In the end, Hermione couldn't do it.
Dean was right. She was worthless as a lover, just useless.
Remus looked back at her from the gravestone. On the marker next to his, Tonks changed her short hair from blonde to pink. Behind the stones stood a weeping willow as large as the Whomping Willow. It shaded the ground and Hermione's spot on the rock in front of the gravestones.
Remus. Professor Lupin. She had never had a chance to reconcile the name with her favorite Defense professor. Even now, she called him Professor in her prayers for him to watch over her and Harry as they tried to do right by Ted.
Hermione let her head tilt down, her hair falling over her face. The cold stone dug into the back of her legs. The stone Harry placed here wasn't meant to be comforting. It was meant to remind.
Professor, help me make this decision now. You always knew the difference between needs and wants. And I'm afraid this want is pretending to be a need.
Or was it the other way around?
Her boots digging into the springy ground, Hermione felt her mobile give a vibrate in her jacket pocket. Bzz. Bzz. If she could ignore the feeling of it against her ribs, she could almost imagine the garden overrun with giant bees. She wondered how Tonks – Nymphadora – would like that. Probably very little.
Before, in the silent tent as Harry kept watch outside, she would clasp her hands to her chest under her sleeping bag and pray – beg – for Gabriel to look out for them. To help them survive with their personalities largely intact. It had worked.
She had prayed to Professor Lupin to help her be a good mum. To teach Teddy his needs and not his wants. To instill in him the same peace and security Professor Lupin had given her during their too short acquaintance.
Now, not ten minutes ago, did Hermione manage to put a Tracking Charm on the man who killed Sam. She had looked into his eyes and felt his fear, the cracking of the human foundation he had always known. She had felt his determination to survive in the midst of powerful demons that could play with his life like Crookshanks with his feather toy.
Her phone vibrated again. She closed her eyes. She just needed a little more time.
A bird sung from within the willow's vast mass. It was a pretty noise, though nothing like she imagined when she read about birds singing in novels. Nothing was ever like Hermione thought it would be. Not her career, not her friendships, and not her boyfriend.
Not Sam.
She lifted her head to look at Professor Lupin's photograph on the gravestone.
"I don't know how I'll go on. Isn't that just so silly?"
Shaking her head, she wiped away the tears that had dared passed her eyelids. "It's just so stupid, Professor. Sam is – was – I don't know. But he was it. And here I am. And I could reach that man so easily but—"
But Teddy.
But Harry and Ron.
But Gabriel.
But Sam.
Suddenly, Hermione laughed. Her throat hurt from her night in front of the shack where his body waited to be burned and the hour sitting here, holding it in, but she laughed still.
"I guess you already know how I've chosen, though." She sniffled and rubbed at her cheeks. "I guess I do have to live… live without… knowing."
Without him.
"I hope you're proud of me, both of you," she said, including Tonks with a glance. She pressed her lips together, determined to not let new tears fall. "After all, someone has to make sure he's doesn't get all his traits from Harry."
The bird sung still. The daylight was hot on her neck. Sweat on her temple reminded her of the dew in the grass. Dead, murmured the willow, dead, dead, dead. She put her hand to her mouth, her chest aching from the urge to scream, to hold it in. She couldn't. Her face crumpled as she fell to her knees in front of the graves, her knees hitting the ground with a force that jarred her soul.
"I hate you two right now, oh, how I hate you! He murdered my Sam—my Sam—and I can't—I can't—"
My Sam. Mine. What was the point over wars over magic and blood if you couldn't use it save the person you loved? Voldemort had fought tooth and nail to survive—and Sam, her Sam was dead, she screamed—and she understood now, she understood the Philosopher's Stone, she understood drinking unicorn blood, she understood, damn it, and Sam was dead, dead, dead. No stone, no Voldemort, nothing but a knife in the gut and the rain on his face. Nothing left for her except the mud and the awful song overhead. Dead! Dead!
She didn't even feel him touching her, not until he picked her off the ground and hugged her to his chest. His fingers dug into her shoulders and she gasped around her sob. It felt good to be hurt, to go past the pain in her chest and the nausea in her stomach and the fire in her throat. Dead! sang the bird. Dead! Dead! Each touch of his lips on her eyelids, her cheeks, her lips, whispered, dead, he's dead. She sobbed harder and he held her tighter.
Whether it was an hour or a day, Hermione didn't know. She sat in his lap, her head on his chest, her finger tracing the neck of his shirt. She may have drifted off for a time, she didn't know. She knew he didn't move except to brush her hair out of her eyes. Didn't speak except to say, go ahead when she tried to stop her tears.
She finally dared to look up. No emotion twisted his face. She appreciated it. When she spoke, her voice rasped. "How did you find me?"
His arms tightened around her.
"I heard your prayers."
fin.