Unofficial Portkey Archive

(A/N: Let's pretend that I've just whinged on about my troubles, and let it go at that, shall we? Sorry this chapter has taken so long.

Thank you, Mary Caroline, for being my beta. And thank you, gentle readers, for reading on.)

(Disclaimer: You surely know the drill by now: don't own them, not profiting by them, et tmesis cetera.)

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"Restoring Hope"

by Paracelsus

*

3 August 2009 - Year 11 P.V.

*

She hadn't expected to first arrive at Hogwarts for another month. She had expected it to be a much happier occasion.

"The Headmistress was supposed to meet us here at the front doors," murmured Madam Manwaring, as Hope stared up at the grey stone castle. In the twilight of evening, it looked colder and more foreboding than Dad had ever described it. "I daresay she'll be along in a moment. Don't fret, child…"

I wasn't fretting, thought Hope. I was worrying. There's a difference.

"Missy Hope?" They turned at the high-pitched voice to discover a small being with huge eyes and bat-like ears standing before them. He (Hope assumed it was a he) wore a sort of uniform that seemed to have been cobbled together from all over: a black tailcoat over a paisley blouse, golf pants, sandals worn over woolen socks (at least three pairs), and a fez.

"Headmistress had to go deal with bad Peeves," said the small being - a house elf, Hope realized. "I," and he emphasized the pronoun proudly, "I am to take Missy Hope to Headmistress's office." He looked quite different from the elves the Death Eaters used in last year's Hogwarts attack: more self-esteem, perhaps.

"Very well," said Manwaring, "take us there now."

The house elf shook his head in apology. "Very sorry, ma'am, but Peeves is being very bad. Very very bad. Ma'am's robes are most clean. Ma'am's hair is most nice. Ma'am should not linger. Missy Hope, will you please come now?" He seized Hope's hand and practically dragged her through the great oaken doors, leaving Manwaring standing on the steps as the doors closed themselves.

"Very sorry, Missy Hope," said the house elf, immediately dropping Hope's hand. "Should not have presumed, but wanted to get Missy Hope away from…" He paused, as though trying to remember someone's exact wording. "… from, from 'sanctimonious supercilious sow'. Is that right?"

Hope hadn't thought she'd ever smile again. "Exactly right. And please, you didn't 'presume.'" She held out her hand to the elf. "C'mon, let's go to the Head's office. If you'll lead the way?"

The elf stared at Hope's offered hand. Tears collected in the huge eyes. "Dobby remembers… I remember," he corrected himself. "Mister Harry Potter sir treated me as an equal. Mister Harry Potter sir was a very great wizard." He took Hope's hand again gently, almost reverently, and peered into Hope's face. "And Missy Hope is Mister Harry Potter's daughter, yes indeed."

Hand-in-hand, they walked up the huge staircase and down a corridor. Hope took the opportunity to examine the house elf more closely. She'd never spoken to one before - it was a point of pride that none of the Weasley families owned an enslaved elf, and there were still precious few freed elves. "Did you say your name was Dobby?" asked Hope. "Did you know my father?"

"Oh, yes, Missy Hope. Mister Harry Potter sir freed me from enslavement! And Mister Harry Potter's Herminy tried to free more house elves. She…" Dobby hesitated, searching for the right words. "Mister Harry Potter's Herminy meant well," he finished happily. Hope wondered if she dared tell Hermione how the house elves remembered her.

For that matter, she wondered if she'd see Hermione again. I shouldn't have put her away like that. No one will ever find her now! Oh, I'm so sorry, Mother. I didn't mean it… Please, God, let me go home.

They had arrived at a door guarded by a large gargoyle. "This is Headmistress's office," announced Dobby. "Headmistress will be back soon. Very sorry, but I is not knowing the password."

"Can you wait with me, please?" asked Hope quickly. She felt a strange kinship with the little elf - and she couldn't bear to be alone, not right now.

"Until Headmistress comes back - then I must fetch clothes for Missy Hope. Been to Missy Hope's room before," he added helpfully. "When I is bringing Mister Harry Potter's Herminy's stored boxes to Missy Hope. Missy Hope's robes is in wardrobe, shoes is under bed, things-we-don't-mention in left-side drawer."

