When I was seventeen, I did the worst thing a daughter could do to her parents.

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden hue over the dappled greenery of my parents' garden. Twenty-two years had passed since that fateful summer, yet the rustling leaves and fragrant blossoms conjured memories as vivid as if they'd transpired mere moments ago. I walked the familiar path, my fingers brushing against petals, feeling the pulse of nostalgia coursing through me.

Back then, I was just navigating my life with the kind of angst only youth can muster. It was a year of unresolved feelings, of love strained by the pressures of growing up, of choices that weighed heavily on my conscience. Every step I took seemed to echo with the laughter of days long gone, underscoring the profound shift that had taken place within me.

I remember apparating to the Burrow.

I still recall the visceral shock that rocked me when I materialised in the garden of the Weasleys. The brisk, earthy scent of fresh soil mingled with the aroma of blooming flowers, yet none of it could mask the bitter taste of fear that lingered in my mouth. The roses were in full bloom, vibrant splashes of red that caught the sun’s light perfectly, but I hardly noticed. My heart pounded in my chest as I made my way to the back door.

When Ron saw me—the tear-stained cheeks, the dread in my eyes—his face twisted in confusion. "Hermione? What’s wrong?" His warm hands reached for my shoulders as if he could physically discern the worry inside me.

"I..." The word caught in my throat, heavy and unwieldy. I was unsure if I could explain the depths of my fear, the gnawing anxiety that churned within me daily.

Once seated at the worn wooden table, the sounds of the household buzzed around us: the laughter of his siblings, the scent of Mrs. Weasley’s cooking wafting in from the kitchen. But the warmth barely touched me; I felt as if I were encased in ice, already breaking apart at the seams.

"It’s my parents," I finally said, trembling.

Ron furrowed his brow, concern etching deeper lines on his forehead. "Did something happen to them?"

I took a deep breath, focusing on his blue eyes. I had to open up to him. “It might be one of the last times I’ll get to see them,” I said, my voice wavering.

His expression shifted into a frown, a protective instinct radiating from him. “What do you mean?”

“I obliviated my parents. I removed their memory of me.” The admission slipped from my lips like a confession made under duress. I spilt everything. “I’m scared, Ron. I’m scared for them. I can’t escape this feeling, this sense that something awful is coming.”

Silence enveloped us as my words sank in. I watched as the colour drained from Ron’s face, the flicker of disbelief turning to understanding.

His hands dropped from my shoulders, and sadness filled the space between us. “You think You-Know-Who killed the muggle family to taunt you?”

“I don’t know!” I exclaimed, desperation clawing at my throat. “But the world is so dangerous, Ron. I have this awful feeling that if I don’t take this time now, I’ll regret it forever. I want my parents to be safe before…”

“Before what?” he pressed, though his voice had softened.

“Before it’s too late,” I concluded, feeling the weight of those words settle heavily between us.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

I know that some people may wonder if I was doing it out of cowardice. Some of the more cynical may even wonder if I did it because I was taking the easy way out. The answer to both questions is no. I would have done the same thing no matter what happened in the future. I knew it at the moment I obliviated them, and I still know it today.

Perhaps I could have fought harder to protect them without the binding chains of magic. I could have shown them the resilience of our world and taught them the power of hope. But I made my choice, and I would live with it. I had saved them from the terror that stalked us and from my own truth, buried deep beneath the layers of obligation and righteousness.

Mum and Dad. Even now, saying their names feels like a guttural expulsion of all the love and anguish locked inside me. They are more than just the parents I loved. In my seventeen years, they helped me become the woman I am today. Their steady hands guided me through crisis after crisis, and with those hands, they taught me what it meant to strive for something greater.

I remember looking at Mum, her hair streaked with silvery hints of age, and Dad, whose laughter had always filled me with warmth, anchoring my sometimes tumultuous soul. They were the most remarkable people I had ever known—always optimistic, even when life tested them.

I had used the enchantment I had placed on the necklace to trace my parents' whereabouts in Australia. Just as I'd hoped, I found them happy in their quaint house, tending to blooming flowers in the front yard. This scene evoked a memory from my past—the single vibrant freesia that had bloomed at our home, standing tall as a sign of hope for me during a difficult time.

As I knocked on their front gate, my hands trembled. When they finally turned and saw me, it was as if time paused. The happiness that radiated from them was tangible, yet confusion clouded their faces. For a fleeting moment, they stood still, absorbing the sight of me, the very essence of uncertainty reflected in their eyes.

It took only a heartbeat for them to step forward. I glanced at my mum's neck where the necklace lay, and it made me struggle to keep my emotions in check. I could tell that they hadn’t anticipated my being there. As I reached for my wand, I felt an exhilarating mix of nerves and hope.

Discreetly, I swished my wand, performing the delicate charm that would shatter the false memories and the enchantment that wrapped around the pendant. Two silver strands shimmered as they unspooled from the necklace, latching themselves back to my parents like threads of light weaving into their consciousness. They blinked, the layers of confusion cascading away like summer leaves in the wind. Recognition flickered back into their eyes, and, for the first time in a year, I saw a glimmer of my parents in their expressions.

My heart surged as I stepped forward, arms wide open, and I embraced them both. Their warmth enveloped me, the scent of my mum’s familiar perfume mixing with the damp earth from the garden. I could feel the years of sorrow and separation melting away, replaced by love I had once feared I might never feel again.

Tears streamed down my cheeks as laughter bubbled unbidden from my lips. "Mum… Dad," I whispered, savouring the closeness I thought I might forever be denied. "It’s Hermione."

In that instant, the weight of the last year melted away, replaced by a steadfast promise of reunification. Surrounding us was an invisible bond—more resistant than time, more enduring than any enchantment.

It was, I remember, the most wonderful moment of my life.

It is now twenty-two years later, and I can still remember everything from that day. The weight of it sits in the back of my mind like an uninvited guest, lingering long after the clock had ticked forward and life insisted on moving on. I may be older and wiser, having lived through the countless experiences life has thrown my way, but I know when my time eventually comes, those memories will flood my mind once more, vivid as ever.

I breathe deeply, taking in the fresh summer air. The familiar fragrance wraps around me, encasing me in the warmth of nostalgia. Though my parents' house has changed over the years—walls repainted, furniture replaced—the air itself has not. It’s still thick with the scent of blooming freesias from the garden that my mother used to tend to so lovingly. It’s the air of my childhood, the air of my seventeenth year, full of promise and trepidation.

When I finally exhale, I feel the years dissolve. I’m forty once more, standing in that overgrown backyard. I smile slightly, looking toward the darkening sky. There’s something beautiful about reflecting on the past when you’re no longer afraid of it. I have embraced the cycle of life, and I have come to believe that when freesias bloom, hope and trust prevail.

THE END