingly transparent. Silently, she stops outside the Transfiguration classroom, looking inside with a blank gaze at the class that had started it all.

Some teachers pass by, preparing for the difficult upcoming school year, and gaze at her in concern. But no one sees the Lemon Drops in her cloak pocket that she touches gently, and no one sees all the things she never said written in torment on her soul.

With relief, however, they see a small smile make its way on her face as she turns from the classroom, they see the stiffness of her shoulders that had been slouched for so long.

They think they smell a faint scent of Lemon Drops, or chocolate, or both as they pass by her. They think it's just their imagination and continue on their way, feeling suddenly renewed from long days of sorrow.

Edited for lemondrops -> Lemon Drops, and Transfigurations -> Transfiguration.