Dangerous Smiles by Tuxedo Kamen

Rating: PG
Genres: Angst, Drama
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 17/08/2003
Last Updated: 17/08/2003
Status: Completed

A week after Hermione's return from Hogwarts, Mrs. Granger happens upon her sleeping
daughter and ponders the dangerous and amazing life she tries to hide.




1. untitled
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John Davis John Davis 2 2244 2003-07-31T02:32:00Z 2003-07-31T02:32:00Z 1 5216 29735 Endymion
Studios 247 69 34882 10.2625 Clean Clean MicrosoftInternetExplorer4 

A/N: All characters and the books themselves are copyright the author of *Harry Potter*,
though I took some liberties with Hermione’s mother, who is not characterized very well at all in
canon. Be advised this book takes place after *Order of the Phoenix* and contains spoilers.
Thanks to Amber for beta-reading. All commentscoments and constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated. Enjoy.

Lucy Granger couldn’t sleep. It was funny, in a bizarre, pathetic sort of way. Over the past
five years, she had barely seen her daughter, and now that she was home for the summer, the dentist
found herself too unsettled to rest. It was the price she paid for having a little girl who was a
witch. *A long time ago*, she thought wryly, *so much as thinking that would have seemed
strange.* But it had been a long time since Hermione was an eleven year old – a long time since
that first owl had made it through their open kitchen window while they were having breakfast.

She could recall the shock clearly. Her daughter, a witch? Perhaps more surprising: there were
such things as witches and wizards and magic? Looking back, part of her wished she and her husband
had never strayed from their initial opinion – that the whole thing was some ridiculous, elaborate
hoax. But they weren’t the type of people to dismiss a letter that had arrived by *owl,*
addressed to “Hermione Granger, Twenty-Three Lyon Place, London, Second Floor, First Room on the
Right.” It was just too weird, and no one would put that much into a prank unless they were
seriously deranged. So they had opened the letter.

God, how many times she found herself wishing they’d never opened the letter.

She still wasn’t sure why they had accepted it so easily. She and her husband were, after all,
doctors – students of science. To believe in magic was to forsake everything that held a
scientist’s world together: the absolutes of physics, unbreakable rules of nature, the belief that
everything can be understood by logic alone. It should have seemed totally ridiculous to both of
them. But it didn’t. Together with their daughter, they read the letter – *and they believed*.
Sure, it was outlandish. Yes, it promised to shatter their entire world view. But it explained so
much … all the strange little things they had always been afraid to mention, that Hermione herself
had been frightened and confused by. The time she had knocked a door off its hinges when she was
locked in a completely dark, empty bathroom at her parents’ office by a cleaning crew ten years ago
came to mind. *No*, she thought, *knocking really isn’t the right word. It was blown
off.* Suddenly, those seemingly bizarre events made some sort of sense, magic was real, and
Hermione was being offered the chance to go to what was apparently one of the most prestigious
magical schools in Europe.

So, in the interests of being open-minded and highly curious, they followed the directions on
the included “Guide to Diagon Alley and King’s Cross for Muggle-born Students” and took Hermione to
buy her supplies about three weeks before the fall term was set to begin. Any remaining doubts the
two of them had disappeared when the proprietor of the Leaky Cauldron (which, not coincidentally,
only Hermione could see) showed them how to get into Diagon Alley. Lucy could remember the rest of
that day quite easily. It was all too unreal and amazing to easily forget. Hermione, for her part,
was beyond thrilled, and Lucy understood that. Her daughter had always been incredibly bright, and
unfortunately this had done a good deal to ostracize her from her peers. Oh, she had friends – just
not very many. Now she had a chance to be around a group of people who shared a wonderful gift with
her – a chance to find a place in her peers’ society. As much as Lucy hated to admit it, such
things were very important to eleven year olds. In the three weeks before it was time for her to
go, she *absorbed* her school books and her early birthday present (*Hogwarts, A
History*). Then they put her on the train, which in and of itself was an amazing experience.

That was the beginning.

