The Joining by Stoneheart

Rating: PG
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 4
Published: 07/10/2003
Last Updated: 26/12/2003
Status: Completed

Blessed with a love far surpassing the ordinary, Harry and Hermione dare the most EXTRA-ordinary
wedding ceremony in the wizarding world. But is their love pure enough to defeat the greatest
adversary of all in the depths of -- the Soul Chamber?




1. The Path
-----------

**Disclaimer:**I own only the magical wedding ceremony and all things pertaining thereto.
Everyone and everything else belongs to J.K. Rowling, and no copyright infringement is
intended.

**Author's Note:** Having seen the list of first-rate authors featured here, I can’t help
but wonder if I made a mistake signing up. But Heaven and galtxtr encouraged me (as well as an
excellent writer pen-named sbys, who SHOULD be on this site instead of me!), so I decided to have a
bash.

This story is a departure from my usual fare, which tends to rely on plot over fluff, even in my
so-called romances. But this story simply begged to be told. It is my way of nailing down the
Harry/Hermione ship once and for all. I wanted to join our favorite couple in such a way that no
other wizard could POSSIBLY stand in Harry’s place and win through. It’s not a work of literary
art, merely my own personal beliefs imbued with corporeal substance. I readily concede that it is a
scenario that J.K. would never consider. All the more reason, I believed, for me to pour it out
onto the “written page,” so to speak. Genius she may be, but she’s a bloody frustrating one for all
that.

As I stated on FanFiction.Net, I have read relatively little in the way of HP fanfiction. With more
than a hundred thousand stories floating around on hundreds of sites, it is possible that some part
of my story may be an imitation of others’ work. If this proves to be the case, it is coincidence
and nothing more, and hope the writer or writers in question will forgive my trespass.

This story is 25 chapters long, and was written more than a year ago. It is my policy not to post
any story before it is complete, so that I may not inflict my writer’s block on any kind enough to
read my work. In addition, as I tend to let much of any story write itself, many take unexpected
turns, compelling me to go back and change earlier chapters to conform with new developments. Thus,
I will never post the first chapter of any story for which the concluding chapter is not already
written and the ending nailed down.

Why, then, do I not post stories in their entirety, but space the chapters out, week by week?
Simply because I am never fully satisfied with anything I write. By spacing the chapters, I can
proofread them one final time so that each may be polished up as may seem appropriate. The block of
chapters posted here originally appeared one at a time on FanFiction.Net. My work schedule
permitting, and barring the unforeseen, I can tentatively promise weekly updates from here
on.

I think that’s it. Again, thanks to all who made my presence here possible. I hope I never give you
cause to regret your actions. As we all learned in the cemetery in Little Hangleton, portkeys DO
work BOTH ways! I hope mine remains a one-way journey.

And now, without further ado: The Joining.


***


The Muggles saw it only as a bleak hill, topped by gnarled scrub, surrounded by swamps and bogs and
DANGER KEEP OUT signs.

The wizarding world saw it as something completely different.

Four individuals approached from opposite sides: pairs consisting of two male and two female.

They walked through a broad, flat expanse of meadow, treading a cobbled path of unguessed age which
was worn smooth from the gentle pad of countless thousands of feet.

Each pair was marked by the fact that one was garbed in simple black robes, while the other was
clad in robes of purest white, surmounted by a hood of like material which hid the face of the
wearer. Also notable, though not significant, was the fact that both of the black-robed Attendants
bore a head of flaming red hair.

With slow, unhurried tread the marchers approached a low, smooth dome of brilliant white, gleaming
like a flattened moon against the lush, waving grass.

A short distance from the dome, the path declined. Shallow steps appeared, terminating at an
archway in which was set a door of pure silver. Devoid of handle or hinge, its pale surface was
chased with fine gold in the pattern of runes and symbols that were old when the world was young.
These markings orbited a hemispherical depression just above the center, and into this niche was
set a single white candle.

Both sets of walkers stopped and stared.

The two males turned to face each other, the one peering out from under his white hood with clear
emerald eyes.

The red-head spoke:

"This is it, mate. Last chance."

The other made no reply. He drew his wand from his snowy robes and touched the tip to the candle
wick. Without benefit of incantation, a flame appeared. As the two watched, the silver door
shimmered like mist on a moor; it became translucent; it was gone.

Only the candle remained, hovering magically in mid-air.

On the other side of the dome, a girl with long, flowing red hair was observing a similar
phenomenon with another white-robed figure. She turned to this one with apprehension on her
freckle-dusted face.

The face just visible under the white hood was impassive, but the deep brown eyes were resolute.
The two exchanged a brief hug before the red-haired girl stepped back and folded her hands, her
knuckles showing white. The other strode forward, passing through the arched doorway. The candle
moved with her, floating ahead to light her path. No sooner had she stepped across the threshold
than the doorway shimmered as with waves of Summer heat. The silver door reappeared, a fresh candle
in its concave niche.

The red-haired girl stared at the barrier for a moment, then mounted the low steps to the level
surface above.

The red-haired young man was waiting for her. She ran to him, fell into his arms. They hugged
briefly, then parted, the girl's eyes moist.

"I didn't think it would be so hard, Ron. I thought I could let go, but..."

The young man nodded.

"I know," he said softly. "I'd give anything to be in his place right now.

"You okay, Gin?"

Ginny Weasley wiped her eyes.

"No. But I will be. If not today...then someday..."

"There's always a chance," Ron said with a forlorn hope. "They may not...you
know..."

"They will," Ginny said with painful certainty. "They were meant to be. I wish it
wasn't so. I wish it with all my heart -- for both of us. But -- "

She sobbed softly, and her brother hugged her gently.

"Only for you, mate," he whispered, his eyes on the luminous dome, which blurred slightly
from the beginnings of tears. "Only for you.

"Be good to her."



2. The Decision
---------------

"Professor, what can you tell us about the Soul Chamber?"

If the question surprised Dumbledore, his expression did not show it. He merely surveyed Harry and
Hermione over the rims of his half-moon spectacles, his face inscrutable. The two seventh-years sat
motionless before the headmaster's desk, their Head Boy/Head Girl badges gleaming in the
candlelight.

"Why do you ask?" Dumbledore said, though he knew full well the reason.

"Well," Harry continued, "you already know that Hermione and I are getting married
shortly after graduation. I'm sure you've received your invitation by now."

"Indeed," Dumbledore smiled. "I have already sent the Weasleys my
R.S.V.P."

"Well, um, we decided we wanted something...special. So we went to the library and looked up
wizard wedding ceremonies, trying to find something that would..."

Harry's voice trailed off, uncertain how to describe in words the feelings he was trying to
convey. Hermione quickly stepped into the breach.

"I found a very old book that made reference to something called the Joining," she said.
"It was described as the most orthodox ceremony in the wizarding world. But the book gave no
details. Since it was described as being very ancient, I thought Professor Binns would be able to
help us. But though he knew of it, he said he was unable to tell us what we wanted to know. Instead
he told us to ask you."

An expectant silence fell. Then Dumbledore nodded once, leaning back in his chair; he placed his
hands before him, making a bridge of his long, tapering fingers. When at last he spoke, it was with
the low, hypnotic resonance of an ancient tribal Storyteller.

"The Soul Chamber is revered as are few other things in the magical world. It is reputed to
have been conceived by Merlin himself. Most concede that the enchantments are his, or at least of
his devising, if rendered by other hands.

"Tradition has it that Merlin was a deeply pious man, though perhaps not in accordance with
those principles held by the Muggle world. He believed that humanity was inherently good, if
tainted. He held forth that purity of spirit was necessary to live a life of genuine value.
Peripherally, he believed in the sanctity of marriage, and espoused that the purity of the latter
could not exist without first ensuring the unquestioned purity of the former.

"Thus was the Soul Chamber devised."

Dumbledore paused to appraise his audience. They remained rapt.

"Hewn from the stone heart of a hill, in a place known but to few, the Chamber houses a
crystal of unsurpassed power; benign, yet potentially more dangerous than the Sorcerer's Stone.
It has many names, some in tongues unremembered today. But it is commonly called the Soul Crystal
-- for in it, so the legends say, resides a tiny fragment of the spirit of Merlin himself.

"For those who elect to submit themselves to its power without reservation, the Crystal
represents final judgment. By its power will a couple be forever Joined -- or not."

No sound was heard as Dumbledore removed his glasses and wiped them on the sleeve of his robes. He
replaced them and looked across his desk at Harry and Hermione.

"Are you saying, Professor," Hermione said fearfully, "that the Crystal may choose
*not* to Join us?"

Dumbledore nodded once.

"We could never marry?" Harry said, looking at Hermione anxiously.

"Not precisely," Dumbledore said. "In the conventional sense, you may marry. You may
indeed spend a lifetime in contented wedlock. *But* -- you can never truly be Joined. In your
minds and in your hearts you will always know that you were tested in the fires of Merlin's
forge...and found less than pure."

"Tested how?" Harry asked with a trace of apprehension. "What do we have to do to be
proven...worthy?"

Dumbledore sat up straight in his chair.

"The Joining is, in fact, a pilgrimage. It is preceded by a ritual; a cleansing of body and
mind.

"At the first, there is a three-day period of fasting and meditation. At this time, a vow of
silence is taken, not to be broken until your entry into the Corridors of Doubt."

"The what?" Harry and Hermione said almost as one.

Dumbledore smiled.

"The twin passageways leading to the Soul Chamber. Colloquially named the Bridesgate and
Groomsgate. Once you have been prepared, you will each approach your respective gate, accompanied
by an Attendant -- the equivalent of Best Man and Maid of Honor. I presume you have already decided
upon Mr. Ronald Weasley and Miss Virginia Weasley."

Harry and Hermione looked at Dumbledore as if they thought he could read minds. The old wizard
chuckled.

"No magic needed there, surely," he said, his blue eyes twinkling.

