The Portrait of a Lady
Potter47
It was the fifteenth of December, and Hermione couldn't find her homework.
She could have sworn she'd placed it down just there—on the arm of the chair where she'd been sitting—before she darted up to her dormitory to fetch the copy of Goblin Riot, Wizard Rule she'd left on her bedside table the night before, but when she returned to the common room, the parchment was nowhere to be found.
"Did you—did anyone happen to take the parchment I set down here?" Hermione asked the room at large. "Maybe by mistake?"
She was met with only silence and a few empty looks from her fellow studiers: a third-year boy whose name Hermione could never quite remember, and a gaggle of fifth years who, she was nearly positive, had not abandoned their study spot at the table by the window since term had started in September.
"Never mind," she said, more to herself than to any of her compatriots. It's got to be around here somewhere. She pushed the pillows around on the armchair, even though she'd already done so twice, and checked a third time on the floor underneath. Nothing. Finally, she pulled her wand from her robe and flicked it, conjuring a very specific image of the essay in her mind's eye and casting a quick nonverbal Summoning Charm, but no scraps of parchment zoomed out from any hidden nooks. Nothing happened at all.
Puzzled, and more than a little frustrated, Hermione gathered up her things and brought them up to her dormitory. Could she have brought the parchment upstairs with her when she went to grab the book? It didn't seem possible, but then, neither did a piece of parchment learning to Disapparate.
But no, the homework wasn't on her bed, or the nightstand, or—as another Summoning Charm confirmed—anywhere in the dormitory. Hermione sighed, and flopped onto her bed next to Crookshanks, who had taken to sleeping most of his days away here, rather than venturing out into the rest of Gryffindor Tower.
"I just don't understand," she said, rubbing the top of the cat's head. His eyes eased open and he shifted his body away from hers, clearly upset that she had disturbed his sleep. Sometimes she felt as though Crookshanks still hadn't forgiven her for leaving him with the Weasleys last year, while she had searched for Horcruxes with Harry and Ron.
Ron.
She sat up, pushing the thought away. Her gaze fell on the other two beds, the emptiness of which she had likewise been doing her best to ignore. As far as Hermione knew, Lavender was still in St. Mungo's, having been badly hurt by Fenrir Greyback in the battle. She hadn't heard anything from Parvati at all. Padma had come back in September to sit her N.E.W.T.s—most of the Ravenclaws had, when the Ministry arranged a special fall session for the exams—but Hermione had never been particularly close with Padma, so she hadn't felt it was her place to ask after her twin.
It had been so peculiar, watching her former classmates prep for exams she herself would not be ready to take for two more terms. She'd spent six years being leagues ahead of everyone in her year (even if she wouldn't have said that out loud, no one else had any qualms about saying it, teacher or student) but now, she felt as though she'd fallen insurmountably behind.
Which was silly, of course. She hadn't been lazing about for a year, she'd been helping defeat a Dark Lord and end a war. She knew that, of course she did—and yet, as soon as she'd returned to Hogwarts—the familiar classrooms, the Great Hall, the library, the study tables where she'd spent so many hours writing her own essays and scratching out the mistakes on her friends'—the blindered focus that had accompanied a year of hurtling between life-and-death circumstances receded, and the old priorities—and anxieties—of mundane school life rose quickly again in its place.
Am I going to have to rewrite this essay? she thought. Twenty inches of parchment…
She heard a voice in her mind or in her memory, which sounded a lot like Ron's: "Twenty inches? I dunno, are you sure you can cram all the good bits in twenty measly inches? Better write forty or fifty to be safe, right Hermione?"
She pulled a fresh scroll of parchment from her desk. She poised quill over page, trying to recall how she'd begun the essay the first time—but the words wouldn't come.
Writing about history had been so much easier before she'd helped to make it.
It started to snow the next morning, as she left Gryffindor Tower to walk down to breakfast.
"Quick, quick, close me up behind you," said the Fat Lady, as Hermione climbed out into the corridor. Like Crookshanks, the portrait seemed to have grown grumpier since Hermione had last seen her. "This infernal draft. One might think the Headmistress would pay a little more mind to my needs," she continued, raising in volume the farther Hermione walked down the corridor, "seeing as I have dedicated myself to my duty as the guardian of her own house!"
