The weeks after the loss were heavy with grief. Rodolphus often found himself wandering the halls of Lestrange Manor, haunted by silence where there should have been laughter. Rabastan, too, struggled with the balance of joy for his newborn daughter, Sunny, and the ache for the child they had lost. Harry became their rock, steady and unwavering, though even he had his moments of quiet tears when no one was looking.
One evening, the three of them sat in the nursery. Sunny lay asleep in her crib, her tiny breaths a soothing rhythm against the quiet. Rodolphus sat on the floor beside her, his back against the wall, while Rabastan sat cross-legged near the crib, holding a soft blanket. Harry was by the window, staring out into the darkened gardens.
"I feel like I failed," Rodolphus admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
Rabastan turned to him, his expression gentle but firm. "You didn't fail. You loved that baby with everything you had. That's not failure."
"But I couldn't save them," Rodolphus murmured, his hands trembling.
Harry moved from the window, sitting beside him. "Love, sometimes there's nothing we can do. That doesn't make it easier, but it doesn't mean you failed."
Rabastan reached over, placing the blanket in Rodolphus's hands. "We'll never forget them. But we can honor them by living—by loving Sunny and each other."
Rodolphus looked down at the blanket, tears streaming silently down his cheeks. It was small and soft, embroidered with the name they had chosen for the child they'd lost: Hope.
"I want to plant something for them," Rodolphus said after a long moment. "A garden. Something that will grow and bloom, even when we can't."
Harry nodded. "I think that's a beautiful idea."
The next day, they set to work. Out in the garden, near a sunny corner by the Manor's greenhouse, they dug into the earth. Narcissa and Lucius came to help, bringing flowers and herbs. Tom, in his own quiet way, contributed a stunning white rosebush, its petals soft and pure. Together, they created a space filled with life—a small memorial for Hope, a place where love and memory intertwined.
As they finished, Rodolphus stood back, Sunny in his arms. She gurgled softly, her tiny fingers grasping at the air. Rabastan came to stand beside him, wrapping an arm around his brother's shoulders.
"She would have loved this," Rabastan said.
Rodolphus nodded, leaning into him. "She would have."
Harry watched from a few steps away, his heart full despite the ache that lingered. "We're going to be okay," he said softly, more to himself than anyone else.
And they would be. It wouldn't be easy, and the grief would never fully leave them. But there was still love, still family, and still the promise of tomorrow. As the sun set over the garden, casting everything in a golden light, they stood together—bound by loss, but also by hope.
Together, they began to heal.