"And in a right-hand drawer," said Hope, jumping at the chance, "a package wrapped up in dark paper. Please, please, Dobby, can you bring me that too?"

"Dobby is… I is only to fetch clothes," Dobby said doubtfully. "Ministry was very clear."

"It's a… clothing guide," Hope temporized. "And… and will you talk to Mum and Dad?"

"I will be talking to Mister Wheezy and his Loony," assured Dobby. Hope didn't have time to wince at the name. "May not bring back message to Missy Hope - Ministry said, only clothes - but I will tell them that Missy Hope is all right, misses them terribly, knows they will bring her home soon."

"Oh, thank you, Dobby!" cried Hope. Impulsively she bent down and kissed the top of Dobby's head.

"No, no, no! Missy Hope mustn't kiss elves!" Dobby admonished her in a horrified voice - but with a smile nonetheless. "What will Headmistress say to Dobby?"

"Oh! Sorry. No, we don't want to cross Professor McGonagall, do we? I mean, everyone's told me about her! She's very strict, isn't she? She was my Mother's favorite teacher, but sometimes she was afraid of her anyway."

Dobby squeaked. Hope continued heedless, "And when she caught Dad, Father and Mother when they were breaking rules (and they were always breaking rules, to hear Mum tell it), she had a way of looking at them that… well, Mother always felt like melting into the floor…"

Dobby squeaked louder. Hope stopped talking as she saw the elf's eyes flick over her shoulder. "Um. She's… right behind me, isn't she?"

"Indeed she is, Miss Potter," came the dry reply. "Thank you, Dobby, that will be all."

Hope turned around slowly… and felt like melting into the floor. Professor McGonagall's cool look made it abundantly clear that she was not to be trifled with. And Hope had never felt less like trifling than at that instant.

McGonagall waited for one long, mortifying moment, its length based on years of experience. When Hope had marinated in guilt just the right amount, she spoke again. "For what it's worth, however, I consider your mother to have been the finest pupil I've ever had the privilege to teach. It would not have been proper to tell her while she was at Hogwarts - and, sadly, I never had the chance afterward."

A response seemed called for; Hope frantically racked her brain before settling on, "Uh, yes ma'am." Thanks, stupid brain.

"That said," McGonagall continued, "please don't be under the misapprehension that my admiration for your mother engenders any special consideration for you."

"Yes, ma'am. I, I mean, no ma'am. I don't, ma'am."

McGonagall nodded briskly, closing the subject. "Now, if you'll come up to my office… I think it will be best if you bed down there for the night. Tomorrow I'll confer with the other professors currently in residence at Hogwarts, and we'll see if better arrangements can be made."

"Oh. You mean, I'm not…? Um." At the Headmistress's shrewd glance, Hope gathered courage to continue. "Professor, I thought I'd be staying in one of the student dorms…"

"I'm hesitant to quarter you in any of the student houses, Miss Potter. It wouldn't be fair to that house, if you are later not Sorted into it, for you to see all their secrets." A thin smile appeared for the first time, as if by magic. "Although I personally have no doubt as to which house you belong."

*

The entire Weasley clan had assembled in Ron's cottage for a council of war. Even Charlie had been present, in a way, with his head appearing in the fireplace. But so many Weasleys in one room at one time was a recipe for chaos: too many people trying to talk at once. Fred and George had offered to curse the entire Ministry, one wizard at a time (their father excepted); Bill, Charlie, Ginny and Angelina had traded names between them, contacts that might be able to influence the Child Welfare Committee; and Fleur had composed impassioned letters of protest aloud, with vocabulary not to be found in reputable French-English dictionaries.

Ron sat through it all, motionless, staring at something only he could see.

They were gone now, silence descending again to the room. Ron continued to sit at the dining table, staring. Luna watched him quizzically for a moment. Then she put two fingers in her mouth and gave a piercingly loud whistle. Ron started violently and looked around, as if seeing the room for the first time.

"Ah, good, you're back," said Luna.

"Yeah." Ron rubbed his eyes. "Where'd everyone go?"

"To try and get Hope back to us, of course. It's likely to require efforts in several directions, all going on at once."

