Under the Northern Star

The clock on the wall struck four. It was already dark outside; a deep bluish cape was sweeping softly down the sky and over the fells. Specks of light glittered here and there on the snow-covered mountains, and the moon shimmered quietly above Mount Ear.

Six months. She had still been alive just six months ago.

His last kiss lingered on her lips still, his smell in her nose, the warmth of his smile as he left for the mission.
Forever.

She stood up to banish the thought and walked to the window. It was a peculiar feeling -like the darkest night, but with the activity of a day. Cars were driving to and from the hotel yard, and people in their ski gear strolled on the path leading to the ski lifts.

She didn't have any ski gear. She only had memories that haunted her day and night. During the days, the smallest sound, the faintest rustle made her look up in hope, and at night, the dreams washed over her and brought him to her, as if he had still been there.

She hated sleeping. She hated the silence as the clock struck ten, eleven, twelve, and the hotel quieted down. Some nights, she had sat by the door, leaning against it and listening to the occasional steps in the corridor. The TV was always open, but many programs were in the native language, and she didn't understand it. Still, it was better than silence in a language she understood.

A large envelope and a crumpled letter lay on the table, next to a candle that had almost burned out. She had no owl and there was no owl station anywhere close either; she was cut off from the wizarding world and dependant on her parents. They dealt with all her correspondence with the owl she had bought them just...a month before life ended.

"Darling Hermione," said the letter in bubbly, lively handwriting. "I heard you're abroad, and I'm not sure you've seen the many articles and stories that have popped up in the papers since the summer. So, since I have access to the archives, I thought I'd help you out! Here is a nice, thick stack -enjoy! Your friend, Rita Skeeter."

She felt her body shake as her eyes fell on one of the newspaper clippings peeking from the envelope. She could make out the words, "In memoriam: Ronald Weasley".

'I hate you," she whispered. 'I hate you, Master Dominus.'

She knew exactly how the article continued. Knew those words that equalled vomit for her.

"Harry Potter's best friend dies tragically in duty...emerging new Dark Wizard group led by the mysterious Master Dominus...a group of Aurors checked a building based on an anonymous tip...Avada Kedavra...died immediately..."

In a rushing moment of fury, she ran to the table and tore the clipping into a thousand pieces, ripped the letter into pulp, threw it all in the fire. Gasping and choking, she fell on the bear fur on the floor.

How was she supposed to continue life?