It’d become an oasis, over time. Her own slice of heaven, an unexpected burst of life among the near-endless desert.
She loves it here.
Far from Britain, far from everything she’d known. London had been suffocating, stares and whispers following her wherever she went. Finally, she’d had enough.
I’m leaving, she informed them all one night at Grimmauld Place. I’m going somewhere new.
Harry had nodded, understanding. He’d felt the stares too, the pressure – more so than she, but then he had always been braver than she ever could be.
Where are you going? He’d asked.
The desert, she’d responded. Far away. She’d only been once, when her parents had taken her to the Grand Canyon. But the openness, the warm quiet of a desert night under the ever-reaching blanket of stars, had stuck with her.
It was hardly more than a shack when she arrived. But Hermione had smiled at the doubtful agent and bought the place on the spot. Now, climbing roses run wild over the freshly painted stucco walls, sunlight turned to a delicate lattice on the flagstone path to the front door, filtering through the trellis above. Canvas-covered skylights brought an even, warm light to every corner of every room, and all manner of magical and muggle plants thrived in their pots. The boundary between in and out is virtually nonexistent, her hand-laid flagstone making up the floor in each room. Here, she is at peace. Here, the airy light and the plants ground her. She feels real. Human, again.
She spends her days in her garden. When she’d moved in, it was bare, rocky ground. It had started with a patio – a lone potted cactus she’d bought from a local market kept her company during the first few weeks. Over time, it had grown with her. She felt settled, confident in her place. She’d started to travel further, hiking deeper into the desert mountains surrounding her new home. An agave sprout here. An aloe there. A mesquite seedling in the center of it all, coaxed through a loving hand and a fair few growth charms to become a stately, strong tree. To her delight, a brave saguaro had sprouted in front of the house.
Friends came and went as they pleased. Harry came frequently – she thought the same blanket of stars she found comfort in each night brought him tranquility, an escape from the burdens that still weighed heavy on his shoulders. Ron came with him, though the quiet emptiness of the desert seemed to unsettle him, used to the liveliness of the Burrow and the bustling street that was Diagon Alley. Luna and Neville came, too – she loved their visits the most, sharing her enthusiasm for the oasis she’d cultivated with Neville, and noticing the signs of precious life in the desert with Luna. Somehow, Luna drew the desert animals closer, and time seemed to crystallize as they watched the owls sing to each other at dusk, saw the silhouettes of coyotes howling on the ridge. Others, too – Charlie Weasley told her tales of the now-extinct dragon species that once roamed the Sonoran Desert. Lavender Brown quietly worked alongside her in the dirt, and sat outside long past when Hermione had gone to sleep, listening to the coyotes with distant eyes. Minerva McGonagall had even visited once, and together they had created a beautiful saltwater pool, charmed to constantly ripple, and with a swirling tile mosaic on the bottom.
Whoever came, brought her a plant. And so her garden grew even more – a reflection of the ones she loved, a patchwork quilt of the shades of her heart. Lemon blossoms fill the air with their sweet, tangy aroma, pothos climb steadily up the braided trunk of a ficus tree, palm fronds create playfully dancing shadows on the pool, and hanging baskets of all sizes shade her now-established patio space.
She began accepting more visitors. Pansy Parkinson had written to her out of the blue, asking to meet. She’d contemplated for almost a week, tempted to say no – but curiosity won her over, and an hour later, the other witch was stepping out of the fireplace, fiddling with her robes in one hand, and holding a blooming prickly pear cactus in the other.
How did you do it, she asks quietly. How did you find peace after it all?
Hermione considers this. I left, she says, frowning. But that wasn’t all, was it? In the end, it was through building something new. Something only for her. Being able to share her new home, letting friends add to it with her, until it’s not only hers, but a mosaic of her life, her love.
She tells Pansy this. Sees the understanding in her eyes. And before Pansy can ask, she offers to show her around.
The rest of the day is spent in the garden, both witches surprised when Pansy asks to help with the chores of the day.
The prickly pear takes well to the sandy soil, and as it takes root in Hermione’s garden, so does a new friendship.
Before Pansy leaves, she hesitates. She asks Hermione if she’d be willing to meet someone else.
Hermione is taken aback, and again, almost says no. But Pansy’s face is hopeful, earnest. There is no malicious intent, of this she is sure.
Two days later, Draco Malfoy is standing in front of the fireplace.
He’s different, she thinks. Though not sent to Azkaban after the war, the hollowness in his face suggests he’s been living with other demons. His eyes are dull and guarded, and he shifts on his feet as if he’s unsure whether he should leave.
She cracks a smile upon seeing what he’s carrying. A three-foot tall pomegranate tree in an ornate pot.
He sets the pot down carefully, brushing his hands free of any dirt before meeting her eyes.
I’m sorry, he says. For everything.
It’s all she needs. She had thought about it before he’d come here. Here, she was letting go. Starting anew.
I know, she says quietly. I let you in.
Why?
She thinks. Here is about a fresh start, she tells him. Something different. I let you in to begin again. You’ve changed, she says softly. Let go.
He tilts his head, but does not deny it.
Draco will be here tonight, she says. In the stars.
It’s an invitation, and she waits to see if he’ll take it.
I’d like to see that, he says. He’s nervous. Still afraid she will throw him back out.
But instead, she nods and invites him to stay.
Malfoy watches curiously as she plants the pomegranate tree next to her home, taking it carefully out of the flowerpot and letting it curl its roots into the soil, charmed to a rich loamy texture so it may thrive. She strokes the trunk and the branches, lips curving into a smile as it stretches upward, branches trembling as it forms a latticed canopy. A single ripe fruit dangles from a limb, and she carefully plucks it from the tree and offers Malfoy a smile, handing it to him.
He takes it, frowning thoughtfully. Did you not like the pot? He says, glancing at it.
Hermione looks too. It’s beautiful, she says. But trees grow deep roots. The fruit will only grow if the tree is allowed to breathe.
He looks at her. There is something raw and honest in his gaze. I haven’t been able to breathe in years, he tells her.
She understands. It’s why she left. She had been the Golden Girl, Hermione Granger, war heroine, muggleborn witch, mudblood. Her chest had constricted every day as she tried to recall what any of that meant – who was she to herself?
His eyes are bright and curious as she introduces him to her home. He studies the intricacies of each plant, no leaf’s vein lost to his gaze. Caresses the glossy leaves of the lemon tree, carefully lifts one delicate blossom, closes his eyes, and breathes in.
She smiles as he explores. He’s breathing.
Later, the sun makes its fiery exit and cool shadows creep across the patio. The stars begin to twinkle shyly in the purple dusk. Her heart swells as she watches him from the kitchen window. His lips are parted in wonder, his silver eyes calm. At peace.
She joins him, silently offering the bowl of seeds from his gifted pomegranate. He glances down briefly, a grin flickering over his face as he picks out a handful. His gaze drifts back to the stars.
They’re beautiful, he says. It’s perfect here.
And it is. Here and now. She doesn’t want it to end, not ever.
Stay, she whispers. I saw you. I saw you breathe. Stay here. Breathe with me.
He says nothing, and they both continue staring at the starry night.
Slender fingers intertwine ever so gently with hers, hesitant but accepting.
He’ll stay.