Painful Memories
"Ginevra?"
A raspy voice, hoarse and cracked, spoke. It came from an elderly woman, propped up by many cushions and pillows. Her features were pale, her skin papery and so thin that the light seemed to give her an ethereal glow. Each of her white hairs had a determined curl to it, clouding her face with a thick mane of grey. It was only her eyes that spoke of something younger, and yet despite their brown depths, there was sadness, a sorrowful memory hidden within.
A middle aged woman stepped quickly forward out of her chair, and knelt down beside the bed's inhabitant. "Mum?"
The elderly woman swallowed with what seemed some difficulty. "Molly…" she paused, her remaining energy draining out of her with each word. "Go to my writing desk…Inside…Box…Bring here, please." The woman sank back into her pillows exhausted, her eyes half closing in tiredness.
The woman called Molly raised her eyebrows in surprise, but rose and opened the writing desk. Inside, hidden right at the back, covered in a thin covering of dust was a small box, no larger than the size of a shoebox. It was a deep rich brown in colour, with a lock of plated gold. Molly picked it up, its contents rattling slightly, and turned to her mother. She quickly wiped off the dust before kneeling back down beside her mother.
"Key…around my neck."
Each of the woman's words seemed to be getting weaker and this time she barely inclined her head. Molly gently lifted the gold chain around her mother's neck over her head. On the end, swinging slightly as she moved it, was a small gold key.
"Open it…but…just leave on my lap."
Even further confused, Molly placed the key in the lock, and heard a satisfying click as she turned it. As she picked it up again to place on her mother's lap she felt a strange aura around the box, but did not open it.
"I need to be alone…"
Molly nodded, completely silent as she kissed her mother's forehead, then left the slightly stuffy room.
The elderly woman didn't move for a moment, just gazing at the box unblinking. Then slowly she lifted her arms with suddenly regained strength, and lifted the lid. A strange music filled the room, coming from all directions, beautifully sweet and mystical. The woman's eyes misted over as she looked upon the neatly set contents.
Her finger's brushed against a long wooden stick, and she shivered slightly as though it had sent a shock through her. She picked up a small faded photograph, bringing it into the light in order to see it better. Soft tears streamed down her cheek as she touched the photograph. It was not an ordinary photograph. Indeed it was as though a movie was being played where a still photograph should have been. A tall gangly man stood on the left, his right arm resting on the hip of the woman beside him. His hair was vibrantly red, hers bushy and brown. Both were smiling and waving up at the elderly woman above them. Every so often the man would draw the woman into his arms and kiss her fondly as though the woman was the sweetest person he knew.
The elderly woman ran her forefinger across the surface of the photograph, tears still falling as she let herself fall into old memories and forgotten thoughts.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, inflaming her eyes, and she let herself be drawn into Ron's warm arms. They seemed to protect her, act as a shield against all the evil of the world. He gently rocked her backwards and forwards, cradling her like an infant. He bowed his head down towards her his hot breath staining her cheek as he whispered gentle murmurings of comfort. Somewhere beneath the maze of her mind that seemed so concentrated upon the loss of Dumbledore she felt something. A hot flame of leaping passion that had been simmering for so long and yet now leapt up interrupting her grief. Even amongst all the heartache and fear it crept, a small single pearl of happiness. She opened her eyes and through the moist film she saw Ron's eyes, looking down at her in loving tenderness. It was then that she realised, as easily as answering questions in school, that Ron felt the same. "Mione," he said simply. His face was suddenly a lot closer and she felt his hot lips against hers, tenderly, lovingly embraced in a sweet kiss mingled with salty teardrops.
Her face flushed as they broke apart, but this time it was with happiness, not embarrassment. Over Ron's shoulder she saw Harry in conversation with the Minister. Harry seemed oddly calm, detached almost in stark contrast to the agitated anger reflected in Scrimgeour's face. Wordlessly she signaled to Ron and they left Ginny staring across the lake lost in her own thoughts to intercept Harry.
The old lady sighed as she looked upon a photo of Harry and Ginny. They had something, she mused, something special and indefinable. An affinity with each other that let them cope as she had been unable to do. She shook her head slightly as if trying to rid herself of some thought, then drew out more photos. Harry, Ginny, Mrs Weasley, Mr Weasley, Fred, George, Bill, Charlie, Remus, Tonks, Professor McGonagall, Kingsley Shacklebolt. The list seemed to go on endlessly. All of these photos had been taken after Dumbledore's death. It seemed important to them to have reminders of them all after his death. Few were left after the second war.
