It's hard to maintain happiness when everything seems to go so wrong, but when you have someone by your side who you can trust, who you can laugh with, who you can love, then nothing's ever really that bad. And when they're gone, what they gave remains. It becomes part of you, as you carry their legacy and dreams, those that they could no longer fulfil.
That's what Hermione knows, all these years later. Everything she does is with him in mind, even if she can still imagine his questioning glances at her ideas and methods. She wants him to be proud of her, like she always was of him – and still is.
The anniversary is always the hardest, but it's also when she smiles brightest. His memory lives on in her, and his memory deserves a smile attached to it.
So she thinks about then, about the good and bad, and the love which never faded.
In the days following Ron's departure, the crushing weight of their task, the responsibility thrust upon them by Dumbledore, the fact that there were now only two of them… It was too much. For both of them, it was too much.
Neither could begin to explain why they were left with so little to work with. How could they be expected to do so much, to have the destiny of their world thrust into their hands when a crumb to go on was seemingly too much to ask?
During the day, they could at least pretend that everything was normal, that the task ahead of them was simple. They could pretend that their roundabout discussions were actually useful and that repeating the same ideas again and again would lead them to new conclusions.
Their delusions faded along with the sun, and with the darkness of night came the barrage of misery.
Hermione was grateful that even in her worst pits of despair, with the locket hanging round her neck pecking at her mind with jibes of failure, useless, coward, she could draw upon whatever Harry had to give to keep her going. No matter how little it was.
He was struggling. That was plain to see. Even when Hermione was at her most self-centred, her most self-critical with the locket weighing down her emotions, she could see that Harry paced like a man without purpose. Ate as though food was only to be eaten for necessity and not for even a hint of enjoyment. He acted as though he was perpetually on his deathbed.
And when he put on the locket… Perhaps a mercy killing would be justified. Hermione never thought that, of course, but the sunken cheeks, the hollow eyes, the blindingly pale skin that stretched harshly across his face… To say his soul had been sucked out by a dementor would be a pleasant description. The locket took what little remained of his spirit and a chunk more, leaving a husk that would be of more use decaying in the ground, feeding the daisies it pushed up. But Hermione never thought that.
It was instead the moments after he'd remove the locket from his neck were when she'd see the real Harry come out. The Harry that formed the image of him in her mind. It was brief, half-an-hour at most, but she got to experience a Harry that didn't have the world on his shoulders, who for once had hope for the future, whose only care in the world was making sure that Hermione was ok, comfortable, content. She was. In those moments more than any other.
In those moments, if she was lucky, Hermione would catch a glimpse of a Harry who had grown up with two loving parents, with a smile on his face that told stories of playing with Padfoot, plotting with Moony, terrorising the house on a toy broomstick with James, and trying his best to make Lily proud of him, as if she could ever not be. Hermione could never not be. She carried the pride for everyone who did but no longer could.
That Harry didn't exist though, and he'd quickly return to the old, loving Harry. The one that would try – try so hard – even if he failed. Then reality would set upon him and then appeared the now Harry who Hermione could see – with her own two brown eyes – wanted to die.
She felt guilty, sometimes. Thoughts crossed her mind… to put the locket around Harry's neck and then take it off just for a chance to see life in his emerald eyes again. To put him through a despair worse than she could possibly imagine just for a smile at the other end.
That would be cruel. Torturous.
She did it once in his sleep – to test it. He convulsed. She threw up immediately afterwards, heaving and shaking. He awoke and, despite the haunted look on his face, had a spark in his eye. He asked her what was wrong.
It worked.
She couldn't look him in the eye for days.
She wore the locket all the time, now. It was her sacrifice. The Harry in her head was rarely seen now, as was the Harry she refused to think about. Only the Harry that wanted to die remained.
That was for the best.
After Godric's Hollow, it was hard to decipher whether or not things got better.
Hermione thought he'd hate her for breaking his wand; his armour, his protection. His lifeline. He didn't hate her though – a tremendous relief. Things were terrible, but he didn't hate her.
Things were terrible, but they weren't really so bad.
Hermione told him where they were as she opened her bag to set up the tent. The Forest of Dean. An old holiday destination. A story of cheerful family camping, rope swinging into rivers, and a pathetically poor attempt at a log-fire barbeque on a cool summer's eve. They weren't welcome to such pleasantries now.
It was cold. The type of chill that didn't care for your layers of clothing, the type that snapped harshly at any bit of exposed skin – so they huddled for warmth. A jar of flames did what little it could, but Harry's encompassing arms and her head resting comfortably in the crook of his shoulder were the only things that truly kept the chill at bay.
