A/N: Okay, so I'm going to make it that I don't have to write, 'she thought', every time Hermione thinks something. It's just going to be in italics, as well as her dreams, memories, etc.
She woke up in a white room. The smell, it was so familiar, that clean smell.
She was in the hospital wing.
Hermione had always liked hospitals. She knew she shouldn't have, for she was often told it was a place of misery; of death, of sorrow. The only exception was babies.
She loved the smell of hospitals, the clean, sterile smell of hospitals. She loved the plainness, the nothingness. She had not always been this way. It was only since—only since He died.
She only then vaguely wondered why she was there. It then came rushing back to her, what had happened yesterday.
Why had everyone said that? Why did they think that he was undeserving of her?
She thought it had been vice-versa. She thought that the reason it had took so long was because of her. He was the Golden Boy, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Hero.
He was her saviour.
How was he underserving? He was everything—he was perfect. Yes, he had imperfections, but they made him even more perfect.
How does that make sense?
She loved him, she ached for him, she needed him. How could He be gone, how could he be—
Dead.
~
She was in a white room. It was plain, even plainer than a hospital. It had that crisp clean smell.
She loved it.
"You've come, Hermione, you've finally woken up from that nightmare," she heard a voice say.
She slowly turned around, gracefully. She saw Him, her saviour.
"Harry," she whispered.
"Hermione," he said, smiling. "Hermione!"
~
She woke up from her dream, her wonderful dream. Oh, how she longed for life to be a dream, where the possibilities were endless, where she could be—and always would be—with her love.
Is death a dream?
Oh, if death was dream, if death was her escape, she would take it. She would kill herself—no—she would save herself. She would save herself from this treacherous place, this horrible, dreadful, bloody nightmare. If only, if only…
If only I had not made that promise.
Oh, promises, promises. How she wished she had not made that promise, that commitment.
~
A small girl walked into a beautiful rose room, only to find a lovely, yet aged woman crying in it. She timidly walked over to the woman, looking down.
"Grand, what's wrong," she said, sadly and innocently.
Her grandma let out a sad smile. "Nothing, darling, nothing."
The girl curiously looked at her grandma. "Then why is your face all wet?"
"I'm sorry, honey, I just miss your grandpa."
The little girl curled up into her grandma's arms. "Tell me about him again, Grand."
"Alright, darling, but first, promise me something."
The little girl looked up at her grandma. "Okay."
"Promise you won't ever take your life. Promise that whatever you do, no matter how depressed—that means sad, honey—promise that you'll never go as far as to kill yourself."
"I promise, Grand. Now tell me about grandpa!"
"Alright, darling. Well, he was handsome, with a chiseled jaw, and blond hair, so blond, it was almost silver. His eyes were green—such a brilliant, emerald green—just like your mother. When your mother was little, she had that blond hair too. But she didn't like it… so she dyed it. Anyway, he was very handsome, and I loved him dearly. He died young, oh, so young, before he knew about your mother. I don't even know how he died… his heart just seemed to stop," her grandma stifled tears. "Whenever he said my name I fell in love with him all over again. Oh, he was beautiful…"
~
A/N: Wow, longer than usual. Anyway, just press that little go button, and fill out the form! Thanks to all of my reviewers:
katie janeway: Wow, you're like, my loyal reviewer! Many thanks!
sally (peaceful_blossom123@yahoo.co.uk): Wow, thanks!