A Time for Tomorrow

The venue was warm, filled with the familiar scent of butterbeer and the faint, lingering spices of the evening’s catered meal. The Leaky Cauldron had been chosen for the gathering – a place that had seen Ron through so many stages of his life, from carefree childhood mischief to the late nights spent with friends, to the countless Ministry debriefings after missions as an Auror. The space had been magically expanded to accommodate the many people who had come to honour his memory.

The warm glow of enchanted fairy lights reflected off the low wooden beams of The Leaky Cauldron, bathing the space in golden hues. The air carried the familiar scent of butterbeer and spiced roast, mingling with the faint traces of old parchment and candle wax. It was comforting, in a way, but also suffocating. Every scent, every flickering light, every face in the crowded pub tied her to a memory of Ron.

Hermione took a slow breath, steadying herself as she stepped inside. The venue had been carefully prepared—George and Ginny had insisted on handling the details, ensuring that the evening was about honouring Ron’s life, not just mourning his absence. The Weasleys had always been good at that: finding the light even in the darkest of times.

A large enchanted banner hovered near the entrance, flickering between moving photographs of Ron throughout the years. Hermione’s breath caught in her throat as she watched.

There he was at twelve, lanky and freckled, grinning with his arm slung around Harry’s shoulder, both of them wild-haired and carefree. Then seventeen, his face flushed with triumph as he lifted the Quidditch Cup high above his head, teammates cheering in the background. At twenty-two, arms wrapped tightly around her as they danced at their wedding, his blue dress robes slightly rumpled because he had insisted they weren’t worth ironing.

And then, later images—Ron cradling a newborn Rose in his arms, staring down at her with a mixture of awe and terror. Playfully letting Hugo ride on his shoulders, his wide smile unchanged, his laughter frozen in time.

Hermione’s fingers curled into fists at her sides.

Always so full of life.

“Ah, Hermione!”

The voice came suddenly, warm and familiar, and before she could react, she was pulled into a tight embrace. She inhaled sharply, immediately recognizing the scent of lavender and old parchment.

Molly.

“My dear girl,” Molly Weasley murmured, holding her close, her hands gripping Hermione’s shoulders as if she could anchor her in place. The embrace lingered, filled with unspoken emotions, as though Molly could somehow transfer her own strength to Hermione.

Hermione stiffened.

She didn’t want to break, not here, not now. She could not break.

After a moment, Molly pulled back, holding Hermione at arm’s length, studying her face with worried eyes. “How are you, love?” she asked softly, her voice thick with the same concern she had held for Hermione since the day Ron was taken from them.

The words made Hermione’s stomach tighten. It was a simple question, one she had been asked countless times, and yet she still hadn’t learned how to answer it.

“I’m fine,” she replied automatically, summoning a small, polite smile. It was the same answer she had been giving for four years. The same lie. The same shield.

Molly’s brow furrowed slightly, clearly unconvinced, but before she could press further, another familiar presence appeared at her side. Arthur Weasley, his expression gentle yet solemn, reached out and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“It’s good to see you, Hermione,” he said, his voice warm. But then, his gaze flickered—just briefly—to her left, to the empty space beside her.

She knew what he was looking for.

A shadow passed over his features before he quickly masked it, his grip tightening for just a fraction of a second. It was an unconscious habit, this way the Weasleys looked for Ron even when they knew he wouldn’t be there.

Hermione swallowed, forcing herself to speak past the lump in her throat. “You too,” she managed, her voice softer now, the words nearly lost beneath the chatter of the room.

Molly gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “Come on, dear, let’s get you something to drink. Have you eaten yet?”

Hermione barely had time to answer before Molly was leading her deeper into the room, past old friends, Ministry colleagues, and extended family members, all of whom turned to watch her as she passed. Some faces were openly sympathetic, others hesitated before speaking, unsure whether they should offer words of comfort or simply acknowledge her presence with a nod.

She hated this.

The weight of their stares, the expectation in their eyes—the expectation that she should still be grieving, or worse, the assumption that she should have moved on by now.

The condolences came just as she had feared.

They came in waves—old friends, former colleagues of Ron’s, shopkeepers from Diagon Alley who had known him since he was a boy with gangly limbs and an infectious grin. Each person approached her with the same solemn expression, the same soft, measured voice, the same gentle tilt of the head as if she were something fragile, something breakable.

