The young red-head scowled as she slammed the sticky note back onto the counter. All she had asked for was one free day where she could lounge around the house before she started Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Tomorrow was the day she had been looking forward to all her life, and she had requested one day to sit and look over her spell books without any interruptions. But no, her dad wanted her to do bloody laundry. Laundry! Of all the chores she did, he knew she hated washing clothes the most, and yet here she was, walking around the kitchen picking up dirty socks that had been flung around after trainers had been removed.



Sometimes, her dad really ticked her off. He was such an arrogant and stubborn bloke. She supposed the reason they fought constantly was because she had inherited those same traits from him. She didn’t know if she had any from her mother or not. As a matter of fact, she didn’t know very much about her mother at all, except for the fact that Hermione Granger had been best friends with her father and godfather, Harry Potter. Her father didn’t like talking about her much, and she remembered when she was a little girl, how she would question her father about the woman that seemed to always be absent. He would always give an answer, although never a lengthy one, so she had learned to stop asking when she noticed how much pain each of her questions caused him.



And then she got to wondering…Why did her father never want to talk about her mother? Of course, she knew how her mother had died. Who didn’t? The Wizarding World had been at war once again, and her mother had just been another sacrifice to the cause. Just another life thrown away. This concluded in just another child with no woman to raise her.



What hurt the most though was that she couldn’t even ask her father about her mother. No matter how much she longed to hear stories of Hermione Granger’s bravery, she couldn’t put her father in anymore pain. He had suffered so much throughout the years of the War, and raised her without a loving wife by his side.



But then…that brought a question to her mind. Did her father ever truly love her mother? She knew he had loved her as one of his best friends…but was there ever anything more to it? What man could claim for a woman to be the love of his life, and yet never once mention her in casual conversation? Yes, it brought many questions to mind.



A tapping sound brought the young girl out of her troubling thoughts. Looking round, she saw a snowy white owl perched on the window sill, blinking her amber eyes expectantly. Promptly dropping a growing pile of laundry onto the nearest armchair, she speed-walked to the window and yanked the clasp open. Hedwig held her leg out patiently, showing off a tightly rolled scroll. The girl untied the knot, and Hedwig gave her ear an affectionate nip before lifting her wings and gliding away from the house.



The girl paused before unrolling the letter. It was obviously either from her father or godfather, and she prayed that neither would be assigning anymore chores. Even though Harry Potter wasn’t her real father, she still looked upon him as a parental figure, and obeyed most of his requests. Most of them.



Licking her lips, she undid the string tied around the scroll. Unfurling it, she began to read.



Harriet,



Did you finish the chore Ron gave you? He seems to be on the war path today. He went off, at the very least, on three co-workers just this morning. If it isn’t done yet, please hurry. We’re both coming over for lunch. Move that list on up to four co-workers.



-Harry



Harriet rolled her eyes. So much like her father to take any frustration that’s built up on his co-workers and fellow Aurors. Ruddy git. Good thing they had all learned how to overlook his angst phases. If not, he more than likely would have been fired long ago, no matter how talented he was on the field. It usually got worse when they were closer to the anniversary of her mother’s death. Then her father thought he could drown his sorrows in firewhiskey. She despised his drinking habit.



She had better take Harry’s warning to heart though. She only had about thirty more minutes until their lunch break started.



Sighing heavily, she returned her attention back to the pile of dirty clothes. She bent over and wrapped her arms around the massive heap, hefting it upwards. She shuffled next to her father’s room. Looking around, she practically screamed in frustration. There were robes everywhere! Not to mention Muggle jeans, t-shirts, and boxers. The clothes were strung everywhere. There was even a pair of Chudley Cannons pajama bottoms thrown on the lamp shade! Lazy bum.



Pulling out his hamper, she first began loading in the pile she had already collected, and then turned to the larger matter at hand. As quickly as possible, Harriet began jerking clothes off the floor and flinging them into the hamper. No wonder he wanted her to do the laundry! The prat just wanted to push off a much needed chore onto her. Wanker.



She probably shouldn’t be thinking such things about her father. After all, he wasn’t bad at being a dad. He was just harder to get along with than other dads she knew. But then, he had been through much more than any other dad ever had, she reasoned. After all, the only other person to be put through so much tragedy at such a young age was Harry, and he hadn’t ever married.



Walking over to the bed, she knelt down on her hands and knees to lift up the bed skirt, rummaging underneath for any runaway socks and knickers. Her fingers swept over a few dust bunnies, which decided to attach themselves to her fingernails. Flinging her hand sideways, she tried to toss them off, and her hand collided with a hard wooden box. Pulling her hand out of the unknown, she yanked the dust balls off and reached back under the bed.



