Author's Note: This is a very short fic that I wrote for my Harry Potter Lit class this semester. It depicts Hermione's parents in their obliviated state living "peacefully" in Australia. I've always questioned whether Hermione's use of the obliviate spell could truly make her parents forget their love for her and this fic is an exploration into the what if of that situation.

Disclaimer: No ownership of the characters – yadda yadda yadda.


The beautifully translucent water floated dreamily ashore, leaving thick pearly foam in its wavering wake. The skies above were a perfect forget-me-not blue, the sun shining brightly – merrily, even – upon the soft features of a middle-aged woman with slightly erratic curls of deep mahogany fanned out behind her as she lay in the warm, powder-like sand coating the semi-populated Australian beach. Absentmindedly running her fingers through the smooth granules, she turned to look at the man sitting silently beside her: Dark sunglasses perched on his white, sunscreen coated nose, he slowly turned the pages of a thick novel, completely at ease.

"This beach is lovely, dear. I've never seen such clear water. We should have quit our jobs and moved here years ago."

The man laughed – carefree, light – as he gazed down at his wife of nearly twenty years.

"Now, now, Monica! We had to make the money that allowed us to move here somehow! After all, we couldn't just wave a wand and make the money appear!" He laughed again, this time in earnest; as though the idea of a magical wand was nothing short of ludicrous.

His wife chuckled half-heartedly, suddenly reminded of the often told fable of Cinderella that was her absolute favorite as a child; she recalled hearing it – eventually reading it – practically every night of her childhood. Strangely, though, as the words of the tale played through her memory, they played not in the voice of her mother, but in the voice of a young girl; angelic, soft; it faded in and out as though it were emanating from a badly tuned radio. Monica frowned, struggling to recall such a memory as a flash of a girl – no older than five, it seemed – with long, curly brown hair hanging loosely down her back and bright, animated brown eyes read from a large, open book resting in her lap; her words were distorted slightly as an elated, knowing grin graced her lips and a peal of laughter burst forth seemingly beyond the little girl's control. Her laughter, like the ringing, telling toll of a bell, pierced Monica's heart before everything – picture and sound – faded all together.

She shook her head slowly, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. The little girl looked remarkably like her – from the long hair hanging in ringlets to the slightly curled toes that only the excitement of a story book could bring – except for the eyes: Monica had green eyes, not brown. A sudden tightness filled her chest as though an unyielding fist had clenched forcefully upon her heart; a lone tear trailed slowly down her sun-kissed cheek; a drop of rain in paradise.

And just as suddenly as it had come, the tightness and tears ceased; the memory of the brown-eyed girl ebbed.

"Monica? Honey, are you all right?" Wendell brushed her curls behind her shoulder and gently swiped at her damp cheek.

She gazed at him, blinking confusedly before shaking her head and smiling brightly.

"Oh, I'm fine, dear. The sun must be irritating my eyes. One of the only problems in paradise, thank God!" she chuckled before turning on her stomach and flipping through the pages of a previously discarded Daily Dental.