Dearest Mum and Dad,

I've just finished writing a letter to a dead woman you don't know, and it somehow led me here. That would probably sound infinitely strange to you if you were still around. I know you'd try to understand though; that was always so important to you—understanding me and my new world, being as much a part of it all as you could possibly be. You were both always there for me as much as you could, supporting me and encouraging me, and doing your best not to be freaked out by all of the insanity…

And in return I let you die. In return, I killed you both. It tears my heart into a thousand pieces. Over and over again. If you could speak to me, I know, you'd tell me I'm being foolish. You'd tell me you don't blame me and that you love me, and that all you want for me is to be happy. Isn't it funny that all of that makes absolutely no difference?

I just couldn't. I couldn't do it. You must understand that. It's not that I didn't want to come and get you. It's not that I didn't want to bring you back. Merlin, I swear, a little part of me with bushy hair and buckteeth sobbed deep inside of me, begging for her parents' comforting embrace. But the rest of me just couldn't. I couldn't face you both. I couldn't be the girl I'd been the last time you saw me. I couldn't face you knowing that you could never understand what I was feeling… what I'd been through… what I'd seen...

xXx

Well, I'm back. You can't even tell this bloody parchment was soaked with tears. Oh, magic. The marvels and the mystery. You tried so hard to understand…

We were growing apart even before the war. It hurt. So very badly. I remember the silences… full of things we were dying to say, but just couldn't. We tried so hard to care about each others' worlds. But the Muggle world felt so mundane to my teenage self-absorption, especially once the war started and everything else seemed so much more important, when I was bursting with things about my own life that I resented being unable to tell you. And the space grew, and grew… I remember wishing you would just… make it go away. Like magic, you know?

How silly.

We loved each other though. In spite of the distance. I cling to that some days. When I hate myself more than I can handle, when the guilt becomes too consuming, I just let myself remember how much I loved you, and I feel some small amount of redemption. Everyone says it wasn't my fault. My psychiatrist suggests I'm clinging to the guilt to avoid moving forward with life. She might be right. I feel like a tiny island—little more than a stone—alone in the midst of a turbulent sea. The waters are icy and black, and the wind is ceaseless, and day in and day out I'm assailed by the treacherous waves. Some days I feel my foundations crumbling from beneath me.

Something needs to change. Please, help me find the strength…

Sincerely,

Hermione Granger