To Be

A/N: Hullo everyone! ^_^

*whispers to self* Lauren, you're procrastinating again…

Shhh! Shut up! Someone will hear us!

You shut up!

I'm so sick of you! Urgh!

Note to self: Work on homework first, then write fun stories filled with Pumpkin Pie goodness.

…

Okay, well, as you guys can see, I'm on a sugar-high. I get hyper when I have tic-tacs (hence my penname), and well, I guess you could say I take it out on you fine folks (and myself *cough*…). Sorry! *winks*

This story is strange for me to write, since it sort of came to me in a dream (I was watching the whole thing in my mind, it was really cool)… Also - and I have to be honest with you - it's hard to try and write out a dream - the whole thing was very fuzzy. But I have the basic plot down, so I'm happy enough for the time being.

This story is dedicated to all those young writers out there, who strive desperately to be heard and acknowledged. If I had a glass, I'd propose a toast.

Enjoy.

-Lauren, who is feeling undeniably insecure and immature at the moment…

* * *

It is the time. The time to understand that for however long you seek, the answers always drift away like leaves on a gust of autumn air…

The strangely soothing scratching of a deluxe quill was not uncommon in the Granger's household. They all wrote in some way or another, for it was customary - and initially essential - for people to know how to master this noble and most admired art form. The path to literacy, and the path to master literacy, takes one their life. Their life of hardship and pain; of happiness and joy; to end it suddenly knowing too little - or too much.

What happens, however, when one knows too much at such young an age? They are trapped in their own young body, seeking the respect they believe they deserve. It hurts them to watch the elderly, wise and respected, scowl as the young ones pass. For what do they know? they think. How could they possibly know as much as I? I, who have fought in wars and come out scathed? I, who have lived long a life, resisting temptation and persuasion? I, who have watched my parents die, and watched as their graves were lowered into the earth? What do they know of life and suffering?

The young one knew she was looked upon as intelligent, and for that she was thankful. For years she was without wisdom, or death, or even the goings on of the real world. She was a child - a child whose livelihood was paid for, and whose house and kitchen was always full, blooming with whatever she desired most. Most children were spoiled this way, and they went astray, but something in this little girl kept her innocent and sweet, and she grew.

Her great fondness for books and knowledge grew also. For no longer was she captivated by petty storybooks and fairy tales; she was a child with an aura of understanding and empathy; a child whose thrill in life was to read and discover. But she was agreeably antisocial, ignoring the other children's giggles and playful antics; retreating into a world of education. Her actions suggested she was as timid as a fawn, but she was, in fact, startlingly brave. To no surprise, no one knew, not even her own parents, and she grew up in quiet response.

She knew, in the pit of her stomach, that she was different from everyone else.

The letter, one of the few she received from someone besides family, proved her theory correct, and she was happy; but it still didn't satisfy.

It seemed that even here, at a school for persons of magical blood, she was different. Not so much outside, for she was taken fondly under her friends' wings, but inside. She saw things that no one else saw. She understood things that most would puzzle over for years. She was far beyond her years, not only in knowledge and intelligence, but also in wisdom.

There comes a time when no one can help you… no one can fill the painful needs that ache for reassurance… And you have to go forward, braving those that stand against you, and master yourself…

She dipped the tip of her quill in the bottle of ink, and the fastidious scratching continued.

There was a boy…

She stopped again, staring at the words printed on the slightly frayed parchment.

He had left, the boy. He said he had to. He said he had to make up for lost time.

He was famous, so famous mention of his name would bring tears of joy to passerby's eyes…

Decidedly he went away, unperturbed by the consequences and roused suspicion. But he had defeated the evil after all, and no one was worried more than absolutely necessary. He was a hero; a protector; a messiah… They let him be.

She knew he had to go. He was broken. His spirit was shattered.

His name was on everyone's lips…

He was as misunderstood as she, and she knew that one fact. It made sense to her, as it always did, why he chose to leave.

