The gardens were overgrown, unkempt in the year since Narcissa’s passing. The roses still bloomed through the brambles, as they did every year, lining the winding path towards the fruit trees. Draco held Hermione’s hand as they navigated the path strewn with weeds and creeping vines. The rain in London hadn’t quite made it to Wiltshire, and the sky was nearly clear, save a few clouds in the distance, framing the late setting sun. Draco held a little wicker basket, which felt much smaller than it used to. The fruit trees had dropped much of their yield along the ground, a smattering of lemons and apples along the sparse grass. The lemon tree was shorter than it used to feel, and Draco picked each lemon with purpose, inspecting every one before pulling it from the branch.  