When Freesias Bloom

PROLOGUE

July 2037

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

Perched on my garden swing, I mulled over the decision for the hundredth time as dusk settled over the yard. The fading light cast shadows across the lawn while a gentle breeze stirred the leaves and the freesia flowers. Inside, my parents went about their evening routine, oblivious to my swirling thoughts. I had been so sure of my choice before, but now doubts crept in. Had I done the right thing? Could there have been a better way? I wish I could pat myself on the back and say, "Well done, Hermione!" But the easy confidence I once felt melted into uncertainty as I questioned my actions under the darkening sky.

My story is too complex to summarize in just a few sentences or package into a simple, neatly-wrapped narrative that people would grasp right away.

Like Harry and Ron, most people would likely be shocked to learn what I did. But it was a difficult time that we all lived through, and while my actions seemed drastic, I believed they were necessary. With hindsight, I stand by my decision, painful as it was. The path I chose was not easy, but it was the only way forward for me. While I didn't obsess over it anymore, I also didn't avoid reflecting on those memories.

Though I'm now forty, the same age my parents were when it happened, I still recall that distant year in perfect detail, often reliving each moment in my mind. Revisiting those memories stirs in me a bittersweet blend of joy and sadness that I've come to accept as integral to the experience. There are times I wish I could unravel the sadness, yet I sense the joy would unravel too. So I welcome each memory as it surfaces, the good and the bad, appreciating the full story they collectively tell.

It is during the darkening hours of the afternoon that I most frequently find myself reflecting on my final moments with my parents, recalling how deeply they mean to me and how rapidly my duty to protect them as a daughter can alter the trajectory of their lives.

I let the memories come, and with a weary sigh, it's as if time itself is rewinding—my hair darkens, my skin tightens, my strength returns. When I open my eyes, I'm no longer the person I've become, but the girl I used to be—bright, eager, and confident. I'm transported back to that fateful year, on the cusp of adulthood.

And this, I remembered, is what happened next.

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