A Push Forward
The days that followed felt like a slow, but necessary push toward something new, something unknown. Hermione had spent hours in the quiet of the house, lost in her thoughts, trying to sort through the constant swirl of emotions that seemed to rise with each passing hour. The house felt emptier now, even with the kids around, and there were moments when she was overwhelmed by the silence that settled between the walls. But beyond that, beneath it all, there was a pull—an urging to move forward, not for herself alone, but for Rose and Hugo too.
They were both growing, changing every day. Rose was becoming more thoughtful, more like Hermione in some ways, while Hugo’s unbridled energy still filled the house with life, despite the shadows that clung to him, too. They had both lost so much, and Hermione had promised herself that she wouldn’t allow them to be defined by that loss. They needed to see her rise above the grief. They needed to witness her taking steps toward a new beginning, even if those steps were small and uncertain. It was not just about her, but about them as well—her children, her family.
It was on a quiet morning, with the faint sound of birds outside and the cool light streaming through the kitchen windows, that Hermione felt her father’s voice echo in her mind. It had been years since she had thought of his words, and even longer since they had held any real meaning to her. But that morning, those words seemed to break through the fog of sorrow, crystal clear in her thoughts: “Grief is a part of life, Hermione. But life doesn’t wait for you to catch up. You have to move forward, one step at a time, even when it feels impossible.”
Her father had always been pragmatic, a man who valued resilience and strength above all else. Even after his passing, those words had stayed with her, lingering quietly in her heart. They were words she had taken for granted in her younger years, but now, in the quiet of her grief, they held weight. It wasn’t just about moving on; it was about finding a way to live, to find purpose, even in the face of loss. Move forward, her father’s voice urged again.
But it wasn’t just her father’s words that pushed her toward this decision. It was also the gentle, persistent advice from her healer, Dr. Eames. Hermione had come to those sessions with a mixture of reluctance and desperation, unsure of what healing even meant anymore. But Dr. Eames had a way of bringing clarity to things Hermione had buried deep inside her. During one of their more recent sessions, the healer had asked a simple, yet profound question: “What is it that you still want, Hermione? What is it that makes you feel like you’re living, not just existing?”
The question had caught Hermione off guard. She had no answer at first—no idea what she could possibly want after everything she had lost. But Dr. Eames had pressed on gently, encouraging Hermione to look beyond the grief and consider what it meant to live again.
“It doesn’t have to be big or immediate,” Dr. Eames had reassured her in her calm, even tone. “Sometimes, it’s the smallest step that makes the biggest difference. You don’t have to have all the answers, but you do have to keep searching for them.”
It was the smallest step that Hermione focused on, the quiet nudge that said it was okay to move, even if it felt terrifying. Even if it didn’t feel entirely like her yet.
One evening, after another long day of playing with the children, she found herself standing at the window, staring out at the garden. It was still, peaceful—almost haunting in its quiet beauty. The garden, once so full of life and laughter, now seemed more of a memory, a place where Ron’s presence could still be felt in the air, like the lingering warmth of the sun.
Her mind wandered back to the times they had spent together there, planting flowers, growing herbs, playing with the kids in the early evening light. The memories were sharp, vivid, but something had shifted within her. As she stood there, looking out over the quiet space, Hermione felt a realization settle in her chest. She was still here. She was still standing. The world had not stopped when Ron died. It had moved on, and in some small, unnoticed way, she had to move with it.
The next morning, as Rose and Hugo played in the garden, their laughter floating through the open window, Hermione sat at the kitchen table, staring at a blank sheet of parchment in front of her. The quiet was almost deafening as she considered the future. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed the intellectual challenge, the thrill of solving problems and using her skills for something greater. The quiet of grief had drained so much from her—her passion, her spark—but now, as the children grew more independent, she felt a call, a need to return to the world outside their home.
It felt so foreign, the thought of returning to work. How could she? How could she leave this house that had held so many memories? Yet, beneath the hesitation was something else—a strange sense of relief. She had spent years working for the Ministry, making a real difference. After Ron’s death, she had withdrawn from everything, focusing only on her children and her grief, but now—now it seemed like the right time to reconnect with the world, to find purpose outside of just surviving.
