Hopeful Moments by Paracelsus Rating: PG13 Genres: Romance, Humor Relationships: Harry & Hermione Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6 Published: 05/12/2006 Last Updated: 30/04/2007 Status: Paused A series of vignettes, one-shots, following the events of "Restoring Hope". This Special Moment is from the summer after Hope's first year, just before her birthday. 1. Turning the Page ------------------- **(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. **)** ************************************* **"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. 2. Enfant Terrible ------------------ **(A/N:** Another vignette following the events of *Restoring Hope.* This one takes place, oh, towards the end of October in Hope's first year at Hogwarts.**)** **(Disclaimer:** I freely admit that the characters belong to Jo. On the other hand, if Jo would simply admit that we know better than she does how Harry and Hermione would act, everybody'd be much happier. **)** ************************************* **"Hopeful Moments"** by Paracelsus * **II: Enfant Terrible** * It wasn't often that Luna had to wake her husband and have him be *immediately* alert. Most mornings, Ron was slow to rouse from slumber; if he looked to be in danger of oversleeping, she'd bring a cup of coffee into the bedroom and waft the aroma under his nose. Or, if she were still in bed with him, she had other methods to bring him gradually back to full awareness – much more pleasurable methods, for both of them. But this was the middle of the night, which made it an emergency, requiring emergency measures. Luna planted her mouth on his ear and blew the loudest raspberry she could. "*MERLIN!* I'm up, I'm *up!*" Ron screamed, sitting bolt upright in bed and holding a hand over his offended ear. "I'm sorry to wake you, My King," Luna said as calmly as ever, "but Professor Peppercorn is Flooing from Hogwarts." Ron scowled, but he managed not to say the first words that came to his lips. Rather, he rolled out of his bed, accepted the bathrobe that Luna offered him, and headed down the stairs of his Hogsmeade cottage. As promised, Peppercorn's head was floating in the fireplace. "Paulus," Ron greeted him, civilly enough. "What's happened?" "Can you come to Hogwarts at once, Professor?" said Peppercorn crisply. "I have one of your first-years here – caught red-handed." "Out after curfew?" Ron pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "No one's dead, then? No one's hurt? Just a case of breaking curfew?" A beat for emphasis, then he added with an edge to his voice, "And for *this* you wake me in the middle of the night?" "Professor…" Peppercorn tried to interrupt. "Paulus, yeah, breaking curfew's worth a detention, but this can't wait 'til morning?" "It's a good deal more serious than merely being out after curfew," Peppercorn replied, more testily. "As her Head of House, I should think you'd want to deal with the matter as soon as possible – *all things considered,*" he added with heavy significance. Ron glared at Peppercorn and let the silence lengthen. "Give me a few minutes to dress," he finally said. "I'll meet you in the Defense classroom." "No," said Peppercorn triumphantly. "Meet us in the Headmistress's office." The head vanished from the fire. Ron straightened to discover that Luna had followed him down the stairs. "It's Hope," she declared. "Yeah, I'd reckon so… she's been caught doing *something.* And Peppy wants to rub my nose in it. He's never really liked the fact that he's the Defense Professor in name only." "He might have been more reconciled to it if your own Defense classes weren't so popular." "His *own* classes might be *more* popular if he weren't such a pissy little pri…" Ron caught his wife's upraised eyebrow just in time. "Prig," he finished. "I'm getting better," he added, chastened. "Do try to remember, My King, your mother has a standing offer to teach the Headmistress her Soap-Mouth Spell…" "Mum was bluffing," Ron said, with more confidence than he felt. "I need to dress." * Upon entering McGonagall's office, Ron was dismayed to see that he was the last to arrive: Flitwick, Sprout, and Sinistra, the other three Heads of Houses, were seated around the Headmistress's desk, wearing bathrobes and slippers and disgruntled looks. Evidently, Peppercorn had spared no effort to convince them that Hope's infraction – whatever it was – was so severe as to require their immediate notice. *He's really going all out to try and humiliate Hope,* thought Ron, spotting his daughter's downcast figure seated in the middle of the room. *And me, too, while he's at it.