Happy holidays everyone! Here's a new chapter. I love you.
As it often was with children, the awkward discussion of the night before was put to the back of her son's mind. Today, they were going to the Champs-Elysées and his uncle had promised that he'd buy him something at the Christmas market and perhaps he'd be able to convince them to get a Nutella and banana crêpe as well. Émile and Radhi said nothing about the argument she'd had with her son, though they likely heard at least some of it. It weighed on Emma's mind the whole day.
Over the years it became clear that not telling Rémi's father about his son was unequivocally the wrong thing to have done. It was a stupid decision made during perhaps the worst time in her life, but that in no way negated the horrible consequences of that decision. And every day that she waited made it worse. Somewhere along the line, she'd run out of Gryffindor courage and was unable to take the steps necessary to make it right. She could not face him and what she'd hidden from him. She couldn't bring herself to make him hate her for what she'd done - because she knew without question that he would. Rémi was as much his son as he was hers; he deserved a chance to know him.
Her attention was turned back to her son, his high, piping voice carrying over the sounds of the crowd sweetly. "MAMAN! LOOK! LOOK!" he shouted, grabbing her hand and dragging her over to one of the Christmas chalets selling an assortment LED illuminated chachkes.
Rémi was pointing excitedly to a glass lion statue mounted on a mirrored stand that was softly changing color. It was the ugliest thing she'd ever seen, and it cost €15, an absolutely absurd amount of money considering the terrible quality of the product. Of course, she bought it for him.
They spent a good five hours wandering around the Christmas market, until Rémi became tired and cranky. He fell asleep on his uncle on the Metro ride home. Émile had agreed to deliver all their gifts tomorrow as he carried Rémi up five flights of stairs to her apartment. The day after next, they'd meet Marcelle for Rémi's first flying lesson, and her son would want his broom.
He woke instantly once they got inside the apartment, tiredly insisting that they light the menorah. Emma was certain that it was more the promise of a gift and latkes than the actual lighting of the candles. She was wrong, though. When told that the latkes and his gift could wait, Rémi wasn't satisfied. He still insisted so Emma relented.
The menorah was set up by the window. Émile watched silently as Emma carefully set everything up, reciting the proper blessings before lighting it. Shamash candle lit, she carefully handed it to Rémi who touched it to the first candle solemnly. By the light of the candles, Emma sang Hanerot Halalu. Her son rested his head on her arm, looking up at her with an anguished expression. She stopped singing abruptly.
"Rémi, what's wrong?"
"Do you think papa will see our lights and come home to us?" he asked in a little voice, tears spilling slowly down his cheeks.
Emma was unable to speak; it felt like someone had shot an arrow straight into her heart. What in Merlin's name would she tell him? Taking a steadying breath, she smiled and said, "Hanukkah is a time for miracles, Rémi. So, while I don't know if he'll come home to us, we can always hope and pray that he does."
Her son gave her a wobbly smile, palming away his tears. "Then I hope a miracle does happen. I pray he sees our lights and comes home." He turned away and went quiet for a beat, his eyes never leaving the flickering candles. "Can you tell me about the oil in the temple, Maman?"
And so she did, though he fell asleep almost halfway through. Tucking him in, she sat for a few minutes and just watched him by the glow of the LED lion, which gave out a surprising amount of light. One little hand was curled around his blanket as he breathed slowly, so deeply asleep he didn't even notice her bending over to give him a kiss on the cheek. She held his other hand in hers, thinking about last night and all the mistakes she'd made. Tears rolled silently down her cheeks and her lips trembled as she suppressed her sobs.
Émile watched her quietly from the door. She stood slowly, gently letting go of her son's hand. Both adults left the room, leaving the door open just a crack. Once they were back in the living room, Émile touched her shoulder lightly.
"Are you going to be okay?" he said in English.
"I don't know," she answered him honestly, her voice quaking. "I think I've made a terrible mistake. And for the first time ever, I don't know how to fix it." Sitting down hard on the couch, she dissolved into tears, breaking in a way she hadn't in a long time.
Over the years, Émile had encouraged her to tell Harry about his son. And every single time she'd either refuse outright, insisting it'd be better if he didn't know, or she wouldn't say anything all, pretending as if she hadn't heard him. Émile knew better than to say I told you so or go over those same points again. It'd do no good. Instead, he just held her.