Now, almost six years later, things had changed, and not totally for the better. Her daughter
had proven herself to be the smartest, most powerful witch in her class. She routinely scored more
than one-hundred percent on nearly every major test she took. Not that that should have been
possible, but it was in line with the first major unwritten rule of living with a witch: forget
logic. It’s not for you. The only teacher who seemed the slightest bit concerned about her
performance was a nice sounding woman named Madam Hooch, who sent them a letter politely asking if
Hermione had a fear of heights. She was apparently trying to resolve Hermione’s problems with broom
flying. Though they probably shouldn’t have, Scott and Lucy found this strangely amusing. All
things considered, though neither she nor her husband could understand everything that went on in
Hermione’s academic life, they were incredibly proud of her.

But none of that had anything to do with what was keeping her up at night. None of that was what
currently had her creeping through her own house in a white nightgown and slippers, her raven black
hair tied back in a ponytail. Her blue eyes were opened wide against the darkness of the second
story hallway. Her thoughts were occupied by one thing: her daughter and how she had looked a week
ago stepping through the magical barrier into King’s Cross station.

At the end of her fourth year, when Cedric Diggory was murdered, Hermione had come home anxious
and worried, but not too horribly upset. It was obvious that she was affected by the boy’s death –
she seemed sad and wearier than Lucy thought any teenager had a right to be, but she wasn’t
horribly grief stricken. Lucy had been both surprised and pleased with her daughter’s handling of
such a horrible event. The bizarreness of the circumstances aside, she knew it must have been
horrible to see two people whisked away and then returned, a few minutes later – only with one of
them significantly less alive. Lucy was perfectly aware that the majority of worry and anxiety her
daughter associated with that event had a lot more to do with Harry Potter than it did Cedric
Diggory. And, as horrible as the other boy’s death had been, Lucy understood that. After all, Harry
had watched Cedric die, and then been forced to participate in some sort of Dark ritual used to
bring Lord Voldemort back to life. That summer, she found herself thinking more about the
increasing danger to her daughter than anything, or anyone, else.

Now, one year later, things had somehow gotten worse. A lot worse. And Lucy had known, almost on
instinct, the minute she laid eyes on her daughter. Her husband had picked up on it to, but it
didn’t alarm him as much. Mothers, it seemed, were just better at detecting these sorts of things.
Hermione hadn’t looked right when she stepped through the barrier. She looked pale and tired, but
it was more than that. It was her eyes that caught Lucy’s attention – they weren’t shining anymore.
Children’s eyes were supposed to be bright and an innocent, and even though she knew her daughter was closer to being an
adult than a child now, she had always been able to see a spark in those large brown orbs. Even
after her fourth year it was still there. Maybe not as bright as before, but not extinguished.
Innocence, youth, eagerness for knowledge and all the amazing things the world had to offer – all
that was still there, just twelve months ago.

As she made it to her daughter’s bedroom door and seized the knob with her hand, she had to
wonder – what exactly had happened to make that light vanish? She knew Hermione had been injured
this year – she heard one of her friends at the train station mentioning her pleasure that Pomfrey
“didn’t try to keep you over the summer.” Whenever asked about it, the youngest Granger simply said
she’d fallen off of one of the moving staircases and broken a few bones. Since the end of her third
year, Hermione’s letters home and her recounts of events at Hogwarts had become increasingly
vaguer. Lucy simply attributed it to the fact that teenagers by nature tended to become more
private and didn’t relish in relaying every single seemingly insignificant detail of their lives.
After all, she was still telling them about the big events, right? *Most of them, at any
rate.* But the incident at the train station, that was the first time Lucy could recall actually
being lied to by her daughter about something *important.*

And Hermione was bad liar too, at least when she didn’t have any help. Not bad in the sense that
she made things out to be worse than they were, but bad as in the sense that politicians who had
been caught on tape at drunken orgies seemed more credible and calm in their cover-ups. Even her
husband had picked up on it – and really, as kind, trusting, and obtuse as the man could be, that
was saying something. Lucy pushed the door open, somehow managing to keep the thing from
creaking.

