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Scorpius was a shrewd man much like his father. He had a reputation for calming fires with bags of gold. Still, he knew the script—and what's more is that he protected it.
"Elves, werewolves, and centaurs didn't know it on the nineteenth of September in 1979, but that would become the date that would change their fortunes, when the tides of their miserable slog would slow and turn just a few decades later. Hermione Jean Granger could not only distinguish right from wrong, she rejected idleness. A best friend of Harry Potter, who alongside him, was the scourge of my grandfather's Death Eaters, our dear Minister was a champion for all those magical beings who struggled to find acceptance in a society where only the wizard and the witch mattered. Hermione, a better world thanks you. You will be sorely missed and never forgotten."
Ron wept. Tears flooded down the cracks of his weathered cheeks into his gray beard.
“I miss her too.” Harry’s hand clapped down on Ron's shoulder as the mourners stood for a chorus of Odo the Hero. “Come stay with Ginny and me.” Ron ignored him and dug his cane in deep, refusing Lily Luna's insistence that he remain seated. At ninety-seven, standing took some effort.
It had been exhaustion, said the Prophet, that finally did her in.
She gave hundreds of speeches in her twilight years around Europe on elf rights and werewolf woes long after her days as Minister.
Ron was not invited to them.
The crowd dwindled away. Some genuine mourners, some simply paying their respects to a life well lived. Others were there to greedily rub elbows cloaked in black silk.
With every step toward the casket, Ron's legs grew stiffer. A warm breeze wound its way through the narrow streets of Godric's Hollow, blowing the branches and allowing sunlight to flicker down through the grove to a headstone that read simply:
Hermione Jean Granger
Our Beloved Minister
Ron struggled down to one knee.
“Uncle Ron!” Lily Luna rushed over to help, but Ginny put an arm around her daughter to steer her away.
“He needs to do this,” she whispered.
“He can do this in a chair!”
“It's okay. He'll be fine.”
Ron gave a small wave to show he was alright.
The casket was a simple mahogany shell with a gold wand embossed on the top of it. It hovered ceremoniously over the burial plot. Three days it would stay, protected by a guard and the usual anti-muggle charms, or rather Muggle Concealment Charms. Hermione had, as Minister, forbidden the former language.
Scorpius would lower it as was the duty falling to current Minister.
Ron wouldn't be back.
“I don't know what to say.” He spoke to the casket as if half expecting a voice to call back to him. Stranger things had happened after all.
The coffin was smaller than it should've been. She'd withered away in her final years. Not that Ron had seen her; just pictures of her on her exploits in the paper. Dining with elves in Munich. A speech on werewolves in Paris. “I knew a man, a wizard, a werewolf! He died at Hogwarts, wand in hand. We honor our heroes. He'd want nothing more than your simple acceptance.”
Ron brushed a hand over the smooth mahogany that kept her. “Did you really want me to stay away? Or was it some test? You always did like tests.”
She had not heard his voice in some time. It had become cracked and gravelly. He sometimes choked on it. His mouth was always dry, a faint smack of the lips necessary to force the words out. And since when did he have jowls?
He lowered his other knee, waving another hand to quell Lily before she could start. She didn't understand that the ancient were always in pain. What could a little more possibly matter now?
He pulled something from his pocket, gold and round like a compass and wept into it.
“What did you want me to do with this?”
He kept it in his vault at Gringotts by mounds of gold which had become more pointless with each passing year. He'd visit it every so often in the loneliest moments of the last decades, turning it over in his hands, gingerly so as not to wind it. Was it for Fred? Or so Teddy could have his parents back? It couldn't be. Hermione knew what death meant, and it could never be cause enough.
Ron felt for the bulge in his silk-lined pocket and put his fingers on the little vial of Felix Felicis just to be sure. He'd have to be precise. More than that. Perfect.
Or else the war was fought for nothing.
He didn't care that they'd see him vanish. Like the pain, it hardly mattered. Popping the cork off with his wand, he took a sip. Enough for three hours. Then took the time turner in his hands.
Seasons changed slowly, then rapidly. Green turned to flowers which turned to snow. Leaves rose to their branches as grass retreated to their roots from exhumed graves now empty. Year before year. Hot to cold and then back again. Tears uncried slowed and finally ceased.
Mourners remained in their black suits and veils on the late summer day, but they were not Hermione’s. They congregated a few graves over. The stone read Miller.
