(A/N: I couldn't help it. I have too many plot bunnies doing the cha-cha in my head, and I know I can't start on the sequel to Restitution until after Christmas, so… as the Muse takes me (take me, O Muse, please!), I'll put out these little vignettish sequelae for Restoring Hope.
This first one, as it happens, doesn't feature Hope at all.)
(Disclaimer: Nope, still not JKR. Still not making money from this. Still dodging anvils. )
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"Hopeful Moments"
by Paracelsus
*
I: Turning the Page
*
"Right. Let's try this again," said Hermione, deliberately pitching her voice an octave lower. "Paginato."
The book's page obstinately refused to turn.
Perversely, Hermione found herself wishing there were quadriplegics in the wizarding world… or blind deaf-mutes, or something. Not that she'd wish ill to anyone, but maybe if there were handicapped wizards, the wizarding world might have devised charms to help them in daily living - charms Professor McGonagall could then use to help Hermione. But no: any injury the Healers couldn't outright cure, they'd ameliorate with magical prostheses. Even magical eyes for the blind.
But nothing to help an animated portrait turn the pages of a real book.
Professor McGonagall had done her best. Together with Professor Flitwick, she'd applied a charm to the book that would - in theory - open the book and turn the pages on Hermione's verbal command. It had worked perfectly when the Headmistress had demonstrated it. But she was a witch. Hermione was the portrait of a witch.
The book sat there now, propped up on the table before her portrait, and taunting her.
"Paginato!" She put every iota of willpower into the command.
Lazily, insolently, the page lifted. It hesitated, debating whether to obey, before it turned completely to reveal the next page.
With a whoof of exhaled breath, Hermione relaxed and settled in to read the new pages. Most of this section was very familiar to her, so it would go quickly… and then she'd have to fight to get the book to turn its page again. Aaargh.
She felt a ripple in the fabric of the painting, and knew that Harry had returned, and felt her irritation melt away at the thought. Harry had taken to exploring Hogwarts, and he always came back in renewed spirits - and his good spirits never failed to make her smile. Hermione waited a moment for him to join her, as he always did when they were in the same painting.
And then another moment, as she realized he hadn't done so.
Something was amiss. Quickly she turned to look at him. He stood slightly apart from her… though not as apart as he would if she were the problem. "Hello, Harry. I'm glad you're back."
"How's your research coming?" he asked. He was trying to look interested, she knew, but Hermione sensed a… a melancholy to Harry. Not enough to be called depression, but certainly not the cheerful aspect he'd shown since they'd got together again.
If Hermione had learned anything since her student days, it was that there was a time to be blunt and direct, and a time to let issues simply unfold. This, she decided, was one of the latter times. "Oh, the usual," she answered, gesturing at the book outside the painting. "I'm trying to read my own journal, and it's not cooperating. I have to tell it at least three times, whenever I want the page to turn."
Harry looked over at the open book. "This is the journal you were keeping at Grimmauld Place, isn't it?"
"Yes. I thought I should be familiar with it, seeing as I evidently recorded a great many key insights. And I do remember this section, though it looks like I added comments to it later. It's the part I wrote after Christmas that I don't remember - I'll really need to study those." Hermione didn't remark on the companion volume, Commentaries on the Granger Journals, which McGonagall and Vector had compiled while preparing her journal for publication. She wanted to reach her own conclusions on her work before reading others'.
"Anyway," she continued, "this is the section I wrote in early September, right after we returned from Durmstrang… you can see all the notes on Horcrux detection."
"Yeah. Those, and other things." Harry wore a little half-smile now, not large, but genuine. He pointed at the page. In the bottom corner was a tiny doodle - if anything written so neatly could be called a doodle - that proclaimed "HG♥HP".
"Yes, well…" Hermione turned slightly pink, but she was smiling, too. "I was recording all the discoveries we made at Durmstrang, wasn't I."
He nodded. "An important discovery, too."
"Very."
They lapsed into silence, both of them staring at the book - and, Hermione was sure, neither of them reading it. If she was right, Harry would soon bring up whatever was troubling him.
"Hermione?" He sounded strangely younger, less certain of the world. "Do you know how long owls live?"
Owls. Ah, of course. "It depends on the breed. Snowy owls can live for up to fifteen years in the wild. Double that, in captivity." She turned to regard his profile, still staring out at the book on the table. "And, of course, magical creatures in general have a longer life expectancy."
Harry nodded, accepting both the information and the fact that she would have it on the tip of her tongue.
"It's been eighteen years since you first got her, Harry," she went on, more tentatively, "and she wasn't a chick, even then."
He nodded again, still not meeting her eyes. "I, uh, saw her today," he volunteered after a moment. "She looked… well, awfully fragile… and I just wondered, that's all."
Time to be direct, Hermione decided. "I'm sure Hope is taking good care of her," she told him firmly.
His gaze jerked around to stare at her in surprise. "How…?"
"There're no portraits in the Owlery, so you must've seen Hedwig in the corridors… which meant a student had to be carrying her. Obviously, who else but Hope?"
