WILDFLOWER, hermione granger.

xxvii. the light of you

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XXVII. THE LIGHT OF YOU
twenty seven

"THIS IS A BAD IDEA," IVY UTTERED AS SHE STOOD BETWEEN HERMIONE AND HARRY, WHO WERE CLUTCHING HER BECAUSE BELIEVE IT OR NOT, IVY EMITTED WARMTH EVEN IF SHE CLAIMS SHE'S A COLD PERSON, "LET'S DO THIS."

Harry snorts, "Because you wouldn't be our Ivy without diving headfirst into bad ideas."

Ivy rolled her eyes, "Bad ideas bring the most joy."

"Oh jolly," Hermione seconded sarcastically. "Seems falling in a rabbit hole has done it for you, has it?"

"Lighten up, lovely," Ivy told her, smiling slightly. They learned not to question her intuitive nature anymore after finding that she turned out to be right all along... most of the time.

Golden streetlights glimmer along a narrow road leading to the center of town. Christmas decorations twinkle in the windows of small cottages, roofs blanketed in snow. There were several shops, a post office, a pub and a little church whose stained-glass windows were glowing jewel bright across the square.

Hermione shivers into Ivy, "I still think we should've used Polyjuice Potion."

"No. This is where I was born," Harry countered. "I'm not returning as someone else."

"Alright, Lady Gaga," Ivy pats his arm as a pub door opens briefly, laughter and music spilling forth. Ivy sighed, remembering her past nights at the bar as Wildflower, the youngest lead bassist to ever step foot in the local band.

Then they heard a carol start up inside the little church. "Harry, Ivy, I think it's Christmas Eve!" Hermione exclaims in a whisper, her voice wistful.

"Is it?" Harry asks absentmindedly. Ivy squeezed his arm comfortingly.

"I'm sure it is," Ivy told him, her eyes upon the church. "They—They'll be in there, won't they? Your mum and dad? I can see the graveyard behind it."

Without a word, Hermione began pulling Ivy and Harry towards it. Halfway across the square, however, she stopped dead. "Harry, look!" She was pointing at the war memorial. As they had passed it, it had transformed. Instead of an obelisk covered in names, there was a statue of three people—a man with untidy hair and glasses, a woman with long hair and a kind, pretty face, and a baby boy sitting in his mother's arms. Snow lay upon all their heads, like fluffy, white caps.

Harry drew closer, gazing up into his parents' faces. He studies it, for a moment. Ivy felt the overwhelming sense of overprotectiveness she once felt for Draco, swell over this sight of Harry, lost and nervous. Hermione squeezed her hand.

"Come on," Harry says once he has had his looking fill. He gently tugged both girls towards the church. The singing is full and rich here as Harry, Ivy, and Hermione make their way through the snow toward the graveyard.

There was a kissing gate at the entrance to the graveyard. Ivy pushed it open as quietly as possible, the cold metal stinging her palms and they edged through it. On either side of the slippery path to the church doors the snow lay deep and untouched. They moved off through the snow, carving deep trenches behind them as they walked round the building, keeping to the shadows beneath the brilliant windows.