Ron struggled to his feet on the warm August morning. They fell over the soft grass, still dewy from the cool night.
Flowers wilted in the shadow of the headstone that read James and Lily Potter. It had been weathered smooth over the decades, but now the granite was rough on his fingertips.
Conjuring became harder as incantations escaped him. They competed with names and faces hardly ever uttered among the living. Only a precious few ever knew the sound of Sirius’s laugh, or even that such a thing was possible. It was throaty, hearty, sometimes filled with mirth, other times with mockery. It faded a little more with each new grave dug.
The spell was buried deep with the memories from when Hermione was more than some old man's yearning. For three years, she picked forget-me-nots from between the pavers and the edges of their little garden fence. She always loved them at early bloom when the little green buds took on a lavender hue. Not full, not perfect, but with the chance to be something more.
He aimed his wand. “Orchideous.”
Tiny blue buds sprang from his wand to adorn the grave. Maybe she'd see them in a few months. Maybe he'd see them too if he was lucky.
Broken images raced in his mind. His pale and crying sister, stricken with guilt. Cedric's lifeless body made more terrible by the glow of the Goblet beside him. A broken locket. He put his hand on the headstone of the Potters. “I solemnly swear that I'm up to no good—and I'm sorry about that. But I have to. I'll be careful. Promise.”
He couldn't escape the image of what almost was and may yet still be as he turned on the spot. The Dark Mark on every headstone like a conquest, the snake wrapping around the names etched in stone. A reminder that death was the only way out. It was only the sight of the Burrow that pulled him out of it.
The path to the house was lined with hedgerows that normally grew wild and free until someone—normally Fred or George—usually both, got into enough trouble to warrant clipping them down to size.
It had been over eighty years, but the smell of the grass brought the most vivid memory of de-gnoming the garden and sealing the holes. Ron looked at a knotty finger on his wrinkled hand. The bite mark had faded, but if he tried really hard, he could still feel the phantom sting.
Today all of that was already done. The hedgerows, the garden, the cutlery, the sheets, for today was Bill and Fleur's wedding.
He hiked the path, marveling at the magic that led him here. Guests had begun to make their way through the garden where butterflies fluttered and bees floated from flower to flower. The garden gnomes had worked quickly, already digging fresh holes and popping up their little heads. Ron’s cane came down on one, stunning it, and plugging up the hole for any others that might sour his mother’s mood for the evening.
The line of guests was slowed at the entrance. When he finally crossed the threshold, he knew why. He couldn’t help but smile. “Enchanté! Allow me to aidez-vous.” Fred licked his fingers and slicked back his hair out of sight of the pretty guests.
“Sir.”
Ron didn’t hear it, which considering his advanced years, was not all that surprising to a young George who cleared his throat and said it louder.
“Sir!”
Ron stared at him, envious of his hair that was still perfectly red. “Sorry, son. Senior moment.”
“It’s alright. Let me show you to your seat.” George led the way, but didn’t even bother asking Ron for his name, instead looking in Fred’s direction as a girl giggled. Fred wore a satisfied grin.
“How did you get stuck with the old geezers like me while he gets the pretty ones?”
George grumbled through gritted teeth. “Don’t ask.”
“A bit of a prat if you ask me,” said Ron.
George lit up. “I like you!” He walked away to escort a witch to her seat. She was middle aged. George scowled.
A blue haze of pipe smoke floated lazily in the air as the golden-jacketed band sat in the corner. White and gold flowers breathed all around them as the guests began to populate the carefully decorated canopy, their gemmed cravats gleaming in the fractured light creeping in from the sun outside.
“How wonderful. Gnome saliva is enormously beneficial.” He recognized Xenophilius’s voice as he exclaimed far too loudly, “Luna my love, if you should feel any burgeoning talent today, perhaps an unexpected urge to sing opera or to declaim in mermish, do not repress it. You may have been gifted by the Gernumblies.”
Young Ron snickered in his dress robes, a large white rose poking through the lapel. He could’ve stood a little straighter. His shoulders still had the ability to obey if he’d only cared enough.
The band began to play. Ron couldn’t help but smile as Molly walked down the aisle in her amethyst-colored robes and matching hat. He suppressed the warmth that welled within him. He could not afford to be sentimental now.
Fleur walked down the aisle to the gasps and awes of the finely robed guests.
“Yes! My tiara sets the whole thing off nicely. Ginevra’s dress is cut far too short.” There was some suppressed sniggering among the rows as Ginny grinned proudly at Harry.
