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Hermione.
Even the muggles Homer and Shakespeare knew of what great importance women who bestowed this name would be of. Hermione. My Hermione was only a child when I first met her, and she is still is, a child of nineteen. My child. How I love the way her sweet limbs roam over my undeserving bookshelf. Standing at a mere five feet, it seems like time has not passed through her ever since we met at that hideout. And I love her for it. She seems equally real to me as they first day we departed, when I had to run away again. And now, as I return from the Veil, she poses her vague eyes on me, almost provokingly, and a small smile escapes her lips. My child, she knew I would return.
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