God gave us memory that we might have roses in December.
Prologue
Hermione sat stiffly on the little white cot that had been put up for her in Ginny's bedroom. The dim purple glow outside of the bedroom window told her that it was nearing five o'clock; the moon, partially obscured by the soft haze of the clouds, was sinking, and the sun was on its way.
Ginny had long since passed into the realm of sleep, her soft, even breathing filling the room and merging with the sound of Hermione's heartbeat: One breath in, two beats, one breath out, two beats, and so on, creating a gentle lullaby that spoke to the miracle of life.
Life. Life goes on, they told her; but wise words are little comfort to the living when they are forced to remember those they have lost.
For the hundredth time in the past five days (Five days since the end of the war, Hermione thought. Five days since Fred died, since Remus and Tonks passed away and left their little boy in the incapable hands of a seventeen-year-old), Hermione cursed the power of memory. She hated this silvery substance in her brain that forced her to relive what she did not want to relive, to see once more those things that she longed never to see again. Over and over she recalled the blank stare in Fred's eyes, the horrible stillness of Colin Creevey's body, and the silence where Tonks's heartbeat should have been—a silence that rang louder than any noise on earth.
Everyone said that it was important to remember. In all of Kingsley's speeches, broadcast daily over the recently reinstated wireless network, the new Minister of Magic asked his fellow witches and wizards to "remember those we have lost, in the hope that they will continue to live on in our memories." George, his voice shaky and his eyes oddly blank, had said just yesterday, "as long as I remember Fred, he'll be here beside me—just like he always was." Even Harry, his green eyes burning with determination, would often lean down over his infant godson and whisper, "I'll never forget your parents, Teddy. And when you're old enough, I'll tell you all about them. Every detail. I promise."
Everyone said that it was important to remember. Hermione alone wanted only to forget.
Hugging her knees to her chest, Hermione glanced out the window once more. She noted that the violet sky had acquired a pale rosy tint along the horizon; in another hour the sun would be up, and the Weasley household would begin to stir. If she was going to do this, she had to do it now.
Hermione's mind was perfectly blank as she rose to her feet, slipped on her sneakers and picked up her tiny beaded bag. Her muscles seemed to move of their own accord, functioning independently of her brain as she stepped lightly over the cot and walked to the door, treading softly on the tips of her toes. She watched disinterestedly as her hand, glowing pale in the moonlight, reached out to grasp the doorknob. The hand tilted toward the left, turning the knob, and then pulled. The door cracked open. Hermione watched as her body slipped through the crack, shut the door, and began to walk down the hallway towards the stairs. She followed its movements down the staircase—somehow it knew to skip the creaky bottom step—through the kitchen, and out the front door.
Hermione's consciousness did not fully return to her body until several days after her flight from the Burrow. By then she was far, far away from her old world and her old life, and she no longer felt the weighty responsibility of remembering all of those who had died. Free of all pressure and obligation, Hermione finally allowed herself to forget.
OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO
A little over a week after Hermione's midnight departure, a strange owl flew in through the Weasleys' kitchen window. It bore in its beak an envelope with no return address. Harry, surrounded by the entire Weasley family, opened the envelope with trembling fingers; he had recognized the tidy hand in which the address—"To the Weasleys and Harry"—had been written.
There was no letter inside of the envelope; there were only the two jagged pieces of a stick that had been snapped in half.
"Is that—?" Ron said, his voice cracking before he could finish his question. Harry nodded, the expression on his face unreadable.
"It's her wand, mate," he said at last. "I'd recognize the design anywhere."
Harry stood still, staring down at the broken wand for nearly an hour. He blocked out the sounds of Ron's yells and Mrs. Weasley's anguished sobs. Images of Hermione flashed through his mind: Hermione with bushy hair and buck teeth, telling Ron that he had a spot on his nose; Hermione at the Yule Ball, dancing with Viktor Krum; Hermione in the Forest of Dean, dancing with him, Harry, to the quiet music on an old wireless.
"It's what she wants," he said at last, not looking up.
"What?" Ron said, turning to stare at him in disbelief.
"It's what she wants, Ron," Harry repeated, more firmly this time. "We have to let her do this. It's the only way she'll be happy."
A/N: Please review if you'd like me to keep posting. Thanks! – Pelageya