VII

Once again all due credit to J.K.- thanks for giving us the characters to play with. I promise to look after them. Well… eventually.

Just a quick note: I've sent emails to everyone who's reviewed so far, so if you didn't get one my apologies- there must be something up with the delivery process. I'll say thank you here instead, your reviews mean a lot to me; positive feedback is wonderfully encouraging and gives me the impetus to sit down a write when I'm feeling lazy. Molto Grazie.

The picture album had belonged to Dennis Creevey. He'd inherited it from Colin upon his brother's death. Neville hadn't been sure if Dennis actually had the pictures, but he'd been sure he probably knew where they were. Photography had been Colin's passion after all- at least as important to him as Harry was.

In the end it had been even easier than he'd expected. Dennis had visited the DA headquarters in Berlin the day after Neville had first visited Hermione and after a brief word on the subject had obligingly summoned the correct folder from his flat in Rome. He kept it there along with most of Colin's work neatly organised and filed- just as it had come to him. Neville could only suppose that artistic passion did strange things to a man- Colin had never struck him as being particularly orderly or neat.

When he opened the folder Neville had known he'd struck gold. There were dozens of photos inside and all of them were of Harry and his friends. He had closed the folder and looked at the cover- it had a handwritten label; Harry and Ginny.

"My brother kept these photos separate from those of his friends and himself. Even after he left school, he still hung onto them. They weren't his most artistic work so the publishers had no interest in them, but they meant something to him. I've taken a couple out- just for old time's sake- but I think Colin would agree that it's right for Hermione and Harry and Ginny's kid to have them."

Neville had thanked Dennis profusely, causing him mild embarrassment, but Neville had known he was secretly pleased. Colin had come in for some ribbing at school for his hero worship of Harry and obsession with photography, if people could now appreciate what he had created, derive pleasure from the photographs, then Colin would be vindicated.

Neville only hoped Hermione did derive some satisfaction from the photos. He knew it would be painful for her to see them, he just hoped the pleasure outweighed the pain.

Hermione hadn't been able to eat more than a few mouthfuls. She knew it was ridiculous to be so worked up over a photo album- whatever enjoyment or regret she gained from it could not possibly match the joy and sorrow she had already experienced in her life.

But to see them again, even if only in a photo- how could she remain calm? She wished Neville had offered to let them look as soon as he arrived, but she was ridiculously afraid at the same time of the pain it might cause. She lacked the resolution to suggest herself that they look.

In the end, April took the decision out of both their hands. She had finished her dessert, which was an orange- Hermione was strict on healthy foods- and was looking around for something to do to avoid helping to clear the table. Her eyes landed on the folder which was lying between Neville and herself. Reaching out sticky young hands she pulled it towards herself and knelt up in her seat to open it. Before her wondering eyes was spread a large page of photos. But not ordinary photos like the ones of her on the bookcase- the people in these photos moved. They smiled up at her and laughed at her expression. And in all the pictures on this page, foremost in the scene were two faces- an older boy with big green eyes, dark hair and glasses, and a girl with brown eyes and long red hair.

Hermione felt her whole chest constrict as though the air had been stilled in her lungs with a spell. She stared down at the faces looking up from the pictures. Even seen from the strange angle that the book was facing her at, those faces were heart breaking, mind ensnaring in their familiarity. All the details that she had forgotten over the years, the little touches that only a friend would know came rushing back to her: The specks of gold that lodged in Harry's eyes; the exact length of Ginny's hair; the freckle on the side of her nose that looked like a dark nose stud; the angle a certain curl of Harry's fringe always stuck up at; the way Ginny's robe always slipped lower on her left shoulder because she had stretched it with the weight of her satchel. Hermione had forgotten these things- what cause had she to remember other than the desire of her heart? And no-one can ever remember all the details that make up a person- that made them who you knew. That is the true tragedy of death: That even once we believe we have lost a person for good, we go on loosing them, piece by piece without even realising it, until we are left with an impression so faint it can barely shadow our conscious thoughts.

Not so many years had passed that Hermione had found herself at this point, but to learn now all that she had forgotten in just the short time that had gone by caused a pain in her stomach and chest that felt almost as though she was loosing them again. Or so it seemed to her- the mind is a kind thing at times, it will dull the worst of our experiences, so Hermione had no true memory of that earlier pain.

Regaining the ability to breathe and think and function took her a few moments so that she barely registered April's queries. With shaking hands she reached out and turned the page, looking, searching, for him.

There they were. Together. Holding hands and smiling. Standing with Harry and Ginny at the latter's graduation. All four of them wearing formal robes and bathed in the joy of the occasion, even Harry looking far less worried than usual.

Hermione lifted a hand to her mouth as though to muffle a moan that never found voice. He looked so young- somehow her memory had made him age with her. So young. Still a boy in many ways. Still basically innocent- it had not been until that final hour that he had learned the true depth of darkness and depravity that could hide itself within the human soul.

She couldn't tear her gaze away. She blinked furiously to keep the tears at bay- refusing to surrender the slightest details to their blurring effect. Unconsciously she had reached forward to touch him. To caress his face, but the glossy surface of the print repelled her and she allowed her hand to drop away, meaningless and useless.

Neville looked not at the prints, but at Hermione. He too ignored April's questions- the girl could wait. He watched as Hermione's face suddenly grew pale. As she appeared to stop breathing momentarily before sucking in a painful, dragging gasp. He watched as her hand rose to cover her parted lips while her eyes remained riveted, filling with moisture that reappeared as quickly as she blinked it away. He caught the hand that she allowed to fall, its motion aborted. Grasped it tightly, almost painfully, willing her strength.

Inside Hermione chaos reigned. Part of her was desperately absorbing that face, noting all the things she had forgotten, trying to make him real again in her mind. Another part was trying to force her to remember that same face the last time she had seen it. Lifeless and bloody, ruined and painful. A smaller part was attempting to shut all processes down completely, to empty her of thought and emotion. But it was the final part that won out in the end, though it had begun as the weakest. Somehow, she was able to suppress the furore that roared in her mind and restore a measure of calm to her upper layer of consciousness. She was able to squeeze Neville's hand in return. To reach out and lift April onto her lap and wrap her arms around the child, though there was an element of desperation it that act- seeking comfort. Somehow she was able to remember where she was and where she was not and what was important now.

Looking at April and then at the page in front of her, and pointing at the figures as she spoke, she said "This is me, see? And this is your uncle Ron, your mum's youngest brother. This boy here? That's Harry, April- your dad. And next to him is your mum, Ginny. Look at them. They're smiling at us."