The old lady bit her lip. A tear slipped from her eye trailing down her wrinkled cheek.
All of the faces in the photographs were smiling up at her, immortalised images that seemed to mock her. In their acutely happy faces was a hidden accusation that only she could see. They had not done what she had done.
She moved the photos to glance at a faded cutting of "The Prophet." The greenish image of the Dark Mark moved threateningly on the cover, as it had done for so many weeks now, but it was not that, but the bold headline above that was coursing tears down Hermione's face.
"Weasley Heroes Massacred In Last Stand"
Beneath the headline the ink of the article was smudged in places but still legible.
She hadn't been there. She should have been there. But she left them to die in her wake. Half of the Weasley family had been killed that night. Fred Weasley. Ron Weasley. Ginevra Weasley. Charles Weasley. There were graves, Hermione knew. But she had never visited them. She supposed they would be overgrown with weeds. Perhaps still visited, but only by a few. There were so few left at the end of the war. There would be even fewer now.
She had run. Disappeared. Gone where no one would be able to find her. She had blocked out every single part of her that was magical so there was barely anything of her soul left. After Voldemort's death there was nothing left to fight for. Nothing to keep her in the magical world anymore. She had lost her mother, her father, her best friends. Everything she loved had been destroyed in that war. If she had stayed would it have been any different? The pain would still be there, the hurt bubbling over her and blinding her every thought. After Ron's death she had been hanging by a thread. The only thing that had kept her going was revenge. Harry had succeeded. If that's what it could be called. But he had been broken. Hermione knew that. His mind and spirit were gone. And his body did not take long to break too.
Her body was stronger. It would not break though many nights she hoped she would never wake. In the beginning were the nightmares. The lifeless bodies of her friends, her loved ones flashed before her eyes. But she had managed to block them out. It was simpler to numb the pain then face it. The further she crept away from her magical ties the easier it became.
Somehow she had learnt to love again. But every time she had looked inside her husbands eyes all she was reminded of was Ron, every time she kissed him it never tasted as sweet as her first kiss with Ron, and every time she slipped into bed at night her dreams were filled with Ron's face, not her husband's. She cared for him, but he simply couldn't fill the hole that Ron had left behind.
Her daughter? She encompassed all that was the future, of hope and a life left to live. She had insisted on Ginevra, a reminder of the past life. Ginevra Molly Winston. It was luck really, that Ginevra hadn't inherited her mothers gift for magic. For her daughter to have magic would mean having to return, face the old hurts, the old pains. But a small part wanted her daughter to know the power of magic, to know the truth.
In truth, Ginevra (known as Molly) was more like her father. He had died many years ago now but every time Hermione saw her daughter she was reminded strongly of him. It was with a bitter pang that she knew her daughter would never understand magic. Could it really be her daughter who was so muggle like? A little voice couldn't help but remind Hermione that if it had been Ron's child she would have been completely magic.
A sharp pang in Hermione's chest made her wheeze inwardly. She fell back into her pillows weaker than before. The looming sceptre of death was drawing ever closer. She shut her eyes, willing it to come, for it to be now. She could almost see Ron's smiling face beckoning her forwards. Death was nothing anymore. It was merely the last obstacle this life had to offer.
She opened her eyes again, but the same dark room was before her. The box still lay open on her lap, and she saw her wand barely visible beneath the many dusty photographs. She stared at it for a moment then slowly reached forward to hold it once again. She closed her eyes, feeling the magic seep through her. It had been so long. So very long.
Something flickered behind her eyes as she touched it. She needed to prove to herself that she had not forgotten. That she was still able to. She breathed in and whispered the words of the spell. Nothing happened.
She frowned, frustration ebbing through her. She cast around for another memory, and then spoke the words again, "Expecto Patronum!"
Though her voice was barely more than a whisper, a bright white light emerged from the tip of her wand, and a creature gambolled forward, and clear, pure sliver otter. She sank further into the depths of her bed, weaker than before, but satisfied watching as the otter turned and gambolled back towards her.
Flashes of the past floated across her vision. Her parents, Harry, Ginny, Mr and Mrs Weasley, and finally Ron. His freckled face came into view as the silver otter reached her, leaning down to touch her. He was smiling at her, without accusation or disappointment, just smiling. Involuntarily she smiled back, just as her wand slipped to the floor breaking in two.
The otter disappeared as Hermione's eyes closed to the world for the final time.