Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or Dragonland’s Song ‘Forever Walking Alone’.
If I could unwind the wheel of time,98Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzvsre59XsH
I would have been by your side.98Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ37ZS87CZSA
If I could turn back time,98Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCusdnjjDUE
I never had a chance to say goodbye.
The empty void inside my heart grows day by day,98Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZcY6a5XcpQ
I have nowhere to turn to ease the pain.98Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtmtUDc6xGO
Remembering the smile you used to give me,98Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwlq07gDWQB
And your laughter that could light my way home.
A year…
A year had passed since the devastating battle that shattered her world. During that chaotic night, her enemy spoke a single curse—an act that changed her life forever. That moment not only destroyed her envisioned future but also eroded her understanding of herself, leaving her to seek meaning. Her best friend, who had always been her purpose, became her reason to keep going—a fragile thread connecting her to life amid the ruins.
It was him.
She had dedicated her life to him, and in a single, fleeting moment of pause, she saw the reality that had quietly shaped her life. He was her constant, the foundation of her strength and hope. Through all hardships and sorrows, he stayed by her side, offering unwavering support. When her burdens grew heavy, he was the first to lend a comforting shoulder, never questioning or demanding reasons. He was her pillar when the world felt like it was falling apart.
During the darkest times, when despair almost overwhelmed him, he remained strong, unwavering in his determination. With firm resolve, he led them into the heat of battle, exemplifying the leadership he was meant to have. His presence and bravery motivated others, helping them move forward even when hope appeared faint.
If only she had noticed it earlier…
She loved him deeply—her feelings went far beyond simple friendship. He wasn’t just her best friend; he was the centre of her world. During moments of despair, when everything looked bleak and burdens felt heavy, thinking of him gave her the strength to carry on. He was her purpose, her reason for pushing forward even in the face of worsening circumstances. Her devotion was more than friendship; it was a love that shaped her, leading her through darkness and illuminating hope when everything else seemed gone.
Her life came to an end because of that curse.
As the enemy finally fell, a united cheer broke out among those still standing. The survivors realised the war had ended, filling them with relief and disbelief. The ground around them was littered with the fallen—both friends and enemies—proof of the intense battle that had just concluded.
Some victors quickly attended to the wounded, providing aid to those in pain. Tears of relief and exhaustion flowed down many faces, marking a release after the prolonged struggle. Meanwhile, others, still active, quickly pursued the remaining resistance to thoroughly secure the area.
She didn’t care…
In that moment, her sole focus was on him. The chaos of the battlefield dulled, and her attention fixated on his fallen body. His wand fell from his hand, landing on the bloodied ground as his legs buckled. Witnessing his collapse, she instinctively rushed to him, disregarding all dangers—threats, cries, exhaustion, or pain—driven solely by her concern.
In her frantic haste, she failed to notice the bodies strewn around her. Her foot hit something firm, causing her to fall. As she hurried to stand up, she realised she had fallen over Fred Weasley. His unblinking, glassy eyes looked up at her, and for a moment, it seemed as if they silently accused her, questioning the price of her triumph.
Her eyes burned with unshed tears, yet she held back, refusing to let them fall—at least for now. Though he still lay somewhere ahead, she couldn’t afford to surrender to her grief. Her energy was dedicated to reaching him; everything else could wait until she knew he was safe—or until hope disappeared entirely.
She needed to know he was okay before she could allow herself to cry.
She reached him and collapsed beside him. His glasses, knocked off in the chaos of battle, lay nearby. She looked into his lifeless eyes, and at that moment, her world fell apart. Her once purposeful and hopeful life was over as she beheld the emptiness that had taken him.
Voldemort was defeated, bringing his reign of terror to an end. However, the cost of this victory was something she could never anticipate—he had taken Harry to the grave with him. While the world around her celebrated, her heart broke upon realising that her loss was permanent. The hope that once kept her going through the darkest times was now gone, replaced by only grief and the harsh finality of his absence.
Tears flowed down her face as she refused to accept the reality in front of her. She convinced herself he was not truly gone but resting peacefully, freed from fear, pain, and worry that had troubled him. Clinging to this hope, she reached for his hand, but its cold, clammy feel shocked her. Overwhelmed with grief, she let out a sob that echoed across the grounds, revealing her heartbreak.
All around her, the joyful celebrations abruptly descended into silence. The raw sound of her anguish pierced through the noise, stopping all cheers and shouts. Tears streaming down her face blurred her sight and turned the world into a fog of pain and sorrow.
As she wept, the sound of footsteps grew louder, approaching her gradually. Figures came closer, forming a slow circle around her, their demeanour showing solemn regard for the extent of her pain. The group assembled not to celebrate but to share in empathy and mourning, observing her heartbreak.
