A/N: Here is Chapter 3 of this sad, sad tale. (I swear it'll get better, people!)

CONTAINS HBP SPOILERS

Disclaimer: See preceding disclaimers.

-

'I have to go, Hermione. He needs me,' he said pleadingly.

It wasn't that she didn't want him to help his friend; she just didn't want him to leave her.

'Please don't go,' she whispered.

'I must.'

Hermione squeezed her eyes against the already cascading fluid that so effortlessly seemed to carry her throbbing heart far away from itself. But she couldn't stop remembering. She couldn't stop the memory so close and so clear in her mind. She couldn't stop it. She let it take over. She let it wash over her like a dream which it in itself had become over the past year—a year that stretched so long in her mind, it felt endless and without beginning; everlasting.

Everlasting pain.

'Let me go with you,' she said through her tear-blurred vision.

'No,' he said, turning around completely and looking at her. 'You won't go. Men will fight first. You are not a man.'

'I'll disguise myself! Honestly, Ron! You can't really tell me you agree with all of that 'save the women and children first' crap!' Hermione was suddenly furious. Her stubborn opinions on human equality had ever-so-inappropriately enveloped her original reason for wanting to fight with Ron.

'It's honourable,' Ron had said faintly, not looking at her. It was evident Hermione was not paying close attention to his unusual behaviour. If she had, she would have noted his dishonesty.

'You think it is right to leave your family for what's "honourable" Ron? Really, there's a difference between being noble and being sexist, Ron, and you've decided to follow the latter!' Hermione was highly disappointed that the only reason she wasn't able to go was because her best friend—the man she really loved—had decided to follow his macho instinct before indefinite fate. 'Honestly, men. Killing themselves off slowly over time 'cos they can't get over their pride! Do you know that females place fifty-two percent of the entire global population? Hell, it's no wonder it's so bloody difficult finding a suitable husband!'

'You're not fighting, Hermione,' he said sternly.

'Why not? Because society thinks I shouldn't? Bollocks!'

Ron slammed his fist on the table in frustration and anger. 'Damn it, Hermione! I won't let you go because I won't let you die out there! Alright? I'm going to fight alongside Harry—we'll be back and you'll be here. Safe.'

'How do you know, Ron?' Hermione asked, shaking with what seemed to be much too overwhelming of an emotion to name. 'How do you know I'm not going to be taken away—or—or killed right here in this house, huh? How do you know you're not going to be murdered on the frontlines? How do you know, Ron? How?'

Ron's bright blue eyes flashed with emotion momentarily as he locked his gaze on Hermione. 'Because I won't let it happen—'

And yet Hermione felt like screaming in rage for her loss. He had let it happen—he had let himself get taken away. He forgot about Hermione and fell in love with someone else. He let Hermione fall. He let himself not catch her. He let her become so lost and he let her forget herself. He let her love him. He let this heartbreak happen to her when he'd gone.

He'd done it.

But she had continued it, feeding upon her misery as though it would somehow soothe whatever pain lurked beneath what used to be her placid exterior. Facing the mirror in her flat for what was the first time in a few weeks, she studied herself thoroughly, faintly pondering how she let herself become what she was now.

What she was now was an old light bulb obscured by a very thick lampshade which seemed to have the very essence of her embedded within it, but still she was not seen. She had steadily grown dimmer and dimmer until the initial employment of the lampshade was overlooked; it gradually encased Hermione within its shredded fibers that were inevitably woven into each other—tightly, so that light was inescapable. Tightly, so Hermione could not escape herself.

Her cheeks were splotched not with dirt, but with streaks of tears that had left their penetrating markings through the grime which so victoriously remained a hold of her face. Her eyes appeared like the many cups of coffee left unfinished by a woman who refused to live past the night that changed her life forever. The torment, pain, and suffering were evident in those same brown pools; sad and tired and usually drifting into a heavy, restless sleep filled with nightmares. Nightmares about Ron dying; nightmares about never being loved again; a nightmare she was living; a nightmare from which awakening could result in yet another lapse of a world without a world and a life without living . . . a life in which she had so carefully invested an entire year.

