Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ When Freesias Bloom ❯ Epilogue ( Epilogue )

When I was seventeen, I did something no daughter ever wants to do.

The sun was low in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow over my parents’ garden. Light filtered through the leaves, painting dappled shadows on the grass. It should have felt peaceful. Safe. But all I could feel was a quiet ache in my chest. Twenty-two years had passed since that summer, yet this garden—these colours, these scents—pulled me back like no time had passed at all.

My fingertips brushed the edges of blossoms as I walked the path I’d known since childhood. The air smelt like home, but it didn’t bring comfort. It brought weight. The memories weren’t soft—they were sharp, filled with tension and regret. I had been so young. So unsure of everything. That summer, everything had started to shift. Love, fear, choices I wasn’t ready to make. And under it all, that growing dread.

I remembered apparating to the Burrow.

I felt it again, like it was happening now—the cold twist in my stomach as I landed in the Weasleys’ garden. The scents of fresh soil and flowers hit me first, familiar and grounding. But then came the fear. Heavy, thick, bitter in my mouth. I could hardly breathe. The roses were in full bloom, blazing red in the sunlight, but I didn’t really see them. My mind was elsewhere. My legs moved on their own, carrying me to the back door.

Ron opened it. His eyes landed on my face, and I saw the shift. His brows pulled together in confusion, then worry. I must have looked awful—red-eyed, shaking. “Hermione? What’s wrong?”

He reached for me, his hands settling on my shoulders, warm and steady. I wanted to collapse into that comfort, but I was too wound up. I couldn’t even find the words.

“I…” My voice cracked. The truth was right there, but saying it felt impossible. How could I explain this? How could I make him understand the fear that had been building in me for weeks—no, months?

Inside, we sat at the old kitchen table. The house was full of life: distant laughter, footsteps, and the smell of dinner on the stove. Normally, that would have calmed me. Normally, I would’ve felt safe here. But that day, I felt like I was made of glass. Like I could shatter with a single wrong word.

“It’s my parents,” I whispered. My hands trembled in my lap.

Ron’s face fell. “Did something happen to them?”

I looked into his eyes, needing his calm. I had to get the words out. I owed him that. “This might be the last time I ever see them,” I said, my voice shaking.

His expression changed to something more serious. Protective. “What do you mean?”

I took a breath, but it didn’t help. The guilt swelled in my chest like a wave. “I obliviated them,” I said softly. “I erased their memories. Made them forget me.”

The words came out in a rush. Too fast. Too much. I felt raw, like I was peeling myself open in front of him. “I had to do it. It was the only way to keep them safe. But now… now I can’t stop thinking about them. About what could happen. About what I’ve done.”

His hands slipped away from my shoulders. The silence that followed was unbearable.

“You think You-Know-Who… killed that Muggle family to send a message?” he asked carefully.

“I don’t know!” My voice cracked. My throat burnt. “But something is coming, Ron. I feel it. If I don’t go to them now—if I don’t make sure they’re safe—I’ll never forgive myself.”

He looked at me, eyes wide, like he was starting to understand.

People still ask why I did it.

Some think it was cowardice—that I was too afraid to risk my parents’ lives. Others think I took the easy way out, that removing their memories was a neat solution to an impossible problem.

But there was nothing easy about it.

I did it because I loved them. Because the thought of them dying because of me—because of magic—was a weight I couldn’t carry. I would’ve given anything to keep them safe. And in the end, I did. I gave them me.

I remember the night I made the decision. I sat at the kitchen table, staring at their photos on the mantel. Dad laughing at a barbecue, Mum dancing in the garden, her hair caught by the breeze. I couldn’t stop thinking about what would happen if Death Eaters found them. If they were tortured, or killed, or worse—used to get to me.

I had already packed my bag for the hunt with Harry and Ron. But there was one last thing I had to do. The hardest spell I’d ever cast.

