The Parting Gift

"She left this for you," Ron stammers as he hands him a small brown package. "I don't know what it is though. She was wrapping it that night, before—" His voice breaks and he rushes out the door.

Harry knows he should have gone after him, but his legs are stiff and his feet made of lead, as the sorrow gnawing at his heart were literally weighing him down. How can he run out and tell him things are going to be all right when things are never going to be all right? How can he comfort him when his own soul is being ripped apart with fatal grief?

Then he hears her, the voice of his conscience tenderly rebuking him. "Oh please, Harry. It is not all that bad here. You should know. Professor Dumbledore said you paid them all a visit a few years back. Oh yes, I have met Professor Dumbledore. They are all here: Harry, Sirius, Remus, and your parents. That reminds me, I'm supposed to have tea with them. I have to go for now, Harry, but you cheer up! You know better than anyone else that we're still here, living on in you. I'm always with you, Harry. You should know: you said it yourself."

This is the comfort of friends; that though they may be said to die, yet their friendship and society are ever present, because immortal.

His eyes automatically dart to the brown package on the table. He cradles it delicately in his hands and gently unwraps it, feeling its texture beneath his fingers, groping for her touch, for the feel of her fingers, the fingers that wrapped this package that one last night—

"Hermione."

Harry smiles ruefully, tears stinging his eyes. She laughs like she hasn't a care in the world, beaming at him through a broken piece of looking glass she used to carry along with her wherever she went.

"Oh Harry, you're here," Hermione blurts at his presence.

"Err, surprise?" Harry eyes her quizzically. "Ron, Ginny, and the kids are already at the Burrow. I thought we agreed on flooing together.

"Of course," she manages, "I haven't forgotten. I was just—just finishing up with a few things here, you know, just cramming for holidays."

"You never cram, Hermione."

"Well the workload has been piling up, exponentially these last few days. I wouldn't want to have too many things to finish after the break. I merely want to get things done."

"With a mirror?" He glances curiously at the small mirror Hermione still has in her hands. She doesn't reply, quickly stuffing the mirror in her purse instead.

Harry regards her and sees a pink tinge burning her cheeks. A mischievous grin suddenly lights his face. "You're not turning all girly on me, are you, Hermione?"

Hermione relaxes and admonishes him, a small smile tugging her lips, "If you haven't noticed Harry, I am not—"

"Yes, I know Hermione. I heard you then," he says, thinking of a rather funny conversation from fourth year. "And I'm not Ron."

Hermione blushes.

"Yes, I know."

Harry absently finds his way through the zigzagging halls, long accustomed to the sudden turns and secret rooms of St. Mungo's. He keeps his worried eyes averted, looking up only occasionally to nod at the polite "Good Afternoon, Mr. Potter" and return the sympathetic smiles of familiar mediwitches.

He stops abruptly in room 713. A deep breath, and then he quietly turns the knob. He steps across the threshold and drinks in the sight before him, listening to his heart as it breaks. Hermione lies on the bed, her frail body propped against a white pillow. A tearful smile plays on her lips as she stares sadly back at something. The small mirror she likes to bring along wherever she goes, Harry supposes.

Harry watches, transfixed, as her fingers affectionately sweep its surface. He sees her whisper something too soft to catch. Then suddenly the mirror falls from her fingers, plopping safely on the bed. He hears a loud pained sob. Hermione buries her face in her in hands and cries, her shoulders convulsing.

Harry rushes to her, enveloping her in a tight embrace but Hermione pulls back.

"Harry! I wasn't expecting you," Hermione exclaims as she quickly wipes her tears away, forcing a smile. "Shouldn't you be at King's Cross with Ron, Ginny, and the kids?"

"Hermione, what's wrong?" Harry whispers. "Tell me."

"Oh it's nothing Harry. I'm just being silly."

"Silly? Hermione, you're the last person I'll ever think was silly," he answers evenly, voice dangerously calm from trying vainly not to feel hurt that she shied away from him. "Silly things don't make you cry."

Hermione senses the steel in his voice and replies wearily, "I don't know. Oh Harry, I thought I was better prepared. You and I have known this was coming a long time. Now, don't give me that look," she quips, pausing. "Let's be realistic, Harry. I've prepared myself for this. I've talked to Ron and the children and—" Her voice cracks momentarily but she determinedly continues. "It's coming soon, Harry. I can feel it. And I'm—"

"Scared," he finishes.

