"Hello, Harry."

"Oh! You're back again," he says as his expression—previously hopeful—falls.

"Yes, I did tell you I would be back every other day, for as long as it takes." Hermione moves slowly over to stand by the window, looking out – trying to avoid looking at him until he becomes accustomed to her presence. The window where he sat, so many nights, staring out at the castle grounds...if she looks closely enough, she can see the spot where his forehead pressed against the cool glass until it smoothed it. This window had always calmed him before, so it was no surprise he chose to remain close to it now.

"I just thought-"

"I know, Harry," she sighs. "You thought I might have moved on by now."

"You can't blame me for being concerned, Hermione. It's not healthy, the way you're lingering."

She slants a glare at him, but she could never stay angry with him for long. His disconsolate expression is enough to break her heart, if she still had one. "I brought you something." She indicates his small table where a little box now rests.

He did not see her bring it in, and now he leaps upon it, gleefully tearing away the simple paper and string it is tied with. But his shoulders slump once he sees the contents. "More pictures of dead people?" he asks her, his voice flat.

When she does not answer right away, he flings the photos onto the table, and some fall to the floor. They both look down to see dear faces: Fred, Remus, Colin, Tonks, even Sirius.

"I thought they might help-" she begins.

"Help how, Hermione? If they were able to help, they would have. But they've gone on – all of them. Like you should."

She shakes her head. Her visits always upset him, even though her intentions have always been to comfort him. She tries one more time to get through to him.

"I can't move on because you can't move on, Harry. It's been nearly a year now and you're still here, still holding onto the past. It's time to let go, Harry, please! For me." She searches his face for a hint of understanding, but there is none. Sighing deeply, she moves towards him, reaching for his shoulder. At the last moment, though, her hand falls away. She is unable to comfort him, soothe him, in any way that matters. "I'll never truly leave you, Harry," she whispers.

His features firm; he looks at her disdainfully. It is a foreign expression on his beloved face. They both wonder how it came to this. "Don't come back," he says coldly, and her world seems to halt on its axis for a moment. He maintains eye contact for only a few seconds before looking at his feet while studiously avoiding the pictures scattered on the floor.

"I can't promise that," she answers and runs from the tower room before he can see her tears. She won't heap that guilt onto him, too.

oOo

"Well? Any progress?" the Healer asks.

"None, I'm afraid," Hermione replies, sniffling and wiping the frustrated tears from her face.

"He still thinks you're-"

"A ghost, yes," she mutters, feeling helpless. "He barely looked at the pictures. Actually, they made him angry. If only he would realize..."

"I know it's difficult, dear," the Healer murmurs, patting Hermione's back gently. "But sometimes it takes years for the souls of the departed to recognize and accept that they haven't moved on. Give him time."

As the Healer returns to the Hospital Wing, Hermione leans against the wall of the dormitory staircase, her famous mind at a complete loss. A year ago, she and Ron and Ginny and so many others had tried everything they could think of to help Harry realize he'd died but that his spirit was still lingering here in the castle. After a month of futile attempts, most of the others had given up. It was simply too painful.

But not Hermione. She returned as often as she could, trying to convince Harry to see the truth of the matter. Still he persisted in refusing. It had gone on for so long now that hewas convinced she was haunting him. Bowing her head in defeat, she wondered if this was the totality of her life now: visiting with a ghost, trying to convince him to move on, when in fact maybe he was right, and maybe she was the one having trouble getting on with her life.

A/N: Written for the "Tentatively Titled" challenge on HPFC. The challenge was to write a Harry-centric one shot using three parameters. One is your given genre, or cliche. The second is a randomly selected word. The last is your title. My genre is Tragedy; my prompt word is Disconsolate (definition: one- without consolation or solace; hopelessly unhappy; inconsolable. Two- characterized by or causing dejection; cheerless; gloomy: disconsolate prospects.); my title is A Gift Tied With String.

I'm not overly happy with this piece, and I couldn't figure out a better way to finish it so I never submitted it for the challenge, but it was lying around and I decided to post it as-is so that it will stop glaring at me from my "unpublished" folder. I'm not JK Rowling and no betas were harmed in the writing of this fic.