Hermione stopped. It was rather chilly in the corridor, which was unusual, to say the least. Perhaps the castle hadn't fully healed itself from the attacks of the previous spring? And she'd endured this complaint from the Fat Lady every morning since the air had taken on a chill—surely, it couldn't hurt to take a moment to help? (It wasn't as though there was anyone waiting for her at the breakfast table downstairs.)
She turned back to the portrait hole and conjured a bluebell flame from her wand, which floated lazily toward the Fat Lady's canvas, cozying up beside her.
"What are you—oh—oh my," said the portrait, warming her hands by the fire. "Thank you, dear. That was—why, that was very thoughtful of you."
"Happy Christmas," said Hermione, with a smile. She turned to go.
"Wait! Dear girl! You aren't going to—to leave me here with this?"
Hermione turned back again, the smile fading from her face.
"Why not?"
The Fat Lady looked back and forth, as if she hoped nobody would hear.
"Well… I'm a rather flammable woman. You understand, don't you?"
"It's magical fire," Hermione explained. "It won't hurt you."
The Fat Lady eyed the flame with uncertainty, and then finally shook her head.
"I'm sure you're right," she said. "But better to be safe than sorry. I'll make do without."
Hermione flicked her wand again, and the fire snuffed itself out.
"Thank you," said the Fat Lady, touching her cheeks with her newly-warmed hands. "Happy Christmas."
"Happy Christmas."
When she reached the Great Hall, a light snowfall was drifting down from the enchanted ceiling, magically melting into the air just before reaching the heads of the students. The hall was newly decorated for Christmas, and, as Hermione sat down at her typical spot at the Gryffindor table, she heard a few first years marveling at the majesty of the twelve Christmas trees.
She'd barely started to eat when the mail arrived—a familiar, tiny owl dropping an envelope in front of her plate. She grinned.
"Good to see you, Pigwidgeon," she said, and offered the owl a torn off bit of bacon as a treat. Pigwidgeon opted instead to hop into the platter of sausages.
"That isn't for you!" she said, and shooed him away. The Hogwarts owls were trained not to interfere with breakfast, but Pig had never quite learned.
When Pigwidgeon had flown away, Hermione tore open the envelope. She hadn't written to Ron recently, which made the letter all the more unexpected—usually she was the one to instigate communication.
Hermione,
Big news! If you can get the common room to yourself, let's chat by Floo tonight at midnight.
Miss you,
Ron
The letter was shorter than she'd hoped, but she felt a giddy smile come over her nevertheless. They hadn't spoken by Floo in weeks. She wondered what news he might have that he didn't want to share it in the letter?
Maybe he's found a job in Hogsmeade?
She didn't want to get her hopes up. But she couldn't help but feel a bit lighter than she had before reading the letter.
Miss you.
She finished her breakfast and, still smiling, she headed to Arithmancy.
Hermione couldn't find her quill.
She could have sworn she'd placed it down just there—on the library table, where she'd been working since dinner, struggling to rewrite the essay for History of Magic—before she ventured into the stacks to find more sources. When she returned to the table, her quill was nowhere to be found.
"Not again," she said to herself. She looked on the floor, she looked in her bag, she checked in her robes. No quill.
She looked around the corner of the closest shelves, to see if anyone might be nearby who might have taken it, but she seemed to be alone in this section of the library. But then, of course she was: the snow that had begun that morning had picked up in earnest during the day, before easing up just before sundown, which made the evening ripe for snowball fights and other outdoor fun.
Come on, Hermione, you can finish that stupid old essay tomorrow, let's go OUTSIDE.
Hermione felt an old grin flicker back onto her face, and shook her head at the memory. There was a happy thrill in her heart, to think that she'd be hearing Ron's voice tonight, seeing his face... even if only through a fireplace.
If only Ron and Harry were here, really here. They could go outside, could convince her to play in the snow against her better judgment. Or if only she were finished with school, rather than stuck in this old castle, writing essays for Professor Binns. She might as well have been Professor Binns, haunting this same library she'd haunted since her first year, even sitting at the same table, most of the time, when Harry and Ron were out there doing—well, doing whatever it was they were doing without her.