'I hate this,' she whispered, shaking violently as she stared at her reflection. 'I hate this!'

'Have you ever considered cosmetic surgery, dear?' said her mirror sleepily.

'Ugh!' Hermione whipped out her wand and for so many inexplicable reasons she hastily muttered a spell which caused a large crack in the upper left corner of her mirror. A rather high-pitched sound followed the first crack of the mirror and the small crevice Hermione had magicked just so the mirror would shut up had suddenly taken over the reflection of the shocked expression on her face. It spiraled, forked and entwined her delicate countenance within its nasty and sickeningly melancholic fragmented surface. Her distorted reflection peered back at her through the broken-looking glass.

Vile as it was to be cursed with seven years of bad luck, Hermione smiled. She had cracked the surface. She had broken through her exterior. She had freed herself from that horrible reflection: sad eyes, tired face, weak fingers, chapped lips, tangled hair, and a broken soul. She quickly slipped out of her clothes casting wicked glances at the mirror. Nothing's worse than last year. If anything, I'll be cursed and become Ron's maid of honour at his wedding. Nothing could be worse than learning he's gotten himself a soul mate and has somehow entangled my soul and my heart in his stupid idiotic self. Funny thing is he doesn't know and doesn't seem keen on letting them come back any time soon.

'Why'd you have to go and fall in love with him, Hermione?' she asked herself as she finally managed to untangle the scarlet ribbon from her hair. She glared at the ribbon. 'Idiot,' she muttered to herself. 'You even had to keep this stupid thing, too.' Hermione took one last look at the ribbon and she reached for her wand atop the sink. It toppled over and fell into her rubbish bin. Her eyes widened. She had charmed that bin to immediately consume whatever she threw into it, and just as she had feared, it had completely disappeared into its seemingly shallow bottom.

'Bloody hell!' she shrieked. Even though she'd only had that wand since a rather callous Death Eater had stolen her first one, she had grown quite attached to it. At least Ollivander decided to open up a shop in Hogsmeade, she thought. Maybe he'll be able to recommend me another replacement.

-

'Not as good as the first one, but it'll do,' the old wizard said, handing Hermione a long, thin box.

She only nodded at him. She hadn't been able to speak since her last encounter with a group of unnaturally cruel Death Eaters. Ron pulled her into a one-armed hug, giving her a very sympathetic look. 'Thank you, sir,' he said to Ollivander. Ron placed the due amount for the wand on the counter and they exited the shop.

'You okay?' Ron whispered to her, as though speaking in a normal tone would frighten her.

She looked up at him. Her eyes were large and sparkling with tears. Ron looked at her sadly. 'It's alright, Hermione,' he said and kissed the top of her head. 'I'm here. I'll always be here.'

-

'Liar,' she muttered angrily. She was still peering into her rubbish bin. It gave a large belch and a malodourous wave swept over her. Hermione screwed up her eyes and scrunched her nose in disgust. 'Men are like rubbish bins,' she decided. 'Full of crap, even when you give them your most treasured possession,' she said. Whether by 'treasured possession' she meant her wand or her heart, Hermione could not decide. It seemed all meaning had just been lost along with . . . everything.

She laughed a crude laugh looked at the mirror—or rather, the pieces of mirror that had successfully remained in place post-destruction. Her distorted reflection scowled back at her. 'What are you looking at?' she asked it bitterly. Then she thought. What am I looking at? . . . That's not me.

Hermione looked at the floor. It was thick with accumulated dirt, grime and the occasional mould. She couldn't remember the last time she had cleaned it. It only took a few spells, but even wandwork was too overwhelming to accomplish. Had she had her wand, she definitely would have swished and flicked until the watercloset was spotless. Necessary housework, however simple, was too difficult to manage for Hermione. She would only really bother with it in instances such as now, whence she found herself harbouring potentially dangerous weapons: shards of sharp glass.

