* A warm breeze drifted across the beach, lifting Hermione's long brown hair away from her warm neck for a moment. It was the first time they had visited the beach house in Majorca- Harry felt uncomfortable about using a home that he knew the Dursley's wouldn't have wanted him to have. It was almost ironic that Harry was now the sole possessor of all the Dursley's beloved material possessions. He owned the beach house, their car, shares in Mr Dursley's company, the contents of their bank accounts and the charred rubble that was once a house in Privet Drive. Harry had been out with Hermione all night, and arrived home early in the morning to find half the population of Hogwarts gathered around the smoking ruin of the house, mourning his passing. Once the mess had been sorted out, he managed to establish that You-Know-Who had attempted to simply attack and kill him while he slept, and had been so enraged at finding him gone had torched the house. The Dursleys were asleep at the time. They felt and heard nothing, a fact that comforted Harry. He loathed them with every inch of his being, but wouldn't wish suffering on anyone. Harry Potter, as their nephew and foster son, was indisputably (although Aunt Marge tried repeatedly to challenge the decision) their next of kin.

"Its beautiful here, isn't it?" Harry noted, interrupting her thoughts. He wandered up behind her and slid an arm around her waist, pulling her gently towards him so her back was resting on the warm skin of his chest.

"Mmmhmmm." she managed.

"You know what?" Harry murmured, running his left hand through her damp, tangled hair. "This would be a great place to get married."

"You think?" she asked, wondering if he could hear her heartbeat speeding up.

"I think. Of course, there are a few details missing. I'd have to put up a marquee for the guests to stand under, for example. The Weasley's would fry on a beach like this. And there's one more thing needed to complete the picture."

"A bar?" Hermione twisted her arms behind her so that they were resting around his waist. It was an awkward movement, but the closeness to him made it worth any discomfort.

He chuckled. "That, and I would need to find someone silly enough to agree to marry me."

"I'm sure just about any witch in England would jump at the chance," she murmured, letting go and turning to face him. When she looked in his eyes, she saw why he had chosen to stand behind her whilst broaching the subject. Despite the nonchalance in his voice, and the jokes, he looked genuinely terrified. His eyes were wide behind his cheap glasses, and his skin was even paler than usual, despite having spent most of the day outdoors.

He shifted his hat nervously. "That may be true. There's just one problem. There's only one English witch worth marrying, and I don't know how likely she is to jump."

"Only one way to find out," Hermione's chest tightened. He wasn't kidding.

"Marry me?" he flushed a deep red once the words were finally out, and stared at the sand.

"We're not old enough to get married," Hermione noted, biting her lip to stop from screaming. Her knees were trembling, and she had to grip both his hands to stop her own from shaking.

"We will be after we graduate. Next year, at the very end of summer when the evenings are starting to cool off, we'll both be old enough. Hopefully by next year You-Know-Who will be nothing but dust, and we'll both have nothing to worry about except each other, and making sure our kids are far more attractive and smarter than Draco and Ginny's are."

Hermione laughed, but because she was biting her lip it came out as a strangled gasp. "Okay," she giggled.*

"What was his middle name, Grandma?" Portia asked, doodling in her notebook.

"James. Why do you ask?"

"Just trying to come up with a good title."

Hermione smiled into the middle distance, only half listening as Portia prattled on about what she's learnt from Virginia. She was standing beside the mantelpiece, gazing at her wedding photo.

*The church was beautiful. No one could deny that they'd picked a lovely location for their wedding. All day Hermione had to try and pay attention to girls drifting over to her, gushing about how perfect the ceremony had been, how lovely the flowers were, what a great band they'd chosen.

"You look beautiful, Hermione," someone simpered. Hermione was swathed in yards of white satin and tulle. It had lace and beads and a long, floaty veil that felt as soft as mist. It was expensive, it was excessive, and everyone loved it.

She and Ginny had chosen a white cotton sundress they had seen in a window in Hogsmeade, and a white wide brimmed hat. Then Harry had died, and she packed them away.

The dinner was formal and hot. Roast chicken, herb stuffing and three vegetables. Creamy white sauce was poured over everything, and wine specially chosen to complement each course.

"The best meal I've had in a long time," someone sighed, satisfied.

The caterers had sent her brochures. She and Harry had sat up late in the common room, laughing as they tried to pronounce the fancy French dishes. Eventually they had found a caterer who could do a simple meal- fresh fruits and sandwiches, packed into picnic baskets. The perfect meal for a beach wedding. But Harry had died, and she'd packed the brochure away.

Their best man made a beautiful speech, one not soon forgotten. Bags were opened and handkerchiefs passed around, as a toast was made to those who could not be there.

