For reasons that were beyond her, she went to Christchurch Cathedral. She wasn't even Anglican but to some part of her brain it had made sense. Looking up at the delicate stained glass of the Cathedral's rose window, she had formed a loose plan. It had been easy enough creating a few aliases while she was here. Creating a more permanent one would be a challenge but nothing that would be all that taxing, when she got right down to it.

Her mother was French by birth and by virtue of being born in Paris, she held dual citizenship.

In the Fall of 1979, her grandfather had stage four lung cancer. All those years of near constant smoking had finally caught up with him in the end. Helen and Richard had come over immediately for a visit. He hadn't wanted to die in hospital, so he had set himself up in their family home in Paris. Because her mother and all her aunts were all elderly as well, Helen had taken it upon herself as the youngest and healthiest relative to become his main caregiver, despite the fact that she was nearly to term. She'd basically lived in Paris for the last two months of her pregnancy. Richard visited occasionally, but had to stay in London to keep their practice afloat.

Helen's father, Levi, had been unimaginably grateful for his daughter's devotion, though he often apologized to her for taking her away from her home and her husband. All the same, he was happy she was here. Despite the fact that he didn't have long to live, he'd very much wanted to see the birth of his first and only grandchild. Hermione remembered the stories her mother told of how he'd talked to his future grandchild, hand on her mother's stomach. How he'd exhorted Hermione to come out as soon as she could because the whole family couldn't wait to meet her. Two days later after her grandfather's whispered request, she was born on a rainy Paris night in the Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital, the very same hospital that had diagnosed her grandfather. The old man had gotten to hold her before he passed away a mere week later, quietly in his home.

This would be the basis for her new identity. It'd be easy enough to doctor her own records with magic and manufacture those she was missing. She had the money from her muggle bank account, which was comfortable enough even after all the plane tickets she'd bought. So she had enough to live on for the moment. She had a plan. She had all the relevant documentation she'd need or she would soon. It was crazy. It was reckless. It was the exact opposite of something Hermione Granger would have done, at least without any outside prompting.

And nothing and no one was stopping her.

So Hermione Jean Granger became Emma Agnès Didier, taking her middle name from her maternal grandmother and her paternal grandmother's given name. Emma left New Zealand on a one way flight to Thailand and from there she did a whole bunch of island hopping, using a combination of airplane travel and apparition until she arrived in the Philippines. Once she'd arrived in Luzon, she booked another short flight Seoul. From there she apparated to Tokyo and from there she flew to Germany, before returning to Paris. All in all, it took a little over three days, still well within the two week limit she'd given everyone for retrieving her parents.

It was easy enough to establish herself once in the French Capital. Her paperwork for citizenship was already altered and filed magically. All she had to do was go to a government office and officially claim citizenship, making it easier for her to find gainful employment as soon as possible. Then she got a bank account. Once she had that, she found a place to live - a small flat in the 19th Arrondissement.

She'd found an ad in Le Parisien giving the address of local bookstore in the Marais, Les Mots à La Bouche. The young man working the desk was the one who'd posted it. He was looking for someone to help with the rent as his old roommate was moving back to Spain in two days. And he needed someone immediately, as he couldn't afford the rent on his own and since the former roommate had left with little notice, he was in a tight spot. He'd looked almost as relieved as she felt when she'd come in asking about the offer. He'd agreed almost immediately.

Her new roommate's name was Émile Broussard. He was a student at the University of Paris (or Paris 8 as it was sometimes referred to) studying philosophy with a minor in business. His father was the no account son of a prominent French family and his mother was a highly educated woman of mixed French-Egyptian ancestry. He'd told her that his mother worked for the Louvre for fun, as she had more money than god. She helped him with his few university bills but expected that he pay for his own flat, hence the need for a roommate. He was also gay, a fact that he pointedly mentioned when they first met, gauging her reaction.