The room was dark. The barest sliver of moonlight seeping in through the window provided the
only illumination. It was immaculate as usual – Hermione wouldn’t have it any other way. She took
in the pale walls, each lined with at least one oversized, overstuffed bookcase. She smirked in
spite of herself – there used to be a time when the only thing she had to worry about with Hermione
was making sure she didn’t get lost in the library. And then there was that brief phase when she
wanted to live in the library … it seemed like a long, long time ago. Her eyes fell on the bed in
the corner, next to the widow, with its red bedspread and sheets. It was currently unmade – and
empty. This would have alarmed her if she hadn’t, in the next instant, looked at her daughter’s
desk and found her curled over it, with her head in her arms, wild brown hair shining spectacularly
under the glow of moonbeams. She was wearing loose-fitting red pajamas that made her look much
smaller than she actually was. Lucy was surprised. It wasn’t really that late – only 10:45, if the
clock on the wall was set properly – but her daughter never usually fell asleep at her desk at that
hour so soon after the end of term. She ventured forward quietly, watching Hermione’s shoulders
rise and fall, and sat on the edge of the bed. Hermione rustled, and the shadows around her face
danced. For the first time, Lucy noted the dry tear tracts running down her cheeks.

It was very difficult to resist the urge to shake the girl awake and demand to know what the
hell was going on. It was exactly this sort of behavior that kept Lucy up at night. Since she had
arrived home, Hermione had been remarkably anti-social. Not rude in even the most general sense of
the word, but simply not one for much company. She kept to herself most of the day, excepting the
excursions out of her room for food and or drink.

It could have almost been normal. Hermione, much to the distress of her parents, who worried she
pushed herself too far sometimes, tended to devote the first week of her summer holiday pounding
out her homework. It wasn’t uncommon to find her slumped over at her desk over some parchment,
quill in a small, limp hand, somehow managing, even in slumber, to balance some ancient, giant text
about things Lucy couldn’t even pronounce properly on her knees. But at the moment, there was no
quill in her hands, her lap was free of hernia-inducing volumes, and there was no blank sheet of
parchment on her desk. *And in any case*, she thought darkly, *tears don’t have a damned
thing to do with homework.* She reached forward and brushed a lock of Hermione’s hair with her
fingers, deep in thought.

Hermione didn’t wake up – she was much too heavy a sleeper for that, her mother knew – but she
did shift slightly in her chair. Her body caught on the edge of her desk for a moment, before she
shifted again, and she let out a small whimper of what was very obviously pain. Lucy felt her heart
knot up in her chest. Hermione had never come home injured before, and she somehow knew that Madam
Pomfrey would have been able to mend broken bones well enough that there would be no residual pain
a full week later. After all, the woman could straighten teeth – what should have taken three to
four years of braces, apparently done in so many minutes. And she and her husband had been upset
about *that*. Like their daughter’s desire to skip years of wearing a painful, annoying metal
contraption in her mouth was any real problem. It didn’t help Hermione’s story that she hadn’t
reported any injuries to her chest or stomach when she pulled her alibi out of the air at the train
station.

No, this was something far worse than a few breaks and bruises. Her daughter went through great
pains (discretely, of course) to avoid being seen unless she had her stomach and lower chest
completely covered up by *something*. When she hugged, she sometimes winced. She had been so
ecstatic to have her home that she hadn’t noticed at first, but when Scott caught her in one of his
infamous bear hugs she couldn’t keep a slight yelp from escaping her lips. She said she was “just
surprised.”

And it had gone on like that for a week. Hermione was her normal, happy self unless you
mentioned something she didn’t want to talk about then the defensive shields went up. And never
before had she constantly cried herself to sleep. Lucy found herself more edgy and unsettled now
that her daughter was home than she had been when Hermione was … well, wherever Hogwarts was,
exactly. That should have been unnerving, but on the steadily growing list of things that weren’t
quite right, it rated relatively low – just above the fact that their neighbors sometimes
complained to the authorities about the “owl infestation.”

She was sitting perhaps a foot away from her sleeping daughter, and she had never felt like they
were farther apart. There were, quite simply, large chunks of her life neither Lucy nor Scott knew
anything about. The raven-haired woman wondered what had changed – why was their little girl so
afraid to be completely honest with them? She could think of two possible causes. One, Hermione was
afraid that they would balk at whatever she had been up to and pull her out of Hogwarts in a
smashing display of overprotective stupidity. Lucy and Scott had indeed discussed doing just that
at the end of her fourth year, but had eventually decided against it. *Our daughter is a
witch.* There was no getting around it. She was then, she was now, and she would be, forever.
She would have to learn to survive in the magical world, and that meant finishing her education at
Hogwarts. No, they would never do something so stupid as to remove their daughter from the safest
place she could possibly be, and they told her as much. She shook her head. That couldn’t be it.
That left option two – and Lucy really, *really* didn’t like option two.