But the people abandoned him countless times, even as he was trying to save them…

When he left, she sunk into an unknown depression, picked up a quill, and wrote. Wrote all of her woes away, drowned completely in her thoughts and ideas. Her writing took all of her time, and all of her energy was put into it. Sometimes she believed her life was in her writing, and she was just a body, doing what it would command.

Outwardly, she was fine. Outwardly, she was the same person she ever was.

Inwardly, she was bleeding.

It is the time.

* * *

Hermione Granger sat at the kitchen table alone, staring down blankly at her hot cup of tea. It was early in the morning, too early to actually be called morning, and she couldn't sleep. She had lain awake all night long, her quill writing passage after passage, until the bleary morning light shone through her bedroom window. It was not the first time, either. Hermione refused to give herself sleeping pills or draughts, and to the naked eye it seemed quite stubborn, but she had her reasons. The darkness of night triggered thoughts, and she wrote them down with urgency and impatience, as though afraid they would soon be parted from her.

The result, however, of her late-night musings, brought her much grief the next morning. That is, if she managed to sleep at all. Otherwise, her mother would come downstairs with her bathrobe and slippers, give Hermione's limp form a half-hearted reproving look, and sigh.

But it was not an understanding sigh, nor was it the beginnings of comfort.

In everyone else's position, Hermione seemed sad, but tolerant of his abrupt disappearance. She seemed fine, when the days turned to weeks and months… then years…

No one knew where he had gone, or even why; but after some time, the people who had worshipped him so dearly found that he was just a shadowed hero in history, and those who were born were taught of a legend, and no more.

Sacrifice, they called it. His life for theirs. There was no reason to dwell in the past, they said.

They did not fail to remember him or his heroic bravery, nor did they disregard his hardships and ordeals. Yet he was nearly forgotten in way; they saw him as a figure to be praised - not a single human being, with emotions just like theirs and an entire lifetime ahead of him. They forgot he was young and traumatized. They forgot he had been a child.

Hermione raised the cup to her lips. Listened for her mother's footsteps on the stairs.

The sounds of familiarity never came, however, and Hermione hoisted herself out of the chair with a small groan, placing the mug carefully back on the table.

It took her scarcely a quarter of an hour to get ready to leave. She pulled her bushy hair into a lazy ponytail, threw on some clean clothes, and washed her face in the washbasin with a damp towel until her cheeks were red and raw. She could do nothing about her eyes, however. They were merely a monotonous brown, dulled at the edges like an overused blade.

Hermione picked up her workbag from the kitchen table, opened the front door as slowly as possible, and crept outside into the morning gloom. The wind rushed about her, and she tugged her sweater closer to her body with a tiny shiver.

She walked to work that morning, clutching her books and bag to her chest to sustain the heat, looking around her with tired eyes. A few people were out early, driving past or jogging, puffing breaths of steam into the air. They gave her piercing looks as she strode past, as if they knew her from somewhere, but couldn't quite place it. A few people had willpower to stop and converse, waving their hands wildly in a distraught fashion, trying desperately to recall the importance that they knew had to be the name of this young, bushy-haired girl.

Hermione just shook her head when they asked her name, and she smiled weakly, continuing on her way.

She reached the large oak doors of the small library and fumbled unceremoniously for her keys. With a small turn and a click, she was inside. She waved her hand, and the main light flickered on, casting its shadowy light across the endless rows of bookshelves and tables.

“You love this place, don't you?” a voice whispered in her ear.

Hermione's fears reached a pinnacle, and slowly dropped into her stomach. “Go away.”

Breathlessly, she dropped her bag onto one of the hand-carved wooden tables, not daring to turn around. She pulled out a leathery notebook, rummaged through it, and carefully plucked an old eagle-feather quill from its center.

“It's early,” the voice said as she sat down at the table and laid out a piece of parchment.

Hermione felt tears forming, nearly on the brink of collapse. “Please… just go away…”

“You know I can't, Hermione.”

Hermione's hand shook, and a tiny drop of black ink spotted the parchment. “You're just a figment of my imagination.”

“Am I?” returned the voice, “Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“I seemed to have taken a life of my own, haven't I? Can you take an innocent life?”

