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Wisps of Silver and Gray

Part One

Present Day

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Hermione kicked a worn boot into the dirt surrounding the cross. The sole white cross resided alone by an empty train track crossing on a lonely British county side road. This is where her woes seemingly all began for her.

She knelt down, the wind causing her eyes to slightly water. She reached out for the cross with trembling fingers. She sighed to herself as she ran her fingers up and down the worn white wood of the cross. She still was unsure of who put it there, for the period that the cross was a reminder of, was nothing but a painful blur in her memories.

On each of the three points of the cross, resided a letter. The letters were if not crudely, tackily, even roughly chiseled into the whitewashed wood. On the point furthest to the left, was an H. On the one pointing up, resided a J. The, on the one pointing right, there was a P. Hermione turned around as Hannah came bumbling towards her, the front of her jumper was dirty, and her little white shoes were covered in grass stains. The little girl let out a small giggle before grabbing onto her mother's tank top. Hermione smiled, before swooping the child into her arms, placing a kiss on the pale skin of her forehead.

Hermione fought back her tears as she took in the bittersweetness of the moment. For the cross represented more than just an accident site. It symbolized a death, a death that provoked a change, and a change that provoked a lustful relationship. The death led to a relationship that led to a birth, which led to Hannah.

No, this was not just a place of death. It was a place of birth, of new life, of rejuvenation.

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Two Years and Six Months Earlier

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At the end, there came a flash of light. Two bright white lights reflecting off the clear lenses of his black oval shaped glasses. His mouth wide in horror, and all he could think about was her.

He had been driving that night. His was mind reeling, angry with himself for his own stupid mistake. He shouldn't have said anything; he should have just kept his mouth shut. Nevertheless, he hadn't, and now she was upset with him. His hand drifted over to the large bouquet of flowers at his side. He really loved her.

His eyes drifted up to his rearview mirror, but he saw nothing. It was another starless night in the British countryside. He had to get home to her, his foot pressed down slightly on the accelerator, as he approached the railroad crossing.

Oh, the railroad crossing. He had crossed it so many times before in his tiny ancient vehicle. He was in such a hurry; he ignored the cars' cries out for him to slow down, to look down at the ICheck Engine/I light, to apply the brake, to slow to a stop.

He had shouted at her. He had screamed at her to quit her job at the Daily Prophet, he couldn't tell her why, he could only tell her what he wanted. What he wanted, what he wanted? He shook his head, smacking himself forcefully across his forehead for being so selfish. She loved her job, and that's what should have been important. Why had he opened his mouth and said something? Why couldn't he just have shut his mouth? If he really loved her, he would of.

The car slightly rattled as he jerked the wheel to the left, avoiding a large pothole in the slightly dank and dilapidated cobblestone of the road. However, the tires did not respond, Harry panicked, slamming his foot unto the breaks. His mind was spinning now; he had to get back to Hermione. The small blue car began to spin, round and round, neither beginning nor an end in sight. He took a deep breath, gripping his hand around the wheel as the car continued to spin out of control, why couldn't he had just shut his mouth. He loved her, so why didn't he?

The car finally slowed to a spot with a loud creak. With an ear splitting screech, and a loud thud, the engine died. Harry moaned to himself, as he reached for the key, struggling to restart the car again. He was miles away from home, he didn't have his wand, and he did not have the energy or the willpower to walk home. The slight gurgling sound of the start almost seemed to drown out the loud screeching whistle of the oncoming train.

"Come on," Harry muttered to the car, attempting to coax it out of his state of permanent rest. He had to return home to Hermione, to apologize, to hold her, to make things right. He loved her; he had to fix his mistake. "Come on!" Harry snapped again, but the engine continued to gurgle in protest. In the near distance, a loud honking sound filled Harry's ears. His eyes widened as he looked up, the car had died on the train tracks, and just his luck, a train was coming. The crossing lights and bells went off, as the gates attempted to come down, however it was unsuccessful, for one of them came down on the hood of Harry's junker.