"About these Corridors, Professor..." Hermione began with a muted hesitancy.

"Yes," Dumbledore resumed. "The Corridors of Doubt are infused with most powerful
enchantments. They do not attack the body. They pervade heart and soul and mind. They will reach
inside you, rend you, tear down all walls of denial and lay bare your every smallest doubt and
fear. You will see yourselves as for the first time. You will learn who and what you truly are, and
what you discover may prove quite terrifying. For who among us is prepared to see ourselves as we
are? We wear many masks in life, and the most fearful of these are not those we wear for benefit of
others, but those behind which we hide from ourselves.

"You will in truth do battle in the Corridors of Doubt. You will war with yourselves. And it
is here that most fall.

"In the year I defeated Grindlewald I met with the great Muggle leader of America -- alas, he
was taken too soon. He it was who said, 'The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.'
You must face *your* fears -- and you must defeat them -- from the greatest to the smallest --
if you would enter the Soul Chamber. For only when you can see the truth within yourselves may you
then present yourselves one to the other in honesty and truth. You must strip yourselves of facade
and pretense so that each may see the other wholly revealed. For, indeed, I misspoke earlier when I
said that the Crystal would judge you. In fact, it is *you* who will judge, one the other. The
Crystal will enable you to merge, to become the other. You dare have no secret, no fear, no
slightest doubt. The Joining is absolute and irrevocable. There must be complete accord. No
slightest spot must mar the tapestry.

"Choose you well, my children; nor in haste, lest you repent in leisure for the rest of your
lives."

Dumbledore fell silent. He peered into Harry's eyes, which seemed to be smoldering with a deep
emerald fire.

"Professor," Harry said very slowly, "did...did my..."

"Did your parents choose the Joining?" Dumbledore's voice was pregnant with a mingled
joy and sorrow. "Yes. James and Lily had the purest love I have ever encountered. Nothing
less, I think, could have preserved you all those years ago."

"But," Harry said in confusion, "I -- I've seen my parents' wedding photos
-- and there's no sign of the Joining ceremony -- just an ordinary wedding...

"And Sirius was Best Man -- he would have been my dad's Attendant, then. Why didn't he
ever say anything to me?"

"Because he cannot," Dumbledore said mysteriously.

Harry waited on the edge of his chair, his hand gripping Hermione's.

"A final enchantment pervades the Chamber, Harry," Dumbledore said. "It is kin to
the Fidelius Charm. All who participate in the ceremony may experience it fully in their memory --
but they cannot give it voice. Even the Joined couple cannot speak of it, though they, of course,
will always share it in their own special way which is beyond the mundanity of words.

"Only one there is who may speak freely, guided by discretion alone. For each couple
designates a Speaker, like unto the Secret Keeper. To the Speaker is given the honor of presenting
the Joined couple to the wizarding world, thus officializing the union. The Speaker may do no more
than testify before the Ministry of Magic and sign a document. But most often there is a formal
gathering of family and friends to celebrate and honor the Joined. Here the Speaker presides to
declare the couple's new status as husband and wife, proclaiming with gladness so that all
present may share in their happiness.

"And if you are wondering," Dumbledore added with an elfin smile, "why I do not
appear in your parents' wedding photos -- ah, here is Merlin at his most brilliant! For the
Secrecy Charm renders all trace of the ceremony unrecordable. One seeking to photograph any aspect
of the ceremony will be unable to do so. Even an artist will be impotent to so much as place a
single stroke to canvas or board. Nor can any scribe touch quill to parchment to record the
slightest detail. The Joining is a most personal experience, and its secrecy is absolute and
inviolable."

A strange expression was growing on Harry's face. He looked at Hermione, saw that she had come
to the same conclusion as he at nearly the same moment.

"Professor," Harry said with a new light in his eyes, "everything you've just
said, about my parents and the Joining -- does that mean...?"

"Yes, Harry," Dumbledore smiled brightly. "I was your parents'
Speaker."

"Would you ever have told us?" Harry asked. "I mean, if we hadn't
asked?"

"No, Harry. As I said, the Joining is a most private thing. And just as important, it must not
be entered into as an imitation of others. Each couple must choose for their own
reasons."

Harry looked at Hermione. He squeezed her hand questioningly, and she squeezed back in
assent.

"Professor," Harry said hopefully, "will you be *our* Speaker?"

"Please, Professor?" Hermione added.

"You are certain?"

They both nodded.

Dumbledore bowed.

"I humbly accept."

Lowering his head, Harry pulled Hermione's hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. Tears began
to fill Hermione's eyes. Harry lifted his head and embraced her eyes with his.

"I love you," they whispered together, as with one mind, one heart.

Dumbledore smiled.



3. The Cleansing
----------------

Harry found Sirius' attic ideal for his fast and meditation.

He soon realized that he was ill-suited for life as a monk. Half a lifetime spent locked in a
spider-haunted broom cupboard had bred in him a love of openness, of freedom. But the isolation
offered another, unexpected brand of freedom. It freed his mind to explore other avenues he might
have overlooked under normal conditions. He found within himself the ability to reach both outward
and inward simultaneously. It was a journey of self-discovery which he found enriching.

He found himself passing hour upon hour staring out the window at a landscape he had thought to
know well, yet which now yielded minutiae to which he had been selectively blind. Other times he
sat or lay on the padded mat he had chosen in lieu of a bed, or paced the small loft slowly, his
attention constantly drawn to the smallest and most insignificant of things, yet in which he seemed
to find complexities unguessed and unsuspected.

He took repeated notice of the ubiquitous spiders inhabiting the dark corners of the eaves. They
invariably reminded him of his confinement at the Dursleys. He'd spent much of the first day
endeavoring to purge the bitterness in his soul over these memories, an acrimony he'd thought
was long behind him, yet which clearly was not.

Slowly, hour by hour, he began to shrug off the physical and embrace the spiritual. The growing
weakness brought on by lack of food and water fogged his thoughts; but in those mists of
near-delirium, unencumbered by reason or logic, he glimpsed vistas unseen and unimagined by his
rational mind.

And in the end, he found he was glad he'd experienced this awakening. He was certain it would
serve him when his isolated fast ended and the real journey began.


*


Hermione was undergoing similar changes during her period of self-denial. Some of the revelations
she experienced were nothing short of startling, given the regimented nature of her logical,
well-ordered mind.

It would have been impractical for Hermione to use her parents' house for her self-imposed
isolation, as had Harry (Sirius being his defacto parent). A Muggle house was too far removed from
the magical world, transcendentally speaking. Even were the Granger house transplanted to the heart
of Hogsmeade, the two would still be separated by a gulf wider than the Grand Canyon. Therefore,
Hermione was touched beyond words when Molly Weasley offered her the use of a room at the
Burrow.

"Hush, child," Molly soothed as Hermione fell teary-eyed into her arms. "None of
that, now. You're family to us, and always will be."

"Mrs. Weasley..." Hermione choked.

"*Molly*, dear," the older woman said in a motherly tone that quietly settled the
matter.

"Thank you, Molly."


*


"Mum, you don't have to do this," Ron said with an exasperation that was growing
tiresome. "Harry has gold. He can buy the best robes -- "

"Store-bought robes!" Molly snorted derisively. "On the most important day of their
lives! Not bloody likely! Pardon my French."

Molly was touching the tip of her wand along the hem of a brilliant white robe in a rapid
succession of taps; at each light touch, a fine white thread wove through the fabric until a
smooth, even seam resulted.

"Harry is like a son to me," Molly said in a low murmur.

Ron almost thought he heard "son-in-law" in his mother's declaration.

"We *are* holding the after-ceremony," Ron argued. "This will take
ages."

Molly seemed not to be listening, busy smoothing a sleeve prior to pinning it into place before
hemming.

"Wish you'd taken the time to alter those grotty dress robes I had to wear to the Yule
Ball in fourth year," Ron mumbled.

"Maybe if you hadn't always been getting into trouble," Molly said without looking
up. "Crashing your father's car -- "

"MUM!" Ron burst out. "Aren't you *ever* going to -- "

But Ron's explosion was cut short when Molly grabbed him roughly, pulled him to her and planted
a loud kiss on his cheek.

"I love you, son," Molly said in a choked whisper as Ron straightened, his face going
red. "Now off with you! Hermione will be down tomorrow, and I've still loads of work to
do."

Ron left, shaking his head as he sighed deeply, but essaying a haunted smile in spite of
himself.



4. Moment of Truth
------------------

Harry woke at dawn on the morning following the third day. He stood a bit shakily, a trifle weak
from his fast. But the knot in his stomach was born of more than hunger. Today was the most
important day of his life, and he felt a deep, pervading fear of a magnitude he had not experienced
since the last time he had faced Voldemort. He tried desperately to suppress his apprehension. If
he felt like this now, what would it be like in the Corridors of Doubt?

Harry shook his head. This, he realized, was the true first test. He remembered Dumbledore's
words from when Harry and Hermione had first approached the Headmaster concerning the Joining, back
in their seventh year at Hogwarts: 'The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.'

Harry stood still, relaxed, took slow breaths. He closed his eyes. Hermione's face appeared,
smiling her sweet, gentle smile which could sweep away all the cares of the world. Clinging to that
image, Harry popped the trapdoor and descended from the attic.

When the first stream of hot water from the shower hit him, Harry felt his worries melting away.
Being a wizard, he could have saved time by using a Freshening Charm to make himself clean in an
instant. But there were certain aspects of the Muggle world that held a value beyond what was
revealed on the surface. The pure relaxation derived from a simple shower or bath was beyond all
magic, whether potion or spell. As the minutes crawled by with delicious slowness, Harry was
grateful for *one* benefit of the magical world over the Muggle: With magical flames heating
the water as quickly as it flowed through the pipes, he could stand there for hours without the hot
water running out. And for just a moment, that seemed like not such a bad idea at all.

