Chapter 1
Hermione Granger stood before the tall, gilded mirror in her bedroom, smoothing down the fabric of her deep navy-blue dress with careful, measured strokes. It was a simple yet elegant choice, one that neither demanded attention nor invited pity. The colour was deliberate—too dark to be festive, too subdued to be mistaken for mourning. It spoke of quiet dignity, of resilience, of the careful balance she had spent the past four years perfecting. She had spent far too much time considering what to wear tonight, standing in front of her wardrobe, fingertips grazing one dress after another, each carrying its own memories, its own ghosts.
Would black be too much? Would soft colours make it seem as though she had moved on too quickly?
Her chest tightened at the thought. As if moving on were even possible.
The moment she stepped out of this house, she knew exactly what would happen. Every glance sent in her direction, every hushed whisper at the gathering, would be laced with expectation. Some would pity her, some would judge her. A few—always well-meaning—would ask if she had considered dating again, their words carefully phrased but their intent transparent. Others would reminisce, filling the air with stories of Ron’s laughter, his larger-than-life presence, and the way he could make any room feel a little warmer.
Four years.
She exhaled sharply and gripped the edge of her dressing table to steady herself.
Four years had passed since Ron had been taken from them. Four years since the last words he had spoken to her had been a hurried, "I'll be home soon," followed by a fleeting, absentminded kiss on her cheek. A promise. A habit. A moment so ordinary that she had barely registered it at the time.
He hadn’t come home.
The weight of that truth had never lessened, only settled deeper into her bones, an ache that had become a part of her. Some days, it felt like another life—a cruel nightmare she had woken from, only to find herself trapped in a reality she could not change. Other days, it felt like yesterday.
Tonight was meant to be a Celebration of Life—that’s what George had insisted upon, his voice bright with forced cheerfulness when he had first suggested it. "We need to remember Ron for the way he lived, not the way he left," he had said, his words wrapped in the same determination he had clung to for years, as if keeping his brother's memory alive with laughter could somehow lessen the pain of his absence.
But Hermione wasn’t sure she could celebrate anything.
She reached for a delicate silver bracelet resting in the small velvet-lined box on her dressing table. It was simple yet elegant, with a single charm—a tiny, engraved "R" that dangled lightly against her wrist whenever she moved. Ron had given it to her on their tenth wedding anniversary, pressing it into her palm with that boyish grin of his, the one that had always made her heart race.
"I know you’re not big on jewellery, 'Mione," he had said, nudging her playfully. "But this… well, this is small enough that you won’t complain, and sentimental enough that you won’t take it off."
She had laughed then, rolling her eyes, but the truth was—he had been right. She had worn it every day after that, running her fingers over the charm absentmindedly whenever she needed comfort. It had become second nature, like the feeling of his presence beside her at night or the warmth of his hand in hers.
Her lips trembled at the memory, but she pressed them together and fastened the bracelet around her wrist with practiced ease.
Then she hesitated.
A strange wave of guilt surged through her chest, sudden and suffocating.
Why did something as simple as wearing an old gift feel like clinging to the past, like an anchor holding her in place? And yet, choosing not to wear it felt like erasing a piece of him, as if each small choice she made that distanced her from the life they had shared was a betrayal.
Her fingers lingered over the cool silver links, her breath uneven. The weight of the bracelet on her wrist felt heavier than it should have, as if it carried the years of love and loss within its delicate design. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to steady her breathing.
“You look good.”
The voice was soft but rich with fondness, laced with that casual effortless charm that had once made her roll her eyes even as she secretly adored it.
Her breath hitched.
And there he was.
Ron stood just a few feet behind her, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers, a crooked grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. His hair was the same vibrant red, just as messy as ever, sticking up in places where it had no business doing so. His blue eyes crinkled with quiet amusement as he studied her the way he always had when he caught her overthinking something.
“You really do look good, ‘Mione,” he said softly, his gaze sweeping over her, “You always think too much. Just breathe, yeah?”
She wanted to step closer, to reach for him, to press her hands against his chest and feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palms. But she didn’t move. She knew, deep down, that if she did – if so much as blinked – he would disappear.