Her only worry was the kind of concern that she'd have with any flat-mate - that they'd bring loads of dates home. She told him all this honestly, indicating she didn't give a damn who he slept with so long as he was a respectful roommate.

"The same goes for you, Madame," he declared cheekily.

"Mademoiselle," she corrected dryly. "I'm only 18."

"Well, you don't have to worry about boyfriends. I rarely bring them home but if you're worried we can work out a system," he replied more seriously.

"I don't plan on bringing anyone home either," she said absently with a small bit of sadness.

"Bad break up?"

She smiled tightly. "You could say that."

"Looks like we're in the same boat, then." And then he smiled sadly. "The only good that came of it is I've learned that you should never move in with a lover you've known for less than a year. It always ends in tears and broken crockery," he said with a rather weary eye-roll. "We'll try it for a week. How does that sound?"

"Perfect," she agreed and they shook on it.

The apartment was small but comfortable in a quiet immigrant neighborhood. There was something like a foyer where all their shoes went, Émile had more than she did - most of them were high heels. There was a small door just off the foyer that led to the bathroom/laundry room. The other door led to the combined dining/kitchen/living room area. There were two bedrooms that were conjoined, in order to get to the larger bedroom one had to walk through the smaller one. Emma's was the smaller bedroom.

In that first week in mid-July she learned a lot of things. First and foremost was that Émile's ex-boyfriend had been a drag queen who had performed as Madame Nichons Frise in a club located in the Marais. He'd left all his shoes, hence why there was an overflowing pile of women's high heels near the door. Émile apologized profusely for the mess.

"I don't know why he left them all. It's not as if I have any use for them," Émile complained, absently kicking a stray shoe. "He probably expects me to send them to him." He glowered at the shoes, turning to regard her for a moment. "If any of them fit you, feel free to take them. Frankly, giving his shit away is payment for everything I've put up with from that boy."

Hermione laughed loudly. It was the first time she'd done so in what seemed like ages.

Beyond that, the most important thing she found out was that they had a lot in common. They loved books, he had stuffed an entire library in their teeny apartment and she was dutifully impressed, not just by the sheer amount but the general quality. They both found learning new things fun and didn't understand why some people abhorred studying. They both thought Sartre was somewhat overrated as a philosopher and they both absolutely hated most anything by Charles Dickens. His writing was overworked and pedantic. They both agreed Victor Hugo had his moments but that Les Miserables was an absolute bore, regardless of whether or not it was put to music. And both of them absolutely loathed Jim Morrison and had spent an entire afternoon at Père-Lachaise Cemetery giving wrong directions to Morrison's grave to overeager Doors fans.

All in all, it was like she'd discovered she had a long lost brother in France.

It was an equitable relationship for the most part. By then they'd talked a bit about her lives, he more than her. She was vague and left a lot of detail out, because there was a part of her that was intensely worried she'd be discovered. And there were things she just didn't want to talk about, if she was being frank. Emma hadn't dared looked for a copy of the Prophet, much less whatever newspaper the magical world in France had (she had no idea). It had been well over a month since she'd left. The two weeks or so she'd scheduled for getting her parents had firmly expired.

They would be looking for her soon, if they hadn't started already.

Others might have been blind to her obfuscation, but Émile was not. He recognized a lost soul when he saw one. Oh, he knew about secrets and how hard it was to hold onto them. There was always a part of you that yearned to be free, to lay those secrets out in the open, but prying at this point would do more harm than good. She'd tell him in good time. While he waited for her to come clean, he dragged her out of the apartment, which she huddled in like some kind of fugitive.

Whoever had broken her heart had nearly broken her completely that much was obvious. She needed to get out, have fun like a normal person her age and forget the connard that had hurt her so terribly. And it wasn't as if he wasn't getting something out of it. Helping her helped him work through his own horrible breakup. Here was a problem he could solve. Unlike the problems he and Serge had had, which had turned out to be insurmountable. Besides, she was a dreadfully good listener.

