Righting Wrongs

Monica Wilkins bends down for what seems like the hundredth time today and scoops up a handful of brightly coloured pegs from the little sackcloth bag at her feet. Pausing in her actions, she wipes a browned hand across her sweating forehead before reaching up to clip the folded sheet onto the line that bisects the little garden. She swats an insect that buzzes around her face, flapping at it with her free hand, but it persists and finally she bats at it with both hands, sending the collection of pegs in her fingers tumbling to earth. Swearing loudly in frustration, she bends once more to pick them up.

“Wendell?” she calls over her shoulder. Distantly within the house she hears the dim echoes of her husband’s response. “Can you fill the watering can for me, please? The flowers are dying in this heat.”

She doesn’t wait to hear Wendell’s reply but smiles inwardly, resuming her actions. Wendell is a good man; he tries in his own way to help her out with the chores, as much as he grumbles whilst he does so. Ordinarily she wouldn’t have asked him, but today is different in a way Monica can’t quite put her finger on. The air around her seems to hum with expectancy, and she finds herself constantly glancing absentmindedly at the little gate to the back garden, as if there is something there that she can sense but can’t quite see. It is the strangest sensation, but she feels as though she is being watched.

Shrugging off the odd feeling, Monica reaches up once more, straining to clip the crumpled T-shirt to the line. As she does so her shirt, loose in the thick orange heat of midday, rode up slightly, so that the smooth curve of her stomach is displayed in its entirety, right down to the quicksilver line that cups its base, a split seam right in the middle of her. For as long as she can remember, that line has been there, though she has no idea how she came to be scarred there.

Today she ignores it. It is a blisteringly hot day; the buttery sun is high in the sky, a disc of pure gold so bright it seems to diffuse any cloud that might have gathered there. Monica hums to herself distractedly. It had taken them a few years to get enough money together, but last year she and Wendell finally were in a position to move here, to Perth. The money they raised from selling their little maisonette in England had been enough, put with their savings, to buy them a smaller house, with only one bedroom. Wendell had been right, she thinks now, though she had protested at the time. What on earth was the point of having an extra bedroom when they had no children and would never now have any? It was a waste of space.

If Monica is honest, it isn’t the house she particularly loves so much as the garden. Naturally green-fingered, she relishes the opportunity to cultivate a patch of land far larger than had been their little garden at home, and in a much more hospitable climate than the rain-strummed streets and cloud-swirled skies of England. Wendell has continued to practice dentistry here, finding a little clinic only twenty minutes drive from their new home, but Monica has abstained, choosing instead to make their house and garden beautiful. “I’ll find work when we need me to,” she tells Wendell whenever the subject presents itself, and he always grudgingly agrees.

She has to admit that moving here has done them both good. She, at least, feels healthier, now that her skin has regular access to pure sunlight rather than the artificial light she had been accustomed to at home when frequent bad weather drove her inside. The hot climate means that she doesn’t want to cook big stews and stodgy meals, so that nowadays she is far happier nibbling on salad and soup, and as a result her waist seems more refined of late. Even Wendell’s slightly swollen belly has shrunken somewhat thanks to their healthier diet. He seems happier.

She hasn't yet become bored with the novelty of her accent. She still delights at every double take she causes when she speaks to shop assistants. Wendell has become a little tired of explaining where they are from constantly, but then Monica has always found pleasure in ridiculous things. She remembers the day they met - she had crashed her trolley in the supermarket into his, quite deliberately. He had apologised profusely, though it had been entirely her fault, because she had been seeing him there for the past three weeks now and had finally resolved to find some way of speaking to him. The milk bottle in her trolley had fallen and cracked; white liquid now dripped all over her suede shoes and, mortified, he had insisted on buying her coffee to make up for it. Not that he had had to insist particularly hard, that is, because if he hadn't she would have taken up his offer anyway, whether he made it or not. He still doesn't know it, but it is why Monica laughs a little every time she sees spilt milk. Wendell just thinks she is odd.

At a shuffling noise behind her, she turns to see her husband standing in the doorway to the little garden, but as she does so there is a crash as he drops the heavy watering can. Water spits out from it, splashing down the brick steps and over his sandaled feet. The smile that split her face warps now into a mask of irritation.

“For goodness sake, Wen - !” she starts and begins to stoop to clear the split water, but then she sees the look of alarm that twists his own features and she straightens once more. “Wen?” she asks, confused. “What’s wrong?”

When he answers her, he does not look at her but keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead, staring at the far end of the garden.

“Don’t say anything, Mon, just come inside slowly.”

His voice resonates with forced calm, and Monica frowns in puzzlement. “What? Why?”

Wendell grabs her arm and pulls her gently but firmly towards him, his face knitted with concern.

“Because there are people in the garden,” he says, finally tearing his gaze from the edge of the garden to look her meaningfully in the eyes, “and they’ve been watching you for a while now.”

Author’s Note

This was going to be a oneshot detailing Hermione’s reunion with her parents, but I’ve decided to make it into a chaptered story that fills in the gaps between the last chapter of Deathly Hallows and the epilogue. It will be as canonical as possible, but I’m also going to try to make it fit in with my other Ron/Hermione stories – i.e. Making Weasleys, Idiocy or How Hugo Weasley Got His Name and Irresponsibility. I know this chapter is very short but it’s simply because it’s a tester chapter, so that I can decide where to take the story after this and therefore any and all later chapters will be FAR longer.