(She tried not to be reminded of her first two months at school, before the three of them had knocked out the troll and become friends—tried not to let color rise to her cheeks at the thought of her younger self crying in the bathroom, wishing someone, anyone would be kind to her…)
But she'd made her choice, so it was no one's fault but her own that she was lonely. School mattered. That was one of the things she'd been fighting for, wasn't it? Her right to a magical education, regardless of her background.
Of course Harry hadn't come back. She'd expected that, after all he had been through, she'd known it even when they were searching for the Horcruxes, known that whether or not they succeeded, Harry's life would never again be normal, would never again be taken up by school. But Ron...
She'd hoped Ron would come back to Hogwarts with her.
Which was foolish of her, of course—she knew he hated school work, and hell, she'd practically done all of his for him, over the years—but she also felt like he was being foolish. It was foolish of him to opt to spend the year at home with his family, looking for job options that would take him without N.E.W.T.s, when she—when they—when something had finally just begun, and they could have been spending this year together.
At least you'll get to see him tonight...
To be fair, Ginny hadn't come back either. As far as the official story went—the one Ginny had told her parents—she was "taking a year off," which sounded perfectly reasonable to Arthur, after everything that had happened, and perfectly irresponsible to Molly. But Molly was hardly herself these days, with the loss of Fred still so palpable in the family's memory, and while Hermione might have normally expected a fight, Molly had relented without much of a fuss. Hermione suspected that Ginny's year off might turn into two, might turn into more: Ginny wanted to play Quidditch—she didn't need N.E.W.T.s for that, she needed Quidditch Cups, and she had two of those already.
But Ron wouldn't make it as a Quidditch player. And he hadn't saved the wizarding world, like Harry. Ron needed to finish school.
Hermione stared at her unfinished essay. She was not going to make any progress here—especially not without a quill, and especially not when all she could focus on was the thought of speaking with Ron tonight. She checked the time—it was nearly eight, which meant the library would be closing soon anyway. If she left now, and got down to business, she might have a chance to finish the essay in the common room before their appointment at midnight
You haven't been able to focus in the common room, either, she reminded herself.
Well I'll have to manage somehow, won't I?
She packed up her things, checked out her new sources, and set off for Gryffindor Tower.
"Do you mind if I sit with you out here?" said Hermione. "If I stay with you, I can make you a flame and make sure it doesn't get too close."
The Fat Lady looked astounded. "I suppose that's all right," she said. "Forgive me my surprise, usually the students want to be inside—"
"I haven't been able to focus on my work in there," she said. "Too many people." And too many memories, she thought.
"Well, yes, that's all right with me then," said the Fat Lady. "But if any professors come poking around, you'll have to scoot inside. It is after hours, even if you're a—what are you, now, an eighth year?"
Rather than respond, Hermione pulled out her wand, and conjured the flame for the Fat Lady, which she placed about a foot from the canvas, just to be safe. Then she conjured a simple desk, and a comfortable chair.
"That's quite impressive magic," said the Fat Lady. "You must be one of the brighter witches in your year."
This surprised Hermione—everyone knew she was bright, everyone associated her with her intelligence at the expense of just about any other qualities—so it was odd to hear someone she'd known for eight years treat that information as new. But then, now that she thought about it: the Fat Lady didn't really know any of the students, did she? She'd probably only hear stray details caught from half-conversations interrupted by passwords, as the students shuffled up to bed after a long day, or out to breakfast before hurrying to class. Hermione felt a painful pull somewhere in her chest, like she'd forgotten to do something important.
She thought about this as she sat down to work, and as the Fat Lady warmed her hands. The woman in the portrait looked so content—as if this small, good thing was all she needed to be happy.
"I'm sorry," said Hermione, putting down her quill. "I just realized I don't think I've ever properly introduced myself. I'm Hermione. Hermione Granger."
"I know who you are," said the Fat Lady, smiling in a way that Hermione had never seen her smile before. "You remember the passwords. Your two friends would always forget."
"Not always," she said.
"No, not always," agreed the portrait. "But you never forgot."
"I have a good memory," said Hermione. "But enough about me, I still—I'm sorry if this is rude, and I'm sorry that I've never thought to ask before, but—I still don't know your name."
