Conflicting Advice
The early morning light poured in through the curtains, a soft golden hue that filtered through the leaves of the trees outside, casting intricate patterns across the kitchen floor. It was a tranquil scene—one that should have been comforting, should have filled her with some sense of peace. But Hermione stood still, her hand resting lightly on the counter, her fingers absently tracing the rim of the mug that sat untouched before her. The steam from the coffee rose in delicate spirals, but she couldn't bring herself to drink it.
She had tried. She had tried to move forward, to push through the heavy weight of grief that had settled into every crevice of her life. But every step forward only seemed to lead her back into the same place, where the echoes of Ron’s absence reverberated in every quiet moment. She didn’t know what to do with herself anymore.
Her thoughts were a tangled mess of voices—each one offering advice, each one insisting that they knew what was best for her. But the more she heard, the more lost she felt. She could still hear their words, echoing in her mind, each one an attempt to pull her in a different direction, each one leaving her feeling more uncertain than the last.
“You’re so strong, Hermione. You’ll get through this. It just takes time.”
Molly's voice had been warm and reassuring when she said it, a comforting presence that reminded Hermione of her own mother. Molly’s hands had wrapped around hers, her touch soft, her eyes filled with sympathy. The words themselves weren’t wrong, but they felt so hollow to Hermione now. Time, everyone said, would heal the wounds. But time had passed—so much time—and still the ache in her chest refused to fade. If anything, it had only deepened, the wound left by Ron’s death still fresh, still raw, no matter how many days had gone by.
“You need to move on. You’re still young, Hermione, and you deserve happiness.”
Lavender’s voice had been bright, too bright, the words coming out in a rush as though she couldn’t wait for Hermione to take the advice and start fresh. She had spoken with a kind of eager optimism, her face lighting up as if suggesting a fresh start would fix everything. Lavender had even gone so far as to suggest a perfect wizard—tall, handsome, and employed at the Ministry. It had been absurd. Ridiculous. How could anyone expect her to even think about dating again? How could she possibly move on when Ron had been such a central part of her life, of everything? She couldn’t just forget him. The idea of being with someone else—anyone else—felt wrong, as though it would somehow dishonour Ron’s memory.
“Take your time, Hermione. You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”
Harry’s voice had been gentle, understanding. He didn’t rush her, didn’t tell her to let go or to force herself to do anything. He had been her constant rock through the storm, and the weight of his words had settled heavily on her chest. He understood her grief better than anyone, perhaps better than she understood it herself. Yet, there was something in his words that only made her feel more lost. Take your time? How long would she need? How long could she keep waiting for something to change when the world around her continued to turn? Her children were growing up, the house was moving forward, but she seemed stuck. Time passed, but it didn't feel like she was healing. It felt like she was just standing still while the rest of her life moved ahead without her.
“You should find someone, Hermione. It’s been years. You need to think about yourself, about what’s best for your future.”
Ginny’s words had been quieter than the others, spoken after dinner in a soft, almost apologetic tone. Ginny, the one person who knew how to speak to Hermione without pushing too hard, had still urged her to consider her own happiness. It had been an uncomfortable conversation, one where Hermione had felt a pang of guilt—like she was betraying something precious, something sacred about her love for Ron. The thought of moving forward felt like stepping on sacred ground that she wasn’t ready to tread upon. Yet Ginny’s words had lingered, too, like a shadow that followed her every step. Maybe she should think about herself. Maybe she should find a way to start living again. But how could she? Wasn't it too soon? Wasn't it unfair to Ron? To them?
Hermione's fingers tightened around the handle of her mug, her nails digging into the porcelain as the weight of it all pressed down on her. Each piece of advice, each well-meaning suggestion, only served to create more confusion. Each voice felt like it was pulling her in a different direction, leaving her feeling like she was standing at a crossroads, but unable to see which path would lead her to where she needed to be.
She sighed and took a deep breath, trying to focus on the quiet of the kitchen, the peace that should have felt comforting. The soft hum of the house settling around her, the distant sound of birds outside the window, the morning light creeping across the floor—these things should have felt grounding, but instead, they only made the emptiness of the house feel even more profound. Ron was gone. The space beside her at the table would never be filled again. The silence in the house was louder than anything.
Maybe I just need a sign, she thought, the words floating in her mind like a prayer, a wish she hadn’t realized she’d been clinging to all along. Maybe something will show me the way. Because right now... I can’t see it. I can’t find the way forward.
The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the silence, its steady rhythm a reminder that time marched on, whether she was ready for it or not. Her children would be awake soon, needing her to be their rock, needing her to be strong. She could feel the weight of that responsibility, like an invisible thread pulling her forward. She had to keep going—for them, for herself. But the question was: how? How could she keep moving forward when the road ahead seemed so uncertain?
The room suddenly felt colder, as if the weight of her thoughts had seeped into the very air. Hermione wrapped her arms around herself, instinctively pulling the sleeves of her sweater down over her wrists, as if the simple action could shield her from the sharp ache that seemed to constantly gnaw at her. She stared at the empty mug in front of her, its contents long since cooled, but still untouched. Her mind wandered again, replaying all the confusion, the uncertainty. The advice she had been given, all conflicting and overwhelming. She wasn’t sure which direction to turn, or if she even had the energy to choose one at all.