Her hand brushed over smooth, glassy wood, and she grabbed it, easing it out of its hiding spot. When it had come into full view, Harriet saw that it was a dark red wood, glossy underneath a layer of accumulated dust. It must have been down here for a long time, she thought. She brushed her frail fingers over the lid, filth billowing away. The cover was of a soft velvety material, a deep burgundy.



Harriet checked over her shoulder and listened with all her might, making sure her father hadn’t come home early for lunch. She intended on finding out what lay inside this beautiful box, and she had a good idea that her father wouldn’t want her sifting through it.



Slowly, she placed both hands on the lid, and after taking one last peek over her shoulder, lifted it away from the wood. What was inside? It had to be something big. Why else would her father be hiding it under his bed, a place where he knew she would never dare to venture? Holding her breath, she waited for something spectacular to happen…And was greeted with items she didn’t expect and had never seen before.



Photographs. Many photographs. Most of them had begun to turn a pale creamy color with age, but the occupants of the pictures themselves were all smiling joyously, suspended in time. She picked one up carefully and examined it closely.



There were three people standing next to what looked like a very tame hippogriff. The two males were standing on either side of the female. She recognized the teenage boy on the girl’s right side. He had very thick, bright red hair and many, many freckles. His arm was slung casually over the shoulders of his neighbor, and his crystal blue eyes danced with happiness each time his attention turned to her. He was definitely the tallest of the trio of teens, with long gangly arms and legs, although quite muscular. His smile was wide and bright. She was looking at her sixteen year old father.



Standing on the other side of the girl was obviously her godfather. He was tall, although no where near as tall as Ron Weasley. His hair was night-black and sticking up every which way, looking as though he had just climbed off his broomstick. Hidden behind the ebony mop she knew lay a scar. His emerald orbs laughed as the hippogriff tried to take a bite out of Ron’s trainers. Both boys looked so young and care-free. She wished they still seemed as happy as they appeared in this photograph.



Harriet smiled as she watched Harry roar with laughter when the hippogriff once again tried to nip Ron, this time succeeding in chewing off a bit of his Quidditch tee. Ron didn’t look too happy. As a matter of fact, he looked positively furious, but his scowl eased a bit when the young woman next to him laughed a laugh that Harriet couldn’t hear. She wished she could hear. She wanted to hear everything these three beautiful young people were discussing. They seemed so full of life, so happy to only be with each other. Harriet wished the two men were still that way.



And then she turned her full attention to the woman in the center. Her full and curly hair was blowing around her face, covering it one moment and revealing it the next. Almost like my hair, Harriet thought. She pushed her own fiery red locks away from her face and continued gazing into the past faces of the photograph.



The girl looked extremely happy. Her hair continued to be lifted by the breeze, sometimes drifting over her companions’ faces. They would laugh each time, and she would seem embarrassed for only a second before laughing along with them. Her deep hazel eyes held much wisdom inside, but right now, she just seemed to be living in this moment. A moment long passed. And a moment when her mother was alive.



Harriet realized this was Hermione Jane Granger. How she knew this, even she herself didn’t understand, but the knowledge had hit her like a locomotive off its tracks. Her eyes instantly filled with tears as she gazed upon her teenage mother, who knew not what her path held only a short time ahead of her. Just as the first drop fell from her hazel eyes (Hermione’s match mine, Harriet noticed) her mother leaned over and placed a kiss on Ron’s cheek, making her father blush crimson and her godfather chuckle appreciatively.



She gave a watery giggle at the exchange. Her mother seemed extremely intelligent, even from the photograph. It was often stated that Hermione Granger was the brightest witch of the age, and the most talented to ever step foot into Hogwarts. The only exception would be Albus Dumbledore himself, who had passed away almost twelve years previous. She only hoped her own talent could even come close to her mother’s.



Placing the photograph down, she picked up a small stack. They seemed to go from the trio’s first year up until their sixth year. But then they stopped completely. There wasn’t a single photograph after that. Harriet knew the story though. At the end of her father’s sixth year, he, Harry, and Hermione had left Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to begin the destruction of Voldemort. Although her father wouldn’t tell her stories of his past, Harry willing obliged. He told her of her mother’s bravery and strength, but would never mention her death. Not once was it ever spoken of in their house. And that was how Ron wanted it.



She glanced over each picture her fingers came into contact with. They were all of Ron, Harry, and Hermione, sometimes accompanied by fellow Gryffindors or Harriet’s aunt and uncles. Every now and again Rubeus Hagrid would appear as well, waving cheerily and on multiple occasions nearly knocking out anyone within arm length. Her mother, father, and godfather always seemed so happy in the photographs. Why couldn’t they still be as happy?



