Disclaimer: The characters in this work belong to J. K. Rowling. This is
a work of fan fiction and the author is earning no profit from this
Internet publication. This story is dedicated to Jessica, who was the
first person to read and edit this story. Our first discussion took place
in the bathroom during drama. She convinced me to listen to my Muse.
Thus, the story has taken a darker turn than I originally expected. The
title of every chapter is a colored rose. Each has a specific meaning
which relates to the theme of the chapter. I will post the meanings at the
very end of the story so the readers may reflect upon my intent.
Note: This story takes place five years after the fall of Voldemort in 1998. During the war, Draco Malfoy died and left Malfoy Manor to Hermione in his will. Because of her parents' deaths, she accepted the property.
Prologue: Rose Buds
I don't read the newspaper anymore. If something major happened, one of my co-workers is bound to tell me when I arrive in the morning. Or I already know.
I think I surprised Harry in my sixth year when I told him I didn't want to be an Auror (for some reason, everyone had that impression of me) but rather to be a Healer. "You spend enough time in the hospital wing that I've started to get to know it," I said. Besides, ever since I was young-- before I knew I was a witch-- I wanted to be a doctor. I wanted to go to Cambridge, or maybe overseas. I wanted to help people. And that's what I can do now.
I'm Hermione Granger. I'm twenty-three, and I'm alive, thank you very much. A few people I could mention didn't think I would make it through the war. Well I did. And I didn't go into hiding. I saved lives when I could-- and lost a few, as well. There are many things I regret, things that I dream about. People I couldn't save.
Like Draco. I did all I could. We were eighteen, for God's sake. I wasn't even officially enrolled as a Healer. But I was the only one there. And Draco died that night. Died and left me alone in Malfoy Manor.
I have lived there ever since. It's big and empty and I when I am not at St. Mungo's, I am there. Writing. People come by every so often, in ones and twos. Not frequently. I can write. I have to write down everything that's happened since I found out I was a witch. Writing it down makes it feel like it actually happened, especially the war. Sometimes I'm not sure if it did. But then I realize why I'm living in Malfoy Manor.
Narcissa-- Draco's mother-- seemed to like photography. There are albums in closets and boxes of unsorted photographs in the attic. I believe that shall be my next project, when I've finished the book. Find out who they are. Some of them I recognize, like sunken-eyed Bellatrix and a somber Sirius at what I think is his brother's funeral.
But everything is so regular these days. Routine. And, I must admit, boring. It's been almost five years since the defeat of Tom Riddle. We've stopped calling him Voldemort-- he was just a man, after all. A very intelligent half-blooded wizard named Tom Riddle.
I've spoken to Harry already, and something's going to happen on the anniversary here at Malfoy Manor. Social life will return to its gardens; its kitchen will be used for something other than heating my canned soup; and there will be candles in every chandelier.
Note: This story takes place five years after the fall of Voldemort in 1998. During the war, Draco Malfoy died and left Malfoy Manor to Hermione in his will. Because of her parents' deaths, she accepted the property.
Prologue: Rose Buds
I don't read the newspaper anymore. If something major happened, one of my co-workers is bound to tell me when I arrive in the morning. Or I already know.
I think I surprised Harry in my sixth year when I told him I didn't want to be an Auror (for some reason, everyone had that impression of me) but rather to be a Healer. "You spend enough time in the hospital wing that I've started to get to know it," I said. Besides, ever since I was young-- before I knew I was a witch-- I wanted to be a doctor. I wanted to go to Cambridge, or maybe overseas. I wanted to help people. And that's what I can do now.
I'm Hermione Granger. I'm twenty-three, and I'm alive, thank you very much. A few people I could mention didn't think I would make it through the war. Well I did. And I didn't go into hiding. I saved lives when I could-- and lost a few, as well. There are many things I regret, things that I dream about. People I couldn't save.
Like Draco. I did all I could. We were eighteen, for God's sake. I wasn't even officially enrolled as a Healer. But I was the only one there. And Draco died that night. Died and left me alone in Malfoy Manor.
I have lived there ever since. It's big and empty and I when I am not at St. Mungo's, I am there. Writing. People come by every so often, in ones and twos. Not frequently. I can write. I have to write down everything that's happened since I found out I was a witch. Writing it down makes it feel like it actually happened, especially the war. Sometimes I'm not sure if it did. But then I realize why I'm living in Malfoy Manor.
Narcissa-- Draco's mother-- seemed to like photography. There are albums in closets and boxes of unsorted photographs in the attic. I believe that shall be my next project, when I've finished the book. Find out who they are. Some of them I recognize, like sunken-eyed Bellatrix and a somber Sirius at what I think is his brother's funeral.
But everything is so regular these days. Routine. And, I must admit, boring. It's been almost five years since the defeat of Tom Riddle. We've stopped calling him Voldemort-- he was just a man, after all. A very intelligent half-blooded wizard named Tom Riddle.
I've spoken to Harry already, and something's going to happen on the anniversary here at Malfoy Manor. Social life will return to its gardens; its kitchen will be used for something other than heating my canned soup; and there will be candles in every chandelier.