There was always the possibility that Hermione felt she had to protect her parents from the
reality of whatever was going on. It certainly explained the reluctance to discuss certain things.
After all, it made perfect sense that Hermione would want to shield her parents from the reality of
a war they couldn’t do anything to prevent or protect their daughter from. She knew, though she
chose to rarely contemplate it. If a Dark wizard or other agent of Voldemort ever came for her
daughter, there wouldn’t be a thing she or her husband could do to help her. Hermione’s recent
behavior only made this all the more clear; all the more impossible to put out of her mind. Whether
their child was completely honest about it when the eleventh hour drew near, it wouldn’t matter.
She would be on her own. *That* was what kept Lucy Granger up at night.

Well, that and the other inevitable question: *Why? Why was her daughter’s life suddenly so
dangerous?* Fortunately or unfortunately – she wasn’t quite sure yet – she had an answer for
that one. Two simple words. *Harry Potter.* The boy she had never really gotten a chance to
meet (a few minutes greetings once or twice a year just didn’t count) was, as far as she was
concerned, a blessing and a curse.

Lucy had a box in her bedroom closet, filled with an organized stack of every piece of
correspondence and graded schoolwork she had ever received. Once Hermione went off to Hogwarts, she
found herself being inundated with sheet after sheet of parchment – letters detailing her
daughter’s latest news. For the first few weeks, it was nothing but details about how much she was
enjoying her studies, and attempts to relay some of the wondrous things one could expect to see at
Hogwarts Castle. Though she was pleased that her daughter seemed happy, Lucy hadn’t missed the fact
that there was no discussion of the new friends she had made. Indeed, there were veiled hints that
particular venture wasn’t going well at all.

That all changed when she and her husband received a letter in early November. Harry Potter and
Ron Weasley, who she’d only mentioned before as being “troublesome and annoying” were suddenly her
new best friends. Every letter she sent after that for the next five years contained at least a
paragraph on each of them. At first, the coverage was equal, and pretty much the same, and went by
a general pattern. *“Harry did this, then that, nearly got thrown in detention. He’s insane. Ron
did this, then that, nearly got thrown in …”*

Sometime at the end of her third year though, right at the end, something must have happened.
Lucy still wasn’t sure what – again, Hermione seemed to be withholding information. But after that,
her weekly letters home changed somewhat. There was still the excited (and oh so exciting) recital
of her latest academic endeavors, and still discussions of Ron and Harry’s latest antics. Only now,
the coverage was anything but balanced. Harry was the main topic of conversation … and what a
lengthy discussion it was. Oh, Ron was still mentioned, and she still seemed to like him a lot
(though she sometimes appeared frustrated with him), but Harry and her latest misadventures with
him (*The ones she feels she can tell us about*, Lucy thought bitterly) never failed to take
up at least a full page of its own. Admittedly, some of that page was about Quiddich, but even that
always seemed to center on the Gryffindor Seeker’s performance. It was quite cute, really. She and
her husband spent many hours snickering over the pieces of parchment, as Hermione’s ever growing
affinity for Harry became apparent. The fact that she and the boy seemed to be totally oblivious to
it only made it more entertaining to watch. The only notable exception was Harry’s brief fling with
some girl named Cho Chang. It was obvious from the way the manner in which she mentioned it that
the whole ordeal upset Hermione greatly. She seemed almost happy when she reported their breakup,
though Lucy was sure that was a purely subconscious reaction on her part. She hoped her daughter
wasn’t openly vindictive and manipulative.

The problem was, of course, that Harry Potter was a very famous boy. Indeed, the most vile,
dangerous wizard in recent memory was apparently hell-bent on his destruction. At first, it wasn’t
very much of an issue. Harry had somehow managed to vanquish the would-be despot, but not before
his mother and father had been murdered. Lucy didn’t understand how this was possible, seeing as he
was an infant at the time, but apparently no one else did either.

That, it turned out, was a lie. Voldemort was not dead. He wasn’t healthy, but he was far from
vanquished. He did his best to kill Harry that first year, and somehow Hermione ended up embroiled
in the encounter, but she, Ron, and the last Potter survived. Every year for the next four years,
Harry was forced to tempt death in some form or another. And Hermione Granger was always at Harry’s
side, or as close as circumstances would allow her to be. Because that was what she chose to be.
The realization had hit Lucy several nights ago, and she’d cried openly as her husband and daughter
slept on.

