A/N Hermione's ending is much different from her ending in my other one-shot, "A Light In The Darkness". However, I hope you like it just the same!

~Vicky




At Hermione's age, simple tasks were becoming quite difficult for her to manage; a short trip to her second floor bedroom, even by Apparition, was a tiring one. Despite the pleading her old, fragile body sent out to her by means of aches and soreness, Hermione continued working as though still a young Hogwarts student, eager for the day ahead. But with such an age also came the looming time of death, and with each passing day there seemed to be more for Hermione to accomplish in her last days upon this Earth.

Now, at the age of 108, Hermione could feel her last days among the living drawing to a close; she did not fear it. She welcomed such an event, as her old Headmaster Albus Dumbledore had. The next great adventure, Hermione recalled his words, a toothless smile breaking out upon her aged face. Of course, it would be a sad event for her, and those who cared for her. Not that there were many around these days; as Hermione grew older, the more she cared deeply for passed, leaving Hermione more alone than ever before. She had concluded long ago that she was alone. Not that she truely was, really - she had found solice in the friendships of many - but never were quite like the ones she had when she was younger. A part of her life was missing, had been for quite some time, and could never be replaced. That, on it's own, made her feel alone.

Remembering her earlier years, maybe 70 or 80 years before, she could recall her increasing depression at the loss of those she loved. That grief still filled her to this very day - but, as one always does, such things come to be a part of every day life. Therefore, she awaited the day when she would once again be with those that knew her best and she knew best in return. Many times, Hermione had considered ways to hurry along to the day that she would be reunited with them. It always ended out that she didn't, and pushed on with life without them.

Presently, Hermione could be found in the yard of her cottage where she lived in alone. Located in a nice, Muggle village similar to the one she grew up in, Hermione found peace in her small, humble home. Slowly making her way down the path to her small garden, she examined all of the plants, watering each of them as she passed with the tin watercan adorned with paintings of sunflowers that she held in her hand. Frowning at the weeds sprouting up between each plant, Hermione walked a steady pace to the garden toolshed to receive the proper tool for pulling out the nasty weeds infiltrating her garden.

It took her several minutes to get down to her knees to be able to do the job properly, but after succeeding in doing so, she spent the next few hours taking out each of the patches of weeds spread out through the flowerbed. Wiping the bead of sweat rolling down and passing every wrinkle that decorated her forehead, Hermione steadily pushed herself to her knees, and returned the tool she had gotten to its proper place in the the toolshed. Even in her old age, Hermione was still just as organized as ever; even her toolshed, just as her own home and rest of her yard had been, was organised systematically, grouping the proper things together.

Making her way down the stone path once more, she opened the door, leading into the kitchen of her cottage home. After removing her now muddy shoes and placing them on newspaper she had layed out beside the door, Hermione proceeded towards the stove, retrieving the dinner she had earlier prepared for herself. By now, it was cold, and Hermione sat in silence, slowly eating the mashed potatoes and gravy from the glass plate she always ate her dinner with.

Once she had washed the single plate and mug she had dirtied that day, Hermione ambled into the next room over, the living room, and up the stairs to her bedroom. Stopping to catch her breath at the top of the stairs, she noticed her bedroom door, which was open, slightly ajar. Carefully, she pushed it open, and a fluffy, ginger cat lifted it's head to look at her. "Oh, Crookshanks," she said in a playful scorning tone. "What did I say about sleeping on my bed when I was out in the garden?" Chuckling, she bent slightly to pick up the old cat. It was not the pet she had bought during her Third Year, of course, but looked it; he had reminded Hermione so much of her previous pet, she just had to buy him when she had seen him in the Apocethary at Diagon Alley some years ago.

Her eyes scanned her room, and they stopped short on a picture frame that had fallen to the floor. "Did you do that, Crookshanks? You've been very naughty lately, haven't you?" Shaking her head in mock anger at her beloved pet, she slowly bent down to pick up the fallen frame. She knew what picture it was immediately; it was a fairly old one, of she, Harry, and Ron, during their 7th year at Hogwarts, before the Final War. Despite the desperate situation they were all in at the time, all three were smiling and laughing at each other, pushing one another off of the log they had been sitting on when the picture had been taking.

Smiling wanly at the picture and old memory, Hermione sat down on the edge of her bed. Studiously, she bent over her mahogany bedside desk, opening drawer upon drawer, each holding much more than it normally would have without the use of an expansion spell. Somewhere towards the bottom, she found the correct drawer, and pulled out a leather photo album, delicately preserved so that it was still in the condition she had bought it in. Taking her fingers across the bumpy texture of the cover, thoughts of her past came floating back to her as they so often did these days; her life was, metaphorically, passing before her eyes, but not as one would expect. When she at least expected it, flashbacks would occur, showing her tidbits of her past; this had been happening for almost a month now, and the occurences were not so strange to her any longer.

