A blond man accompanied a red-headed woman in framed photographs across a mantle. All the photos but one. One photograph had a different man. The photo wasn't pushed back behind the others or hidden in anyway, but it was also not the in the middle, up in the front. It was merely in the midst of all the other photos as if trying to fit in, as if it belonged.
The same woman like red hair, but with a different man. The man had a shock of untidy black hair and wire-rim glasses. He would be easy to tell apart from the other men by just those features, but what really distinguished him from others was his scar. He had a lightning shaped scar on his forehead. It was small, and almost hidden behind his bangs, but it was there nonetheless. You had to be blind to miss it.
In fact, there were people all over the world who still saw that scar as a sign of hope, of freedom. He had proven their mindset right years ago, but his history, his destiny still haunted those who had lived through it. It was hard to escape a past if you have saved the world. Others around the world, however, wouldn't even give that scar a passing glance. It was a blemish on the forehead of an otherwise handsome man. They had no idea what he had done for them.
The woman in the photographs picked up the one of her and the black-haired man and stared at it. A tear slowly ran down her face. "Harry," she whispered the framed image almost inaudibly. Her red hair was pulled back in a smooth ponytail and she wore jeans and a t-shirt as if there was nothing special about her. But there was something special about her. Tucked discreetly in her jeans pocket was a small wand. So small it would fit unnoticeable. It was a new compact design which she had quickly bought. She knew she needed a wand, but it didn't mean she wanted one.
The man in the photograph smiled at her. Genuine, kind, and almost too trusting for his own good. The smile alone could be proof of why he was merely a photograph, an image of the past.
Someone wrapped their arms around her from behind. It was so familiar, this gesture, she didn't question it. She only relaxed and laid her head on his shoulder. She felt a soft kiss on her temple. "You okay?" he asked rather roughly. She nodded against him. "You're looking at the photo again." Even though he was hiding it, his voice had an edge of jealous in it.
"Yeah..." she said softly. She didn't dare say anything farther. Though his man seemed gentle and loving at times, she still doubted he understood all her reasons for wanting to even keep the picture.
"Hannah isn't here." He spoke of their oldest daughter.
"She'll be home soon."
He slowly eased away from her. "Sure," he agreed as she felt him walk away.
"She needs know," Ginny repeated for the thousandth time. "Lies won't make it go away." She turned to face his retreating back.
"Lies? I've never lied," he announced arrogantly with his back turned.
"We haven't told the complete truth either," she shot back.
"No... but we never lied."
"White lies or lies by omission does not make it okay." A small bit of anger slowly began to build within her.
"Well, one day I'm sure you'll tell her," he said. He wasn't angry, but she knew he was hurt. Like he always was during this conversation.
"And you won't?"
"And shatter our perfect family?" He swung around unexpectedly. His normally silver eyes had clouded over to become a grey with unhidden hurt.
"It won't shatter anything," she denied stubbornly.
He shrugged then, feigning indifference.
"Draco," she started to plead.
"What?" he answered rather coldly.
"Don't pretend not to care. I know you care; I'm glad you care. But she has to know who her father is!" The woman was exasperated.
"I'm her father." With those three words, he turned and hurried out of the room.
"No, Draco, my love, Harry Potter is Hannah's father," Ginny Malfoy (formerly Ginny Potter) whispered into the abandoned room.
"Mommy!" The voice rang out through the door into where the little girl's mother stood. She ran into the room, stopping at the door. "Who's in that picture?" She asked innocently, unknowing that her world could be changed with one simple question.
Ginny smiled at her eight-year-old girl. "My old friend is all." Hannah shrugged her shoulders. "Go get Adrianne, please. Dinner's in five minutes so wash up."
Hannah ran joyfully back out the door. Ginny turned to place the picture back on the mantle with the other family photos. "One day," she whispered. "Harry, one day."
"Thank you."
Ginny turned and saw her husband standing there.
"One day I will tell her. I have to. I'm her mother. I won't lie to her for long." Ginny knew her words sounded like a threat to her husband.
For the first time since this situation started to happen, he didn't walk away. Instead he walked over to his wife and put his arms around her. "One day, we will tell her. Perhaps when she attends Hogwarts. I promise."
She hugged her husband tightly. "I'll remember your promise."
"She's not old enough yet, she won't understand. And she is my daughter," he added.
"Legally, but biolog--"
"No, in every way that matters. I was with you when you gave birth albeit as a friend rather than husband. I was there when she took her first steps... I was there for her. I am her father in every way that matters. I even adopted her."
Instead of responding to her husbands touching, and slightly misguided, sentiments, she just hugged him. "She knows you are her father. She knows. I know," she whispered reassuringly in to her husband's ear.