Hermione buried her face in the warm security of her arms, beaten, sobbing silently. Her eyes closed, and she clutched the sleeves of her sweater. She was undone, unraveled, and the constant return of her imaginings did not help in the least; for she knew the first step in overcoming a loss was to accept, and she had yet to do even that…

Harry…

“Miss?”

Dried tears clung to her red cheeks, and she burrowed deeper into the safety of her crossed arms. “No, please, not now…”

“Miss, are you alright?”

Slowly, hesitantly, Hermione blinked open her eyes, staring into the weathered face of a middle-aged woman. Around her, the library was booming with people. Bright sunlight filtered through the windows.

The woman standing over her looked genuinely concerned, and said kindly, “You look dead tired, love. Maybe you should go home and get some sleep.”

Hermione pulled her head up, gazing blearily around her. “What time is it?”

“Almost half past noon,” answered the woman, checking her wristwatch and setting down her large pile of books next to Hermione's notebook. She clasped her hands and smiled warmly at Hermione, clearly willing to invoke a conversation.

“Have you been here long?” The woman gestured to the library's surroundings, “I just arrived… I was buying some groceries, and I remembered that my son wanted some light reading for a camping trip this weekend… Though I must go soon, because I have some ice cream in the car, and I don't want it to soften. It's dreadfully sticky when it's melted.”

The woman smiled at her again, though Hermione noticed her eyes do a double take, and skim her face once more.

“Do I know you?” she asked awkwardly, “I don't mean to be rash… It's just… you seem so familiar.” She shook her head as if to clear her mind. “Oh well. It's just me going senile in my old age…”

“It's not just you,” Hermione said seriously, gazing thoughtfully at the older woman, “You do seem familiar.”

Brown eyes met brown, and suddenly, she knew.

“No,” whispered Hermione, feeling the bile rise to her throat.

“What is it, love?” asked the woman, clearly startled.

Suddenly, an overwhelming sadness triumphed over her defenses, and unexpected tears filled Hermione's murky eyes. “You have a son?”

The woman looked surprised at this abrupt change in manner. “Yes, yes, James. He's quite the troublemaker.”

“Named after his father's father,” Hermione said slowly. It was not a question.

The woman looked moderately shocked. She nodded mutely.

“I'm happy for you,” Hermione continued truthfully, her insides twisting painfully. “For you and your husband.”

The woman's eyes shone with adoration and tears. “I love him so much.”

“I know,” Hermione whispered, trembling.

“But here I am getting all teary-eyed,” said the woman, shifting her books to make room for her elbow, sniffling a bit, “when you seem to have a problem. Can I help?”

Hermione smiled a watery smile, and shook her head. “No.”

The woman looked thoughtful. “Well, then, here.” She pulled a golden ring from her right hand. “You seem so troubled… I would be honored if you took this.” She placed the ring gently on the table. “My husband gave it to me when I was feeling down, and I have kept it ever since… But something about you tells me you need it more.”

“No,” said Hermione, touched, “I can't possibly…”

“Please take it, love,” the woman said. She looked at her wristwatch once more. “And with that, I must be going off. I hope you leave your troubles behind.” She smiled warmly, picked up her stack of books, and left without another word. Hermione watched her until she reached the wooden oak doors of the library, then turned back to her unexpected gift.

She touched the ring with trembling fingers. “Impossible.”

Suddenly, Hermione opened her eyes. It was early morning, the curtains were drawn over the windows, and everyone in the library was gone.

She had been asleep.

There was a small popping noise, like the crack of a whip, and Hermione turned around quickly in time to see her friend Ron Weasley appear out of thin air.

“Knew you'd be here,” he started. “You know, you should be more careful about where you fall asleep, Hermione. The muggles could find you in here, and then it'd be all over.”

He pulled up a chair, and straddled it, folding his arms over the back. “Your mum is worried.”

Hermione didn't answer.

“You keep running away.”

“I'm not running,” Hermione said, lowering her eyes.

Ron reached out a comforting hand to place on her shoulder. “I don't know what else we can do, Hermione. We don't know you anymore.”

He stood up, unwilling to battle forward through her despair. “Please come home when you're ready.”

