Moving On…


People are always asking me why I continue it. They ask me why I just don’t give up; why don’t I realize that after all these years nothing’s going to change. I know that these people don’t truly know what it’s like to have loved and lost, so I don’t answer or just ignore them. I let these people simply go on wondering, because I have no need to explain to them what I do. I am not the kind of person who gives up so easily.


Yes, it has been many years, but I will continue to visit him every day, until for some reason I cannot, or until he is no longer there. The pain that consumes me when I think of either of these possibilities is so great that I try not to think about it anymore. It’s always there, at the back of my mind. This can’t go on forever. But that is no reason I should give up, or lose hope. After all, hope is the thing that has been sustaining me for most of my life, and I am not about to let it up.


I’m the cause of what he is now. The curse was aimed toward me, and I was the one who was too slow. I was the one who was nearly hit, so he was the one who had to cover for me. He was the one who was cursed, although every day that I have to go see his still body, for every day that I talk and I know that I will not hear his voice in return, every day I feel like I was still the one who was cursed.


I believe he can hear me. I tell him about my job, about my family, and about his family. I tell him about Harry and Ginny, who have had so many children that I can barely keep them all straight. And then there are the grandchildren, the cutest things I’ve ever seen, but I can’t bear to hold them. I can hardly bear to be around them, because they only remind me of the things that I’ll never have.


Of course, I don’t tell him this. I never let him know of any of the pain in which I live, in which I wallow everyday. Even though, there isn’t a person on earth who will tell me that he knows what I’m saying, I know that he does. When I touch his hand, it may be cold, still, and unmoving, but I know that he can feel it just as I can. I hope that he’s not too pained by the fact that he cannot speak back to me. I hope he doesn’t know what I have to live with, constantly, although I know he’s not stupid. He’s the smartest man I’ve ever known, although he never would have admitted it. It’s the least I can do not to speak out loud about my pain, although I’m sure he knows exactly what I’m feeling. He’s feeling it too.


I can still remember that day clearly, more clearly than I can even remember what happened to me yesterday. That’s what happens when you get older, I’m told, and though I am older, I don’t think that’s why I stopped remembering. I don’t think that’s why I stopped being my organized and efficient self. I think I stopped being me the day I realized that life doesn’t always go exactly as you plan, and there’s no amount of books, spells, and thoughts that can change that. It’s as if your life is written in the stars before you’re even born. It was written in the stars that I would fall in love, so deeply that I have never fallen back out. And it was written in the stars that I would live alone, right beside my love, but in truth, alone.


However, I’m not alone every time I close my eyes. When my eyes are closed, I can see him before that final battle, leaning toward me and telling me how much he loved me, asking me to spend the rest of my life with him. I can hear my tearful voice agreeing, and my hand still itches to brush the small lock of red hair out of his eyes. I can feel his lips on mine, though we haven’t kissed since that day. I see his stony face as we prepare for battle, his wand in his right hand and my hand in his left. And I can see them, the people that took him away from me, lining up toward us, ready to fight.


If you had asked me before the battle, I would have told you that we would all survive. Of course we would, because that’s how it was meant to be. Everyone of the Golden Trio would live happily ever after. But happily ever after doesn’t really exist, at least not for me. Sometimes, I think it would have been better if he really would have died, and then maybe I could have moved on. It’s impossible to move on when I can still see him, when I can still touch him, when he’s still lying on that bed, though his eyes are closed and his mouth doesn’t move. But I don’t think I would have found it possible to move on, even if he had died. He was my only love, my true love, and I would never let go of him.


People tell me all the time to move on. They told me long ago to get married, to have children and to be happy, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t be happy knowing that he was so close, that he might even be able to hear me. So I chose to live my life alone. Sure, I go to work, because work is the only thing that’s kept me sane for so long. All I have to do is spend my days worrying about the happiness of house elves and werewolves, of giants and merpeople, and then I don’t have to worry about my own happiness. And yes, I see Harry and Ginny sometimes, and their children, but seeing all those red heads of hair only remind me of the ones I never got to have. So I spend all the rest of my time with him, talking to him about meaningless things, but talking to him no less. I’ve spent fifty years talking, with nothing to which I can listen, but I wait for that day when we will finally be together, that day when I can smile at him and he can finally say my name.


“Hermione?”