A/N: Drabble. If you read this I'd really appreciate it if you'd review, tell me what you think. If you want me to update GC soon, too, I advise reviewing. I didn't get that many GC reviews even though a lot of people have it on alert, and I was disappointed. And an extra note: Don't judge this before you get to the end. Trust me, it's easy to make untrue assumptions about this before getting to part two.
And I'd like to thank Liv, Abbey, and Morgan for letting me bug them about this for the past month or so. They're great. And thanks to Emelie, even though she didn't get this back to me on time, I still heart her. :)
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Everyone expected things after the war to be terrible. Buildings would be diminished; people would become walking ghosts, in so much shock after what had happened they wouldn't care about anything anymore. Towns—cities, even—would be completely destroyed, wiped off the face of the earth, including all its inhabitants. But that's not what happened at all. Surprisingly things got much better after the second war. All the Death Eaters were gone—Harry had made sure of that—and not so many people were scared anymore. Yes, some buildings toppled, and yes, some people died, but a surprisingly few number had of us had been taken. We fought well.
And after the war, there was a huge ceremony. For us. The "Golden Trio" as they called us. I stood up there, with the two people I loved like brothers—Ron, maybe a little more. We were given medals for bravery, and long speeches dedicated to us separately: Harry's were about his bravery and skills, Ron for his excellent battle tactics and strategies, and mine for my cleverness and knowledge of potions and spellwork. After the ceremony we went intoHogwarts' Great Hall for a magnificent feast; Dumbledore let Harry sit in his chair, the one at the head of the hall, the large golden one that held the most honor. Harry caught my eye and grinned widely, and I felt so happy for him. He deserved all of this, he really did. He was the bravest person I knew.
We mourned the deaths of our side respectfully—in our age group, poor Dean and Hannah, and a few I was unfamiliar with. They will never be forgotten. It was a good thing the war didn't last as long as it could have; we were very, very fortunate.
I graduated from Hogwarts happily, with my closest friends cheering me on. I ended up working as a Healer for St. Mungo's, an occupation I'd always admired. Harry, to no one's surprise, went on for a career in Quidditch; and, much to Ron's delight, even became the official Seeker for the Chudley Cannons. Harry got the whole team to sign one large shirt for Ron, and Ron refused to take it off for a whole week. For about ayear after graduation, Ron lived with me, having no idea whatsoever what kind of career he would pursue, until one night he woke up with a start, shooting out of bed and shouting about a vision he'd had. That very day he applied for a job as a journalist, and ended up working for the Daily Prophet in the sports section; and, because he was friends with the editor, making sure the Prophet didn't print any more lies about Harry. I think I was the one most surprised about Ron's occupation, since he absolutely loathed any sort of writing assignment given to us at school.
"I just didn't have any inspiration," he'd snapped at me. I rolled my eyes at him and he leaned in and kissed me, my eyes still turned toward the ceiling. He always did like catching me off guard.
We all had successful careers. We took vacations together every summer, and it was always someplace historic. Ron and Harry only agreed because I hexed both their clothes to their bodies, which caused quite a problem for changing and going to the bathroom. It took them three full days of wearing those same clothes and not going to the bathroom until they finally agreed, Ron shoving Harry out of his way as he sprinted to the loo. That first year we went to Egypt, as I was always rather jealous when Ron got to go. He and Harry stood impatiently outside the pyramids as I examined ever corner, every hieroglyphic. I walked out of each one feeling satisfied, and laughed as Ron would duck away from my puckering lips. Then we would only walk ten yards before Ron would cut in front of me and return my offered kiss, the both of us ignoring Harry as he mimed throwing up. He was used to us by then.
Harry proposed to Ginny one night, after years of devoted dating, and she was ecstatic. When she told me about it she couldn't sit still, and ended up hopping around the room and squealing the whole story to me. I laughed and hugged her hard, glad she was happy. Glad Harry would be happy. She always knew how to cheer him up. Harry was a bit nervous about telling Ron, but when he finally did Ron swept Harry into a big hug, lifting him off his feet. Ron knew how Harry cared for Ginny; he knew she would be safe.
When Harry and Ginny had their first baby, a little girl with black hair and brown eyes, I couldn't stop crying. I couldn't decide who she looked like most; I think that's what got me worked up. But then when I got to hold her the tears overcame me, spilling fast and hard onto little Isabella's head. She blinked and waved her arms at the falling tears, unsure of what they were. She finally started to cry—it also might have been that I was holding her too hard—and Ginny gently took her daughter from me and Ron steered me out of the room, outside onto the patio.
"She's just so pretty!" I wailed, tears spilling down my face. I impatiently wiped my cheeks, but they were soon wet again. Ron laughed quietly and took me into his arms, still chuckling to himself as I dampened his shoulder. I drew back angrily. "Well what are you laughing about?" I asked, crying so hard I was starting to hiccup. I was mad at him because he couldn't see how perfect the world was, and I was mad at myself because I kept crying and I was messing it all up.