As he had so many times before, Harry was about to walk a path trod by his father before him. At
such times he could almost feel his father beside him, strengthening him. He would need that
strength today. He was about to face the greatest challenge of his life, greater even than his
battle with Voldemort, and with consequences no less primal.

His towel slung carelessly around his neck, Harry entered his bedroom. He stopped dead. His wedding
robes lay on his bed. He stared at them. He stepped forward slowly, reached out to touch the
garment with a hesitancy as if it were a serpent poised to strike. He held the sleeve, felt the
material absently. Molly had worked so hard on his behalf, not merely here, but in so many ways
over so many years. He ran a thumb over the hand-stitching. It was so real, and yet so
unreal.

His *wedding robes*. He, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, was only a heartbeat away from being
a married man.

He had never felt so alone in his life.

But, curiously, that thought itself seemed to inspire him. He had always been alone, it seemed.
There had never been anyone who could truly share his burden, someone to lessen the weight of his
birthright and his constant struggle to live up to it.

But no more. After today he would never again have to carry that load alone. With a bright (if yet
a little trepidacious) smile on his lips, Harry donned his pristine robes and made his way
downstairs.

He found Ron and Sirius sitting in chairs in the modest living room, talking uneasily, it seemed.
For just a moment, Harry wondered what they could be talking about with such solemnity. They rose
when Harry entered.

As he looked at them, Harry wished he could violate his vow of silence to express his gratitude
properly. But he realized in that moment that words were not necessary. They could not have
expressed a tenth of the feelings surging through him now.

Sirius grasped his hand, pulling him into a rough hug. Over his shoulder, Ron smiled at Harry;
though, Harry would reflect much later, with his mouth far more than with his eyes.

Sirius released Harry and looked him over.

"You look just like your dad, God rest his soul."

He seemed to want to say more, but, Harry supposed, the Charm of Silence prevented him from doing
so. But, as if to eschew words, a single tear formed in the corner of the ex-marauder's eye, at
once mourning his lost "brother" and embracing that man's son, his godson, whom he
loved as his own.

With a last clap of his hand on Harry's shoulder, Sirius stepped back. Harry's eyes met
Ron's, and the two friends studied each other for a moment. The redhead's smile had faded,
leaving his face virtually unreadable. His blue eyes were sober, burning with a light born deep
within his soul. After a moment he extended his hand before him, raised high. Harry clasped it in
upright fashion. And, almost as at an unspoken accord, they smiled.

With a last look at Sirius, Harry pulled his hood into place. Then, exchanging a brief nod, Groom
and Best Man Disapparated with a soft 'pop.'


*


As Hermione emerged from her scented bath, Ginny Weasley draped a towel around her as Molly
Summoned a comb and brush from the bathroom sink.

"I really wish you'd let me use just a little Sleekeazy's, dear," Molly opined,
brush poised weapon-like. "Just a touch."

If Molly thought Hermione's imposed silence would diminish her argumentative prowess, she was
soon set to rights. Hermione flashed a seemingly benign look that could have pierced a cast iron
cauldron. Molly nearly flinched, ultimately sighing as she set to work on Hermione's
hair.

This was a point from which Hermione would not swerve. Only once in her life had she felt the need
to alter her appearance for benefit of another, a motive calculated by vanity and insecurity. She
had since outgrown such adolescent bugbears. Harry had fallen in love with her exactly as she was,
and it was that girl -- that woman -- he would find waiting for him in the Soul Chamber, and none
other.

As Molly worked, each swipe of the enchanted comb stripped a sheet of water from Hermione's
long brown hair. Likewise, the Charmed brush added body and luster as it moved back and forth under
Molly's magical direction (though diminishing none of its abundant fullness, over which Molly
continued to "tsk" as she worked).

Presently Ginny took the towel from around Hermione, and with it every drop of water from her
smooth skin. The red-head then folded the towel and left with it draped over her arm.

Molly instructed the brush to give Hermione's hair a final touch, then Banished it, with the
comb, back to the sink. Smiling her thanks, Hermione walked out into the bedroom.

Ginny stood holding Hermione's wedding robes. Hermione allowed Ginny to dress her as Molly
waved her wand, making pastel pink and white rose petals appear and fall into Hermione's hair.
Per centuries-old tradition, Hermione wore no trace of make-up. But there was no lacking, for her
natural, earthy beauty was beyond need for artificial enhancement.

Descending at last, the three found Arthur Weasley waiting for them in the living room. And behind
him --

Hermione nearly cried out. She flew down the stairs and fell upon her parents, who, to her utter
astonishment, were draped in the most elegant wizards' robes she had ever seen. They locked in
a three-way embrace as tears flowed from Hermione's eyes, ably replacing the words of love she
longed to speak. Her mother pulled a handkerchief from her robes and handed it to Hermione.

"Oh, my," Mrs. Granger said tremulously, her own face now damp. "You look positively
radiant." She looked into her daughter's eyes as she applied a second handkerchief to the
young girl's cheeks, and she smiled. "I remember seeing that look once before. In my
mirror, the day I married your father. If I wasn't certain before how much you love Harry, I
know now. The eyes never lie."

Her eyes once more clear, Hermione stepped back a pace to appraise her parents' unexpected
attire.

"So, what do you think?" Mr. Granger said, smoothing the shimmering fabric of his black
satin robes elegantly. "When in Rome, eh?"

"I daresay," Arthur put in, "you make a better wizard than I do a
Muggle."

"Thanks to you, Arthur," Mr. Granger returned. "Deuced comfortable, these robes.
Chap could get used to them."

"Arthur, Molly," Mrs. Granger said earnestly, "we can't thank you enough for all
you've done for Hermione."

Molly waved her hand in a dismissive gesture.

"Not at all, dear. She's a lovely child. And she has the both of you to thank for it. A
mother knows these things."

Arthur glanced at his watch and his eyebrows rose. "My goodness, almost time." He reached
into his robes and withdrew a small object as white as Hermione's robes.

"A rose for a portkey!" Molly nearly gasped. She'd known a portkey was required, as
Ginny was still underage and not yet licensed to Apparate. But a white rose!

"I've not lost all the romance in my soul, Molly dear," Arthur said. He handed the
rose to Ginny, checking his watch again. "Timed to activate in one minute."

As Ginny turned the rose meditatively between her thumb and forefinger, Arthur placed his hands on
Hermione's shoulders and smiled in that way fathers reserve only for daughters.

"Lovely," he said in a soft choke. "Blimey. If I feel this way now, I can't
imagine how I'll feel when it's Ginny standing here on *her* wedding day."

As he bent and kissed Hermione's cheek, Ginny released an all but inaudible sob. Hermione then
pulled her hood into place and stood beside Ginny.

At a nod from Arthur, Ginny extended the rose so that Hermione could grasp the stem just under the
snowy petals. With a suddenness that made the Grangers gasp, the two young girls vanished with a
sound softer than a child snapping its fingers. The girls' parents stood for a moment, then all
moved toward the kitchen, thence into the back yard to await the arrival of the guests.

And, Merlin willing, the bride and groom.



5. The First Door:  Heartstrings
--------------------------------

The silence surrounding Hermione was uncanny. Her bare feet made no sound on the smooth stone
floor. She could almost hear her own heartbeat.

The air in the Corridor seemed fresh, despite the door having reappeared behind her; magic, beyond
doubt. Hermione could feel magic all around her, powerful, irresistable. It flowed through her as
her own blood. She knew it was sifting her thoughts, her emotions. Just as Dumbledore said, she was
being turned inside-out. She felt violated -- then she remembered that it was actually she herself
who was the intruder. How oppose oneself?

Hermione stopped in her tracks. A door stood before her, gleaming dully in the candlelight. It was
featureless, and, like the outer door through which she had entered, it bore neither handle nor
hinge. She knew instinctively that not the most powerful spells ever devised could move that
barrier.

"Herm-eye-oh-nee."

Hermione froze, her blood chilling. As she attempted to pierce the darkness between herself and the
feeble light of the candle, the flame expanded, softened. It became a face. A figure stood before
her: Tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed, with stooped shoulders and slightly awkward feet.

"Viktor?"

Viktor Krum stood before her, his midnight eyes piercing hers. His rounded shoulders seemed even
more so, as if they carried a great weight.

"Herm-eye-oh-nee," he repeated in a nearly toneless bass.

Hermione gasped aloud. Though the Bulgarian accent remained thick, he was yet speaking her name as
she had always imagined he might. Of course, she reasoned. This was not Viktor, merely an illusion
of her own making, idealized by her own desires. But when "Viktor" spoke, whence came his
words?

"Ven you told me ve could not see each uzzer again," Viktor said carefully, "I vos
very hurt. I told za truth ven I said I neffer had feelings for any girl like I had for you. You
are very special to me, Herm-eye-oh-nee. Can you look at me now and say you do not feel somezing
for me as vell?"

"No," Hermione said softly. "I can't. I have always kept a very lovely memory of
you deep in my heart, Viktor. I've never thought of you without smiling. And I'll always be
grateful that we shared something beyond words, if only for a few months. Those months helped make
me the woman I am today."

"It could haf been more zan a few months uf a school year," Viktor said with a sort of
anguish. "It could haf been a lifetime."

"No," Hermione said, regarding him sadly, "It couldn't. I am very fond of you.
You're very sweet and good. You gave me the validation I needed as a woman at a time when I was
riddled with doubts. Because you saw beauty in me when I saw none, I learned what it truly meant to
*be* beautiful. I didn't need hair potions and elegent dress robes to be beautiful. You
helped me to see more than what the mirror showed. I will always love you for that.

"But I know that's not the kind of love you wanted from me. I'm sorry. If I ever led
you to believe otherwise, I'm deeply ashamed. I wouldn't hurt you for the
world."

"Vhy did you not tell me zen?" Viktor challenged. "Vhy did you not tell me you loved
Harry?"