He left, and the library was a distilled quiet, save the perpetual hum of the old mantel clock above the fireplace, and the gentle clink of metal against wood.

Hermione's chilled fingers closed around the small golden ring.

* * *

Hours later, past the break of day, past the dawning of the eighth hour, the doors opened, and the people came through. They were all different, as all people are; hustling and bustling through their lives without a care or woe, seeking friendship and financial help in times of trivial crisis; normal, everyday civilians, who live for the mere sake of living, never treading upon the evilness of stories and impossible situations.

But these people were different. Some held within them ancient abilities (magic, to the common ear) while some did not.

The magical ones hid, away from prying eyes and spiteful tongues. Humans they were, driven away from their own kind because of their curse - greed, the lustful idea that clashed swords and brought death upon all that sought it.

The old library was a place of solitude for both Muggle and wizard, where they could share their ideas without corrupting each other in the process. That was its main purpose, even before the rise and fall of the Dark Lord.

Even the Muggles had felt his presence, as they had felt his minions'. It was a sneering cold that wrapped around them wherever they went; the gray clouds that passed over the sun's warm rays; the rain that plummeted from the sky. He was there, wherever light had faded to darkness and all hope had shimmered and failed without so much as a breath of forgiveness and peace. His world did not contain death, nor did it contain living; each individual, each corrupted creature, was between the two. Neither living nor dead. Unfeeling and emotionless. Soulless.

She hid here, in this library, trying to drown herself in books and pure, unadulterated facts.

Funny, though, he never had a fondness for libraries.

Hermione turned her head as they walked in. They knew her; everyone knew her. She was Hermione Granger, Harry Potter's best friend, second to only the famous Ron Weasley of the Chudley Cannons. But the people felt closest to her, she guessed, because she was not a distinguished role model or a heroine in her own right, but in a way that went past the superficiality of the idea and into the very heart and core. They saw her as an average, everyday person, who they could relate to. It was wildly romantic, and very fitting for her lifestyle, which consisted each morning with a cup of tea and toast spread with butter and marmalade. In all respect, she was the normal third of the infamous trio.

Hermione touched the ring on her finger absently, peering down at her tidy scrawl of a story.

She lifted her head for a moment. Her eyes locked on a group of girls, and they stared back at her in amazement, their eyes wide. They bent their heads together and whispered excitedly, giving not-so furtive looks her way. Hermione felt her cheeks redden modestly.

But there was something about the way they were looking at her that made her stomach crawl. It was almost a pitying look, as though they were apologizing for something… as though they were sorry that something happened…

She looked around the room. The tables were all occupied to their very limit, holding up to as much as six or seven people each.

It was as though she was a magnet; everyone's eyes were drawn to her. She tried to ignore the shaking feeling of a large spotlight shining down upon her, pushing everyone else out of the picture. She heard whispers, both muffled and easily heard. But there was no doubt in her mind that the every person in that library knew who she was. Even the Muggles were watching her curiously, having seen her picture countless times wherever the mysterious Harry Potter was mentioned. It didn't help that witches and wizards alike did not try so diligently to cover their existence, ever since the Dark Lord had been defeated and destroyed. Few Muggles did not know, or at least have a clue, of the existence of the magical world.

The Daily Prophet called it a “Joining”, a “Banishing of Differences”. Some called it “Hell Unleashed”.

Hermione hated her fame, just as much as she hated anything awful in the world. The tabloids, though persistent, had met their end one day when they came across her in the back of her parents' house, digging up weeds in the hot sun, straining and sweating, covered from head to foot in potting soil. Her temper had reached its limit when they insisted on a picture, and she nearly pulled out her wand then and there, had it not been for her mother's unexpected arrival.

She propped her head up with her hand, and yawned drowsily. Her eyes wandered aimlessly.

They skimmed the cover of a badly disguised Daily Prophet - its latest edition that, Hermione noticed, had been printed only hours earlier - and moved onward, looking at the excited faces of the people around her.

Her eyes scanned another Daily Prophet, and she blinked again.

Everyone had a Daily Prophet. Every single person, muggle and wizard.

