1st of March 2020

22. 1st of March 2020

He had been frightened—terrified even—because it had taken so long. For a while he and some of the other Heads had feared that she, for some reason, wouldn't get a portrait. But now, finally, it had appeared.

He swallowed hard, not daring to hope the door would be open between their paintings. He didn't deserve it after all. But when he pushed it, it swung open without a sound, and he could take the one step that would bring him to stand in Hermione's painting.

The interior in hers was nothing like the one in his own painting.

The walls here were washed, and the ceiling low with chunky, oak beams. The windows were small, but so many that the room was still filled with light. The curtains were so thin that they were see-through, thus letting an abundance of light into the room. Two plush armchairs in a restful mauve shade were placed opposite each other with a small table standing between them. A sofa for three in the same colour against a wall. An oak table matching the bookshelves.

A pleasant room. A room to spend time in, reading and conversing.

He couldn't help himself, seeing the chess game standing on the sideboard between the armchairs. He went over and looked more closely at it. It was made of green and red marble. And he surprised himself when he couldn't help chuckling at it. It felt reassuring to see it. To play chess with a very bad opponent felt oddly desirable.

Then he looked at the person he most wanted to see but had avoided looking at.

Hermione was sitting, or rather lying, in one of the armchairs, legs curled up on the seat, with her head placed on one of the armrests. Funny how he had never noticed that she was such a small person. She had never struck him as little, not when he had taught her at school, never as she taught Ancient Runes and not as the Headmistress—but she was, he realised.

He sank down in the plush armchair opposite hers, not knowing what to do next. He'd been told he had slept for three months before waking up when his portrait had first appeared. He knew for a fact that Albus had slept for four and a half and Minerva for two. He also remembered that he had woken with a painful crick in his neck that had been very hard to get rid of, even with the help of potions.

She would hurt when she woke up, sleeping in that position. And she had all those curls in her face too. And she didn't even have a blanket.

He'd been frozen and stiff when he woke up, besides sleeping in an awkward position. And the old men and women in the rest of the portraits where old enough to have forgotten how miserable the awakening had been.

She needed to be moved somewhere comfortable, where she could get some proper rest. He rose and went over to her. He carefully removed her hair from her face. It was so very soft, surprisingly. He would have thought it to be coarse and stringy, but it was the opposite.

He scooped her up in his arms and went toward her bedroom. Her bedroom was pretty too, with walls coloured in a misty green. He put her down on the bed and reached for the first button on her robe. He pulled his hand back before he even touched.

She wasn't comfortable enough. But he couldn't undress her. Not without her knowing. It wouldn't be ... right. Dishonourable, and he didn't intend to start things out that way. He would be careful.

He would fetch Minerva and explain to her what needed to be done. She would help; he was sure.

But just not now. He sat down on the bed and looked at her. Her whole life had been such an utter tragedy. The better part of her childhood marred by the Dark Lord. Widowed much too early. Used in Ministry games, and in the end, murdered by an insane house-elf. He stroked her hair, removing some strands that had ended up in her face again, mostly because he wanted to touch her hair some more.

She would have to build up a new way of being now. And she could still meet her children, and eventually, her grandchildren. That would make her happy.

And she would have him to take care of her.

He would make sure that she had him present, whenever and in whichever capacity she needed him.

He was a patient man. He had learned that revenge took time. And so did other, less destructive, things. And they both had plenty of time to spend together.

He would make sure that they had plenty of time together.