---

I shivered yet again, standing next to the rain-stained glass window, wrapping my knitted, flannel, hot-pink sweater around myself tighter, despite the searing warmth in the living room.

I observed the abundant, heavy rain drops bash the window, and then swiftly roll off in a clump.

Outside, the weather was absolutely horrid; the barren, stripped trees were touching the soil pitifully, due to the wind's brutal, grating force.

The torrent gathered in murky puddles at the boggy, earthen ground, the clouds darted across the sky rapidly, and the various resonances of objects hitting each other as the wind picked them up and twirled them about could be heard occasionally in the rumble of the thunder overhead.

It was nearly spring; the flowers were thrusting up rebelliously from the frozen ground, but were promptly being pummeled by the cloudburst.

But I knew that they'd be there tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that.

Because they would never give up, as I had vowed to never give up.

Winter had vanished, it's dreary and drawn out days lost in the melodrama of a new season.

Picking up my mug of scalding hot chocolate gently from the window sill, I shifted away from the depressing sight outside.

I rejected stormy, rainy days, because they reminded me of the emotions I was enveloped by, every day and night.

There was no escaping these feelings; I suffered from them. It was not my fault, however, that they were inflicted upon me. No, I welcomed those emotions.

But sometimes, the work became too much and I was consoled in the loneliness of my flat when I apparated home late after work.

I sauntered over to the fire writhing in the fireplace, rubbing my hands together a second time.

Laying down my cup after taking a sip, I submerged myself in the comfortable folds of my red-and-gold, velvet couch, and selected a favored book.

The papers full of countless words bound by leather, however, sat unread in my lap.

Events of the past were tugging at my brain, and I couldn't help but to recall them.

It was a couple of months ago; though it seemed like years, that the last battle had commenced and then, concluded.

The memories of the whole case clawed at the back of my head, and I ultimately gave into them.

*

It was the dawning of winter when Harry amassed all the horcruxes, successfully destroying them, all except for one.

The final, and most important one - the seventh one. He knew where its, or rather his, whereabouts were.

The result was a war, a fight fiercely commanded and battled from both sides. It went without saying, that neither side was the lesser one, and both were equipped stupendously.

The Final Battle lasted a horrendously long, bloody week, and the statistics were staggering.

The victory, although noticed and noted, was quickly wallowed up in the wave of grief that followed:

Ginny was dead. She died at the mercy of her former Potions teacher, Severus Snape, who was killed in succession after.

Her death was swift, a trivial comfort. Ron, who was spared the painful knowledge of his beloved and only sister's death, had died too, killed by Voldemort himself.
Remus Lupin had died gallantly, as had scores of others, from both sides. Bellatrix, Avery, Wormtail, Malfoy…

But Voldemort had died, as well. That was the critical thing. He was the root of this whole conflict.

It didn’t make up for the deaths on our side, and never would, but for me, it was a celebration, albeit small.

I hadn't even finished my last year at Hogwarts! The battle had commenced at the very end of 6th year, just after Dumbledore's death.

The school never took up again, and I didn't know if it ever would.

I had had my cry a long time ago.

It had burned like fire in my sore throat, salty tears had streamed down my face, leaving damp trails in their wake.

I had sobbed uncontrollebly, hard, so hard I could scarcely breathe afterwards.

I couldn't swallow…my throat had compressed painfully. My throat was raw, my face tight from the salt, left over as the tears evaporated into the air.

I had fallen to the ground, limp. But those days were over. It was time to move on.

Yet, no one shared my views; no one listened to me. No one cared anymore.

Their jobs were just that - jobs. They didn't rejoice in the many diverse aspects of life as they should have, regardless of their extended period of grief.

It was hard, I'll admit that. But it had to stop; now.

Before things got out of hand.

Ron and Ginny and everyone else who died wouldn't have wanted us to live this way.

I was sure of that.

It was because of something that Ginny had said, before we had set out with our wands to join the ranks of grim duelers:

"Hermione, no matter what happens, I just want you to know that I love you, and I love Harry and Ron and Mum and everyone else. You guys were always there for me, all throughout those years. I want you to know that. Please don't be sad, Hermione. Don't cry. Everything will be fine."

I had a feeling that she knew she wouldn't make it through, then, when she left the Burrow, armed with nothing but a wand. Yet, she risked her life for us. For us.

And I owed her that, at least. I owed it to her and everyone else.

I owed them their happiness.

After the battle, each human being who survived had sort of died, within themselves.

They were depressed, viewing the world wrongly.

They saw something harmful in everything.

They didn't care any more.

"No, Hermione, that will never work. No, Hermione, it will never get better. No, Hermione, that's wrong. Everything's always wrong."

I always helped them out; I felt it was my duty.

I knew it would all end one day…one day very soon. There was no reason to mope around anymore.

Their lives were sifting through their fingers, like grains of sand, and they didn't know that. I supported them the best way I could: by showing them the right way.

I wanted them to see the bright side of things, but they never did.
But for every discouragment, I was strengthened even more.

And I was determined to try harder.

*

I felt a weird sensation in my ears.

It was quiet… too quiet. Leaping up, I glanced out the window.

It had ceased pouring.

The pitter-patter of the fat raindrops had ended, and a peaceful stillness had filled the residence.

Walking back up to the window, I stared at the scene outside.

The gray, flat clouds had parted, revealing a blazing, dazzling, light blue sky.

The oak trees had rectified themselves, sitting atop the dark earth proudly and unbent.

The puddles were still there, but they reflected the sun's rays shining so marvelously from the heavens.

But it wasn't those spectacular features of my backyard, nor the happy feeling that was gathering in a place near my heart.

It was a flower.

Standing right in the center of the yard.

It was a narcissus, rooted idly in the middle of its' peers, who were unabashedly clinging to the ground, defeated by something as simple as hard rain.

The flower's leaves were erect and at attention.

The narcissus' glittering petals were twisted toward the sun, the white veins inside it seeking out the sun's intoxicating warmth.

Drops of rain that had fallen earlier were slipping easily, without effort, off it's waxed, green, luscious leaves. Teardrops were gathering at the tips of the soddy leaves, gently dripping down to the earth below. They reflected the sun's light, making it seem that every time a raindrop fell, it looked like a pearl made out of gold.

But that wasn't it's best quality. No, not at all.

The thing that amazed me the most was the fervor, emotion and comfort that the flower held.

It was the only brilliant, beaming thing standing in the bleak, gray aftermath of the storm.

It emitted a warmth, a happy feeling. It was so contented, regal, so proud!

I smiled at it joyously.

And at that point, I was assured everything would turn out just fine.