A Time for Tomorrow

The warm breeze of early spring swirled around the garden, carrying with it the promise of new beginnings. The scent of freshly bloomed flowers mixed with the rich, earthy aroma of damp soil. It was the kind of morning that invited remembrance—a moment of quiet contemplation that felt suspended in time, perfect for the small ritual Hermione had promised herself and her children they would honour every year.

Today was Ron’s birthday. A day that, in another life, would have been filled with his laughter, his teasing, his easy warmth. A day when the house would have been full of noise and chaos, with him joking about his age, sneaking extra pieces of cake, and making exaggerated claims about how he was still the same cheeky, young man he’d been when they first met. But four years had passed since that day, and the house was quiet now, the space where he should have been filled with only the echoes of what once was.

Hermione stood outside, the sun on her back and the scent of grass and wildflowers in the air, holding the strings of three balloons—one for each of them. There was a pale lavender balloon for herself, the colour she always associated with Ron’s calming presence, a soft blue one for Hugo, and a warm yellow one for Rose. They were all different, but each represented a memory, a love, and a promise.

She glanced down at the balloons, the smooth plastic glimmering under the sun’s warm rays. It was hard to believe that four years had passed since Ron’s sudden departure. Four years of navigating life without the man who had been her rock, her partner in all things. His absence felt like a constant ache—a dull, unshakable pain that never seemed to go away, no matter how much time passed. He wasn’t just gone from her life; he was gone from the lives of their children too, and that realization stung every time.

Hugo stood beside her, a small, six-year-old boy with his hair wild from running around the garden, his little fingers gripping the string of his own balloon. The soft blue balloon bounced slightly in the wind, as if it had a mind of its own, eager to float away. Hermione’s heart swelled at the sight of him. Despite his young age, he had known loss. He had felt the absence of his father, the emptiness in their home when Ron had been taken so suddenly. And yet, Hugo had grown, not into the sad, withdrawn child Hermione feared he might become, but into someone resilient and full of warmth. He had Ron’s smile, the same twinkle of mischief in his eyes. Even now, as he stood by her side, there was a quiet strength in him—something that reminded Hermione so much of his father.

Rose, who was now twelve, stood a little farther away, her hand holding the yellow balloon delicately, her eyes soft with emotion. Her gaze was distant, unfocused, as if she were looking past the garden, past everything, to a time when things had been different. Hermione knew this ritual was just as important to Rose as it was to her. Even though Rose had been only seven when Ron passed away, she still carried his memory with her in small, private ways—her laughter often reminding Hermione of his, or the way she would sometimes fold her clothes just the way Ron had, as though he were still there to show her how. There were moments, fleeting but real, when Hermione caught glimpses of Ron in Rose—his stubbornness, his humor, his ability to make even the most mundane things feel magical.

“Are we ready?” Hermione asked softly, her voice carrying just enough for them both to hear. Her heart fluttered as she glanced between her children.

Rose nodded quietly, her lips pressed together in a firm line, the sadness lingering in her eyes. She had grown so much in the past four years, but this loss had shaped her in ways Hermione couldn’t always understand. She was still her daughter, still the bright, curious girl who loved to read and talk about the stars, but sometimes, when the wind was just right, Hermione could see the shadows of grief that lingered just behind her eyes.

Hugo, his little face serious, looked up at Hermione and then at Rose. “Mum, is Dad really up there?” he asked, his small voice uncertain, the question one that Hermione had heard many times before, but it always pulled at her heart just the same.

She bent down to his level, her knees creaking slightly in protest, and cupped his face in her hands. “Yes, darling. Your dad is always with us, in here,” she said, placing her hand gently over his chest, right where his heart beat strong and true. “He’s in our hearts. And sometimes, when we remember him, we send him little messages. Just like today.”

Hugo’s eyes, wide and trusting, met hers. “Okay,” he said softly, the tension easing from his little shoulders.

Hermione took a deep breath, feeling the tears rise in the back of her throat, but she didn’t let them fall. Not yet. Not today. Today was for them—to remember, to honour, and to let go just a little bit more.

She stood tall and held up her balloon, the pale lavender one she had chosen for herself. “I remember the first time I saw Ron. He was always the one to make things feel like home,” she said quietly, her voice thick with the weight of the years. “I miss his laugh, his jokes, his stories. I miss the way he used to get excited about the smallest things, like a new broomstick or a surprise gift. But most of all, I miss the way he loved you two, more than anything else.”

Rose smiled faintly, and Hugo reached for her hand, his tiny fingers closing around hers. It was as if they were each drawing strength from each other in that moment, supporting one another without a word.