"I was only fourteen, Viktor. My heart was a mess of burgeoning hormones and conflicting
emotions. I don't think I knew how I felt about Harry then. I suppose I always loved him on
some level, but it took me a while to realize just how deep my feelings went. Maybe...maybe I
thought I wasn't good enough for the Boy Who Lived."

"Zat vos foolish."

"Yes," Hermione smiled. "But I might never have realized it if not for you. If you
hadn't plucked up the courage to ask me to the Yule Ball, I might not be here now, pledging
myself to Harry."

"No," Viktor said firmly, his bushy black brows low, "you vood haf seen za truth. I
saw it zen. I knew vot you did not. I knew you loved him. But he did not appreciate you. Ven I
talked vith him outside za Forbidden Forest, I saw zat he vos a fool. A blind fool. But I knew he
vood not stay a fool foreffer. Finally he saw, did he not?

"You are a good voman, Herm-eye-oh-nee. You deserf a man who vill love you vith all his heart.
You deserf nuzzing less."

"I have such a man," Hermione affirmed. "He's waiting for me now, somewhere
beyond that door."

"Zen go to him. Do not look back. You vere alvays honest vith me, Herm-eye-oh-nee. Now you
must be honest vith yourself. If you love him, let nuzzing stand in your vay. Nuzzing, and no
vun."

The brooding face of Viktor Krum faded into an aura of light. Once more the candle burned before
Hermione, this time lighting an open passageway.

"I'm coming, Harry," she whispered, striding forward purposefully, her heart sure and
unequivocal. "I'm coming."


*


Harry did not know how long he had been walking. Time seemed to have no meaning in this unnaturally
silent place. More than once he had looked to his wrist, forgetting that his watch had been
discarded. Nothing save one's wand was permitted within the Corridors.

Harry stopped suddenly. A door stood before him, pale in the candlelight. He checked the instinct
to draw his wand. He doubted that all the Dark magic in Voldemort's twisted mind could have so
much as scratched that door.

As the candle hovered between Harry and the silvery barrier, its flame began to spread outwards.
The walls of the Corridor retreated before that magical radiance. A vast space appeared before
Harry's astonished gaze. He perceived that his bare feet no longer stood on the stone floor of
the Corridor. He looked down.

Grass.

He was on a Quidditch pitch. He looked in all directions, saw the stands, the goal posts, all under
a high, blue sky. Against that sky banners waved: Yellow...green...scarlet...

"Hogwarts," Harry said aloud.

His Snitch-seeking instincts not having deserted him, Harry's peripheral vision detected
movement above his head. He looked up, saw a figure on a broomstick descending slowly. As the flier
neared, Harry made out an oval face, tranquil, lovely, with short raven hair framing dark, hypnotic
almond eyes.

"Cho," Harry said in a dry rasp.

Cho smiled, nodded to Harry's side. His Firebolt hovered at his right hand like a faithful
steed, waiting for him to mount. He did so without a thought, kicking off as Cho zoomed up
alongside. They exhanged no word, only the merest glance. The sky was no place for the mundanity of
speech. They sped across the field like twin comets. They darted in every direction, doing loops
and rolls, chasing each other one moment, flying side-by-side the next. Harry's heart sang a
song of freedom, of joy unrestrained and indescribable. Merlin, but how he loved to fly!

At length the two fliers hovered, face to face, a hundred feet above the ground, their broom
handles nearly touching. Their eyes met, both pairs shining with a joyous light.

"I always feel so alive when I fly," Cho said somewhat breathlessly, panting slightly
from their acrobatics. "But I don't have to tell you, do I?"

Indeed, Harry thought as he strove to catch his own breath, she did not. Though reason told him
this was all a hallucination sprung from his memory and given substance by the Corridor's
enchantments, yet was the exhilaration no less tangible to his senses -- nor its message less
profound.

"It could be like this for us, Harry," Cho said, her onyx eyes piercing his soul.

Harry sat gripping the handle of his Firebolt, the wind in his face, the sun warming him
deliciously under an endless sky. This was ecstasy beyond description for Harry. There were times
when the sky called to him as with an audible voice -- a lover's voice -- and, heeding that
siren call, he would fly and fly, totally free, wanting and wishing never to land.

This was a part of Harry his friends could never approach. Ron flew at every opportunity, but it
was all a lark to him, as with most witches and wizards. There was nothing profound or spiritual
about it.

And Hermione? Hermione had not flown since First Year, and that in the confines of the Chamber of
Keys under Hogwarts. She was earthbound, in spirit as much as in body -- moreso, in fact. Her
reason and clinical intelligence permitted no frivolous distractions to her ordered existence. She
did not, could never, understand.

Not so Cho. She was a Seeker, like Harry -- a designation, he realized, that held more than a
superficial significance.

What was Harry truly seeking when he took to the air? Or, more precisely, what was it he had
*once* sought, but no more?

For Harry was no longer the Gryffindor Seeker of his early youth, the boy who ached to escape the
clawing grasp of a world that threatened to crush him under its pitiless weight. He had grown. He
had evolved. The boy was gone, to be replaced by the man.

*When I became a man, I put away childish things.*

And what of Cho?

Harry looked at her now, and a wave of sadness rippled through him. He saw her now not as when last
he had laid eyes on her, during the graduation ceremony following Harry's sixth year at
Hogwarts. She was as he rememberd her at the end of Fourth Year, her heart torn from her by the
death of Cedric Diggory. Like Harry before her, Cho reveled in the freedom of flight, in the escape
it provided from a cruel, heartless world. Below lay pain and loss and heartbreak. Up here, in the
clean, clear sky, all that was swept away like ashes from a hearth. It was no more than a bad
dream. It was not real.

But it was.

Soaring above the world did not separate one from its tribulations. Rather, it set one at a vantage
point, provided a new perspective by which life's trials might be appraised and weighed, the
better to be addressed. And they had to be addressed. Escape was not an option. For one could not
fly forever. Sooner or later came the time to land and face those trials and strive to overcome
them.

And Harry had made that choice. The sky was a friend whose embrace he would always relish -- but it
was no longer his lover. She waited for him below, her feet firmly planted on solid earth. She was
his anchor, the firm rock to which his soul was forever tethered, lest it be swept away on the
winds of caprice and lost, perhaps beyond recovery.

Harry blinked a tear as Cho's pleading eyes fell away. He had nothing to give her, nor she,
him. They were two spirits who shared a wind of chance, yet who, in the end, were blown by
different winds into disparate realms. He could only pray that, some day, she would find her own
reason to land. He had found his, and he thanked God every day, looking up into the sky whose siren
call was evaporated to a shadow of a whisper.

Harry became aware that he was no longer in the air. He was standing on smooth stone. The candle
hovered before him, its light illuminating narrow stone walls which stretched ahead to be lost in
darkness. Wiping a last tear from his eye, Harry strode forward toward whatever perils awaited him
with sure step and purpose of heart.



6. The Second Door:  Brothers and Sisters
-----------------------------------------

Hermione stood perfectly still before the silent door. The candle flame pulsed like a heart. A
misty light began to take shape, assuming the outlines of a human form: Tall, lithe, with cascades
of flaming hair and deep, haunted eyes the color of burnished mahogany.

"Ginny?"

The figure of Ginny Weasley was in no wise different from the girl who, in the flesh, had left
Hermione at the entrance to the Corridor of Doubt. But -- how had it escaped Hermione before? The
pain, the anguish; looking at Ginny now, Hermione felt her heart breaking.

"Do you love him, Hermione?" Ginny said as from far away. "Do you really, truly love
him?"

"Yes, Ginny," Hermione said softly, but no less certain for that. "I love
him."

"Is he your life?" Ginny pressed. "Is he the breath in your body? The sun in your
sky? Is he a part of you? A part you know you can never do without?"

Ginny's eyes held Hermione's in a grip of steel, rendering her unable to speak.

"And what if he were suddenly taken away from you?" Ginny said abruptly. "What if
you turned around one day and he was gone. Gone forever. If you could never again look into his
eyes. Never hear his voice again. Never hear him say...I love you. Could you go on living? Could
you?"

Hermione studied Ginny's face for long moments before answering. And the words which escaped
her lips would have surprised none more than Hermione herself.

"Yes," she said. "I could. I love Harry. He is the missing piece that alone can fill
the hole in my heart. But he is not me, nor I, him. Yes, I *could* go on without him, if only
because I know he would want me to. Just as I would want *him* to go on without *me*. We
share a wonderful love, Harry and I. But it's not a selfish love, nor a possessive one.
It's a love that builds up, not one that tears down.

"If he were gone, part of me would go with him. If he...if he died...part of *me* would
die. If I could, I would die *for* him."

"As would I," Ginny said, not boastfully, but with depth of sincerity.

"And Harry would die for either of us," Hermione said. "Yes, for you as well as for
me. Or for Ron, or your mum. For anyone he loved. Perhaps even for someone he never even knew.
Because that's the kind of man Harry is. Is it any wonder that we both love him so
much?"

"If not for you," Ginny said, "Harry would have fallen in love with me. He would
have married *me*." It was not an accusation. Hermione detected no slightest trace of
malice in the red-head's even tone.

"I think he might well have," Hermione smiled tenderly. "And if I...if I
should..." She swallowed painfully. "...I hope and pray he has someone like you to turn
to. All Harry ever wanted in life was love...and he'd find no lack in you. You're the most
loving girl I know."

Ginny stared probingly into Hermione's deep brown eyes.

"With all the girls in the wizarding world at his feet, Harry chose you. Why?"

"I don't know," Hermione said almost apologetically, lowering her face. "I'm
hardly fodder for Witch Weekly's Witch of the Year, am I? A bossy know-it-all...no
figure...hair like a dustmop...

