Home Again
The house was quiet when Hermione stepped through the front door, the air thick with the comforting scent of parchment, polished wood, and the faintest trace of lavender from the enchanted candles flickering along the walls. It had been years since she and Ron had moved into this house—a modest yet warm home nestled in the heart of London’s wizarding district, close enough to Diagon Alley but just far enough for privacy. It had seen laughter and love, tantrums and tears. It had been theirs.
Now, it was hers.
She hung her cloak on the hook by the door, exhaling as she leaned against the wall for a moment, allowing the weight of the evening to settle over her. Her head ached, not from drink—she had barely touched the wine—but from the sheer exhaustion of enduring the countless condolences, the empty reassurances, the unsolicited advice on how she should move forward.
“Minerva?” she called softly.
“In the sitting room, dear.”
Hermione followed the voice, stepping into the warm glow of the firelit space where Minerva McGonagall sat in an armchair, a teacup hovering just above her lap. The former headmistress looked as poised as ever, though Hermione could see the exhaustion lining her face. She had been one of the few people Hermione had allowed close in the years since Ron’s passing—one of the few who never pried, never pressed, just was.
“I put the children to bed about an hour ago,” Minerva said, her voice softer than the stern tone she so often carried. “Though I suspect they’re still awake.”
Hermione let out a weary breath, managing a small smile. “Thank you for watching them.”
Minerva gave her a pointed look. “You know you don’t have to thank me, Hermione. Those children are family to me.”
Hermione nodded, swallowing past the lump in her throat. Minerva had been a constant presence in Rose and Hugo’s lives—offering wisdom, quiet comfort, and, when needed, the firm discipline that only a former Hogwarts headmistress could provide.
Minerva studied her for a long moment, the firelight flickering against the sharp angles of her face, making her look both formidable and weary at once. She had always been a woman of quiet strength, never one for empty reassurances or flowery comforts. That was what Hermione had always appreciated about her—their conversations were honest, free of the delicate tiptoeing others often did around her grief.
After a pause, Minerva set her teacup down with a soft, deliberate clink, her gaze never leaving Hermione’s. “How was it?” she asked, her voice gentle but expectant.
Hermione hesitated.
She could have said fine—it was the answer she had given all evening, the one people expected. It was easy, dismissive, and would allow her to avoid digging into the exhaustion that had settled deep in her bones. But Minerva deserved more than that.
“Tiring,” she admitted, exhaling as she rubbed at her temple. “Overwhelming.” She leaned back slightly in the armchair, the plush fabric doing little to ease the tension in her muscles. “Everyone meant well, but—I just wanted it to be about Ron. About him. Instead, half of them seemed more interested in whether I was ready to ‘move on.’” Her jaw tightened, frustration creeping into her tone.
Minerva’s lips pressed into a thin line, her expression darkening. “People can be thoughtless, even when their intentions are good,” she said briskly, though there was a note of irritation beneath her composed exterior. “They convince themselves they are offering wisdom, when in reality, they are only easing their own discomfort.”
Hermione huffed out a humorless laugh, tilting her head back slightly. “Lavender tried to set me up with someone.”
Minerva let out a sharp breath through her nose—not quite a snort, but about as close as she ever came to outright disdain. “That girl never could keep her nose out of other people’s business,” she muttered, shaking her head.
Despite herself, Hermione smiled—a real one, small but genuine. There was something oddly comforting about Minerva’s bluntness, a reminder that not everyone expected her to fix herself, to heal on someone else’s timeline.
Silence settled between them, but it was not an uncomfortable one. The fire crackled in the hearth, sending soft shadows dancing across the walls. The house, though filled with memories, felt momentarily safe.
After a moment, Minerva reached out, her fingers curling briefly over Hermione’s hand in a rare display of affection. The grip was firm but warm, steady. “Go see your children, dear,” she murmured, her voice softer now, laced with understanding. “They need you.”
Hermione nodded, swallowing past the sudden lump in her throat. “Goodnight, Minerva.”
Minerva inclined her head in farewell before standing with practiced elegance. With a graceful sweep of her wand, she retrieved her traveling cloak from where it had been draped over the arm of the chair. She made her way to the fireplace, pausing only to glance back at Hermione one last time before stepping into the green flames.
With a swirl of magic, she was gone.
The house was silent once more.
Hermione took a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds before exhaling slowly. The weight of the evening pressed heavily against her shoulders, but she pushed it aside. There was still one thing left to do before she could allow herself to collapse into bed.
She rose from the chair and made her way upstairs, the soft creak of the wooden steps familiar beneath her feet. As she climbed, she felt a quiet resolve settle within her. No matter how exhausted she was, no matter how drained, there was one place she would always find strength.
Her children.
The hallway was dimly lit, the sconces along the walls flickering softly, casting elongated shadows that swayed with each movement. The old wooden floor barely creaked beneath Hermione’s careful steps as she made her way toward her children’s rooms. The house was quiet now, filled only with the gentle rustling of fabric as the night breeze whispered through the partially open windows.