For decades he’d remembered Muriel restraining herself until after the wedding. He’d remembered wrong.
Once more, Ron dug his cane into the ground at the behest of the officiant. The chair rose above him as the marquee walls floated away, letting the sunshine warm the evening.
She appeared out of nowhere. A face not seen in some sixty years, a version of her not seen in much much longer. Hermione wore a floaty lilac dress and matching shoes, content to let herself be led by a young Ron away from Krum. He felt for the seat beside him and sat down, steadying his breath at the sight.
The sound of grass crunching in summer heat grew louder until it stopped. “Hello, there!” Ron looked up. A man with patchy red hair circling a bald spot showed a look of curious delight. “I’m Arthur Weasley. Have we met? You look familiar.”
Ron stared into his father’s eyes. “I get that a lot. Augustus Prewett.”
“Curious. I thought I’d met all of Molly’s family.”
“Not me. I’m the squib.” He dug his cane in and began to stand, but Arthur put a hand on his shoulder and Ron consented to let himself be stilled. “I don’t hear much from her, but I guess for such a joyous occasion. I know she’s talked to you about the accountant in the family.”
Arthur sucked in a sharp gasp of air. “She has!” The smile on his face grew instantly into a full on grin. “Do you—” he whispered it almost as if it were a taboo. “Do you know the function of a computer?”
“It’s kind of hard to explain.” He didn't really know much about them either, only that Hermione had kept one. He told Arthur something about calculating the position of Jupiter. Maybe he was right.
“Fascinating.” Arthur started to sit until he heard Molly calling for him. “Ah, I’m sorry I’ve got to cut it short. The wife calls. But maybe a little later?”
“Maybe. But listen, dad—Erm, Darryl—Arthur. Senior moment. Don’t tell her I’m here. It’s been so long and I don’t want her feeling like she’s got to talk to me all night.” They stared at each other. “Please,” he added. Arthur nodded and was off.
He watched his father join Mrs. Delacour on the dance floor. That’s when he spotted Ron again, looking for some firewhiskey.
“Ron.” His younger self looked at him, hair still red, as freckled as ever. No age spots. It was like looking into one of the bewitched mirrors the joke shop sells.
“Erm–can I help you?”
“You can actually. Tell me. How is that ghoul doing in your bed?” His young self hung there with his mouth open. “Tell me about the locket. Any luck yet with R. A. B.?”
“How do you—”
“Don't go all mental on me.” He pulled his wand from his pocket and threw it on the white linen tablecloth. “Go on. Take it.” The young man looked at him suspiciously. He looked like a git, the way his nostrils flared.
“Who are you?”
“Look at the wand, mate. I'm you.”
“Come off it!” he said incredulously, but the way he picked up the wand was as natural as when he held it for the first time in Ollivander’s. Then he picked up his own wand. White smoke poured from both, rising into the air, before turning a light mauve, hazing the centerpiece of golden flowers rising from the table.
“Always the tone of surprise, Ron. I know Harry told you that weird stuff happens around twin cores. Well this one is the same core. I’ll admit. I wasn’t expecting that.”
But the boy still looked incredulous with one eye half shut and his head cocked to the side. He looked like a prat. “Let’s pretend I’m not considering checking myself into St. Mungo’s for going mental. What else can you tell me?”
“Good. I know about the polyjuice potion your second year. Sirius. Horcruxes. Everything, mate. I just need five minutes, then you can get back to her.”
“Who?”
“Hermione. She gave us this.” He yanked the chain around his neck and let the time turner peek out. “I’ll tell you about it in a bit.” Ron pulled a flask from his coat pocket and took a swig, then pushed it over to his teenage reflection. “This is the good stuff. You won't be able to afford this for a few years yet.”
He watched as the boy took too big of a sip. “Smooth,” he choked. “So we're rich?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“Then why do you look so—forgive me, but you look pretty miserable.”
Ron was taken aback. Was it written that clearly on him? “A little of this, a little of that,” he said. “Being old blows. Haven't seen mum and dad in a few decades, so that was weird.” He took a good hard look at the teen before him, curious how the next bit would play out. “And I've also just left Hermione's funeral. That wasn't much fun.”
“She's dead?” The boy began to flush. He snapped his head around to see her. Krum had found her.
“Yeah, but that's not the real problem. And don’t worry about Krum. Let's just say he's a bit preoccupied,” Ron said, knowing exactly what would have troubled him decades and decades ago. It felt so small.
