Widow's Grief

By Polydicta

Warnings: Loss / Bereavement Character death.

Summary: Voldemort is dead, and so is Harry.


All fiction is derivative and fan fiction doubly so. I make no claim to own any part of any of the following, all I have done is an attempt to put together the elements in a novel fashion, using words and ideas like Lego ™ bricks.

There is no money involved – all I do is to share what I do for my own amusement.


Widow's Grief

She was to be found in the Gryffindor common room, always sat in her accustomed chair. At one time, she would be surrounded by her books and her friends, but now she sat alone, her tears falling unheeded as she turned the pages of the one book she now studied.

Here was a picture of him in their second year. And that same year, at the Valentine's Ball, the two of them together. She supposed that she knew by then, but they were still too young to understand.

Here, they were together by the lake during their third year. Now, holding hands as they waited to enter the Great Hall for the Yule Ball in their fourth year. How handsome he looked that night, and how radiant she.

Now there were instants grabbed during darker times. Fifth year, a visit to the Three Broomsticks, her birthday. The two of them laughing and him giving her a birthday kiss. A kiss that turned her soul inside-out. The Kiss.

Later that year, at the Yule Ball, where she had been dressed in white and he had asked her … the ring she wore was the one he gave her that night, a token of their promise.

Here was a picture after their OWLs, after the fall of Umbridge, but there was a mood of deep sadness to the picture. Although her heart sang, the last of his family had fallen to the Dark Lord. She had coaxed a smile from him with a whispered word.

Sixth year, and the edge of the pain had been blunted, if for a while. There were many memories here. Many pictures of them smiling together. Most of the book was filled with their sixth year. She reached the highlight of the year, and the pinnacle of her short life.

Easter break saw them wed. Her sad eyes lingered on these memories as she recalled their promise, handfast for all eternity. She had no regrets, as she fingered the wedding band she wore.

The memory of her wedding night still filled her with warmth, but it could not remove the chill of her loss.

Seventh year saw the ascendancy of the darkness. They had gone into hiding, and she had only her own memories and a few muggle photographs of that time. Even through the darkness they had been happy, their love outshining even the Dark Lord.

And then it had all come crashing down.

"Send out that half-blood cur Potter! Do that and I may spare you!"

The Death Eaters had demanded him, but Harry hadn't been inside the castle.

Dumbledore replied. "He's not here, Tom. He left last night. Don't worry, he'll be back to deal with you. He said at noon."

"I'm here, Tom Riddle. Come and get me if you can!"

The Death Eaters swung around, and there was Harry, on a slight rise outside the forest. She had been with him. They stood side-by-side, robes billowing in the noon-day breeze. The look on their faces had been electrifying.

Riddle rushed over to duel Harry. The two of them stood waiting.

"Potter, you are going to die."

"Riddle, you are already dead. Now you once demanded that we do this right, so let's duel properly. May I present my second, Mrs Hermione Potter."

Voldemort hissed. "And mine, Mistress Lestrange."

Harry hissed. Hermione knew enough parseltongue to recognise the word. "Prey!"

They bowed and duelled. At length, Harry cast a blasting curse that turned Voldemort to shreds, just as Bellatrix cast a killing curse at Harry. Hermione decapitated the witch with a well, aimed cutting curse.

And it was over. Voldemort was dead and gone forever, and Harry … Harry was gone too.

She had given him the strength to duel Voldemort, but in the end he had died also.

He mind was filled with one thought alone. He's gone!

And her life was over. She had barely begun, and it was over, her future turned to ashes.


They had interred him in a white marble mausoleum by the lake. She had been too distraught to be coherent through the funeral, the eulogies and the speeches. The pompous, stuffed shirts and the hollow words. He would have scoffed at them if he had been there, but he wasn't. He was gone.

At seventeen, he was a victorious hero, Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, the conqueror of the Dark Lord, and a corpse.

He was gone, and nothing would bring him back.

He had saved countless lives, but the only life that counted was his own, and together they paid the price. At not yet nineteen he was dead and she a grieving widow.


Her eyes bright with tears unshed, she haunted the castle. They had tried to corner her, to comfort her, to dose her with calming draughts, but the castle had conspired with her to keep them away. The only comfort came from Myrtle Smythe.

"He sent a message, Hermione. He's waiting for you."

It was then that the tears, held yet in check, began. Tears of sorrow, tears of loss, tears of inconsolable grief. The tears of a soul torn asunder. And yet, at no point did she accuse her lost husband, but in her anguish she cursed a world that had allowed such a thing to pass.

At last, her tears spent, she reached that pool of utter loss, a calm place immeasurably beyond mere despair.


She reached the end of the album. The last page bearing a wizarding picture of their wedding day. Just the two of them staring into each others' eyes.

Still carrying her book, she went out to the lake.


Morning found her still there, curled up beside her lover's tomb, still clutching her memories in her cold and lifeless hands.


The words that they wrote over her were simply these.

Hermione Jane Potter

September 1979 – July 1998

The Power He Knew Not