Authur's Note. This will be a short fic. Somehow, I think it has to be short. There will be a few more chapters after this, all about this length. Most of the major conflict will happen in the next chapter and the one after that, and might even be a bit too conflicty, I'm not sure. My style is usually simpler and cheerier, with loads and loads of detail and description. I just hope that you will not be sorry that you read this.
Victor had seen the kiss.
Hermione wasn't sure how. She guessed that he'd been flying. He liked to fly over the grounds and would spend long hours high above the Forbidden Forest, or low over the lake with his feet trailing in the dark water. He had taken her up with him once, sitting in front of him on the broom. They had wound through and around the turrets and towers of the castle, and she could clearly see people running to and from classes.
Or, possibly, kissing on the roof.
In a way, she was glad he had seen. It saved her the awkwardness of having to tell him her decision. There was a brief scene between them, in which Hermione told him that she did love him... just not as much. He asked Dumbledore whether he would be useful somewhere far away.
And then Victor climbed on the broomstick and flew out of her life.
It was hard to leave the memories. They were sticky, and clung to her, wanting her to stay locked forever in them. Especially that one, particular memory. With effort Hermione was able to escape the pull of the past into the present, or as much so as she ever did.
She turned to the stack of Transfiguration essays she should be grading and reached for her quill. As she did so, the candlelight gleamed on the ring. Her eyes were drawn to it and held there, transfixed. It seemed to her that even as she watched the gleam changed from that of flame on silver to moonlight glittering on snow. Her mind filled with snow that drifted down past the window in slow swirls and eddies to lie peacefully on the grounds below.
The castle was very full, that winter when she was seventeen. Half the wizarding world had fled behind its stone walls, taking their families with them. They slept on cots in classrooms and corridors, and spent their days huddling together, whispering, praying, and staring out of windows at the falling snow.
Among these refugees were his entire family. They, however, did not whisper and cower. They laughed and talked and lit up the castle with their wide smiles and blazing hair. Even though they had been driven there by a dark and choking shadow, the Weasleys managed to celebrate. That was why she loved that family.
They were all in the Gryffindor common room one night, they and Hermione and Harry, sitting around the fireplace and being cheerful. About halfway throught he night Ron was able to pull her away from the group into a dark corner by themselves.
"Have you noticed the way your mother has been looking at you ever since she got here?" he asked her once they were alone.
She smiled. "Half the time her eyes are all big and melty, as if I'm some sort of kitten or puppy or something, and half the time she glares at me."
"Mothers are very perceptive like that. They can tell when their sons are in love."
"Well its not as if we've been very secretive about it."
Ron took her hands in his. "I konw, but Harry and my sister, and everyone else, just think its a stupid little thing that we'll forget soon. They don't realize..."
Hermione stopped the rest of the sentence with a kiss.
"Yeah," he said, "that. In fact, that's what I wanted to talk to you about."
She looked up at him, "What is it, my love."
"Well, uh, Hermione. Hermione... I... I..."
"Come on," she coaxed, "out with it."
Ron took a deep breath and continued resolutely on. "Hermione. Bushy-haired Hermione. Bookworm Hermione."
"This had better be going somewhere."
"Oh it is. Hermione, love of my life, will you marry me?"
It took her only a second to realize what he had said before she leapt at him. "Yes, yes, of course!" She hugged him with all the strength in her arms. He spun her around, laughing. When they finally stopped he reached into his robes and brought out a small brown box.
Inside, of course, was a ring. It was a very simple, broad silver band. It had no stone, only a rune engraved on its smooth service.
"Irl," she said, taking it out of the box, "Forever."
Ron picked the ring up from her palm and slipped it onto her finger. "It's a hand-me-down, like everything else I own. It used to belong to my grandmother. I asked Dad if I could have it right before they all came here."
Hermione glanced over at the swarm of red heads, and saw the one that belonged to Ron's father looking over at their corner. Hastily he turned his attention away from them.
"Why didn't he give it Percy or Bill, since they got married first?"
"They didn't ask for it. Neither of them are very romantic, you know. Of course Percy had to buy Penelope a big, expensive diamond ring, to show her how sucessful he was..."
"It's perfect, Ron. It's beautiful, and I love it. And I love you. Always I love you." They kissed, not a melting, fly away kiss like the one on the roof earlier that year, but the simple sweet kind shared between people who know they are going to be spending the rest of their lives together.
"We'll have to wait," he said as they pulled away, "since we're still in school."
"It will happen the day after we graduate," Hermione assured him.
The two betrothed looked toward the loud group by the fire. It had grown to include, not only the Weasleys and Harry, but Seamus Finnigan, who was holding hands with Lavender, Dean Thomas with his Muggle parents, and several younger children. All of them, with the exception of Ron's parents, were completely unaware of the events in the corner.