The first step was a job. From his own job at Les Mots à La Bouche, he knew the manager at Shakespeare & Company. Both bookstores had sent customers back and forth over the years when looking for certain volumes one store had and the other didn't. Plus it helped that he'd worked at Shakespeare & Co. before he'd gotten the job at Les Mots à La Bouche. It was easy enough to inquire if they had an opening and then make a quick suggestion for someone who could fill the spot. Just like that, he'd gotten her a job. One he knew she'd be good at.

Then he'd helped her with her university application. She'd decided to go to Paris 8 with him to study art history and painting. Having income was all well and good, but having something to work towards was better. In as much pain as she was, she couldn't see what her future might look like. She was smart, that was obvious. She was the kind of person who planned things... the kind of person who fell apart when all those plans turned to dust. So after badgering her a bit, he figured that going to university wasn't a bad option for her. It might even help her figure out what she wanted to do. It was clear that kind of environment was where she felt most comfortable, anyway.

Finally, he took her to a drag show, and introduced her to his friends at the club. And ever so slowly, she opened up bit by bit and he could see the marvelous wit and the absolutely beautiful personality underneath all that sadness.

Everything was going swimmingly for Emma. She had new friends. She was in school. She had an apartment and a job. Things were looking up. But around her actual birthday in mid-September, she began to feel sick. She was tired much of the time and her back ached for no reason. Émile encouraged her to go to a doctor, but her national insurance coverage hadn't been processed yet because French bureaucracy was horribly slow, so she stubbornly refused. It wasn't until she passed out at work that he forced her to go see a doctor, insisting on covering any bills.

She'd gone by herself that day, because it was just too embarrassing to go with your new guy friend. Anyway, he had class and she certainly wasn't going to make him miss anything because she had a little sniffle. She didn't know why Émile was so worried. The day she'd passed out she hadn't eaten much. In the last month or so she'd noted she'd gained a bit of weight, most likely due to all the depression eating she'd been doing. So she had cut back a bit on snacks and meals and sometimes she just clean forgot, being so focused on her studies as she was. In point of fact, she'd been busy studying for an exam she had at the end of the week and she'd just overextended herself. Besides, she'd been a bit sick with the flu or some kind of cold for the past few weeks. It was a whole lot of nothing.

Then the doctor asked a very worrying question. When was your last period? Emma couldn't honestly remember. She'd always been a bit irregular. So she had her take a test. In her entire life, she had never failed a test. Her record remained unbroken that day, much to her chagrin.

Émile found her several hours later, weeping as quietly as possible into her pillow. He made the simple mistake of asking her what was wrong. All her secrets came spilling out. The biggest one being that she was around four months pregnant, give or take. She told him about falling in love with her best friend and how they'd slept together. Told him how he'd proposed to another woman after they'd broken things off. How she didn't even know who she was anymore. She babbled on about the nightmares and how she could hardly shut her eyes at night, because it was all blood and smoke and screaming. About how it was like her entire life was one big crumbling ruin that was maybe on fire and how everything hurt.

And then she told him who she really was. That Emma Didier was made up and that she was really Hermione Granger, a member of what the wizarding press were now calling 'the Golden Trio' who'd just saved the wizarding world. And then she summoned her Patronus like a fool in front of someone she was sure was a muggle, no less. She was so distraught that it barely registered that its form had changed drastically.

"Well that simplifies things," Émile commented as he blandly watched her Patronus trot serenely through his kitchen before walking into his room and returning with wand in hand, spinning it between his fingertips.

"You're a wizard?"

He nodded, asking her curiously, "You're really Hermione Granger? That Hermione Granger - the one they're looking for?"

"Yes, I'm her," she replied tiredly. She buried her face in her hands, wiping away the tears and shuddering. "What a bloody mess..."

