Prologue
Hermione sat cross-legged in a chair on her veranda. She sat overlooking the Mediterranean, a cigarette in hand. Her was mind clear. She wore a tattered skirt that gently brushed against cold brick floor of the veranda. The soft sea breeze blew past her, causing her cheeks to slightly flush, and her hair to somewhat flutter in the wind. She took a long silent drag off the cigarette, as her mind began to drift.
Three months had passed since she first arrived at the small seaside villa in Greece. She had spent three quiet, pristine, and calming months alone. Only her thoughts, her books, and her mind had accompanied her. However, like usual time had ceased being her friend. Time did what it did best, it moved on, it plowed ahead, no destination in mind, it quickened. The day of her departure had arrived. Hermione looked down at her forearms, they were slightly sun kissed. She had spent almost every afternoon, book in hand, cigarette in the other, just reading book after book. Other days, she'd fish though old albums, old pictures, and old memories.
Yes, she had to admit; time had become her least favorite aspect of life. She always used to be an optimistic person, but not anymore. Time had taken it away from her. Time had reared her ugly head, as the second hand moved forward with each agonizing tick. She hated it. With each tick, the further Harry grew away from her. Yes, time, she hated it. Hermione could feel a slight smile coming on as she thought of all the memories she had drudged up from deep within her soul during her stay. She could hear heavy-footed footsteps in the villa behind her, they belonged to a man, and tiny little bumps, they belonged to a child.
Perhaps, even more than she hated time for separating Harry from her, forever. She hated death, for existing. For happening, for the hurt it caused, and for happening to her and causing her to hurt. Death had grasped his cold fist around Harry that night, and she hated Death for it. From behind her, she heard a loud joyous laugh. It was deep and it shook the world in all its happiness. Hermione could hear a sweet soft and high pitch giggle merge with the deep-throated laughter. Hermione, however, kept her eyes on the seashore. The waves were crashing against the empty beach
Hermione sighed, even more than death, she hated herself; for being dumb, for being selfish, for losing all her feelings, and all her love when Harry died. She hated herself even more for reaching out blindly for the nearest person possible for comfort, and for betraying her husband.
Hermione, even after two years of marriage, she remained clueless on why she married whom she had. At first, it felt right; it felt like love. However, as time passed, she soon grew to realize he married her out of pity. You could even say he married her out of hurt; this was his way of clinging on to the past, of clinging on to Harry. Hermione knew her relationship was loveless, but it was comfortable. It took her mind off her problems; it took her mind of her mistake.
The chestnut-haired witch took another puff off her cigarette. Smoking was a bad habit she had picked up from an old Muggle friend. She thought again of the reasons she had married her best friend. Was she blinded by grief? Was she even aware of what she was doing? She needed a support system; she couldn't afford to live with the consequences of her mistake alone. So she hid it, she married Ron Weasley, and she shut up about it. She tried not to think about it, but she saw him on a daily basis. She couldn't avoid his questioning cold gray eyes. She remembered forcing herself to attend all the functions him and his wife would have the nerve to invite Ron and her too, her girdle slowly growing in size as the months passed
She often wished she could close her eyes one night, and wake up at dawn, rejuvenated, with Harry, the symbol of her shame gone. However, as usual time paid its sweet revenge. She hated time, for leaving her with a burden of love. She hated death, for causing her to grief so hard and so blindly. She hated herself for falling, and she hated him. With his long blonde hair, soft pale skin, sweet pink lips, and cold conniving heart; a heart incapable of love, or of honesty. A heart only capable to cause pain, and pain is what it caused in her. Hermione took one final drag off her cigarette, before casually flicking it off the side of the terrace. From behind her, she could feel the footsteps drawing closer, and the sliding glass door open.
"Hermione," the voice called, Hermione kept her head down; she still was not ready to leave, "it's time to go."
She sighed, resting her head in her hands, afraid to face Ron, afraid to leave. She heard that familiar sweet giggle, and little footsteps run towards her. Hermione's face quickly spread into a wholehearted genuine smile as she laid eyes on the small toddler before her. She reached out for her mother with a sweet sticky hand, and she took it.
"Hannah!" Hermione smiled, in a slight baby tone, pulling the eighteen month old into her lap. The toddler seemed to make everything right again. She almost forgot her hate for time, for death, for herself, and for him, especially for him. She couldn't deny that she saw him in her own child. Her mouth even moved in the same fashion as his. On top of her head was a sweet mop of light blonde hair shining brightly: and the shine matched that in her eyes. Her eyes, is what Hermione fell in love with first. They were brown, but within them were sweet circular wisps of silver and gray, wisps of him, wisps of her true father. She stared down at her child for what seemed like an eternity, before turning to Ron.
"I'm ready," Hermione whispered to Ron softly. He gave her should a slight reassuring squeeze, Hermione assumed his eyes were scanning that amazing seashore for the final time. She sighed to herself, her child in her lap, her husband standing behind her supportively, as her hate was replaced with love.