In the night, in the cold, warmth came from the other. Where they had huddled for warmth in the mouth of the tent, they now huddled for warmth under the covers of Hermione's bed. The locket lay unworn, for what little time it allowed before it would scratch at Hermione's mind, begging to be worn, and she would concede. The locket lay unworn, and for the first time in months, true happiness could be found in the tent, as well as a mutual, unspoken understanding that talking about now was the last thing either of them wanted to do.
As they slept, blissful smiles on their faces, the tent lit up with the light of a gorgeous, silver doe. A patronus.
It went ignored.
She loved him.
Hermione was grateful that even in her worst pits of despair, with the locket hanging round her neck pecking at her mind with jibes of failure, useless, coward, she could draw upon love. Her own for him, and his for her. Wearing the locket was not a sacrifice anymore. It was easy, because loving Harry came easily.
But loving Harry wasn't easy – it was never destined to be so. The look on his face that spoke of ghosts haunting his every moment only erased when he looked at her. He didn't want to die, not anymore. When he looked at her, she knew. But his lethargic lumbering remained, the pacing without purpose. His eyes might have life, but the rest still withered. Hermione gave so much for him, and in return received smiles and nightly warmth. For her, that was enough. She didn't blame him for returning so little, she wouldn't blame him. He gave what he could and that was more than she could ever ask for.
So she persevered, because loving Harry came naturally, yet unexpectedly. Inevitably, yet against all odds. And if loving Harry was hard, and painful, and incredible, and unbelievable, then she would do so, because it was right.
Loving Harry meant hope. For her. For him. For them.
And so, with hope, came despair.
Harry whispered his name – no more than a breath on the wind – and they came for them.
Perhaps her screams would be of concern to the unfamiliar observer, but she was fine. She was in pain – like steel wool scraping harshly against her nerve endings – but she was fine.
Bellatrix thought her weak, thought her filthy blood flowing thickly through her veins would have her begging her better to stop. What were the Coward-Who-Ran and his mudblood bitch doing all these months, hiding away and leaving their allies to suffer?
Hermione could tell her, of course – end the pain and any chance of victory – but the satisfaction from hearing the rages of failure was much too enjoyable. And Hermione was strong. She knew Harry knew that. She knew Harry wasn't panicking. She'd be freed soon; there wasn't an ounce of her that believed otherwise. Voldemort might be able to get something out of her and end any chance of victory in one fell swoop, but Harry was here, and that meant Voldemort would lose.
In the meantime, though, as another round of excruciating pain battered her, she patiently screamed. Horrifically and ear-piercingly.
At some point – she didn't know when – she had succumbed to the bliss of unconsciousness. Now, with a ringing in her ears as she came to, part of her wanted it to return once she started hearing some incoherent yelling permeating her pounding head. Everything deeply ached and the temptation of rest was all too desirable.
But she couldn't.
Snatchers. Malfoy Manor. Torture. All that for a whispered name.
The yelling got louder, accompanied by shrieks and fitful bangs, and Hermione struggled to see the action from her slumped position on the cold stone floor, her weak limbs failing to hold her up.
She thought she heard cracks, in the stone or of someone's skull she couldn't be sure, but the fighting could mean just one thing: Harry.
Then it stopped.
Through her blurred vision and blindingly bright lights of the chandelier above, vague outlines dotted the manor, yet only one thing came into focus.
Harry kneeled beside her, keeling over and clutching desperately at his scar, moaning through gritted teeth. A dark figure leered behind him.
It stepped forward, crouching down beside Harry. Scarlet eyes gazed curiously at Hermione's face, and then her chest. A gnarled finger reached out and hooked itself around the chain laying cold against her neck. The fingertip grazed her skin; she shuddered. A light tug unclasped the locket.
Voldemort stood up and dangled the locket from his finger. The chains slithered and wound up his arm towards his neck, before gently fastening itself around it.
A snarl plastered his face. He pointed his wand at Harry.
She stuck her arm out, grabbing at Harry, hoarsely shouting his name, and finally grasping his hand – the one with her wand. A flash of red crossed her eyes as she apparated them away, as she had done many times before. He collapsed, pulling her down with him on a forest floor. As she lay on top of him, his hand held white tight in hers, she looked at him.
This was Harry Potter.
Blood seeping from a cursed, cut throat. Dirty, rapidly paling skin. A softness in the eyes that said the unspoken; of adventures, of home, of arguments, of forgiveness, of family, of growing old, of friendship, of bravery. A loosening of her hand. A breathless 'I love you.'
Then Harry was dead and Hermione thought – with love – with so much love – that he deserved this.
He deserved peace.