"That never mattered to Harry," Ginny said with a sudden edge to her voice; not a
dangerous edge, but one of certitude. "He saw past the superficial. He always did. He saw who
you are underneath. You're no cardboard cut-out from a magazine, Hermione. You're real.
Your love is real, and deep -- not just for Harry, but for everyone and everything. Whether it was
helping Neville in Potions or lobbying for house-elf rights -- or getting on Ron's wick to pull
it together and be a better person. It's all love.

"I don't blame Harry for loving you. I love you, too. You're the sister I always
wished for on the first star every night, when living with six brothers came near to sending me
'round the bend. I don't know when it was that I stopped believing in wishing stars. But I
realized at some point that, star or no, my wish came true. Long before I ever wished for Harry...I
wished for you."

Hermione felt hot tears running down her cheeks. It was true, and she knew it. The real Ginny had
never said it in words, but Hermione had read it in her eyes a thousand times.

"Yours is the love Harry's waited for all his life," Ginny said in a voice strangely
distant. "Be good to him. Sister."

When Hermione succeeded in wiping the last tear from her eyes, she saw only an empty corridor
stretching out before her, its terminus lost in darkness. The candle flame burned brightly,
lighting the way.

"Ginny...I hope someday you let someone love you...the way Harry loves me. You deserve it.
Sister."

And, wiping her eyes one last time with her pristine robes, Hermione hurried toward her rendezvous
with Harry.


*


Harry jumped back well before he was in sight of the door. The candle had unexpectedly burst into a
wash of bright orange that seemed to fill the corridor. Through the glare -- which was strangely
familiar -- he glimpsed a shock of red hair surmounting a freckled face split in a reckless
grin.

"Ron?" Harry said tentatively.

Suddenly the orange glow solidified. Harry was surrounded by walls the color of sunset, emblazoned
with posters of like hue. From the corner of his eye he caught flashing, neon-like letters spelling
out CHUDLEY CANNONS.

Ron's room was exactly as Harry remembered it. As was its owner. Ron was wearing his favorite
Chudley Cannons sweatshirt, and he seemed possessed of an unearthly energy that would have shamed
the leprechauns at the World Cup four years ago.

"Isn't it great, Harry?" Ron beamed. "No more school! We're official wizards
now! You realize what this means? We can go anywhere, do anything! Now that we can Apparate, the
whole world is ours! Blimey, we can even go to America! Bleedin' California, mate! It'll be
a ruddy bash!

"But let's not get ahead of ourselves, eh? What say we start closer to home. The Quidditch
World Cup is in Italy this year. Bet Dad can get us tickets through the Ministry! And after that,
we head South to Egypt, see what Bill's up to. Might even get to watch him battle an undead
Egyptian wizard in a tomb! Mate, that would totally fly!

"But, hey, why worry? We've got all the time in the world! What say, mate? First choice is
yours! Just name the spot, and I'm there with a ruddy tea cozy on my head!"

Harry felt an undeniable stirring in his bosom at Ron's words. Following his unremembered first
year with his parents, he had endured ten years of torment at the Dursleys; locked in a
spider-infested broom cupboard, starved, tormented, mentally and emotionally abused -- Harry had
always suspected that one reason he had what was considered an abnormal disregard for wizard Death
Eaters was because he'd had a decade of inuring with the Muggle variety on Privet Drive.

His Hogwarts letter had liberated him from that particular prison (for ten months out of every
year, at least); but school proved to be a sort of captivity in itself, if with a longer leash.
Hogwarts castle and its surrounding grounds had seemed enormous to a naive eleven-year-old in First
Year, but those seemingly infinite dimensions had closed in on him quickly. Even in later years,
the occasional Hogsmeade weekend did little to alleviate a feeling of constriction bordering,
ultimately, on strangulation.

And now, with graduation came -- FREEDOM! The whole bloody world was his playground, whether by
Apparation, broomstick, or -- he barked a short laugh -- sodding Flying Car! The prospect was
headier than mulled mead to Harry's nigh-strangulated soul. How many Summer nights had he lay
awake in his bed at Number 4 Privet Drive and made mental lists of the marvelous things he would
see and do after graduation. They were yet etched into his mind as if on parchment. He would stand
atop the Eiffel Tower and look down upon the lights of Paris! He would fly his Firebolt over and
into the Grand Canyon! He would erect a Bubble Charm around himself and walk on the bottom of the
sea! He would do it all! He was a wizard! Barring the unforeseen, he could live for two
centuries!

Yes, he thought now, looking at Ron's bright, expectant face as it bubbled with excitement like
an overheated cauldron. Yes. He could realize it all. His every dream. His heart's
desire.

But he paused now, his thoughts turning in on themselves, swirling like oil on the surface of a
crystalline lake. And the question reverberated in his brain: What *was* his heart's
desire?

What -- or *who*?

And the dream-bubble burst. Harry sighed softly, his mouth curling into the ghost of a smile.
Visions danced across his mind's eye. Visions of the world, of its wonders, its promises of
excitement and adventure. And in every one of those visions, Harry saw himself. But not alone.
Never alone.

Harry could not deny that Ron's words had stirred him to his very core. But at that core was
his heart. And lodged firmly, comfortingly, in his heart was a woman. The woman he loved more than
the life in his body, and without whom the wonders of the universe itself were but ashes on his
tongue.

He hoped someday she would want to share some of these dreams, that together they would release the
child in each of them, if but for a day, an hour. Childhood dreams died not easily. But he was a
man now, and any dream that did not include Hermione was less than the smoke from a guttering
candle.

"I have to go," Harry said, his smile bright as a werewolf moon. "Hermione is
waiting for me."

Harry watched as a change came over Ron. His freckle-splashed smile faded until only a shadow
remained. His china-blue eyes grew deeper than a bottomless well.

"You know I love her...don't you, Harry?"

"Yes," Harry said. "I know. A blind man could see it. I know, too, because I've
thought how many chances I muffed before I finally came to my senses. How close I came, time after
time, to losing her forever -- if not to you, then to anyone with the sense to recognize
how...how...special she is. And I thank God on bended knee that I saw the truth before it was too
late. But I...I always took comfort in the fact that if I'd never come 'round,
you'd...you'd be there for her. That means the world to me -- more than any world we might
see from the end of a broomstick handle."

"You know I'd die for her," Ron said quietly.

"I'd rather you live for her," Harry said with a slight choke in his voice. "For
her...and for us. All of us. We're a team, mate. I want you with me on this. But if you
can't...I'll understand...but I have to tell you...I *will* go it alone, if need be.
I'm entering into a sacred trust. If I let anything get in the way -- even our friendship --
then I don't deserve her, do I?"

"No," Ron said firmly. "You don't. But you do. I'd do the same thing in your
place. But you *won't* have to do it alone. I'm with you. All the way."

Ron extended his hand. Harry clasped it firmly.

In the time it took Harry to blink, his hand was grasping only empty air. The orange walls were
once again colorless stone. Ron was gone.

But the smile on Harry's face told a different story.

"See you outside, mate. We both will."

And Harry plunged into the Corridor, ready to face his next challenge, secure in the knowledge
that, whatever it was, he would not face it alone.



7. The Third Door:  Fire and Ice
--------------------------------

The change in the candle flame was subtle, but in Hermione's alert state she perceived it no
less distinctly than had it exploded in a clap of thunder.

The flame was no longer yellow, but a soul-chilling white, as of burning ice. She noted the door
behind it but absently; it was the flame alone which arrested her fearful gaze.

Hermione jumped back, gasping. The flame was now a face, white as Death, with icy grey eyes that
smoldered like ash from the fires of Hell.

"Draco!" Hermione's voice trembled as she spoke the name.

The face of Draco Malfoy was livid.

"You filthy, stinking Mudblood! How *dare* you attempt to mingle your putrid Muggle blood
with that of a wizard!"

"What do *you* care?" Hermione spat viciously, color flooding her cheeks. "You
*hate* Harry!"

"*Hate* him?" Draco sneered. "I live for the day when I can spit on his
*grave*! I *loathe* him!

"But whatever else he may be, he *is* a blooded wizard! He deserves better than to be
joined to a Muggle-born trollop like *you*!

"*Mark* me, Mudblood! The Dark Lord is not dead! He is *eternal*! And when he
returns, I will stand at his side, as did my father before me. Together we will rid the world of
scum like you! And I -- "

Draco paused, his sneer curling with a hellish malevolence.

"I will *personally* erase your worthless life from the slate of the New World Order! But
I won't dignify your end with something as pure as magic. I will *strangle* the breath
from you with my bare hands! You and all your filthy Muggle babies!"

"You -- you *wouldn't*!" Hermione whimpered.

Draco laughed, and the sound was like a shriek from the Halls of the Damned.

"I'll Curse your eyelids off and force you to watch as I twist their squalling heads off
and crush their skulls under my heel! I'll rip open their milk-white bodies and feed you their
still-beating hearts!"

"NO!" Hermione screamed, her eyes flame.

"Go *back*, Muggle whore! Go back to your Mudblood world and tremble! Hide under your bed
and pray to the Dark Lord; if your prayer pleases us, I may persuade him to let you live as my
personal serving wench under the Imperius Curse."

"NEVER!" The word was dragged from deep in Hermione's throat, emerging as a snarl
like unto that of a she-wolf. "I have nothing to fear from the likes of *you*!
*Coward*! You hide behind Voldemort's robes and your father's gold. You haven't
the manhood to stand alone.

"Every time you call me Mudblood, I can hear the fear and humiliation in your voice! You
can't bear the thought that a Muggle-born witch is in every way your superior! It's not
*me* you despise, it's *yourself*! You're the joke of Slytherin, Draco! With your
gold and your name and your vaunted Pure Blood, you still must live with the knowledge that a
common, ordinary Mudblood witch is more powerful than you!

"Do your worst! Together, Harry and I defeated your precious Dark Lord! Your father, whose
cowardice is so evidently visited upon his son, crawled away like a whipped dog and escaped his
just punishment yet again. But his time will come! As will *yours*!