Ron gave a weak nod. "Yeah." He tried to pull himself together. "We can still see her, at least. If she's staying with McGonagall at Hogwarts… well, I'm still the flying instructor, aren't I? I have to go to Hogwarts before term starts…" He stopped short, then shook his head tiredly. "I'm sorry, My Good Love, did you say something?"

Luna smiled slightly. She walked over to Ron and gently stroked his face with her fingertips. "No, My King, I didn't," she said softly. "What you heard… Ronald, you know that too many shocks are bad for your system."

"Am I about to get another shock?" Ron made a rude noise, which Luna found encouraging. "Bring it on. At this point, I've been hit so many times, I think I'm beyond shocking."

"If you say so." Luna fetched her purse from the sideboard. Opening it, she brought out a cabinet portrait, which she gently placed in Ron's hand. Ron looked at it without seeing it for a moment.

"Ron?" said the portrait anxiously. "Ron, say something."

Without warning, Ron began to tremble violently. "'Scuse me," he mumbled hastily, and dropped Hermione's portrait on the table before making a bolt for the bathroom door. Luna and Hermione looked at each other helplessly as sounds of retching came from the bathroom.

"Oh, dear," Luna said apologetically. "Do you think this was the wrong time?"

"That would imply there was a right time," replied Hermione. "Take me to him." If she found Hermione's tone a bit peremptory, Luna gave no sign. She picked up the portrait and carried it to the bathroom door.

Ron had recovered, at least partially: he stood at the sink and was running cold water from the tap. Luna expected him to splash some water in his face, but instead he simply let the water run… while he leaned his hands on the sinkboard, taking the weight off his leg, and pressed his forehead against the mirror. "I can't do this anymore," he moaned softly, "I can't…"

"Ronald? Are you all right?"

"Yeah, fine," he answered automatically.

"Yes, and we believe you," put in Hermione. "Because, you know, medical experts agree…" She fell silent as Ron raised his head and glared at her - or rather, at her reflection in the mirror. "Sorry," she added contritely. "Just trying to lighten the moment. Do you remember when you…?"

"I remember," said Ron slowly. He did splash some cold water in his face, then. He rinsed his mouth, turned off the tap, and used a drying charm on his face, all without meeting anyone's eyes. Only after he'd finished his ablutions did he slowly turn to regard Hermione. "Where…? When…?"

"She was inside those boxes of books Hope received last year," Luna supplied helpfully.

"L-last… year…?" His eyes began to sharpen… and smolder. "And you never told me…?!"

"I tried to get Hope to tell you of my existence," said Hermione. "Obviously, I was limited in what I could do…"

"And I only learned about her on Hope's birthday," added Luna, "and you must admit there's been a great deal to occupy our minds since then."

"And it's not as though you haven't been keeping secrets from Hope," Hermione concluded.

"Okay, okay, okay! I get it." Ron rubbed his eyes and exhaled sharply. From some inner reserve he seemed to gather strength: he straightened and motioned to Luna and Hermione to precede him from the bathroom. Walking behind them as they returned to the living room, he couldn't see Hermione's brief look of surprise.

"So," he started once they'd settled down on the sofa, "Hermione. What were you trying not to say to me a minute ago?" He smiled sardonically at Hermione's reluctance to answer. "Oh, c'mon. It must've been you I heard - I know I heard something just before Luna took you from her purse."

"Yes, well, yes. That was me." Hermione glanced at Luna and took a deep breath. "Ron, I don't think you should assume that you'll be allowed to visit Hope at Hogwarts. Even though you're on staff… I suspect you'll be on administrative leave until term begins. Or else you'll be under Ministry decree to limit your visits to your office and the Quidditch area. Having separated you from Hope, the Ministry isn't about to let you circumvent their decision."

"They can't…" Ron stopped himself with a snort. "What am I saying? Of course they can. And would."

"In fact, it wouldn't surprise me if the Ministry assigned someone to Hogwarts," said Luna thoughtfully, "to be with Hope during this stressful time in her life."