The boy looked at him, confirming that what he just said couldn’t possibly be as trivial as he made it out to be.
“Relax, son. In my time she's only just died at nearly a hundred. The thing is we weren't together.”
“So what? We're only friends.”
“So Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches is for Lavender, then? You can't lie to me. Just sayin’.” He grinned.
The younger shook his head slowly, reflecting the truth of it. The flask hit his lips, causing the usual warm grimace. He wiggled in his chair to settle in for the chat.
“First things first. We win. I'm not going to tell you how, but it's going to be harder than any other of those death traps Harry drags you on including that night at the Ministry. But you do it. The three of you. The losses are unbearable. You can't save them. Remember that. Harry will struggle a long time with it. He's got Ginny though. She'll help him through it.”
The boy stared intently, fiddling with the cap off the flask with his unknotted fingers.
“The second thing is—you . . .” it was too hard to say. It would come. Maybe after another sip. He took the flask back. “That’s enough whiskey. I need you sharp today. Now that I know you're not going to go all spare on me, you can ask me something. But not about the war.”
Young Ron looked suspicious, but asked anyway. Most would kill for a chance like this. “Alright. If I don't end up with Hermione, do I ever marry anyone? Please not Lavender.”
“You did everything but make it down the aisle with,” he looked around, “her.” He pointed a tremoring hand to a young girl in a yellow dress.
“Who?”
“Who do you bloody well think? Gabrielle.”
Young Ron looked again. “She's a kid. She's twelve!”
“It amazes me we ever survived the damn war. She grows up, dum dum! Just look at Bill and Fleur. He's got some years on her. And she'll be every bit as beautiful. You make her laugh. She loves you. We don't go through with it.” He took a swig. The whiskey was sweet and smooth. It had grown too familiar over the years. “I broke up the family. Bill wouldn't speak to me. George took my side—and Fred too, of course. Percy didn't know what to think. Yeah, you make up. Mum and dad tried to keep us all together. Nearly killed her.”
“Why? If she's so wonderful, why not do it? Sounds like a no brainer.”
“She's not Hermione,” he said flatly.
“Oh.”
The golden-jacketed band struck up something lively. Both Rons tapped their feet. Krum scowled at Xenophilius Lovegood. Hermione drummed her fingers.
“Think about it. You all have been love-hating each other for years. Eventually the hate goes away. Please tell me that you realize those birds she set on you were because of Lav Lav.”
“Yeah. I got that.”
“She's ready for you, mate. But it's not a good time. You'll know when it's right.”
His young self reached across the table for the flask. Ron pulled it away. “I told you. I need you sharp.”
“Whatever. So if me and Hermione get together, what happened? I mean if we don’t end up together and if she’s so great I can’t marry Gabrielle.”
Hermione was now laughing with Fleur as she and Bill made their rounds. It was something to hear her laugh again. Still a giggle like it’d always be in private. A little wild and unrefined. Not a proper, political laugh she’d shown to the world.
“You mess up. This hunt you're going on . . . I told you it's hard. You can't take it, and you . . .” Something caught in his throat, the burn of whiskey clinging to it.
“What?”
“You leave. You . . . there’s a day when you decide it’s all too hard.” He swallowed. “And you leave her . . . Harry too.”
“No way!” Young Ron blinked in disbelief.
“A bacon sandwich.”
The youth flared his nostrils again. “Wha’?”
“Never mind. But it's cold, Ron. Food is scarce. Dementors are everywhere, and it's like that for months. I'm here to ask that you tough it out. It's the biggest regret of our life. It's why we never can work it out with Hermione.”
Someone put a plate of sandwiches down on the table. Ron pushed the whole thing to the lad. “Eat up. Finish the plate. There's not much time.”
He obliged, not having to be told twice. “Hold on. So I leave but you said I'll get my moment. So we date?” he said with his mouth full.
“Oh yeah! You find your way back. And you have three amazing years together after the war. Cottage in Godric's Hollow. A crup named Fang. Happiest you've ever been and it's not even close.”
“Wait. So you're telling me I abandon her, I live with her, then we break up because of it. Honestly, that doesn't sound right.”
“She gets hurt bad. That hurt her more.”
They stared at each other for a long time. He could tell that the boy beside him was trying to find his face under the wrinkles, grey, and grief.
“So,” said the boy, “how did it happen? The—the breakup?”