"Go hide under your hood, you pathetic excuse for a Death Eater! It is *you* who are the
Mudblood! The mud of hatred and the filth of prejudice are sewage in your veins!

"*Me* hide from *you*? HA! *You* run and hide under your father's robes,
Malfoy! *You* pray to your Dark Lord! Pray that you *never* stand between me and those I
love! Because I *promise* you, if you or your kind *ever* show your faces anywhere near
me or mine, *I* will rip out *your* guts and use them to hang you from the highest tree
in Britain! Harry and I *will* be Joined! Our children will live in a world free from you and
your perverted notions of racial purity! And together we will drive you back under the rock you
crawled from, you -- you --- FILTHY -- STINKING -- MUDBLOOD!"

As Hermione's frenzied scream reverberated from the confines of the Corridor, Draco's
glaring face burst like a bubble. The white light evaporated into feeble wisps of smoke which
dissipated in the wink of an eye. Clean darkness closed in again, illuminated by the soft golden
light of the candle, which reached ahead into the open Corridor.

Hermione stood for a few moments, regulating her breathing. She needed no mirror to tell her her
face was redder than a Weasley at full blush.

Hermione had not suspected how deeply ran her fears in this regard. So long as a single spark
survived to be fanned to terrible life, the Dark Forces would always be a threat to her through her
link to Harry. To her, and to her chidren. Their children.

And she smiled. Yes. *Their* children. Hers and Harry's. It was a legacy, she realized,
unlike any in the wizarding world. How would she bear up under it? She didn't know. She only
knew that, with Harry at her side, she would find the strength. She would find it in Harry, in her
parents, in her friends, in all those she loved and who loved her.

But mostly, she would find it in herself. She *would* be worthy of Harry; worthy of his
goodness, his selflessness -- his love.

"I *will* be Hermione Granger Potter," she announced to the open Corridor before
her, a determined smile playing across her face. "Do your worst. *Do* your worst, and the
devil take the hindmost."

And with a final, cleansing breath, she plunged forward, the candle preceding her stride for
stride.


*


Harry stood motionless as he watched a form coalesce before him. Slender of form; tall of stature,
though not so tall as he. A rich mane of hair fell nearly to her waist; hair the color of burnished
copper.

"I've been trying to remember when it was, Harry," Ginny said, her eyes fixed on a
point somewhere above Harry's head. "When did a schoolgirl crush turn to love? Real love.
The kind that chews at your guts. The kind that won't let you sleep or eat. The kind where you
live solely for a glimpse of someone's smile -- and where you die a little every day as you
realize that his smile -- and the light in his eyes -- is reserved for someone else. Not for you.
Never -- for you."

"Ginny," Harry said, trying to raise his voice above a throaty whisper, but failing.
"You know I...I mean...did I...I didn't mean to..."

Harry passed a hand across his face. When he looked up a moment later, he found himself staring
directly into Ginny's soft brown eyes.

"I never meant to lead you on," Harry said in a louder voice this time, though far from
the volume attempted. "I never...I never had much practice at loving and being loved. I always
felt so out of place with people who'd grown up in loving families. You all seemed to know how
to show your love, if not with words, then in other ways.

"I've learned a little since those first days. But sometimes I feel like I still have a
million miles to go just to catch up with everyone else.

"I guess I always took for granted that you knew how I felt. How I feel. I didn't know how
to say it, but I hoped that you all knew how much...how much I loved you. All of you. You accepted
me into your family. That may be the greatest gift I ever received. Being a sort of honorary
Weasley is worth more to me than a mountain of broomsticks and Invisibility Cloaks. Just because I
couldn't *say* it *then* didn't mean I didn't *feel* it. And now that I
*can* say it, nothing's really changed. I love your mum and dad like my own. And Ron. And
you.

"Yes, I do love you, Ginny. I can no more deny it than deny the ground under my feet. I
think...I think I knew for certain when I held you in my arms in the Chamber of Secrets. I just
wanted to hold you forever and make sure that nothing bad ever happened to you again.

"But it was...I mean, it wasn't...Merlin help me! I didn't! I *know* I
didn't! Ginny, you know it's true. I never once implied that the love I felt for you was
a...romantic love."

"But you knew how *I* felt, didn't you?" Ginny returned. "And it made you
feel good, didn't it? All those times when you were feeling down and alone, when it felt like
the whole world had deserted you. When everyone else turned away, you always knew you could count
on good ol' Ginny to stand by you. When Hermione shut you out for weeks at a time to study for
her O.W.L.'s or her N.E.W.T.'s...when Ron went ballistic over some silly thing and you
didn't talk for days...

"And when you'd have dreams about You-Know-Who killing your parents, or about Cedric
dying; or if you just went into one of those depressions that would come over you...when you felt
that no one in the world loved you...or ever *would* love you...who did you run to? Who did
you know would *always* be there for you? Who would never lose faith in you?

"*Me*, that's who! Your rock. Your court of last resort. Ginny Weasley, the girl who
loved you too much ever to run away! Ginny Weasley, the girl you knew would *always* love you!
Would...always...love you..."

Ginny's voice fell to a whisper, her head falling with it.

"And now I'm to stand by meekly and watch as you pledge your love to *another*? How
can you ask me to do that, knowing what you do? How can you *not* see how much this is hurting
me? Am I just a *thing* to you, without human *feelings*? It's like I'm some kind
of security blanket you needed when you were younger, but which you're casting aside now that
you've outgrown it."

Harry was trying vainly to speak, but the words choked in his throat. Was it true? Had he really
been so callous, so unfeeling? So...so blind?

"Or *have* you outgrown me?" Ginny said cryptically. "You believe Hermione is
your true love. The *one*. But is she? Will she love you as completely, as unconditionally, as
I? Will she *always* be there for you? Will she *never* fail you? Or will the day come
when she *can't*...or *won't* ...give you what you need? What will you do
*then*, Harry? Will you turn to good ol' Ginny as you did a thousand times before? Will
you just turn around and expect to find me there, waiting for you? Loyal, faithful Ginny? And what
if I'm *not* there? What will you do?

"What do you *want*, Harry?" Ginny sobbed mournfully. "Bloody Hell! What do you
*really want*?"

Harry did not know how long he stood looking at Ginny, whose body shivered as at the prompting of
unspeakable anguish. Without thought to guide him, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around
the trembling girl. Her head fell onto his shoulder, and he thought to feel the hotness of tears on
his snowy white robes.

"You asked if I believe Hermione is the *one*," Harry said, his cheek pressed
against Ginny's fiery hair. "Yes. I believe that she will be waiting for me in the Soul
Chamber -- granting, of course, that I am worthy to reach it myself.

"And if she isn't...if she isn't, I'll still beg her to marry me, by wizard cleric
or Muggle Justice of the Peace. Because I love her. Sometimes I think I would quite literally die
without her."

Harry huffed a short sigh.

"Dumbledore said that a marriage under those conditions would be a flawed one. Who knows what
would happen? But I can promise you *one* thing that will *not* happen."

Harry tightened his hold on Ginny.

"I will *not* turn around and expect you to be waiting for me. For me to expect that of
you would shame both you *and* me."

Harry released Ginny and tilted his head so that he could look into her eyes, which, though deep
with thoughts he dared not fathom, were yet clear and sharp.

"If I ever treated you as you say I did -- if I took you for granted, used you as some kind of
emotional crutch -- please believe it wasn't through malice or heartlessness. It was pure,
bloody stupidity! I used to wonder sometimes how I ever came to be sorted into Gryffindor.
Gryffindors are supposed to be brave, but most of the time I was scared out of my mind! So many
strange, new things happening to me, making my stomach feel like it was full of Cornish pixies. And
it wasn't ghosts and trolls and basilisks that scared me the most. Turns out it was my own
feelings. I came to realize that I knew about as much about love as Hagrid does about how to
crochet lace doilies.

"And you're right. I must have known, on some level, how you felt about me beneath the
superficiality of a simple schoolgirl crush. You may have stopped putting your elbow in the butter
dish, but there were other signs that anyone with the I.Q. of a flobberworm should have seen
straight off. So what if I had enough insecurities to fill the Great Hall to the rafters?
That's no excuse. I should have seen. I should have *felt*. I bloody well should have
*known*!"

Harry looked into Ginny's eyes for some sign. He thought the hardness he'd glimpsed before
was lessened, if not completely abated.

"In all my time at Hogwarts, I've done a lot of things I regret. But I regret nothing so
much as any hurt I may have caused you. I'm taking with me a lot of good memories of Hogwarts,
and some of the best are of you. I don't think there's a single accomplishment of yours
that didn't make me just as happy and proud as it did Ron. I cherish you, Ginny. If I
hadn't got to you in time in the Chamber of Secrets, I can't imagine how I'd have
filled that empty place that would've been left inside me. I wouldn't be who I am today if
not for you. Growing up isn't easy under the best of conditions. As for me, I needed all the
help I could get. You were a big part of that.

"Now, here I am, trying to prove to myself and to the world that I'm not a boy any more;
that I'm a man who is ready to take a man's place in the world. But that doesn't mean
I'm not still unsure of myself sometimes. One thing I *am* sure of is that I can't do
it alone. I'll need all the help I can get -- from every quarter. God willing, I'll soon
have a wife to help me along, see that I don't make a total arse of myself...most of the time,
anyway."

Harry dared the merest suggestion of a smile, and his heart leaped when Ginny returned it, if in a
strained fashion.

"You are truly beautiful, Ginny. You and Hermione are so much alike in so many ways. Both of
you have a beauty of the spirit that transcends the material. Maybe...maybe that love that sparked
in the Chamber of Secrets...helped me to realize that I *could* love someone. If that's
true, then every happiness I share with Hermione from this day on is down to you. If that's so,
I owe you a debt I can never repay.

