The Implications of Forever

Draco

5 years.

It had been 5 years since Hermione Granger attended the wedding of the man she loved, and people were beginning to ask questions.

"Where have you gone, Hermione?"

"Why haven't you returned yet?"

"Why did you leave?"

"Aren't you tired of being alone?"

Of course, no one could ask her questions directly, since none of her friends truly knew where she'd gone. The quaint little home Hermione had found upon her return to Italy was far enough away from the rest of the Wizarding World that Hermione could make her best attempt at recovery without seeing them everywhere she looked. No, instead, people pestered her, the old fashioned way, with parchment and ink.

The letters were overwhelming at first. From Ron, from Harry, from Ginny and Molly and the plethora of Weasleys who were left after the war. Always addressed to 'Mione or Hermione. Always asking how she'd been; how she was fairing all alone; how soon she would be coming back. Sometimes Hermione didn't respond for weeks, she would let the envelopes form a large pile on her counter like leaves in the fall. Other times she would rip open the envelopes, disregarding the intricate designs stamped on their wax seals, simply thankful to read something new. The letters were refreshing at times, and devastating at others. Good news, bad news, annoying life updates she would rather not have known. And questions. So many questions.

Ginny had gotten married– another war hero fallen victim to the clutches of an evil Slytherin. The Prophet didn't like that one like they had Harry's marriage– Ginny had once sent a snippet of Rita Skeeter's rant about ex-Death Eaters worming their way into redemption. Pansy Parkinson– now Pansy Parkinson-Weasley– would sometimes add little notes at the bottom of Gin's letters, only condescending enough to be passed as a joke.

Stay safe Granger, the world is expecting the Golden Girl to return in one piece.

Ron, on the other hand, had not married. In his letters, he spoke about waiting for her, wanting to see her face-to-face for closure– and how he missed her more than she could ever know. But in Molly's letters, Ron appeared to be shagging the entire female population of Britain.

He's using that war hero title a little too much, Hermione. I wish you would come back.

Molly had cancer. Her handwriting grew more illegible as the years passed.

Harry sent letters too. Hermione couldn't muster the strength to read them fully, but she hated herself for that. They were always about his little family– how great Draco was with Teddy Lupin. How happy he was. His new promotion at the ministry– he was head auror now. They were thinking about finding a surrogate– they wanted to try for a kid of their own. Hermione's heart always sank a little more as she read, because she knew Harry was so happy. She couldn't bring herself to ignore him or to tell him the truth.

So Hermione would respond with minor details about her life. She'd grown a garden– her roses were now invading the place she'd designated for petunias and she couldn't find a non-magical way to solve it. She avoided magic at all costs, but she never included that in the letters. When she first moved, she'd dyed her hair blonde and gotten it permanently straightened with the money she brought from home. That lasted her about half a year– the amount of time she had truly planned to stay– but once she started running low she had to start looking for a muggle job. She'd gotten an interview at a little muggle bookshop, and by rambling about her love of books, the little old man who ran the place said he just had to hire her. He would bring her hot chocolate on Sundays and let her browse the shelves, though she would never buy a book. She only made enough to pay her rent and buy her groceries. She'd try her best to read at work, but she could never finish a novel because by the time she reached rising action in the story, a rush would hit and she'd be forced to help customers instead. Often someone would request to purchase the book she was reading, and she couldn't say no. Thus, the little bookshelf Hermione had built at home was sad and empty, but she read the few books she'd brought along from home over and over. Harry would always offer to send money– but she refused to tell him the currency she needed. She knew they would find her eventually if only they knew where to look.