"To watch her, you mean." Ron pounded his fist into the cushioned arm of the couch. "Stinkin' lousy…"

"Well, if they do, there's little we can do about it," Luna said philosophically. "We should concentrate on…"

"On getting Hope home again, yeah." Ron turned to Hermione quickly as a thought occurred to him. "Can you tell the Ministry that you left Hope in my care? I mean, that's what you did, you and Harry…"

Hermione shook her head in regret. "Even if that's what happened, Ron, I couldn't testify to it. I've no legal status whatsoever. Otherwise, I'd authorize your adoption of Hope at once and have done with it."

"Damn." Ron gave the couch arm a final punch before his anger exhausted itself. He slumped against the sofa back, closing his eyes, feeling the familiar weariness weigh him down again. "I'm going to a funeral Wednesday, did you know that?" he asked after a moment. "I've been asked to be one of Seamus's pallbearers. Death Eaters tortured him to death for being a friend of mine."

"Oh, Ron… I'm sorry…"

"But the bloody Ministry'd rather break up families than go after Death Eaters," Ron continued bitterly. "Nice to know they've got their priorities straight."

"The Ministry of Magic is like any other organism," Luna noted. "If you poke it, it pokes back."

"I didn't…"

"I see what Luna's saying," put in Hermione. "You did provoke the Ministry, just as Harry did. Remember how Scrimgeour was always after him, in sixth year? It wasn't because Harry'd done anything overt against him - Harry's very existence was an affront. Because he, not the Ministry, was the focus of the resistance against the Death Eaters. And now today, you're the focus, just as Harry was - you, not the Ministry. You can't expect them to be happy about it."

"Yeah, I know that…" Ron opened his eyes and stared unblinking at the ceiling. "But the difference is, that was Harry. Harry Potter, the Chosen One. He could deal with all the shite, Voldemort and Scrimgeour and Snape and… Me, I'm just… I'm…" He swallowed convulsively. "I'm not him," burst out of him. "I can't keep doing this."

"You don't have to do it by yourself," whispered Hermione. "You're not alone, Ron."

Ron managed a weak smile at that. "True," he said, and reached over to grasp Luna's hand. Luna smiled warmly at him; if she gave Hermione a sidelong glance, it was involuntary, and she kept it very short.

And Hermione, watching them, felt her face grow flushed. She swallowed what she'd been about to say, and withdrew to the side of her portrait frame.

*

5 August 2009 - Year 11 P.V.

*

If Ron ever thought about Irish pubs, he probably didn't go farther than the vague notion that it'd be nice to visit one, if he ever found himself in Ireland. Never had he imagined holding a wake there.

Seamus and Lavender had been buried quietly in Killarney, in the cemetery where Seamus's father was buried beside past generations of Finnigans. There'd been no surprises that day from Death Eaters or other Dark forces: the presence of four Aurors saw to that. No, the surprise for Ron had been the identities of Seamus's other three pallbearers: Neville Longbottom, an old man who'd been Seamus's maternal uncle… and Dean Thomas.

They'd said nothing to each other during the burial service - well, it was hardly an appropriate time or place. It wasn't until they were preparing to leave the graveyard that Seamus's uncle, one Sean O Lochlainn, approached them quietly. "As Seamus's closest friends," he'd said quietly, "'twould be fitting that you take part in the remembering of him. 'Tis an ancient and honourable Irish custom…"

Of course they'd agreed, how could they not? And thus Ron, Neville and Dean found themselves whisked away to a wizarding pub on the outskirts of Killarney, where they met a dozen or more of Seamus's neighbors and friends. After the first drink, people started sharing their memories of Seamus (and to a lesser degree, of Lavender). Ron felt the three of them were expected to contribute stories from Seamus's Hogwarts days, and they'd done their best to comply.

But if I hear this James Joyce bloke's name mentioned one more time, thought Ron as he finished his pint, I'm out of here.

Dean was staring deep into his own pint. "Butterbeer," he said softly. He looked up to see Ron's and Neville's quizzical faces. "It's been years," he explained. "Didn't realize how much I missed it."

"Why'd you leave, Dean?" asked Neville. "We all missed you. I know Seamus did." There was no challenge in Neville's words, merely a tinge of regret… a wish that the past might not have been what it was.