“How lots of breakups happen. Fights. It was always something stupid. I'd leave a wet towel on the bed or forget to do the dishes. Sometimes it was Krum. She'd see it in my face when she wrote to him. Small things not worth remembering except to make me wonder what if.” He drummed his fingers on the table, listening to Molly now trying to contain Muriel. Something about the Lovegoods and their attire.
“But I could feel her judgment. I'd apologize for it. The leaving her. She'd tell me she'd forgiven me ages ago. But I could feel it, Ron. It was like I'd done it all over again. It lived with us!”
The band played something even more upbeat. The dance floor began to crowd. Young Ron looked.
“I'm not going to keep you much longer.”
“No, it's okay. What happened?”
“I proposed. I didn't want to lose her. She told me she'd think about it. We didn't talk about it after that. She threw herself into her Ministry work. Got home later and later.” He swallowed with some effort. “Then one day, she told me that she loved me more than anything, but that marriage wasn't right. Moved out the next day.”
“Blimey.”
“Yeah.”
“So you're telling me you never talked to her again because she didn't forgive you for something that happened years ago. Or,” he rubbed a crumb off his nose, “in the future. You know what I mean.”
“Kind of, yeah. But I saw her again. I told you I couldn't go through with it with Gabby. Sometimes I regret it. I really did like her. But the regret never lasts that long because Hermione came back a few months after our. . . not wedding. She’d become Minister.” Young Ron gaped like a goldfish. “We were somewhere in our thirties. She'd just passed a house elf rights law.”
“No way!”
“It was a pathetic little thing. All she could convince the Wizengamut to do. Every few years, masters would have to bring their elves to the ministry. They got a chance to declare their freedom in front of a Ministry official if they wanted to. But there were still too many of Fudge’s guys around. A purse full of gold does wonders if you don't want to lose your elf.”
“Yeah, yeah. What happened when she came back.”
“I'm getting there! And you come around to elf rights quicker than you think.” He tapped his cane twice to the ground. “As I was saying before you decided to be so damn thick, the law was rubbish. But it bought her a lot of goodwill. You see, she's seen as a bit of a hero. We are too. So when it failed, people stood by her. Saw her as leading a kinder Ministry. After that, it got easier. Elves, werewolves, goblins, you name it.”
Young Ron lost color.
“What's wrong, son? Remember, you can't lie to me.”
“If she becomes Minister without me, then what happens if I fix it this time. I mean—if she's so good, I don't want to stand in the way.”
Old Ron laughed until he coughed. “Do you really think you're going to stop her from becoming Minister if she wants to?”
They stared at each other. The kid’s eyes were clear and uncomplicated.
Ginny walked over. “Who are you?” She always was blunt.
“I’m the squib. Uncle Augustus, the accountant. It’s good to meet you. I was just talking to Ron about compounded interest in the muggle markets. You know, it’s never too early to start thinking about your own business. Do you have a Junior ISA?”
Ginny excused herself not so politely to go talk with Charlie and Lee Jordan.
“She's alive by the way. Still married to Harry. Bunch of grandkids. Remember that when it gets bad. Harry loves only Ginny. I mean he loves us too. Just, you know, not in that way.”
“Okay . . .”
“Just remember it. Seriously. And wait ‘til you see Lily Luna, their youngest. Looks so much like mum, I thought I was going mental. Takes after the twins though. Got caught pranking Neville at school with a regular old whoopie cushion. Brilliant, really. He was nice about it, but her mum was having kittens.” He found himself smiling at the memory. “You should’ve seen Ginny. Three sheets of parchment on the kitchen table, copying it all into two howlers. I thought the table might combust. Took me an hour and half a bottle of firewhiskey to convince her to vanish ‘em. Lily found out. Been mine ever since.”
The boy smiled. “So it’s not all bad then.”
“She grew up, mate. Lives in Germany, working as a healer. Jean, that’s her daughter, just finished Hogwarts.” He pushed out a long sigh and stared aimlessly into the roast beef sandwich his better self continued to devour.
“So what happened with Hermione after she became Minister?”
“Right!” He couldn’t see how he was losing the thread of the conversation. “She came back to the cottage. Just appeared in the fire the night that law was passed. I've rarely seen her lighter. Didn't even want to talk about it. I didn't talk about Gabby. We didn't talk about much of anything. Now that's magic.” He scratched his gray head. “Stayed up late into the night then I heard her brushing her teeth in the bathroom. The next day, she had her tiny beaded bag on her after work. Take a look.” Once more he pointed his knotted finger.