And each newspaper title said in bolded raven-black ink: Harry Potter Returns.

* * *

A/N: I'm not sure when I'll have the next part up, but I'll try to have it for you guys as soon as possible. Like I said, it was a dream, so I'm writing off memory here… but… you'll see. This will only have two parts; just think of this as a prologue to the real story - next chapter. ^_^

I hope I portrayed Hermione's emotions correctly… *cringes for the blow*

Thanks for reading!

-Lauren

btw, I think (no, believe) that cliffhangers are my specialty… *rolls eyes* … I'm so bad.

A/N: Thanks everyone, very much, for the kind reviews. I know this has been a while since I last updated, but you know how things go. School, sleep, food, social life… add a Portkey schedule to match, and I'm beat. *grins*

Anyway, here's the next chapter (angst-happy Lauren, God forbid). Enjoy! Try not to get lost! Lol.

* * *

“He has a new scar, did you know?”

“He should've died - no one knows how he survived.”

“Where was he?”

“They don't know, no one does - it's like he vanished off the face of the earth.”

She could hear the whispers as loudly as though they were magnified, closing in around her and squeezing the air from her strained, gasping lungs. Her heart beat wildly inside her chest. Beads of cold sweat dribbled down her forehead and onto her parchment, blurring the ink so it was almost unreadable. She was devoid of any emotion, just shock. Shock that turned her blood to ice inside her veins; her entire body sent trembling with the very thought that he had… after all those years…

A feral confusion swept through her, and she saw the brief piece of lifeless string that was her hold on reality. This was no different from addled visions and imaginings; this was what she yearned for so desperately, so often, that, in spite of herself, had began to create her own safe haven, where she no longer had to hide behind a veil of sorrow - and yet, it had done nothing, accomplished less than she was willing to believe. In the back of her anguished mind, she knew he was gone. She knew that her life, that earlier had seemed so complete, so full, had reached a barrier that could never be passed by herself alone.

She was sick with herself, with her untamed mind. She was sick of everything she had known and loved. There seemed to be only one reason to live any longer, and that was him: her companion, her other half, her downfall.

It felt so real… Desperately, she wanted it to be truth, to reside outside of her tortured mind.

They didn't know, the naïve people. They didn't know what the meaning of life was.

It wasn't to prance around and make their insignificant lives worthwhile - it was to grab hold of something and never let it go…

So easy was it for them, their lives untouched by misery. What happened to her was unnatural. What happened to him was unnatural. The world was afraid, but it was nothing, nothing compared to how she felt every goddamn day of her life.

Hermione stood up with a clatter, her fists clenched, her eyes blazing. She swept her belongings together, shot a glare around the quieted library, and disappeared.

* * *

It was hours before anyone found her, huddled like a small child in the corner of the kitchen, trembling and sobbing shamelessly. She did not know why she had appeared at the Burrow, nor did she care; she just crawled into the tightest place she could find and wrapped her arms around herself. Then there, in the dim light of morning, Hermione Granger broke down and wept.

For the first time in her young life, Hermione felt out of control - utterly traumatized and scared; scared for his life, scared for her failing sanity. It was not real. It was not. It could not be.

It did not surprise her when a warm hand was placed on her shoulder, and Molly Weasley's voice said softly, “Oh, Hermione…”

Despite herself, Hermione threw herself onto Molly, and buried her face on her shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably.

The hand stroked her hair soothingly, cooing, “Shh… Hermione… It'll be alright…”

Unable to speak, Hermione closed her eyes tightly, gasping for air. Molly rubbed her back in motherly affection, trying to pacify Hermione's shaking body.

“Hermione, dear… what's wrong?”

Hermione's heart thumped halfheartedly.

So it was not real. So it was in her head.

A few tears leaked through her closed eyelids. “Molly, I can't… do this… anymore…”

“Hermione, what are you talking about?” She sounded startled.

She could hear footsteps pounding on the stairs. She looked up, tears running in endless tracks down her face, and felt herself retch inwardly.

“Get away from me,” she croaked. She jerked herself out of Molly's arms.

