Author's notes: This is primarily a post-Hogwarts Dramione. I hope you like it. The narrative diverges from canon since HPHBP.

Rating warnings: M for occasional language, suggestive scenes, and war violence.

INTRODUCTION

"Would it be a wrong time to love, if loving her changed me for the better?" - Draco Malfoy

1: The Dearly Departed

Her dress was soaked through from the rain, and her hands were numb from the cold, so much so that they didn't feel like hers anymore. She could see her hands on her lap, yes, but even as her quivering fingertips traced over the soaked fabric of her long black dress, they looked like they were moving on their own. And her eyes hurt from the heavy rain—or was it the tears? She wasn't sure anymore. She wasn't even sure if it really was cold. Maybe she was only imagining it. Her heavy dress clung to her so, it almost felt warm. Just almost. Maybe spring was finally here—but how long has it been since he'd left? She'd lost track of time. The last thing she could remember was endless fields of white snow, and how heavy and lifeless his body was in her arms.

Truth be told, Hermione had lost track of a lot more than time, but she didn't have the energy to think about the rest anymore. The gaping hole that was his absence consumed her. She could barely see his headstone now through the pouring rain, but she knew that it was right there, across from where she knelt. A burial so grand, but utterly incapable of holding everything that she had and still loved. She remembered his funeral, certainly, but none of it felt real.

"We gather here today for the dearly departed..."

The Ministry priest had spoken for him with such reverence.

"He was the hero of our time. A man forever to be remembered."

Behind her, his old colleague had sniffled softly to her, "He was a good man, dear, such a good man."

I know, she had wanted to say. But what good was that?

This is what we're left with.

This is what I'm left with.

She struggled to recall the fateful night that she had lost him. A trauma that she'd been forcing herself to revisit, over and over again, so she wouldn't forget, so she wouldn't let him go:

They were blindly tearing through desolate fields under the cold February moonlight. His arm hung heavily on her shoulders as she had dragged him on, throwing hexes behind them as they went. Dozens of Death Eaters and You-Know-Who himself were closing in on them. And he was limping, growling in pain and frustration, blood smeared across his face, and she had tried to stop him from shielding her, tried to intervene, but when it became clear they had nowhere to run he refused and stood firm, facing his lifelong enemy, and—

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

No.

The next thing she knew, a shock wave had blasted her to the ground, crushing her chest with what felt like of a ton of bricks. She didn't even have time to cast a spell. No Stupefy, no Protego. And she was certain that she had died, except everything hurt. And through the dizzying haze, she had heard someone scream his name. His name. And her eyes shot open in horror. Strong hands were gently hoisting the weight off her. She finally realized what it was that crushed her, but she couldn't recall what had happened next. Someone yelled that the spell had rebounded on the Dark Lord. That He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was finally defeated. The Death Eaters fled. Her husband had become a hero, but he was dead.

The rest was a blur. And here she was now, sitting at his grave, as she had for days, weeks, maybe months. She wasn't sure. But she knew that she was, in fact, crying now. The early spring rain was still running into her eyes, but they stung now even more. She didn't mind. She was willing to hold on to any small bit of him she can, even if it meant crying like a mad woman at his grave. What if he had survived? What if they'd both lived through the end of this horrible war?

But he's gone.

She reminded herself again, like a mantra that was keeping her grounded in reality. But how could it be? He had been such a constant in her life. She'd known him for most of her conscious years. How many years will I have to live without him? How DO I? But she must, somehow. She must get up. She must go on. But she was still sitting there, staring at his name. Staring at the year of his death. 2005, it said. Her overly logical brain said that it was one among many. So many had died in this war. But her usual logic had shut down, and her brain couldn't process. 2005. It sounded wrong. Sounded too recent. All those names on gravestones, all those years, they had always been so foreign, so ancient. But this one, the only one that meant anything to her, was so close, so real. It can't be.

She missed the smile that he gave her. She missed having him by her side, supporting her through thick and thin. But she was alone now. The rain continued to be merciless, keeping her in her place.

That was when she heard footsteps from behind, some 20 feet away. It's been a while since anyone came by - or rather, it's been a while since anyone tried to convince her to leave his side. "Go home, Hermione," they said. "Poor woman," they said. But she always said nothing, and stayed. Eventually, they go away. Whoever this was, they would surely go too, sooner or later. Leave her alone. Let her mourn over her lost. The rain was beating hard on the ground. It was almost painful.

The footsteps stopped. She braced herself, refusing to acknowledge whoever it was.

"Hermione."

She thought she recognized that voice. It wasn't Ron. She would know from miles away if it was him, just by the way he stomped in frustration when she refused to budge. No, Ron had given up a while ago. She couldn't pinpoint this man standing behind her.

"It's cold out here," he said. The tone was calm, firm. Somehow though, there was an unspeakable sadness to it. It was more than a suggestion, more than concern, or pity. She knew pity so well now, she didn't need to look into their faces to sense it in their words, their voices.

Such a familiar voice, yet it feels like it's from so long ago. Who was it?

She still did not turn.

After a long silence, long enough that Hermione began to assume that he'd left, the man spoke again, quietly this time.

"You said you wanted to make him happy. He wouldn't be happy to see you like this."

A chill ran up her spine. She knew that voice.

"I beg of you, you're getting sick." She felt him gripping her shoulders. He practically pulled her off the ground, but he did it so gently, so easily, almost as if she were a light feather. She didn't understand. Her dress felt so heavy on her. As her knees left the earth, she felt light-headed, like the drenched fabric of her dress was gravity itself, holding her down. How? Turning around, she tried to see his face, but it was all a blur. The rain was getting into her eyes, she thought. But it wasn't the rain. The headache got worse as she tried to look at him.

"Hold on to me, please." There was anxiety in his voice now. Frustration. He tried to help her stand, but her legs were giving in. He was the only thing keeping her upright, but she still felt the strong need to get out of his arms.

"I... I don't need..." help.

She could barely raise her arms to push him away, and fell backwards when she tried. He caught her again, tightly this time. The reeling sensation was now so overpowering in his arms, she felt the world give. He smelled like magnolias and the ocean, she thought, as the world closed in on her, and she fell into a deep sleep.

The young man stood there for a moment, looking into the face of the woman that he once knew so well. She looked so unfamiliar now, so helpless and broken. In the past, he would have never doubted her ability to take care of herself. He would have never doubted her strength and courage. But comparing that person that he once knew in better times to the drained woman in his arms, he knew that she needed help, even if she wouldn't agree.

And he lightly snickered at that thought. A tender sadness touched his lips. He knew exactly how headstrong Hermione was.

"It's not going to be easy convincing you, is it?" he whispered, tenderly brushing a stray strand of hair off her face.

But he would certainly try, and he could worry about the rest later.

So he picked her up and walked into the dark, towards the city lights, away from the tomb that she had watched day and night. The rain continued to pour. Leaves fell and stuck onto the dripping headstone. And the carvings read the name of the departed.

In Memory of
Harry James Potter
Beloved Husband and Hero
31-7-1980 — 22-2-2005