Young Ron turned his head. “What's that?”
“You'll know soon enough . . . unfortunately.”
“Whatever. What happened?”
“She stayed one nearly perfect week just like we were kids again. Well—not kids. Your age. A bit older. Then we fought. I don't even remember about what. But it all came back. I apologized again for leaving. How I abandoned her. Next morning, she was gone. No note. Just this hanging on the bedframe.” He flashed the time turner again. “For all I know, it's the last one anywhere.”
“And you think she wanted you to use it to come here to warn me not to run out on her?”
“No idea. That's the damnedest thing about it.”
The band quieted to something slow and soft, the horns no longer polite. They wailed now, unsteady and earnest. The sound of yearning. Fred’s voice cut above it.
“If I told you you had a nice body, would you hold it against me?”
Ron looked over to see him and George with two of Fleur’s Veela cousins, who’d gone red.
“Don’t mind him,” said George, brushing a hand through his hair, “I’d slap him for you, but I’d only be hurting myself.”
The girls giggled. “What are your names?” one of them asked, sounding like a frog rested comfortably in her throat. Elodie. Just as bad as the twins in some ways. The stories Gabbie told . . .
George cupped his missing ear and shouted, “Sorry—What? I couldn’t hear you!”
Ron could have sworn they'd planned the whole routine, and considering they'd spent every waking moment together, it only seemed reasonable. They did not know their duo would become a solo act. Or that George would wander the continent after the war, leaving Ron to take the reins of the joke shop. It needed to stay that way.
“We got into a bit of a scuffle the other day. Nobody you’d know. Just some Death Eaters.” Fred gave a confident stretch, arms raised high only for one of them to rest across Elodie’s shoulder on its way back down. “I got a bit luckier. All my important appendages are still attached.”
The other, Isabeau, devolved into a fit of blushing and giggling. It was George’s turn. He put an arm around her. “C’mon. I’ll show you where we hid all the good champa-g-ne.” Giggling and smug satisfaction followed them out of the tent.
Old Ron turned to his younger self. “George would always say that was the greatest moment of his life. Isabeau told me they only snogged for five minutes.”
Ron, the younger one, the one who hadn’t made a mess of his life yet, made a face equivalent of watching the clock with ten minutes left of a Binn’s lecture. “Whatever. Look mate, I don’t care about them. Something’s not right.”
“Of course it’s not. What do you think I’ve been trying to tell you for the past,” He looked at his watch, “ten minutes?” Time was running out.
“No, I mean with you. Or with what you’re telling me. She told you she forgave you. I believe her. She would never hold that over us.”
“She does though!” He just didn’t understand. “I know she doesn’t want to. What choice did I give her?”
“Right . . . but she stayed a whole week.”
“Yeah.”
“And conjured a toothbrush.”
“I think so. Or just brought one.”
How could they have been the same eyes that stared back at him? He could hardly remember what it was like to touch his own face and feel like himself. To have that naive kind of certainty. To say things like, “Even better. Doesn't sound to me like she's got something against you, mate.”
Old Ron didn't answer, but covered his face in his knotted hands.
“Look at what happened,” the younger pressed on. “She passed some law and who did she choose to celebrate with? Not Harry. Not Ginny. You. Or us. You don't speak for years and she just shows up? What honestly makes you think she’s still holding it against you after that long? And then you go bringing that rubbish up again. It's probably why she left to begin with. Got tired of hearing of about it. I am too. Just sayin’.”
“Ron?” Hermione tugged on his robes from behind. She was a girl's kind of pretty. All the innocence and hope, the woman she'd become visible behind her mascaraed brown eyes. “Oh, hello. I'm—”
“Hermione . . .”
They stared at each other.
“Forgive me. An old man's lapse.” He slapped himself lightly on the cheek. “I'm just another Weasley. Arthur was talking about you, something about learning what computers do. And Molly too—says how helpful you've been helping to set up the occasion. And,” he looked around and gestured toward the floating lanterns, “what a beautiful job you’ve done. Ron here won't shut up about you, but he won't admit it. I won't keep you from him too long. I just need another minute.”
She went pink. Young Ron watched her leave after saying goodbye. Old Ron buried his face in hands again.
“You alright?”
“I've only just buried her. And now she's—” The tears wouldn't stop. He clawed them back anyway, feeling his very heart might stop, which would be okay if he could only finish saying what was most important. Pulling out his flask and the rest of his Felix Felicis, he poured one into the other and drained it.
