"Alright, that's enough of those Order of the Phoenix reports. Aren't you heading to Godric's Hollow tomorrow?"
Anne stepped out of the bathroom, her hair still damp, and gently pulled Hermione away from the desk toward the bed.
Hermione glanced at her watch. "But it's still early to go to sleep. And we're leaving tomorrow night."
"I'm not telling you to sleep right now," Anne said matter-of-factly. "I know you're leaving at night. But I can't go with you tomorrow or the day after. The double plan's been cancelled, and showing up in Godric's Hollow will draw too much attention, it's under Death Eater surveillance. I'll need those two days to erase the trail."
"Then… um, what do we do now?" Hermione asked, feeling a strange flicker of nervousness.
"Something I've wanted to do for a long time," Anne replied casually, her eyes sweeping around the room.
"Did I leave my backpack in the sitting room?" she murmured to herself, then turned to Hermione. "I'm just going to grab something. You, Miss Granger, get into bed first."
Before Hermione could answer, Anne had already turned and headed for the door.
"Anne?"
"I'll be right back, and don't you dare sneak another look at those reports!"
She said it without looking back, opened the door, and slipped out, closing it behind her with a soft click.
Hermione stared at the closed door, then glanced from the bed to the stack of papers on the desk.
Her ears were flushed pink. After a moment, she lifted the blanket and climbed into bed, lying perfectly straight on her back, eyes fixed on the chandelier above.
It's a bit too bright, isn't it?
She propped herself up on one elbow, reached for her wand on the nightstand, and hesitated.
Holding the wand loosely, she lay back down, her head sinking into the pillow, her cheeks warming further.
Would that be too much?
But it was awfully bright, the room visible down to every corner.
She lifted her wand, lowered it again, then finally whispered a soft incantation. The crystal chandelier went dark.
The room dimmed at once, leaving only the two bedside lamps glowing in a pool of warm golden light.
Hermione clutched her wand; her palm was damp, her face hot.
Is it warm in here… or just me?
The door opened with a quiet click.
Anne stepped back in, a backpack in hand.
"Well, this is quite the cozy atmosphere," she said, hanging the pack on the coat rack before walking over.
Hermione quickly placed her wand back on the nightstand and burrowed deeper under the covers.
When Anne reached the bed, she found Hermione peeking out from the blanket, only a pair of wide eyes visible, fingers gripping the edge tightly.
Puzzled, Anne tilted her head. "Hermione, are you cold? It's only early September."
"I—" Hermione began, but Anne was already climbing onto the bed, kicking off her slippers.
Hermione instinctively scooted to the other side.
"It's fine," Anne said lightly. "If you're cold, keep the blanket. I just got out of the shower, I'm warm enough."
She plumped up a pillow, propped it against the headboard, and leaned back comfortably.
"Uh, Anne… what exactly are you doing?" Hermione asked, the blush fading from her cheeks only to return twice as strong.
Anne turned sideways, grabbed a book from the nightstand, and held it up like a prize. "Fair's fair. Last time you read me The Tales of Beedle the Bard. Tonight, it's my turn to tell you a bedtime story."
Hermione's face turned red.
Anne didn't notice. She was already opening the book.
"This was my favorite story when I was little, The Little Prince. But I'd never read it in the original French. I couldn't, back then. Now that I speak French, and you can understand it too, perfect, right? Ever since you read to me last time, I've wanted to do this. I found this copy today, in a London bookshop window. Bought it on the spot."
She grinned. "I thought, tonight's the night."
"I never realized the original had so many illustrations," Anne mused, flipping through the pages. "The one I read as a kid was mostly text. Though, honestly, I used to imagine all the pictures myself anyway. And looking at these now… I wasn't that far off."
She glanced sideways. "Still cold?"
Hermione, who had inched closer, murmured, "No. I'm fine now."
"Then lean on me," Anne said gently. "It's more comfortable that way."
She adjusted the pillow, slipped an arm around Hermione's shoulders, and drew her close until Hermione's head rested against her shoulder.
"Have you read it before?" Anne asked, lifting the book so they could both see.
"Yes," Hermione said softly, pulling part of the blanket over Anne's lap and looping an arm around her waist. "The English version. Ages ago."
"Then let me read it to you in French this time," Anne said cheerfully. "Ready?"
"Mm-hmm."
"Alright then." Anne smiled, and began:
"When I was six years old, I saw a magnificent picture in a book about the primeval forest, called True Stories from Nature. It showed a boa constrictor swallowing a wild beast…"
Anne's French had a peculiar rhythm, soft, with gentle dips in tone at certain endings. It sounded almost velvety, a little unusual at first, but as Hermione listened, she found herself relaxing into the music of it.
Anne continued, her voice quiet and steady:
"The next planet the Little Prince visited was inhabited by a drunkard. The visit was very short, but it plunged the Little Prince into deep melancholy.
'What are you doing?' he asked.
'I'm drinking,' said the drunkard gloomily.
'Why are you drinking?'
'To forget.'
'To forget what?'
'To forget that I am ashamed.'
'Ashamed of what?'
'Ashamed of drinking.'
And the drunkard said no more. The Little Prince left, bewildered, murmuring to himself: 'Grown-ups are certainly very, very odd…'"
Hermione smiled faintly. Anne's voice carried both fondness and sadness.
"'In your garden,' said the Little Prince, 'you grow five thousand roses… and yet you cannot find what you're looking for among them.'
'You can't find it,' I answered.
'And yet what you're looking for could be found in a single rose, or a drop of water.'
'Exactly,' I said.
'It is only with the heart that one can see rightly. What is essential is invisible to the eye.'"
Anne repeated the line softly, almost to herself. "It is only with the heart that one can see rightly."
Hermione turned her head slightly, watching her. The lamplight brushed Anne's profile, painting her lashes in gold.
Anne flipped the next page.
"'Good evening,' said the Little Prince politely. He turned around but saw nothing.
'I'm here,' said the voice. 'Under the apple tree.'"
Her voice trailed off. The room was quiet except for the rustle of turning pages and the faint, steady rhythm of their breathing.
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