â€�“Mum?”

The voice that I know so well awakens me, even from my deep, tired sleep. My hands move around on the sheets of this strange bed in a place still unfamiliar to me, and my eyes struggle to open. I still don’t understand why it’s so hard for me to stand up, to wake up even, and why the doctors here seem to have no cure for the sickness I have. All they tell me is that there’s little hope for me, and I can feel in my bones, which seem too much frail for a woman of only fifty-one years, that they’re right. I keep telling myself that I’m going to carry on a little longer, for Ron, and for Rose and Hugo, and for everyone else who cares. But every day it seems the pain is stronger, the medicine they give me to take it away is weaker, and every time I close my eyes I fear that they won’t open again. The thing that annoys me the most is that I don't have the strength in my eyes to read, or the strength in my fingers to turn the pages of the books that might give me answers to my many questions. I’ve never been able to stand not knowing.

â€�“Mum, are you alright?” The voice and another sound, a joyful sound that makes me happy but that I can’t seem to put my finger on, drags me out of my mind and into the outside world. The lights seem too bright, they make me want to go back to sleep, back into the dark, comforting world inside of my head, but I try to adjust and focus on the person standing in front of my hospital bed.

â€�“Rosie?” The word seems as if it is thrust through my throat, pushed up, out, and into the air as hard as possible, but it’s hardly a whisper. My eyes are failing me, even with the glasses the doctors have prescribed, and the only thing that tells me it’s my daughter beside her voice is the flaming red Weasley hair that stands out against the bright white and light blue of almost everything in this place, even the robes they’ve given me to wear, seems to be coloured. My daughter nods and I vaguely hear a sniff come from the end of the bed where she’s standing.

â€�“Mum, I have something to show you. It’s... a bit of a surprise.” I nod meekly, not sure where this is headed, but hoping that it’s something good, and use the little strength I have in my arm to pat a spot beside me on the bed. She comes over and I squint to see that she’s not alone, there’s something in her arms... a baby. And I can now see that she’s not wearing her usual black robes but the same ones I am. My tired mind makes the connection and I let out a bit of a gasp - my little Rosie has a child, one of her own. The soundly sleeping baby is wrapped in only a blanket. The baby whimpers and I realize that’s the noise of joy that I heard, the sound of a newborn baby cry.

â€�“Meet Jasmine, Mum,” says Rose, in barely a whisper, and I can see that she’s nearly as tired as I am as she comes closer. A tear escapes my eye and I don’t bother to wipe it away. I love how my darling Rosie has named her own daughter after a flower. I’m sure she’s done it purposefully, as it seems to have become a sort of family tradition. It really means something to me that she’s gone against the Malfoy tradition that goes back centuries, which proves to me that either Scorpius has turned for the better or Rose has fought for this tradition instead of his and won.

â€�“Would you like to hold her? Do you think you’ll be strong enough?” little Rosie asks me cautiously. She will always seem like the little girl I know her to be, but now she just seems so old, much too old. I know this takes willpower for her, to put her new daughter into the arms of her crumbling, sickly mother, so I have to make sure I know I can hold her. But I realize, as I stare at the child in Rose’s arms, that this the only thing I want to achieve at the end of a too-short life, that if it is the last thing I do, I will put all of my strength into holding my granddaughter Jasmine. With as much sureness as I can put into it, I nod. She gently puts the little girl into my arms and I hold her just as I had held baby Jasmine’s mother. She looks so much like her mother, so similar that if they were put together at the same age even I might not be able to tell the difference. Though maybe it’s just my aging eyes that have to squint to see the details of her face. The only thing that shows she’s her father’s daughter is the eyes, the piercing grey Malfoy eyes. I have no problem with the fact that this child belongs to a Malfoy, because if Rosie is my daughter, she’s married the right man.

The little girl rustles in her sleep. The the different arms wrapped around her must feel very different from her mothers. Probably much colder, much older. Knowing exactly what to do, for Rose used to be the same way, I gently stroke the baby’s soft arm to soothe her, something that only a mother would know to do with her child. Her eyes flutter open for a moment, look up into my unknown ones, and then, as my fingers run down her arm into her little hand, she relaxes and they close again. I study every detail of her face, straining to memorize every little bit of it and take in every piece of its beauty.

I take a gasp of breath in, struggling just to stay awake because I’m putting all of my strength into holding her.

â€�“Mum? Are you alright?” Rose turns as she hears the noise come out of my mouth. I nod, not having anything else to say, staring at this little piece of love. I feel the little bundle twitch and I wrap her blanket back over her clean, pure body. I sense the same kind of nervousness coming from both Rose and her daughter, not for the same reason, of course, but they both have the same expression on their faces, the same aura coming off of them. That’s when I know, that I realize for sure that this little girl is going to be her mother’s daughter, that she’s going to make it somewhere in life. If she’s my Rosie’s daughter, she will.

My arms weaken and urge me to drop this child out of them because it’s paining me so much to hold up the weight of the baby, but I would never do that. I put all of my strength into holding her, knowing that I probably won’t get to watch her grow up, to be the grandmother who spoils the young child, to be the grandmother who embarrasses the poor thing in front of her friends, to be the grandmother that the child will always look up to and love no matter what. I won’t get to be that grandmother. I’ll just be a memory, a cried-over one, one that is loved but only seen in pictures, one that will only be a name to this child who will never remember how I held her right after she was born, even though I was so sick. But this is all I can do, so I hold her tightly and stroke her little arm, grasp her fingers in mine.

My arms start to shake and I know I can’t hold on any longer. My voice rasps out, hardly audible at all,

â€�“Rosie.”

She seems to see the alarm in my eyes and gently takes the child out of my hands. Then she shakes her head, as if pleading me not to leave her. â€�“Mum!” Tears stream down her face and she stares, looking horrified. â€�“Please, Mum.”

Knowing that I have to, that it’s my time, I put the last of my effort into shaking my head, staring at the child in her arms. I make out the vague pale face of my husband in a faraway corner of the room. I give my daughter a soft kiss on the cheek, wishing I could utter some last words that would be engraved on my gravestone forever, like in the books I read. I don’t have the strength to do so, though, and even if I did I would have no idea what to say. I guess those things are only supposed to happen in stories anyway. I lift my arm up, an attempt that takes a lot of effort, and stroke Jasmine’s arm for the last time.

As everything around me seems to get brighter and brighter, my only thoughts are good wishes for all those I love, for Ron, and for Rose, and for Hugo, but, most importantly, Jasmine. I stare at the peaceful baby’s face, ignoring Rose’s panicked cries, and hope that that is the last thing that I see - that beautiful baby, the picture of love and peace and joy and happiness so strong it’s unexplainable all wrapped up into one image, one thought, one person. I don’t want to see anything else. I try to smile as best I can, and my eyes close for the last time.