"A beautiful sentiment," someone sniffed.

Ron was going to be the best man. Fred and George helped him write a speech that would also not soon be forgotten. When he read them the draft Harry and Hermione were in stitches, laughing so hard that they cried, for a different reason. Then Harry died, and it was packed away.

A hush fell over the formerly boisterous crowd as the new Mr and Mrs Weasley took to the dance floor for the bridal waltz. Hermione gazed into her newest husband's eyes, trying not to be disappointed.*

"So, he was on the quidditch team?" Portia asked suddenly a few hours later.

"Yes dear. Virginia told you that," Hermione noted. She tried not to grow snappish, but the constant discussions of Harry were leaving her feeling raw.

"Did you ever ride a broomstick, Grandma?"

Hermione shrugged. "I'm not keen on heights."

*That hadn't mattered one night. Harry had arrived in the middle of the night, hovering beside her window. They weren't supposed to ride during the holidays, but for once in her life Hermione couldn't care less about the rules.

The only thing that mattered was the two of them, zooming along with the warm summer breeze. She sat behind him, side saddle on the broom, her arms wrapped around his waist for balance and her chin resting on his thin shoulder. Their combined weight meant that the broom couldn't rise very high, so her toes were skimming a hairs breadth above the asphalt of the road. But the encumbered broom could still go at an exhilarating speed; zipping so fast that Hermione's breath was sucked away.

They had pulled on the invisibility cloak so that they wouldn't be noticed by motorists, and it was an eerie feeling, being able to see people who couldn't see them. Harry pulled them up alongside a sports car, so close they could hear the sleepy conversation between the two inhabitants. Hermione had made him pull away, embarrassed at invading their privacy.

And finally the sun began to rise. In the chilliest hour of the night, dawn, they changed course and sped towards Privet Drive. Emboldened by her presence, Harry thought they could steal some hot chocolate from the kitchen before he took her home.

They arrived, and found nothing remained but ashes, rubble, and grieving wizards.*

"Grandma? Grandma? Honestly, you're so vague lately," Portia said.

"Sorry. What was your question?"

"How did it all end, Grandma? I have oodles of information about the first seventeen or so years of his life, then I hit a brick wall. Nothing at all is mentioned of his death, or anything he did after graduating from Hogwarts."

*Hermione took a deep breath. Today was the day. She would definitely tell him today. Everyone was so joyful, so happy, so carefree, rushing about in their graduation robes, signing shirts, hugging, crying. It was a good day to tell him.

"Hermione!" Harry bellowed as he saw her. Hermione didn't get a chance to launch into her pre-prepared speech as he swept her into a hug, lifting her up and spinning her around.

"You're happy today," she laughed, throwing her arms around his neck, mindful of his battle wounds. She would tell him in a minute. For now she would just enjoy his mood and savour his embrace.

"Of course. This morning I woke up and came to the most incredible realization. Nobody needs me anymore Hermione. Voldemort is dead, dead and gone and soon will be forgotten. I have absolutely no responsibilities, beyond giving my speech today." Hermione's heart sank. She smiled weakly, trying to share his joy at his newfound freedom. He placed her feet back on the floor and released her.

Tomorrow, she decided. She wouldn't ruin his good mood today. Tomorrow she would tell him that in a few months someone would need him very much indeed. *

"Yes, yes, he was happy on graduation day. Skip ahead to what I need for my essay, Grandma."

The words stung Hermione. Portia didn't realise how important that day was, so she couldn't blame her for being blasé about the turning point of her life, but it still hurt.

*Hermione clutched her certificate, grinning inanely as they stumbled through the school song. Harry's joy was infectious, and she couldn't help but smile. She was a graduate- she had survived the NEWTs, in fact they had almost been fun. At the end of the summer she would be married. She felt all her worries evaporate. They had plenty of money, job prospects, a house to live in.

Harry brushed against her legs as he made his way into the aisle to give a speech. She put a hand on his shirt to stop him, and pulled his head down to kiss him, not caring that everyone in the Hall had stopped to stare at the display.

"Love you, Harry," she whispered. He smiled, but Snape cleared his throat before he could reply. Dumbledore quickly hushed him, but Harry became embarrassed and continued his way to the stage.

Hermione remembered thinking how nervous he must be. His face looked so pale, and he was shaking. She silently wished him luck as he climbed the stairs.

"I'd now like to welcome the Head of Gryffindor, Harry Potter, to-" Dumbledore was cut off by a horrified scream from the front row. He turned from the podium in time to see Harry tumble down the few steps, coming to a rest sprawled on the floor.

