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Waiting for The Rain


She sat in her normal chair, the blue fabric long faded, but no less comfortable. A cup of tea sat to her right, steam rising and dancing just above its surface. She was faced looking out the window, as always.

It was raining, as would be expected in the springtime. April showers bring May flowers. Many thought that when it rained, someone was crying up above, that the cool droplets were harbingers of sadness. How wrong they were.

Without rain, there would be no rainbows. It brought flowers, cleansed pollen out of the air that caused so many allergies. And after it rained, was when the true glory of nature was alive. Green leaves shone like nothing else, thick droplets of water clinging on, magnifying the color tenfold. Mother Nature danced and celebrated after rain, the flowers and plants seemed to smile. No, rain was not tears from the heavens. It was life.

She didn’t like the city lights, or the thick smog that hung in the air, offspring of industry. A brisk breeze that nipped playfully at one’s skin, and made one pull their coat tighter was what she loved. Her garden was full of leafy green plants, and brilliant flowers. No spindly sharp grasses that cut ones skin; soft large leaves surrounding delicate flowers—except for the roses, with their sharp thorns.

She knew that if she lived in the desert, she would die. No green, no rain, no life. Just miles upon miles stretching out as far as the eye could see, of barren lifeless dust. A cactus did not gleam or glow with the light of the rain. A cactus was a poor stunted spiny creature, an old man suffering from arthritis and malnutrition.

Her hair was done up in a soft braid. Her trademark frizzy brown hair had softened over the years and was no longer so unruly. Deep, honey eyes shone of knowledge; but those who looked deeper saw that her knowledge was of pain. They sparkled, but not with the happiness they had before. They were waiting, waiting.

The war had ended years before, but she hadn’t bothered to keep track of how many. Letters to dear friends were the only contact with her life before; she mostly kept to herself, and her flower shop she owned in the nearest town.

When the rain stopped she stepped out the back door and closed it softly. She smiled at the beauty of the world surrounding her, but her smile rarely reached her eyes. Silently trodding down the familiar path in the forest that started behind her house, she got there quickly, she knew the way. The thin stone slab was framed by brilliantly pink azaleas and purple irises that she had taken the liberty to plant herself, and had been joined over the years by a couple of volunteers.

They had been married for a few years, and it wasn’t until the very end that he had gone. By two words and flash of green light. In the muggle world there were three important words, which teenage girls giggled over, trying to get their boyfriends to say them. But these two words were much different, much more devastating. How they lived in ignorant bliss the two words that would shatter ones world in an instant.

He hadn’t been buried; she personally saw that as a waste. He had been cremated, his ashes scattered around the stone plaque, fertilizing the very flowers that were a tribute to his name. Her fingers brushed against the words carved in stone that were all too familiar.

Ronald Weasley
Loving Husband, Friend, and Son


She envied the plants, shining in the beauty of their rain, their life. She had been robbed of hers years before.

Hermione stood there, waiting for the rain. Waiting for life.

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