When I was seventeen, I did something no daughter ever wants to do.
The sun hung low in the sky, casting that golden, late-summer glow across my parents' garden. Everything was washed in warmth—soft light spilling through the hedgerows, dappling the worn stone path beneath my feet. It should have been comforting. Familiar. But all it did was make the ache in my chest worse.
I shouldn't have come back.
And yet, twenty-two years later, I found myself here again—drawn by something I couldn't name, something that tugged at the edge of memory like a loose thread I'd never stopped pulling.
I stepped carefully between the flowerbeds, my fingers brushing over rosemary and lavender, trailing over blossoms I used to know by name. The scent of freesia drifted up from the border near the wall—Mum's favourite. She used to say they meant trust. Innocence. I didn't know what I believed anymore.
The air smelt like childhood. But the memories weren't gentle.
They pressed close, sharp and unyielding. That summer—the summer before everything changed—lived just beneath my skin. Fear coiled tight in my ribs. I'd pretended to be ready. Pretended to be brave. But I hadn't been. Not really.
I remembered Apparating to the Burrow.
The feeling surged up in me again—the twisting drop in my stomach, the snap of magic settling around me. I landed in the Weasleys' garden, the scent of fresh soil and honeysuckle all around, the roses glowing red in the afternoon light. Normally I would have noticed. Counted the petals. Said something about pollination.
But that day, my mind was elsewhere. Heavy. Loud.
I walked quickly to the door, feet barely touching the grass.
Ron opened it.
His face lit up at first—but only for a second. Then he saw mine. The colour drained from his cheeks, and his smile faltered.
"Hermione?" He asked, voice low, uncertain. "What's happened?"
I didn't answer straight away. My throat felt too tight, like the words were caught somewhere deep inside. His hands came to rest on my shoulders—solid, steady, warm. He'd always had strong hands. I wanted to lean into them. Let them hold all the weight I was carrying.
But I couldn't. Not yet.
Inside, the Burrow was alive with noise—clinking dishes, the sound of someone laughing upstairs, a faint burst of wireless music from Fred and George's room. I sat at the kitchen table anyway, hands twisting in my lap, heart hammering so loudly I thought it might drown me.
"It's my parents," I said at last, barely audible.
Ron went still. "Did something happen to them?"
My eyes met his. I needed him to see—to understand. "This might be the last time I ever see them," I whispered.
Something shifted in his expression. A frown creased his forehead. "What do you mean?"
I drew a breath—too shallow. I hadn't prepared for this part. "I obliviated them," I said. "I… I made them forget I existed. Gave them new names, a new life. I sent them away."
The words felt jagged. Exposed. Like I'd torn something open just by saying them aloud. Ron didn't speak. His hands fell from my shoulders, slowly. Not in anger—just in shock.
"I had to," I went on. "I couldn't bear the thought of them being tortured—or killed—because of me. I told myself it was the right thing. The only thing. But now…"
I blinked hard, trying not to cry. Not again. "Now all I can think about is whether they're safe. Whether the spell held. Whether they'd forgive me if they ever remembered."
The silence stretched between us like a held breath.
"You think that Muggle family—the Montgomerys—was a message?" Ron asked quietly. "I read the article this morning."
"I don't know," I admitted. "But it felt too deliberate. Too cruel. They were good people. Kind. Just like my parents. And You-Know-Who—he doesn't need a reason anymore. If he finds them—if he knows—I won't have time to stop it."
People still ask why I did it.
Some say it was fear—that I couldn't bear the risk. Others call it an easy solution, a tidy little spell to sweep away the danger.
But there was nothing easy about it.
Not a single part.
I did it because I loved them. Because the thought of my parents dying—not because of some random accident, not because of age or illness, but because of me, because of magic—was unbearable. I couldn't live with that. So I gave them the only protection I had.
I gave them me.
I couldn't stop imagining it—Death Eaters turning up at the door, wands drawn, using them to punish me, to punish all of us. They wouldn't even understand why. They'd just be… gone.
But I never once regretted protecting them.
And now, all these years later—twenty-two of them—I still remember every moment. Every breath. The chill of the wand in my hand. The slight shift in the air as the spell took hold. The look in their eyes right before it changed—right before Mum turned to pick up her bag and said, "Today is so beautiful!" like nothing at all had happened.
That nearly broke me.