"Come on!" Harry cried at the sleeping beast. A strange gurgling sound soon began pouring out of his mouth and the car's engine simultaneously; he was beginning to panic. Harry glanced back up at the train for it was only seconds away. Harry quickly, almost instinctively, reached for his seatbelt, but it was stuck. He was trapped, the seatbelt almost serving as his chains; it attached him to the stalled car on the tracks. He shook his head in frustration as the train drew closer. Why didn't he have his Iwand/I? His heart cried, Iwhy/I! He had to get back to her. He just had to.

A loud scrapping noise, the loud shrill sound of metal being dragged against metal, and a scream broke through the calm night's quiet.

At his end, there came a flash of light. Two bright white lights reflecting off the clear lenses of his black oval shaped glasses. His mouth wide in horror, and all he could think about, was her. Just Iher/I.

Hermione didn't cry, well not in the first few days at least. She almost felt like she couldn't. She was too taken aback by the incident. It was too surreal, almost supernatural. He was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. Who, as only a mere child, survived one of the deadliest curses known to wizarding kind, cast by one of the deadliest sorcerers of all time. Who, as barely an adult, survived almost every confrontation against his foes, to be taken out of the world by a Muggle train, IHarry Potter/I? The whole idea of Harry being dead seemed to throw her world into a strange state of suspended animation. She was living in a world where nothing made sense; her life without Harry made no sense.

However, just because she didn't cry, didn't mean she never was compelled too. The Muggle police officers had come to the door that clear starless night. There were two of them. Hermione could still remember their strange silhouettes on her doorstep as she peaked out the window, curious why a Muggle would be standing on the doorstep of her quaint cottage so late in the night. She could remember their faces clearly. One of them was tall, almost gawky, with a large bulbous shaped head, and a pencil thin moustache. The other was short and stout, with a rather small head, and wearing a rather stoic expression on his face.

"There's been an accident." Their words seemed to reverberate through the cavernous confines of Hermione's mind.  She slowly let the words register, the true horror of the awful words, IHarry's dead/I. She couldn't cry, even if she wanted to, for the tears would not come.

The police officers took her to the station the next day. IProtocol/I, they called it. Hermione called it pure torture. A small freckled face woman, with long blonde hair led her to a small room, the morgue. IProtocol/I, they called it. It was protocol for an accident victim to be identified. Protocol. The room was drastically cooler than the quaint police station was, and the room was flanked with stainless steel cabinets. Hermione closed her eyes, feeling a cold numbness washing over her. Harry was in one of these, lying in the cold, dead.

The women led her past the uniform stainless steel cabinets before finally stopping abruptly in front of a table. Hermione could feel her heart catch in her throat as her eyes skimmed over all of the items. Resting on a table was a bloody blue sweatshirt that Hermione immediately recognized as Harry's. Beside it lay a somewhat small bundle of torn and bloody clothes. She recognized his jeans, a gold and red knit scarf she had made for him just two years prior, a soiled white undershirt, a pair of battered trainers, and his round black framed glasses. Hermione could feel her heart slightly skip a beat in horror, as a dull anger began to wash over her soul.

Protocol. Little bits of Harry neatly arranged on the sterilized table; it all seemed too fake, too surreal. She just wanted Harry to pop out of the corner, smiling, laughing, wrapping her up in his arms again, and apologizing for ever contemplating leaving her.

"Dear, are you sure you could do this?" the freckled woman asked softly. Hermione nodded fervently. It was what she had to do, for who else was to do it? How could anyone call such an agonizing practice protocol? Hermione swallowed the rising lump her throat, preparing herself; her eyes were still dry.