Dean couldn't help responding. He smiled wryly. "I couldn't stay, Nev. It was… You remember the attack on Hogwarts, our seventh year?" Absently he fingered the tracery of scars on his face, as Neville nodded. "There we were, fighting off Death Eaters… and it was clear that we were expected to keep fighting after we'd left school. And just then, I couldn't for the life of me see why I should."

"We were fighting to save our world…" Ron started.

"Yeah, you were. Nev was. Definitely fighting to save your world." Dean took another swallow. "But my world? Even people who fought You-Know-Who tended to look down their noses at me. I was Muggleborn. And they made it clear, I was in their world - by their sufferance. And for that privilege I was expected to risk my life." He downed the last of his butterbeer and thunked the glass onto the table. "Think not."

The glass immediate began to refill with butterbeer. Irish wizards' wakes didn't trust to anything as unreliable as human service.

"We never looked down our noses at you, Dean," Neville said with his quiet dignity. Somehow neither Ron nor Dean, who both pushed 190 cm, found Neville's mild rebuke at all humorous.

"I appreciate that, Neville," Dean said. "You guys are the best. And it really hurt to leave… but I had to."

"Know what you mean," growled Ron. "Sometimes I wish I could leave. Just tell the whole effing Ministry to deal with Bellatrix by themselves. Have a great time, guys!" He lifted his refilled glass and drank deeply. Wiping the foam off his upper lip, he continued, "Yeah, I can totally understand not wanting to fight for a bunch of ungrateful wankers."

"'Cept you're not fightin' for a bunch of ungrateful wankers," insisted Neville. "You're fightin' for a bunch of grateful wankers…" He stopped, slightly confused. "I think Irish butterbeer must be stronger'n what they serve at home," he added.

"Then we'd best take advantage of it," proposed Dean, and he lifted his glass. "To Seamus… our valued friend."

Ron lifted his glass likewise. "To Lavender… who finally forgave me for sixth year."

Neville hesitated, then lifted his glass. "To Harry and Hermione," he said, slowly and deliberately, "and to all those who will not have died in vain."

Ron downed half his glass, then lifted it again. "To those who live," he declared. "May they not fight in vain."

"Amen," said Dean, and clinked his glass to Ron's. They looked at Neville, waiting for him to complete the round of toasts.

"To…" Neville cleared his throat. "To Hope."

He immediately wished he'd remained silent. Ron's face seemed to crumple, his shoulders to sag; he set the rest of his butterbeer down on the table without drinking. "You heard, huh?"

"The papers've been full of it," mumbled Neville, ducking his head. "The Prophet, the Quibbler… headlines, editorials." He glanced at Dean for a second, then continued more confidently. "You know. 'Is this how we repay our heroes?' That sort of thing."

Dean watched Ron for a moment, his expression inscrutable. Then he leaned forward and shoved Ron's glass towards him. "So fill me in," he said. "Tell me what's happened. With Hope, with Bellatrix, with the Ministry. Tell me everything. It'll do you good… and I think I want to know now. "

*

7 August 2009 - Year 11 P.V.

*

"Thank you, dear," said Professor Sprout, taking the box of bulbs from Hope's hands. "Now if you would, that bed of valerian seedlings wants more fertilizer… you'll find some in the corner, there, in the bin labeled 'dragon dung'…"

Hope nodded and made her way to the fertilizer bin. She wrinkled her nose… and really wished she dared to use the Bubble-Head Charm on herself. But not, she told herself firmly, while my minder's watching. She sneaked a peek at Miss Cobston, gamely trying to trim a Venomous Tentacula at Sprout's request, and suppressed a smirk.

Every day this week, there'd been someone from the Ministry, arriving at Hogwarts almost at first light. Ostensibly, they came only to ensure that Hope was being well cared for - but they stayed with Hope throughout the day. Hope didn't know if they were here to protect her, monitor her, or keep her jailed… probably some combination. They certainly seemed determined to "make friends" with her.

McGonagall, needless to say, was on top of the situation. Hope had a renewed confidence in the Headmistress's abilities.

Yesterday, for instance, Manwaring had returned to spend the day with Hope. So McGonagall had arranged that yesterday would be Professor Grubbly-Plank's turn to watch Hope. Hope had spent the day helping care for Hogwarts's magical menagerie… including the thestrals. Grubbly-Plank's discomfort, upon learning that Hope could see the carnivorous horses, was nothing compared to Manwaring's out-and-out horror.