Hermione nods, tears resurfacing.

"How can I leave Ron and the children? How can I leave you, Harry? There is so much I want to tell all of you, still so much I want share with you." She cries openly. "I want to be in King's Cross right now to see Hugo and Rose off. I want to help Rose pick out her wedding dress, see Hugo graduate with top honors. I want to visit Hogwarts with you and Ron and have tea with Hagrid. I want to be with all of you. I want to be here to love you."

Harry sits beside her and wraps his arms around her. "Hermione," he breathes, painful tears searing his eyes. "Hermione, you will always be with us. Always. You're with Hugo and Rose right now at Platform 9¾. You'll be with Rose when she shops for her wedding dress. You'll watch with Ron as Hugo goes up the stage. And you will always be with me. Ron and I will always bring you along when visit Hogwarts or Three Broomsticks for some butterbeer. We'll even force you to come with us to Quidditch."

At this Hermione softly laughs. "Yes, I'd like that."

Harry gives her tight squeeze and kisses her hair, gently running his hand across her back soothingly. "And Hermione, you have loved much more than others who have lived, all the centuries over," Harry whispers so softly it's almost inaudible, finally admitting what he has long known, "loved me more than anyone else I know."

Hermione hugs him and gently pulls away to face him. "Thank you Harry."

"Now, smile a little okay." Harry gulps, "Things are going to be all right." He suddenly becomes aware of a pointed object resting beside him. He picks it up and shows it to Hermione.

"See Hermione, look at how pretty you are when you smile," Harry points to her image reflecting back at the mirror.

Hermione's smiling face suddenly looks confused and questioning.

"What? Take a look at yourself." He points to their reflection. "Even your eyes don't look as puffy. Come to think of it, you don't even look as if you've cried at all with a smile like that. See, we're both smiling now. Things are going to be okay, Hermione."

Hermione suddenly embraces him again, tears in her eyes. Happy tears. "Thank you, Harry. Thank you. You don't know what that means to me," she says, breathless with what looks oddly like happiness to Harry. She kisses his cheek and tells him, "We really do look very happy, don't we?"

Happiness. Hermione had lived and died with happiness. The Hermione's smiling image fills him with renewed energy. "She hasn't left me. She's right here laughing with me."

A stroke of genius suddenly flashes through his mind. "Could it be?" Harry thinks aloud. "But it can't—even then, it's still impossible. But then again, it's Hermione—cleverest witch of the age. She must have found a way," Harry assuages his own doubts, mind racing and hopes radically and unreachably high.

He disapparates without a second thought to Hog's Head, eager for a conversation with Aberforth Dumbledore, the only other known owner of a two-way mirror.

"Harry, what brings you here?" Aberforth asks, his twinkling blue eyes looking inquiringly at him.

"I—err," Harry falters, feeling very stupid all of a sudden. He has obviously not thought this through.

"Well, it must be a matter of importance as it is almost midnight."

Harry peers at his watch for the first time today: almost midnight indeed. He feels his face flush and begins, rather incoherently, to apologize and explain himself.

"No, no please Harry, you are always welcome here," Aberforth lets him off, and asks sincerely, "What is it that's troubling you?"

"Err, well," Harry starts unintelligibly. But seeing Aberforth's encouraging smile, he continues, "Do you still have the two-way mirror you bought from Mundungus Fletcher years ago?"

"Yes Harry, it's over there on the mantle."

Harry picks it up and examines it. Without looking up, he bravely asks, "Did you ever communicate with Hermione using this?"

"Ms. Granger you mean?" Aberforth prods. "No, we were friends as you know but not intimate enough to communicate through that."

"Oh," Harry says flatly, disappointed. "Then would you know anyone else who has a similar mirror?"

"I'm sorry Harry, I do not. Even by magical standards two-mirrors are a bit rare. Mundungus's was the first I saw. I assume it was a Black family heirloom." He pauses, his voice full of concern. "Harry, may I ask what this is about?"

