This story is a tad AU, featuring book-smuggling Hermione.
At age ten, Hermione Granger's utmost favorite book was The Princess Bride. Swordfights, revenge, true love, miracles… what more could a girl ask for? A personal copy, given to her by her Aunt Edith on her seventh birthday, was well-worn and well-loved. Of course, that was before it was turned to ash. Hermione refused to cry. She was a witch and she could have a happy ending, books or no books.
First year was a year of discovery for Hermione and the others. She was a witch. She was smart. She had friends. The only thing she lacked, it seemed, was books. Oddly, the paperback copy of Dracula snuck into her trunk against school orders seemed fitting.
A mysterious bidding to a castle far, far away. A hidden danger. A monster masquerading as a person. A dashing hero sacrificing everything for the girl he loves…
A death.
Like it or not, Dark Lord or not, Quirrell had died. Harry had killed him. Not that Hermione doubted his choices, of course, but the end result was the same. There was one less reincarnation of Voldemort, one less battle. Harry was scarred. Hermione was scarred. The story went untold.
Hermione was sitting in a crowd of hundreds but felt lonely. Her house had won but she felt lost. In a few days, she would lose the Harry she had met. It would only be for a week or two, but she would still lose him.
As her parents drove home from King's Cross, Hermione reread The Princess Bride one more time. The story seemed to have lost its grandeur. Sure, magic was real, but there were no gallant farmboys, no strong young girls, no peaceful giants, no sharp-witted swordsmen out for revenge; all the world offered, it seemed, was evil princes, psychotic counts, and dastardly Sicilians.