Hermione was at war. It was a fight being waged between two people – one pure evil; a murderous,
soulless monster, the other a boy with glasses and messy hair who stood ready to fight if only
because he was forced into it. And her precious baby, her brown eyed angel, stood with Harry
Potter, ready and waiting for whatever might come; no matter how afraid she was, because on some
level she wasn’t quite aware of yet, she loved him.

A mother knows these things by instinct.

Lucy raised her hand from her lap and ran it through Hermione’s hair, careful to avoid the many
knots in the bushy mass. The last thing she wanted was to wake her daughter when she seemed to be
sleeping so peacefully. Well, she would have to rouse her eventually to get her into the bed, but
tugging on knotted hair was not the way to do it.

Lucy stood up quietly and moved so that she was standing next to Hermione’s sleeping form,
suddenly unable to keep her curiosity at bay. After all, if it wasn’t schoolwork that was causing
her daughter to fall asleep at her desk, it had to be *something*.

At first glance, the desk was devoid of anything terribly interesting. There were no books with
bizarre titles, no scrolls full of some complicated procedure or analysis related to doing
something that completely went against every major law of physics, or anything else that was at
first glance odd. Indeed, there wasn’t even a single quill in sight. Her eyes fell on a catalogue
of sorts. Now she knew Hermione was tired. The booklet was open, revealing several moving pictures
of what looked like wingless fireflies. Hermione never left her magically illustrated books out,
just in case someone happened to come in her room when she wasn’t around, or happened to be asleep.
Lucy picked up the magazine, and looked at it. When she realized it was a Quidditch mail-order
brochure, she utterly failed to muster any real surprise. Harry Potter’s birthday was growing ever
nearer, if she wasn’t very much mistaken. It had become a bit of a major event in her household,
even though the boy had never once visited them. She was surprised, however, to find that there
were a pair of brochures for mail-order wizard clothiers neatly stacked in a corner. *Ah*, she
thought wistfully, *diversification in gifting, the mark of the truly smitten girl in denial.*
That was all well and good, but none of it explained the tears. Aware of the potential violation of
privacy but too tired and stressed to care, she kept looking.

There was only one other item of any interest on the desk, but she didn’t see it at first. It
was an off-white envelope, torn open carefully along the upper seam. It was addressed simply to
“Hermione,” in very sloppy handwriting. *Must be from Ron or Harry*, she thought, suddenly
interested. She hesitated for only a second as thoughts of her daughter’s privacy and trust went
through her mind, then did something she’d never done before and scooped up the letter with full
intent to read it without Hermione’s permission. Whatever was said, there was the possibility it
might shed some light on the current situation. And Lucy Granger needed a little illumination if
she ever expected to sleep again.

As silently as she could, Lucy crept back over to the bed and sat next to the night table. She
was close enough to the window that she could read very clearly. She slid the letter out and laid
the envelope to the side. It was folded neatly in half. She opened it carefully and was quite
surprised when a small picture fell in her lap. *I’ll look at that in a minute.* At the
moment, the letter was the far more interesting part of the parcel. Very quickly, for she was quite
aware that her daughter could wake up at any moment, she began to read.

*Dear Hermione,*

*Hi. It’s Ron, but I’m sure you already knew that, seeing as Pig is, well, Pig.*

*I hope you’re feeling better. Madam Pomfrey had us a bit worried, you know. She never would
say exactly what was wrong with you. I should have been around to help you deal with that Death
Eater. Harry was really beating himself up over what happened when you weren’t in earshot. I’ve
worked on him as best I can, you know, but I don’t think he’s fully grasped the idea that he can’t
be everywhere at once. As far as he’s concerned, he should have been right with you, even though he
was currently involved in trying not to get himself killed at the time. My mother threatened to
ground me for the next five years when she found out I’d let myself be Confunded in the presence of
so many of You-Know-Who’s thugs then nearly strangled by a brain-thing. Part of me wants to say
that I’ll do better next time, but to be completely honest, I really hope there’s not a next time.
That was the worst night of my life. I still have trouble believing it actually happened, to tell
you the truth.*