So today, the Ministry had sent Christine Cobston, younger than Manwaring, more athletic… presumably more able to deal with magical creatures. And so today, Hope was with Professor Sprout in Greenhouse Three, watching Cobston reluctantly get dirt under her fingernails.

Nope, no flies on the Headmistress.

She recalled the evenings they spent in the Great Hall: McGonagall, Sprout and Grubbly-Plank, the only teachers in residence over the summer - providentially, all women - would dine with Hope and discuss all sorts of things with her. The new display in the Great Hall (with relics from the Four Founders, some of which McGonagall had only recently obtained); Hope's day, and her plans for the morrow; snippets of what she could expect from her first year at Hogwarts; even, on occasion, some bits of news from around the wizarding world. It was almost as good as her nighttime talks with Hermione.

Almost.

Dobby couldn't find her, she lamented silently. She can't have walked off… and Mum couldn't have taken her, she was sealed in my drawer… but who else knows she even exists? What could've happened? I'm really missing her now!

She almost welcomed the multiple distractions that arrived at that moment. Two owls swept into the greenhouse; one headed for Sprout, the other for Cobston. Just as the owls were alighting to deliver their messages, there came a knocking on the outer greenhouse door. "Perfesser Sprout?" came a cheerful voice. "Deliv'ry. Gotcher new cuttin's here!"

"Just a moment," Sprout called, as she looked over her scroll. She turned to Cobston, to see her reading her own message. "This sounds serious, Christine."

"Indeed it does," agreed Cobston, re-rolling her scroll. "We should speak with Professor McGonagall about it…" But she hesitated, obviously reluctant to leave Hope alone with Sprout… and equally reluctant to let Sprout speak alone to McGonagall.

Professor Sprout took the decision out of her hands. "Hope, dear, we'll be back very shortly. Will you please show these gentlemen where to carry the new cuttings? I think Greenhouse Two for most of them, though the Acid Lotuses should probably go to Greenhouse One."

Hope nodded and went to the outer door, as the two witches hurried off through the side door to the castle - there to confer with the Headmistress about whatever new emergency had arisen. More knocking sounded as she pulled back the bolt and opened the door… and stopped in surprise.

"'Ello, miss," said Neville Longbottom, still in that cheerful West Country accent. He was dressed as a delivery man, a brimmed cap set jauntily on his head, and he carried a large tray of dirt-filled pots. "Got some luverly Lightnin' Wort today, shall I bring it in then?" He stepped inside and added, in his normal tones, "We've not met since you were a baby, but I'd know you anywhere. You're Hope Weasley-Granger-Potter, aren't you?"

"That she is," said a tall figure behind Neville, dressed like him in working clothes. Hope gasped as she recognized Dean Thomas. "Hey there, Hope. Sorry for all the cloak-and-dagger, but there's some very tough-looking people watching the front gates of Hogwarts these days."

"Luckily, I'm one of Pomona's botanical suppliers," explained Neville. "Trading in new and exotic plants for her greenhouses. Gives me a legitimate reason for being here… and for bringing my new assistant. Well, for today, anyway."

"It helps that we're not part of your Dad's close circle," added Dean. "They don't suspect us." He shivered slightly as he looked around Greenhouse Three, with its many glass panes; Hope thought she saw the scars on his face twitch.

Neville seemed to know what was going through Dean's mind. "It was a long time ago," he said softly. "Hope wasn't even born. Let it go, Dean."

He shivered again and thrust his hands into his pockets. Doing so seemed to bring him back to the present. "Uh, right, yeah, that reminds me…" He brought one hand out of its pocket to display a thick sheaf of envelopes. "Letters from home."

She received them eagerly. "Thank you!"

Dean cleared his throat and waited a moment, until Neville took the hint and headed for Greenhouse Two with the tray of potted cuttings. "And also," he went on, more quietly, "this." From his other pocket he withdrew a wrapped package, broad and flat… about the size of a sketchbook page.

Hope swallowed nervously as she realized what must be in the package.

