As she went through the room placing items in the box, memories seemed to inundate her. How could her beautiful baby girl, born just yesterday, be leaving home so soon? How could her daughter, her love have grown up so fast? And how could this box, this one solitary box, be all she had left in this house? It hardly seemed fair. She had so little time with her, and now her daughter was moving on, on to a world that didn't care about the little items she was placing in this box, the memories that each item contained.

Her husband had thought she was being foolish, weeping over a box. But he didn't understand--how could he? He never carried the tiny life inside of him that one day would have a name, a face, and a personality of her own. A life that would learn to walk and talk, and recognize her family for the love they bestowed on her. She knew that he had loved his only daughter, but how could anyone compare what he felt with the feelings a mother had? She was never an actual part of him, he could never comprehend the connection there and the terrible sense of loss she now felt.

"She leaves every year. She's already gone ten months out of the year, Hermione."

"That's different Severus. She also comes home every year, doesn't she?"

"She is no longer a child. You have refused to accept the fact that our child is growing up. If you do not learn to let go you will end up like the hen-pecking Molly Weasley." He looked down at her and sneered before he continued more quietly, “I would never have married you had I believed you would end up like that." But he truly didn't understand. Time, freedom and a family may have mellowed the normally irritable man somewhat; he was no longer as cold a man as he once was, but this was a feeling Hermione felt only she could comprehend, the pain she selfishly felt only she could be aware of.

As she pulled out each item from its place of reverence to place it in the box, memories flooded her, bringing up bits and pieces that each item lovingly surrendered.

Bits of tatty, yellowing lace tucked in a dresser drawer that had once been part of a favorite doll's dress. The little girl had loved her doll; the toy went everywhere with her the first seven years of life. Never had another toy been so loved by one single child; in fact, the doll was hardly thought of as a toy at all. No family could greet her without greeting the toy in turn. No meals, outings or even bath times had been held without that doll. It almost seemed as if they’d had a second child for a few years, so often was the doll in attendance.

A pair of faded, fluffy slippers retrieved from a corner inside the closet that had the face of a hippogriff on each. Her husband had given their daughter that pair of slippers for her eighth birthday. The disappointment on her face was almost palpable. "But daddy, I wanted a real hippogriff," she had said, tears threatening to fall. Her father just chuckled at her and took her around to the back of the house where a tiny hippogriff foal was waiting for her, with a sparkling pink ribbon tied around its neck. Although he would refuse to admit it outside of the house, the normally severe man had a very deep soft spot for his daughter; one of his greatest pleasures was spoiling his only child. She showed the slippers to her husband, but he just gave her a meaningful stare.

"She had to grow up some time, Hermione."

"I know," she sighed. "But it's just so hard."

In a rare moment of compassion that he only held for his family, he wrapped his arm around her for a brief moment before she went back to collecting items from around the room.

Three dusty old Filibuster fireworks scattered in a bookshelf, given to her by her Uncles Fred and George when she was nine. They had given her a fair sized bag of them one day, likely for the purpose of irritating her short-tempered father. But it wasn't her overly-indulgent father who snapped first, no; she popped those silly things all day long, until her mother could no longer suppress the headache that was creeping on and she made her put the rest away until the pounding pressure behind her eyes eased up. These three solitary fireworks must have been what remained of that bag.

A deflated balloon was stuck to a wall; it had once been tied to a "Get Well" gift given to her by her grandparents. They hadn't been able to enter St. Mungo’s when their only granddaughter had caught dragon pox, so they sent an avalanche of gifts instead. There was barely room in the already tiny hospital room for the toys, balloons and flowers sent by all well wishers--the majority provided by her doting grandparents.

Her husband disappeared from the room, leaving her alone with the pieces of her daughter's childhood, but she barely noticed.

Hanging from a string in front of a window was a piece of a misshapen crystal that her daughter had brought home from Hogwarts her second year: the result of a Transfiguration gone wrong. The teacher might have let her keep the crystal, but chances were her daughter had likely had to sneak it out of the classroom, hidden in her robes. She had inherited many of her father's more Slytherin ethics. There weren't many items in her room from after she began to attend Hogwarts; the room almost seemed to stop maturing some time before puberty, stuck in a perpetual state of childhood. Mementos like this were hard to find. She clutched the crystal tightly.

Her husband returned, balancing a tray with a pot of tea and some small sandwiches on it. "If you insist on closeting yourself in here all day and not feeding yourself properly, I suppose I have to bring the meals to you," he said in what seemed like a resigned air. "Eat. I may have brought it to you but I refuse to feed you." She gave her husband a grateful look; she hadn't registered the hunger before now. She picked up a sandwich with her free hand. Her husband noticed the object in her tightly grasped hand and raised an eyebrow in question. She showed him the crystal without saying a word. He had been the one who secretly taught their daughter the charm to hang it in front of her bedroom window so it would catch strands of sunlight, throwing rainbows around her room. Hermione tried a small smile that convinced neither of them, and turned back to the clearing of the room to hide the mist in her eyes.

A souvenir on top of the dresser from her Uncle Harry of his trip to Greenland while on business for the Ministry. The heavy snow globe was filled with water and bits of real ice charmed to fall around a prancing hippogriff. The key on the bottom twisted to play a beautiful wizard's waltz, and the sounds of it could be heard flooding her room for months after she had gotten it. A few notes tinkled from the bottom of the globe as it was packed away.

On top of the nightstand was the latest diary. No doubt full of dreams and hopes for the future, the latest boyfriend that her father didn't approve of and the thoughts on the apprenticeship she had strived so hard to achieve. The nightstand was likely filled with more diaries, going back to her first: a gift from her mother. Hermione had urged her daughter to write her thoughts down whenever she could, as she might, one day, like to pass on her experiences growing up to her own daughter--just as Hermione herself had done. The urge to open it and immerse herself in her daughter's life poured through her, but she quickly dropped the book in the top of the box, banishing it from sight and hopefully, from mind.

Inside the drawer of the night stand, however, Hermione paused. Here was the one true indication in all the room that her daughter had indeed grown up. This particular item had no memories for her, for which she was grateful. She wasn't sure if she should laugh, cry, or be mortally embarrassed. She did know, however, that she would not be picking up the vibrator from out of the drawer to place it in the box, nor would she be showing that particular item to her husband.

She silently shut the drawer and tried not to look too guilty; it would not do to let her husband see the embarrassment and shock on her face. She picked up the box and bade her husband to pick up the tray, and walked out, closing the door on the last of her daughter's childhood.

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Author's Notes: A very special thanks to froggiebecky for her wonderful job in beta reading this for me and turning it into something much easier to read than the mush I gave her!!!