Disclaimer: The magical world of Harry Potter belongs to the one and only goddess of fantasy, J.K. Rowling. I own nothing but a Harry Potter towel and toothbrush.

Author's Note: I wrote this little prologue before the release of Half-Blood Prince and had never intended to post it. Therefore, A Caged Heart is not HBP- or DH-compatible.

A thousand thanks to a most invaluable beta: Nalaniekeala.

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Prologue

The old woman sat herself down on the rocking chair, humming the tune of a long forgotten song. The chair groaned faintly under the weight of her brittle bones. Her dark eyes stared into the fireplace that roared crimson before her, the dancing flames cloaking the old-fashioned sitting room in shimmering rays. Her face, like that of any other one-hundred-twenty-eight-year-old, was worn with wrinkles and shockingly pale. It remained expressionless while her eyes flickered with a trace of loss.

The steady beat of rain outside aroused a familiar feeling in her breasts. She sat alone in the quaint cottage, her home for the past twenty years or so. She and Winston had been divorced for about nine decades now. Her daughter, Molly, was closing in on a century herself, a strikingly strong witch with courage that would make Godric Gryffindor envious. She had watched Molly through her struggles from adolescence angst to mid-life crisis, and her daughter had made her chest swell with pride and cherish motherhood.

Hermione Granger sighed lightly as her thoughts rested upon her great-granddaughter, Samantha. At twenty-four, Samantha was Molly's only son's daughter. Hermione vividly remembered the Christmas when Samantha was born, holding her great-granddaughter while her own eyes transformed into leaky faucets. She also remembered the Christmas three years ago, watching Samantha laughing with her husband and appearing the happiest she had ever been.

Samantha had met Duncan at Hogwarts and the pair fell into the depths of love with a magical force. They married months after graduation and anyone who met the couple knew that they would last together forever. But all that changed when they entered their fifth year of marriage. Duncan was diagnosed with a rare blood disease and Hermione watched her once vivacious great-granddaughter sink into a deep depression.

It had been year since Duncan's death and Samantha still wore the empty, forlorn expression she had on the day of his funeral. Last week, when Hermione visited Samantha, she discovered a gaunt woman in a ragged bathrobe and dark circles around her eyes. Watching her, Hermione knew. She knew it was time to tell her great-granddaughter about her past…

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Her stiff, callused hands – callused from the years of magic making with her wand and writing with her traditional quills – gripped the coal black diary. Hermione had owned this diary for over a century, securing an unbreakable bond between the writings of the diary and the nerves of her heart. A lone tear escaped the corner of her left eye as she involuntarily fingered the silver locket circling her neck. She had worn this locket for almost as long as she had owned the diary. It was a simple necklace with an emerald heart that opened to reveal a picture; a sequence of diamonds sprinkled the heart to form a calligraphic L. Hermione had never taken it off, never once in the years she was married to Winston nor during the birth of Molly. It had not left her since the person who gave it to her had secured it around her neck.

Clamping her spidery fingers harder than ever against the binding of the diary, she waited for her great-granddaughter. Still rocking in the chair, Hermione carefully opened the front cover and pulled out the first envelope from the thick pile that lay in the diary. Setting the old book on her lap, she slipped out the paper that nestled in the envelope. Thinned and crisp, with the edges yellowed, Hermione's fingers held onto the page with dear life. It still smells like him, she thought, her lips forming a bittersweet smile. With the ink slight faded, Hermione began to read:

Dear Hermione,

You know my difficulties with writing letters, let alone love ones. Please forgive me if I'm not clear enough, or if I sound like a prat. I know you said not to write letters and give myself away, but it hurts like hell not to.

I know it's only been a week since I've last seen you, but to me it seems like months, years even. I arrived at the Death Eaters' camp the day we left Hogwarts. It was just like I imagined it would be…black tents, dark skies with not a single patch of blue, sandy, desert-like grounds. In short: hell. Voldemort's not here most of the time, which I must admit fares perfectly with me. But I won't depress you with what's going on here.

