Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
There are two photographs on her wall. The first is of three children sitting under a tree, smiling and laughing, oblivious to the camera.
The second is of six teenagers sitting in a dark and gloomy room. One is smiling sadly, one is frowning. One looks on the verge of tears, another appears resigned to his fate. One looks hopeful. The last looks determined. None of them notice the taker of the picture.
She gently puts a third picture on the wall. It's her, sitting alone at the edge of a large lake, watching the far shore for something that will never come.
She steps back and looks at the pictures. Her mind's eye briefly replaces them with pictures never seen, photographs never taken.
The first is of four teenagers sitting under a tree. One plays with a golden snitch, one reads a thick book, one frantically writes an essay, and one absently watches something out of the frame.
The second is of the four again, older now. One rubs the stomach of a beautiful, pregnant redhead. One reads a book. One pulls at his left sleeve, pulling it further down even though it already completely covers his arm. One watches the door of the room with a slight frown.
The third picture is empty. Four things lay on a low table, but no one come to claim them. A book. A broom. A silver hand. A baby's blanket. A man walks into the picture and moves towards the table. He lays a battered journal with a paw print on the cover down on the table before walking out the door.
A sob catches in her throat as the vision disappears, replaced with reality. But she doesn't cry; she laughs. She laughs because she promised them she wouldn't cry. She laughs because she never expected to survive when he didn't. She laughs because it seems to be the only thing she can do. She laughs because once she starts, she can't stop.
For the first time in her life, Hermione Granger understands why all Sirius Black could do was laugh.