Disclaimer: Haha! I've tricked you all! I AM J.K rowling and I'm going to kill them all! Kill them all dammit! Sorry, I was having one of my delusions again. I don't own any of these characters and they're really lucky or they'd be really screwed up. So pretty please don't sue me?

AN: I started writing this fanfic in Feb, but unfortunately due to Dumbledore's carlessness in getting killed, I've had to rewrite it. And some of the character's didn't survive. Well, um, I was never a terribly literate person, I hope you enjoy it, but if you don't, which is likely, don't bother flamming me. I regard flammers as sad, boring little people, who obviously have no talent of their own, otherwise they wouldn't be discrediting other people's work. So if you flame me, i won't even bother to read it. It's a waste ofyour time and it's certainly a waste of mine.

Connections

Dreams and delusions

The sun beat down on her face and her eyes remained fixedly closed. Grass tickled her legs and bark grazed her lower back and arms. But her head rested on the warm softness of flesh that gently rose and fell. A hand wrapped itself through her hair. Beyond the haziness of her senses, she could make out the sound of Ginny's voice, and then the almost forgotten sound of Harry's laugh. The hand removed itself from her head and strong arms wrapped themselves around her. She wanted to open her eyes to see them, if just once, one last time, but the beat of the sun was too strong and maybe… if she kept her eyes closed long enough, this bliss could be real. Then she would never have to know the unforgettable faces of the dead. "'Mione," said a soft low voice that hummed across her ear, "you OK 'Mione?" Her eyes opened…

…And she woke up. For a moment she lay and stared up at the ceiling, then slowly Hermione sat up. Five years. When she'd first had the dreams she'd cried, but now her tears had long since been spent. Five years in which every moment without them had been subconsciously counted. Had it really been that long, since her heart, her mind and her soul had shattered, and the world had crumbled? And all she had to show was a box full of shards. She reached for that box now.

The dream, as it always had been, was of their last day at The Burrow, after the beginning of the end, but before hell had claimed them. They had clung to it, clutched at it and stretched it almost to a still, an afternoon of perfection in a barren world.

They'd lost Ginny not six months later and Harry had disappeared the same day. Hermione had not been present, but what had happened was scarred on her brain. The shell, of what once had been Ginny Weasley, was left where it lay, but Harry, it seemed, couldn't die. He had to be destroyed. He had gone into the black of what Voldemort called home, and perished in the darkness there.

And then there was Ron, whom she could not even face in her memories. Ron, who had stolen her heart and taken it into the shadows with him. Who had walked in her soul and entered her mind, then, had shaken hands with the devil and wore Hell's mark upon his arm.

Somewhere, they sat under a tree in the sunshine and laughed at the shallow shadows.

Hermione looked around the around the room where, even now, the ghosts of the past lingered. She cursed, the dreams might end with sleep, but the nightmare was there when she awoke.

Ron stared at the doorway and swore silently that he'd left it open. He couldn't do it now- the Death Eaters would wonder. Would they ever trust him? The answer blazed before his face.

He rolled over and the ceiling swirled above him, across a million miles. How could you have everything, possess the world, know power beyond time and exist on the verges of ultimate realization, and all of it to be hollow and empty?

Except, for a few frazzled images, a half flash of dappled sunlight, the feel of rough bark, and the silky auburn tendrils, snaking through his fingers. The last relics of a memory he'd forced himself to forget. For the wishes of haunting blue eyes.

He knew he loved her. How could he not? And why else did she plague his waking hours and preoccupy his dreams? But Hermione was gone, part of his old life which he must disregard, if he was ever to succeed, and maybe, survive.

He reached for the firewhisky. He was drunk he knew and drunk was where he wanted to stay. Being sober was an unpleasant thing that happened rarely. Generally, he tried to keep his mind as cloudy as possible. After all, if he awoke his brain, then he awoke the hateful memories.

"Weasley!" cried a voice. Then, more loudly; "Hey! Weasley!"

"What!" he barked angrily and turned to find Draco Malfoy standing in the doorway, a smirk playing across his pale pointed face. Ron, who knew this was a sign of nervousness, as much as cockiness, chilled his anger.

"Oh hello Draco," he growled, "what is it?"

Draco shrugged, picking at his finger nails. "He wants to see you. Say's its something important. You'd better go."

Ron nodded and awkwardly moved to the door. Malfoy grabbed his arm. "Hey, be careful OK? He's twitchy today. You may have forgotten your past, but he never will."

Ron walked off with the roar of sunlight in his head. Forget his past? He wished.

There wasn't much in the box, but it was all she dared keep. Although she was still an active part of the wizarding world, the name Hermione Granger was just as mysterious and obscure as Harry Potter. Everyone knew she was alive, somewhere. Most thought she was in hiding, maybe as a muggle.

Alex Moorgans she had been for the last four years, since Ron had left. So her apartment was empty. Nothing could connect Moorgans to the notorious Granger, except this small box, which held a lifetime. There was the small teddy bear that she'd got from her parents as a child, her prefect badge and other mementos of happier Hogwarts' days gone by, a few newspaper clippings- mostly about Harry.

And then there was the photo, and the ring.

Hermione had taken it that day. It was the only one she'd kept. It was not magical so they could not even wave at her. From the centre Ginny sparkled, hair gleaming, eyes daring the skies to be as blue. Next to her a younger Hermione smiled shyly, arm reaching out to hold the camera. With his arms around Ginny, and dark hair flying in all directions, even Harry smiled. His face light with joy as he looked at Ginny.

And then, at the edge of the picture, holding her own hand…

Hermione put the photo back and looked at the ring. It was plain silver and hung on a thin chain. Ginny had given it to her for her eighteenth birthday. Two weeks before she had died. Spidery writing encircled it and it simply read: The road at my feet is the road I must take, for love I walk. That it had been Ginny who gave it to her was a cruel irony in itself, for Ginny, who had always known what the path ahead must hold, had chosen it anyway. Ginny, who had died at seventeen because she'd loved the wrong person.

Hermione fastened the chain around her neck. It hung low enough that she could tuck it under her shirt. No-one would see it, but Hermione knew.

She put the box away and moved to the door- she was going to be late to the meeting. She glanced back at the barren room of Alex Moorgans and the small box that was Hermione Granger. There was a sad safety in it all: When you've lost everything, there is nothing left to lose.

They weren't coming back.

She left.