*Oh, but I’m just a bucket of cheer, aren’t I? By the way, Mum says that we’re free to talk
about whatever we choose, now that the Ministry has stopped being a collective idiot and cottoned
on to the idea that You-Know-Who is back and Harry is not insane. Seeing the man locked in mortal
combat with Dumbledore while Harry watched must have been a real eye-opener for Fudge.*

*I wanted to write and tell you that you’ll be able to come a few weeks before term, if you
like. We’re still using Snuffles’ place. I know it sounds morbid. Personally, I can’t believe we’re
still staying there after … well, you know. Dad says it’s still a much safer place then our house
right now. I’ve managed to figure out that, according to Snuffles’ will, Harry owns the place now,
according to the will, but until he comes of age Professor Lupin has control over everything. I
heard from Dad that Dumbledore and Fudge had a blazing row over clearing Snuffles – apparently, the
Minister agreed there was reason to do it, but didn’t feel like right now was the best time, seeing
as he’s in a bad spot as it is. Admitting that the Ministry wrongly jailed someone for more than a
decade, as Mum puts it, “just isn’t something he wants to do.” The fact that that someone is Harry
Potter’s godfather only makes things more of a political mess. But he will, now that Dumbledore’s
through with him. Keep an eye on the Daily Prophet. Dad was looking strangely triumphant abut the
whole thing.*

*That’s why I owled you, actually. I hate to talk about Harry behind his back, I really do,
but I need your help. I’ve owled him a couple of times since we got back (Yes, I know we’ve only
been gone a week … I was worried.), and to say he sounds depressed is a drastic understatement. At
least those dreadful relatives are off his back. Mum said for me to tell him he’s invited to come
to the manor later this summer, but I’m not sure how to do it. “Hi, Harry, this is Ron. Mum wants
me to let you know that you’re welcome to come stay at your godfather’s house later in the summer.
The Order is still using it as a headquarters, even though Snuffles is dead.” I would, of course,
try to be a bit more sensitive than that, but you get my point. I have no idea how I’m supposed to
go about it. I thought we saw him pushed to his limits last year – I figured that was why he was so
moody. Now, well, I just don’t know what to expect. That was before he watched Snuffles go. I’m not
trying to foist anything off on you, but do you have any ideas?*

*Ack! It appears we just found another boggart. Tonks is raving about vampires. We had the
place checked for vampires again last week. I’d better be going. Now that we’ve finally gotten rid
of that bastard elf, there’s a lot more chores to be done around here.*

*Oy, this letter turned into a bit of a downer, didn’t it? I’m sorry. I just needed to talk to
someone, I guess. Thanks for reading! See you later in the summer, hopefully!*

*Ron*

*PS.: Mum’s finally got the pictures from last Christmas developed. We don’t have copies of
all of them yet, but we’ve got plenty of the snowball fight. I sent one.*

Lucy blinked, looking at the letter in her hand as though it didn’t really exist. *Oh.
Damn.* Things suddenly made simultaneously more and less sense than they had before. In the span
of seconds, assumptions were made, discarded, and reformulated. Her daughter hadn’t fallen, she’d
been attacked by a murderer who had done something to her stomach and chest. Whatever it was had
been a something nasty, if the nurse wouldn’t go into full detail about what it was. There was
likely some sort of scarring Hermione wasn’t ready to reveal – that’s why she didn’t let anyone see
her without a shirt.

But why had that happened? Why had she, Harry, and Ron gotten in a fight with what sounded like
a horde of Death Eaters? She couldn’t answer that question, but she knew why Hermione was there, at
least. She wouldn’t abandon Harry when the great evil arrived to attempt to kill him. She was too
stubborn. Something else clicked suddenly, and she paled. *Hermione was there … in some place …
with* Voldemort *himself*. *Oh God. At least Dumbledore was there to protect them.*
She looked over at her daughter, once again noting the tearstained cheeks. *But Hermione was
still hurt. Someone died*, a cold voice sounded in the back of her head. *Someone
important.* *Harry’s godfather. He was murdered. Harry watched him die. This is the world your
daughter lives in. This is what she hides from you. Is she ever going to feel like she can tell you
the truth? Or is she going to be the next one to die?* It occurred to her that none of that
would have ever happened if Dumbledore had been in complete control of the situation. He would not
have sent Harry, Ron, and Hermione to fight on purpose. *There must have been some sort of
surprise attack, or something.*