Carefully, she stepped over the ruins of her cheap, built-in mirror and into the bathtub that would put a compost pile to shame. She pulled the hangings around the tub and turned the knob to the right, as to provide herself some warm water. Instead, a large stream of freezing water encompassed her trembling body. Hermione sprouted Goosebumps immediately. She hadn't been able to pay for her heat that month—the Leaky Cauldron had her fired for her antisocial approach as parlour hostess. She did a very terrible job as hostess, Hermione admitted to herself bitterly. She never spoke to anyone; and refused to serve any customer coffee. She would simply leave a mug and a coffee pot at the table and leave without yet another word.

And someone had the nerve to complain.

I've no hot water because I wasted my time on a man who never loved me back. Figures that would happen to me. Only I'd be dim enough to become this stuck in the past.

It seemed somewhat amusing to Hermione that she had used a Time Turner in her third year, smashed all such mechanisms existing in her fifth, and yet managed to live with what seemed the same little hourglass, embedded within her unbeating heart, set forever on a half-turn.

The cold water beat on Hermione's shoulders like sharp, cutting blows. The steady flow of cold numbed her to the core and soon it seemed she was immune to low-temperature water. It was a perfect allegory, she realized, as she scrubbed her skin with an odourless bar of soap, to what had happened to her the past year. She had been so engrossed in loss she had felt only loss and soon couldn't feel it at all, but knew all along something precariously essential was missing.

Hermione absorbed this thought like her hair absorbed the moisture from the lathering substance now sloppily dripping on her head. She had been living a dry life since the moment Ron had left her; she never had time to soak in what had happened . . . it was time she let it all sink in, forget the fear—the brutal fact that even though he had returned, she had still lost him—forget what could have happened because it didn't. And it wouldn't.

She let herself let it go. Let it all go—all the denial, all the restlessness, all the fear.

She was a coward, she found.

Afraid to forget.

So instead, she decided she would reminisce when it was called upon to do such a task. Though presently, she had to move on. She had to be strong for that night, for Ron and his bride-to-be, for her friends, and family, and mostly, for herself.

She would not stop loving him, however.

Not yet, anyway. As the soap and lather washed off, she resolved to do the same with her emotions. In a wave of unfaltering determination, she screamed. The rushing cold water drowned out her sounds, just as she'd hoped it would. Hermione emptied her lungs with one shrill note. Somewhere, she heard a muffled explosion—a bit like glass shattering—and she screamed even louder. She yelled and yelled until her back ached from the exhaustion of her lungs and diaphragm. Panting, she slipped unto the floor of her bathtub and lay there, gasping for air through the pounding water.

She hastily reached for the knob and turned it off. As she pulled back the hangings, pulled a towel off a near rack and wrapped it around herself, she noticed that she was staring at a wall where a mirror stood no longer. Where it once held her revolted expression, a gold lining now framed a patch of paint much lighter than the rest of the wall. Apparently her screaming voice had eradicated the remains of the weakened mirror.

She smiled to herself. She would have to buy a new one . . . and clean up the old one.

--

--

As she had deprived herself of a mirror, Hermione had no idea how she looked. On any other occasion (any other day, actually), she really wouldn't have cared. But now—now that she had seen clear through the gray that surrounded her life—she realized she was very self-conscious. She sported a very classic, trendy sort of look—acceptable for any event—and had pulled her hair up into what she hoped was an elegant bun. Most especially, she wore the necklace Harry and Ron bought her for her seventeenth birthday. It was a silver locket sporting three very distinguished jewels. The smallest, Ron had told her, represented the past, the middle-sized one symbolized the present, and the largest, Harry explained to her with a broad grin, was the epitome of her future: bright, beautiful, and big.

'Take that to heart, Hermione,' Ron said, and he opened the locket. Inside was a very tiny, wizarding photograph of the three of them, and engraved on the other side was a caption that ran:

Free of Mind,

Free of Spirit,

Free of Heart.

Love,

Ron and Harry

For one reason or another, Ron had specifically asked for a wildflower to be carved on the back of the locket, 'Where only the curious will find it.'

'Curious' was just how Hermione had been until she remembered.

