I

People always said that the great thing about looking after a child that wasn't your own was that you could give it back. The difficulty for Hermione was that she couldn't. Not that she didn't love April as if she was her own, but sometimes, raising a child by yourself was just- tiring. Especially if said child was beginning to exhibit signs of having the ability to create magic. While Hermione rejoiced in watching the dawning powers of her charge, wondering at the innocent joy of the girl as small balls of weir light hung above her bed, it was a different matter when other children at her school would suddenly have their lunch fly up out of their laps to land in the dust, or to open the pantry and find that the biscuits she had stored out of reach on the top shelf, had in some way found their way to a much lower shelf with several mysteriously disappearing along the way, and a nutritious dinner left nearly untouched that night.

"Tell me again April, what was it exactly that Dillon said to you?"

"That I'm weird 'cause I ain't got no daddy an' that was 'cause my daddy didn' like me!"

"He told you that you are weird because you haven't a father around and that this was because your father did not like you?"

"Yeah."

Hermione sighed. April was certainly different to a boy like Dillon, but it had nothing to do with her lack of a living father. Much as she would have liked to tell April the truth about her parents, she knew that the child was still too young to understand the whole tale and there was always the danger that she would repeat something that would find its way to the wrong ears. Instead Hermione decided to concentrate on finding out how much damage had to be undone and whether she could undo it without drawing any attention to herself.

"So after Dillon had said this to you, what did you say to him?"

"That he was mean an' ugly an' that I didn' know why his mummy likes him! An' I pointed my finger at him an' he goes blue an' starts cryin'!"

"Then what happened?"

"He turns back an' goes runnin' to th' teacher an' tells her I made him blue!" By now the girl had worked herself into tears of rage at recalling the incident.

"You can stop yelling now. You mean he turned back to his normal colour before he ran to the teacher?"

"Yeah." Instead of a yell, it was a sullen mumble accompanied by a pouting lower lip.

"What did Miss Guy say?"

"She told him to stop tellin' tales an' go out an' play with his friends."

"Did she speak to you also?"

"Yeah."

"What did she say April?"

"That I mustn't tease the other children. Or tell 'em they're blue. An' I told her what he said an' she said I mustn't listen or… or…"

"React?"

"Yeah. React."

It seemed that the damage had sorted itself out this time. Fortunately the teacher hadn't witnessed the incident, but April would start to get a reputation with the other children if this happened again. Hermione didn't want to have to switch April to another school. St. Aubrey's was the only school that taught first language English in the city. April received plenty of exposure to French, indeed, it was her second language, but Hermione thought the girl's parents would have wanted her to go to school with other English children, especially if by some miracle she ever attended Hogwarts. Secretly, Hermione also harboured the hope that she and April would return to live in England one day in the future.

However, in the meantime, April was having difficulties with the other children. Hermione knew it didn't really have anything to do with April's parenting arrangements; there were plenty of single parent families around in this day and age. What the children were really trying to punish April for was something they couldn't quite put their fingers on. Quite simply they sensed that she possessed abilities beyond their own. Magic.

Unfortunately, April couldn't simply be taught not to use her magic. It was as uncontrollable and as instinctive to a witch of her age as having emotions. In fact, strong emotions were what caused it to manifest itself. Therefore, all Hermione could do was to address the source of the problems. In this case, April's anger with what that brat Dillon had said.

She gathered the child onto the couch with her. "April you know you have a father. His name was Harry and he died before you were born- that's why he isn't with you. I know he would have liked you very much. I'm sad you never got a chance to meet each other. You would have liked him too."

"How did he die?"

"It was an accident, a terrible accident." A murder so horrid…

"An' my mummy? Ginny?"

Freckled cheeks and a cheeky smile. "She loved you very, very much. Both your parents were my very dear friends." How could they be gone? "It has been my joy to look after you- their daughter. I only wish you could have met them." I only wish they could have stayed…

"What were they like?"

Ah. That question. How to describe two of the people whom she had loved best in the world? Harry, so passionate and brave, loyal and so convinced he was right. Dying so young for something beyond his control. And Ginny, beautiful, devoted to Harry and her family, intelligent, full of life. And stubborn. Ron. As always when she thought of April's parents, Ron followed them into her thoughts as he had followed Harry in life. Except with her. Ron, not Harry, had been the first person she had spoken to on the Hogwarts express all those years ago. Ron had been the first into her heart.

"Auntie Hermione?"

April's face looking up at her. April- so much like her young mother. Yet when Hermione looked at her, it was often Ron she saw. Ron's stubbornness, his kindness and his impulsiveness. She felt as though she suddenly had a snitch lodged in her throat.

"Your father was brave- very brave. He was loyal and loving. He was clever and determined. Your mother was so beautiful. She was younger than your father and I, but she would always want to help us. She was very smart, and so funny. She could dance like an angel. We were at school together when they fell in love." When Ron and she fell in love. "They wanted to change the world. We all did."

"But what did they look like?"

"Your father had dark hair- it would never lie neatly, but always did its own thing. His eyes were green-"

"An' mummy had red hair like me!"

"That's right. You look very much like your mother. She had red hair just like yours. All her family did. She had six brothers and they all had bright red hair!" Her hand tangled in his hair, his head resting on her breast. "Her eyes were brown like yours also, but a little darker." Funny how she could remember such details even now. Even when it grieved her that she couldn't picture their faces as a whole anymore. The little things still stuck.

"Do you have a picture?"

It had only been a matter of time. Hermione had been waiting for that question for a while now. As April grew and the need to explain her origins had presented itself, Hermione had known that one day the girl would want to see a picture of her parents.

In all the time Harry, Ron, Ginny and herself had together, they had neglected to take pictures of themselves. Oh, undoubtedly it wouldn't be too difficult to find an old paper with a picture of the famous Harry Potter, but Hermione wanted April to see not the-boy-who-lived or the-hero-who-died-to-save-the-world, but Harry as she had known him, a boy with his friends and his girlfriend, enjoying their time at Hogwarts.

The Harry that she had known in the last year of his life, a gaunt man, focussed to the exclusion of normal emotion, devastatingly aware of the final chapter of his young existence, was equally a person she neither wanted to remember nor share with April.

The problem was, in those early years, when they'd been so carefree- relatively speaking- so very young, they were always together and felt they always would be. What need for a photograph of themselves, when they could just turn to one another and immerse themselves in their constant bond?

Even as the days grew darker, even as they lost those around them, it never occurred that they would need a picture to hold each other, for what could ever separate friends such as they? And then that final time, when they realised just how much they stood to loose, when time was so rushed and they clutched at it with frantic fingers only to feel it slip away and be lost. Who could have thought of anything so mundane as a picture when they were submerging themselves in each other, gasping those last desperate moments, like an elixir to sustain themselves for the rest of a lifetime? Just in case. For who ever truly believes they will lose until it happens?

Hermione looked back on her younger self and she cursed her, and she envied her and she pitied her.