Harry's Point of View
I used to be perfect. I used to save the world. She used to love me with all her heart. I still love her. She doesn't love me; she doesn't love anyone anymore. Hermione is dead, and I am the one to blame.
She trusted me. She thought I could do no wrong. And for that, she died. Ron too. He loved her so much. He'd give the world for her. Instead he gave his life, while I sat on the sidelines.
Death Eaters were storming Hogwarts by cover of night. Something had to be done. I went out there by myself, one against many. Ron and Hermione trailed behind. They wouldn't let me go at it alone. He was my best friend, and she was my lover.
We killed many of them; hundreds fell and were in an instant, forgotten, their whole lives earning nothing more than a passing word or two in a history book. That was not my concern. Staying alive was all that mattered.
I thought I had it under control. I was wrong. One of those slimy creatures grabbed Hermione. They held her, used her as a human shield.
I raised my wand to strike him dead before he could aim his own at Ron. I paused, afraid of hurting her. She looked deep into my eyes, and I in hers. Something in their deep brown depths told me not to. Hermione mouthed the words, "Do it, Harry." And I did.
He moved fast, that Death Eater scum. He put Hermione in front of him, and she took the blow for him. I hope it was fast. I hope it was painless.
Ron and I filled him with energy shot from our wands. We killed him. I hope it was painful. But I know it doesn't matter. It wasn't worth the loss of her.
Hermione was everything, the Earth, the sky above it and water all around. She was the air I breathed, filling me and giving me power to speak. She's gone now, and I am breathless.
Ron missed her so. I think he loved her too. He would never have admitted it. Hermione was everything anyone could ever have wanted in a woman, smart, brave, hard working, ambitious, and most of all, loving. She was such a perfect blend of the houses, such a splendid combination of the human soul. One could not help but love her.
Ron took his own life a month later. He couldn't deal with being suddenly alone. He loved her so much that she had become a part of him, and when she died, he died with her.
People parade me around, hang my picture in every bar and tavern, every God forsaken hellhole has a picture of me, no place seems complete without one. But I'm not a hero. I've never been. My friends are the heroes, buried side by side in their ebony coffins under hallowed ground.