"Shall we go tell them?" she asked.
He put his hand firmly in hers. "Yes, lets."
And they strode forth together, to spread the glad tidings.
The beginning of that winter had been truly wonderful. Despite the growing terror in the far away world outside of Hogwarts, they had lived in a blissful flury of love and happiness. But the end of that winter had seen an event that made even the joyous beginnings seem bittersweet, and had left everyone in the castle, even the Weasleys, in tears.
That winter, Albus Dumbledore had died.
Hermione had been with him when it happened. His half-moon spectacles were on the table beside his bed, and his silver hair and beard were spread out in a miraculously untanlged puddle over the bed. It gleamed, like moonlight on snow, or candlelight on silver.
There were many other people standing around his bed, including Harry, and Proffesors McGonigall and Snape, but it was Hermione who's hand he grasped in his. That hand was so thin and fragile. The browned skin felt like crumpled parchment, and his fingers were to weak to close completely around her own.
"Always remember," he said, his voice, once so bright and youthful, now so faint, made her tears run twice as fast, "that it was not he who calls himself the Dark Lord who killed me. It was simply a long life, in which I did many things that some might call important, or dangerous, or what have you. All those years with magic running through the blood are bound to wear someone down."
He moved his eyes around the circle of greif torn faces. "Life was able to do what Tom never could. Life will always be stronger than darkness. Those like Tom and his followers won't admit it, of course, but it is true. Life will endure anything, even death. Remember that Minerva, and Severus, and Harry."
He stopped talking as a powerful shudder ran through him, shaking his entire, long frame. It seemed to last forever. Finally he stilled and his twinkling blue eyes opened again. Slowly his head turned so that those eyes were staring straight into Hermione's. "You too, Miss Granger. You didn't think I'd forget you?"
She clasped his hand even tighter in hers and leaned closer to the aged wizard's face.
"Live, Hermione, my prized student. Live, Hermione. Always, remember to live."
With that the light that seemed to twinkle eternally behind the blue eyes of the headmaster dimmed. Albus Dumbledore, was no longer there. She let go of his hand and it fell, limply over the side of the bed. Her teacher, her mentor, Dumbledore, was dead.
Somehow though, even as she fell sobbing back into her chair, she knew that the twinkling, powerful spirit that was Dumbledore, could not be so weak as to end forever in front of her. The life of Albus Dumbledore, at least, would endure even death.
Victor had seen the kiss.
Hermione wasn't sure how. She guessed that he'd been flying. He liked to fly over the grounds and would spend long hours high above the Forbidden Forest, or low over the lake with his feet trailing in the dark water. He had taken her up with him once, sitting in front of him on the broom. They had wound through and around the turrets and towers of the castle, and she could clearly see people running to and from classes.
Or, possibly, kissing on the roof.
In a way, she was glad he had seen. It saved her the awkwardness of having to tell him her decision. There was a brief scene between them, in which Hermione told him that she did love him... just not as much. He asked Dumbledore whether he would be useful somewhere far away.
And then Victor climbed on the broomstick and flew out of her life.
It was hard to leave the memories. They were sticky, and clung to her, wanting her to stay locked forever in them. Especially that one, particular memory. With effort Hermione was able to escape the pull of the past into the present, or as much so as she ever did.
She turned to the stack of Transfiguration essays she should be grading and reached for her quill. As she did so, the candlelight gleamed on the ring. Her eyes were drawn to it and held there, transfixed. It seemed to her that even as she watched the gleam changed from that of flame on silver to moonlight glittering on snow. Her mind filled with snow that drifted down past the window in slow swirls and eddies to lie peacefully on the grounds below.
The castle was very full, that winter when she was seventeen. Half the wizarding world had fled behind its stone walls, taking their families with them. They slept on cots in classrooms and corridors, and spent their days huddling together, whispering, praying, and staring out of windows at the falling snow.
Among these refugees were his entire family. They, however, did not whisper and cower. They laughed and talked and lit up the castle with their wide smiles and blazing hair. Even though they had been driven there by a dark and choking shadow, the Weasleys managed to celebrate. That was why she loved that family.
They were all in the Gryffindor common room one night, they and Hermione and Harry, sitting around the fireplace and being cheerful. About halfway throught he night Ron was able to pull her away from the group into a dark corner by themselves.
"Have you noticed the way your mother has been looking at you ever since she got here?" he asked her once they were alone.
She smiled. "Half the time her eyes are all big and melty, as if I'm some sort of kitten or puppy or something, and half the time she glares at me."
