Peacetime. You often wondered what it would be like. In the occasional moments of quiet, you would sit there and bury your head in your hands. Occasionally, you'd let the tears fall, but more often than not you'd choke them back. If you broke down now, you thought, you'd never pick yourself back up.

You considered what it would be like, when the war was over. No, considered isn't the word. The thought of peacetime was all that got you out of bed in the morning. What you craved more than anything, more than the defeat of Voldemort - you still shudder at the name, even though you never used to - was stability. The sort that the boys would call dull and boring. They were fighting for the adventure; the chance to become heroes among men. But you? You just wanted the peace. No more taking each day as, and if, it came. Your greatest desire was for the long, boring reassurance that life would go on.

You ache for the life you used to lead. When books and cleverness meant the world to you, and war was a foreign notion. When an ideal day meant productive research, followed by an evening curled up on the sofa with a good, stimulating book. A time when your ideal day wasn't simply another you managed to live through.

And now you have it. Peace reins supreme, and you can have that life you wanted. And yet, it isn't quite how you imagined it would be. The books are the same as ever, but they lack that spice of life that you felt during the war. No matter how many pages you turn, the words don't mean a thing to you. What does the author of this tragic romance know of tragedy or romance?

Have they ached, like you have? Have they lost the one thing that would make their lives complete? The man they watched progress from an awkward, immature teenager, into a charming and decent man. The one man that they would be happy to spend their life with. A man who, despite how much it would irritate you from someone else, you'll tolerate their annoying habits because you love them. Their gentle teasing about your being a bookworm, and a control freak. The way they always have to lean over your shoulder, just to see what you're reading. The way they always scoff and tell you it's just another trashy novel.

What do the authors of these novels know? And what does it matter anyway? You wouldn't wish upon anyone the pain you've been through. War and death and heartbreak have no place in a trashy novel. They are real, and you read to escape reality. Reading was your one pleasure, now every page reminds you of him.

Funny, how he even manages to ruin your reading from where he is now. You often smile sadly to yourself as you finger the golden band encircling your ring finger. Ron never was one to let you read in peace, was he, Hermione?