Disclaimer: I don't own anything Harry Potter. He belongs to J.K. Rowling, whom I heartily thank for having created him. I just happen to have been knocked in the head by my muse one evening, and took it upon myself to write this bit of fiction based on the characters she created.

Author's Note: I've never written fanfiction before, so you'll have to bear with me. It's rated R for language and possible violence in later chapters, and because at this point I really don't know where exactly the story is going to go. At the moment, I'm letting inspiration guide my hand, though I suspect it's going to take some help. This piece was begun before Book 6 came out, and I've decided not to let that volume influence my take on events as I have them written here. Also, I'd like to thank, in advance, all my online friends who I'm going to pester into reading this, as well as those people I'll more than likely turn to for help when my muse deserts me. And, of course, my husband, who has always been my biggest fan as well as my most honest critic. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I'm going to try, very hard, not to disappoint.

Chapter 1

"Crucio!" A voice, out of the darkness, and a bolt of light flashes past me. A scream, someone in pain. Where am I?

It dawns on me then that my eyes are closed, and it takes an effort of will to open them. Misty darkness is all around us, but here and there I can almost pick out a shape, before it fades back into the mist. The voices are indistinct, unclear, unidentifiable, though the Cruciatus Curse is familiar enough by now. I can hear my friends screaming, fighting Voldemort's Death Eaters.

Harry. Where's Harry?

The mist clears abruptly, leaving half of us standing, drawing ragged breaths, awaiting the next attack. I can see Ron's back, and Dumbledore, and Mad-Eye Moody. Where's Harry? There's no sign of him, and all at once I'm too afraid to remember to breathe. Are we winning? How can we be winning without Harry?

I can see bodies on the ground, writhing in pain. I don't think any of them are dead, even the Death Eaters. Surely I would remember the Killing Curse? Dumbledore moves to the side, and I see the Malfoys, Lucius and Draco, and my heart sinks further into my chest. Snape is there, at Draco's side? How can that be right? And then they turn on Lucius Malfoy, but I don't have time to think about that, because as he falls, I can see Harry, and I know, without knowing how I know, that we're too late.

With horrifying clarity, I can see him, facing Voldemort, alone because he had to be bloody brave! What it is they say to each other, I'm too far away to hear, but they speak at the same time, and their wands flash, and the light brightens, until all I can see is the pure white brilliance of the light, seconds before oblivion...

A dream. It was just a dream. The same dream I'd had for the last three nights, but a dream all the same. I awoke sitting up, as always, holding my wand, listening for the sound of footsteps. The silence meant I hadn't screamed this time, a point for me, and I reached over to set my wand on the nightstand. Just as I wriggled back under the covers, I heard a noise, a sort of scraping, and held my breath.

My nose itched, though I did my best to ignore it; the room felt suddenly cold, and I shivered before I had a chance to stop myself. Beside my ear was the sound of someone breathing heavily, and I curled my hands into fists under the blankets, cursing myself for putting my wand in so inconvenient a place as the bedside table. I closed my eyes, willing myself to concentrate, to focus, on the off chance I might be able to summon my wand simply by thinking about it.

"Hermione."

At the sound of my name, uttered in breathy ghost-speech, my eyes flew open. I didn't know anything about ghosts, only that we'd had several at Hogwarts, but the last ghost I expected to see was the one in my room. Fumbling for my wand, I held it out with a trembling hand and murmured, "Lumos," the better to see my shade of a visitor, and nearly dropped the wand in my shock.

"Harry?" I sounded incredulous, I was incredulous. I'd been at his funeral, at the burial of the empty coffin, had just moments ago awakened from my recurring nightmare of his demise, and yet there he was, sitting on the end of my bed and looking at me through his ghostly spectacles. "This can't be happening," I told myself, speaking aloud because I needed the extra convincing. "You're still dreaming, Hermione."

"Hermione, please," said the ghost, interrupting in mid-rant the way Harry often did. "We have to talk."

"You're dead, Harry," I informed him, reminding myself, as well. "You can't be here, you just can't!" I was trying not to be hysterical, but I was looking at the ghost of my best friend. What was I supposed to be?

"Of course I can. I'm a ghost, aren't I?" His voice sounded the same, or perhaps it was simply because I wanted him to sound the same. He didn't even have the decency to look sorry for being dead.