"I'm laughing," he whispered to me, mouth close to my ear and talking deeply, "because you're ruining the moment." I blinked back tears long enough to look at him confusedly, tilting my head to the side and hiccupping again. Ron got down on one knee, and my eyes widened. He pulled a little velvet black box from his breast pocket, and opened it. Inside was a silver ring, with a stunning diamond atop it, encased inwhite gold. I hiccupped.
"Oooh," I cooed, body shaking from the new wave of tears building up inside me. "It's so pretty!" I fell down next to Ron and hugged him hard, crying into his already damp shoulder. Ron put his arms around me and stood up, lifting me into the air. I clung onto him, squeezing my eyes shut and feeling the night breeze on my face. Ron set me down, and I opened my eyes. I half-cried, half-laughed as Ron slipped the ring onto my outstretched finger. I closed my hand into a fist, admiring the way the ring glistened in the moonlight. I looked up at Ron again, eyes brimming with tears, and kissed him.
My wedding was all I ever dreamed. I wore a beautiful dress—sleeveless, so I could feel the summer air on my arms. The dress dragged on the ground like I'd seen on TV when I was young. I chose not to wear the customary wizarding marriage cloak; instead I chose a Muggle theme, which Ron happily agreed to. All the men wore tuxedos, the woman clad in silky gowns of lavender, my favorite color. Ginny was my Matron of Honor, and couldn't stop smiling as I made my way down the aisle. Ron was standing there, Harry at his side, and I really did know that my life was complete. This wedding confirmed it. Because I knew that this moment was perfect, this life was perfect, and nothing could ruin it. My life was set, and I was utterly and completely happy with it. Heaven on earth, I decided. Maybe it was a stupid thought, me wishing for the best, a bride hoping nothing will ever go wrong again in her new life. But in my heart I knew it: my life truly was impeccable, absolute, flawless. It was perfect.
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Hermione Granger's eyes flew open and she sat up in bed with a jolt. Her breathing was fast. She looked around, confused, until the hazy mist of sleep began to lift and reality began to sink in, and she remembered her dream. Her eyes widened.
"God dammit!" She let herself drop and bounced slightly against the mattress. She was mad at herself, because she let herself have that dream again; she didn't wake herself up, like she knew she could but never did.
She glared angrily up at her ceiling. "Stop it," she said, loudly and forcefully. "Stop thinking about that; lying to yourself never gets you anywhere." She had been good, she thought angrily. Two whole weeks she hadn't had the dream. But then tonight, it came back, and she was mad.
Hermione threw back her covers and stalked to her window, rubbing her temples furiously. Moonlight shone into her eyes and she squinted. She was recalling more and more of her dream, and she felt her muscles relax, becoming heavy and seemingly planting her to the floorboards. As she mentally went over her oh-too-familiar dream, her body seemed to wilt, loosing its energy, until she was so caught up in herself she couldn't remember if she was standing or not.
The war had been terrible; they won, thankfully, but a significant number of people had died. Most of Hogwarts had been diminished; the only things that remained were the lake and the Whomping Willow, which made Hermione smile despite herself. The school wouldn't be reopening for a long time. More than half the staff had died, but they had honorable deaths and the ceremonies did them well.
But it didn't matter about the teachers, Hermione caught herself thinking furiously, feeling her blood pressure go up and body tense. It was a cruel and selfish thought, but she couldn't help it. It wasn't the bloody teachers' deaths that kept her up all night for a month; that made her jittery and unable to concentrate at work; that made the nerves in her stomach feel like they were trying to claw their way out of her abdomen. It was the deaths of the two people she couldn't care less about, the two thickest oafs she'd ever met. So what if she hadn't married the one, like she'd always dreamed of, and so what if the other died in a smelly cave instead of his own bed, at old age, like he should have. Dead is dead, and now they didn't even remember anything at all; once you're dead you remember nothing, nothing you did on earth counts.
And so what if they didn't remember her; she wouldn't remember them when she was dead, either. Now that they were gone she could concentrate on her life, not whatever scheme Voldemort was planning next and how they would personally stop him, which was a rather absurd idea now that she thought about it. The corners of her mouth twitched as she recalled all the adventures the three of them shared, risking their lives to save the wizarding world, or whatever. It didn't matter now, because Voldemort was gone and so was the man who killed him, so what was the point in celebrating.
Hermione stared out the window, at the same moon she watched when she was still in Hogwarts, and she laughed at its cruelty. How it could just rise night after night, blind to the memories it resurfaced? But that's all they were, Hermione reflected miserably, the familiar beast in her stomach coming back to life; the two men she loved with every cell and nerve ending in her were just memories now, and it was up to her, and her alone, to relive those memories for the rest of her days in cold solitude.
She walked over to her vanity, picked up an almost-full bottle of sherry and downed it before climbing back into bed. She knew she would need the distraction.
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A/N: Not another war fic! Well, I rather do like the topic, although to settle the balance maybe I'll write up a jaunty little LJ one-shot to cheer everyone up. Still, with this story, I hope you get the point. And the first part is suppose to be overly-perfect, I don't want anyone moaning to me about it.
Review.