Harry's body walked towards her, looking not a day over fifteen. “I want to help you… Hermione… I can help you. Trust me.”

She stumbled backwards. “Don't come any closer!”

“You want to know why, don't you? I can tell you.”

Hermione trembled.

Harry stopped short, and said quietly, “I gave you that ring. I visit you every day in that library…”

She wanted to scream, but felt her throat close, and all she emitted was a dull, raggedy moan. “No… no, you're never there… you're gone…”

“I never left,” he said sorrowfully, “You left.”

“That's not true!” cried Hermione, backing away once more.

“You've locked yourself away.”

“You did, Harry, you did!”

Harry looked at her, his eyes blank. “Don't you understand, Hermione? Ron's dead, Molly's dead, Arthur's dead… Your parents, all dead… It was too late… I thought I had lost you too…”

“No!” she screamed, her face blanching, “You're lying!”

“I want you to come back,” he said hoarsely. “I'm not lying. I need you.”

Hermione's eyes blurred with freshly stinging tears.

“Hermione,” Harry looked like he was struggling desperately with himself. “You… you slid into a comatose right after the war… the doctors said you wouldn't make it. Years…” Harry's bottle green eyes dimmed. “Years… I've been trying to find you. You mind was so damaged…” He swallowed. “You've been living a lie… I didn't leave, Hermione… I would never leave you…”

He took a step towards her, slowly and cautiously, as though approaching an untamed creature. “Listen to me, please. You don't know because you stopped yourself from knowing. It was too much strain… too much loss…” Hermione saw him wince slightly. “You don't know how important you are to me… I couldn't…”

Hermione's insides turned to ice. “Harry… please…”

“You don't know what it's like,” Harry said throatily, his complexion pale. “You were just lying there, never moving. You were worse than dead. You were trapped in your own mind, creating a life apart from the hell we live in…”

He stepped forward, never wavering in her stricken gaze.

He didn't need to tell her. She knew.

And for the first time in four years, she opened her eyes.

* * *

Hermione lay on the bed, breathing heavily, mind reeling. Every coherent thought was washed away in a tidal wave of emotions, smothering her until it was almost unbearable. Her eyes felt dull and lead-like, and her arms and legs felt too weak to lift with her own strength. In fact, she felt like she was not a body at all, but just a human-shaped pile of flesh, lingering to be waited upon.

She blinked up at the sunlight that streamed through her window, and heard the birds chirping madly. It was reassuring in a way, but horrifying in another. How long had her life been faked, mocked, when she was lying here, on this very bed, for years on end? How long had it been? What had been missed?

She wanted to scream. She wanted to claw her way out of this miserable world and send herself back, when she was eleven, and had no worries or fears. And even before that, when she could bask in the warmth of her mother's strong arms, and the world was just a big, scary place outside that would never involve her.

Oh, but it had.

She never asked herself why. She would never pity herself when there were others who never had such a loving childhood; who never had time to be carefree and dependant; who were grown before their rightful time.

Hermione moaned, and moved her head to one side. There, in the bed opposite hers, was Harry. His face was ashen, his eyelids red and swollen. His chest was rising heavily, painstakingly, as if it hurt him, and it was so slight Hermione did not see it at first. Her breath caught in her throat, and she felt tears well up in her eyes. She was so close to him, and yet - he was too far away for her weakened body. Her hand reached pathetically, and dropped back to her side.

His scar was more pronounced than usual, a throbbing scarlet bolt against pallid skin.

She found herself desperately trying to hoist herself off of the bed, to touch him, to know he was real. But it was her strength that failed her, and she could do no more than whisper and plead hoarsely for him to awake.

She needed him. Desperately.

“Harry,” she whispered, her voice straining.

There was a soft fluttering of material, and Hermione found herself kneeling on her bed, tears streaming down her face. Her neglected muscles felt like rubber, and they shook precariously. But Hermione's motive was too strong. For too long she had been deprived of the one person she needed. For too long had she been unable to reach out to him.

Trembling uncontrollably, Hermione gingerly touched her foot to the floor and, using the bed as a support, held herself upright. She walked forward tentatively, planting her feet firmly to the ground. Her determination growing with every small step, she stumbled to Harry's side and dropped to her knees, utterly exhausted.