I looked at Mum’s necklace on the counter—a simple gold chain I’d enchanted days before. My hand shook as I whispered the charm that would alter their memories, making them believe they were Wendell and Monica Wilkins, happy retirees moving to Australia. My voice cracked, but the spell worked. And then I watched them walk out the door, smiling, unaware of what they were leaving behind.

I stayed behind in the house, in the silence.

For a long time, I hated myself.

Now, twenty-two years later, I still remember everything. Every detail. The cold weight of my wand in my hand. The look in their eyes the moment before they changed. The way Mum reached back for her purse and said, “Today is so beautiful!”—and how I nearly fell apart at the sound of her voice.

I thought about them constantly during the war. When we were cold, when we were hungry, when Harry was breaking under the weight of everything—I thought of Mum wrapping me in a blanket when I had nightmares or Dad making cocoa and humming to the radio. And then I’d cry quietly while the others slept.

When the war ended, I didn’t go to the celebrations. I went straight to the ministry to petition for access to the International Registry. I’d written dozens of letters to the Australian Magical Records Office, cross-referenced travel documents, and finally—finally—I found them.

Sydney. A little house near the sea. A garden. Freesias.

I apparated to the edge of the street and just stood there, my hands clammy, heart pounding. Their house was painted pale yellow, with ivy curling along the fence. A breeze carried the scent of blooming flowers—so much like the garden from my childhood, it brought tears to my eyes.

I stepped closer and saw them. Mum was kneeling in the dirt, pruning roses. Dad was fiddling with a broken sprinkler, swearing under his breath the way he always used to. My chest ached. They looked so ordinary. So safe. So happy.

Should I disturb this?

For a terrifying second, I considered turning away. What right did I have to undo their peace? To drag them back into a world full of scars?

But then I remembered being six years old, sitting in Mum’s lap after skinning my knee. She kissed my temple and said, “No matter where you go, we’ll find you. We’ll always be your home.”

I had to knock.

When they looked up, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. Mum squinted toward the gate. Dad shaded his eyes.

No flicker of recognition.

Just polite curiosity.

That nearly broke me.

I forced a smile and stepped forward. “Hi,” I whispered, voice barely audible. “I… I’m sorry to bother you. My name is Hermione.”

Their expressions softened with kindness, but the spark—the knowing—wasn’t there. It felt like someone had scooped out my heart and left an echo behind.

I looked at the necklace around Mum’s neck. Still there. Still enchanted.

This was it.

I drew my wand carefully. My fingers trembled as I whispered the counter-spell. Two threads of silver shimmered and unravelled from the charm, winding gently through the air, coiling like wisps of memory, and touched their foreheads.

They froze.

And then—Mum gasped. Dad’s eyes widened. Their breath caught.

A moment passed.

And another.

Then suddenly, recognition exploded in their eyes like dawn after the longest night.

“Hermione?” Mum whispered, her voice trembling. “Is it really you?”

I couldn’t answer. I nodded, sobbing, stumbling forward into their arms. Dad caught me, Mum’s hands wrapped around my back, and the three of us stood there, clinging to each other like we’d never let go again.

The smell of her shampoo. The warmth of Dad’s coat. The quiet sobs, the whispered apologies, the joy breaking through the grief—we felt it all at once.

And through it all, I kept thinking, They came back to me. I found them.

“Mum… Dad…” I choked out, laughing and crying all at once. “I’m sorry. I missed you so much.”

Mum kissed my forehead. “We know, darling. We know.”

That moment–it healed something in me I hadn’t realised was still broken.

Now, all these years later, I stand in their garden again. Freesias bloom near the fence. The ivy is thicker, the house freshly painted. But the air—this familiar, fragrant air—hasn’t changed.

I close my eyes and breathe deeply.

And in my mind, I see them—laughing at the breakfast table, clinking mugs in the garden, Mum humming a lullaby as she folds laundry. I see the young girl I was and the woman I became.

And I realize: I’ve never stopped being their daughter. Not when I obliviated them. Not during the war. Not ever.

Because love—real love—endures. Even across continents. Even across memories.

Even across silence.

And when the freesias bloom, I remember:

Hope always finds its way back.

THE END