"I cannot give you a solution, Cherie," he said solemnly. "But I wish I could. I can only say that it will work out for the best. I know it."
"Y-you can't k-know that."
"Pffffht. Yes, I can and I do." He paused, a slow, devious smile creeping across his face. "It's in the staaaaars..."
And just like that, he diverted her emotions to a subject she detested and which she could vent her spleen on all night: Divination. She did go on for a good five minutes before realizing what he'd done. Emma couldn't even be mad at him for his blatant manipulation, because it had helped.
A few days later, Marcelle and her boyfriend came over for the promised flying lessons. The Urban Quidditch League at Porte d'Ivry was located near a muggle soccer center. The entryway was what looked like an old, disused delivery door. Just like Platform 9 ¾, you had to simply walk through what looked like a solid door to enter. Rémi had a bit of trouble with it and ended having to have Emma help him through by holding his hand.
They were required to register at the door. The paperwork was extensive, mostly because they were allowing someone so young access to the pitch. Once everything was sorted out, an attendant showed them where they were allowed to practice and then left them to it. Emma decided to sit in the stands. She was rubbish on a broom and would be no help at all.
Watching his father fly had always been nerve-wracking for her. If possible, watching her son learn how to fly was so much worse. Her only comfort was that he had inherited his father's talent for flying; it was almost preternatural, although, he did learn quite a bit from Marcelle and Devon. First and foremost, he learned how to grip the broom properly and various other safety techniques. All the basics anyone could ever need to know, though it was clear it frustrated and bored her son, who simply wanted to fly.
Eventually, they let him do as he pleased. The broom wouldn't go much higher than just a few meters off the ground which was normal for his age. Still, he managed to quite a few breathtaking spins and dives that nearly made Emma's heart stop. During a particularly death defying spin, Emma almost screamed. She rushed out onto the field when he landed, mad with fear. Her son landed gently; his smile huge as he ran towards her.
"MAMAN! DID YOU SEE MY SPIN?! DID YOU SEE ME?!" he shouted happily, his little arms thrown around her shoulders, one hand still holding onto the broom which knocked into his mother's head uncomfortably.
Gently pushing the broom away from her face, she smiled tremulously at him. "Yes, I did, Rémi! You were wonderful!" It wasn't at all what she wanted to say... she'd been so scared, but seeing his excited face she couldn't tell him how all she could see was the number of times his father had fallen from the sky. She kissed his cheek and held him a little tighter.
Others practicing on the field had noticed Rémi, specifically the many coaches littering the field training new recruits. One coach in particular had taken notice almost immediately. He had seen many children come through these halls over the years. There were a fair few that were decent fliers, one or two that were actually exceptional. But he had never seen anyone fly like the dark haired boy he'd just seen performing an Ergot Roll - a difficult defensive maneuver mostly reserved for Seekers that involved attempting a tight, controlled spin at high speed to disorient and displace anyone following them while doing a steep dive for the snitch.
In general, it was an undesirable place to be found in for both the one leading and one following because it required precise control of one's broom. There were few full-grown adults, professionals, in the world with the kind of talent it would take to pull the maneuver off. And this boy had done it for the first time with near perfect form.
He marched straight up to the mother and without preamble informed her of what her son had accomplished, finishing with, "My name is Matthieu Renard. I must train your son."
Emma was startled by the abrupt pronouncement. She'd only just gotten her heart rate down - her son had done some kind of crazy barrel roll. She didn't even know there was a term in Quidditch for what he'd done until the man who'd practically shouted at her that he wanted to coach her son had told her as much.
Emma demurred, "Oh, I don't know. He's only six... that just seems too young."
"Nonsense! It's best to teach them when they are young. He'll learn proper form and, more importantly, I won't be wasting my time forcing him to unlearn bad habits," he declared, sharply slapping one hand into the other in a chopping motion.
"It's just so dangerous..."
"Pah! All the more reason he should be trained. Your son has talent, Madame," the man said with an errant hand wave as if he was dismissing her misgivings. "You must see this."
Marcelle had watched quietly until then. "Emma, I have heard of Monsieur Renard - he is the premier Quidditch coach for Paris's Junior League. He's one of the owners of this complex," she whispered urgently. "This is a huge opportunity."
"I know, but..." Emma trailed off, her brows knitting in concern. There was a tug on her jumper. She looked down at the expressive green eyes of her son.