No one tried to pull her away. Instead, the crowd stayed silent, their presence grounding them in the moment. Everyone recognised her heartbreak and respected her need to mourn. Their shared empathy was evident; no one disrupted her sorrow or her final moments with him. Their quiet support was a tribute, honouring the scale of her loss and the sacrifice involved in victory. As she cried, the world around her seemed to freeze, witnessing her pain without interruption or distraction. In that silence, her grief was acknowledged, and all felt the actual cost of war.
A hand gently closed around her shoulder, a familiar and grounding touch she didn’t need to see to recognise. Since her first year at Hogwarts, this subtle pressure had been a steady presence, silently supporting her through many challenges and providing comfort and strength when needed. In that moment, she remembered her two remarkable friends—Harry Potter, known as The Boy Who Lived, and Ron Weasley, whose quiet understanding always brought her peace.
Although Ron tried to comfort her with his gentle, understanding presence that had soothed her before, it no longer reached her. As her tears subsided, a numb cold spread through her, an emptiness she hated but strangely welcomed, letting the chill fully surround her. In that moment, she clung tightly to Harry’s cold, lifeless hand, seeking any remaining sign of warmth or hope.
The moment was fleeting. Ron gently persisted until he managed to pull her away from Harry. As he did, Medi-wizards quickly encircled Harry, shielding him from her view. Her sight of him was obscured, replaced by a circle of worried figures focused on their duty. She could only watch, feeling numbness deepen as she was compelled to let go of Harry, hope, and her former life.
She let her mind withdraw inward, blocking out the world and the pain looming over her. During that time, the core of her former self—the spark that highlighted her—appeared to diminish. The lively, resolute aspect of her soul, the traits that formed her identity, shrank under grief’s burden. An emptiness took root inside her, as if her past self had vanished, swallowed by the sorrow now engulfing her.
She might have appeared outwardly like Hermione Granger, but inside, she was haunted by a persistent emptiness that felt suffocating and inescapable, like a heavy cobweb draped over her soul. It was as if she dwelled in a cold, shadowy corner where hope had faded away entirely. She visualised herself chained to the wall in that dark space, unable to move forward or escape the weight of her grief. In her thoughts, Harry still held the key to her freedom; however, with him gone, she remained stuck, lost within the overwhelming darkness that swallowed her from the inside.
In her quiet solitude of sleep, Hermione was reunited with Harry. His calm and reassuring presence in her dreams urged her not to give in to overwhelming grief. He pleaded with her to hold on and stay true to herself, rather than becoming a hollow shell. His gentle words provided a faint glimmer of hope, reminding her of her strength and identity, even as she found it hard to believe.
When night brought nightmares, Hermione’s world was shaken. In these painful visions, she desperately ran towards Harry, throwing herself between him and the curse meant to kill him. However, the curse would always hit her first, then strike Harry. Afterwards, Harry would turn his pain into blame, accusing her of failing to save him and saying he hated her for it. His cruel words echoed that he was worth much more than she was, and that her death would go unnoticed. These haunting dreams caused ongoing emotional pain, with each accusation piercing her deeply and leaving lingering wounds long after she woke.
The pain was real.
Three long, agonising years passed with Hermione confined to her room. Although she bought an apartment, its walls felt like a prison. She spent each day in her rocking chair, staring blankly out the window, observing the world move on as if she were the one who had died instead of Harry. Seeing people outside living their lives deepened her feelings of alienation. She envied those who could smile, laugh, and move forward, while she remained caught in her grief. Their happiness sparked bitter resentment—she hated them for living when Harry could not.
Her anger consumed her, fuelling increasing resentment towards everything and everyone. Sleep, once a haven, now only triggered nightmares, making her fear each night. She started neglecting herself, eating rarely; her body weakened, losing the healthy fullness and radiant glow that once seemed natural to her. The vibrant energy that characterised Hermione disappeared, leaving only a shadow of her former self.
She watched the world passing by...
Hermione’s apartment had transformed into a memorial dedicated to her grief. The walls were lined with meticulously cut-out newspaper articles from the Daily Prophet, and photographs of Harry were scattered throughout, their cheerful faces starkly contrasting the oppressive gloom that pervaded the space. These mementoes, collected obsessively since that tragic event, kept her anchored in the past. She clung to every memory, perhaps unwilling to release the pain, letting her life revolve around these tangible remnants of what once was. Each article and photo represented a day she couldn’t escape and reflected the dark obsession that had taken hold since Harry’s death. The apartment, once her refuge, had become a mausoleum of memories—a space where she surrounded herself with echoes of him and the life she had lost.