"Yeah, well, it sounds obvious when you say it that way." Harry gave a deep sigh. "Didn't seem obvious to me at the time."
"No… I'm sure when you saw your owl on the arm of a total stranger, it was quite the shock for you."
"Hope's not a…!" He stopped, and twisted his mouth ruefully. "I'm about to contradict myself, aren't I?"
Hermione rewarded him with her warmest smile. "Yes, my love, you were. But that only makes you human." Hermione's hand came up to caress his cheek. "Hedwig was your owl. The first birthday gift you were ever given. Your faithful familiar." She paused. "And now she's your daughter's owl, not yours."
"Yeah." Absently he rubbed the back of his neck. "I've… been keeping an eye on her, y'know. Hope, I mean."
"Harry," she began, "you know we have to keep your existence a secret…"
"I know, I know, I'll only get one chance to surprise Bellatrix. I do know it. Don't worry… I've got really good at peeking out from the odd corner of a painting." A wistful half-smile flitted across his face. "Today Sir Cadogan agreed to appear in a painting on the opposite wall… sort of a distraction."
"Sir Cadogan is more than sort of a distraction," Hermione admitted. "I'm glad to hear you were thinking ahead."
Harry didn't respond to her words. "And do you remember… well, I don't know how much attention you were paying to me, back when we were brand-new ickle firsties. But I know everyone else paid plenty of attention to me. The Boy Who Lived, and all that rot. Didn't make my first days at Hogwarts a lot of fun." He sighed deeply. "Well, it looks like that's something else she got from me."
Her eyes widened as he stood, shoulders slumping. "The other students… they've been staring, and whispering... I nearly thought one was going to ask for her autograph, yesterday. I mean, it's almost exactly the same as happened to me… what's the phrase? Déjà vu all over again… It's just not fair, Hermione! Not to her."
He sounded so forlorn… Hermione started to pull him into an embrace, and was surprised to find his arms already around her. Harry buried his face in her hair and held her tightly, seeking comfort.
It was another long minute before he spoke. "I almost…" His voice broke, then he began again, "I almost wish we hadn't been made into portraits. That we'd either lived or died, one or the other… not this, this, this half-way-in-between shite. We don't have Hedwig - or Crookshanks," he added quickly. "We can't be there for our daughter. We, we can't do anything! Dammit, all we can do is watch."
He shivered and held her even more tightly. Hermione said nothing, but kept him close as she began to stroke his hair gently. Harry'd always had his moods, even when they were alive… but at Grimmauld Place, she'd finally begun to understand the best ways to deal with them. Funks were best dealt with silent support.
She could tell when the mood began to pass: his embrace was no longer seeking comfort, but offering thanks. Hermione kissed the side of his neck as he pulled back slightly, to look her in the face. "The only thing," Harry said softly, "the only thing that makes it even slightly tolerable is…"
"Is?" Hermione prompted gently.
His eyes brightened slightly. "Is the chance to be together," he finished, adding with emphasis, "With you," and she had to kiss him at that point, she had to.
"It's a different life, Harry," she said when they broke apart. "We can be active, we can help people, we can still fight the Death Eaters." She offered him an encouraging smile. "We can even keep an eye on Hope. Discreetly, of course."
"'Course," he agreed, pulling her close again and returning her kiss.
Well, he seemed to have got over his funk, at least for the moment… she prolonged the kiss, tacitly promising more later, before giving him a gentle push away. "Now why don't you find Professor McGonagall," she suggested, "and tell her I'm still having troubles with her page-turning charm."
Harry didn't let go of her. He kept his arms wrapped around her as he glanced casually at her journal. "Turn," he told it. The page promptly turned over. "Seems to be working all right."
Hermione gave him a far-from-gentle push this time. "Harry Potter! How did… what… I've been trying all morning! And you just… and in English!"
He was honestly astonished. "It's like saying 'up' to a broom," he began to explain, before realizing that it might not be the most felicitous example. She turned away from him in frustration - and the annoyance that always came when he could do anything she couldn't - but he countered by linking his hands together. Harry didn't try to hold her close, but he refused to release her from the circle of his arms.
"I'll turn for you," he offered as she fumed. She kept her back turned to him, but at least she wasn't fighting to be released. After a moment's pause, he continued diffidently, "Don't concert pianists have assistants to turn the pages for them?"
Hermione turned her head slightly and glared at him out of the corner of her eye. "Same idea here," he went on. "You should be focused on what's on the page, not distracted by, uh, physical details."
She sniffed.
"So I'll just stand here," Harry told her, settling in behind her, his arms around her waist. "Your assistant. And you just nod your head when you're ready for the page to turn. And together, we'll get this done, right?"
"Oh, very smooth, Potter," she said caustically - but Harry heard the slight quiver in her voice, and knew she was fighting to keep from laughing. After a moment, she covered his hands with her own. "All right then. Together." She leaned back against him, and he rested his chin on her shoulder. They fell silent, Hermione absorbed in the book again, Harry waiting patiently.
Together - only portraits, but together. It was better than the alternative.
She gave a nod. "Turn," he responded.