"Maman, please," he pleaded, little hand curled around the fabric of her sweater. "I want to fly."
Just like his father, she couldn't say no to him. With a sigh and a resigned smile, she said, "Okay, I give up. You win."
Monsieur Renard immediately ushered Emma, her son, and the others into a meeting room to discuss the financial details of this arrangement and a sensible training schedule. None of them had noticed the photographer, who had captured a series of pictures. It showed a mother and her son embracing, wide smiles on both their faces. The photographer had been hired by the owners of the Urban Quidditch League to take pictures for an upcoming feature in a Parisian Quidditch magazine, Sept Mondial. A week later, the picture of the unknown mother and her son embracing and smiling was run alongside a special report on the Port d'Ivry League.
No one, not even the photographer who took the photo knew that it would find its way to England. Sept Mondial was a regional publication after all, but within two months it had reached a small press editor in Stratford-Upon-Avon who recognized the woman in the photo. Dean Thomas in his spare time ran a very small magazine for fans of the local Quidditch team, the Stratford Bards. As a rule, he subscribed to a number of magazines abroad for the latest Quidditch news.
In February, he had a nasty shock when he opened the issue of Sept Mondial from December. He was lucky his Mum's first language was French. He didn't speak it well, but his reading comprehension was much better. And after reading the article in question, he'd immediately requested a copy of the photo directly from the photographer, Jehanne-Lucie Méliès. She was a well-known enough name in Quidditch circles, and he had something of a rapport with her, having once arranged for her to take pictures of the Bards. Due to the demands on her time, it had taken her studio nearly four months to get the picture he'd asked about to him. But instead of just one, they'd sent an entire series, all of them of the same woman and child.
There was no question who the woman in the photographs was. Dean wasn't great friends with her, but anyone with eyes could tell you the woman was Hermione Granger, though he had no idea who the kid was, rightly assuming it was probably hers. Though he could not know it, she had dressed casually that day, forgoing makeup and wearing clothes she'd rarely worn outside her flat. Dean might not have recognized her so easily had she dressed as she usually did day to day. But in her oversized sweater and her bushy hair held up by a colorful knitted head-wrap, she looked no different than she had in school. One could almost imagine her running off to study in the library.
Dean struggled with what to do with the photos. Just last year, Hermione had been declared dead by both the Ministry and the muggle government after seven full years with no contact with her friends or relatives. If this photo got out, there'd be a firestorm that the Daily Prophet would milk for all it was worth.
He well remembered the media hysteria surrounding her disappearance. The coverage of it was relentless and pervasive for the first three years. Every time Ron or Harry did something, whether it was a promotion or getting married, they'd dredge up her sudden and inexplicable departure from the wizarding world. For her close friends, it was no doubt an unbearably painful experience that never allowed them to heal properly. Their good news constantly marred. Forever forced to be reminded of the friend who had either died or left them behind. Merlin, if it was him, he wouldn't want all that trotted out again and again. Even knowing her as an acquaintance, it had irritated him enough to cancel his subscription to the Prophet permanently. The Quibbler was loads better, anyway.
Frankly, the whole affair troubled him. He didn't want anything to do with it, if he was honest.
Just as he wasn't great friends with Hermione, he didn't know Harry much better. But even he knew that bringing up Hermione to him was a bad idea. From the rumors he'd heard, her absence had a chilling effect on the remaining members of the trio. He didn't know the details, just that there were a few bad years for both of them. Harry in particular hadn't taken it well and had more than just a few bad years, if the grapevine was to be believed.
He wondered if there was anything to be gained by sending these pictures. It was nothing more than bad memories for Harry and Ron, and he didn't wish to disturb their lives. They weren't his good friends, but they were decent blokes. And they'd managed to make something of their lives despite all the sorrow caused by the war and the subsequent disappearance of their friend. Plus, he hardly wanted to add to anyone's already overabundant woes.
And no doubt Hermione had left for a reason. He didn't know her that well, but the one thing he did know was that when she made a decision, there was no dissuading her from her chosen course. After all, she followed Harry to hell and back. If that didn't say something about her determination, he didn't know what else would. He had never believed for a moment she was dead, but if she'd wanted to come back, she would have. These pictures were evidence enough that she'd made a new life for herself. One she was quite comfortable with.
