For the Prompt of the day – The Golden Snitch (dialogue: thank you)
Hope you enjoy!
It was seven o'clock in the evening and the sun could just be seen behind the vast hills of Scotland. Golden light poured over the icy mountain tops and brightened a small cottage down in the valley. Basking in red, yellow and fiery orange light, it shone like a jewel amidst the everlasting greenery, which stretched on for miles and miles.
Hermione sighed and pushed her glasses back up her nose. The view was magnificent and it was moments like these that she was very glad Ron had proposed they'd move only a few years ago. Their house in London had become too big for them to manage – even with magic – and Hermione, very doubtful at first, now adored their new small cottage in the silent and vast moors of Scotland.
As the sun slowly disappeared behind the hills, Hermione turned around. Reaching out for her walking stick, she slowly and carefully walked back to the sofa by the fire, which Ron was still occupying. Settling down beside her husband, Hermione reached down for the tartan covers Minerva had given her a few years before she had died. Unfolding them she draped them over Ron and herself and leaned against him. The dying embers of the fire still generated enough heat to keep the cottage warm, and Hermione sighed peacefully and wrapped the covers around her shoulders more tightly, closing her tired eyes as she did so.
She must have fallen asleep for a few hours because when she woke up, Ron was no longer next to her and her back was twinging uncomfortably. Stretching, she painfully got up and slipped her feet back into her slippers, which she had begun to wear every time she went about the house.
"Ron," she called, padding slowly out of the living room and into the hallway.
It was dark and cold now. The fire had died and the sun had set and if she knew anything about Scotland it was that it was always terribly cold in the evenings whether it be winter or summer.
"Ron!" she called again. Where could he have gone, she thought hobbling from room to room. Her knees hurt a lot and she thought of the cane she had left behind in the living room. She hated using it even though it helped her a great deal, "Exactly like Minerva," she grumbled, smiling only a teeny bit. Minerva had hated using her cane and tried to go without for as long as she could. She said it was because of her mix of stubbornness and Scottish blood, which always made Hermione laugh.
"I'm out here," came Ron's reply.
Hermione sighed and started to make her way to the kitchen. Unlatching the door, which was at the end of the room, Hermione stepped outside into the cold and moved along towards Ron who was sitting on a bench underneath the kitchen window.
"What are you doing out here?" she asked him, settling down a little stiffly on the bench. Shuffling closer to him she leant her head on his shoulder and looked out onto the empty fields, which surrounded their small cottage.
"Thinking," said Ron, his eyes unblinking and unmoving, set firmly on a distant point in the sky, which was a whirlpool of various brilliant hues of colours.
Hermione sighed and shuffled a little closer but did not comment. Instead, she exhaled deeply and watched the cloud of breath leaving her slightly parted lips.
"We're getting old, Hermione," murmured Ron after a while, still gazing unseeingly into the moors.
"I don't know about you but I think I look the same as I did 40 years ago," answered Hermione lightly, trying to joke, however, her voice cracked and her smile did not quite reach her eyes.
They fell back into silence and this time Hermione did not try to start a conversation. Wrapping her shawl more tightly over her shoulders, she continued to watch the clouds move silently across the blue, purple and pink sky as it was slowly being taken over by a dark, midnight blue, which was seeping in from the north.
"Of course you do," chuckled Ron finally, pecking Hermione on the head and smoothing down her hair, "Still as beautiful as ever."
Hermione chuckled, a true laugh, which seemed to echo across the valley, "I am glad you think so."
"I don't think so, I know so," said Ron, still smoothing down her hair rhythmically as they watched the sky darken and fill itself with thousands of stars, lightening it up like light bulbs can brighten a black room.
They fell back into a comfortable silence and both of them sat on the bench, listening to the breeze pick up speed and rustle the leaves, which swirled in circles on the floor or floated down from branches. Age was a terrible thing, it was ruthless and harsh and it was especially now that Hermione could see how much they had both changed. Ron's once flaming red hair was white although if in the right light a small hue of orange could still be seen. It was what Ron liked to believe anyway. Their faces were creased with lines of worry, anger and laughter. They felt like paper, cracked and fragile under someone's touch, however, strong enough to tell stories of all of the things they had faced in their lifetime without the owners ever needing to open their mouths.
"I love you, Ron," said Hermione suddenly, not knowing why she felt so strongly the need to say or why she could hear a note of sadness in her voice when she spoke words that were meant to bring happiness to the one who heard them.
"I love you too, Hermione," replied Ron a little while later, "I always will."
"Thank you," said Hermione, not truly knowing why.
Age was a terrible thing, it was ruthless and harsh, however, generous. It was an hour later that the both of them walked back inside the house. Stiff with cold they hobbled back inside, using each other for support and talking about their children who were due to visit them the next day. Not knowing that one of them would never wake up the next day, never look back into their lover's eyes Hermione was grateful for the time they had had together, and their chance to say goodbye.