The woman quickly inserted a key into the lock of the stainless steel door, before slowing pulling it out. It only took one look for Hermione to quickly look away, she could barely recognize the body as belong to Harry's. Hermione lowered her head, and reached out for the sterilized steel table with all of Harry's things resting upon it, for she was too weak to stand. A strange mixture of shock and sadness washed over her, leaving her too stunned to even move.

"Miss?" the morgue attendant asked softly. "Is this your boyfriend?" Hermione could not reply.

"Ma'am," the morgue attendants tone growing quiet brisk, as if the corpse would jump out and bite her, "is this Harry Potter?"

Hermione slowly lifted her eyes. She had to follow Iprotocol/I, pass this sickening test, and prove to this woman, she could handle it. She had too, she was Hermione Granger, and she was far from weak.

Hermione's troubled brown eyes slightly widened when she laid eyes on him. IHim/I, she was barely even sure it was him. His body had a slightly blue tinge to it mixed in with a collage of deep blues and violets. His cheeks were sunken in and sallow, his hair was greasy and matted to his forehead. Hermione almost felt as if all the wind had been knocked out of her, as her eyes rested on the deciding factor. She easily could have denied to herself and to the attendant that the corpse belonged to Harry, but when she saw it. Beneath the deep blues, sickening violets, and dried and matted blood; there it resided. The bold lightening shaped scar. This was Harry Potter, he was no longer, and he was dead. Hermione's mouth opened wide in preparation to scream, but nothing come out. There was only an eerie deadsilence. The surreal began to sink in.

Harry Potter wasI dead/I.

 Hermione Granger didn't cry, not the first few days at least. It was all too surreal, all too imaginary; it couldn't be true; she'd tell herself. IIt just couldn't be/I, but could it?

Harry Potter's funeral was a sea of sadness, hugs, and pain. Hermione couldn't remember the exact details, for she was just going through the motions. She never fully allowed herself to record anything mentally, she just wanted for it to end. She wanted people to turn their sympathetic eyes away from her. Why couldn't they just have left her alone for she could have sorted through her thoughts?

Even though Hermione could not remember exact details about the funeral, she remembered a few distinct things. She remembered clearly of Ron's wrapped around hers for the entire memorial service. His touch was soft and rough all at the same time. Hermione could feel her mind put up several red flags, but she was too exhausted to push him away. Pushing Ron away was what she did best while Harry was alive, but Harry was dead.

Another thing Hermione could remember from the funeral was the strange air of indifference among the mourners. Hundreds of people came, most of them out of curiosity; only a few of them were genuinely mourning. Hermione figured that they too were wondering how someone so mystical, could die in such a mundane way.

The last thing Hermione could remember was when she her indifferent exterior melted away, and she cried.

The funeral procession had moved to a secluded cemetery not far from Harry's accident site. Looming gray clouds hung low in the sky, and the cold January air sent a chill down Hermione's spine.

A somber Albus Dumbledore spoke a few last words before a small group of wizards began to gravely lower Harry's dark oak coffin into the ground. Hermione stared ahead as a numbing sensation befell her. The lower the coffin got in the grave, the clearer it became to Hermione that her life would never be the same again. She clearly remembered feeling Ron's freckled hand tighten around her's. Hermione continued to stare ahead as the sound of dirt hitting the casket reverberated through the silent crowd.

One by one, the crowd slowly began to dissipate; however, Hermione and Ron remained. The pair stood in silence for what seemed like an eternity before one of them finally spoke.

"He's really gone." Ron's words seemed to reverberate through Hermione's mind a few times before actually settling. She felt a slight twinge of guilt as she realized this was the most time she had spent with Ron in nearly weeks.

"I always thought he'd be around for me," Ron's voice trailed off, "for us I mean." Hermione continued to blankly stare off into the distance; she didn't know what to say to Ron.  His words were acting almost as daggers. Each one uttered felt like a vicious stab to the heart. Why was she so guilty? Was it her fault that Harry had told her on numerous occasions not to tell Ron about their relationship?