Two more years went by, and Hermione grew weary of the constant visitors. Therapists came with good intentions, aiming to help her out of the darkness that had taken over her life. However, their conversations often seemed forced, their advice repetitive, and Hermione’s patience wore thin with their relentless attempts to connect.
Mental health nurses kept monitoring her, committed to her well-being. They urged her to take medication and watched intently as she hesitantly ate the food given to her, submitting unwillingly to routines she no longer cared about. Their constant presence served as a reminder of how much she had lost touch with her former life.
At one point, a hypnotist was brought in, trying to persuade her that her dreams and nightmares were mere illusions. However, the sessions left her feeling more frustrated than soothed, as she was aware that her pain was genuine and couldn’t be dismissed easily.
However, amid these persistent efforts, a gradual change started to emerge. The newspaper clippings—once covering her walls for years as symbols of her loss and obsession—began to disappear gradually. This was not an abrupt change but a slow, deliberate process, indicating a subtle shift inside her. As each piece of her grief faded, it suggested she was beginning to consider releasing her attachment, even if hesitantly.
One day, Hermione got up from her rocking chair and approached her computer. Turning it on, she sat down and started to type. The visitors watching her observed her closely as she opened a new Word document and began typing with focused intensity.
Her fingers rapidly moved across the keyboard, words flowing as if released from years of repression. She appeared fully immersed in her task, her concentration steady and unwavering. The room’s atmosphere shifted as her visitors noticed this change; for the first time in years, Hermione was genuinely engaged in something beyond her grief. Those present shared silent glances, recognising the importance of this moment. They watched quietly, understanding that this act—though austere—was a tentative step toward Hermione reclaiming herself.
The title at the top was “Our Story”, and she wrote her biography.
Two more years passed, and Hermione’s book was finally published. It struck a chord with many worldwide, who were inspired by her honesty and raw emotion. This success subtly changed Hermione. Ron quickly noticed—her cheeks showed a hint of colour again, and the empty, haunted look in her eyes eased, replaced by moments of awareness. Gradually, a soft warmth reappeared in her attitude, indicating the beginning of healing after years of grief.
Hermione spent nearly ten years showing signs that she was still present, not lost to her sorrow. Her friends and loved ones watched her slow, careful recovery with pride. Her grief journey was long and arduous, filled with years of isolation and pain, but her renewed engagement with life was clear. Every small step she took was quietly celebrated, highlighting her resilience and the unwavering support around her. Those who had supported her through her darkest moments felt proud of her progress, recognising the immense effort it took for Hermione to find herself again after so long lost to grief.
On a cloudy day in November, Hermione once again turned to her computer. Ron quietly set a cup of tea beside her, offering silent support while watching from across the room. Without delay, Hermione opened a new document. Her fingers paused over the keyboard for a moment before she started typing, slowly inputting three words. The weight of these words filled the space, and Ron watched her with a gentle understanding, seeing the significance of this small yet meaningful step in her ongoing journey.
“Forever Walking Alone…”
‘Forever Walking Alone?’ he asked her.
Hermione nodded and softly said, ‘Forever Walking Alone.’
‘What’s this one about?’ he asked softly, his voice gentle and filled with concern. Ron observed Hermione sitting at her computer, her hands hovering over the keyboard after typing those important words. The room was heavy with silence, thick with emotion and anticipation. He didn’t push her for an answer, giving her the space to answer when she was ready.
Hermione closed her eyes briefly to let her feelings settle. In silence, she visualised the words she wanted to say, drawing strength from her memories and emotions. After a short pause, she spoke softly but with determination. ‘Everything,’ she said, capturing the depth of her thoughts and the importance of her new project. Then, Hermione turned back to her work, her fingers returning to the keyboard as she typed intently, fully immersed in her thoughts. Ron, recognising her need for quiet, nodded and quietly stepped away, giving her the space to continue her reflection.
A year had passed quietly, and Hermione paused, her hands leaving the keyboard. She leaned back in her chair, her head resting against the backrest, lost in thought. The room was silent except for her breathing. Ron, nearby, looked up, sensing a change. He asked if she had finally finished the book that had consumed her energy and heart. Hermione shook her head, silent, her face distant yet resolute. Without a word, she rose and crossed the room toward the mantelpiece. Sitting there was a single photograph, capturing a moment before the final battle—Hermione, Harry, and Ron together, smiling in a rare peaceful moment, frozen just before everything changed.
A single tear slid down her face, leaving a mark on the floor.
Ron rose silently from his seat and moved across the room to Hermione, resting a gentle hand on her shoulder—a silent echo of that night many years ago. He didn’t ask what was wrong, nor did he feel compelled to speak. Their long history and close friendship made words often redundant; he understood her pain without needing any explanation.
