Cross legged infront of the overbearing chest, she seemed to find solace in staring at it; happier to guess at its contents than peer inside. She toyed with her bare feet and later scraped back her hair, later, staring at the chest all the while.
She took a final breath and flipped open the metal catches on the lock, and with a satisfying click, they happily obeyed. The diary lay on top, a moleskine looking, battered old book, with a tiny silver padlock attached, holding the secrets with such subtlety and delicacy. Smiling gently at the diary she placed it next to her; deeming it too sensitive and personal for her to deal with as yet, at least until she did further investigation into the chest, and possibly ID'ed an owner.
She scraped up the bundles of parchment and other small books, and put them in a pile to her left. A polaroid was wedged in the bottom of the chest, caught loosely on a hangnail, she tugged at it gently until it waggled loose. It was a picture of Hogwarts lake some time ago, a bewitched picture, showing the wake gently lap at the shore, and some small birds, barely dots in the picture, rose and fell with the breeze. Underneath, some feminine writing inscirbed "My favorite place – 78". She span it round in her fingers, enjoying the feeling of the weighted paper between her index, and middle fingers. On the back she noticed "L.E" but ignored it.
She picked the first scrap of paper up, a small note, looking like a reject of a diary, written too sparingly, too hastily, to be included properly in human memory. Hermione analysed it, all that remained were burned and tatty edges, and some faded graphite. She read:
"His eyes, I could get lost in them, out of all the things I've seen since I discovered magic in my first year, his eyes are the most magical of all. Has he even seen my eyes? I doubt it, I'm unfairly typecast as his "best friend" while he runs about being Mr Popularity."
Sparing for a diary entry, she thought. Yet she too had slips of paper she'd written small observations on, or pointless poetry and stories anchored loosely in fact, giving way to the tide of fantasy. Drabbles she called them, like they were entirely independent of her mind, almost a physical release, like tears or vomit. An involuntary, inappropriate and unreasonable action, which was very rare with Hermione. Undoubtedly she had the intelligence to articulate herself correctly at the proper moments, the intellect and knowledge to project her feelings adequately on paper, or in conversation if given some thought. The Drabbles were different, a subconscious way for her brain to relax, like when the rest of the girls went home for christmas, and Hermione secretly rejoiced in being able to sleep in nothing but her underwear.
A slam at the window disrupted her from her thoughts, a familiar white owl was flapping at the window. She opened as if obeying the animals command, as Hedwig happily dropped a small parcel onto her lap and waited patiently to see if she would reply.
A small letter off Harry, a stack of photographs, and a leaf he had pressed from the Hogwarts grounds.
"Hi Hermione,
I know this is a little strange to be asking, but I wondered if I could stay for a few days before we went to The Burrow? I'm hating it here yet again, and though nothing ever beats Hogwarts, your company comes close. Reply ASAP and I'll have Uncle Vernon take me over, he'd do anything to have me out of his sight. Until then, this leaf is a little reminder of Hogwarts and how everything feels safer there. I hope it keeps you safe, I think it must have some kind of power because it's survived this long squashed in the back of my potions book!
Harry x"
She grinned and scrawled a "Thanks, Come round tomorrow", with a kiss at the bottom, in the form of a minute X; and turned her attentions back to the chest, which seemed to be slowly consuming her time.
Looking at another bundle of parchment, she smiles as there are sketches littering the pages. She smiles as they remind her of her own careless sketches. Close enough to resemble the actual figure, or object, but scruffy and imperfect, the kind of sketches people keep secret, so as not to get any unexpected praise or criticism. There was one of a boy on a broom, he looked about her age, but the artist hadn't been brave enough to venture into drawing the features, and covered his face with unruly black hair. There were a few more of the same boy, and on the back of one was written: "I can draw him from memory now" . Hermione smiled at the romance of plotting a map of someone's face, someone's body and being able to memorise every line, fold and crease to recall in visual form whenever you felt like it.
Another note flew through her window from Harry. "See you tomorrow" it said in an untidy scrawl she was familiar with. She set it down on her desk, tripping over a pile of papers on the way back to her seating spot. She ignored it and sat back down anyway. A piece of paper stuck uncomfortably to her clammy foot. She peeled it off, "See you tomorrow" it said, the same writing but different coloured ink, and different paper, and just…different. She picked up the original and pondered what was going on. She sat down and rummaged through the papers more, and another picture fell out.
A picture of Harry, only it can't have been, the boy in the picture looked older, and he didn't have the scar. She flipped it over, finding "James" and a small love heart scrawled next to it, making sure she did not come to any conclusions, she scanned the rest of the papers quickly; it became coherant suddenly, that this wasn't just any chest. This chest belonged to Lily Evans. This chest belonged to Harry's mother.