"I've realized something today, Hermione," Ron muttered. He turned to her as the wind started to pick up.  Hermione looked down towards their feet, not daring to look up into Ron's eyes.

"You don't have to say anything Ron," Hermione whispered, wanting nothing more than for him to walk away. She was fine until she saw Ron. Before Hermione saw him, with his sad brown eyes, and somber face. Before she saw him slightly hunched over, his cheeks redder than usual, his eyes puffy and pink, she almost could have convinced herself that she would keep her tears at bay.

"Yes, I do have to say something. Harry's dead," Ron snapped. Hermione looked up at him briefly; his eyes were ablaze, his freckles were almost invisible beneath the flush of his cheeks. Hermione quickly looked away regretfully.

"Hermione, when I first got your owl, I couldn't believe what happened. Then," Ron paused, his tone slightly softening, "after it started to sink in. The only thing I could feel besides this emptiness is regret. I…" Ron's voice slightly disappeared. Hermione bit her lip hesitantly as the lump in her throat continued to rise.

"I Ihate/I myself for taking advantage of Harry and you. I was so caught up with that blasted job at the Ministry, I almost forgot who I was and what was important to me. I know the both of you may have felt abandoned, and for that I apologize. I really do." Ron's words seem to sludge around in her mind slightly before they finally registered. Why did she feel like the bad one? Then again, she was the bad one in their relationship. She had allowed herself to carry on a relationship with Harry for months behind Ron's back. Something inside of her had told her to never tell Ron the truth, that Ron and his jealousy would overshadow all his logic. She had used all the force within her body to not tell Ron that Harry and her shared more than just a friendly relationship. Hermione almost felt like kicking herself; Harry's funeral was no time for guilt trips.

"Ron," Hermione stammered, she could feel blood slightly rushing to her face, "you know I love you," she whispered, her eyes briefly making contact with his. He gave her hand a small squeeze before wiping at his face guiltily, he was crying.

"I love you too," he replied somberly. "I love you too," he repeated more to himself than to her.

"You should Inever/I regret anything. Harry lived his life to the fullest, and we," Hermione could feel her voice slightly crack, she bit her lip again trying to keep her tears at bay. "We spent as much time with Harry as we could."

Ron squeezed her hand tightly, and pulled her into a compassionate embrace. Hermione could feel her muscles grow taunt by his mere loving touch. She closed her eyes as she hesitantly wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her head into his chest. She closed her eyes, inhaling Ron's almost soothing scent.

"Ron," Hermione murmured, her voice somewhat muffled by Ron's black corduroy jacket. Ron's grip around her tightened, but he did not answer.

Hermione could feel her teeth slightly clatter from the January cold. She had to tell Ron for she couldn't bear the guilt anymore. He was the only thing she had left in the world with Harry gone. The chestnut haired woman took a slow deep breath before speaking, "I Iloved/I Harry."

Hermione waited anxiously for Ron to reply. She could feel Ron's grip slightly slacken as the tension between them solidified. Hermione could hear him clear his throat and him sniffle.

"I know you did," Ron replied solemnly. Hermione closed her eyes as the tears silently began to come, slow at first, long fat drops sliding down her face like melting butter.

"I-I," Hermione stammered, "II really/I loved him."

"I know you did," Ron repeated again. 

"You don't understand Ron, I need Harry, I don't know what I'm going to do. What am I going to do?" Hermione's seemed to be speaking from a place deep within her. Her true feeling of grief slowly began to bubble to the surface with each fat tear she cried. Ron wordlessly lifted his hand to her face and placed it softly upon her wet cheeks. He looked down at her; he was wearing a strange solemn expression as a solitary tear streamed down his face. Hermione silently raised her hand to Ron's as she wept.

The pair remained this way for nearly twenty minutes. Hermione wept for what was now gone for her life. She wept in sadness, and she wept in gratefulness. Even though Harry was gone from her life, it took his death to realize what she had left, her friend.