RISING FROM THE ASHES
Chapter Thirteen — Conversations with a Portrait
"Smith," said Harry coolly, pulling off the cloak.
"Potter?" Zacharias Smith asked, astonishment washing over his formerly arrogant features. His eyes darted suspiciously from Harry, to Ron, to Hermione. "What are you doing at my house?"
"Your house!" Ron exclaimed, staring at the vast estate before him.
"Yes, Weasley, my house," he smirked, "now, if you'd be so kind as to just leave…" he began to close the door, but a short woman with hay-colored tumbling curls stuck her foot in it.
"Now, Zachie," she scolded, causing the Hufflepuff to groan and pinch the bridge of his nose, "are these friends of yours from school?"
Her use of the nickname "Zachie" caused Ron to let out an audible snigger, earning a jab in the side from Harry and Hermione.
"No, mother," he said, eyeing them disdainfully, trying to shut the door again, but it was too late. Mrs. Smith had spotted Harry.
"By Helga!" she exclaimed delightedly. "If it isn't Harry Potter," she beamed up at them, "I'm Bonnie Smith, pleased to make your acquaintance."
"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Smith," Harry said politely, extending a hand to shake hers, his long fingers curling around her short stubby ones.
She giggled girlishly. "Please, call me Bonnie. Now how can I help you and your friends?"
"Er," said Harry, looking uncertainly at Zacharias Smith, who was giving him a fierce glare, "we've gotten lost, and need a place to stay the night. Would it be alright if we –"
"Stayed here?" she asked kindly. "Of course it is my dear. We've plenty of room to spare, as you can see," she said, gesturing around the enormous reception area.
"Yeah," said Harry shifting his feet, "I can see that."
Zacharias snorted, and Ron shot him a glare, but kept his mouth shut, not daring to insult him in front of his mother.
"Shall I find you each a room, then?" Mrs. Smith (for Harry didn't quite feel comfortable calling a woman he barely knew by her first name) asked them. "My husband's away on business, so it'll just be us five for the night."
"Okay, thank you," Harry said, and followed her up a winding staircase to the second story.
"Your rooms are down that hall," she said, motioning to her left. "I do reckon I'll have a spot of brandy and then turn in for the night. Care to join me?"
"No," said Hermione, speaking for the first time since they'd arrived, "we're all very tired, but thank you for the offer."
"Well, if you insist," said Mrs. Smith, looking a little taken aback. "Goodnight then. I'll have a house-elf wake you in the morning."
"That'd be great," said Ron, and he and Harry pulled Hermione away before she could protest.
"I will not be woken by slave labor," Hermione sniffed indignantly.
"Haven't you given up on spew yet, Hermione?" Ron asked exasperatedly.
"It's S.P.E.W., and you'd do well to remember that, Ron Weasley!" she snarled, her voice dangerously low. "You'd also do well to remember that my dueling skills far surpass yours."
Ron glared at her, his cobalt blues eyes becoming slits. "Is that right?" he asked, leaning against the wall of the hallway. "Who got cursed with that wonky purple hex not too far into the battle at the Ministry, then, eh?"
"Yes, and who accio'd a brain?" Hermione responded viciously.
"I – you –" Ron spluttered, folding his arms over his chest, "Harry! A little help here, mate?"
Harry didn't respond. He simply stared, transfixed, at the portrait next to the bedroom door.
"Harry?" Ron repeated, roughly shoving his shoulder, once again getting no answer or indication he'd been heard.
"I've seen her before," Harry said slowly, wonderingly.
"Who?" Ron and Hermione asked together, all thoughts of their dispute forgotten.
"That woman, the one in the portrait," he continued dazedly.
Hermione frowned. "She doesn't look familiar to me," she said, leaning in to get a closer look. "It says here that her name is…"
"Hepzibah Smith," Harry interrupted, still staring at the portrait.
"Yes," said Hermione, her eyebrows crinkling, "how did you know?"
"I saw her in Dumbledore's memory," Harry explained, eyes fixed on the dozing portrait, "she used to own Slytherin's locket and Hufflepuff's cup."
"So do you reckon Smith – Zacharias, that is – is her descendant?" Ron asked.
"Yeah," said Harry, "I mean, it would fit, wouldn't it? They share the same surname, and he's in Hufflepuff. For all we know, this could be her old house…"
Hepzibah Smith was currently snoring; her intricate ginger wig perched precariously on her enormous head. She wore flowing robes of lavender, similar to the lurid pink robes Harry had seen her in while viewing Dumbledore's memory.
"Reckon we should wake her up?" Ron asked in a hushed whisper, glancing at her picture.
"Well, we want answers, don't we?" Harry responded, and lightly tapped her portrait.