Just as she was about to place the photographs back into the box, her hand slid across something silky to the touch. Pulling the photographs away, she looked into the box and noticed a gold ribbon curled next to a letter. The ribbon glistened and shined against the glowing wood, each strand illuminated by the sunlight flowing through the open window.



Harriet carefully picked up the ribbon, letting it slide through her fingers and dangling it in front of her eyes. A few places were frayed, as though it had been touched a few too many times. She rubbed it against her face, breathing in the woody scent. It was her mothers. Again, she knew this without knowing how she knew. It was as if instinct took over and told her it was true. She smiled as tears flooded her eyes once more. If only she was sitting next to Harriet right now, laughing over the silly pictures the two of them would have discovered, and the gold ribbon dancing in her hair.



Harriet pulled the ribbon through her own ponytail and tied it into a small bow. She smiled through her tears at the image of mothers tying ribbons in their daughters’ hair. Pink and pale blue and lilac…Harriet would rather have gold any day!



Next, she reached into the box once more for the thick folded piece of parchment. It had turned a dull shade of yellow, and there were many blotches leaking through the page, looking of ink stains. This confused Harriet as she inspected the blotches. Wouldn’t a letter hidden from the world be kept in tip-top condition?



Slowly, she began to unfold it, and immediately recognized her father’s untidy scrawl. The page was bleary in some areas, the ink running in small circles here and there. The paper crackled beneath her fingers, and she placed the parchment in her lap, not wishing to damage it any further.



And then she began to read.



My Hermione,



Where do I begin? You’ve always known that I was never any good at writing letters or explaining my feelings. Do I start with my love for you? Do I mention the past years we’ve shared? How about talking about our daughter? Or about the day we parted? Just how exactly is a love letter to a lost person supposed to go? I’ll try my best.



I think I could begin with Harriet. It was her second birthday today. She’s getting very big. And fast. Her hair is looking exactly like yours, all curly and wavy. And beautiful. The only difference is the color. But you knew that…And her eyes are yours. Hazel and full of wisdom and knowledge. I think she could be the next brightest witch to walk into Hogwarts. Her mind is like yours as well. Smart and talented at everything she tries.



Well we had a small party for her today. The family was over. Mum baked a large cake for Harriet. It was chocolate with bright pink icing. She seemed to like it, until Fred forgot to keep a closer eye on Travis, who pulled the cake off the table. Harriet waddled over and jumped right into it. She seemed to love it then. Fred and George seemed to have rubbed off on her. They’ve rubbed off on their own children as well. The cake incident speaks for itself. The icing was stuck in her hair for at least three days after it, no matter how much I tried to wash it out. I wish you could have been there.



Harriet said her first words about a month or so ago. “Dada”. I was so happy. She fills me up inside, and seems to ease over the hole that pierces through my heart. Just looking at her makes me think of you. She resembles you in everything she does.



Sometimes, she’ll find an old school book of mine, and just stare at the pages, as though taking in every word of it. She loves books, even though she doesn’t understand what they are about. That’s all you. I wish you were sitting next to her bed each night reading to her with me.



I want you to see her smile. Hear her laugh. Every time she laughs, she sends me spiraling backwards. It’s your laugh. It’s your smile. Maybe my dimples, but your smile. One that lights up a room. One that makes everything seem fine, even when it isn’t. Makes me want to see your smile again. Or hear your laugh.



I even want to hear your anger again. That bold and proud anger. I want to hear you again. Everything. Now, though, all I hear is Harriet. I want to hear both of you, together. My girls.



Every now and again, I picture what our life could have been like. I think of picnics in the backyard. Of opening presents on Christmas morning. Of summer time at the beach. And of ribbons woven in red and brown hair. Gold ribbons.



Hermione, where are you? I need you to come back to me. I need you to show me how to raise our daughter. I need the love of my life back. I need to feel your hair in between my fingers, your eyes blazing into mine. I need to feel your kisses, so soft and warm. I need to hear your voice, reassuring and wise. I need to see your beauty again. Where are you?



I feel empty without you. Harriet seems to hold the pieces, but neither of us know how to put them back together. There’s pieces missing. You have them. A puzzle that can never be completed. Where are you?



I tried not to cry today when Harriet said “Mama”. But I couldn’t help it. She wasn’t looking at the woman she should have been. She hadn’t said it to a woman with warm hair and tender eyes. She hadn’t said it to you. She was looking at Fleur. My brother’s wife is knowledgeable in child care. She shows me the ropes on things I don’t understand. But she isn’t you. She could never be you. And when Harriet said what she did, Fleur bent down and said, “No, Harriet, I’m not your mother. She was beautiful in ways I could never be. I will never be your mother.”