"I want you in my life, Ginny. In *our* life -- mine and Hermione's. We both love
you. If it's not the kind of love you hoped for...I'm sorry. But it *is* real. I love
you, Ginny. Today, tomorrow, and forever. For your sake, I wish it could be more. But what I
*can* give, I give without qualification or condition. Pure love, 100 per cent. Because I
could never, ever give you anything less."

Harry's hands were resting on Ginny's shoulders. She placed her own hands on his arms where
the sleeves of his robe had slipped back.

"I do love you so much, Harry," she said, a true smile growing slowly on her face like
the moon phasing from crescent to quarter, struggling valiantly toward fullness. "Do you know
how much?"

Unable to respond, Harry merely pursed his lips contritely and lowered his eyes submissively.

"Enough to give you up. Enough to wish you -- you and Hermione -- a lifetime of happiness. I
believe you deserve all the good things the world can give you, Harry. And the greatest of these is
love. If Hermione is the *one*...then she's the luckiest woman in the world. And I
don't mind...coming in second..."

"Love isn't a contest like the Triwizard Tournament," Harry said. "No one comes
in second. Maybe the trophies are different...but they all have the same inscription: First place.
When love is genuine, and from the heart...everybody wins.

"I love you, Ginny. For ever and always."

"Ever and always," Ginny echoed.

Harry bent, eyes closed, to kiss Ginny's cheek. His lips brushed her smooth, peachy skin for a
moment.

When Harry stood up, his arms were empty.

But his heart was full beyond measuring.

"Bless you, Ginny," Harry said, and set off down the now open Corridor as if borne on
wings.



8. The Fourth Door:  Love and Hate
----------------------------------

The image forming before Hermione yet had no human shape, no distinction by which to mark it.
Nevertheless, Hermione knew it for what, and who, it was. One it was whom she had known she must
face ere she and Harry could truly join. Without benefit of face or mouth, the image spoke. In a
voice softer than thistledown, yet with a force to topple a mountain, it spoke a single word.

"Don't."

Hermione waited for the face and form she knew must appear. The outlines of what had been the flame
of her candle sharpened into a tall, angular form with long nose, firm mouth, and deep, volcanic
blue eyes. Those eyes were at once piercing as steel, and pleading.

"Ron," Hermione said softly. She met Ron Weasley's gaze directly, unwinkingly. There
was an underlying sadness on the freckled face, warring with a strength and determination.

"Don't do this, Hermione," Ron implored. "Please. Go back. Come back. I
don't want to beg, but I will if I have to. Pride be damned. Nothing matters. Nothing...but
us."

"Ron," Hermione said with a heavy shake of her head, "there is no 'us.'
There never was. There never can be."

Hermione's voice quavered slightly. Her lips pressed together as her eyes grew blurry. Ron
reached out with his long arms and took her hands in his. He lifted her hands to his lips and
kissed them.

"I've loved you longer than I can remember," he mumbled into her trembling fingers.
"When I look back now, I can't think of a day when I didn't. Even in First Year, when
I didn't know love from the backside of a hippogriff. I saw it all in retrospect, years later.
The insults. The arguments. It was just my way. The only way I knew to let it out.

"My eyes were finally opened by Malfoy, of all people. The first time he called you Mudblood,
I felt like I'd been stabbed in the heart. He couldn't have hurt me more had he spat in
Ginny's face. When he hurt you, he hurt me. And that's when I knew.

"I can still see you lying in your hospital bed, petrified by the basilisk. I thought I'd
never have the chance to tell you. I told myself that, if you ever woke up, I'd change. I'd
be a better person, just for you.

"Didn't mean it, of course. Just one of those promises you make when you want something so
bad that you'll promise anything to have it, you know? That next Summer was kind of rough on
me, actually. Went through a lot of changes I didn't understand. Sort of went inside myself,
you might say. I hid the new Ron behind the old one, and everything was back to normal. Besides,
Harry was always there, wasn't he? Knew I couldn't compete against him -- even if he
didn't really know we were competing, you know? Well, I guess there were a lot of things Harry
didn't know then, weren't there?

"But I kept waiting. Looking for, well, some kind of...opening, I guess. You were always so
serious, you never seemed the type to be interested in...I dunno...girl stuff. I figured I had all
the time in the world to get it together. But Fourth Year was going to be it! I'd work up to it
gradually, you know? While Harry was busy with Cho, it would be just you and me.

"And then Krum came along. And suddenly, it was too late. I'd waited too long, and I knew
it was over.

"But I couldn't *let* it be over! Not inside. Even when I saw you kiss Harry at
King's Cross at the end of Fourth Year. Even when he pulled his head out of his arse and
started to notice you -- and you -- you ---

"I couldn't let go! Merlin help me! I knew I was only poor, stupid Ron Weasley...that I
didn't have a chance in Hell...but I couldn't let go! I can't let you go, Hermione! I
can't! I love you!

"Let it be *me*, Hermione! God in Heaven, let it be *me*!"

Her eyes welling with tears, Hermione disengaged her hands from Ron's grasp and slipped them
around his waist.

"I know you care for me, Ron," she mumbled into his chest, her face buried in the folds
of his robes. "I love you, too. Sometimes I think there isn't a measuring device in the
world that can chart how much. And there were more than a few nights in Fourth Year when I thought
there might be a chance for us. But... but...I was hiding inside myself, too, back then. You were
hiding the part of you that loved me. And I...I was hiding the part of myself that loved
Harry!

"I was so afraid that I would never be good enough for the Hero of the wizarding world! He
could've had any witch he wanted. Why in Merlin's name would he ever want plain old
*me*? So I -- I thought -- "

"You thought you'd settle for second-best?" Ron said with a pained laugh.
"That's what I was, wasn't I? Still am, come to that."

"*No*!" Hermione gasped, catching her breath with an effort. "It's not
about first or second! You don't compare people like...like potions assignments or O.W.L.
scores! It was never about being best or worst. It's not about loving someone more and another
less. It's...it's..."

"It's something you can't put into words," Ron said with a wisdom that would have
startled any who knew only the schoolboy prankster of the Hogwarts class of '98.

"Please be happy for me, Ron," Hermione implored softly. "How can I...I
can't...I need you there, Ron...I need to know that you're there for me...that you'll
always be there..."

"I will," Ron said in a deep, throaty affirmation. "I could never let you down,
Hermione. I'd die before I'd do that. But...it's hard...letting go. Never thought it
would...hurt so much. I want to hold you like this forever."

But even as Ron's words sounded in her ears, Hermione felt his arms slowly relax and
withdraw.

Without thinking, Hermione wiped her eyes on Ron's robes, and he emitted a short laugh.

"You *are* the *one*, aren't you? Bloke pours his heart out to you, and you wipe
your eyes on his bloody robes!" He laughed again, with genuine humor, and Hermione buried her
face in her hands with a sob. Ron gently pulled her hands away and lifted her head so that she
could look up into his eyes, which were lightly glazed with wetness.

"Harry's the luckiest sod on this Earth. If I were in his place today, I wouldn't swap
for all the gold in Gringotts. With a love like yours in his pocket, he's the richest wizard in
the world!"

Ron bent from his impressive height and placed a kiss on Hermione's cheek, tasting her tears,
his lips just brushing the corner of her mouth.

"Love you," he murmured into her cream-colored skin, bringing a tinge of rose to her
face.

Hermione no longer felt Ron's hands upon her. Opening her eyes, she saw only an empty
passageway beckoning her onward.

"Love you, too," she breathed, staring ahead into the candlelit darkness. Her eyes fixed
on the steady golden flame burning brightly before her, Hermione resumed her journey to the Soul
Chamber. And Harry.


*


Harry felt cold darkness gathering around him. The cold seeped into his joints, penetrating to his
very marrow. The candle flame seemed to be laboring, straining feebly against the oppressive gloom.
Harry felt the instinctive urge to draw his wand, though whether for illumination or defense, he
could not say. But, he reasoned, neither purpose would be served. He knew by now that everything he
experienced in this enchanted Corridor was the product of his own mind. And this thought brought a
different kind of chill. From where in his young mind did such oppressive blackness spring?

There could be only one answer.

"Harry Potter!"

Harry immediately identified that chilling voice, though he'd hoped ever to hear it again.
Hissing, sibilant, inhuman --

"Voldemort!"

The Dark Lord materialized from the blackness, his eyes red, glowing coals. Harry stepped back
involuntarily, his hand seeking the reassuring touch of his wand without benefit of conscious
thought.

"Foolish boy," Voldemort taunted in a slow, smooth voice like as a snake slithering
through tall grass. "You think me truly gone? How many times have I been destroyed, only to
return, stronger, more powerful than ever? Will you never realize that Lord Voldemort *cannot*
be destroyed? I depart only for a time. And what *is* time? A year? A millennium? Or a single
tick of the clock. All is illusion. Time is eternal. As is Lord Voldemort!"

"What do you want?" Harry said without thinking. He told himself that all was, even as
"Voldemort" had said, illusion. It was not real. Yet, for that, his nerves still hummed
like piano wire.

Voldemort's serpentine face split in an evil smile.

"Vengeance, Harry," he purred. "When I departed this veil, I left behind...unsettled
accounts, shall we say. *When* I return, it will be to sate my vengeance. A debt beyond
measuring has been accrued...and that debt *will* be paid!"

"I fought you before," Harry said hoarsely, his fingers closing on the reassuring
smoothness of his wand, though not drawing it as yet. "I destroyed you once. I'll do it
again!"

"Will you, indeed?" Voldemort's glassy eyes shone with mockery. "You amuse me,
Harry. You say you will fight me? Ah, but will *I* fight *you*? It would give you great
satisfaction to oppose me again, would it not? Shall I *give* you that boon? Or are there
*other* ways -- more *delectable* ways -- to exact toll?"

Harry felt as though a stream of ice water were coursing down his spine.