"You're not supposed to know my name," said the Fat Lady, with an air of mystery—and perhaps something like pride. "It's part of the job, you see."
"It is?"
"You know, you're the first one to ask me that in quite some time." She paused, and thought for a moment, as if trying to find the proper way to phrase a question. "Tell me: do they still call me the Fat Lady?"
"Yes," said Hermione, feeling another small, painful tug in her chest.
The portrait nodded. "I thought as much. The names come and go, of course. Depending on the year, I've been saints, I've been muses, Duchesses even. But lately, you lot have been an unimaginative bunch, I'm afraid. The Fat Lady." She laughed a short, hard laugh. "Truly inspired."
"But… why is it 'part of the job'?" said Hermione. "If you have a name, why can't you use it?"
And why wasn't any of this in Hogwarts, A History?
"There's a sort of magic in names. The power I use to keep the Tower safe, you see. If you knew my name, my passwords couldn't stop you from pulling me open and barreling inside. But let me tell you this, my dear: I am very good at keeping that secret."
"I didn't realize it was such a—I assumed the portrait was just enchanted with some kind of advanced Locking Spell," said Hermione. "It isn't?"
"No, it isn't," said the portrait. "Godric wanted something a bit more secure, for his house. Nobody gets in. Nobody gets out. Nobody gets to know my name."
Hermione thought she caught a glimmer of something like pain in the portrait's face.
"But when you were hurt, back in my third year—they replaced you with Sir Cadogan. How did he—"
"Dumbledore worked his own sort of magic while I was being restored," said the portrait. "Bless him. And he convinced that fool of a knight to take the job."
"Convinced?"
"No one else would do it," she said. "We portraits, we're a self-protective lot, you see. Many of us… we remember life before. Those of us who lived, I mean." Her voice dropped to a whisper: "And of course we're not really alive now. But we feel as though we are. That we've been granted a sort of immortality. But then one madman with a knife breaks into the castle, or one magical flame comes a little too close, and—well, and we go up in smoke."
"Look at me," said the portrait, laughing a sad little laugh. "Talking your ear off half the night. You had homework you wanted to do, poor girl, didn't you?
Hermione shook her head. "I'll get it done. I always do."
"Kingsley turned up at the Burrow the other day," Ron said, his head floating in the fireplace, the orange of his hair and the orange of the flames commingling for a rather cartoonish effect. "He offered Harry—well he offered the two of us, really, he offered us jobs."
"Jobs?" said Hermione. She wasn't sure if she should keep her voice down, so she wouldn't wake anyone, or speak louder, to make sure he could hear her through the fire. "What sort of jobs?"
"He wants our help. To go after the rest of the Death Eaters. We'll start training right after the New Year."
"So you—you already said yes?"
"Of course I said yes!" said Ron, grinning. "You know I've been looking for a job, and what better job could there be?"
"To be honest, I wasn't sure if you had been looking. You haven't mentioned any interviews in your letters—"
"Well, yeah, I hadn't found too much. Everything in the Prophet asked for N.E.W.T.s." Hermione resisted the urge to point out that she had told him this would be the case. "Like, come on—do they really expect I'll need seventh-year Potions to serve Butterbeer at the Leaky Cauldron?"
"Did you ever reach out to the Hog's Head?" said Hermione. "Aberforth seemed quite open to the idea, when I ran into him—"
"I told you, I don't want to work for him," he said, shaking his head. "He's always seemed a bit dodgy to me."
"He saved our lives, Ron," she said. Then, making an effort to lighten her tone: "And besides, we'd be able to see each other loads more—"
"I already said yes to Kingsley," said Ron firmly.
When he'd been smiling, the flames dancing around Ron's hair had made him look silly—now that there was something like anger in his eyes, the effect was much more unpleasant.
"Of course you did," she said slowly. "Besides, why on earth would you want to work somewhere close by when you could run all over Europe tracking down Dark wizards, when you could put yourself right back into harm's way now that we're finally safe for the first time in our lives—"
"Hermione, we're not safe. There are people out there who want to carry on what You-Know-Who started. Someone has to do this. I actually thought you—I thought you might like to do it too."
Hermione was taken aback. "What?"
"Harry and I would've died loads of times without you, last year and, you know, every year. I thought—you know, I thought Kingsley's team could use your help, too."