"Sorry it took so long. I did end up using tempera - there's something about it that magic likes - but for the longest time I kept thinking I was doing it wrong. The picture just wouldn't wake up." Dean carefully placed the package into Hope's hands; as she held it, he began to unwrap it. "I finally figured he didn't want to wake up. And who could blame him, really? After all he'd been through, he'd earned some rest."

Dean sighed. "But after I heard your Dad at the funeral, talking about what was going on these days… I mean, with you, and Bellatrix, and all… I went home that night and told him." He gave a sudden, sardonic smile as the last bit of wrapping came away. "He woke up right quick after that. Well, it's his nature, isn't it?"

"So I've been told," came a new voice. "Your mother called it my 'saving-people-thing'."

She stared down at the portrait in her hands. The tempera gave the colors a depth and translucence, with an inner light that made the figure look very much alive - even if he hadn't been moving. He was looking at her now, with the same green eyes she'd seen in her mirror all week… taking in the sight of her with open-mouthed satisfaction.

"Dean described you," he said, "but I didn't really believe it until now." He cleared his throat nervously. "I'm, uh, I'm Harry. Harry Potter, I mean. And you're… you've gotta be…"

"Hope Potter," she whispered, for the first time happy to claim the surname. "Pleased to finally meet you… Father."

Arguing voices were approaching Greenhouse Three. Dean gestured frantically to Hope. "Hide all that! You're not supposed to be in contact with… yeep!" He picked up a small bushy plant from outside the door and followed after Neville. We'll be in touch, he mouthed silently, as he disappeared from view just as the side door opened. Sprout entered the greenhouse, with Cobston behind her.

Frantically, while Cobston's view was still obscured, Hope stuffed the portrait and her letters from home under her blouse. She straightened her robes and willed her features into their usual blankness as the two witches came nearer.

"…tragic, no question of it," Cobston was saying. "But Bellatrix's attacks, by their very nature, can't be predicted or prevented. The Ministry would have to guard everything, while she can strike wherever she wishes…"

"But as the Headmistress said, there does seem to be a method in her madness." Sprout seemed to notice Hope for the first time, and made a shushing motion to Cobston. "Are the, er, new cuttings taken care of, then, dear?" she asked with a faint smile.

"Yes, Professor. Is it all right if I return to my room now? I think I need to lie down… I'm sorry, but it's the smell. Miss Cobston, do you mind…?"

"Not at all, darling," Cobston hastened to assure her, as Sprout nodded approvingly.

Leaving the greenhouse, she managed to keep to a walk, but once out of sight of the adults she sprinted back to her makeshift bedroom. (McGonagall had converted the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor's office for her use - easy enough to do, since Hogwarts didn't yet have a Defense professor for the coming year.) She slammed shut the bolt on the door, and for good measure cast the Colloportus, Silencing, and Imperturbable Charms. Overkill, possibly, but Hope was taking no chances.

Opening her robes, she brought out the letters and the portrait from under her blouse and dumped them onto the bed. She reached for the portrait… only to stop, puzzled, when she saw Harry's image holding his hands over his eyes. After a moment, one hand shifted slightly, and Harry peeped out. "Is it safe to come out?"

"I think so, I sealed the door pretty well…" Hope began, before Harry's meaning came to her. She blushed as scarlet as any Weasley. "S-Sorry," she stuttered. "I wasn't thinking, I mean, I didn't want anyone to see you and I was just carrying you but I just didn't think, and… and I'm babbling, aren't I, I'm sorry…"

Harry waved his hands, trying to catch her attention. He was obviously fighting to repress a grin. "Okay, if I wasn't convinced before, I am now. You sound exactly like Hermione." He waited until ran out of words, then told her more seriously, "And besides, it was dark. It's not like I saw anything…" He coughed slightly and added under his breath, "… or like there's anything to see…"

"Hey!" she said indignantly. "Like you'd know anything about it! It's not like you're really a boy, are you, you're a picture!"

"Yeah, well, it still feels like I'm a boy on this side of the paint."

"Perv."

"Wasn't my idea."

Hope couldn't help laughing. Her embarrassment was rapidly vanishing, the ice broken so easily she had to marvel at it. She couldn't remember anyone with whom she'd clicked so quickly. Was he just very good at reaching out to people, or was it because of some invisible bond between them alone?