Just as she felt the stirrings of hopelessness threatening to take over, the soft sound of footsteps in the hall broke her reverie. A small, familiar figure appeared in the kitchen doorway—Rose, her wild curls even more untamed than usual, the tousled look of someone who had just rolled out of bed. The faint shadows under her eyes, though subtle, hinted at a restless night. She hesitated for a moment in the doorway, as though gauging whether it was the right time to approach.
“Mum?” Rose’s voice was soft, a quiet question. She wasn’t quite awake yet, her words still sleepy, but there was something else in her tone—an undercurrent of concern, a desire for comfort that Hermione had long given to her in times like these. Now, Rose was seeking it herself.
Hermione turned toward her daughter, a smile slipping onto her face even as her heart ached in response to the quiet vulnerability in Rose’s eyes. "Morning, sweetheart," she greeted, her voice warm despite the lump in her throat.
Rose shuffled into the room, her little feet padding softly across the wooden floor, the faint sound echoing in the otherwise quiet kitchen. She climbed up onto the stool next to Hermione with the ease of someone used to sitting beside her mother in this very spot, their space—together. As Rose settled, she rested her chin on her arms, folding them in front of her on the counter. Her eyes, still heavy with sleep, gazed up at Hermione with a mixture of curiosity and something deeper—concern. Rose always seemed to notice when Hermione’s walls started to crack, and this morning, her daughter’s gaze was sharp, perceptive.
"Are you okay?" Rose asked, her voice surprisingly grown-up for someone so young. It was a question that seemed far beyond the typical morning inquiry of a child seeking breakfast, and it made Hermione pause.
Hermione’s smile faltered for a brief moment, the façade of calm she had carefully constructed slipping just enough to remind her how much of herself she had been hiding away from her children. Rose was so young, but somehow, she always seemed to see through it all, even the parts Hermione didn’t want to acknowledge herself.
“I’m just thinking,” Hermione said quietly, her voice softer now. She reached out, brushing a stray curl from Rose’s face, her touch gentle and affectionate. It was a small gesture, but it felt like a lifeline—an attempt to steady herself, even if only for a moment. “Just... thinking about some things,” she added, not ready to reveal the depth of the questions swirling in her mind.
Rose didn’t press her. She simply accepted the answer, perhaps sensing that her mother wasn’t ready to share more. Instead, she turned her attention to the box of cereal on the counter, a small but familiar task that anchored them both in the present. It was something Ron had insisted they keep stocked in the house—something for the children to eat when they woke up early and Hermione wasn’t yet ready to face the day. Rose poured herself a bowl, the soft clink of the spoon against the bowl filling the quiet of the kitchen.
As Rose fiddled with the spoon, moving it around the cereal absently, she glanced up at Hermione again, this time her expression more sombre. "I miss Dad," she said, her voice quiet, barely more than a whisper. Her eyes dropped to her cereal, the spoon now still in her hand, as if the weight of her words was too heavy to lift again.
Hermione’s heart clenched at the simplicity of the statement, the raw honesty of it, and her chest tightened as she fought back the sudden surge of emotion. Her throat closed, and she found it difficult to swallow past the lump that had formed there. How could a mother ever be prepared to hear those words, especially from a child so young? How could she ever have imagined that Rose, in all her quiet wisdom, would already be processing the loss in such a way?
“I know, sweetheart,” Hermione said, her voice breaking slightly. She reached out, placing a hand over Rose’s, her thumb gently rubbing the back of her hand, trying to offer the comfort that she herself so desperately needed. “I miss him too. Every single day. More than you could ever know,” Hermione added, her voice soft, yet filled with an emotion she could no longer keep hidden.
Rose nodded, the quiet understanding in her gaze making it clear that, in some ways, she did know. She didn’t have the words to articulate it like Hermione could, but Rose had been living with this loss too. It was a quiet grief that seeped into every corner of their lives, shaping their days, even if it went unspoken.
The room was still and silent for a moment, the weight of their shared sadness hanging in the air between them. The sound of the spoon scraping against the bowl broke the stillness as Rose resumed eating, but her attention seemed to be elsewhere, her mind occupied with thoughts Hermione knew she wouldn’t yet share. For a moment, Hermione simply watched her, the gentle rise and fall of her daughter’s chest, the way she moved like a little girl still clinging to the remnants of childhood despite the heavy reality that had thrust itself into their lives.
“I wish he was here,” Rose murmured, the words escaping before she could stop them. Her voice was small, fragile.
Hermione’s heart cracked, and she didn’t know how to respond. What could she say that would make any of this feel better? What words could soothe the ache in both their hearts?
Instead, she pulled Rose into a gentle embrace, holding her tightly, as if trying to hold onto the last piece of something familiar, something they both had lost. “I do too, sweetheart. I do too,” Hermione whispered, burying her face in the soft curls of her daughter’s hair. In that moment, words were unnecessary. They were simply mother and daughter, holding each other in the quiet stillness of the morning, trying to navigate a world that no longer felt quite as it should.