"You’re so strong, Hermione."

She had heard it before. So many times, in fact, that she had stopped keeping track. Strength. It was what people told her when they didn’t know what else to say, when they couldn’t fathom what it was like to carry the weight of loss day after day. Strength was a word used to make grief palatable for those who had the luxury of not living with it.

"He would have wanted you to be happy."

As if happiness were something simple. As if it were a choice she could make with the same ease as flipping a switch. The truth was, happiness had become something elusive, something fleeting, something she could glimpse in the laughter of her children or the warmth of an old memory, but never something she could hold on to for long.

"Time heals all wounds, dear."

Hermione resisted the urge to laugh at that one, a bitter, humourless thing that nearly escaped her lips. Time did no such thing. It did not heal. It did not lessen the ache. It did not magically patch up the spaces that Ron had once filled. Time only moved forward, indifferent and cruel, leaving her behind to learn how to live in the absence of the person she had once built a life with.

And then, the worst one—one that always managed to slip through the cracks, no matter how hard she tried to avoid it.

"Have you thought about dating again? You’re still young, after all."

She flinched.

Not outwardly, of course—her years in the public eye had taught her how to school her features, how to maintain that careful mask of composure. But inside, she recoiled, the words cutting sharper than they had any right to.

As if four years were enough to erase a lifetime of love.

As if finding someone else could undo the empty space in her bed, the silence in the house where his voice used to be, the ache in her chest that had become as familiar as breathing.

She forced a tight smile, nodding along as if she agreed, as if she hadn’t spent every morning for the past four years waking up to an empty pillow beside her and wondering if she would ever stop reaching for someone who wasn’t there.

And then, just when she thought she had endured enough, a familiar voice rang through the noise of the crowded room.

“Oh, Hermione!”

Before she could react, a slender arm wrapped around her shoulders in a too-familiar embrace, and the overpowering scent of perfume filled her nose.

Lavender Brown.

Hermione felt her entire body stiffen, the muscles in her shoulders locking into place. Lavender’s presence had always been effervescent, brimming with an energy that was both dazzling and overwhelming. Now, as she leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice just enough to feign intimacy, Hermione braced herself.

“You have to let me set you up with someone,” Lavender said, her voice thick with the kind of excitement one might reserve for gossip rather than delicate matters of the heart. “I know the perfect wizard for you—tall, handsome, works in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. And single.”

Hermione blinked, momentarily stunned into silence.

“I—”

Lavender waved a perfectly manicured hand, cutting her off before she could form a coherent thought. “I mean, I totally understand if you’re not ready yet, but, Hermione, it’s been four years.”

There it was again. That number.

Lavender sighed, tilting her head in an approximation of sympathy. “Ron wouldn’t want you to be alone forever.”

Something sharp twisted in Hermione’s stomach.

For a fleeting moment, she imagined reaching for the nearest glass of Firewhisky and downing it in one go. The burn of it, the raw edge, anything to counter the numbness creeping up her spine.

Instead, she exhaled slowly and forced another smile. “That’s… very kind of you, Lavender.”

Lavender beamed, mistaking Hermione’s response for encouragement. “I’ll owl you tomorrow!” she chirped before disappearing back into the throng of people, her mission accomplished.

Hermione let out a slow breath.

She needed air.

The walls of the Leaky Cauldron felt as though they were closing in around her, the heat of too many bodies pressing too close, the sound of conversation blurring into an overwhelming cacophony. The weight of condolences clung to her skin like damp fabric, suffocating and inescapable.

Without another word, Hermione slipped away from the thick of the crowd, weaving between groups of mourners lost in their own hushed discussions. She sidestepped another well-meaning attempt at small talk, offering only a tight-lipped smile before pressing on. Her steps carried her toward the far end of the room, where a large window overlooked the quiet street beyond.

The moment she reached it, she exhaled, long and slow.

The cool evening air seeped through the glass, meeting her flushed skin in a soothing contrast. She pressed her fingertips lightly against the wooden frame, grounding herself in the present moment. Beyond the window, the street was still. The gas-lit lanterns cast elongated shadows over cobbled stone, and for a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to imagine a different evening—one where Ron stood beside her, hand brushing hers, making some offhanded joke about how ‘depressing’ this whole thing was.

She closed her eyes, willing the noise of the gathering to fade into a distant hum.