How are you? Though it pains me to say this, how's Potter and Weasley? Not a day, hour, or moment goes by with my mind not thinking of only you. I came here only for you, and the only thing that keeps me going is the fact that we'll be together…soon. Pardon me for sounding incredibly sappy, but last night, as I stood guarding the tents, I begin matching each star in the sky to something I love about you. Everything was going great, until I ran out of stars.

We both know I'll be here for a while. I'm not sure when I'll be back, but I hope to Merlin it's soon. I miss you more than anyone has ever missed another and I love you more than one can hope to love. Part of me wants to leave everything and come and be with you, but the other part of me remembers my promise to Dumbledore, to Severus, and to you. I will be back, I promise you that. And when I come back, the first thing we'll do is get married.

With you, I learned to love…you taught me our differences mean nothing in the face of love and life. If only you knew how much I wish to see you, hold you, and kiss you once more. Never, ever forget how much I love you.

Love, D.

Another tear fell from her eye as she finished reading. One hundred and ten years, she thought, pressing the letter to her chest. She placed the letter into the envelope and back into the diary. Hermione wanted to continue leafing through the rest of the letters and the entries of the diary, living through her past once more, but Samantha was to arrive any moment.

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Hermione eyelids parted thickly as a popping sound echoed in the room. Her eyes met the sticklike figure of her great-granddaughter, standing a few feet away from her. With Hermione's chocolate coloured eyes and bushy hair, Samantha looked like an almost replica of her great-grandmother when she was in her mid-twenties. Stepping forward, she produced a weak smile.

"How are you, Nana?" her gentle voice asked as she leaned in to hug Hermione.

"Better than most one-hundred-twenty-eight-year-olds," Hermione answered, affectionately patting Samantha's bony back. "Sit down," she added, pointing to the mahogany couch facing her.

Sitting herself down, Samantha looked at Hermione warily. She clasped her hands into a tight tangle and asked, "So, do you need anything Nana? Your Patronus sounded rather urgent."

Hermione smiled benignly. "I felt like talking to you, Sam. It seems as though we've stopped talking."

Samantha averted her face from her great-grandmother, failing to hide the conspicuous blemish of guilt. "That's not true, Nana. We talked just last week."

"Yes we talked. But we didn't really talk. It was just a mere exchange of weather-related topics," Hermione explained calmly.

Samantha glanced out of a broad window behind the couch. Rich burgundy curtains bordered the window, which displayed a fierce downpour of rain against a charcoal backdrop. "That reminds me. It's raining," she said somewhat lamely.

Hermione let out a small chuckle. After a slight pause, she looked at Samantha with woeful eyes. "How are you doing?"

Samantha looked surprised at her great-grandmother's question. "I - I'm fine."

Hermione shook her head and twisted the chain of her locket around her fingers once more.

"Are you ok, Nana?" Samantha's concerned voice cut in.

Hermione gave her a small nod and set her gaze on the diary lying on her lap. "I just - I need to tell you something, Sam."

Samantha stared at her, expressionless. "Not about Duncan. Nana, everyone wants to talk to me about him. I'm - I'm fine! I really am! I just — "

"No," Hermione professed, the lines in her face deepening with solemnity. "Not about Duncan. Not about you. It's about me…I want to tell you about my past. About what happened one hundred and ten years ago."

Samantha stared at Hermione blankly.

"About my first love, and how I lost him. About — " Hermione started before getting cut off by Samantha, who was shaking her head as her countenance darkened.

"No, Nana. You and Grandpa Winston are not like Duncan and I. Grandpa Winston and you divorced each other. You didn't love him. But I love Duncan. And I always will. I lost him, Nana…he literally left me forever; not divorced like the two of you, but Duncan died. You don't know what it's like to live and lose someone whom you love more than anything else in the world," Samantha finished shakily, her eyes shining with tears.

Hermione remained silent, her eyes wet as well. She gave Samantha a melancholy smile and finally spoke. "I was not going to talk about Winston."

An utterly baffled look crossed Samantha's tear-stained face.

"Your great-grandfather was neither my first love nor my last. I want to tell you about who was…" Hermione looked down at the dark diary in an almost tragic trance.

"I want to tell you about Draco Malfoy," she revealed at last.

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