He held up a copy of 'La Vie Quotidienne en Paris' the French equivalent of 'The Daily Prophet' and compared it to the weeping girl sitting on his futon. Dismissing the puffy eyes and overall miserableness of her appearance, there was no doubt Emma Didier and Hermione Granger were one and the same.

"Damn. Damn. Damn. DAMN," she shouted, her voice rising with each damn and then she began to cry again. She angrily tossed her wand across the room, dully satisfied with the thud it made as it hit the wall. "Wuh-w-why d-does everyt-thing h-have to go to sh-hit?"

"I'm not going to tell anyone unless you want me to, you know," he informed her, looking at her fallen wand in a detached kind of way.

"Don't be so sure. You haven't seen what they're offering for information that might lead to my whereabouts," she snapped tartly, tossing her copy of the Daily Prophet at him that had more up to date information.

On the front page was a huge photo of her with an offer for an absolutely insane amount of Galleons for her safe return. She wondered dimly if Harry had put up the money. He probably did, the big idiot. Why couldn't he just leave well enough alone?

"I don't give a damn about the money," Émile scoffed, slapping down the paper in pure disgust. "I have money. The only question that's relevant is what you want to do now? Go back or stay here."

The answer was obvious. She felt like a traitor - a selfish, thoughtless git who abandoned her friends, and she hated the idea that she was making everyone worry, putting them in such an awful place during an already dreadful time. But staying here was what she needed now. For the sake of retaining some semblance of sanity she just couldn't go back. Her decision was further strengthened by the headlines in yesterday's Prophet... someone had leaked the news that Harry was officially affianced.

The happy couple had confirmed it with a joint interview, one that Harry really hadn't wanted to give. Even in print form she could tell when he was uncomfortable with something. His answers were terse and few and far between. Unlike Ginny, who went on at length about their nuptials and whose tone was enthusiastic, to say the least. She'd had her colors picked out forever ago, according to the article. And she was getting a wedding dress designed by the lead designer at Twilfitt and Tattings. They were, to quote from the article, sparing no expense.

Worse, a date had been set for the Marriage of the Century, as they Prophet's headline had blazed. The 26th of June, a summer wedding to be held in the Burrow. She looked at the picture accompanying the story... a lovely shot of both Ginny and Harry, holding hands and smiling shyly. They looked so happy and sweet... so wholesome. Just a normal couple getting married, despite all the fuss the press was making. It was clear they were in love. Moreover, it was also clear that the wizarding press loved them. It was like a royal bloody wedding. (She noted dully that the articles about her disappearance had been pushed nearly to the back page, which should have been a relief.)

'He's happy, that's all that matters,' she told herself as she forced tears back.

In a very small voice, she made her decision. "I want to stay."

"Okay," said Émile with a nod. "What about the baby... will you tell the father?"

She thought about it for a long moment. A part of her was desperate to tell him. He was the father of her child, and had every right to have a place in that child's life, and he'd always wanted a family. But she couldn't help but think about what would happen if she did go back to England. He'd announced his engagement. He and Ginny were to be married. And what would happen if she waltzed back into their lives with a happy little announcement of her own?

'It'd ruin everything,' she thought.

For Harry, she knew very well he considered the Weasleys as close to a real family as he'd ever have. Perhaps if Sirius or Remus had survived the war, it'd be different. But the fact was... the Weasleys were his world now. His family.

They were all that he had.

What could Hermione give him, really? He didn't know her parents - they were muggles and why would he bother with them when he had the Weasleys. They had been his first contact with the wizarding world. How could a pair of dentists compare to that? Besides, it wasn't like her parents were even in the picture at this point. They were still in New Zealand. And Ron was his first real friend. Being honest with herself, she'd never been sure of her friendship with Harry. She always got the impression that both he and Ron didn't much like spending time with her. But she was clever... it was the only thing she'd ever had. Her cleverness was useful during the war, but what purpose did it serve once the war was over - it served no purpose. No purpose at all.