It bothered me, more than it probably should have. After all, he was the one who was dead, why was I the one getting mad about him not looking sorry? "That's exactly what I mean," I replied, retreating into cold logic. "You're only supposed to haunt places you've visited in life, and I'm fairly certain my bedroom isn't one of those places." At least, the prevailing theory so far as I knew was that ghosts could only haunt places they'd seen while alive. I hadn't made much of an effort to study ghosts, but then I'd never expected to be quite this close to one I was so personally acquainted with.

He laughed at me. "You're right, I've never been here before." Somehow knowing I was right about that didn't make me feel any better.

"What are you doing here, Harry?" I didn't like being laughed at, I never had, and he knew that better than anyone, though he still managed to look as if I'd wounded him with my words.

"I wanted to see you." His reply was lacking a certain sincerity, or maybe it only seemed that way because he was a ghost. I must have looked unconvinced, because he frowned at me. "What? You think I wanted to be dead?"

"What else am I supposed to think?" I shot back at him. "What are any of us supposed to think?"

"Hermione, listen --" he began, but I cut him off.

"No, Harry, you listen. Yes, you did the brave thing, the noble thing, the perfectly Gryffindor thing. You faced Voldemort all by yourself, even though you knew what would happen! There were plenty of other people who were willing to do it, who were more qualified to do it, but it had to be you, because you were Harry bloody Potter!" It was unlike me to curse, really, but this was after all an unusual occasion.

"Can't we just talk --" Again he started to say something, and once more I cut him off.

"How dare you sit there and pretend that none of this is your fault?" I was shaking with anger, and the more wounded he looked, the madder I got. "For two years now, you've done nothing but prepare, and you knew, all along, that it would end like this! Two years, Harry! So don't tell me you didn't want to be dead, because I don't believe it, not for a second." There was a sound in the hall, a footstep, my father coming to check on me, no doubt.

"I'm sorry," he murmured finally, and at last he did look sorry.

I wasn't buying it. "Go away, Harry. Go haunt someone else." I closed my eyes and turned away from him, listening to the footsteps coming closer.

There was a sudden brush of cold air across my cheek, and then a knock at the door, followed by my father's voice, "Hermione? Are you all right?" My parents were concerned, even though they didn't know the whole story. Now that I'd graduated Hogwarts, I didn't have to inform them of every little magical mishap, which was a good thing. I don't think they'd have handled the truth very well, and the last thing I needed was my Muggle parents trying to protect me from things they couldn't possibly understand.

With a sigh, I opened my eyes, but there was no sign that Harry's ghost had been there. I wriggled out from beneath the covers and crossed to the door, but not before another knock sounded. Opening the door, I looked up at my father and said, "I'm fine, Dad."

"Are you sure?" He looked as unconvinced as I must have when Harry was trying to tell me he hadn't planned on dying. "You've barely eaten anything all day. Your mother and I are worried."

"I'm sure," I replied, forcing a small smile. "I'll be fine, honestly." It was enough to reassure him that I could make it through the rest of the night without his attention. Parents are supposed to worry about their children, but I was no longer a child, and when it came to magic I was more equipped to handle things than they were. I allowed him to escort me back to bed, at least, to tuck me in the way he had when I was little, though it was a gesture more for his comfort than mine.

For a time, I lay there in the dark, and it seemed I might cry, but I had no tears left. I'd been crying for days, and I was tired of crying. Crying didn't solve anything. There were so many questions I needed to answer. How had Harry become a ghost? Why? How had he been able to visit me in my room, when ghosts were supposed to be limited to those places they'd seen in life? And why, oh why had he come to me?

It was useless to try sleeping with my head so full of questions, and I knew myself well enough not to bother. Reaching once more for my wand, I whispered, "Lumos," and was again rewarded with light. It struck me then, in that precise instant, that I had become disenchanted with the magical world, that magic no longer held any magic for me, and I realized I'd grown up.

Slipping out of bed, I went to sit at my desk, and took out a sheet of parchment, but I paused before reaching for my quill. It would be easier to get over Harry's death, I knew, if I returned to the Muggle way of life I'd left behind, but could I really do it? Give up magic? Would I even be allowed to do such a thing? There was only one person I trusted enough to ask, and once I made my decision I took up my quill and began penning a letter to the Hogwarts Headmaster, Professor Dumbledore.