-

The summer after Sixth Year was really rough. The last golden day of peace had finally come for Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Bill and Fleur's wedding was simple and set in the Weasley's large, lush garden, tended by Mrs. Weasley herself. Fred, George, Ron, and Harry had been especially proud of the lack of gnomes; it had taken them a good portion of the morning to get all of their potato-headed friends into the neighbour's yard. The little gruff gnomes had put up a good fight, not waiting twice to bite Harry's hands into raw sausages.

A Wizarding wedding was very unlike a Muggle wedding, Harry had realized. Unlike Hermione, who had 'read about this sort of thing,' Harry was very surprised to learn that a tattoo was necessary in order to bind two persons by law and, in some cases, love. But this 'tattoo' wasn't anything like a Muggle tattoo—an ink needle wasn't necessary at all. In fact, the tattoo wasn't visible, nor placed on skin. He didn't know the specifics, but Hermione had told Harry it was a sort of 'symbolic' attachment to a wizard or witch's embodiment—the two were literally promised to each other the moment they were bound by the enchantment.

The ceremony was every girl's dream, in Hermione's opinion. Ginny agreed, but was a bit doubtful on the prospect of marrying her own brother. The day was nearly perfect, but only due to the fact that Voldemort still roamed and that Bill had fed upon a pile of raw steaks, as if famished, prior to the entrance of the bride, and had belched somewhat loudly in surprise when she had. Calla lilies elegantly poised in her hands, Fleur had laughed and nearly run to her husband-to-be. That was about two hours ago, and the sun now threatened to end the day by disappearing through the trees.

Ron had wandered off, away from the party, picking wildflowers—especially field roses and only the very vibrant of forget-me-nots. He held his makeshift bouquet tightly in his hands and sat atop a stump. Hermione had found him there, staring off in the general direction of his brother and Fleur. He looked somewhat depressed, Hermione thought. She decided to sympathize, no matter how much it would pain her.

'Bet you'd like one of her, huh?' she asked him.

He looked at her, as if only just realizing she was there, and looked down, sheepish. Hermione inwardly slapped herself. She had spent an entire year totally upset at the fact that Ron decided to get a girlfriend. And Lavender of all girls—Lavender, who was superficial, shallow, and didn't know an inch of what Hermione knew about Ron. She probably didn't even know Ron hated spiders.

'Whatever I tell you won't really matter, will it?' he said.

Hermione was thoroughly confused. She was about to ask him what he meant when he elaborated..

'I mean, you probably think I'm some sort of superficial idiot after this last year with Lavender, right?' he asked.

Hermione didn't know how to say she agreed, but was spared the need to say so.

'You don't have to answer, you know. I would have thought of me as an asshole as well,' Ron said. 'But just to answer your question, no. I wouldn't want one of her.'

He looked down at his hands and grinned, rather adorably in Hermione's memory, and held out his bouquet, offering it to her. She smiled as she took it. For the first time in a long time, Ron smiled appreciatively at his friend. 'Why would I want a French flower when I have a beautiful bouquet of British wildflowers that I've picked myself?'

He stood up and draped a friendly arm around her shoulders, as they made their way back towards the party.

'My goodness, Ron. You are ever the charmer!' Hermione said jokingly, examining the now very droopy bouquet of wildflowers.

He gestured at his mother and father and his brothers and sister posing for a photograph near his mother's rose garden and replied smarmily, 'Must run in the family.'

--

Hermione smiled at the memory. She fingered the locket once more and opened it. There, where the photograph of her, Ron, and Harry should have been, was now a pressing of a tiny blue flower—a forget-me-not. Strange, she thought, wondering how long it must have been there. Hermione stared at it a while longer before deciding it was time to go.

So she did.

--

A/N: Well, after reading HBP, I've decided to get this story a bit on that track, and it's sort of brought a bit better of a way to convey the final scene. I hope you all enjoy Hermione's . . . rediscovery of herself. I hope I'm not boring you so much with all of this depressing stuff, but this is a dark story, and everything should stay within the theme unless I decide to break it. And that's not happening just yet.

REVIEW, MY FAITHFUL READERS, REVIEW!

P.S. Yes, yes. Lavender—I've got to stop trusting my beta readers so much. Thanks to Ford Prefect.