She paused at Rose’s door first, pressing her palm lightly against the frame before peeking inside.
The soft glow from a bedside lamp illuminated the room in golden hues, casting a warm contrast against the deep blue of the walls. Rose was curled beneath her blankets, a tiny bundle in the vastness of her bed, her fiery curls a wild halo against the pillow. But Hermione knew her daughter too well—knew the precise way her eyelashes fluttered, the subtle tenseness in her shoulders, the way she was just a little too still.
A small smile tugged at Hermione’s lips. “You’re not asleep,” she murmured.
For a moment, Rose didn’t move. Then, with an exaggerated sigh, she cracked one eye open before mumbling, “I almost was.”
Hermione chuckled softly and stepped into the room, moving with quiet grace as she lowered herself onto the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath her weight, and Rose instinctively shifted closer, the familiar presence of her mother a silent comfort.
“Did you have a good evening with Professor McGonagall?” Hermione asked, brushing a loose curl away from Rose’s cheek.
Rose nodded drowsily, her voice thick with sleep. “She let us play chess. I lost.”
Hermione smiled, gently smoothing the blanket over her daughter’s small frame. “She’s one of the best players in the wizarding world. Losing to her isn’t exactly a failure.”
Rose made a noncommittal hum, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment before she seemed to remember something. She blinked up at Hermione, her expression suddenly more alert, as though forcing herself to stay awake just a little longer.
“Did…” She hesitated, voice quieter now. “Did you have a good evening?”
Hermione stilled, the question catching her off guard.
She considered giving a simple answer, something reassuring. But Rose was too perceptive for that—too much her mother’s daughter to accept anything less than the truth.
So instead, Hermione let out a soft breath and reached out again, fingers ghosting across Rose’s temple as she tucked another stray curl behind her ear. “It was… hard,” she admitted.
Rose shifted beneath the blankets, small fingers tightening slightly around the fabric. “Did people talk about Dad?”
“They did,” Hermione murmured, keeping her voice even, gentle. “A lot of people had wonderful things to say about him.”
Rose was quiet for a long moment, her gaze unfocused as she stared past Hermione, lost in thoughts she was too young to carry. Finally, she gave the smallest nod, her expression unreadable.
“Good,” she whispered, as though that was all that mattered.
Hermione felt a familiar ache in her chest, but she didn’t let it show. Instead, she leaned forward, pressing a lingering kiss to Rose’s forehead, inhaling the faint scent of lavender and parchment that clung to her daughter’s hair.
“Get some rest, love,” she murmured against her skin.
Rose sighed, a sound soft and weightless, before rolling onto her side. Within moments, her breathing slowed, deep and even, the rise and fall of her small frame steadying into the rhythm of sleep.
Hermione lingered for a moment, watching the way the light from the lamp flickered across her daughter’s peaceful face.
Unlike his sister, Hugo wasn’t even pretending to be asleep.
The soft glow from his bedside lamp cast flickering shadows across the walls, illuminating the small stack of books still precariously teetering on the nightstand beside him. His blankets were tangled in a heap around his legs, and he was sitting upright, his small frame tense with restless energy. His brown eyes—so much like Ron’s—were wide and alert as he turned his head toward her, his expression unreadable.
Hermione sighed, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. “You should be asleep.”
“I tried,” Hugo insisted, shifting slightly to make room for her on the bed. “But I couldn’t stop thinking.”
Hermione settled beside him, the mattress dipping under her weight. “Thinking about what?” she asked gently.
For a moment, he hesitated, his fingers absently tracing the edge of the blanket as though he were debating whether or not to say the words out loud. Then, finally, he looked up at her, his young face solemn in a way that made Hermione’s heart ache.
“Mummy… I saw something tonight,” he said in a hushed whisper, as though sharing a secret not meant for anyone else’s ears.
Hermione’s brows drew together. “What do you mean?”
“There was an owl,” Hugo murmured, his voice barely above a breath. “A white owl.”
A strange chill settled over Hermione’s skin, though she wasn’t sure why.
“It was sitting on the windowsill outside my room,” he continued, his fingers tightening around the blanket now. “Just staring at me. But when I got up to look closer, it was gone.”
Hermione frowned slightly, searching her son’s face. “Are you sure?” she asked, keeping her voice gentle.
Hugo nodded without hesitation. “It was watching me.”
Something about the way he said it sent a ripple of unease through her, but she quickly pushed it aside. It wasn’t unusual for owls to perch on windowsills—especially in the wizarding world. It was probably nothing more than a messenger owl from someone passing through, or even a lost post owl looking for its way home.
Still, she forced a reassuring smile, reaching out to smooth his already-messy hair. “It was probably just a normal owl, love,” she murmured, brushing a few stray curls from his forehead. “Nothing to worry about.”