So, she could choose to go back and tell him. And he'd probably do the noble thing, the stupid thing, and stand up for her to support his child. He'd break it off with Ginny and that'd be it for him. As much as Molly and Arthur and the rest loved Harry, he wasn't their child or their sibling, Ginny was. They'd support her in her time of need and Harry would be without the only family he'd ever known. No... Hermione couldn't do that to him.

"Harry-" she began, realizing her error in identifying the child's father but forging forward anyway. "He hasn't had an easy life. H-he's... he deserves to be h-happy, even if it's not with me. This would just complicate things for him. If I t-told him, he'd give up everything even though... h-he doesn't l-love me. I couldn't do that to him, especially now. It's... it's better if he doesn't know."

Émile wasn't so sure, but in the end it wasn't his decision. "Are you going to keep it?"

"It'd be selfish if I said yes," she muttered quietly, her hand unconsciously touching the slight curve her stomach. There was only a small bump, but it wouldn't be much longer...

"But you want it, don't you? You want to keep it?"

"Yes," she whispered, her breath hitching. "Does that make me a terrible person?"

"No."

"What am I going to do?" She burst into fresh tears.

The next few days Émile helped her figure out a way forward. First things first, he had one of his friends contact their sister, who was a stylist, to cut and color her hair. She was far too recognizable with that bushy mop of hers. His friend's sister gave her a neat bob and plucked her equally bushy eyebrows. She also decided to dye Emma's hair a warm honey blonde. But she didn't stop there, gang-pressing her into learning how to do her own makeup. The lessons were brutal and unforgiving, but it made a huge difference. One would be hard pressed to see the almost matronly Hermione Granger in Emma Didier.

Then Émile enlisted his mother, who was weirdly delighted by the whole situation.

Frankly, Madame Broussard and Émile had their fill of the wizarding world when Beauxbatons had thrown her son out for being who true to who he was. Yes, he'd been caught in flagrante delicto with another student but she quite doubted they would have made such a fuss if the person he'd been fucking was female. As a muggle-born witch herself, she understood the way of the world, wizarding or otherwise. It wasn't just who he'd been fucking, but the fact that he was a half-blood - a half-blood born of a mudblooded bitch that had the gall to divorce her incurably unfaithful pureblood husband.

Had he not been the son of a mudblood, his indiscretion would have been quickly forgiven because his father's name still carried weight, even if the man himself was a reprehensible piece of shit. But because her son was a half-blood and he was gay, they had quietly suggested he find another school to take him in, threatening expulsion while citing some arcane student morality clause in their charter. It was the worst kind of bureaucratic horseshit.

She hadn't been able to do much for him at the time, but this girl... she could help.

Nathalie understood very well how hard it was for muggleborns. And she understood the terrible pressure the spotlight could put on a person better than most. Having married a rich pureblood from a prominent family at 19, she had suffered the limelight for nearly 30 years. It was designed to break people, especially those, like Emma, who had dared to reach for more than what society would allow.

Her son had vouched for this girl, and, having met her, Nathalie had found her worthy of mentorship. She was smart and ambitious, traits the wizarding world didn't often value if one was muggleborn. They much preferred them to be quiet and compliant. Emma was young, and her heart had taken a bit of a beating. She would need an advocate... someone who wasn't afraid of much of anything, a role Nathalie could fill easily.

And in this role, she'd be able to give Emma a cover story, attaching her to a prestigious French family with many influential connections. Nathalie had worked hard to get where she was and was more than willing to share her good fortune. Emma would become like a daughter to her. There was no question this is how it would be because there few who would say no to Nathalie Broussard. The only ones who'd managed to do so had only succeeded because at the time they had power she did not. Things had changed since then. She'd move the world if she had to.