“Hey, take it easy. And was that—”
“Now listen here, boy,” he said, searching for the tone urgent enough to express the gravity of it all, “This is not some schoolboy crush you've got. This is your life and hers! Neither of you ever marry. She had her boyfriends, but died in St. Mungo's with nobody at her bed but her assistant. That’s the worst of it all if you ask me.”
“Alone? Why? Where was Harry?”
“Romania with Ginny. Family reunion. Percy’s hundredth if you can believe it. Charlie planned the whole thing, but he’s closer with Bill than me. Said me being there might actually be the end of Bill—what happened with Gabrielle and all that. All the kids and grandkids, even some great grandkids. But you need a portkey to get that far that fast, especially at our age. Apparition hurts, boy. They were too late. And I . . .” He trailed off.
“You what?”
“. . . didn't make it on time either. I got the owl and by the time I got there . . . her hands were still warm.”
He could feel the stomping feet before it happened. A child of about seven, chocolate all over her face, knocked the table, spilling champagne over his trousers. He didn’t bother with it.
“It’s just as well.” The liquid seeped in. “I’m going out the same way. Maybe Harry and Ginny come, maybe I just bite it in my sleep. I guess that’s the best way. I might even see her.”
“I’m not going to be an old git like you!” Young Ron stood up. “You’re being a tosser. Don't you see?”
“What?”
“She came back to you, and she wanted you there when she died. It's not that hard to put it all together, you old coot.”
He stared at his young face, a rough truth written in his scowling brows. “Good. You don’t have to be like me. You're enough. Don't leave, Ron. Just don’t. Remember to take it off.”
“What're you talking about now? Take it off . . .” he barked.
“Can't tell you. But you'll know. Believe me you'll know.”
Ron wiped away a lingering tear and pointed his wand to his flask. “Aguamenti.”
He took a sip. “But if you do leave . . . come back. Apologize once. And let that be the end of it.”
The lad still scowled, but nodded.
“Now, this is very important. Very very important. Are you listening?” He let the Felix guide him.
The younger nodded.
“New Year's Eve or Day—really just any time around then, don't let Harry go out alone at night. Go with him. Insist if you have to.”
“Got it.”
“Don't let them say You Know Who's name. That's very important. Don’t tell them about it though. Just keep being scared of it. And this isn’t going to make any damn sense at all, but make sure somebody says it on Easter Saturday in the afternoon. It'll be the worst day of your life. Follow Hermione's lead. Harry will get you through the rest of it. It has to happen this way.”
“What?”
“It'll make sense after it's over.”
“But—”
“Now the most important thing . . . go dance with her.”
Young Ron stared blankly.
“I mean it. Look behind you.”
Young Ron turned and went white.
Krum twirled her. Ron’s former self had gone red. He still didn’t understand that some things don’t matter.
“Don't worry about him. Really. Who cares if he was her first kiss? Get over it. You could have a life with her.”
The boy continued to flush, growing redder as Krum dipped her. “So what do I do?”
“Butt in.”
“Really?”
“Why not? See what happens. I have a feeling you’ll be alright.” Ron picked up the flask, waiting to see how his younger self would deal with the new situation. Having forgotten he’d drained the entire thing, raised it to his lips and got only water.
“You’ve got everything you need, Ron. You’ve always been enough. Go dance. It’ll get hard faster than you think, so enjoy it. Don’t be afraid.” Old Ron took his wand from the table—the one with cracks and black streaks from where it'd been burned—and put it in his pocket.
The boy was already standing up. “Thanks, I guess.”
They looked into each other’s eyes for a moment. “No need to make this weird,” they said together, and shared a smile.
Young Ron walked off onto the golden dance floor. The old wizard watched him put a hand on Hermione’s shoulder. She blushed. Krum scowled but walked off. Ron was bad at dancing. It didn’t matter.
As the golden-jacketed band played something slow and swooning, Ron watched as Ginny danced with Lee Jordan, but looked at Harry longingly as he spoke with Elphias Doge. Fred and George reemerged with Elodie and Isabeau, smiles and ruffled hair on all of them. Arthur and Xenophilius talked over a butterbeer, and Molly cried as she danced with Bill, holding her son as if he was going on some far away journey for some unknown duration.
It would all end far too soon.
