The White Owl
The days after Ron’s birthday passed gently, like soft pages in a well-worn book. The air was warming more steadily now, the garden bursting into fuller bloom as spring matured. Life carried on, as it always did—school lunches packed, meetings attended, spells practiced, homework checked. Yet beneath the rhythm of daily life, something had shifted inside Hermione.
The release of the balloons hadn’t brought closure—not really. Grief, she had learned, wasn’t a thing to be completed or resolved like a puzzle. It was a companion, an ache that changed shape over time, but never truly disappeared. Still, something had softened within her, something quiet and necessary. For the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel like she was running from her memories. She could sit with them, not just endure them, but welcome them in the way you welcome an old friend who brings both joy and sorrow in equal measure.
She found herself talking to Ron more often—out loud sometimes, when no one was around. Not in desperate pleas or whispered grief, but in quiet updates and passing comments. She would smile at a silly thing Hugo said and murmur, “You’d have found that hilarious.” Or when Rose came home with top marks again, Hermione would place her hand over her heart and say softly, “She’s so much like you—bright in her own way, but cheeky too.”
These weren’t just habits of remembrance. They were conversations, in a way—tender, lingering exchanges stitched into the quiet moments of her days. They happened in the pauses between stirring her tea and sipping it, in the silence just before sleep claimed her. Words not spoken aloud but felt, deeply, viscerally. It wasn’t just about remembering Ron anymore—it was about living alongside his absence, and in doing so, keeping him present in the fabric of her everyday life.
He had loved her in a way that had once startled her, fierce and unwavering, full of awkward affection and steadfast loyalty. It hadn’t always been easy, but it had always been honest. He had made her laugh more than anyone else ever had, often in the most unexpected ways—a poorly timed joke in a crisis, a ridiculous impersonation of a snooty Ministry official, a wink across the room that said I’ve got you when everything else felt like it was falling apart. That laughter had been their anchor, their secret language, and even now, it echoed through her when the world felt too heavy.
Ron was gone. Yes. But never truly absent. His voice still lived inside her, threaded through her thoughts like a familiar melody. She heard it when she scolded Rose for leaving her shoes at the door—You’re turning into your mum, he’d tease. She heard it when she was about to lose her temper and could almost feel his hand brush hers to calm her down. She heard it when she needed to be brave and he would’ve said, You’ve already done harder things, Hermione. You’ve got this.
But nowhere was Ron’s presence more deeply rooted than in Hugo. Especially Hugo.
He was only six, but there was something about him—something intangible—that echoed his father in ways Hermione couldn’t always name. It wasn’t just his flaming red hair or the little freckled nose. It was the grin that came too quickly, the way he threw his arms around her without hesitation, or the way he talked to animals like they understood every word. It was in his questions—curious, sometimes wildly imaginative—and in the way he squinted at people when he didn’t trust them, just like Ron used to.
And more than anything, it was in the way he loved. Full-heartedly. Without caution.
Hugo carried Ron’s spark, but it was his own, too—a delicate, glowing thread that tethered the past to the present, and somehow gave Hermione the courage to keep going. She looked at her son sometimes and saw not only the boy he was becoming, but the man who had helped bring him into the world. The man who had once whispered in her ear at 3 a.m., eyes wide as they stared at their newborn son, He’s so small. Are we allowed to break him?
She had loved Ron fiercely. And she still did. That love had simply changed its shape.
It lived now in these quiet conversations.
In the ghost of his laughter.
In their children’s hearts.
And especially in the boy who sat at the window, watching the owl in the tree, waiting—just in case his father was watching back.
Hermione looked up from her journal, the ink still glistening on the page as she paused mid-sentence. Her gaze drifted toward the wide front window where Hugo sat curled on the cushioned bench, legs tucked beneath him, his small face pressed close to the glass. The afternoon light cast soft shadows across the floor, painting the room in gold and green as the spring breeze stirred the leaves outside.
Hugo didn’t move much. His eyes were locked on something just beyond the windowpane, and his lips moved in a hushed rhythm, barely audible. His hands were cupped around his mouth, as though sharing a secret meant only for someone—or something—who could hear it from the trees.
And there it was again.
The white owl.
Perched on the gnarled limb of the old apple tree, its feathers ghost-pale and glinting in the sun like frost under morning light. It sat utterly still, head slightly cocked, the yellow of its eyes bright against the soft shadows of the branches. It had become a familiar presence over the last several months. Not predictable, not frequent, but consistent enough to feel... intentional. It never swooped too close to the house, never came to the windowsill or let itself be approached. It was a quiet sentinel—observing. Waiting. Watching.
Hugo had taken to calling it “Daddy’s owl.” He said it with that solemn, quiet confidence that only children could manage—the kind of certainty adults rarely dared to question. He didn’t make it theatrical, didn’t even act as if it were magical. To him, it was simply truth. That owl was his connection. His messenger. His proof that his father was still, somehow, somewhere nearby.
He would wave to it when he saw it. Sometimes he’d whisper to it when he thought no one was listening. Once, Hermione had caught him drawing pictures of the owl with a note beneath it that simply read, “For Daddy, I miss you.” The owl had never responded with more than a quiet blink or a silent glide across the sky—but it always stayed just long enough. Just long enough to feel like more than coincidence.
And Hermione—she never corrected him. Never told him it was just a wild bird or that maybe it would stop coming one day. She didn’t want to rob him of that quiet hope. Because in her heart, she wondered too. Perhaps it was just a creature of habit, drawn to their garden by chance. Or maybe... maybe, in some strange and unknowable way, it was Ron. Or part of him. Or something that carried his memory through the shifting winds of spring. A sign. A comfort. A presence.
Hermione closed the journal gently and rose from her chair, padding quietly across the floor to where Hugo sat. She lowered herself beside him on the bench without speaking, just watching the owl with him, sharing in the moment like a prayer too sacred to break.
“She’s back,” Hugo said softly, without taking his eyes off the tree.
Hermione smiled. “She is.”
“She comes more when I talk about Daddy,” he said, a little wrinkle forming on his brow. “I told her we miss him. I tell her all the time. And I think… I think she listens.”
Hermione knelt beside him, brushing a curl from his forehead. “I think she does too,” she whispered, her voice catching just slightly.