The ending of an old year means very little to those who have nothing good to look for as the new one rings in.
This is how Hermione feels right now. What good is the new when it’s going to be as bad as the last? It is a question asked by many soldiers and civilians who live in times of battle and unrest. Blood flows just as quickly on the eve of the new year as it does at the end of the old. There’s no celebrations on a battle field, even if Hermione’s field is beautifully bright as the moon shines down on frozen fields.
Hogwarts is home no longer. Hermione is displaced; her life revolves around not a job, not a house, not a career, but on the edge of survival. A few moments of blood-pumping, heart-racing life when she’s on the battlefield and she screams her battle cry, a valkerie in tattered robes and tear-stained shirts, but when the dust settles and the last drops of life coagulate on the ground, life recedes into the murky waters of a tomorrow that currently doesn’t exist.
What good is a promise if you can’t live long enough to fulfill it?
This is the question that flees the body of a fallen warrior as its soul departs. Hermione’s living, but she doesn’t really feel alive. Loss of youth will do that to you, but that doesn’t make it any easier. What's the point of even trying, if you can't change a thing? No Death Eaters have been redeemed, no souls saved. It's all the same sick cycle.
It’s New Year’s Eve, but nothing feels very new right now.
Hermione is wandering around Hogwarts- is this still home? she’s not sure- aimlessly. She does that a lot now. It's a void of broken dreams and dead-end streets, and it takes a lot of will-power not to burst into tears and run screaming into the arms of the Forbidden Forest. Beyond the Dark Wood, there may be monsters, but they're not any worse than the memories Hermione sees in her dreams.
This is the fork in the road of hope and despair, and there are no sign-posts to lead the way. There never are. It is simply how life functions. Hermione has no light to read them, anyways.
Wither and yonder, she hears something she hasn't heard in ages. A soft, hooing noise. A creature, still alive. Flying towards her.
She looks up, wondering what kind of maniac sends messages in the dead of the night, so close to the death of a year (the death of everything you ever knew, Hermione). She wonders who's sending a letter, and who it's for. There are a lot of people in the castle, but only Hermione braves the bitter frost to take a jaunt around the school.
The owl touches down, and apparently, it's for her. Drearily, she wonders who sent it. Her parents know not to. Her two best friends are in the castle. Everyone else is dead or in hiding or just so damn far away that an owl would die before reaching her.
But, the letter is for her. Someone must be mad. She takes the letter and does the usual spells to check for hexes, jinxes, and butober pus. Nothing. Just a piece of parchment, an ordinary letter in the middle of a war. There's something slightly heavier than parchment in it; probably a rock that got caught in it somehow.
Hermione unrolls the parchment, turning away from the owl without a word. It flies off to the owlry, tired from its long trip. She begins to read the letter.
Dear Hermione,
How trite.
I hope this letter finds you soon. It's very cold here in Bulgaria, and the owls have to be exchanged every so often.
Viktor?
I am not going to write and ask you how you are doing, Hermione, because I know you probably aren't doing very well. I know it is not very good over here. It is always dark all the time. The sky is always dark blue, and it is just very depressing.
I am not going to tell you that life has been good here, because it hasn't been. The War is bad here, too, and so I am writing this by wand-light; it is very
Hermione sees several words blotted out, and she imagines Viktor cursing to himself as he tries to fix the words.
hard to write, as you may be able to tell. I nearly severed a finger with the quill, trying to write this. We use as little magic as possible. So I have been mostly trying to improve my English. I think that next time we meet, I will finally be able to say your name correctly. It is a very long name, but a pretty one, a pretty name for a pretty girl.
You are probably wondering why I wrote this, Hermione.
She nods, because why would Viktor write her?
I am writing this letter for many reasons. One, it keeps my fingers in circulation. I am sure that, even though you don't play Quidditch, you know it is very hard to catch a Snitch without fingers. So I am trying to keep them on, because I would like to play Quidditch after this war is over.
