It was a Wednesday morning, almost nine. The population of London shuffled through the streets on their own determined routes, newspaper in one hand, and coffee in the other. It was busy, and the noise would have been deafening to the poorly adapted ear. A car rolled over a puddle from the early hours of the morning, spilling water onto the sidewalk where it pooled around the post box next to a man.


But still, he watched her standing on the other side of the street, the letters he was about to drop into the post box still in his hand. She was trying to hail a cab, but was continually jumping out the way of water that was being splashed when tires rolled over puddles. She hadn’t changed much, still the bustling busy-body with the untamed and unnaturally large hair. She was too far away for him to get a good look at her face and she kept flicking her head back and forth, looking up and down the street. He wondered what she was doing with her life, now that the war was over. Married, maybe? Did it matter? Eight years since school had finished and he was thinking about her personal life...not where she had disappeared to.


She and the rest of the ‘Golden Trio’ had left Hogwarts two days before Christmas all those eight years ago to go and fight as the ‘good’ side of the Wizarding world. There were deaths, but the trio returned, battered and bruised, but alive. A year on and he had heard that one of them had disappeared, the girl. He hadn’t heard about her since. Of course, it wasn’t really supposed to be in his interest to worry about her, or even think about her. She was on the other ‘team’. She was his enemy.


That had become clear during the war, when he had found his father dead at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Almost instinctively, he had gone looking for the scar-headed Potter boy, not realizing that someone else had murdered his father. He found the four-eyed hero, curled around a girl, holding her body like a doll. It was a frightening scene; he had never seen so much emotion. Hidden in the shadows, he watched him cradle her flaming red head to his chest and cry. And then he left her, left her sprawled on the ground like some discarded rubbish. He just ran towards the sound of jinxes and spells being shot from every which way, screaming something murderous. That was when he saw it, a single white hair entwined between her robes. Fury beyond image blinded him, pain like one-hundred bricks being thrown at his chest, helplessness and fear that stopped him from moving. What was he supposed to do now? Everything seemed so worthless.


He thought they were going to leave her there, like his father. But then she came, tears coursing down her face and hands shaking. She picked up her body and carried her away. That was the last time he saw her, her hair bushier than ever, her eyes so red from crying. That night something inside him died, and no matter how hard he tried, he knew he would never forgive himself for letting her go.


Back on the street, someone was calling his name through the crowd. But he wasn’t listening; he was too caught up in his past, which was standing almost ten meters away. She was clearly recognizable through the dull colors of the passers by, red buses and few cars. She wore a pale yellow skirt that reached just below her knees, and a white blouse. A bag was slung carelessly over her shoulder, and she was gripping it tightly so that it wouldn’t fall. It didn’t look like she belonged there, as she clashed with everybody else’s black and grey. The funny thing was he wanted to talk to her. He hadn’t ever talked directly to her. Not once. The only words she had heard from him were insults; never a compliment or casual chat about the weather or Transfiguration homework. It would be terribly awkward if he were to run across the road, grab her shoulders, and ask her were the hell she had been. It would be more than awkward; it would be embarrassing.


Lost in thought, he hadn’t noticed that she had given up on the cab and begun to walk down the street, towards the park on the corner. He hurriedly followed, weaving through people coming the other way, continuing to watch her on the other side of the street.


How many more times could he say to himself that it was all a dream, a crazy, messed-up, frightening dream? It was too late to turn around, too late to let her walk away again. He slipped in a puddle because he was rushing. He must have looked like a fool holding on to the lamp post whilst trying to regain his balance. Blowing his hair from his eyes, he spun around, eyes darting back and forth. He’d lost her.


Again, because of his stupid actions, he had let her go. He ran a hand though his hair and realized he was still holding his mail; but the letters didn’t matter anymore. He let them fall from his hand to the flooded pavement, watching the names scribbled in black ink blur, and then fade. Looking up, he caught a glimpse of yellow out the corner of his eye. Thank god for the skirt.


He ran out onto the street, narrowly avoiding a car and two cyclists. She was walking into the park at a fast pace as if she was late for something. He scooted around a bin and jogged after her. Why on Earth he was doing this? He had no idea. Maybe it was the fact that after eight years he had not seen a soul from his past until today, or maybe because it was a soul he had believed to be dead.


“Hermione!”
He reached out and touched her on the shoulder.
The brunette turned her head to look at him with sapphire blue eyes and a smile full of perfect teeth.


It wasn’t even her.