But it'd be downright irresponsible of him not to say anything and if Potter found out he had this and said nothing... with a deep sigh, Dean composed a short letter and enclosed the photos with the name and date of its original publication and the contact information for the photographer. He called his owl, Falstaff, tying the letter securely to his leg.
"Take this to Harry Potter at the DMLE, he's Assistant Chief Auror now, I think. Be careful, it's really important," Dean said, giving the owl a treat before it took off. He watched Falstaff fly towards the horizon, hoping that he'd made the right decision.
Having no idea that pictures of her and her son were winging their way to the last person she'd want to see them, Emma was enjoying herself as she watch her son collect seashells on the beach and avoiding the seaweed that rolled up with the tide.
Émile had decided that sending his ex-wife/adoptive sister on a family vacation to Biarritz in the south of France was the best way to celebrate the end to her son's very first year in school. He'd taken care to invite Rémi's best friend Chloé and her twin brother Adrian. They were not far from her son, also collecting seashells, though Adrian seemed to have less aversion to seaweed than her son or Chloé.
There were many beaches in Biarritz to choose from. She and Chloé's mother had picked Plage de la Milady as it was a beach that many families frequented. They had a nice hotel nearby which was only five minutes away, less if they rode their bicycles. She was sitting next to Chloé's mother who was splitting her time between reading a magazine and watching the children.
Simone Vasseur was a plump woman with long blonde hair and impeccable taste in clothing. When Emma had first met the mother of her son's best friends, she had been a bit taken aback by the French-Canadian woman, who could only be described as a force of nature. She had immediately enveloped Emma in a hug and began talking a million miles a minute, thanking her for what her son had done for Chloé and Adrian.
On the surface, Simone seemed a bit superficial. She only wore designer clothes and favored Chanel as her perfume of choice. Her Quebecois accent was prominent and to some her love of luxury Parisian brands seemed a blatant effort to seem less provincial. Emma happened to know it wasn't true at all. Simone was a divorcee whose husband had left her for a younger woman. She'd gotten an extremely generous settlement and perhaps felt that she owed herself just a little bit of happiness after all she'd been through. And sometimes happiness came in boxes from Chanel, Louboutin, and Christian Dior.
She also loved her children fiercely. Simone and her ex-husband didn't particularly care for each other anymore, but they had done their best to keep it cordial for Chloé and Adrian. Their visitation schedule was meticulous, and they were in constant communication about it should something unexpected happened. Both parents did their level best to keep either of their children from feeling the sorrow or tension from the end of their marriage.
Emma admired Simone for her dedication to her children's happiness.
But it wasn't just that... Simone was smart, perhaps not in a traditional way, but she was smart none-the-less. She owned a small boutique on the Rue des Voisins Cachés (sometimes simply called Les Voisins) which was the main shopping district/magical enclave in Paris. Her shop was called Maison Jeurelle and it sold her own brand of high-end beauty and personal grooming products for witches and wizards. It was a small brand right now but had done very well. So well that she'd been thinking of opening another store. She even had high hopes of finding a way to transition it so that she could sell to muggles as well.
"We're missing out on a huge market by only selling to those in the wizarding world. I mean, really, all I'd have to do is lay off the charms on certain products or adjust the recipe a bit so it uses non-magical ingredients to replace some of the ones I use and it'd be no different than anything already sold in non-magic stores," she'd explained at lunch earlier that day. "The real difference is in the quality of your ingredients, even if they're not magical... and I'll go toe to toe with anyone that our brand is the best."
Emma couldn't agree more. She used some of her hair care products, which had managed to tame her hair without making it look like a particularly sturdy helmet. They were amazing even without some of the charms added. And if anyone could figure out a way to take a wizarding business into the non-magical world, it'd be Simone Vasseur.
"I see Rémi isn't wearing his glasses," Simone commented, interrupting Emma's train of thought.
"No, he's not," she admitted with a touch of light exasperation, glancing briefly at him as he busily dumped the seashells he'd collected into a small pile.
After the term had ended, Madame Gagnon had mentioned that she thought Rémi might need corrective lenses. She'd noticed him squinting a number of times when reading during lessons. So, Emma had taken him to an ophthalmologist and found that he was farsighted. She let Rémi chose his own frames. With a gleeful squeal, he had marched around the show floor investigating all his options, until he chose square tortoise shell frames with an interior accent in orange, his favorite color. He'd been quite happy when picking them out but once they'd left the ophthalmologist's office, he had refused to wear them. When she'd asked him why, he said it was because it made him look stupid and hurt his eyes. She explained this to Simone with a long-suffering sigh.