With a nod from her children, Hermione drew in a breath that trembled on the inhale and felt impossibly heavy on the release. Her fingers, pale and tense around the lavender ribbon, hesitated for just a heartbeat longer. She could feel the pulse of the moment—the quiet reverence of it, the delicate weight of memory wrapped in silence—and slowly, with a kind of aching tenderness, she let the ribbon slip through her grasp.

The balloon lifted gently into the sky, catching the breeze like a whisper. It swayed for a moment, uncertain, as if reluctant to leave, before climbing higher and higher, becoming a tiny dot of colour against the vast blue above. Hermione followed its path with her eyes, blinking slowly as tears welled, but didn’t fall. It was more than a balloon—it was a message, a memory wrapped in silk and hope, a quiet prayer to the heavens above. It was her letter to Ron. Her love. Her grief. Her promise that even after all this time, he was still held tightly in her heart.

For a long moment, they all simply stood there, their eyes turned upward, watching the balloon drift, suspended between earth and sky, between the past and the ever-moving present.

Then Rose stepped forward. Her movements were calm, but full of purpose—like someone who had spent all morning building the right words in her chest and now had no choice but to let them go. She held the yellow balloon in both hands, cradling it as if it were something sacred. And then, as she looked toward the sky, she whispered, “Happy birthday, Daddy.” Her voice was so soft it barely reached Hermione’s ears. “I miss you every day. I’ll never stop remembering you.”

With delicate fingers, she released the balloon.

Hermione watched it rise—bright and golden against the endless blue, trailing behind the lavender one like a sunbeam chasing the twilight. It floated upward, graceful and steady, and for a fleeting second, Hermione swore she could feel Ron’s presence—warm and reassuring, like a hand on her back, like the ghost of his laugh.

Then Hugo took his step forward. He glanced at Hermione, his serious little face furrowed in concentration, as if he had rehearsed what he wanted to say in his head a hundred times. His fingers tightened around the string, and when he finally spoke, it was with a kind of solemn honesty that made Hermione’s heart ache in the best and worst ways.

“I miss you, Daddy,” Hugo said quietly, his voice small but clear in the stillness. “I wish you could see me grow up. But I know you’re proud of me.”

And then, he let go.

The blue balloon tugged skyward instantly, light as air, dancing on the breeze as it joined its siblings. The three balloons now floated together—lavender, yellow, and blue—a trio of silent messages spiralling upward, rising toward the clouds, to the spaces between stars, to wherever Ron might be. Hermione’s eyes followed their path, her chest tight with unsaid words, with love that had never dimmed.

As she lowered her gaze, ready to reach out and hold her children close, something caught her eye—and her breath stilled.

He was there.

Ron.

He stood beside them, just slightly behind Hugo, looking out at the sky with them, his arms folded loosely across his chest, his familiar freckled face turned upward. His hair was wind-tousled, just the way he used to wear it, and the corners of his mouth curled into that half-smile he always had when he was trying to act casual but was overcome with emotion. He was wearing his old jumper—the maroon one Molly had knitted years ago that he’d always pretended to hate but wore more than any other. He looked solid, real, like he could’ve reached out and ruffled Hugo’s hair or pulled Rose into a sideways hug.

He didn’t say anything. He just stood there, watching the balloons drift into the sky with them. His blue eyes shimmered with a soft pride, a quiet kind of peace.

Hermione’s breath caught, and she blinked quickly, not daring to speak, not daring to move too suddenly. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest, not with fear, but with longing. She didn’t question whether he was truly there or not. She didn’t need to. It didn’t matter. Because in this moment—this sacred, fleeting moment—he was.

He was there, and he was smiling.

Hermione reached out instinctively and rested her hand gently on Hugo’s shoulder. Rose’s arm wrapped around her waist, leaning in close, her warmth anchoring Hermione to the earth as her gaze stayed fixed just slightly off to the side, where Ron stood watching the sky with them.

Together, the three of them—four, if only for a heartbeat—stood in silence. The garden around them swayed with the breeze, birds chirping softly from distant trees, and above them, the balloons became smaller and smaller, drifting higher and higher until they disappeared into the endless blue. Gone from sight, but never gone from memory.

The wind danced around them again, and in that gentle stir of air, Hermione could’ve sworn she heard his voice—light, full of love, and just for her.

“You’re doing great, ‘Mione.”

She smiled then, through the tears she didn’t bother to stop. Because maybe she was. Maybe, just maybe, they all were.

For a while, they didn’t speak. There was no need for words. The love they had for Ron—still had for him—was bigger than anything that could be expressed. And in that shared silence, there was a quiet understanding.

Ron might have been gone, but he would never be forgotten. His memory would live on in their hearts, in their laughter, in their love.

And sometimes, that was enough.