Forever Young

Twenty-year-old Hermione Granger trudged up the tree-lined walk towards her house, her heavy leather bag slung over her shoulder, making her slouched forward to accommodate her weight. A scowl was evident on her face as she walked around the bend of tall pines and her mansion came into view, but not even the sight of her luxurious residence could boost her spirit at such a time. Especially as she lived by herself. No one but Harry and Ron could really stand living with her anymore, as she was constantly in her studies and at her job. To know one's surprise, she became a university professor of Charms and Transfiguration, the youngest in history, which was her life's dream, but nothing could have set her for the hard work and responsibility it instilled. Or all the students. She taught eighteen-year-old boys and girls at the Salem Academy, which meant every day she needed to take a portkey across the Atlantic to America for eight hours and then take another back. The trip itself practically tore her strength apart, not to mention the boys she taught who hit on her all day long because she was only two years older than them. Sometimes she felt like screaming from it all. There were times when she did.

The gravel of the long path crunched under her black-buckled shoes, slow and agitated to demonstrate the grief coursing through her. Not only did she not look forward to her job every single day, but she also didn't ever look forward to returning home everyday. She lived on her own. And since there was no one to live with her, there was nothing to take her mind off her studies, and her nose was always jammed in a book.

"Home again, home again," she muttered as she climbed the stairs, picking up the owl post lying on her door mat and inserting her house key in the door. Her house was, for choice of simpler words, enormous. She had bought it after she'd signed the contract of her dreams. Before it, she had lived with Harry and Ron in Godric's Hollow. Naturally, she'd invited Harry and Ron to live with her. Multiple times to be exact, either in a popped question during dinner or she would ask when they talked on the phone. But Ron, who had acquired a job at the Ministry, was now living with his fiancée, a fiery woman with red hair, just like him, named Genevieve. She was half-blooded, like Harry, but she and Ron were clearly made for each other. And Harry, now playing Quidditch for Puddlemere United, was still residing in Godric's Hollow. Sure, he'd stayed weekends over, but he was much too attached to his home.

"You really do need a fiancée, Harry," she had told him one night over shots of Three Feathers at his house where he'd invited her over for dinner. Hermione was the only one he let joke around with him about his label as The Boy Who Lived. "This is insane. You sit here all day in all your wealth and all your fame and riches and yet you still don't want a girl. I mean, they're throwing themselves at you Harry! I've seen some, and they're very--hic--lovely." She pronounced the word lovely with the hum of a giggle, because truthfully, a lot of the women who were fawning over Harry were lovely on the outside, but were snobbish, rich, trashy jerks that cared not for Harry, but rather for his name. They all wanted to be Mrs. Harry Potter for nothing but the money and media.

Harry had laughed also. "Yeah, right," he slurred. "And have some snarky slut spend every cent I've got on clothes and make-up and jewelry?" He then shot down another unsteady glass of whiskey and wiped his mouth. "Nah, honey. No worries. You're the only woman I want in m life and that's--hic--final."

But he did need a girl. Any girl. As long as Hermione had known him to be single, he seems so lonely. Too lonely. It also seemed to be taking a toll on him, because he didn't talk as much. And he was always reading. Personally, she found reading to be a fabulous thing. But not like that. Not as an obsessive-compulsive kind of thing. He was always putting a book down when she arrived at his house, and picked out up when she was about to leave. She wouldn't be surprised if he could recite Shakespeare's A Winter's Tale cover-to-cover if she ever suggested it over a Thursday night brandy. She was worried about him. But then again she figured that it was her motherly side kicking in. Motherliness was unavoidable when it came to Harry Potter. Having no parents, she was always afraid he might be too naive or not as prepared for the world as those with parents. And shame barely described the feeling. Harry had always been closer to her than Ron. He was always calm, always cool and collected. He was tender, compassionate, he would give everything he owned, even his life, for her, and he almost proved it once or twice. She loved him too much to let things like that go through her mind.

The first cool breath of air against her face relaxed her immensely. Thanking God that she'd remembered to switch on the air conditioner before she left, she shut the door and shrugged off her bag and robe wearily, still clutching her mail in her hand. She began shuffling through it as she walked through her foyer into the lounge and flopped down on the couch, her eyes flitting over the addresses.

"Bills, bills, bills," she breathed. "Wow, the IRS must really love me. I get more things from them than Harry and Ron."

Chucking them onto the coffee table, she sat back and slumped against the couch with a sigh. She was utterly exhausted. Jeremy, one of the students she taught, copped a feel of her backside while she was walking past him in the hallway. Some of the things she had said were a little less than teacherish when she grabbed him by the hair and almost dragged him to the headmaster's office, where she blew up entirely, threatening him with detentions and suspensions and every other punishment under the sun. In fact she barely heard anything the headmaster had said to Jeremy. She was too busy tearing him a second rear end. Now her throat was sore from yelling and teaching her classes for the rest of the day and her bum felt like it was bruising from where it'd been grabbed. Undoubtedly it was.

Her stomach growled.