On the inside cover were her name and the words, "Please return if found." Opening up to the page that the pictures began, an assortment of both Muggle photos and moving photos from the Wizarding World. The first section of the album was dedicated topictures of her family; her biological family, more specifically, for she considered everyone within the album to be her family. Mostly photos of her childhood, before she learned of the magic running through her veins, these pictures brought a smile to her face but nothing more; they did not arouse that much of a response for her.

What caught her attention most of all were the pictures of her, age 11, and up. From the time she started Hogwarts, until the time the book had been filled. Members of Gryffindor House waved up at her from her old Common Room, perfectly preserved in their younger forms. She stopped on a section dedicated entirely to pictures of Ron, Harry, and herself - her favourite section in the entire album. It was ironic, really, to see her own face and the faces of her two best friends, shining so happily in the pictures. You would have never guessed that, for most of the photos, two of these three would be living their last day the very next day after the pictures were taken. You would have never guessed that one of those three were burdened beyond his years, but held his head high until the very end. You would not have guessed that two out of the three in these pictures would be killed by the hands of Voldemort himself in a little over 24 hours.

Wiping the tears that were now cascading from her eyes, Hermione slowly turned the pages, remember back to the day when each of them were taken. On the last page was one final picture, containing the faces of all of the surviving Order at that point in time, to her family and other students she had known at Hogwarts. Pushing that picture out of the photo album to hold it in her hands, Hermione examined it, passing from face to face. She could recall all of the faces, stifling a small laugh when she came across that of Mundungus Fletcher, who would repeatedly fall from where he perched on Hagrid's shoulder's, obviously back from a trip to the Hog's Head before this photograph had been taken.

Noticing the darkening sky, Hermione switched on the ceiling light, and replaced the photo album back into the drawer it belonged in, leaving out the large group picture. After shooing Crookshanks from her room once more, she carefully returned to her bed, with picture still in hand, and sat back down where she previously had been, sitting on the Keeper of the Chudley Canons who flew by on the bed's comforter as she did so. Once she had adjusted so that she was comfortable, Hermione fixed herself so that she was now lying on the bed, with the picture lying on her chest.

Looking at all of the faces that had passed before her, Hermione knew one thing was for certain - she had continued living for them. As many times as she wanted to give up, to end her life, she didn't. She alone had survived to carry and preserve the memories of all the heroes she held in her hand. Her life continued on for her mum and dad, for all of the Order, for all Hogwarts, the Weasleys, and most of all, Harry and Ron. Like those who died bravely in war to ensure a safe future for the next generations, she had lived on the keep the flame of the past going, a reminder of these heroes. They had been remembered for many years after, would still be remembered for much longer afterwards and Hermione had made sure of that. As much courage it had taken them to have given their lives for the cause, it took Hermione just as much to continue living on. Just like Remus Lupin had previously done for the two other Marauders, James and Sirius, Hermione had done so for all of the heroes of the Final War.

Crookshanks jumped onto Hermione's bed one last time, curling into what looked like a giant, furry pillow, at Hermione's side. Rising in the night sky was the moon, casting an unusually radiant glow beneath it. Hermione smiled; she smiled for all of those heroes she was proud to call her family, she among them for carrying on the legacy of everyone else; she smiled at the memories she held so dear, and the remembrance of those she cared and loved for. As the sky darkened, Hermione closed her eyes, never letting the smile fade from her face.



"Miss Granger?" a man called through an open door, poking his head cautiously inside. When he received no answer, he stepped fully in through the door. "Miss Granger, it's Walker. You told me the other day you needed some weeding in your garden done, so I've volunteered to help." Walking through the house in search of the older woman, he came to the back door to look out to her yard. The garden, he noticed, had already been weeded. "Huh," he murmured, turning on his heel to continue his search for her.

"Where are you?" he called as he walked slowly up the wooden stairs to the second floor of Hermione's home. He came to what he knew to be her bedroom door, and knocked lightly on it three times. "Miss Granger? Are you in there?" Pushing open the door when he received no answer again, he saw Hermione lying on her back, with her cat, Crookshanks, sleeping and purring loudly next to her. Underneath her hand, pinned to her chest by it, she held a large picture. When Walker knocked once more, even louder than before, she did not stir; her lips remained upturned in the ghost of a smile.

Finally, she had joined those she cared for, her heroes, once again.