And Harriet seemed to understand. She never said it again for the rest of the day. I wish she could say it to you. But I don’t know how I’m ever going to be able to tell her about you. I want to more than anything. It will be very painful though. When she is older, she may even begin to think I don’t love you. But anyone who ever thinks that never knew the two of us. I love you more than life itself, and if it wasn’t for Harriet, I would be with you now, wherever you are. Where are you, Hermione?



One day, when she’s older, I will tell her everything about the two of us. Our life. Our love. Our pain. Our every thing. I promise. I know you will never read of this promise, but I know you can feel it. I can feel you still. I remember every thing about you. The apple scent of your hair. The way you loved to cook for “your two hungry boys” as you called Harry and I. The way you first held Harriet the day she was born. I remember. I will always remember.



I remember your last words to me. You told me to, “Watch over our daughter, Ron. My time is up.” I’ve been watching over her. I hope as well as you would have. And I remember you saying you loved me. You said you loved me. My heart swells at this. You loved me. Never was I good enough for your love. You could have just as easily handed it over to someone who deserved it. But you shared it with me. Of all people, me. I will always cherish those three little words. “I love you”.



I know you wouldn’t be very proud of me right now. You wouldn’t be proud of the things I do to get you off my mind. I just don’t see another way of doing things. You would be able to show me the way. I still need your guidance. It breaks me to think of the things you would say if you were still with me. I want to stop. I want to stop. God, why can’t I stop?



Hermione, can you hear this letter? This letter you will never read? Can you hear what I write upon this page? I feel you can. I feel you watch over me. I feel you watch over Harriet. She needs you, Hermione. She needs you more than she could ever need me. I need you too.



I can hear her now. She’s in the next room with Harry. She loves him as a second father. I’m glad. Hopefully she will go into Gryffindor. Like the three of us did. Hopefully she will accomplish even more than we did. She is already showing signs of wanting to ride a broomstick. I’m so proud of her. She could make the Quidditch team. Don’t worry though. I’ll teach her how to fly properly.



Am I a good father, Hermione? I hope so. Sometimes, it doesn’t feel like it. But then, I must remind myself that you are helping me through your spirit. After that, I believe I could be the best father in the world. All I ever wanted was for Harriet to grow up to be exactly like her mother. I still hope that my wish comes true.



This letter is drawing to a close. Harriet is hungry. She seems to have my appetite. She is always hungry. I can hear her calling. She said “Dada”. How I love to hear her say this. One simple word makes me feel like my life on this world wasn’t purposeless. It has a whole new purpose, besides loving you. And that is to love her.



I want you to know that I will always love you, Hermione. No matter what becomes of me in this lifetime or the next, I will always love you. And only you. I expect to be with you again some day. I hope that I will. One day, I will see you again, and run to you. I hope to feel yours arms around me…to feel you kisses again. To breathe in your scent. To be lost in your eyes. In our love. I will see you again. I love you.



Forever Yours,



Ron



Harriet tore her eyes away from the letter. Her entire face was soaked. She had never felt so much at once. There was pain. Definitely pain. When was her father ever planning on telling her about her mother? He had promised in his letter that he would tell her all about the life her parents had lived. Had he lied? She wanted to know. She had always wanted to know about her mother. And after reading this letter, her curiosity had increased a ten-fold.



Her mother had seemed so great. So special, so beautiful, so intelligent. And Harriet didn’t even know her. She would never know her. Two more waterfalls began to gush to life. She wanted to know her. She wanted to know all about her. Would she ever see her mother in other than a photograph? A photograph her father didn’t even want her to see?



Lying down on her side, she clutched the letter to her chest and began to weep freely upon the floor. Her heart was in pieces. Just as her father’s was.



A soft pop came from the doorway, and Ron Weasley appeared a millisecond later. His eyes fell immediately to the floor in front of him, where his young daughter was curled into a small ball, a pile of dirty laundry sitting beside her. The floor around her was shining brightly, as though from water. Or tears, he noted looking at her face. Why was she in his room crying? What had happened?



The sun light brightened in the window, and a flash of gold caught his eye. His mouth fell open in shock when he saw the dazzling bow tied into her hair, appearing and disappearing in flashes of scarlet. And suddenly, realization hit him. His eyes darted from the bow, to the box of photographs in front of her, to the letter. And the pieces all came together.



Breathing in deeply, he summoned all his Gryffindor courage that he had abandoned so long ago, and said in a hoarse voice, “Harriet, it’s time for me to tell you something. Your mother would want it.”