"Ugh," she moaned, her head lolling over the back of the couch. Then with great effort, she heaved herself up and slouched to the kitchen. The house was silent. With the exception of the hum of the air conditioner, there wasn't a sound unless made by her. That's the only reason she hated her house. It was empty. In all its sixteen bedrooms, five bathrooms complete with showers and tubs, three kitchens, its basement, gymnasium, four lounges and three sitting rooms, there was only one occupant. Herself.

Making herself a bowl of soup, she sat down at her kitchen table, grabbed a spoon out of the drawer behind her, and lazily began to slurp it up. One hand reached up and loosened her tie and collar. One thing that bothered her was that she had to dress the same as her students with the pleated skirt, sweater, tie, and robe with the Salem Academy crest emblazoned at the breast. It didn't at all divide her from her students, making it twice as intimidating to be around the boys she taught. And another thing, she completely kept far from calling any of the boys she taught, eighteen years old or not, men. She was a woman. Her girls, whom she loved very dearly, were women. The boys were boys. Calling them men and putting them on her level was degrading to herself and to the men she actually considered men, like Harry and Ron.

The phone rang.

Hermione Summoned the phone over to her. "Hello?"

"Hey, Herm."

Hermione sighed and ladled a spoonful of soup and let it drip back into the bowl. "Hey, Ginny."

Ginny paused. "What's wrong?"

"I had a really tough day. Students giving me problems, mouthing off. I spent almost two whole hours in the headmaster's office with a student today."

"Who, the one that's always slipping notes in your robes?"

"No, that's Marko," Hermione said miserably, nestling the phone into her shoulder as she picked up her bowl and walked over to the kitchen window, scooping up a few chunks of chicken and slurping them up. "He slipped a rather . . . inappropriate one into my blouse last week and got suspended for three days. No. It was Jeremy today."

Ginny laughed loudly into Hermione's ear, making her wince. "Jeremy, eh?"

"Yeah."

"So, what'd the big ladies' man of Salem Academy do to Professor Granger this time?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "You wouldn't be able to guess."

"Probably not. Tell me."

"Well . . . it's rather embarrassing."

"Alright, now you have to tell me. No options."

Hermione sighed again, placing her bowl on the counter and taking the phone into her hand again, propping herself on her arm and still gazing out the window. "Don't go telling everybody now, but he . . ." She took a large breath and said in a rush, "He grabbed me."

"What! Where?"

"My . . . my rear . . . my rear-end."

Ginny laughed so hard Hermione had to pull the phone about a foot away from her ear. She was floored. How in god's name could anyone find this random act of obscenity funny? When she put the phone back to her she could almost hear Ginny wiping the tears of mirth from her eyes. "Gin, how can you laugh at something like that? Gosh, I wouldn't be surprised if I have a black and blue mark there now."

More laughter. "Jesus Hermione, how can I not laugh? Which cheek?"

"Virginia Weasley!"

Ginny sobered. "Calm down, sweetie, I was only kidding." She sighed. "Why'd he do it?"

"Because he's a snot nose brat who thinks it's amusing to hit on his Charms teacher, that's why." She bit her lip, her emotions suddenly coming to a head. "Ginny, I don't think I can handle this anymore," she said quietly, her voice cracking slightly.

Ginny tutted. "Oh Hermione . . ."

Hermione gulped, stabling herself on the counter with her free hand. "No, I mean it. Everyday I go through the same exhausting schedule, the same exhausting classes, the same rude, vulgar students . . ." She put her head down and took a few deep breaths. "I honestly cannot physically take it anymore. If I try any harder I think I might scream or cry or something drastic --"

"Hermione don't talk like that," said Ginny seriously. "I have to say . . . I worry about you sometimes. I feel like you're doing a little too much nowadays."

Hermione gave a small sardonic laugh. "Don't be crazy. It's not too much."

"Get a hold of yourself. Of course it is. You're constantly tired and you look terrible."

"Gee thanks."

"I'm serious. It's not healthy Hermione." Ginny paused again. "Why don't you just take a short bre--"

"I can't do that!" said Hermione, shocked. "Who will teach?"

"I'll make sure they know you're out for a while and have them assign a substitute for a while. Just a short period of time," Ginny added quickly, correctly interpreting Hermione's abrupt silence. "Not long, perhaps a month or two. You can't keep up with this. Why do you think teachers all wind up looking like McGonagall?"

Hermione couldn't suppress a laugh. "That's not nice. She's saved all of our arses more than a few times if I recall correctly, Virginia Weasley. And she wasn't that ugly."

"Um, yes, Hermione, I really think she was."

They both erupted into giggles, Hermione picking up her bowl and spoon again and sitting back down at the table. Over the course of the conversation she had grown hungrier and hungrier. Unfortunately, it'd gotten slightly cooler, but she grabbed her wand and poked it just into the surface and it immediately began to steam with heat.

When their laughter subsided, Ginny groaned. "Crap. Draco's trying to call. He said he might be getting caught up in work this morning. God knows why. Now, listen to what I said before. After tomorrow, no work for two months. You hear me? I want you to take a break. Get out. Take a four hour nap. Make a Relaxing Potion. Jog every morning. Go to the gym. Jesus, Hermione go to the spa, spend thousands and be a woman." Hermione giggled and then sighed, eating another spoonful of soup. "You sure you're alright, Herm?"