So she gladly took Emma out on a shopping trip, bolstering the girl's wardrobe with plenty of things for what fit her now and what would fit her later. Hermione Granger was a frumpy old maid, as far as Nathalie was concerned. And Madame Broussard would not tolerate a daughter of hers wearing terrible, ill-fitting clothes that looked like they'd been bought at some charity shop. The English had no sense of style at all. Her Emma would be the epitome of the put together Parisian woman. She didn't forget her adoptive grandchild, buying an expensive looking oak crib with matching changing table, which barely fit in their tiny apartment. Not to mention the scads of books, toys, and clothing she'd purchased for her future grandchild.

This was, of course, not the end. Nathalie Broussard never did anything by halves.

When she said Emma would be her daughter, she wasn't kidding. She had the stones and the connections to pull a few strings and within hours, Emma had legally become her daughter in law. A fact that she'd mentioned to both Emma and Émile as if she hadn't gone completely overboard. Nothing would change her mind. Emma would henceforth be Emma Didier-Broussard. Personally, Emma had thought the move terribly presumptuous but hadn't argued. Mostly because it meant she was more effectively hidden and she only had to stay "married" for two years. Plus, she'd be helping Émile out as well. His father's family was playing games with his inheritance.

Cyprien Broussard had died four years ago in an apparent car accident. The stupid fool had taken a liking to automobiles when he was still married to Nathalie. The only problem with this was that he didn't know how to drive all that well. One August evening, Cyprien had taken out his newly restored 1966 Citroën DS21 for a spin in the French Alps with his latest rented arm candy. He was drunk, as he almost always had been, and managed to drive through a guardrail. Unfortunately for him, the guardrail in question was attached to a very steep cliff, which the car had rocketed through at 150 km/h.

Cyprien was the heir to a vast fortune built up by his ancestors, which he and his family had depended on for years. The legacy of the Broussard family was the broom manufacturing company his great-great-grandfather had founded, Balais de Broussard pour le sorcier sportif. His grandfather and father had fostered that company until it had become wildly successful. It had been the premier professional racing broom-making company in Europe, until the upstart Nimbus Racing Broom Company had taken over the market in 1967.

Ever since then, Broussard Brooms had suffered something of a slowdown in production, though it was still a profitable company. No thanks to Cyprien, who'd handed over the reins to one of his father's friends in the 70s. He stayed on as a shareholder in name only, as he wasn't bright enough to understand half of the things they said at the few meetings he'd attended. Still, he had more money than most, even with his flagrant, pointless spending sprees.

At his death, he had conditionally bequeathed Émile a modest sum of money in his will, along with his titles and a few properties. According to the will, he was required to "give up his current lifestyle" if he was to inherent anything. His father's relatives were rather insistent about upholding it. The French Ministry of Magic was far more progressive than the one in the UK, but there were still pockets of influence that allowed pureblood nobility to get away with certain things. When it came to titles, land, and certain herilooms, the law was clear - they all went to the presumptive heir baring any conditions set forth in the will left behind. Meaning, Émile could lose his title and his share in Broussard Brooms if he did not conform to the will's stipulation.

Nathalie was sure she'd be able to challenge it in court. After all, even in the wizarding world, the nobility had been abolished in France. They could challenge the will in court, and Nathalie was sure they'd probably win if they did. However, it would be a long and arduous process, not to mention how expensive it would be. She hadn't honestly looked forward to it.

With Emma's appearance in their lives, there was a chance for them to claim what was due with little effort on their part. Nathalie had negotiated with them - if Émile married Emma and stayed married to her for two whole years, he'd receive the money, his seat on the board of directors for Broussard Brooms, and the titles at the end of those two years, no questions asked. She'd given up the properties, which had pleased Cyprien's greedy older sister who had her eyes on the mansion in Monaco Cyprien had left to his son (which Nathalie knew was a colossal money sink).

They'd drawn up the contract, signed it, and sent it off to the French Ministry. Of course, none of those idiots had known that the minute the terms of his inheritance were fulfilled they'd get an immediate divorce. Not one of them had thought to add a clause preventing it, and Nathalie and her lawyers didn't bother to mention it. She had never credited any of the Broussards with an abundance of brains and had anticipated their easy acceptance of her terms.

