The small grove where he had been laid to rest was overgrown now.

After all the funerals, and the trials were over, after all the stories had been told a million times, and even the children had grown tired of them, the ‘heroes’ of their war were forgotten. It had only been seven years, and already they were forgotten.

Hermione sometimes wondered if she was the only one tormented with nightmares and haunted with regret. They say that every life contains at least one regret. Severus Snape was Hermione’s.

Every year she came here, just before dawn on the first of May, and she sat, and waited for the sun to rise, feeling guilty at the comfort of its warmth against her skin. He had never seen the dawn on that last morning of his life. It had been denied him because she had been too stupid, or too selfish, or worst of all, too blind, to find a way to save him. She had walked away, leaving him alone.

She would answer for it someday, of that she was certain, but until then she would keep her vigil.

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Hermione Granger and Severus Snape belong to J.K. Rowling.