Her throat tightened. “I miss you,” she whispered, her voice barely carrying past her lips.
Ron’s expression softened. “I know.”
It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.
But just for this one fleeting moment, it felt like he was still here.
Then–
A knock at the door startled her.
"Mum?" Rose’s soft voice carried through the wood, soft and hesitant.
Hermione startled, her body tensing as if waking from a dream. She blinked rapidly, her vision blurring at the edges.
When she turned back toward the mirror, the space where Ron had stood was empty.
Her chest ached with the loss all over again.
Hermione inhaled deeply before responding, "Come in, sweetheart."
The door creaked open, revealing her daughter standing hesitantly in the doorway. Rose, now twelve, had grown so much in these past years. She was tall for her age, with long, auburn curls that always seemed a little wild no matter how much Hermione brushed them. But it was her eyes—Ron’s eyes—that always caught Hermione off guard. Tonight, those bright brown eyes studied her carefully.
"You look nice," Rose said tentatively, stepping inside.
"Thank you," Hermione murmured, smoothing her hands over the fabric of her dress again, as if seeking reassurance.
Rose hesitated before adding, "Are you okay?"
Hermione swallowed hard. Her daughter was perceptive. She always had been.
"I'm…" She almost said fine, but the word felt dishonest. "It's just a hard day."
Rose nodded, stepping closer. "I miss him too."
Hermione’s breath hitched, but she gave her daughter a small smile, pulling her into a gentle embrace. "I know, love."
A second knock interrupted the moment, and this time, Hugo peeked in. At eight years old, he was still small, still carrying the roundness of youth in his cheeks. He was holding a half-eaten chocolate frog, his other hand gripping a book tightly against his chest.
"Are you going to be gone long?" he asked, his tone casual, but Hermione recognized the nervous flicker in his eyes.
"Not too long," she reassured him. "Professor McGonagall will be here soon. She’ll stay with you and Rose until I get back."
Hugo’s brows furrowed slightly. "Minerva," he corrected. He had taken to calling her by her first name after she'd insisted they drop the formalities.
Hermione smiled faintly. "Yes, Minerva."
Hugo wandered further inside and climbed onto her bed, flipping absentmindedly through his book. Rose sat beside him, casting occasional glances at their mother, as if watching for signs that she might break.
"I’ll be okay," Hermione promised them, though she wasn’t sure if she was trying to convince them or herself.
She turned back to the mirror, checking her reflection one last time. The woman staring back at her looked tired, older than her forty-one years. There were faint lines at the corners of her eyes, strands of silver woven into her thick brown curls. Her face held the kind of exhaustion that sleep didn’t fix. But there was also strength.
She had survived.
The sound of the Floo Network igniting downstairs signalled Minerva’s arrival.
"That’ll be Minerva," Hermione said, forcing herself into motion. She kissed Hugo’s forehead and squeezed Rose’s hand before heading downstairs.
Minerva McGonagall stood in the living room, her sharp eyes softening as she took in the sight of Hermione. She was dressed in her usual emerald robes, and her hair, streaked with silver, was neatly pulled into a bun.
"You look lovely, my dear," she said kindly.
Hermione managed a small smile. "Thank you for coming."
Minerva waved a dismissive hand. "Nonsense. It’s my pleasure to spend time with these two," she said, nodding toward the children, who had followed Hermione downstairs.
Rose beamed, while Hugo nodded solemnly, already settling into one of the armchairs with his book.
Minerva leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. "Are you certain you're up for this?"
Hermione hesitated for the briefest of moments. No, she wasn’t sure. But she had to go. She owed it to Ron—to their friends, to their family.
"I’ll be fine," she answered, more confidently this time.
Minerva studied her for a long moment before giving a small nod. "Very well. But if you need an escape, I’ll be ready with an excuse for an early exit," she said, eyes twinkling knowingly.
Hermione let out a soft chuckle. "I’ll keep that in mind."
With one last glance at her children, Hermione grabbed her cloak, fastened it around her shoulders, and stepped toward the fireplace.
She took a deep breath, threw a handful of Floo powder into the flames, and stepped inside.
"The Leaky Cauldron," she said clearly, and in a flash of green fire, she was gone.