"You holding up alright?"

The voice was quiet, familiar.

Hermione opened her eyes to find Harry standing beside her, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark robes. His green eyes studied her, searching for something beneath the exhaustion she knew she wore so plainly. He didn’t rush her for an answer. He never did.

She managed a small, tired smile. “You mean, am I about to hex the next person who tells me I need to ‘move on’?”

Harry let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Something like that.”

Hermione sighed, fingers tightening around the stem of the untouched wine glass she had been holding for what felt like hours. The weight of it was solid, grounding, though she had no intention of drinking. “I know they mean well,” she admitted. “But it’s exhausting.”

Harry nodded, his gaze drifting toward the window. “Yeah.”

Silence stretched between them—not awkward, but familiar, as comfortable as an old, worn-out sweater. They had spent years existing in each other’s silences, in the quiet spaces between battles and losses, in the unspoken understanding of all the things they could never quite say aloud.

Then, after a long moment, Harry finally spoke again.

“I still dream about him sometimes.”

Hermione’s breath hitched.

“Me too,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

She dropped her gaze, tracing the rim of her glass with an absent fingertip. Her pulse beat steadily beneath her skin, a quiet reminder that time had not stopped, that the world had not paused for her grief. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she murmured, “I saw him earlier.”

Harry didn’t look surprised.

Instead, he simply turned to her, his voice gentle. “What did he say?”

Hermione swallowed past the lump forming in her throat. She could still hear the echo of Ron’s voice, playful and warm, as though he had only stepped out of the room for a moment.

“That I look good.”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh, a sound tinged with both affection and grief. “That sounds like him.”

They lingered there, letting the weight of shared loss settle between them. No more words were needed.

Then, from across the room, Ginny’s voice rang out, cutting through the murmurs of the crowd.

“Harry, come on! George is trying to give a speech.”

Harry sighed, giving Hermione’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze before turning to go. She lingered by the window a moment longer, drawing in a deep breath.

Then, with practiced steadiness, she turned back toward the crowd.

George stood near the front of the room, a glass of Firewhisky in one hand, his other resting loosely at his side. The room had quieted considerably, all eyes now on him. Despite the years, the mischievous gleam that had defined the Weasley twins was still there, buried beneath the layers of grief and time. His face, usually animated with humour, was uncharacteristically solemn.

He cleared his throat. “Well,” he began, his voice carrying through the hushed space. “I guess this is the part where I say something profound.”

A few people chuckled softly.

George offered a wry smile before continuing. “But let’s be honest, Ron would’ve hated that. He never had the patience for sentimental speeches. Said they were ‘bloody awful and embarrassing.’”

More laughter, this time with genuine warmth. Hermione felt the corners of her lips twitch despite herself.

George’s expression softened. “But we’re here tonight because Ron—we all know—was sentimental. Just in his own way.” He gestured toward the floating photographs shifting above them. “He pretended to roll his eyes at Mum’s hugs, but he never pulled away first. He grumbled about family dinners, but he was the first to clear his plate and ask what was for pudding. He’d mock the rest of us for crying, but Merlin help you if he was the one who needed comforting—because he’d demand a full embrace, a pat on the back, and probably a drink afterward.”

The room rippled with quiet laughter, the kind that came from shared memories, from the deep well of love that Ron had left behind.

George’s voice grew softer. “Ron was the best of us. He was brave, yeah, and stubborn as hell. But more than that, he was good. He was kind. He made us laugh when we wanted to cry. He was fiercely loyal, sometimes to a fault. And if he were here tonight, I think he’d tell us all to stop being so bloody miserable and raise a glass to a life well lived.”

He lifted his own glass, his voice steady despite the sheen in his eyes. “So, here’s to Ron.”

A murmur of agreement swept through the room as hands lifted in unison, glasses glinting in the candlelight.

“To Ron,” the crowd echoed.

Hermione’s throat tightened as she raised her own glass, her fingers trembling slightly against the delicate stem. As the Firewhisky burned its way down, she felt something inside her loosen—just slightly, just enough.

George exhaled, setting his empty glass aside. Then, with a smirk that was almost familiar, he added, “Alright, now that that’s out of the way, let’s drink enough to make him jealous, yeah?”

Laughter rang through the Leaky Cauldron, a sound so full of life that, for just a moment, it was almost enough to imagine Ron laughing along with them.