"Hmm. Well, we'll just have to get Adrian and Chloé to tell him he looks nice in them, then. Nothing changes a child's mind faster than the good opinions of his friends," her friend declared with an errant hand wave.
Emma chortled at Simone's astute observation while she watched the three friends as they carefully built a little sandcastle, decorating it with the seashells they'd collected. "Yes, I suppose you're right."
Later on, when the kids had tired of collecting seashells and swimming, they went back to the hotel to rest for a bit. Once the kids were cleaned up a bit and had time to nap, they decided to go get something to eat. Emma noticed immediately that Rémi was wearing his glasses and had no doubt she had Simone and her children to thank for it. There was a small restaurant right on the beach that catered to kids and it was "helpfully" called Milady Beach, which was actually confusing as it was named after the beach it was located on. It had a terrace and a playground for the kids, so all in all it was perfect.
The kids ate quite quickly because they were more interested in getting to the playground than anything else. This was frustrated by the two adults as they wouldn't let them leave until everyone was finished. Eventually, Emma and Simone relented. They sat on a nearby bench so they could keep an eye on the children, who made an immediate beeline towards the playground equipment.
Simone and Emma talked quietly for a while, watching with amusement as the three kids ran about wildly. After a bit, Simone excused herself to go to the bathroom and left Emma alone. She was so busy watching her son and his friends that she didn't notice when someone else sat down, taking for granted it was Simone.
"Hullo, Hermione," said a dreamy voice.
Slowly, heart thumping in her chest, she looked over and gasped, saying on reflex in English, "My name's not-"
"Oh, I know it's not your name anymore," interjected Luna Lovegood serenely. "But I'm not sure what your new name is now, and I didn't want to be rude."
"Emma," she answered automatically. Strangely, she didn't for a moment think to deny who she really was even while giving her assumed name. Luna's almost matter-of-fact knowledge of her real identity seemed to destroy any argument on the issue. "What are you doing here?"
"Rolf and I were surveying the local Tarasque population and decided to have a bit of a break. Then I was talking to a very helpful Nain Rouge that was hiding in a bush near our rental just the other day and he said we ought to come here. I'm not quite sure why he's so far from where he belongs, but I am thankful because he said that we'd find something precious and so we did," Luna explained, her smile luminous. "Well, I did, anyway. Rolf is far more interested in looking for selkies, but I don't think he'll find them here. " And she pointed over at the distant figure clumsily climbing an outcropping of rock.
"Too many nargles," Emma murmured, grinning despite herself.
"Most likely. Also, there's far too many people and not nearly enough seals. Selkies quite prefer their company to most humans. He really ought to know better, but I didn't fall in love with him because he was sensible," Luna answered guilelessly. "How have you been?"
"Er, good, I suppose. How are you?"
"Oh, I'm doing wonderfully! I've been traveling with Rolf for quite a while now. We've been doing research on European magical flora and fauna for the last four years. It's been ever so much fun. I never did find evidence of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks, but that's mostly because they don't exist, which is rather sad... but we have finally proved that Tarasques do exist and are discretely different from dragons, which is why we're here, you know."
Her son chose that moment to run over to her, looking for something to drink. His little hand froze as it touched her arm, glancing over at the strange woman sitting next to his mother warily. He looked up at Emma questioningly, pushing his glasses up on his nose.
"Hello, my name is Luna. I'm a very old friend of your mother's," Luna said in French. "What's your name?"
Rémi again looked to his mother, suddenly shy. He'd never done well with strangers. Emma squeezed his hand, her lips tipping up gently to let him know it was okay. His voice was very quiet when he gave his name, holding out his hand which Luna gently shook.
"His name is Remus. We just call him Rémi for short," Emma supplied, not knowing why it was important to tell Luna this.
Luna eyes widened, gazing down at her son suddenly very serious. "You have a very good name, did you know that?"