After all - and the immensity of what she held began to register with her - this isn't just another wizarding portrait. This is Harry Potter! The Harry Potter!!

But more to the point, this was her father.

"Dean tells me that Ron and Luna raised you," said Harry, turning serious. "That Hermione and I are, well…" At Hope's nod, he continued thoughtfully, "I'd say they did a good job, then."

"I think so," Hope smiled, then bit her lip in worry. "But there's a problem there right now…"

"Yeah, I heard. Soon as you were declared a Potter, you couldn't stay a Weasley." Harry scowled and began to pace. Hope watched in fascination as his image would go off the side of the portrait, reappear and cross the frame, disappear off the opposite side… "Lousy Ministry, why am I not surprised? They never change. What's supposed to happen now?"

"Do you mean, with the Child Welfare Committee? They have to meet sometime before first of September - McGonagall's told them she has to be there when they meet, and she can't do it after term begins."

"She's on the Committee, then." Harry nodded, filing away the fact, and continued pacing. A gleam of gold appeared to follow him - the Golden Snitch from the original sketch. "Who else is on? Do we know?"

"Uh, Harry…" It felt so odd to call him that. Hope tried again. "Father? Shouldn't we be worrying about the Death Eaters? It sounded like there's been another attack only today…"

Harry pinned her with a single intense look. An amazingly intense look - his eyes fairly gleamed from within. Hope fancied she felt almost like a chick hypnotized by a serpent. "You're family," Harry said without hesitation. "First things first."

She was utterly convinced. "I've, uh, asked to see any newspapers that've come to Hogwarts," she volunteered. "I can't read them too openly, with Ministry people here all the time, but Professor McGonagall's told me what they said. They're all on our side."

"'All'? Prophet and Quibbler agreeing on something? Hold on to your hats, the sky's full of pigs." He gave her a brief, cynical smile. "Right. That'll help, I reckon, but not if the Ministry's really out to get you. Or are they out to get Ron?" He pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and rubbed his eyes. Eyes closed, he added, "Somehow, we simply need to show them the right thing, and convince them to do it."

"Maybe if you talked to them," Hope suggested. "I mean, I don't like the idea, but…"

Harry didn't answer directly. "At the house where I was staying," he began slowly, thinking aloud, "there were some portraits of former owners of the house. They were pretty loud and vocal… but they couldn't give orders, even to the house elf. They had no power, and the Place knew it." He opened his eyes and slid his glasses back into place. "And here at Hogwarts, portraits of former Headmasters can't act as though they were still Headmaster. Hope, I don't think my talking would do any good in any case."

"Oh." She lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

"Why'd you suggest it, if you didn't like the idea? Come to that, why didn't you like the idea?"

"It just came to me. A magical portrait of The Chosen One, come to life? You want the world to know that? It'd be a nightmare, honestly. You'd never have a moment's peace." She swallowed. "I'd never have a chance to see you."

"Yeah." His tone made it clear that he knew exactly what she meant.

"But I thought… if that's what it took… I mean, you are Harry Potter, they'd have to at least listen."

"Um, I guess…" He was embarrassed now, and Hope had to snicker.

They remained quiet together for several minutes. Hope had expected Harry to continue talking, as Hermione always had… but she soon realized that Harry wasn't that much of a talker. Planning a course of action was one thing; conversation for its own sake was quite another. Hope wondered if he was going to enjoy being a portrait as much as Hermione did.

"Harry," she said, wanting to confirm her theory, "can you do magic? Can portraits in general?"

"I don't think so," he replied after a moment. "Like I said, the portraits I've known had no power, even if the people they portrayed were powerful wizards." She could hear the regret in his voice. They spent another quiet minute… Hope found she didn't mind not talking.

"But maybe," Harry continued, and the regret began to turn to enthusiasm, "maybe I could still use magic. We'll have to try it. If so," and now he was fired up by the possibility, "if so, I might be able to tell your precious Committee a thing or two - without letting them know I exist. We'll have to try it - but I'll need your help, Hope."

She sat bolt upright and snatched up the portrait. Hope caught Harry grinning, and grinned back fiercely. "Name it, Father."