So only on paper, she was Émile's wife, in the wizarding world anyway. As for her child... They all agreed that she'd have the baby in a muggle hospital and line that named the father of her child on the birth certificate there would be left intentionally blank. Émile had insisted she do it this way, in the event that the father wanted to claim the child. Her new friend was unlike her old friends. He did not argue with her loudly or insistently. Instead, Émile was quietly firm in his decision that he not be listed as the baby's father, despite the protection it might bring.

"I understand this is your decision... but the child is still half his," he'd explained calmly, holding her hands as he did so. "Someday you may want to tell him. And if you do decide tell him, there's a good chance he'll want an opportunity to be a father to that child. If you do this, put me down as the father of your child, you close all the loopholes... you'll be leaving him no choice at all."

Emma relented and luckily Nathalie had agreed on this point. But she hadn't really stopped her relentless meddling. Why would she? From the moment Nathalie had concocted this scheme, she had been a veritable whirlwind. Going above and beyond her duty in a way Emma could admire, even though it was a bit annoying.

Being the Managing Director of the Louvre, she'd secured Emma a job with the prestigious museum. It wasn't much, just a part time secretarial job in the Research & Restoration Department, but it paid better than her job at the bookstore. Madame Broussard felt it was important that she had an in to a job that would lead her somewhere. With a degree from Paris 8, it'd be easy for her to push for Emma into an appropriate position of her choice once the time came. She had the proper connections that would allow Emma to receive any training and the degrees she'd need afterwards as well.

This was all done for the same reason she'd supported her son in his education and his life. Whatever he chose, she wanted him to have the tools available to get him there. Emma would be the daughter of her heart and she wanted her to succeed with the same passion she felt for her son. The wizarding world had denied them as far as she was concerned. Madame Broussard would not fail them in the same fashion.

The days passed and Emma gradually began to relax into her new life, though she still couldn't help but look over her shoulder, constantly worried she'd be found out. And she truly didn't want to give any of this new life up. She loved her new job. She loved her studies, which were progressing well.

Hermione wasn't as good as Dean Thomas, but she wasn't without talent.

It was a little known fact that she'd always liked to draw. No one, not even her best friends, knew she that not only could she draw well but that she actually loved it. It'd been an outlet for her since she was very young.

Before Harry and Ron, she hadn't had many friends. Drawing was something she could do easily by herself. She had scads of Moleskine journals back home, all filled with drawings she hadn't shown a soul. Most of them were highly realistic drawings of random things; her room, various views at Hogwarts, her classmates, her parents and a number of strangers she'd drawn during the summers when visiting the park near her home.

But drawing wasn't the same as painting, she knew this intellectually. Moreover, she wasn't interested in doing something easy. She had specifically decided to paint exclusively with oil paints, which was one of the most difficult mediums to paint in. Her teachers thought she was mad. It was unthinkable for a beginner, like her, to paint with oil. It was considered simply too difficult and most students were encouraged to get used to painting with acrylic first, which was easier to use. Emma thought it was a whole load of waffle. She'd mastered watercolor by herself from reading books about it. Oil couldn't be all that difficult.

To make it even more of a challenge, she had decided to eschew more modern techniques.

All her drawings were drawn in a highly realistic style which she had parroted from the Great Masters. She had first gotten the idea to draw like that from books she'd read about da Vinci and Hans Holbein, both of whom had sketched prolifically. Her particular favorite was the sketch for Sir Thomas More's family portrait Holbein had done, which she'd often used as a personal source of inspiration. It wasn't that much of a leap to go from drawing like the Great Masters did to painting like they did.

Her very favorite artist was Vermeer, mostly because no one was 100% sure how he became such an accomplished artist with little to no training. He didn't leave behind any sketches and there was very little preparatory work visible underneath the paint in his known works.