Rémi shook his head, eyes huge as Luna told him about the man he was named after and how he was the best teacher Luna had ever had. Having rarely heard stories about his mother's past, other than the few she'd told him about his father, Rémi was transfixed. Eventually, her son's friends joined them and listened raptly to Luna - who had graduated from talking about Professor Lupin to more fantastical tales. It was as if she knew revealing the past to Emma's son was acceptable but giving it away to his friends was not.
Simone came back shortly thereafter, and more introductions were given. And then Luna did something unexpected, which should not have been that much of a surprise considering who it was.
"Would you mind if I borrowed Emma for a bit?" she asked Simone airily.
"Of course not," Simone replied a bit quizzically. "Emma, would you like me to take Rémi?"
Before she could even open her mouth to answer, Luna had already exclaimed, "Oh, I wouldn't mind if he stayed. It's been so long since I've seen him!"
All eyes were on Emma now and she felt put on the spot in the worst way. "Uh, Rémi, would you like to go back to the hotel with Simone or stay back here with Luna and me?"
He seemed to consider it for quite some time, looking between his mum and his mum's old friend. "I'd like to visit with Tante Luna a bit longer, please."
Emma tried to hide her surprised reaction, but she was afraid she'd done a poor job of it. Rémi had rarely taken to a stranger so quickly. He had to meet someone at least four or five times before he even became comfortable enough to talk to someone new. The fact that he'd gone from almost hardly being able to say his own name to calling Luna his aunt was remarkable.
"Well, I suppose that settles it then. I'll see you all later," Emma said in a slightly questioning voice.
Simone nodded, giving Luna a last wary look. "All right then. Good evening. It's very nice to have met you, Mademoiselle Lovegood."
"Please, call me Luna."
"Yes, well, of course. Goodbye, Luna," Simone said with a jerky head nod, clearly put off by Luna's strange manner.
Luna's protuberant eyes watched her as she left, blinking slowly before turning her attention back to Emma. Honestly, she had no clue why Luna had wanted to see her alone, though she had a guess. No doubt she'd have all sorts of terribly uncomfortable questions-
"I'm not going to ask why you left," Luna said, gazing at Emma calmly. "It's really none of my business."
"Then why-"
She tilted her head ever so slightly, her eyes wide. "Because I missed my friend," she stated, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.
A confused well of emotion bubbled up just then. The primary feeling was of a great appreciation for Luna - she'd always regretted how shabbily she'd treated her back at Hogwarts, how she'd always belittle her and dismiss her ideas at every turn. Even through all that, Luna thought of her as a friend. Even though she'd left without explanation, Luna had without question still considered her a friend.
With a small sob, she caught Luna's hand and squeezed it. "T-thank you. I.. I missed you too..."
The two women hugged tightly before breaking away. They walked down the beach while Rémi ran ahead of them, chasing seagulls. Occasionally he'd find something and would come sprinting back to show Tante Luna, who would 'ooh' and 'aah' over his findings - coming up with ever more extraordinary explanations of what he'd discovered to his utter delight.
Eventually, Rolf joined them. Luna introduced Emma, only mentioning she was an old friend which Rolf seemed to take at face value. "Rolf is very good when it comes to magical beasts, but humans are a bit of a mystery to him," she explained dreamily.
Emma needn't worry he'd get suspicious or guess her real identity. He seemed far more interested in racing Rémi down the beach, only stopping to tell his eager young student about all the magnificent creatures he'd seen on his travels. This allowed Luna and Emma to catch up a bit.
"So... you work at the Louvre."
"You have no idea what it is, do you?" Emma said with a little laugh, not unkindly but in general amusement because Luna had tried hard to pretend she knew what it was.
"None at all. I thought it sounded a bit like an illness of some sort, to be honest," Luna chortled with a shrug, the setting sun making her pale hair look pink.
"It's an art museum - a very famous one, for muggles. I, um, research paintings... my principle interest is those made during Renaissance era but I've been tapped for other things as well. Sometimes we work in tandem with the restoration department to help in repairs."
Luna regarded her with a rather strange look on her face for several moments. "Art... really. How unlike you."
"Yes, I don't suppose it is very much like who I was... but it's who I am now. Did you know that I drew, even back then?" Luna shook her head wonderingly. "No one did, really. I never showed anyone. I was so caught up in being the person everyone thought I was that... that... I was ashamed to show anyone. I don't know why. Everyone always made fun of how much I read. I thought if they knew about that as well... I guess I thought it was just a silly pastime..."