"Excuse me," he said quietly, not wanting to wake Zacharias or his mother. Hepzibah snored on.
"Hello?" he tried again, this time rapping on her frame.
She woke with a start, her garish pink colored lips opening in surprise.
"Whas' this now?" she asked groggily, raising her pudgy hands to rub her eyes.
"Sorry to wake you," Harry said carefully, "but we were wondering if we might be able to ask you a few questions."
"What on earth would you want to talk to me for?" she asked, patting her wig back into place.
"We, erm…" Harry began, but was cut off by Hermione.
"We're doing a research report for school," she invented, "and we've read all about you – you're Hepzibah Smith, aren't you? Hufflepuff's heir? Well, we've, uh, read so much about you that we decided to seek you out for additional information because you were just so … fascinating." she said, eyeing Hepzibah's putrid robes and wig distastefully.
Harry and Ron, of course, saw right through Hermione's bald-faced lie, but Hepzibah Smith, as Harry recalled from Dumbledore's memory, was prone to being won over through flattery.
"Ooh," she squealed girlishly, "well, isn't that just lovely. What do you want to know now, dear?"
Hermione winced at being referred to as "dear", but continued on. "Didn't you once own Hufflepuff's golden cup, and Slytherin's locket?
Hepzibah's scarlet face darkened. "Yes," she said softly, "I used to…" she trailed off, staring determinedly into space.
"What happened?" Harry prodded, even though he knew full well.
"The last I remember seeing it was when young Tom Riddle came to visit me," she said, sighing dreamily. Harry and Ron exchanged looks of disgust, Ron muffling a snort of laughter with a fake cough, before turning back to listen. "I died later that day," she continued, "I remember tasting something funny in my drink, but I disregarded it, and the next thing I knew I was … dead, and in my portrait," she concluded, sounding a bit like Moaning Myrtle to Harry.
"Do you know where they ended up?" Harry asked keenly, heart racing.
"No idea whatsoever," she replied primly, folding her hands together. A flicker of suspicion crossed her face. "What is the basis of your research project?" she asked, beady eyes narrowing.
"History of Hufflepuff," Ron said automatically, picking a flower vase off the table underneath her portrait and tossing it carelessly from one hand to the next.
"Stop that!" she shrieked, "That vase belonged to my mother you —"
"Silencio," Hermione said quickly, and although Hepzibah Smith continued to shout, her cries were no longer heard.
Harry sighed, running a hand through his dark messy hair. "So we're no better off than we were before," he stated bitterly. "Let's just get some sleep then, shall we?"
"Yes," Hermione agreed, "and maybe Mrs. Smith or Zacharias will know something about the cup."
"I doubt it," Harry said, "Dumbledore told me that Hepzibah's descendants had no more of an idea where the cup went than Dobby has of how to tap-dance."
Hermione raised an eyebrow at him, and Harry chuckled. "Well, those weren't his exact words, but you get the idea."
…
Harry yawned, pulling the covers of the oak bed back and sliding between the sheet and the comforter. It had been a very long day, and he was very ready to close his eyes and drift into a peaceful slumber, but visions of a certain red-headed Weasley that wasn't Ron or any of his brothers kept dancing unbidden through his head.
When he finally fell asleep, his dreams were far from peaceful. Distorted images of his mother screaming for his life swept him into a fearful whirlwind, blending together with his wistful fantasies of Ginny, so that soon he could not tell whether it was his mother screaming or Ginny. Whichever of the two it was, she was dressed in a white gown with a glimmering silver tiara perched upon her head.
The beautiful red-headed woman screamed again, and her gown became drenched in blood, streams of it pouring from the satin bow below her heart. Her eyes slowly drooped shut as high-pitched cackles filled the air.
She staggered forward, clutching her chest as she grew as pale as the material in which she was dressed. Lily – or Ginny – Harry still could not tell which, swayed where she stood, and fell forward into an intricate mirror which Harry recognized as the Mirror of Erised.
The glass shattered, shards of it embedding into her soft skin. She wailed even louder still, eyes wide as she looked around frantically, searching…
Another figure rose from among the shards of glass, smoke twirling around her battered body as she ascended toward the stone ceiling of the enormous room. It twisted throughout her matted brown hair, and Harry, horrified, recognized the figure as an ash-coated Hermione.
Ginny – or was it Lily – rose slowly into the air to float beside her, her head dropping onto her shoulder as though her neck were broken.
They floated side by side, the redhead still dripping blood onto the cold stone floor, and cold tears falling like rain from Hermione's terrified brown eyes.
And all the while, Dobby tap-danced to Celestina Warbeck's "Beat Back Those Bludgers, Boys, and Chuck That Quaffle Here", the upbeat music mixing with the soulful and tragic sounds of a phoenix song.