"Mothers are very perceptive like that. They can tell when their sons are in love."
"Well its not as if we've been very secretive about it."
Ron took her hands in his. "I konw, but Harry and my sister, and everyone else, just think its a stupid little thing that we'll forget soon. They don't realize..."
Hermione stopped the rest of the sentence with a kiss.
"Yeah," he said, "that. In fact, that's what I wanted to talk to you about."
She looked up at him, "What is it, my love."
"Well, uh, Hermione. Hermione... I... I..."
"Come on," she coaxed, "out with it."
Ron took a deep breath and continued resolutely on. "Hermione. Bushy-haired Hermione. Bookworm Hermione."
"This had better be going somewhere."
"Oh it is. Hermione, love of my life, will you marry me?"
It took her only a second to realize what he had said before she leapt at him. "Yes, yes, of course!" She hugged him with all the strength in her arms. He spun her around, laughing. When they finally stopped he reached into his robes and brought out a small brown box.
Inside, of course, was a ring. It was a very simple, broad silver band. It had no stone, only a rune engraved on its smooth service.
"Irl," she said, taking it out of the box, "Forever."
Ron picked the ring up from her palm and slipped it onto her finger. "It's a hand-me-down, like everything else I own. It used to belong to my grandmother. I asked Dad if I could have it right before they all came here."
Hermione glanced over at the swarm of red heads, and saw the one that belonged to Ron's father looking over at their corner. Hastily he turned his attention away from them.
"Why didn't he give it Percy or Bill, since they got married first?"
"They didn't ask for it. Neither of them are very romantic, you know. Of course Percy had to buy Penelope a big, expensive diamond ring, to show her how sucessful he was..."
"It's perfect, Ron. It's beautiful, and I love it. And I love you. Always I love you." They kissed, not a melting, fly away kiss like the one on the roof earlier that year, but the simple sweet kind shared between people who know they are going to be spending the rest of their lives together.
"We'll have to wait," he said as they pulled away, "since we're still in school."
"It will happen the day after we graduate," Hermione assured him.
The two betrothed looked toward the loud group by the fire. It had grown to include, not only the Weasleys and Harry, but Seamus Finnigan, who was holding hands with Lavender, Dean Thomas with his Muggle parents, and several younger children. All of them, with the exception of Ron's parents, were completely unaware of the events in the corner.
"Shall we go tell them?" she asked.
He put his hand firmly in hers. "Yes, lets."
And they strode forth together, to spread the glad tidings.
The beginning of that winter had been truly wonderful. Despite the growing terror in the far away world outside of Hogwarts, they had lived in a blissful flury of love and happiness. But the end of that winter had seen an event that made even the joyous beginnings seem bittersweet, and had left everyone in the castle, even the Weasleys, in tears.
That winter, Albus Dumbledore had died.
Hermione had been with him when it happened. His half-moon spectacles were on the table beside his bed, and his silver hair and beard were spread out in a miraculously untanlged puddle over the bed. It gleamed, like moonlight on snow, or candlelight on silver.
There were many other people standing around his bed, including Harry, and Proffesors McGonigall and Snape, but it was Hermione who's hand he grasped in his. That hand was so thin and fragile. The browned skin felt like crumpled parchment, and his fingers were to weak to close completely around her own.
"Always remember," he said, his voice, once so bright and youthful, now so faint, made her tears run twice as fast, "that it was not he who calls himself the Dark Lord who killed me. It was simply a long life, in which I did many things that some might call important, or dangerous, or what have you. All those years with magic running through the blood are bound to wear someone down."
He moved his eyes around the circle of greif torn faces. "Life was able to do what Tom never could. Life will always be stronger than darkness. Those like Tom and his followers won't admit it, of course, but it is true. Life will endure anything, even death. Remember that Minerva, and Severus, and Harry."
He stopped talking as a powerful shudder ran through him, shaking his entire, long frame. It seemed to last forever. Finally he stilled and his twinkling blue eyes opened again. Slowly his head turned so that those eyes were staring straight into Hermione's. "You too, Miss Granger. You didn't think I'd forget you?"
She clasped his hand even tighter in hers and leaned closer to the aged wizard's face.
"Live, Hermione, my prized student. Live, Hermione. Always, remember to live."
With that the light that seemed to twinkle eternally behind the blue eyes of the headmaster dimmed. Albus Dumbledore, was no longer there. She let go of his hand and it fell, limply over the side of the bed. Her teacher, her mentor, Dumbledore, was dead.
Somehow though, even as she fell sobbing back into her chair, she knew that the twinkling, powerful spirit that was Dumbledore, could not be so weak as to end forever in front of her. The life of Albus Dumbledore, at least, would endure even death.