Two, I am writing you because I miss you a lot. I know we haven't seen one another since I left Hogwarts, but you have been in my thoughts and dreams, Hermione. My bunk-mates won't sleep in the same room as me because I often dream about the Yule ball, and apparently I dream about you trying to teach me how to say your name. It is a funny thing to dream about, but perhaps funny is good, when things become bad. It is one of my happiest memories.
Hermione smiles softly; she takes a certain comfort in that memory, when alliances meant nothing and her biggest fear that night was tripping over the hem of her dress.
Three, I am writing to you because I worry about you. Now, I know you are 'a big girl', as people over there say. I say you are a woman, but you know what I am meaning. I do not worry about you being hurt. No, wait, that is a lie. I do, but only because that's what men do over the women they care for. Worry, that is. But I know you are strong, and capable.
I worry about you because I know it must be lonely, and because the new year is coming so soon. And I know it seems like it is worthless. I often feel this way, but then I think about you. Hermione, you make me remember why I am fighting. Yes, I share your- ideals, I think they are called?- about blood prejudice. But, I think that if I had never met you, I would never have cared so much. Perhaps you do not realise it, but you have made me a better man, Hermione. Because of you, I have seen many new things and thought about life in ways I never did before. And you did not even have to try; that is simply who you are. I admire you so much for it. You draw people in and you make them think. But more importantly, you make them believe they can change things.
Hermione stops in her tracks, re-reading the last part. Viktor thinks this about her?
He admires her?
She changed him?
She can change things?
And so I am writing you, my Hermione, because I think you deserve something to smile about. I do not know if this letter will make you happier, but I am hoping it will. You can ignore it as the silliness of a silly Bulgarian, but this is how I really feel about things. I am not so good at putting it in words, but I am trying. Perhaps I need to study my English more.
Hermione laughs a little; his English is just fine, right now.
And when you go to sleep tonight, Hermione, please go to sleep knowing that I am thinking about you a lot. When it is dark and we can not use magic, I think about you, and I feel a little better. Please do not get yourself killed, because I would be so much unhappy with that. I imagine you would not be so pleased either, but you know what I am talking about.
Now she giggles, laughter warm and bright, golden bubbles that push their way into the night sky and take their place with the stars.
So I am sending you something small, my Hermione. It is not much, I know, but when all this damage is over, we will meet and I will make up for the birthday and the Christmas that I missed. Until then, I hope this is enough.
A small package, badly wrapped, falls into Hermione's mitten-ed hand. She slowly unwraps the thick, coarse paper around it, trying not to damage what ever is inside. After several moments of fumbling and a few choice words later, the paper falls to the ground.
It's a small rose- a rose bud, actually- that shines in the moon's shade. She holds it close to her face, and she sees the tips are gilded and the petals dew-laden.
It's not fancy magic, I realise. We can not do much here without attracting attention, but I thought you might like it. It is charmed so that it will no get old and wither. And when I see you next, it should bloom, if I did that right.
The rose petals shiver in the wind, and it shakes a thousand promises in her fingers.
I have not much time left, Hermione, so I will finish this letter now. I hope that when you read this, you are smiling, because I think you have a very nice smile. That is why I first really saw you, did you know that? I saw you smiling with your friend Harry, and I thought you had such a pretty smile to match a beautiful face. Because you are beautiful Hermione.
I am sincerely hoping that none of my friends see this, because they will make fun of me for being a romantic idiot. Maybe I am one. But, keep it close to you, Hermione, and I'll tell you how I made it when we can see one another again.
Love,
Viktor Krum.
Hermione smiled and shook her head; Viktor knew her so well that he'd guessed that she would want to know how to use that spell and where he learned it.
She pockets the letter carefully, folding it into quarters and sticking it in her back pocket. The rose she keeps in her hands.
There is a faint noise on the wind, and Hermione looks to the East. Bells are ringing, chiming in a new year and ushering out the old. She smiles, and starts back towards the castle, pleased because Hermione Granger finally has something to look forward to.
Fin.