A/N: Many years ago, I wrote under two pen names. However, me being a scatty kind of gal, forgot the password and so I can't actually access that account any more. But I found a couple of my fics the other day on there and decided that actually, they may be worth elaborating on. The spooky thing is, I began this story back in 2001 (when I was seventeen, at college and disillusioned with English Literature coursework) and bizarrely, correctly predicted the destinations of Harry, Ginny and Hermione. With this in mind (and a lovely review from leenyg98) I decided to restart this fic. I intend that it should be DH-compliant, but not necessarily epilogue compliant. In the event that I deviate from the DH storyline, I apologise and hope that you will forgive me the quirk that is human error. Please review; I have had a lay-off from writing and hope to do the plot justice.

New Beginnings

A fine mist of rain blew into her face; it was that infuriating kind of rain that soaked one to the skin, despite not looking substantial enough to warrant an umbrella. It was the kind of rain that coerced one's hair into misbehaving and breaking loose of any Smoothing Charm.

But it didn't bother her at this moment in time. She reached inside her pocket and withdrew her wand, tracing it into a circle on the ground. A small wreath appeared, with scarlet, blue and yellow roses entwined into it. She bent down and picked it up; she could smell the sharp tang of resinous pine from the wreath, and to smell it was a comfort, a pleasure that she was grateful for, for the people she came to see today did not have this pleasure.

She looked up from the wreath, her vision obscured not only by the incessant drizzle of the rain, but now tears. It was always the same, and time did not heal the gaping wounds, as many had told her it would, and she wondered when this would stop being painful.

She stepped up to the smooth marble statue, visible to witches and wizards only, and scanned the names etched into it, her breath forming clouds on the damp autumnal air. She traced the letters of each name she recognised, a silent tribute to their sacrifice, her small way of thanking them, for they had all died fighting for the freedom of every witch and wizard.

Colin Creevey. Remus Lupin. Nymphadora Tonks. Fred Weasley.

She laid the wreath at the foot of the statue, and stood up, pressing her lips together, suppressing her grief; grief that was still raw and unrelenting. And yet, she wondered what right she had to feel like this; Dennis had lost a brother. Teddy had lost his parents. Andromeda had lost a daughter. Arthur and Molly had lost a son; George had lost a twin; Ron and Ginny had lost a brother. What had she lost? She made a derisive snort to herself. She was one of the lucky ones. Her parents were still alive. Her two best friends had survived to tell the tale. And here she was, wallowing in self-pity when others had suffered worse. Pull yourself together, she told herself sternly.

She turned away from the memorial, a chilly breeze beginning to blow, and it felt like cold hands slapping her face hard, jolting her from her lament. She needed to look forward now; there were things she needed to do, goals she needed to achieve, a life to carry on living. Turning on the spot, she concentrated hard on her destination, and with a faint pop, Hermione Granger disappeared into the ether.