Ron knew that Hermione’s love for Harry was genuine. This unwavering affection explained why she hadn’t let another man into her life. Over the years, Hermione repeatedly refused every romantic or companionship offer. Suitors had come and gone, but she consistently rejected them, staying loyal to her feelings.
Even Draco Malfoy, who had changed after the war and distanced himself from his father’s influence, once proposed marriage to Hermione. Despite Draco’s notable change and genuine intentions, Hermione was unable to accept his proposal. Her heart remained loyal to the memory of those she had lost and continued to treasure that love, untouched by anyone else.
She declined all offers.
She sighed softly, her voice almost a whisper. ‘What would he be doing if he was here?’ she asked, her words drifting into the quiet room rather than directly to Ron. The question stayed in the air, heavy with longing and sadness, as Hermione’s mind drifted to the life they might have had. She pictured him laughing, playing with their children, and making the house feel warm and joyful. The pain of his absence weighed heavily on her, a constant reminder of their unfulfilled dreams.
Ron shook his head, a soft smile on his lips as he tried to comfort Hermione. ‘Playing with your kids, I imagine,’ he said gently, his tone warm and understanding. Hermione looked at him, her face tense with unspoken questions, lips parting as if to speak but hesitating. Noticing her hesitation, Ron lowered his voice to a tender whisper. ‘Before you ask, he did love you,’ he assured her, his words firm. ‘He was… planning to ask you to marry him after the battle. He wanted to be with you… and no one else.’ As he spoke, he gently brushed away the tears from Hermione’s eyes, providing her with the comfort and reassurance she needed in that delicate moment.
Hermione’s voice trembled with emotion as she finally spoke, confessing, ‘I loved him too… I would have said yes…’ in the quiet room. Her long-unspoken words seemed to lighten some of her burden. Ron, recognising her pain and love, gently embraced her, offering silent comfort. The hug conveyed years of friendship, shared sorrow, and steadfast support. At that moment, Hermione allowed herself to be comforted, finding peace in knowing someone truly understood.
Hermione spent another three years finishing her book, dedicating herself fully to the final chapters just as she had from the start. When she finally completed the manuscript, she proudly submitted it to the publisher, her heart filled with a strong sense of achievement.
Another year went by before the book was published, but once it appeared on shelves, it quickly became a hit. It was widely praised, and soon, everyone notable owned a copy. Its fame spread beyond the magical world, with Muggles, fascinated by the magic references, buying the book, thinking it was a fantasy story.
Having finished her book and captivated her readers, Hermione started to re-engage with life. She began spending time with her old friends from Hogwarts, rekindling their long-standing bonds and finding solace in their shared memories and companionship.
However, there was always something missing.
Hermione had always dreamed of marriage, raising children, and savouring life’s simple pleasures. However, fate had different plans, and the life she envisioned remained elusive, leaving her with a deep sense of longing for a family she had never experienced.98Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBbg3edhvQh
She would never desire anyone else, only him.
Hermione enjoyed a comfortable life, secured by the success of her books and the steady interest they received. She was never in need and appreciated the security her achievements brought. Over time, she observed her friends marry and become parents, celebrating their milestones and sharing in their joy. Hermione affectionately embraced the role of “Aunt Mione,” spoiling her friends’ children with love and gifts, and delighting in their laughter and successes.
However, despite these joyful moments, Hermione felt a twinge of envy. She valued her role in their lives, yet her secret longing for her own family persisted, softly resonating in her heart as she watched the lives her friends had created.
She also wanted that.
She never married.
She never had kids.
She outlived her friends and family.
Hermione rested in her bed, exhausted by a persistent fever that, at her age of 130 years, was almost impossible to overcome. She reflected on her life—a life deeply touched by the absence of her greatest love. Despite the pain of his loss, she carried on, believing that was what he would have wanted. She took comfort in knowing her journey, though lonely at times, stood as a testament to her love and their memories together. The years without him brought both sorrow and strength, and she faced each day with the quiet resilience that had always defined her, even as she neared the end of her long life.
Hermione glanced at the picture on her bedside table. Despite its age and wear, the photograph still seemed to breathe with life, and his smiling face looked back at her from within the frame. A soft smile appeared on her lips as she looked at his familiar face. Feeling a sense of calm wash over her, she closed her eyes, ready to embrace death in its comforting hold.
She loved him.
Hermione felt a profound sense of contentment knowing he truly loved her back. As she released her grip, she peacefully drifted into an everlasting sleep. Her previous anxieties dissolved, replaced by a state of calm and tranquillity.
She would meet him there.
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