She looked away from the fire for a moment, feeling the heat of the flames on her cheeks.
"It's really good to see your face," she said simply.
"It's good to see yours too," he said. "That's why I—I wanted to ask you like this, you know? Not in a letter." He took a breath. "This could be good for us. The three of us, like the old days."
"The three of us?" she said, raising an eyebrow.
"And for the two of us," he said, quickly. "You know what I meant." He looked at her, right at her, without a grin, without a joke, and she saw that he did miss her, even if he wasn't the best at talking about it.
"The old days are gone, though," she said. "We've been fighting since we were kids, Ron—don't you want to do something else? We already saved the wizarding world, now we can live in it."
"We can still make a difference, Hermione. Kingsley says—"
"Did Kingsley tell you to ask me?"
"No," said Ron. "I told him I was going to ask you, whether he wanted me to or not."
Hermione let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
"Ron that's—that's not what I—I told you why I wanted to finish school. Why I need to. We've talked about this."
"Sure, yes, of course, but—but you left school with us last year, didn't you?"
"That's not the same thing at all, Ron, that was—"
"Important. Yeah, I know. And this is important too."
Hermione looked away from the fire again, back to her homework, which she'd left on the side of the armchair when Ron's face had appeared. She'd made progress while she worked on it in the corridor, but she still hadn't finished.
"School is important, Ron. My N.E.W.T.s are important. My career—not just any career, not just a surprise job offer that happens to turn up on my doorstep, but my career, the one I've been working towards since I was fourteen, since I founded S.P.E.W.—"
And then she saw it: the tiniest gesture, barely visible through the flames, but one that shifted something inside her—whatever string had been tugging inside her chest earlier, when she spoke to the Fat Lady, had grown uncomfortably taut.
"Did you just roll your eyes, Ron?"
"No, I—I just—" Ron stopped, and started again, smirking, as though he was sure she'd agree with him, as though he were only speaking common sense: "You can't seriously say that was you working on your career, Hermione… you were making hats for house elves who didn't want hats—"
The string snapped.
"This conversation is over, Ron. Congrats on the job."
"Wait, Hermione, just—listen—"
But she'd already thrown Floo powder onto the flames. Ron's face disappeared, coughing with ash. She put her head in her hands, and tried to stop herself from crying.
"Miss?"
Hermione jumped back in her chair, startled—she wasn't alone?
"Who's there?"
From the shadows of the common room, a small figure emerged, with big brown eyes and enormous ears.
"Winky!"
Hermione hadn't seen the house elf since her fourth year, and the sight of her here, in the common room, left a surreal impression, like two disparate worlds were suddenly colliding. To add to the odd picture, the elf was standing with both of hands awkwardly tucked behind her small back.
"I'm so sorry, I—I was just—I'm a bit of a mess right now, I apologize—"
"Miss does not need to apologize to Winky," said the elf. "Winky has been assigned to Gryffindor Tower, to clean up the common room and put out the fire."
"Oh! I hadn't realized how late it was," said Hermione, wiping the tears from her cheeks. "I can head up to my dormitory—"
Winky shook her head quickly. "There is no need to be going," she said. "Winky hopes miss does not mind—but Winky wanted to speak with miss."
Every word the elf spoke shook with something between determination and mortification.
"No, of course I don't mind," said Hermione. "How—how are you, Winky? It's been so long since I've seen you. You look… healthier."
It was true: the last time Hermione had seen the elf, she'd been drunk on Butterbeer and grieving the loss of the Crouch family's ownership over her. This Winky, by comparison, seemed almost startlingly self-possessed—if still quite sad.
"The other elves are not liking Winky very much," she said simply. "But Dobby was nice to Winky and helped her feel better."
"Oh, Winky," said Hermione. She'd been so caught up in the search for the Horcruxes last year that she hadn't even considered…
"Winky sees you is without your friends," said the elf. "Winky… knows how that is feeling…"
"Oh, Winky, I'm so sorry," said Hermione, and then added, emphatically: "Dobby was one of the bravest and kindest people I ever met."
Winky frowned. "Dobby wasn't a people."
"Of course," said Hermione. "I'm sorry. He was—he was one of the kindest… beings."
Winky looked at her feet.
