Disclaimer: Me no own. Me is poor. JKR makes all the money. "Gone Away" is sung by The Offspring. Their label owns the music, and there fore makes all the money on that.

A/N: I just finished all four books, and this is my first HP fic. And it's also my first song fic. I am very new to the HP fandom, and for some reason, I was listening to the song 'Gone Away', and this popped into my head. I am sure similar fan fic ideas have been done to this type of scenario, so I'm sorry about the lack of originality. However, there are no new stories, just new ways to tell them... (someone famous said that, right?)

Summary: Harry Potter reflects.


Harry Potter took a deep breath of the frosty night air and shut his eyes tightly. God, how he missed her. Even now, ten years to the day after her death, he could see her vividly in his mind. The way her beautiful chocolate eyes lit up when she figured out an especially tough problem. The way her long brown hair swirled around her face when the breeze would catch it. How her lips would curve warmly in greeting when she saw him. The sound of her husky voice as it spoke his name.

She died so young, and so terribly. She was only eighteen, for heaven's sakes. No one should die that young. She had so much life in her, and her future had promised to be spectacularly brilliant.

In the ten years since that horrible day, Harry would have gladly welcomed death. He couldn't bring himself to take his own life; that would be a betrayal to her - after all, she had died to save him. But in death, he would be with her - whether or not there was anything as fancy as heaven. They would be together in death. He gave a small smile that could have easily been mistaken for a grimace. God knows that he had ceased living the moment she took her last breath.

(Maybe in another life

I could find you there

Pulled away before your time

I can't deal, it's so unfair)

Harry opened his eyes and took another breath, relishing it as the cool midnight air punished his lungs. The night was so cold, just like him, he thought. Cold. He was cold now. Constantly cold. The world continued to move without him, people continued to laugh, to love, to hurt, to feel. He didn't feel anymore. He hadn't felt in a long time. The day Valdomort had killed her, he had ended Harry's life. He hadn't talken to Ron since her funeral, and he had no desire to. Harry only brought death to those he cared about. Those he loved.

God knows he had loved her. If there was such a thing as miracles, at least he had been able to tell her that. They had been able to spend a precious few, achingly short days together in the knowledge of their mutual love. Those were the happiest moments of Harry's life. She accepted him unconditionally, and had loved him with everything she had.

And ultimately died for that love.

(And it feels

And it feels like

Heaven's so far away

And it feels

Yeah it feels like

The world has grown cold

Now that you've gone away)

He knelt down and propped the white roses he held against her headstone. White, because white meant good. Pure. Heaven knows that she had been the only good and pure thing in his life.

However, in the middle of the white flowers sat one lonely black rose. That was one was for him. Black represented bleakness, hopelessness and despair. All the things that Harry felt before he had met her, before she surrounded him with her beauty.

And black represented everything he was ever since the night she died. Lifeless, joyless and so cold.

He curled his fingers up into a tight fist as a lump formed in his throat. Damn it! If only they hadn't met. If only she could have loved someone else. If only he could have loved someone else, then Valdomort wouldn't have known that the best way to hurt Harry was through her.

Standing up abruptly, he turned his face toward the sky and held out his hands, as if he were beckoning her to come to him from the heavens above.

"HERMIONE!" he shouted, somewhere deep inside hoping that if he yelled loud enough, she would hear him, crossing the invisible line of the present and the afterlife.

Why couldn't have Valdormort have just killed him instead? Why?

(Leaving flowers on your grave

Show that I still care

But black roses and Hail Mary's

Can't bring back what's taken from me

I reach to the sky

And call out your name

And if I could trade, I would)

A lone teardrop rolled down his cheek, but Harry didn't even feel it. He was too cold. Too damn cold. That single tear fell to the earth, mingling in with the grass and the dirt, where six feet under lay her body.

He sank to his knees once again and lowered his head, bringing his hand up to bury his face in it.

"I'm sorry, Hermione. I am so sorry. It should have been me, not you. Never you," he whispered brokenly.

He had no idea how long he sat there, unmoving - barely even breathing. This was the closest he could get to her. The closest he could get to the way things once were. He didn't want to leave, as if leaving her would reinforce the finality of her death - even after ten years. It was quite odd, the tombstone before him should have done that, but in a strange way, just knowing that this was where resting was the most comfortable place for him.

Maybe because he knew it should have been himself beneath the earth's surface, and not her. Or maybe because in some sick way it was the closest he could physically get to her.

Finally, he stood to leave. He didn't bother brushing the dust off his slacks or cloak. Things like that didn't matter to him. Nothing mattered. Nothing had mattered for the past ten years. Nothing but her.

"I love you, Hermione. See you tomorrow," he promised softly.

He turned away from her grave, and faced another cold and restless night without Hermione.

Faced another night alone. So alone.

(And it feels

And it feels like

Heaven's so far away

And it stings

Yeah it stings now

The world is so cold

Now that you've gone away)



I hope that didn't suck. Please R & R!