Hugo didn’t look entirely convinced, but exhaustion was already creeping into his small frame, his blinks growing slower, longer. He yawned suddenly, his body giving in even as his mind resisted.
Hermione pulled the blankets up around him, tucking him in snugly before pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead.
“Get some sleep, sweetheart,” she whispered.
“Night, Mummy,” he mumbled, his voice slurred with sleep.
She sat there for a long moment, watching as his breathing slowed, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. The worry in his face faded, replaced by the peaceful serenity of slumber.
Finally, with a soft exhale, Hermione stood, careful not to disturb him as she padded silently toward the door. But before she could step out, a sound stopped her. It was soft at first—just a faint rustling, a low murmur of a voice—barely audible over the steady pulse of her own thoughts.
She glanced over her shoulder, her heart skipping a beat.
And then, as if in some dream, she saw him.
Ron.
Standing in the middle of the room, bathed in the soft light spilling from Hugo's bedside lamp, his familiar, warm smile spread across his face as he leaned toward the bed. He looked exactly as she remembered him—tousled hair, his arms outstretched in a mockingly dramatic pose, his broad shoulders filling the space with an easy, playful energy that always seemed to defy the weight of the world around him.
He was singing.
A laugh bubbled up from Hermione’s chest at the sound, but it was tinged with something heavier—something far deeper. It was Ron's voice, deep and rough from years of shouting over the chaos of life, crooning a silly, nonsensical lullaby. Not a beautiful voice—far from it—but full of warmth and tenderness, the kind that made it impossible not to smile.
Hugo stirred in his bed, his small face scrunched up in confusion as Ron continued, never missing a beat, despite the disjointed and off-key notes.
“Oh, the wand and the broom, they fly through the night,
A dragon, a thestral, a broomstick so bright.
Hermione blinked, not trusting her eyes.
“They fly through the sky with a swoosh and a zing,
Come, little Hugo, come, let’s begin.”
“Wings in the wind, hooves on the ground,
The magical creatures are all flying round.”
She felt a rush of heat behind her eyes, a torrent of emotion she couldn’t quite name. The air felt thick, suffocating, as though she were seeing him for the first time in forever—alive and full of life, singing just as he used to, singing for their children. He had always sung to them before bed, not in any traditional sense, but in a way only he could manage, off-key and wild, completely without inhibition.
Ron had never been the best singer—no, Merlin, not even close. But that had never mattered. His voice was never the point. What mattered was the warmth, the joy, the love he poured into every note, his eyes sparkling as he looked at their children, a tenderness Hermione had never been able to replicate. She had always envied him for that, for how freely he gave his heart.
And now, as she stood frozen in the doorway, watching this fleeting moment, it felt as though the world had cracked open and let him through once more. She could hear the familiar rattle of his laughter as he bent down to adjust the covers around Hugo. Ron never seemed to care how badly he sang. He’d always insisted that it wasn’t about the music—it was about the feeling behind it, the love wrapped in every note, no matter how off-key.
Hermione’s chest tightened, and she wiped at her eyes, willing herself to take another step. But even as she did, the image of him—Ron, standing beside Hugo’s bed, his broad hands softly brushing through their son's hair—began to blur. The space between them seemed to grow, until there was only the faint echo of his voice, a memory reverberating through her mind like a fragile ghost.
The moment was slipping away.
She swallowed, willing her emotions to steady, but it was impossible.
Ron was gone. She knew that. She had known it for years now, felt the emptiness where he once was. But in this moment, she couldn’t help but feel his presence, as though he were here, in this very room, sharing in this quiet moment with their children once again. The absence of him—so vast, so overwhelming—suddenly felt so small in comparison to the weight of his love, a love that refused to fade, even in death.
Hermione slowly turned her head to face Hugo’s bed, but when she looked back, the room was empty.
Hugo was sound asleep, curled tightly beneath the blankets, his face relaxed in the quiet serenity of slumber. Ron’s shadow had disappeared. The music had stopped. The night had fallen silent once more.
A long breath escaped her lips as she stood there in the dark, her heart both full and aching. The lingering sense of Ron’s presence remained with her, impossible to ignore, and yet, so fleeting.
She wanted to call out to him, to tell him how much she missed him, how she would give anything to hear him sing like that again. But all she could do was press her palm against the doorframe, her fingers trembling as she fought to keep her composure.
The song—a simple, magical tune about brooms and dragons, stars and wings—stayed with her. It had never been a song of great significance, but tonight, it was the only song that mattered.
She stepped back, closing the door quietly behind her, and with one last glance at Hugo, tucked safely in his bed, she retreated down the hallway. The house felt both smaller and larger in that moment, the shadows of her past stretching out before her, mingling with the soft weight of her present.
As she reached the top of the stairs and looked toward the empty rooms ahead, she felt an odd comfort—a small, fragile peace—lingering in the air. Perhaps it was just her imagination, but for that brief moment, Ron had been here. And in his own way, he still was.