Summary: Because summers and winters and falls don't last forever and spring brings change and life goes on. *Aberforth/Augusta, M&MWP, slightly AU, oneshot

Pairing: Aberforth/Augusta, Mew & Mor weird pairing.

Rating: K

Disclaimer: Harry Potter isn't mine and Mew and Mor came up with the pairing.

Author's Note: Both of their ages are off but on order for the story to work, it got changed up a bit. In reality, Aberforth is about 40 years older and Augusta is maybe 10 years younger. You see why I changed it.

.o.

You work at your pub day in and day out and the days blur together because nothing really stands out when she's not around. And life goes on.

.o.

There was a time when nothing really mattered. Of course, that was before poor Ariana, well, had her accident and before your father was sent to Azkaban and before you moved to Godric's Hollow. Those days were easy, but they didn't shine like the days with her did. Life went easily on.

.o.

Hogwarts days were never perfect. Ariana was always there at the back of your mind, worrying you to distraction. When you were fifteen, your Mother died and left Ariana alone in the world.

You wanted to drop out, but Albus wouldn't let you, so you were left to worry even more and attempt to study.

Life went painfully on.

.o.

It was that awful day in the late summer when you were fifteen when Ariana died. You'd never know who killed her, you hoped it had been that no good Gellert, but you thought it might be have been Albus.

When she died, you were happy to go back to school, anything to flee the turmoil and hatred at home. Life went sluggishly on.

.o.

It was the summer of 32 when she came into your bar, bringing the sun, the warm winds and the scent of freshly cut grass with her. You were 26, she was 20 and you hit it off. She was sarcastic and could be gruff, but so were you and you got along marvellously.

By August, she was a regular. You knew she liked her firewhiskey with a warming charm on it and she knew that you liked to be paid in advance.

Life went beautifully on.

.o.

Winter of 32-33, you became a thing. You and Augusta had something. Life was wonderful because you were young and in love and everything was rosie.

Life went wonderfully on.

.o.

Then the spring came, and spring meant change and you never liked change. With the spring, came her "Sorry, this isn't working." And then she was gone and life slowed to something boring and painful and worth nothing.

She was married summer of 34.

Life went slowly on.

.o.

Then the war came and you fought because you could and it felt almost right and she'd have wanted it. People were dying left and right and it made you anger and the anger brought back passion you hadn't felt since that wonderful winter.

Life progressed on.

.o.

And then the war was over and life was slow. You were vaguely aware, thanks to pub gossip, that she had a grandchild, a boy, and you knew from the papers that her son and his wife had been tortured to insanity.

You heard later on that her husband died but you didn't let yourself hope because you didn't have a hope and you didn't really want a hope because you were sick of hope.

Life went hopelessly on.

.o.

And then the second war started and life still went on. You helped where you could, but you knew enough to see that there wasn't much hope and you were sick of hope anyways.

And then there was a battle and despite your annoyance with the Potter boy's ridiculous hope, you fought because Ariana would have wanted it and Albus would have wanted it and she would have wanted it.

Life somehow managed to go on.

.o.

You continue your work at the inn. Your cliental changes, but you stay the same; sarcastic, gruff and rather hopeless.

And then, one day, she comes in and sits at a bar stool, a wry grin on her face.

"The usual?" you ask her.

"It's hardly the usual anymore," she says, "but yes, the usual."

So you prepare her a firewhiskey with a warming charm on it, just like you used to everyday for a summer, fall and winter.

"It's a lovely spring." She comments as you slide her a glass and she slides you five sickles.

"I always hated spring." You mutter.

She lets out a humourless laugh. "Of course you do."

And her laugh reminds you so much of the old days, you let down your front and say "You've been doin' alright?"

She nods. "Good enough." She says.

It's a quiet hour at the inn, and she's the only customer there, accept for the elderly fellow sleeping at a table in the corner. So you lapse into a comfortable silence as she sips her drink and you polish glasses and the fellow in the corner snores softly.

"Neville's got a girlfriend." She says after a time.

"Oh?" you say, just to be polite.

"Hannah Abbot. Sweet girl, surprisingly clever for a Hufflepuff." She tells you.

"I always liked Neville." You tell her. "He's a good boy."

"That he is." She agrees, "Really grown into his Gryffindor potential."

You nod silently, and keep polishing glasses. She finishes her firewhiskey and leaves.

She comes back the week after and the week after that and soon she's a regular again. Your conversations are short and have little meaning and it's not the same as that summer, but it's close enough, and you figure it's a nice way to spend the rest of your days.

And life goes easily on.