"On the day I first set eyes upon you, Harry," Voldemort said with a casualness that
stung Harry, "I took your parents from you. The only people in the world who loved you
completely and without reservation. I took their lives from them as easily as I would extinguish a
candle flame -- and, I daresay, with as little regard. By that simple act, I have caused you to
suffer much, Harry. Torment, humiliation, degradation. Ten years, Harry. Without so much as laying
a finger upon you, I have made you suffer unspeakably.

"And -- I shall do so again."

Harry drew his wand in a single fluid motion and pointed it at Voldemort's breast. He felt
foolish doing so. like a marionette dancing to the tug of invisible strings; yet this reproachment
did not serve to lower his wand by so much as a millimeter.

"How easily I have hurt you, Harry," Voldemort fairly exuberated. "With such little
effort have I made your life a living Curse. And how easily shall I do so again!

"I took from you those whom you loved, Harry. I left you alone. But, enterprising young man
that you are, you have found *others* to love, have you not? Thus does it fall to me again to
deprive you of that love. And so I shall."

"No," Harry rasped, his wand hand trembling as he took aim at Voldemort's inhuman
heart.

"But *yes*!" Voldemort sang, his ruby eyes a-glitter with malevolence. "You
have found yourself a prospective wife to give you the love you so desperately need, the love James
and Lily could not give you from the coldness of their graves. Surely you must know that I cannot
permit this? I cannot allow you to deprive me of the fruits of my triumph. If your suffering is to
continue, per my irrevocable decree, then I must deprive you of that which you most love. When I
return -- as return I shall! -- my first action *must* be to punish you! To make you suffer!
If, therefore, you take this...Mudblood...to wife, it follows that *I* must of necessity take
her *from* you."

"NEVER!" Harry shouted. "You'll *never* take Hermione from me!"

Voldemort's laughter was terrifying.

"You cannot prevent it! Can you watch over her every minute of every day? Can you alone
protect her from my legions of loyal Death Eaters, to whom my word is absolute law?

"Not alone!" Harry hissed. "Never alone! I have friends and allies --"

"Useless!" Voldemort shrieked, his eyes red flame. "The prophecy must be fulfilled!
I must destroy you, totally, utterly -- therefore, I must destroy any who are part and parcel
*of* you!

"Can you bear to watch her die, Harry? For you shall. You *will* watch her die, will feel
her tremble in your arms as her life flees her body. And afterwards will come the dreams. Oh, yes,
Harry! My vengeance would not be complete without the dreams!

"Do you still dream about your parents, Harry? Do you still hear them crying out, begging for
mercy -- for themselves -- and for you? Do you still wake up screaming, Harry, your vision clouded
by the faces of James and Lily crying out from beyond the grave? Soon there will be *three*
faces in that vision, Harry! *Three* faces of death! But -- with a difference...

"For this third death will have been wholly unnecessary. You could do nothing to prevent my
killing James and Lily. But you *can* save the Mudblood's life by a simple
expedient...

"TURN BACK, HARRY! Turn back now! For I promise you, if you join yourself to this Muggle-born
witch, you thus make her party to *your* suffering! I *shall* return, Harry! I
*will* be avenged! If you love this -- this -- harlot -- save her! Save her from her fate!
Save her from -- yourself!"

Harry's hand was shaking as with a palsy. Then, abruptly, the tenseness flowed from his muscles
like potion from a bottomless cup. In a smooth, unhurried motion he replaced his wand and surveyed
Voldemort with eyes hard as polished emeralds.

"I won't deny that I fear you, Voldemort. Only a fool knows no fear. But I'll not be
slave to that fear. Perhaps you *are* too evil to die. I may spend a lifetime warring against
you and all that you stand for. But I will *not* order my life to suit your perverted
agenda.

"You were right about *one* thing. I couldn't prevent your killing my parents. I was
an infant then. Now, I'm a man. A man who will do whatever I must to protect those I love, from
you or anything else.

"You put great stock in prophecies, Voldemort. That may have been your greatest failing --
though, with so many to choose from -- " Harry said with a venomous smirk, " -- that
would be a difficult assessment to make.

"You never understood that prophecies -- even genuine ones -- are only vague blueprints at
best. In the end, it all comes down to choices. When you murdered my parents -- when you
*tried* to murder *me* -- you may have thought you were doing no more than fulfilling
Trelawney's prophecy. But that feeble justification can never wipe the bloodstains from your
hands. And years later, you convinced your Death Eaters that that same prophecy guaranteed your
ultimate victory. But I suppose you *had* to tell them that to keep them from deserting you in
droves when the Aurors and the Order of the Phoenix were bringing your dreams of conquest crashing
down around you." Harry laughed shortly, which sound brought a snakelike hiss from
Voldemort's fleshless lips.

"They call me the Boy of Prophecy -- the Destroyer of Voldemort. But if mine was the hand that
struck the final blow, the power behind that blow came from more than myself alone.

"Dumbledore told me many times that it was my power to love which was my greatest strength.
Love for my friends; love for my family -- the second family I found to replace the one you stole
from me. But more than anything, it was my love for Hermione that was your downfall. You see, I
love her so much, I would have given my life gladly if in so doing I could have bequeathed to her a
world forever free from your foul, polluting stench. And that's something you could never
understand. You told Dumbledore that there was nothing worse than death. That's where we
differ, you and I -- and why, in the final analysis, you were doomed almost from the
start."

All trace of anger was now gone from Harry's voice. The face that had only minutes before been
contorted with fury was now serene in a manner that incensed Voldemort beyond his ability to
express the emotion.

"I love my life," Harry said simply, "whereas you -- you *covet* yours, like --
like a pile of gold. But though gold glows with fire, it gives no warmth. To me, life isn't a
possession -- it's a *blessing* -- and a blessing has no value until it's given away.
And that's a concept you could never so much as conceive -- that there could be a cause worth
paying the ultimate price. If you weren't such an abomination, I could almost pity
you."

Harry slowly returned his wand to his pristine robe, a hard smile on his face that matched the
emerald gleam in his eyes.

"Wizard I may be -- but for all his power, imagined or otherwise, a wizard is still just a
man. And a man's strength comes from more than himself alone. It comes from those he loves, and
who love him. As for me," Harry said with quiet affirmation, "Hermione is my strength. It
was she who defeated you as much as I. With her beside me -- and inside me -- I am what you strove
in vain to become -- the king of the world.

"But I have better things to do than stand here trading platitudes with the likes of
you," Harry said with an almost regal dismissiveness. "Hermione is waiting for me,
somewhere beyond that door. And just as I gave my life without reservation to the cause of
destroying you, so I intend to give it again, once and for all time. So go crawl back into the foul
pit that spawned you. But know this -- Hermione and I *will* be Joined, and not you nor all
the fiends of Hell will prevent it. And if by some unholy power you *do* defy death yet again
and return to the world of the living, make no mistake -- we *will* be waiting for you --
Hermione and I -- today, tomorrow -- and forever."

As the last echo of Harry's voice died, he swept his arm before him as if he were sweeping
aside a cloud of midges. At this gesture, the darkness pressing him from all sides shivered
visibly, like black blood in a trembling crucible. In a silent implosion, it collapsed in on itself
as at the crux of a whirlpool. Harry blinked his eyes once, and the next moment he beheld once more
the clean blackness of the nighted Corridor, its outlines receding before him beyond the periphery
of the reinvigorated candle flame.

"You are my strength, Hermione," Harry reaffirmed, his eyes fixed on the Stygian gloom
whose depths beckoned him onward. "I love you." And he resolutely followed the advancing
candle -- and his heart -- forward.



9. The Final Door: The Ties That Bind
-------------------------------------

When the candle began to glow brightly again, Hermione looked intently for the outline of some
face or figure to identify. But now the light merely expanded until Hermione was completely
engulfed as by a London pea-souper. Unable to see more than an arm's length in any direction,
she strained her ears for some telling sound. The silence was absolute. No, she corrected herself,
not quite. There *was* a sound, faint, unidentifiable. She couldn't decide if the sound
was muted by distance, or was nearby but merely soft by nature. She listened closer, wishing for
the fog to dissipate.

As if in answer to her wish, the fog melted away as at the behest of a gust of wind -- though
Hermione felt no slightest breath of air. The mist rolled back to reveal friendly walls, dotted
with prints of pastoral scenes and museum masterworks. There was a couch, chairs, tables. And --
there was carpeting under her feet, soft and plush --

Her feet! Hermione realized that her feet were no longer bare, but clad in comfortable loafers of
the type she favored when at home during Summer holidays --

It was then that full realization struck her. This was *her* house! And she -- she was no
longer wearing her wedding robes. She wore the simple, conservative attire of her everyday Muggle
life in between school terms: A long-sleeved blouse, cream-colored, two buttons open at the top,
one below; not tucked in, but swinging freely about her hips, which were clad in loose-fitting
earth-tone slacks which, due to her short stature, bagged more than a little around her
ankles.

And the sound...something sliding over cloth, rapping lightly on a hard surface...

"Oh, there you are, Hermione," called a musical voice. Hermione looked up from her
self-inspection to behold her mother bending over the dinner table, apparently having just finished
setting plates and glassware on a linen tablecloth. Three place settings, Hermione noted. Mrs.
Granger smiled sweetly and said, "Now that you're here, be a dear and set out the silver?
I have to go check the oven. Your father's busy making the salad."

As her mother disappeared into the kitchen, Hermione stood for a moment as her rational mind tried
to adjust to the shock of it all. On her left hand was the modest living room of the Granger house;
on her right was the adjoining dining area, debouching onto the kitchen, from which an inviting
aroma was even now drifting forth to caress Hermione's senses. Rousing herself, Hermione went
unerringly to the silverware drawer and procured three sets of cutlery. When the last knife was
properly arranged, Hermione saw her mother's face pop around the kitchen doorway.

"Five minutes," Mrs. Granger said before her head vanished again. The vacancy was
promptly filled by Mr. