The Prefect's Portrait

The Prefect's Portrait

Chapter one: The Reading Room

Hermione had walked past the picture for weeks. Down the stairs from the Gryffindor common room, past the archway leading toward the library, and into a dusty, narrow hall that suddenly opened into an inviting windowed alcove; she had worn a path day after day and night after night, looking for a quiet place to read.

The picture hung on the south wall, close to the window seat. Hermione liked the picture, for the girl in it was quietly reading herself, pale profile turned to the viewer. It was a wonderful picture of the Hogwarts Library, the girl sitting at the very table, and the very chair, that Hermione herself favoured.

She had stumbled on the place by accident, one sunny Saturday afternoon early in her sixth year. Everyone else had gone to Hogsmeade for an adolescent orgy of candy buying and butterbeer drinking. She had decided to delve into the little-known history of the Thulian Magus, when she was distracted by a persistent and subliminally annoying series of throat-clearings and sighs. She looked up to find Madam Pince staring at her.

"Yes, Madam Pince, what is it?"

"Miss Granger, it is nearly four o'clock." Hermione stared at her blankly. The library hours were clearly posted as 9 to 12, and 1 to 5 on Saturdays. "Miss Granger," the librarian continued, "have you noticed that you are the only student in here on Hogsmeade Saturday afternoons?" Hermione opened her mouth, but the librarian cut her off. "Are you writing an essay for a class?" Hermione shook her head. "Preparing a special report?" Hermione shook her head again. "Researching a topic at the request of an instructor?"

"No, Madam Pince, but I--" Hermione began, turning red.

"No, you are doing none of those things." The librarian narrowed her eyes. "You are taking up my time with your recreational reading. You could check out those books and allow me to have an occasional weekend off. Instead, you chain me to my desk on a lovely afternoon. You could be reading in your room. You could be reading outside. You could be in the Gryffindor common room." Madam Pince, rose, brushing invisible dust off her immaculate robes. "I shall speak to the Headmaster about closing the library on Hogsmeade weekends. It's absurd to keep it open for only one student, and that student not even needing it for schoolwork."

Hermione, now hot with embarrassment, had snatched up her books, and brought them to the librarian's desk, standing impatiently while the librarian flicked her wand over them, eyeing her coldly.

"Thank you," Hermione bit out, and then stalked furiously out of the library, muttering. "I thought I could at least have a moment's peace in the library! I didn't know I needed my own bloody READING ROOM!"

At the unladylike bellow of "READING ROOM," an undistinguished painting of Helga Hufflepuff Healing the Hyborian Hobbits swung open, revealing a dim hall that appeared to be lit at the end. Hermione started down it hesitantly, and then rounding the corner, saw the soaring Gothic window with a stained glass insert of the Tree of Life. She took in the deep stone window seat, the dust on all the surfaces proclaiming them long unused, and realized that she had found a piece of Hogwarts for her very own. She turned away from the window and saw a large oil painting of a girl in the Hogwarts Library. She came closer, and the girl looked up briefly and smiled, before returning to the volume on the table in front of her.

Since then, she had restricted her library stays, making a point never to be the last student there. It was an easy thing to check out the books and wait a moment for the corridor outside to be clear, before whispering the password and slipping down the hall to her secret place. She had long ago brought a few cushions to scatter on the window seat. A muttered "Lumos!" and she had her own private reading room, away from the rigidities of Madam Pince, the noise of the common room, and the imbecilities of her roommates. She decided to keep the secret even from Ron and Harry, not wanting her private study to become the Gryffindor common room annex.

Time passed, and she studied and absorbed, while the girl in the picture read companionably nearby. Silence reigned, broken only by the whisper of pages turned by a living girl, and more softly still, by the painted image.

---

Perhaps habit had made her careless. Shortly before Halloween, Hermione decided to stay up reading one Friday night. She had been in a hurry to get away from her friends and plunge into Ars Animagi. Slipping out of the library, she waited in the shadows for the last student to leave. Anthony Goldstein and his wretched girlfriend were dawdling along, while Tony held forth, as usual.

"We prefects bear a heavy burden, Hannah," he mourned. "Professor Flitwick has confided to me that I'm definitely in the running for Head Boy next year. With great honours must come great responsibilities." Hermione rolled her eyes.

Oh, Tony," Hannah condoled, squeezing his hand, "I wish I knew how to help you!" Tony looked down at her hopefully, as she leaned back against the wall.

"Well, Hannah, there is something you could do--something that would mean so much--" he broke off at the sound of quick, booted strides coming toward the library. "Cripes!" Hannah gaped at him. Tony grabbed at her, pulling her along in the other direction. "It's Snape!" he hissed. "Hurry!"

The two of them scrambled off, while Hermione dashed to the scene of Hufflepuff glory, gabbled the password and ran down the well-worn corridor. She called out "Lumos," spread her books about her, settled herself comfortably on the cushions and lost herself in the discipline of Advanced Personal Transfiguration.

She was getting along nicely, reviewing the meditation techniques necessary for visualizing one's animal alter ego. Perhaps this year, Professor McGonagall will agree to tutor me. What would I be? She imagined herself a cat. Whoops, that could cause embarrassing encounters with Crookshanks-- I don't think I'm ready for that! She couldn't see herself as a dog. I'm just not a dog person. I do hope I'm not a snake or anything nasty--I don't even like the Reptile House at the Zoo. Perhaps a bird? It could make up for my lack of flying skills. Yes, I'd quite like a bird--a swallow, a robin-- or something bigger? A stork, a raven, or a great black BAT!

Merlin!" she shrieked, clutching her heart.

'No, Miss Granger, not quite. What are you doing here?" Looming over her, The Great Black Bat himself fixed her with his patented glare. Hermione slid awkwardly off the window seat, dropping Ars Animagi with a thud and puff of dust. I didn't even hear him! However does he DO that? Oh, Circe, I forgot to close the picture behind me! Stupid, stupid, stupid!

"Studying, Professor Snape," she faltered, her voice sounding thin and girlish in the silence. He paused, and raised an eyebrow with a smirk.

"You appear to me to be simply throwing valuable Hogwarts property to the dirty floor. An interesting interpretation of studying. Do you plan to abuse the other volumes in the same way? Or will you tread on them as well? And why here? Has the Gryffindor common room been laid waste by your friends? Perhaps your dormitory has been sacked by the Goths, Vandals, Weasleys, or Potters?"

"I was just looking for a quiet corner, sir, and I found an open door--"

"It is past curfew, Miss Granger," he said coldly. "Past curfew by over half an hour, and even a Gryffindor prefect should have more respect for rules known to her for years. You have lost your house twenty points. Twenty-five," he amended, looking at Ars Animagi on the floor. "Now gather up those books as carefully as you are able and get to your dormitory immediately."

He stood over her, dark and intimidating; making no move to help her, as she hastily retrieved Ars Animagi, adding it to the pile of volumes which she gathered from the window seat. She dared a glance at Snape, who was looking curiously about the alcove. He paused in front of the picture, and his face grew stony.

"Shall we make it an even thirty points, Miss Granger, or will you get moving?" he snarled, the velvety baritone strangely rough. Hermione trotted past him, arms full of tomes. She picked up speed past the picture and made a dash for Gryffindor tower, leaving an irritated Potions Master in her wake.

He turned back to the picture of the girl in the library. It was very like her. Pale, delicate face, thick red hair half pulled back and falling almost to her waist, Gryffindor tie neatly knotted at the base of the slender, long neck.

The girl looked up, did a double take, and asked, shocked, "Severus, is that you?"

Snape cleared his throat, "Hello, Lily."

Chapter Two: The Girl Who Died

Not until Wednesday night did Hermione have a chance to get back to her secret study. Harry and Ron had appeared to think themselves joined to her at the hip throughout dinner, until distracted by a flurry of green feathers exploding from the Slytherins' ice cream bombe. "Bombs away!" squeaked Colin Creevy, while Dean and Seamus, the perpetrators of the prank, smiled with heart-felt satisfaction. Ron was gleeful, and Harry, for once, laughed out loud with sheer joy. For their part, the Slytherins looked ready to declare all-out war, using handsful of feathered ice cream as missiles. Goyle grabbed up the entire platter; and striking a pose not unlike Hector before the ships, was heaving it over at the Gryffindors, when the Head Table noticed the disturbance and came down rather heavily on the combatants.

The Slytherins, restrained by their Head of House, were screaming and waving the disgusting remains of their pudding under his distinguished nose, demanding justice. The Gryffindors, not even pretending innocence, were either roaring with laughter or making a cacophony of bird noises. Parrot calls, rooster crows, canary song filled the hall; while Professor McGonagall, vainly attempting to look reproving, quietly gave points for ingenuity. The Hufflepuffs were scandalised at the noise, while the Ravenclaws, irritated beyond tact, appealed to Professor Flitwick "to do something about this whole Slytherin-Gryffindor thing--which has gone too long!"

"Really," sniffed Padma Patil, "you'd think they were the only houses in Hogwarts! It's always about them!" "Indeed," agreed Terry Boot, "I predict that the unending psychodrama of that rivalry will ultimately bring down the British wizarding world. It's high time the Ministry stepped in." Then, remembering the last time the Ministry had stepped in at Hogwarts, he groaned in despair, head in his hands.

Hermione, meanwhile, had fled the scene. When the Headmaster regained command of the Great Hall, which was certain to happen within the next ten seconds, all houses would be sent directly to their respective Common Rooms. "If I don't actually hear the order, I won't feel so bad about disobeying him," she rationalised.

Within minutes, she was running, books, parchment, and quills in arms, toward the Hufflepuff painting. "Reading Room," she gasped. Slipping through the passage, she carefully shut the painting behind her, and leaned back against the cold stone, catching her breath. A little more composed, she called out "Lumos!" and walked over to the window seat.

"Hello there!" a voice called out. Hermione smothered a shriek and whirled about, to see who had followed her.

"Hello there," the voice called again. "Miss -Granger, is it? Up here!"

It was the girl in the picture.

"Hello," responded Hermione, a little tentatively. The Gryffindor girl pushed her books to one side and waved her closer.

"I've been waiting for simply ages to talk to you! I thought you weren't coming back after the little fracas the other night with Severus Snape."

Hermione shrugged. "That was nothing. He's always on me about one thing or another. He hates my friends, too."

The girl in the picture looked surprised. "I'd hardly call losing twenty-five points nothing." She peered at Hermione. "But you're a prefect!" She beamed, "So am I!" She tapped her badge complacently. "So---Granger, is it?"

"Hermione. Hermione Granger."

"Delighted to make your acquaintance, Hermione. I'm Lily--"

"Lily Potter!" cried Hermione, astounded. Looking carefully at the picture, she could see the resemblance to the pictures Harry had shown her. This girl was her own age, but the wonderful green eyes, the charming dimples, and the dark red hair proclaimed the woman she would be. Or had been? Hermione was uncertain.

The girl in the picture paused, taken aback. "No, Lily Evans. I don't know any Lily Potter. There's a Potter in my year--in my house, in fact, more's the pity--but we're no relation. He's an ever-so-pureblood Potter, and I'm but a lowly muggleborn."

Hermione thought quickly. Of course the picture was of Lily Evans--a student like herself--long before she married Harry's father James. Apparently this picture was not current with Hogwart's gossip. Curious, she decided on a tactful approach.

"I'm muggleborn myself." Hermione said, and the girl in the picture smiled back in an interested, friendly way. "Pardon me, but I was under the impression that the pictures talked to one another, and visited about the castle. You--don't?"

"No, no. I'm rather a different sort. Has to do with the way I was painted. I'm pretty much tied to this picture, but it never bothered me. In fact, I thought I had just been finished and bespelled the other day, but then I saw Severus...." The girl's--well, Lily's-- voice trailed away, and she looked uncomfortable. "He's a grown man! And he looks so--I don't know--so worn. I made him talk to me a bit, though, and he told me he's teaching here now."

"Yes," Hermione answered faintly. "Yes. He's Potions Master. And Head of Slytherin."

Lily-in-the-picture seemed impressed. "He didn't tell me that. How very distinguished. Mind you, it's hardly a great surprise. He was no end of a swot here at school, though I would have placed him in Defense. He's frightfully good at that too, you know."

"I know," Hermione replied, rather stiffly. "Now and then he takes some Defense classes, when the regular professor is unavailable."

"Dumbledore still Headmaster?"

"What?---oh, yes."

"Not surprising either. That man will never die. Does he still twinkle?"

"Occasionally."

Hermione was feeling increasingly uneasy. This girl hadn't a clue what had become of the woman of whom she was the image. What if she asked about her? What ought she to say?

The girl looked at her sharply, as if reading her mind. "You know me, don't you? I mean--the other me, the one outside the picture."

"Yes, I've heard of you." Hermione groped for something cheerful to say.

"From my book?"

"Your book?" Hermione shut her jaw carefully. Of all things the picture might have asked, this was one she was not prepared for. Desperately she searched her mental card catalogue for any published works by Lily, either Potter or Evans, and answer came there none. "I'm sorry, I don't recall any book by you."

Lily-in-the-picture was becoming more serious with every exchange. She looked down at her books, and then blurted out, "She's dead, isn't she--the other me?"

Hermione saw no virtue in lying. "Yes, she died quite awhile ago."

"While in school? That could explain why the book wasn't finished."

"No, she died later." The picture was looking more puzzled, and Hermione explained, "She was married with a baby. Perhaps she was too busy to finish the book right away." Seeing the girl turning pink with annoyance, Hermione tried to defuse her anger. "I'm sure she would have finished it, once she was not so busy...." She was painfully aware how lame that sounded. Hermione felt that if she herself ever had hopes of publication, seven little wizardlings would not prevent her.

The girl in the picture seemed to have reached an unpleasant conclusion, and nearly shouted, "Lily Potter! You mean she married that arrogant tosser? Was she mad? He'd be just the sort to keep her barefoot and pregnant! She'd have done better to marry Remus, out of that lot! He at least listened to me about the book, and had the grace to pretend interest! What? Did she die of boredom or booze?"

Pink herself, Hermione felt unaccountably protective of the Lily-who-was-Harry's-mother. "She and James were killed by a dark wizard." She took a breath, and daringly said the name. "Lord Voldemort."

"Never heard of him," Lily said contemptuously. "She must have gotten frightfully feeble, I'd say--to let some jumped-up Lord Oldyfart do her in. Changed too many nappies and went soft."

At once indignant, reluctantly admiring, and surprised at Harry's mother being so entirely different from her own ideas, Hermione gave her a concise but colourful summary of the rise of Voldemort and the Death Eaters, the fate of the Potters, and the survival and further adventures of the Boy-Who-Lived.

Lily-in-the-picture listened in silence, but seemed to be repressing growing fury. "You mean that the other Lily defeated this Oldyfart with a brilliant piece of ancient protective magic, and it's the boy who gets all the credit?

Hermione had never thought about quite that way. "Yes, that's right, I'm afraid. But Harry---"

"And they sent her child off to live with Petunia! I daresay they both enjoyed that!"

"I don't think the Dursleys have been very nice to Harry--"

"Dursley, eh? Horrible name. So she and her---I presume Muggle?-- (Hermione nodded) husband treated the boy badly. What a shock! How could they do that?" The picture's pretty mouth twisted a little. "I supposed Dumbledore is so old, he's forgotten what childhood is really like--or perhaps his long-ago Victorian childhood was so perfect that he can't imagine a child in real misery. That would explain a lot of what he allows to go on around here."

This caught Hermione's attention at once. There were a lot of things that she felt Muggle schools managed better than Hogwarts; but no one to discuss them with. The purebloods knew nothing else--and thought reflexively that any thing of theirs must be superior to the creations of mere Muggles--and Harry, ignorant of the muggle world as he was, was no better.

She admitted cautiously, "There's a great deal of bullying and prejudice here---"

"I should say so!" the picture agreed, now roused fully in pursuit of a favourite topic. "The things that Potter and his gang have done to Severus wouldn't be tolerated for a minute in a proper school. I don't know what Dumbledore's thinking---maybe that it will toughen him up. I'd think it would just make him angry and bitter. There's so much snobbery and favouritism here!"

"And the muggle studies program is a joke," added Hermione, becoming excited herself. "There's no study of literature, no music, no art, and the history as taught by Binns---"

"Binns is still here?" groaned Lily. "Does he cover Grindelwald?"

"No, we never get that far, much less cover the last war." Lily-in-the-picture looked at her questioningly, and Hermione clarified, "The rise of Voldemort--"

"Oldyfart," muttered Lily, rebelliously.

"Voldemort," repeated Hermione, with a touch of pedantry. "He goes over the Goblin Rebellions in great detail, though."

"Never covers anything relevant. I used to think it was laziness. Now I think Dumbledore wants it that way. Wouldn't do to raise hackles by discussing anything controversial." She added, a little sourly. "That's why I was so excited about my research."

Hermione could hardly keep from hugging herself. It was so very delightful to talk to another girl with whom she had so much in common. It was a novel experience, in both the muggle and magical worlds; and while she knew her next question would lead to a lengthy answer, she could not resist.

"Would you tell me about your book?"

Lily-in-the-picture glowed, pleased to be asked. Her green eyes sparkled, and showing her dimples, she began her tale....