* He looked around for a chair. The only seat left was an uncomfortable-looking wooden chair, next to a sideboard with a large carafe of water and several glasses. Ron considered pouring himself a drink, but decided against it. He took his seat with a nod of greeting to the Headmistress. "Thank you for coming, Professor Weasley," said McGonagall, before Peppercorn could open his mouth. "I am certain we *all* regret disturbing your sleep." "What's this about, then?" Ron asked steadily, fixing his eyes on his daughter. "Hope?" Peppercorn jumped in. "I was doing nightly rounds with Mr. Filch, and heard voices in one of the second-floor classrooms," he said with ill-disguised relish. "We entered unannounced…" "How *many* voices?" Ron broke in, still watching Hope. Only Luna or he would have noticed Hope's tiny flinch at the question. Peppercorn scowled. "I thought several at first," he admitted, "but it turned out to be only Miss Potter – *and a portrait.*" There was an uneasy stirring among the portraits of past Headmasters that adorned McGonagall's office. Ron spared a quick glance around to confirm two suspicions. One, the portrait of Dumbledore had responded sluggishly, as usual; Ron wondered again if it would ever come fully to life. And two, the twin frames of Harry's and Hermione's portraits were quite, quite empty. "Yes," continued Peppercorn, noticing Ron's glance, "she was talking to a portrait of *Hermione Granger.*" He made the pronouncement with a dramatic flair, as though revealing the long-lost Secrets of the Founders. "Uh huh," Ron replied, deliberately unimpressed. "What, your clue-owl finally arrived? We *all* know about Hermione. Everyone who's *anyone* at Hogwarts knows about…" "*Ahem,*" interrupted McGonagall, giving Peppercorn and Ron stern looks. She waited until she was sure the meeting wouldn't devolve into a belching contest – or worse – before she went on. "Professor Peppercorn, the existence of Miss Granger's portrait is not something we've wanted to advertise, for reasons I'm sure you can appreciate." The Defense professor's sour look suggested he did *not* appreciate not having been told, but he wisely said nothing. McGonagall turned her attention to the cause of the disturbance. "Miss Potter? Have you anything to say for yourself?" Hope kept her gaze down. "I can't talk to her during the day," she said after a moment. "Like you said, Professor, she's trying to keep herself under the radar – it's a Muggle term Mother taught me," she added helpfully, raising her head and seeing looks of confusion. "And what *else* has your mother been teaching you?" demanded Peppercorn, pouncing on the last statement like a terrier on a rat. He looked around at the assembled teachers. "*This* is why I've asked you all to be here. This is *far* more serious than a mere breach of curfew! This child has been using her privileged position to…" "Wait. 'Her privileged position'?" McGonagall said icily. "That's what I said, Headmistress." Peppercorn gave Ron a disgusted sidelong look. "Not only as foster-daughter to her own Head of House, but with her status as the so-called 'Daughter of Heroes'." "Yeah, well, you can have it," muttered Hope. "*Don't be insolent with me, girl!*" barked Peppercorn. "Headmistress, I've *told* you and *told* you that she's a disruptive influence in my class, openly disrespecting me – well, now you see it for yourself!" "Do not," Hope said in a slightly louder voice. "And *now* we discover that she's been cheating in her classes, by using this portrait to hand her all the answers on a silver salver! Don't try to deny it, girl, you were caught in the act!" At that, Hope's eyes flashed in anger. She straightened in her seat and looked Peppercorn in the face. "I do *not* cheat," she said, not loudly, but forcefully. "Really, Paulus," said Flitwick, speaking for the first time, "this is a serious accusation. Certainly, I've never found Miss Potter to be anything but polite and attentive in her Charms classes. And really, it would make sense that she'd be a top-flight student, wouldn't you say? Given who her parents were?" "You've taught children of powerful wizards before now, Professor Flitwick, and *they* weren't able to perform magic as first-years! Not like *her!*" He pointed an accusing finger at Hope. "She couldn't *possibly* be doing as well as she's doing, without *significant* adult intervention! And she's making a *mockery* of my Defense class!" Sinistra cleared her throat thoughtfully. "I must take exception, Professor. Her work in my astronomy class is excellent, I admit, but it's no better than some of my Slytherin first-years." She smiled slightly. "By nature of the classwork, I daresay." "And I have to say that she's nowhere *near* the top of her Flying class," put in Ron mournfully. He couldn't suppress his smile as he watched Hope trying not to roll her eyes, and failing. "She's always ready with the facts about each new plant we've covered," Sprout offered. "Just like her mother, she is." She beamed fondly at Hope. Peppercorn snorted. "Well, you taught her over the summer." He turned to McGonagall. "And her other classes?" "Outstanding, especially in Potions," said McGonagall, glancing at a parchment on her desk. "I confess I gave it no thought, Professor: like so