It was too much. All that he had told her, everything he had said. It didn't seem reasonable. Ron dead… Molly dead… Arthur dead… She suppressed a shuddering sob. Her parents… Everyone she had known and loved, pushed aside, passed away… And here she had been, creating a new life, a new reality, without so much as knowledge of the deaths that had occurred. But it was not perfect. Harry was never there. Everyone else had tried, but they had never replaced him.

She had left him. She had abandoned him. She had failed him.

How could she have committed such a felony at the very time he needed her most?

You were afraid, a voice said savagely, You were bloody afraid. You did what everyone else would do - wrap themselves in their own sorrow and misery and deny the truth. There is nothing special about you… In fact, you're normal. Imperfect. Flawed. An imperfect human being with imperfect qualities.

But this…

You ruined your life. You ruined his life. You brought everything upon yourself.

She could not deny it, and it tore her from inside out.

Yes, the voice whispered, soundly oddly snakelike, You should suffer. You should suffer like he did, watching you all night and day…

“No!” Hermione cried, throwing herself over Harry's limp body, “Harry… please… wake up…”

You know he won't. Look what you did, you stupid girl.

No…

It came spiraling back. Her life. The war. The end.

Was it the end, really?

The misery had not ended. The Dark Lord's reign of terror had proved itself far more terrible than anything the world had seen, leaving long-lasting marks upon the earth and its people.

She had been utterly selfish.

Yes…

It had not ended.

She embraced him, holding him close to her, and closed her eyes.

* * *

She was in a room; a vast, magnificent room with torches lining the walls, flickering heartily. The ceiling was in shadow, and she could see the essence of souls, blanketed in darkness, gliding eerily across the walls and ceiling and floor. Every one that passed by seemed to be beckoning her forward, and she went bemusedly, cautiously, following their lead, never stopping or halting. The light of the flames danced across them every so often, and she saw their real forms.

People. Millions of them, swimming and gliding through the room.

She gasped, but continued onward.

Suddenly, she could not go forward. There was a wall, a giant slab of stone, blocking her pathway. Inscribed on it were words of a different tongue, which she could not perceive, and she pressed her hands against it, feeling angry. Cheated. She must go on. She must.

The essences dipped around her, sliding gracefully through the rock, leaving her behind.

Leaving her behind…

* * *

A gasp of air, a shudder, and she was liberated from the vast room.

Her arms were still around Harry, her head rested gently on his chest, her hair cascading down his shoulders. A moment passed and she breathed loudly and freely, shaking uncontrollably, her face pained and horrorstricken.

She felt him stir.

“Hermione…” A faint whisper, but it was enough. He was there.

“I couldn't go on,” she sobbed, not caring whether he understood or not. “I couldn't… Oh, Harry…”

She clutched onto his shirt, burying her head onto the comforting recess between his neck and shoulder. She could feel his heartbeat, strong and perpetual. “I'm so sorry… I'm so sorry… I left you… It was me…”

“You're here now,” his voice, his voice, said softly, soothingly.

Hermione raised her eyes, and met his startlingly green ones. “But you waited for me.”

A fleeting, tired smile. “I always wait for you.”

* * *

A/N: Ah, a twist. I don't think you guys saw that coming. *winks*

This is probably the weirdest, most incomplete story I have ever written in my life. But I meant it to be that way. Some things won't make sense. Now, it makes sense to me, but I had the crazy, “fool-proof” idea of giving you guys the chance of creating your own logic for this. I don't know if you care, if you're completely lost, or if you really want to think for yourself on this… I just really wanted to leave it open for ideas.

The main idea of this story (I think someone already realized this) is to illustrate Harry and Hermione's deep devotion to each other. So it didn't end in a kiss. So it didn't “end” at all. I hope you guys really think about it thoroughly, though - when it comes to love, people show it in different ways. I love cute, fluffy romance, but sometimes I have to buckle down and write this. Pure angst.

Anyway… thanks for reading! Please review!

-Lauren