Ron dug his cane in deep and headed to the entrance. He took one look back, just in time to see Hermione rest her head on the lad’s shoulder, who nodded a thanks to the old man. The sun was high above the garden, which was empty, except for the bees that still buzzed right along with the fluttering butterflies and scuttering garden gnomes. One of them poked their head out of a hole next to Ron’s cane. He didn’t bother with it, choosing to leave instead. He knew what would come. Staying would only complicate it further.
He let the image of his family etch itself in his memory for whatever time he had left before joining Hermione. Before he would apologize for the last time. For the right thing. And let it go forever.
The aches and pains didn’t bother him as he disapparated from the Burrow. He found himself once more in the cemetery, just by the kissing gate. He had time now, but spent it only to say one last thing to Lily and James. “I did what I could. I’ll fix it again if I have to. You know, tell me not to go through with it. This me I mean.” He tried to follow his own words. “You know what? Just forget I said anything.”
He knelt low at the grove that would become Hermione’s resting place, once again ignoring the pain. In the distance, he could just see the chimney of the house they’d share for three years. For once, he did not stop the memory from washing over him, and smiled for what he’d had.
The time turner was cold against his palm as he pulled it from behind his robes. “C’mon,” he whispered to it like some higher power. “I get it.” He turned it. And turned it some more. And again. Far too many times, it seemed, to get back to his present, but that’s what it took.
The leaves began to fall, then snow, until he was caught in an ever-changing cycle. The headstones multiplied, the grievers cried, and then it all stopped.
The black-robed mourners still speckled the grove and the sun kissed his cheek.
He froze at the sight of the headstone.
Hermione Jean Granger
Our Beloved Minister
And he knew by the words beneath his fingers that he had been too late. Or not enough. He could not make sense of which, but it did not matter. The sensation hit him, the same one he’d had before as the world said goodbye to her—made worse by the fact that he’d tried.
She was not living. She was still gone. The short inscription of kind words could not hide that her body would moulder in the ground. She was indifferent. Unknowing that he was on his knees in front of her. He wished for it to be anyone else and he wondered why he was not there with her, poised to rot alongside her.
Tears came and would not stop, warm against his cheeks. They ran to his nose to fall to the ground that would become her grave. He did not wipe them away as footsteps brushed in the grass behind him, a hand on his shoulder.
“Dad?”
Ron didn’t answer.
“Are you going to be alright?”
“Yeah, son.”
“I hate to do this to you. I miss Mum too, and we want to be here.” The hand tightened. “But Rubeus is catching the train tomorrow. We haven’t been able to get him his watch with—well, you know—Mum. So we have an early day.”
A gangly boy entered his mind’s eye as if planted there. Red hair, freckles, and two front teeth slightly too big for his mouth. “Seventeen already?” Ron brushed the casket. His ring scraped it slightly.
“Can you believe it?”
“Time waits for no one.”
Ron did not look away from the casket, only grabbed his son's hand and returned the pressure. “Let me buy the watch. I’ll meet you bright and early at the Leaky when it opens.”
“Thanks, dad.”
Ron kissed the hand on his shoulder. It released, leaving him alone once more with the casket.
The flowers stacked high on the headstone. He clawed them back, putting his fingers on more etched stone beneath the other engraving. And he knew before he read them, what the words said.
Loving Wife
And Loving Mother
A breeze blew the leaves just enough to reveal the chimney beyond the kissing gate. Where he had made a home with his wife. Where he'd taught Rose to play chess. Where she’d taught Hugo to brew.
Where fights over wet towels on the bed were forgotten with a warm kiss and a hot meal.
He took in sharp gasps of air as he brushed the casket once more. The wood was warm against his lips. The tears beaded on the mahogany. They dripped down the thin grains, to the grave below her.
Every leaf on the flowers was verdant. Every petal perfect. He raised his wand. It quivered in his hand. Making a circle with it, he produced a wreath of white lilies and forget-me-nots, yet to bloom.
The chain was still around his neck. He took it off. The time turner thudded as it hit the dirt in the hole she hovered above.
“Thank you.”
He wanted to leave. He did not, staying on his knees at her grave in the grove, and weeping.
The mourners had gone. Only one stood behind him as he finally lifted one knee to put a foot on the ground. He could feel Lily Luna steadying him as he dug his cane deep into the grass surrounding the grave and rose to his feet.
She put her arm around his waist. He put an arm over her shoulder, content to be supported. They turned and walked away in the green grass past James and Lily toward the church, out of the kissing gate, and away from the grove.