Hermione Granger, now a 28 year old woman, stepped out of her house into the chilly October breeze. She shivered and pulled her light blue cloak tighter around herself as she walked down the neatly laid stone path down to her little red mailbox. With a slight touch of he thin hand, it opened. Hermione peered inside, holding her breath. Nothing. "Why do I even bother?" She sighed. Harry's been gone for more that ten years now. All signs pointed to him being dead, and even if he wasn't, there was little chance of that, he never loved her... Yes, it was a well excepted fact that he was dead. Hermione sighed again. And yet, every morning for the last eleven years she would wake up believing, or perhaps hoping to believe, that there lay a letter form her long lost love in the secure walls of the mailbox. And every morning for the past eleven years a single tear would run down her cheek as she retreated back into her house empty-handed She knew he never lover her. She, herself, didn't know she loved him until it was too late, until he was gone. Everyone knew, that the great and famous Harry Potter was now dead. Gone, disappeared years ago. And yet, every time Hermione Granger turned around, she would expect to see his dazzling green eyes. To hear his ringing laugher. To be irritated by his massy hair. But every time she turned around there was silence. Harry Potter was dead. Gone, never to return. And yet in the hart of Hermione Granger he would always live. Live until she drew her last breath. Torture her until torture could do her no more. Push her forward, until there was no more to go. He would always live, she would always love him, never forget him.