many of the staff, I remember her mother's accomplishments very well. Still, if she's using her mother's portrait to gain an unfair advantage… we can certainly not permit that." Hope licked her lips. "Um, Professor," she asked quietly, "could I have something to drink?" McGonagall nodded absently and waved her hand at the sideboard. "As for making a mockery of your Defense class," she continued, "I fail to understand. If she's passing notes, or contradicting you in class, surely taking House points…" "No," Peppercorn forced out, as though the word caused him pain, "she does not pass notes. She doesn't make rude remarks. She doesn't do anything for which I could take points." *Making you better than Snape,* Ron admitted to himself. Aloud, he said, "Well, then, what?" Peppercorn pressed his lips together. He made no reply, only staring resentfully at Ron. A glimmer of an idea began to form in Ron's mind. "Is she actually *learning* anything from your class, Paulus? I mean, anything *new?*" From the way Peppercorn's nostrils flared, Ron knew he'd hit whang in the gold. "I *do* learn stuff, Professor," Hope put in (mindful that, in this context, Ron was "Professor" and not "Dad"). "Every week, there's something I didn't know before." She sipped her pumpkin juice. "Every *week?!*" Peppercorn screeched. "This *child* has the… the *effrontery* to sit in my class and pass *judgment* on me! I can't say anything in lecture without being challenged!" "I don't challenge you, sir, I don't say a word." "As soon as I'm done speaking, the entire class turns and looks to *you!*" Peppercorn glared resentfully at Hope. "For *confirmation,* damn it!" Hope gave a very slight shrug. "Actually, sir, I kind of wish they wouldn't." "Well, they *do.* And I have to insist that something be done about it." Peppercorn drew himself up in an attempt at dignity. "It undermines my authority as the Professor for Defense." "And we can't have *that,* now can we?" Ron said before he could stop himself. He hoped the remark would pass over everyone's head unnoticed. No such luck. Peppercorn whirled and tore into Ron. "If she's learned disrespect for her teachers, Professor Weasley, it can only be from you! You've been jealous of my position since the day I arrived! Must I remind you *again* that *I* am the Professor of Defense at this school? *Regardless* of what extracurricular activities you may be charged with…" The tension between the titular Defense teacher and the *actual* Defense teacher, muted until now, poured forth as he continued to tear into Ron. Unnoticed, Flitwick abruptly leaned forward in his chair, struck by a realization. His bright eyes fastened onto Hope's glass of pumpkin juice. They flashed to the sideboard, and back to her. "Miss Potter," he said in a low voice, "could you get me something to drink as well?" Hope gave Flitwick a demure smile, as though to say *I was wondering if anyone would notice.* Aloud she said, "One of these?" as she lifted her glass slightly. Flitwick's eyes twinkled. "I'm partial to pomegranate juice, actually." She nodded thoughtfully, accepting the challenge. Hope twiddled her wand slightly and muttered under her breath. Within seconds, a glass of dark red juice floated through the air into Flitwick's waiting hand. He took a judicious sip. "Not bad, not bad at all. A trifle too tart, perhaps." "If you're done refreshing yourself, Professor…" began Peppercorn impatiently. "Sweet *Merlin,* Paulus," Flitwick interrupted, unexpectedly acid, "are you blind as well as stupid?" Peppercorn was taken aback. "What…?" Without another word, Flitwick pointed to the sideboard. Puzzled, all the other adults turned to study it, the glasses, the partially-emptied carafe… Light dawned first on McGonagall. "Of *course.* That carafe has no self-serve charms on it." Ron began to grin. "And it's *water…* Hope, *dear,* could I trouble you for some tea?" "It won't be hot," Hope warned. "We don't want the glass to break." "That'll do." In fascination, the room watched as the carafe lifted itself from the sideboard and poured water into one of the remaining glasses. Once full, the glass picked itself off the sideboard and floated towards Ron… and as it approached him, the clear water began to turn brown. Ron plucked the glass from mid-air and sipped from it. "Ugh. It's not sweetened." "Everyone's a critic," Hope deadpanned. "May we *please* now return to the matter at hand!" Peppercorn almost screamed. "This *is* the matter at hand," retorted Ron. He raised his glass. "She made the carafe pour, then she levitated the glasses – without spilling a drop. That's O.W.L.