Hermione Granger leaned back and sighed contentedly. She let her gaze wander over the lavender blossoms and then the rosebushes that grew in her parents' garden, all shaded by the oak trees that seemed to reach for the sky. It was a wonderful day; Wendell and Monica Wilkins no longer existed, and Harry and Ginny sat inside with Hermione's real parents, chatting about trivial things that have no value whatsoever to the real world at all.
Ron snaked an arm around Hermione's waist and pressed a kiss to her temple. Hermione smiled.
The war had ended three months ago, and Hermione almost couldn't imagine a better place to be than in this garden with this boy. She had invited over the Weasley's and the remains of the Order to celebrate her parents safe return from Australia. It was almost perfect. But there was one problem.
There were people missing.
Fred, with his ability to make anyone smile and laugh.
Remus, for his seemingly endless fountain of knowledge and comfort.
Tonks, wither her stubborn clumsiness and bubbly personality.
The list of people that Voldemort had taken away from the world seemed endless. Sirius, Mad-Eye, little Colin Creevey, Lily and James, Cedric Diggory, Dumbledore, even Snape, snide, unfair Snape who was killed for something he didn't even have.
Bill and Lavender had been bitten by Greyback, Seamus Finnegan lost the use of his right eye, Neville had burn scars covering his scalp, and Professor McGonagall, the untouchable teacher, had three long, pale lines running down the length of her right arm.
Hermione started to cry. She sat on the bench, rigid, as the sobs racked her body, tears cascading down her cheeks. Ron looked up, worried, that scar on his forehead crinkling up, and he wiped away the tears as they came.
"I miss them too," he said softly and pressed something into her hand, and as she looked down she saw a streak of blood across her palm.
"Oh," Hermione said, wiping it off. "You're bleeding.
"Bloody thing poked me," Ron said, sending an accusatory glare at the flower sitting in her lap.
A rose.
Hermione looked down at the little red haired miracle in her arms and smiled.
"What should we name her, honey?" Ron asked, his voice thick with emotion. Hermione looked up at her husband and saw the seventeen year old war hero that she had been comforted by as she sat beneath the oak trees and remembered those lost, and in her head, she pictured the simple flower that had made her feel better about everything, and that had given her hope in times of loss.
"Rose."