"Dobby saved my life, you know," Hermione said. "I'm going to repay him. I'm going to make things better."
Winky shook her head sadly.
"There is nothing you can be doing for Dobby now," said Winky, "but…"
Winky took in a deep breath, and spoke faster than Hermione had ever heard her, as if she were worried that if she paused, she'd never find the words again:
"But Dobby said if elves were mean to Winky, Winky should make friends with peoples."
Then, with another gasp of a breath, she said: "Winky thought Dobby was crazy! But Winky is wanting to try!"
And the elf reached out a small hand from behind her back, and Hermione saw she was holding a piece of parchment.
"Winky is making this for you, miss."
Hermione took the gift. Winky had scrawled the words "Happy Chrismas, Harmony" on the parchment, and below them, she'd drawn a human face wearing a hat—a portrait which, in contrast to the rudimentary letters above it, looked remarkably like Hermione.
"Winky is knowing how much miss likes hats."
Hermione felt tears come to her eyes.
"This is very good," she said. "You could be an artist, Winky."
It was difficult to tell, but Hermione was almost sure that Winky blushed.
"This also is belonging to miss," said Winky. She held out a quill, which had been in her other hand.
"Oh!" Hermione gasped, and quickly turned the parchment over—yes, of course, there was her essay, the copy she'd lost the night before. She smiled.
"You can keep the quill, Winky," she said. "That's my gift to you."
The elf was beaming. "Happy Christmas," she said, brushing the feathers of the quill against her cheeks, clearly enjoying the feeling.
"Happy Christmas, Winky."
Hermione listened at the portrait hole for the sound of the Fat Lady's snoring. When she didn't hear it, she gently pushed her frame open, and crept into the hallway.
Her suspicion was correct: the portrait was still awake. She looked harried, as though she'd been trying to drift and the sleep would not come.
"You're up late, my dear."
"I—I had one more question," said Hermione. "If that's all right."
"And it couldn't wait until morning? I'm not going anywhere, you know."
"I couldn't sleep," said Hermione.
"Well, go ahead. What did you want to ask?"
"Well. I was thinking back, and—in the old days, at Christmas, you'd have a friend with you, in your portrait."
The portrait's eyes opened wide, and she took in a sharp intake of air—or whatever it was, in her canvas, the stuff that portraits breathed.
"You do have a good memory."
"Did she—did you lose her, in the battle?"
The portrait was silent for a moment, lost in thought or something else.
"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, of course—"
"No, it's all right," the Fat Lady said. "To be perfectly honest, it's good to talk about it." She chuckled a sad little chuckle. "Look at me, spilling my soul to the first person who's asked me a question!"
Another moment of silence.
"Yes," she said finally. "You're right, of course. Her name was Violet. I have to say, 'friend' is a bit of an empty word for it—we'd spent Christmas together for—well, for at least a few hundred years."
They heard the howl of wind outside the castle, and Hermione felt the draft that had been bothering the portrait that morning. She thought of conjuring another flame, but instead, she moved closer to the portrait, so that Hermione and the Fat Lady—or rather, Hermione and the Lady, whose name she'd never know—were face to face, a mirror image on either side of the frame.
"She's—well, she had been hung over a fireplace by the Hufflepuff common room, watching over the students, and of course it's frowned upon to wander too far from your post. But she was always able to get away at Christmas, when the students were gone. So this time of year is a bit—difficult, for me, you can understand."
"Yes," said Hermione. "Yes, of course."
The portrait winced, suddenly, as though someone had jabbed her in the back. "Oh dear, someone else is coming through," she said, hurrying to wipe a tear from her eye. "Step aside for a moment, won't you?"
Hermione moved out of the way, just in time for the Lady's frame to swing open, as three first years crawled through the portrait hole. They paid no mind to Hermione, or to the portrait itself, as the Lady swung her frame closed behind them. Instead, they spoke in hushed voices to one another, tiptoeing down the seventh floor corridor to the stairs, clearly on a clandestine journey to explore the secrets of the castle—maybe to steal food from the kitchens, or to meet friends from another house for a late night wizard chess match. For a moment, Hermione's impulse was to scold them—she was still a prefect, after all, and they were out of bounds.
Instead, she watched them go.
Fin