During the war, I thought of them constantly. When we were cold, when the Snatchers were hunting us, when Harry sat by the fire looking as though he might shatter into pieces—I thought of Dad humming along to the radio in the kitchen and Mum making tea with that chipped blue mug she refused to throw away.
And when I couldn't sleep, I cried. Quietly. Always quietly, so Harry and Ron wouldn't hear.
When the war ended, I didn't go to the parties. I didn't wave flags or drink Firewhisky in the streets. I went straight to the Ministry. Straight to the Department of Magical Records.
I filed petitions. I combed through travel logs, spell tracers, and international security orders. I wrote to the Australian Magical Records Office nearly every week. It took months.
But I found them.
A little house in Sydney, tucked away near the coast. Garden. Quiet street. Freesias by the gate.
I Apparated to the edge of the road. I couldn't breathe at first. Their home was painted soft yellow, with ivy curling along the posts and the smell of freesia on the wind. It reminded me of the garden from my childhood so sharply I thought I might be sick.
I walked slowly. Every step forward felt like a betrayal. What right did I have to come back?
And then I saw them.
Mum knelt beside the flowerbed, pruning the roses. Dad was crouched by the sprinkler, muttering under his breath exactly the way he always had when something went wrong. They looked the same. A little older, perhaps. But peaceful. Ordinary.
Safe.
My chest ached.
Should I disturb this? Should I really ask them to remember everything I had taken from them?
Part of me wanted to turn away. To leave them be.
But then I remembered being six years old, curled in Mum's lap after I'd fallen off my bike. My knee was bleeding. I was sobbing. And she'd kissed the top of my head and said, "No matter where you go, we'll find you. We'll always be your home."
I had to knock.
I gripped the gate, breath trembling in my throat. When they looked up, something inside me shattered. Mum squinted slightly in the light. Dad raised a hand to shade his eyes.
No flicker of recognition.
Only polite curiosity.
And I realised—this might be the moment that broke me again.
I forced a smile and stepped forward.
"Hello," I said softly. "I… I'm so sorry to trouble you. My name's Hermione."
Their expressions shifted—warm, welcoming even—but there was no spark. No flicker of recognition. Just polite interest, a kind sort of puzzlement.
It was like someone had scooped out my heart and left only the echo of it behind.
I glanced down at the necklace around Mum's neck. Still there. Still holding the charm I'd cast all those months ago.
This was it.
With a shaking hand, I drew my wand from my coat pocket. My fingers curled tightly round the handle, knuckles white. I raised it slowly, barely breathing, and whispered the counter-spell beneath my breath.
Two strands of silver light shimmered from the necklace. They unravelled like threads, twisting gently through the air—delicate, ethereal—and touched their foreheads, just between the eyes.
They froze.
Mum gasped. Dad swayed slightly where he stood. Their eyes widened, breath catching. The light vanished.
A moment passed.
Then another.
And suddenly, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, recognition burst across their faces.
"Hermione?" Mum breathed. Her voice trembled. "Is it really you?"
I couldn't speak. I nodded, tears spilling freely now, and stumbled towards them. Dad caught me first—arms strong and certain—then Mum folded herself around us both. The three of us clung together, shaking, breathless, as though we'd never let go again.
The scent of her shampoo. The scratch of Dad's coat against my cheek. The soft, broken sound of our sobs. Their hands, still the same, still safe. We held each other like we were trying to stitch time back together.
"I'm sorry," I gasped, laughing and crying at once. "I missed you—so much."
Mum kissed the side of my head. "We know, sweetheart. We know."
And in that moment, something in me—something I hadn't even realised was still broken—began to heal.
Now, all these years later, I stand in their garden again.
The freesias are blooming near the fence, their scent rising in the late spring air. The ivy is thicker along the wall, the paint on the house newer, brighter. But the air—the feel of it—hasn't changed.
I close my eyes and breathe deeply.
In my mind's eye, I see them. Laughing at the breakfast table. Clinking mugs in the garden. Mum humming under her breath as she folds the washing. Dad reading the paper aloud in a voice just a little too dramatic. I see the girl I once was—bright-eyed, bookish, full of plans—and the woman I became.
And I realise I never stopped being their daughter.
Not when I obliviated them. Not during the war. Not even in the years that followed, when we tried to piece it all back together.
Because love—real, unshakeable love—doesn't vanish. Not with distance. Not with silence. Not even with memory.
It endures.
And when the freesias bloom, I remember.
Hope always finds its way back.
THE END