-level Charms work, isn't it, Filius? And she Transfigured the water into pumpkin juice *and* pomegranate juice *and* tea. Unsweetened tea, but still. Headmistress, what level of Transfiguration would that demonstrate?" McGonagall seemed lost in thought. In truth, it was more than the ability to levitate and Transfigure – at such an advanced level! – that impressed the Headmistress. It was the understated ease with which they were done: no extravagant wand waving, no shouted commands, which even most adult witches and wizards would have used. None of them had even noticed anything until Flitwich had pointed it out. It hadn't been non-vocal or wandless magic… but the movements and incantations had been so unobtrusive that it might as well have been. It forced McGonagall to recall a day, three months earlier, at Gringotts Bank… when Hope Potter had fought goblins and Death Eaters and come through unscathed. "I'd thought it merely a crisis response…" she murmured to herself. Her mind returned to the present moment; her eyes focused on the first-year in front of her. Harry Potter's eyes looked back at her. "Fool me twice, shame on me," McGonagall said. "Headmistress…" began Peppercorn desperately. "Man, *think!* We've just *seen* an example of Miss Potter's capabilities," snapped Sinistra. "She could *not* have cheated just now. I for one don't see why she'd *need* to cheat. Whatever conversations she's been having with her mother's portrait, they certainly weren't cribbing test answers together." McGonagall held up a quelling hand as Peppercorn tried to expostulate. "And you yourself have admitted that she does nothing in your class worth demerits or detention. You would surely not punish her for the behavior of your other students, would you?" "But… but…" "That leaves only the matter of breaking curfew," McGonagall concluded, "and though I'm sympathetic, it *is* an infraction of the rules, and I'm afraid punishment *is* in order. Miss Potter's Head of House will be responsible for assigning it, of course." Her level gaze fell on Ron. "I trust I will not need to personally review the level of that punishment?" "Uh, no, Professor, don't worry. It'll be… appropriate." Ron smirked at his daughter. "Imaginative, even." "Well, then, Professors, I'm sure you'll all wish to retire to your chambers without delay," said McGonagall, fixing Peppercorn with a cold eye. "Thank you so much for your prompt attendance. Professor Peppercorn, would you please remain?" With many a black look at the fuming Defense professor, the teachers made their way out of the Headmistress's office. Ron, the last to leave, gave a final glance at the empty portraits. Or rather, the no-longer-quite-empty portraits. Harry and Hermione were peeping around the edge of the frames… Hermione offering Ron what could only be a look of apology. Ron jabbed a finger at her. *Talk,* he mouthed. *Later.* She nodded guiltily. Once outside McGonagall's office, Ron took Hope's upper arm and set a brisk pace back to Gryffindor Tower. Hope almost had to trot to keep up with her long-legged parent. "I s'pose I ought to tell you: I'm going to be talking to Harry and Hermione before I assign you your detention," he said conversationally. "Um," said Hope. She was wearing her sphinx face again. "So if there's anything else you need to confess, now's the time to do it," pressed Ron. After a pause, Hope said cautiously, "I don't know what you mean." "Oh yes you do." Ron waited a moment to see if Hope would crack. When no response seemed forthcoming, he tried another tack. "If I were to do a snap inspection of the Gryffindor girls' dorms *right now,* would I find Isabeau and Michelle in bed asleep?" Hope sighed in defeat. "I sure hope so." "Ahhhh." With her admission, Ron decided to relent slightly. He slowed his pace to a comfortable speed. "You're just lucky Poopyhorn didn't recognize their voices. Should I assume you sacrificed yourself so that they could make good their escape?" Hope nodded silently. "Very Gryffindor of you." He smiled at her; she smiled back tentatively. "Just out of curiosity," he went on, still smiling, "how long have they known about Harry and Hermione?" "Um, do I have to answer a question if the answer implies several broken curfews before this one?" "You have to answer *every* question I ask you, young lady," said Ron, immediately stern. "As your professor, as your Head of House, *and* as your father." Hope didn't reply, but her expression went blank again. There was a subtle difference, though: where it had been merely unresponsive, now it was mulish. *It's the same sort of answer you might have given, when you were her age,* Ron chided himself. His sigh was eerily reminiscent of Hope's. "Fair cop. I withdraw the question." A raised eyebrow. "*This* time." "Yes, sir." He decided he would grill Harry and Hermione the next morning, while thinking of appropriate (*and imaginative,* he reminded himself) punishments. His next thought almost made him stop in his tracks: *That's assuming they'll tell me anything. If Hope made them promise not to… No. I'm still her father. They know that. They won't keep secrets from me, not secrets about Hope.