Harry looks at him warily, uncertain if he should answer. But, catching Aberforth's eyes, so much like the headmaster's, Harry proceeds anyway. "Hermione—Hermione, she—"He starts pacing back and forth around the room before continuing. "She left me a mirror and I can see her. She's smiling at me. Could she have brought one with her? Could she—"

Aberforth interrupts him mid-sentence. "Harry, you know it to be impossible. Although the dead never truly leave us, literal communication with them is the stuff of sorcery."

"I know!" Harry exclaims, sinking into his seat, anguish lacing his voice. "I just thought that perhaps Hermione found a way. She was a brilliant witch."

"Yes, Albus talked about her often, said she's pretty close to rivaling the genius of the greatest wizards of our time," Aberforth replies sympathetically. "But even she cannot conjure magic that would bring the dead to life. Even Albus couldn't. That's the stuff of legend, of the Deathly Hallows, Harry."

He gives Harry a piercing look before adding, "And from what I remember of Ms. Granger, she would never use magic for that purpose, even if she could."

Harry quietly ponders before speaking. "You're right. I was silly to think it."

"You just miss her. It is only human to want them back. But they never really leave us, Harry. Look at how you smile when you say her name. Her memory lives on in you," Aberforth warmly observes. "It is that hope that keeps me going," he adds wistfully. "And we will all be reunited again. They are waiting for us."

Aberforth and Harry sit in comfortable silence, both thinking of their own dearly departed. It is only when they hear the clock strike two that Harry rises from his seat. With many thanks and a parting goodbye, Harry apparates home.

"Harry, where were you?" Ginny asks, a worried frown lining her face. "Ron said he just went out for a short walk and when he came back, you were nowhere to be seen. Where were you?"

"Oh, I—I went out for a walk myself," he lies.

"You could have left a message." Worry and suspicion lace her voice.

"I'm sorry," Harry apologizes sincerely, "I shouldn't have gone off like that. I was just thinking about—"

"Hermione," she sighs, finishing his thought for the first time in weeks.

Harry considers her sadly. "Yes. Hermione."

"Harry, you know she wouldn't want you to be sad."

"I know," he dismisses. "Give me some time, Gin. I'll be all right. I'm certain that she is with us," Harry declares. "Like Mum and Dad."

Harry catches her nervously looking away at the mention of his parents that he reverts back to talking strictly about Hermione. He pulls out the mirror from his pocket, "See, Hermione is right there. She left us a fancy mirror, like a wizarding photograph, I suppose." He prattles on. "She's smiling at us."

Ginny looks strangely at Harry. Her features quickly change from dismay to solemn acceptance. But Harry misses both, his eyes still lingering on the smiling Hermione.

"Yes, her smile is beautiful," Ginny remarks knowingly. With that, she squeezes his arm lightly and walks out the room, quite unable to regain his attention.

"Dad!" Harry's son hollers from the kitchen.

"Yes, Albus?" he replies, walking into the kitchen.

"What is this?" He holds up Hermione's looking glass. "It's bloody brilliant!"

"It's some magical mirror photograph thing Hermione left me."

"What? Are you sure Dad? Then why am I Quidditch captain?"

"Quidditch captain? What do you mean?" Harry asks his son, confused.

He takes the looking glass and examines it. "Are you certain you're Quidditch captain?" Harry asks, almost manically.

Albus nods with fierce delight but stops at the quiet, pained look on his father's face. "This can't be—it can't be. That makes no sense."

"Yes it does, Harry," says a voice from the door. "Hermione left you a shard from the Mirror of Erised."

"Ginny, I—"

"I've always known she came first for you."

He tries to contradict her but cannot find the words. He looks down guiltily at the mirror and sees Hermione lovingly smiling at him. He can't help the rush of emotions that course through him: happiness at her sight, sadness for her loss, and love, simply love, for the woman smiling at him. Yes, he loves her.

Ginny watches him quietly and sees the all too familiar look in his eyes that he reserves only for Hermione. Keeping her voice from cracking and her tears in check, she whispers, "It's still Hermione that makes you smile."

Harry glances back down at mirror he's still cradling in his hands. And with that one look, he knows there is no point pretending. It's true. Hermione does make him smile. Hermione does fill him with tender love and happiness. It is Hermione that beams at him from the Mirror of Erised, and the mirror never lies.

Recovering himself, he turns to address Ginny, but thinks of everyone who matters to him—Ginny, Albus, Ron, the Weasleys, and Hermione herself—and surrenders.

"I'm sorry."