"It wasn't."
"No, it wasn't." And feeling a bit brave, she fished out the Moleskine she brought everywhere with her and handed it to Luna.
The former Ravenclaw took the sketchbook, opening it quite carefully. She let out a little gasp, her fingers hovering over the page as she looked down. Sometimes, on her free days, Emma would go to the Louvre or the Tuileries Garden and just draw the visitors there or the landscape. All the drawings in the sketchbook were in the same highly realistic style she preferred. Luna reached out, holding onto Emma's forearm in an almost painful grip.
"These... these are marvelous, Hermione. You... I can't believe," she stammered in English breathlessly as she turned page after page. "Rolf, come here a moment!"
"Yes, dear. What is it?" He asked, loping over in a rather ungainly fashion.
"Look!" And Luna held out the Moleskine. His eyes widened, letting out a long breath as his gaze met Luna's. "She's perfect!"
Emma watched this exchange with bemusement that turned to alarm. She'd only intended for Luna to look at it and now... "I don't-"
"Rolf and I are about to publish a new book about magical fauna and we've been looking everywhere for the right illustrator," Luna interrupted, all dreaminess gone.
"Yes, we've searched all over and every last artist we looked into was rubbish, but you..." Rolf chimed in excitedly. "You're just what we're looking for. Well, I don't mean to impose but would you..."
"Would you illustrate our book for us?" Luna finished, her pale eyes glistening.
Emma's heart was beating quite quickly. She very much wanted to but she was worried it'd lead to people discovering who she really was. There were just too many questions it'd cause, too many ways for people to suss out her true identity. And just when she opened her mouth to politely decline, her son interrupted her.
"Maman, talk French! I can't understand anyone," Rémi complained, looking disgruntledly at all the adults speaking a language he hardly understood. "What are you talking about?"
"Tante Luna would like me to use my drawings for their book," Emma explained to him in French.
"Well, are you going to?"
"I don't know... I'm quite busy with my work at the museum and-"
Her son frowned at the excuse. "I think you should do it!"
"Do you?"
"Mmmhmm. Then everyone could see your pretty drawings. Plus, you'd be helping Tante Luna, right?"
Luna and Rolf watched the exchange with great delight. Emma, meanwhile, had realized she'd been outmaneuvered by her own son, again. Her inevitable agreement was greeted with the appropriate amount of joy.
"You're quite the little blackmailer, aren't you," she said, giving her son a hug before tickling him to which he giggled wildly.
Over the next three days, they came to an agreement about her work as an illustrator on their book. Luna had offered to allow her six months to get everything done, but Emma had insisted on only three. Even though she no longer went by the name, she was still Hermione Granger deep down inside. She was the girl who pushed herself beyond normal human limitations. This project was no different than all those before.
Luna and Rolf's requirements weren't all that outlandish to begin with. They needed scientific illustrations of the flora and fauna they'd discovered on their most recent trek. Rolf had taken a number of photographs with a regular muggle camera. He'd developed the photos himself and had brought copies with him, which he'd gladly shown Emma. From what he'd gathered, it'd be easy enough to draw from them as reference. He'd agreed to get her more copies.
They'd also arranged to meet her in Paris before the end of the summer for a progress check. Luna was also interested in seeing the famous muggle museum her friend worked at. Rémi was beside himself with glee because he'd be able to show his new Tante Luna around. In those three days, her son had become absurdly attached to Luna.
She had a way of making a game of anything and she brought a more ephemeral kind of magic into the world - one that didn't require a wand. Luna took the world at its most ordinary and made it extraordinary. It also helped that Luna knew his father and could tell him things his mum couldn't.
Luna herself seemed to accept the fact that they were calling Harry by his middle name when talking to her son. But there was a measure of reproach in her eyes when she used it in lieu of his real name.
On their last day together, Luna had given her a lingering embrace, whispering in her ear, "I won't tell anyone I've found you."
Breaking away, Emma nodded somberly. "Thank you."
"You will have to tell him someday, though," Luna warned. "Secrets don't stay that way for long."
"I know," she whispered, cupping her elbows as she looked at her feet.
Luna touched her arm and smiled gently. "I'm very glad it was me who found you first."
"Me too," Emma admitted, grasping Luna's hand and squeezing it. "See you in August."
And with that, they gave a final hug before going their separate ways.