Hermione couldn't get to him. A crowd formed around him instantly, and she was left standing in the aisle, screaming. She felt shaking arms close around her, and for a moment she hoped it was Harry, come to tell her it was all ok, he'd just stumbled.

It was Ron, comforting her and pulling her away.*

"He died at the graduation ceremony?" Portia asked.

"Instantly," Hermione confirmed, closing her eyes. If she concentrated she could still feel his arms around her, lifting her off the ground, hear his laughter, smell his deodorant.

"Was it murder? An unforgivable curse?" Portia demanded.

"No," Hermione whispered. What had they said? She tried to remember Pomfrey's words, but she hadn't been able to pay attention on the day. "That was the stupid thing. You-Know-Who spent years trying to kill Harry, eventually got killed by Harry in the attempt. And all he had to do was wait. Harry had a heart problem- there was a history of it on Lily's side of the family. Perhaps the excitement or the final battle with You-Know-Who aggravated it, perhaps no matter what he was doing or what type of life he lived he would have died on that date. We'll never really know." Hermione couldn't stop herself from crying now. She left the table, and didn't see the thoughtful look on Portia's face.

*Hermione drifted through the crowd of people, all of them offering trite words of comfort, as if they only had to find the right combination of words and the pain would go away. They were wizards, weren't they? All they had to do was utter a few words and problems were solved. Ironing could be done, whole meals could be cooked, injuries healed and doors opened. But there were no words that would bring back the dead, and Hermione wished they would stop trying.

Everything she knew held a memory of Harry. She couldn't put on her favourite dress, walk to the post office, read a book or brush her hair without some sweet memory assailing her, leaving her staring into space with a dreamy half smile on her face. It unnerved people, and soon they began to veer around her. She liked it better that way- the crowd at the funeral were annoying her, and she felt more comfortable with three feet of personal space around her.

One person didn't avoid her. He had flown from Bulgaria to farewell a young man he had become firm friends with over the years, and was undeterred by Hermione's active attempts to drive people off. Victor Krumm enveloped her in a bear hug, and allowed her to sob on his chest for nearly three quarters of an hour. Hermione could see Ron out of the corner of her eye, the disapproval obvious on his face. "Poor, poor Hermione," Krumm mumbled in his thick accent, still mispronouncing her name after all these years. "You be sad, ok? You're allowed to be sad." That was what she needed to hear. No mouthed phrases about fate, or destiny, or everything working out in the long run. No promise that time heals all wounds. No judgement, just permission to feel what she was feeling. At the wake Hermione half heard Krumm suggesting she come have a holiday in Bulgaria with his family. She felt herself nodding. She could hear Ron's angry exclamation, his rude refusal as the invitation was extended to him also. She thought she needed to get away, to go to a place where a memory of Harry wasn't hiding behind every rock and tree, but Ron didn't understand.

She married Krumm a month or two later, she wasn't really sure as she was incapable of knowing how much time was passing. She was in a fog for months, and it actually seemed like a good idea. She desperately needed to salvage part of the fantasy life she'd been building- marriage, house, job and baby. She stayed with him for several unhappy months, before giving up and leaving.*

"Are you ready Portia?" Hermione hollered. She was standing in the hallway, loaded down with Portia's school case, ready to return her to Hogwarts.

"One moment, Grandma," Portia appeared, holding a piece of parchment. She held it out to Hermione.

Hermione read the first paragraph, the lump in her throat quickly subsiding. "This is very good, Portia. But I thought you were doing it on Harry Potter?"

Portia accepted her essay back. She shrugged, running her thumb over the title- 'Albus Dumbledore'. "I did. But I couldn't make it work. For you and Aunt Virginia, talking about Harry was such an intensely personal, emotional thing. But when his life was pinned down on a page, just facts and dates, it felt wrong."

Hermione smiled and ruffled Portia's hair. "Ok. I'm sorry you did so much work, only to have to redo it."

Portia just smiled, and picked up her case. "Back to the grind, huh?"

When they were halfway to the front gate, Portia stopped suddenly and looked at Hermione quizzically. "Can I ask you one last question?"

"Of course."

Portia began to fidget with a button on her coat. "I've been looking at the dates you gave me. Harry's death, your wedding to grandfather, my mother's birthday. I can't make them add up properly." She took a deep breath. "Ron Weasley isn't my real grandfather, is he?"

Hermione looked at her eldest granddaughter in amazement. She didn't realise how quickly she was growing up. Standing there, with snowflakes settling on her thick black curls and eyelashes, brushing them out of her large green eyes, she reminded Hermione so much of her grandfather.

The End