Lucy abruptly slammed her eyes shut, trying to will her brain back into some sort of order. So
that was it, then. Hermione had been nearly fatally wounded in a fight with Death Eaters. Harry’s
godfather, known only as Snuffles – who now appeared to be some sort of wrongly convicted escaped
fugitive – had died in the struggle. All the sudden the tears and insomnia made sense, even though
she was still missing too much of the story to know what was really going on. She folded the letter
just as carefully as she’d opened it and slid it back into the envelope, turning her attention to
the photograph. Like all products of magical cameras, it was full of movement. There were four
people in the picture, all dressed in heavy clothing – one of which she recognized instantly as
Hermione. They were all out in the snow, throwing globs (it really wasn’t fair to call them balls)
of the stuff at each other. Harry, grinning more brightly than Lucy had ever seen in person, was
busily trying to nail a very wet looking Ron, who was busy being pelted by Hermione. The forth
figure gave her pause.

He was a tall man who seemed too skinny, with shoulder length raven hair. His skin didn’t look
as healthy as it should have, and when he smiled her inner dentist winced at the sight of his
yellowed teeth. She had seen worse, but she had seen much, much better. All in all, the man was
*scraggly*. Lucy wondered who he was, but then caught sight of the way he seemed to be
grinning at picture-Harry. It was an almost paternal look. It clicked, and Lucy wanted to slap
herself. The man she was criticizing was very likely none other than Snuffles, Harry’s godfather.
More importantly, he was dead. She watched them all for several long minutes, noting how happy the
older man seemed to be to simply be in the company of his godson. Abruptly, everyone seemed to
notice Lucy (she was still getting used to the idea that picture-people were slightly aware of what
was going on outside the photograph), and they all turned to look at her. Hermione and Harry were
standing together, each armed with snow-globs, which they promptly dropped. Ron was looking
surprised, and Snuffles appeared slightly uncomfortable under her gaze, but in the end the whole
lot of them grinned and waved amiably at her. Harry cast a look at Hermione and grinned, as though
he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Or maybe her mind, particularly the part that
wanted grandchildren someday, was just making that up. Suddenly, her eyelids felt heavy with
brimming tears. *I shouldn’t be looking at this.* Just like that, the picture was back in the
envelope, and the envelope was back on Hermione’s desk, right where she’d found it.

As absurd as it was, considering she was in her own house and last time she checked, she was the
adult in the parent-child relationship, she wanted to be somewhere else. Desperately. She’d just
given herself a rather potent, if not alarming, peek into the part of Hermione’s life the girl
actively tried to keep from her parents. And truth be told, she understood why Hermione felt she
was doing the right thing. After all, she was trying to protect her parents from a truth they could
do nothing to effect, and that was a kind, if not misguided and slightly juvenile intention. Lucy
and Scott were, after all, old enough to deal with the realities of life, however harsh they might
be. Perhaps the worst part of the whole evening was the knowledge that she would have to – and
could quite easily – pretend she hadn’t just read that letter.

And then there was Harry. Harry was a sweet boy. A kind boy. A modestly clever boy. *A boy
quite likely to get my daughter killed or maimed.* Hermione was in danger because she wanted to
be near him. Her own, rather romantic speculations concerning why notwithstanding, that was simply
the way things were. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, the smiling boy covered in snow with
the scar on his forehead filling her mind’s eye. *I hope you let us in one day, Hermione. We
won’t take you away from him, or try to pretend you aren’t a witch. We can’t change your life now …
it’s too late. Just let us be a part of it, will you?*

Abruptly, her thoughts returned to Gryffindor’s Seeker. *And you.* *You had better
realize what you are to Hermione. She would do anything for you, even lie to her parents – as bad
as she is at that. Be careful, and please, please do everything you can to keep her alive. We can’t
protect her anymore. It’s up to you.* She knew Harry couldn’t read her mind, but it didn’t stop
her next thought. *Be careful with that smile of yours, Harry. The most dangerous weapons are the
ones that attack the heart.*

With that, she rose, schooled her expression into something neutral and went to wake up her
daughter. She couldn’t just leave her in the chair all night, after all.