so i was innocently writing the next chapter for paradise lost, when the song 'passing afternoon' by iron and wine came on shuffle. and then this idea for this one shot popped into my mind. so all credit goes to jk rowling and sam beam.

i.

A cool breeze would sweep through her small home, the open window fluttering in the smell of heliotrope from the garden. The lethargic weight of summer would press down against her shoulders, filling her with an unbearable ache. Closing her eyes, she could let the breeze play with her long hair as she drank in the memories that were carried in with the wind. His name seemed to be almost tangible with the taste of summer. Hermione would let herself sigh as she almost felt his arms wrap around her from behind. Leaning into the air, she allowed just for a moment to relish in the memory. But then Rose would shout something from the yard, and the laughter of children playing in the blooms would wrench her from the memory. Hermione would put down the wooden spoon she held and rush out into the scorched grass to tend to her children.

ii.

It was in autumn, when the leaves turned the colour of burned gold, that she let herself believe in God again. During the day she would make each bed carefully, spreading a quilt against her forgotten sins. A hymn seemed to resonate from the whistles of the wind against the holes in the house. Leaves spread in the garden like a growing plague. Hermione would dutifully rake them neatly, but only briefly let her head rest against her palms. She would shiver as the days grew darker and the wind seemed to howl with regrets. The house would be empty, the children off to school again and her husband out at work. And whenever she was alone, Hermione would close her mind and try so hard to forget the growing emptiness inside her.

iii.

Winter would arrange Rose and Hugo, as perfect as dolls, into their beds. Hermione would wrap blankets around them and press her lips against their foreheads. But when the cold became so bitter she would wrap her arms around herself and remember the smell of ferns against her back, and bare hands on her warm skin. With every year that the children grew, Hermione seemed to remember just a little bit more. Her happiness began to fade like the colours on the quilts that kept her children close. When the records of her memory caught her, Hermione would ache for something warm. As she pressed her hand against herself, a tear would slip from her eye.

iv.

Springtime would blow clouds across the sky, and Hermione would pretend that each soft swell was a sailing ship waiting to take her away. She would lay in the grass in the garden, empty once again as she let the children go. Dutifully she would spread the seeds in the yard, noticing without much surprise that at some point the wedding ring had slipped from her finger. Her fingers would curl around themselves, echoes of when another palm would have pressed her fingers to his lips. Determined not to dwell, Hermione would finish her work and kiss Ron on the cheek when he came home, suppressing the loneliness that grew in her stomach.

v.

And on nights where he could see the moon, Blaise would look out and feel comforted that she was under the same sky as him. And he would believe that somewhere she would sit by the window and think of him. But then she would welcome her husband home with a false happiness, and mend the tears in his robes with whispered spells. Later in the night when they kissed, Hermione would press herself urgently against him, as if by his touch she could forget. Ron would pretend not to know, and when they lay in bed, side by side, they both would cover their loneliness. He would kiss her forehead carefully with such devotion and caring, and move on the next morning to pretend that his wife still loved him the way he loved her. Hermione would sit alone by the window, and somewhere Blaise would remember the girl who had once rejected him because of her fear of being alone.