Remember

'Hermione, dear! Are you almost done?' Mrs Granger pops her head around the door with a glowing smile. 'We're all waiting for you.'

Hermione's answering smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. No, Mum, I'm not excited. I'm dreading it. But she keeps her thoughts silent, casually hiding the photograph behind her back, and continues to smile. Forcing her face to show something she doesn't feel. 'I'm almost done, I'll be there in a moment.'

'Okay then, sweetie. Your groom is waiting downstairs, don't take too long.' Her mother gives one last smile and walks away.

Hermione stops smiling instantly and drops down onto her worn-out rocking chair, clutching the photograph tightly. Smiling is so painful that she can barely stand it anymore. Drawing out the agony, day after day, just for the show. Hermione was never good at faking her feelings anyway.

She looks around, sighing. The dying sun sends rays of light dancing across her bare bedroom walls, the shadows flickering and fading away, before leaping back again. They play over the single box left in her room, stuffed to the brim with all her most prized childhood possessions. Life is changing around her, and she doesn't quite know what to make of it.

A part of her thinks that she should be happy, but the other half is desperately sad, and yearns to jump back under the covers of her old bed, warm and safe. Back into the arms of her old friends, her old family, her old life, feeling protected and loved again.

Hermione remembers a time when she was happy. Even during the war, there was laughter. She can remember Harry, with his messy hair (no matter what he did to try and change it), his happy grin, his pronounced energy, and the way he could make you feel sad, cheerful, determined or carefree without even trying. Hermione wonders what she would have done without him. And Ron.

Hermione finds it hard to think of Ron. It's the worst pain in the world, worse than smiling, worse than knives twisting into her skin, worse than Cruciatus. Hermione doesn't want to remember him, and searches for memories of someone else.

She thinks of Ginny, beautiful and stubborn, with her fiery red hair and contrastingly warm brown eyes. It was a pity that Harry had never noticed her-or rather, had noticed her too late; she was with Draco Malfoy already. Ginny is lucky now, with two beautiful children, and Hermione is happy for her. So happy, but a little bit envious.

Just a little bit, though. Ginny has Malfoy, but Hermione has no-one. Of course Ginny had been crushed by Ron's death, but Hermione doesn't think that it keeps Ginny awake at night, tossing and turning, caught in a tangled web of insomnia, like herself. There is Malfoy, to soothe Ginny back to dream world, but for Hermione it's just endless, dreary nights that haunt her as she desperately tries to sleep, and forget.

She forces herself to think about him. The special way he would make her feel, the special way his smile would light up her whole day, even when she was in a particularly bad mood. The way he begged for a peek at her homework, and she batted his hands away. The way he would be able to make her do anything and everything, just by flashing that lopsided grin at her.

She had never been able to resist that puppy dog look. Hermione almost smiles when she thinks of it, but swallows against the lump in her throat instead. Hot tears are pouring down her face, but she doesn't wipe them away.

Even the little things mattered, like squeezing her hand comfortingly, playing with her hair, calling her "smarty-pants" and rolling his eyes at her enthusiastic ideas for S.P.E.W. She remembers him holding her hand, wiping away her tears when she cried, calming her to sleep when the nightmares became unbearable. She tries to stop thinking of him after that, but a steady flow of memories pour unbounded into her head, filling her with pain, doubt and misery.

The tears gush down her face and fall into space.

'Hermione?'

She wipes the tears away hastily at the sound of her name, lest famous Viktor Krum should find her crying over another man. She tries to feel a warm glow of pleasure at his voice, but feels nothing. He walks up behind her and wraps his arms around her waist, and she turns to him, smiling brightly. 'Yes? I'm almost done, Viktor, give me a few more minutes.'

He smiles back uneasily, and notices the picture in her hand. He questioningly stares at it, and his smile becomes sad. 16-year-old Harry, Ron and Hermione beam out from the picture, Ron tugging on Hermione's hair, Hermione laughing and swatting at him, and Harry grinning and rolling his eyes at their antics. The three people in the photograph stop and wave up happily at Viktor before continuing.

'Harry ... he is married to Parvati Patil, is he not? And Ron Weasley ...' Viktor frowns in confusion.

'He died,' Hermione informs in a quiet, clear voice. 'In the War.' She turns away and picks up the remaining box hurriedly with a feeling of intense misery. He died, he died, he died echoes in her head like a clanging bell, making her dizzy and light-headed.

'Let's go, shall we?' she says quickly. 'I want to see our new home.'

Viktor leads the way out, and Hermione lingers at the door, gazing around at the room of her childhood. She kisses the photograph softly and leaves it at the doorway before following her husband-to-be down the stairs, blinking back her tears and pasting on a smile.

Life must go on, after all.

~fin~