* Yet Ron found himself wondering, as they approached the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, whether he could enlist the Fat Lady's help as a spy. 3. The Joy of Womanhood ----------------------- **(A/N:** One last scene, not much more than a cookie really. Those of you who read my LiveJournal will know what prompted it. This takes place in the summer before Hope's second year at Hogwarts, on or near her birthday. Proofreading thanks to **MirielleGrey****,** who had a similar experience with her own young daughter.**)** **(Disclaimer:** All right, yes, I finally admit it. I *am* JKR. I've been writing my books for the unwashed masses – *here,* on Portkey, is where I write for a more discerning audience. And if you believe me, I have some beachfront property in Tibet to sell you.**)** ************************************* **"Hopeful Moments"** by Paracelsus * **III: The Joy of Womanhood** * Hope stared at her mother as if she'd gone barmy. Or, rather, more barmy than usual. "Please tell me you're kidding," she finally said. "Nope," said Luna cheerfully. "Once a month," Hope clarified. "Every month. Forever." "Or until you run out of eggs," Luna agreed. "Whichever comes first." Hope blinked owlishly at Luna, trying to think of a reasonable response. "And no one's looking for a cure?" Luna's smile broadened. "It's not exactly a disease, gosling." She cocked her head curiously. "I can't believe this is new information to you." "Well, um, yeah, in broad terms… but really, um, I wasn't expecting… that is…" Hope shook her head and strove to be clinical. "I *think* second-year girls have a… well, they call it a 'seminar'… with Madam Pomfrey. No one's actually come out and *said* what it's about, but all the firstie girls know." She seemed very interested in the covers of the books on her bedroom bookshelf, as she added, "And, erm, Isabeau and Michelle might have said something about it, too." "I thought as much. Isabeau probably can't wait," Luna speculated. "Yeah, Michelle said that's when their Veela powers will come into full force." Hope grimaced. "I really hope Aunt Fleur can teach them how to turn them *off.* They've been causing enough problems, at least among our own year." "I'm sure Fleur has already told the Twins what they can expect once puberty hits. In detail." "Yeesh. Aunt Fleur already has them wearing training bras. And they're talking about it *non-stop.*" She rolled her eyes. "You'd think they were in a race to see who can get their period first. The dorm hasn't exactly been… uh…" "Tranquil? Mm, no, I wouldn't imagine." Luna ran an appraising eye over her daughter's figure. "Well, princess, I suspect you don't have anything to worry about for a while yet. But I thought you should know about it in advance, so you won't panic when it happens for the first time. Not that I'd expect you to panic, you're usually quite level-headed, but you probably won't get any warning, and it *isn't* what you're used to." "Oh, joy. I'll never wear white again." "Nonsense. That's what *Scourgify* is for." Luna's brow creased slightly in thought. "Didn't Hermione mention anything about this?" It was asked quite nonchalantly. Anyone who didn't know Luna would have noticed nothing out of the ordinary… for Luna, at any rate. Hope, who *did* know Luna, tried to respond with equal nonchalance. "I asked her about *her* first time. She says she doesn't remember it, because she was petrified by a basilisk when it happened. She told me to talk to you." Appeased, Luna closed her eyes in remembrance. "Ah. For me, it first happened in the bath. I recall asking Daddy if a billywig had stung me somewhere I couldn't see. Poor Daddy. He had to try to explain menstruation all by himself. I still don't see why he should be so embarrassed – I think he did quite a creditable job. After all, when you consider the matter, it *does* seem too improbable to be believed." "Uh, yeah. I guess it is, isn't it?" Evidently the books on the shelf were the most fascinating items in the room. At any rate, they had Hope's undivided attention. "Well, it's all part of being a witch," said Luna, still cheerful. "I'll make sure Madam Pomfrey has her potions, just in case… I remember getting them from her when I was at Hogwarts. I don't suppose they've changed…" Seeing Hope desperately trying to *not* look as though she were listening, Luna added, "I *do* have to say that witches' monthly potions beat Muggle methods all hollow. Not just the pain-killers, but flow-control. Muggle women use… well, it's very odd. And it looks uncomfortable, too." "That's okay," said Hope hastily, crossing her legs. "Really." "We can talk about it more, when your time is closer," Luna concluded. "Did you have any questions?" Hope considered, still not meeting Luna's direct gaze. "Will I have to wear a training bra, too?" she asked after a long pause. Luna blinked. "Well, that depends." She glanced down at her own breasts. "What exactly do you want to train them to *do?*" It had taken twelve years, but Luna had finally managed to embarrass her daughter.