The thought of going back to her old role in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement crossed her mind, but she hesitated. Could she go back to that? Or perhaps research would be a better fit—something that allowed her to make a difference in a quieter, more personal way. The truth was, she wasn’t sure. The world had changed in ways she hadn’t anticipated, and so had she.
But there was one thing she was certain of: she still had the skills. Her mind was still sharp, even if her heart felt worn. She could still contribute, still help. She had the ability to make a difference, and that, she realized, was what she needed most.
Hermione took a deep breath, picking up her quill, and began to write. Her hand moved quickly, the words flowing from her without much thought.
There it was. She had done it. She had taken the first step—one small action, but a significant one. She sealed the letter, her fingers trembling slightly as she pressed the wax into place. It wasn’t a huge decision, but it was a decision. It was a declaration to herself that she was ready to begin again, to find her place in the world once more.
Later that afternoon, after sending the letter off with a trusted owl, Hermione stood in front of the mirror, brushing out her tangled hair. The reflection staring back at her seemed different somehow, less burdened, as though the simple act of writing that letter had lightened her shoulders just a little bit. There was exhaustion in her eyes, yes, but also something new. A flicker of hope, however faint. A realization that maybe, just maybe, she could find her way back to herself.
It wasn’t going to be easy. She wasn’t expecting a grand transformation overnight. But she was starting—just as she had promised herself she would. And that, for now, was enough.
As the evening shadows stretched across the walls, casting soft, golden hues across the house, Hermione made her way upstairs to check on her children. There was a lightness in her step that hadn’t been there before, a quiet sense of relief settling in her chest. The decision she had made earlier that day—to go back to work—had felt like a small weight being lifted from her shoulders. It wasn’t an easy decision, and the knot of nerves still lingered in the pit of her stomach, but it was the right one. She was moving forward, one step at a time.
When she reached the top of the stairs, she paused outside Rose’s room, her heart swelling with a mixture of love and gratitude for her children. She could hear the soft rustle of pages turning. Rose was seated at her desk, hunched over a book, her wild curls falling across her face as she read intently. The room was warm, filled with the scent of lavender and the faint rustle of the wind outside, and for a moment, Hermione simply stood there, watching her daughter.
The quiet comfort of the room wrapped around her, but there was still a sense of anticipation. She knew this moment was important. She had to share her decision with Rose first.
“Mum?” Rose looked up from her book, her big brown eyes reflecting a mixture of curiosity and concern. She could always sense when something was shifting in Hermione’s world, when things were about to change.
Hermione smiled, her heart swelling with affection for her daughter. Rose had always been so perceptive, so sensitive to the moods and rhythms of their household.
“I’ve made a decision,” Hermione said softly, her voice steady despite the nerves that fluttered in her chest.
Rose set the book down carefully, her full attention now on her mother. “What sort of decision?” she asked, her voice laced with that quiet maturity that was becoming more and more a part of her every day.
Hermione drew in a breath, her gaze meeting Rose’s as she spoke. “I’m going back to work,” she said, her words ringing with an honesty she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in a long time. There was no going back now. It felt right, this decision—it was what she needed, and what they all needed, even if it scared her.
Rose’s expression shifted almost instantly, her face lighting up with an encouraging smile that made Hermione’s heart swell. “Really?” she asked, her voice bright with excitement. “That’s great, Mum!” There was an innocence in her enthusiasm, an unburdened joy at the thought of her mother rejoining the world outside their home.
Hermione couldn’t help but chuckle softly at her daughter’s response. Her heart felt lighter just hearing that excitement in her voice. “I think so,” she said, her tone soft but resolute. “It’s something I need to do. I’ll be doing it for me, and for both of you too.”
Before she could say more, Hugo’s voice interrupted, a small and somewhat uncertain question hanging in the air. His innocent face peeked over the top of his sketchbook, his wide eyes searching Hermione’s face as he asked, “Does that mean you’ll be gone more?”
Hermione’s heart tightened at the question, the innocence in his voice tugging at her. Hugo had always been so open, so trusting, and the thought of him feeling unsure about the changes in their home unsettled her more than she expected. He was still young, and though he had been through so much, his concept of change was still shaped by the world around him.
She knelt down beside him, reaching out to gently brush a lock of his messy brown hair from his forehead. “Not more, love,” she said softly, her voice steady but gentle. “Just a little bit, sometimes. But I’ll always be here when you need me.”