Hermione licked her lips, nodding even though Ginny couldn't see it. "Yeah," she said softly. "Yeah, I think I'll be fine. And Ginny?"

"Yeah?"

She hesitated, and then took a deep breath. "Thanks. You always know how to make me feel better. I really love you for it."

Ginny tutted again, only this time in mushiness. "Awww, sweetheart, I love you too. I'll see you later. Call me if you need anything."

Hermione pushed the button on the phone and sat it down in front of her bowl but instead of eating more, she stared it. Maybe Ginny knew her better than she did. Mind you, it didn't really seem strange. She'd made it believable many times. Ginny was indeed a tricky woman. Hermione often felt that Ginny could read her like a book. And she could always brighten a room with her smile and attitude. Hermione silently thanked God for her best friend ever as she continued to devour her soup.

It was a long time before she finally finished her meal, and when she looked out the window of her kitchen, she was slightly shocked to see it was dark out. She had barely noticed the slowly dimming light in the kitchen. Standing and stretching, she levitated her bowl into the sink and walked out into the lounge, removing her tie and throwing it down somewhere before flopping back onto her couch, kicking her black-buckled shoes off without emotion.

The lounge, besides her private bedroom and bathroom, was her favorite room to be in. It was large with a gigantic brick fireplace on the far right wall. On either side were two gold lion statues, each with their outward paw curled artistically. She bought them in honor of Gryffindor House, and they added a nice décor to the place. The carpets were a deep scarlet and the walls were a calm blue, as well as the couch she was sprawled out on. There were a few shelves crammed with books around the room at different walls, and her coffee table, which was made of a beautiful red mahogany, was still covered in Hermione's mail from that day. She had her head against a scarlet velvet pillow, and in front of the fireplace was a soft red rug. The room was very well lit by the brass candle holders on each wall and on either side of the mantle of the fireplace, and was extremely charming. Hermione had designed it herself when she moved in. At first it was a horribly familiar shade of midnight green, and concluded rather quickly that it reminded her of Slytherin.

But as she stared at the pale blue ceiling of her lounge, she couldn't see it at all. When she told Ginny she couldn't take it anymore, she was quite unclear. She couldn't take anything anymore. Not only was her job stressful, everything going on was stressful. Harry was in the playoffs for Quidditch and they were sure to head on to the Cup, but Hermione had missed more than a few of his games in the process of her career and it was painful to look at Harry's picture anymore as long as she knew she wasn't paying much attention to him in his own profession when he gave her praise and prods in the right direction with hers. Ron was getting very serious with Genevieve. This wasn't much of a problem, but the only problem was that she wasn't sure she was ready to let one of her best friends go off to be on his own, knowing that it was her motherly sense kicking in, which made her hate herself more than anything. Add that to her school problems and the fact that Ginny, her best friend in the universe, was now sleeping with and planning on getting married to the only person in which Hermione had ever had a reason to hate with such a passion. She was happy for Ginny because she was so deeply in love with a man that loved her just as much and then some, but now whenever she visited their home she was afraid of hanging with her friend for fear her boyfriend would say something that would crush her and bring back every bad memory of his teasing back in Hogwarts. And she knew it was their fault because she had urged Ginny to tell the person she loved how she felt, and found out two days later the lucky man was the biggest jerk ever. Never in her life had she felt so strongly about something. Something that had nagged her since she had signed that fateful contract. She had made a full-fledged mistake with everything.

Tears began to well up in her eyes as she groped for her wand, casting the Incendio Charm onto large redbrick fireplace about eight feet from the couch she was on. Instantly a roaring fire erupted in the grate, crackling and popping warmly, heating Hermione all over. Two lone tears leaked out of her eyes, falling down against the soft material of the cushion her head was buried against. She reached behind her head and pulled out her hair tie, the long, wavy locks falling down over her face and neck like honey-brown curtains, fluttering with every puff of sobbing breath that escaped her throat. She needed sleep; all her muscles were aching. She needed a shower for the same reason, but also she felt dirty and very unlike herself. But the one thing she needed most was more obvious than anything.

"Harry," she whimpered, tears streaming.

It was so obvious it was ridiculous. She craved his warmth, his smile, his passion, his voice. She wanted to curl into his arms like she did one time so long ago, sob her heart out and listen as Harry would murmur shushing noises in her ear, rock her and rock her and let her fall asleep against him and wake up in the same spot with him waiting patiently, ready to do anything she asked him to do until she was satisfied and figured it was time she went home. Only Harry could do that for her. Ron was great and could always make her smile, but he wasn't exactly the one to cry on. Harry, though, could take it all in. He could take in her tears and her pain and her sorrows and absorb them and then drive it out of himself without inflicting anything on anyone and all their problems were gone. He was her everything.

Now she was crying anew, her tears bursting out of her in loud noisy sobs and she pressed her face into the pillow to muffle them. Because now something was totally clear.

Hermione Granger hated her life.