The mystery of it was intriguing, not to mention that the mathematical precision to his paintings that had always delighted her. When she was very little, her father had a book about him. She'd spend hours looking at the various plates, sometimes with her father's magnifying glass so she could look at the all the little details. Everyone always went on and on about the 'Girl With a Pearl Earring' - it was his best known work. But Emma was fonder of paintings like 'The Milkmaid' with its quiet domesticity or 'The Music Lesson' for its precise geography.

She was also a fan of Artemisia Gentileschi who was a rare female Great Master and whose handling of chiaroscuro was second to none. There was a dense glow about Gentileschi's paintings that she admired. It was perhaps a bit shallow of her, but she did like Artemisia's most well-known work, 'Judith Slaying Holofernes'. But there was something dreadfully dramatic about the painting, considering it depicted a woman grimly beheading a man while he slept.

Her intent was to learn how it was that artists like Vermeer and Gentileschi made their paintings. To revive the somewhat forgotten and disused techniques perfected by the Great Masters for a modern audience. She had to concede that the techniques used were considered by most to be antiquated. Even her teachers thought she was a bit daft and had tried to push her into the direction of a more Impressionistic or Abstract approach, which were both more popular. But to her, that was the easy path, really. She had nothing against Impressionism or any other art movement; this was just something she felt she had to do.

All she had to do was figure out how it was done. Even though they all thought she'd gone 'round the twist, her professors were helpful and encouraging, pointing her to the resources she'd need for such an undertaking. And with practice, she improved. It was a simple matter of measurement and paying close attention to details.

She had already figured out what her senior project would be, which involved how the great masters like Vermeer made such accurate likenesses from drawing to painting. It involved placing a mirror at just the right angle and using it as a constant reference - basically they had used a simplified camera lucida. She intended to make one herself and use it to replicate to techniques used by Vermeer to create a modern day version of his work. Of course, it was entirely too early to be looking that far ahead, but old habits die hard.

To top it all off, she was officially at the seven month mark and her belly had gotten quite big. A few days ago the baby kicked, to Émile's delight and horror.

"It's like you have the alien inside you," he commented, making a funny face as he pushed the little foot back with a finger. "I think we must contact Sigourney Weaver immediately."

Emma had laughed and smacked him on the arm.

Other improvements included her French. She still had a bit of an accent, but it was gradually fading as she'd stopped speaking English almost entirely. If she was to be Emma Didier, she would have to commit. Hermione was English. Emma was French. It was as simple as that.

In January, her new friends along with Madame Broussard arranged for a surprise baby shower at the club Émile frequented in the Marais. It was the strangest baby shower Emma had attended to date. Mostly because the entertainment included a plethora of beautiful drag queens and more confetti than she'd seen in her life. Perhaps it was the hormones, but she burst into happy tears.

And on February 8th, 1999, Remus Levi Didier was born in a private suite in Sainte Félicité Hospital to the general joy of all.

First off, I just want to thank everyone for reviewing. There were a lot of emotional reviews and I was a bit surprised at how strong the emotions were. I've been working on this for awhile and, funny thing, you get to a point in your writing where you don't really see the emotional impact anymore. Because I'm too close to the story that I have to shut it down so I can write it. I am very happy to see how affected you all are by what I wrote.

BUT... please keep in mind, people make mistakes in life. That's what this story is all about. The mistakes we make when we're young. It's about the regrets we have for the decisions we made when we're young. Hermione is going to make a mistake in this chapter... just like Harry did. They both made mistakes. And it's okay to be frustrated with them. But don't be too mad. Also, yes, for those who are worried about it, there will be a happy ending.

Also this will not turn into a goofy love triangle story, where she flaunts her fake husband. Those stories can be fun, but this isn't one of those stories. I did it as a sort of cheeky wink at those kinds of stories.

Weird side note, the look for Nathalie's character is based on French-Egyptian singer, Dalida.