I loved the fall; the crunch of the leaves beneath my feet, the blustery weather. I loved the feeling of a sweater on my shoulders. I used to sit outside the Manor, and watch the leaves blow by, snug in my sweater and jeans, a good cup of hot cocoa next to me.

I used to sit there and think, "There's nothing I could love more than this". Of course, I was ten then and all I knew of love was that it took my breath away and I awoke every morning with an intense urge to see the new foliage or the freshly fallen leaves. Sometimes I'm struck by how similar and different love is for me now.

I still awake every morning with the urge to see my love. I open my eyes and I know that it's her season, for she loves the fall too. She still takes my breath away.

During a particularly windy day, I was out for a walk and the wind caught my by surprise. My scarf was caught up in it and I chased it around the yard for a good quarter hour. Sometimes I can't tell if that's a memory that's real, or a memory that I fabricated because it so beautifully mirrors our relationship.

Even when the war was raging, even when people were dying and I was killing, I loved the fall. I would lose myself in the crunch of the leaves beneath my feet, and try and forget the crunch of bones that I had just left behind. Then when I changed sides, I would lose myself in the whipping of the wind, and try to forget the constant fear and worry I lived in, that my mother's life would be the next taken to punish me for my defection.

Of course losing my self in the leaves or the wind never worked, and eventually I had to face the crunch of the bones. Eventually my mother's life was taken for my sins. And then, then the fall could not save me.

Instead of the fall saving me, she saved me instead. When I had nowhere to turn, and when the wind was biting and each crunch of a leaf was exploding in my ears, she walked with me. She comforted me, and she held my hand. She took my heart and though I tried to get it back, I never succeeded.

I believe I lost my train of thought. Ah, yes. Love. I love her. Without a doubt I love her. So every day I wake up and I gaze upon her face, and my breath is taken away. And every day I wake up wanting to see her, to rush out and hug her and kiss her and be with her.

But love can never be that easy. For I can never really see her, rush to her, hug her or kiss her. So instead I awake every day, and look at her picture. I put on my sweater and I put on my jeans, and I walk outside. I lose myself in the crunch of the leaves and the whipping of the wind until I can't anymore. Until I get to the place where she was buried.

And then I can't pretend that she is still here anymore. She is buried at Malfoy Manor, the same place she died in the heat of the battle. She lays, entombed in marble, perfection beneath the ground. I always wanted more to be written on her tombstone, but I couldn't think of words to do her justice. So instead her name, simple, Hermione Jean Granger-Malfoy, and the Hogwarts crest. She would have approved.

So every day I awake. I touch her frozen face, and I go to her where she lies. I look forward to seeing her every day. Every day I see my bit of autumn, and I know that I love it now as much as I loved it then.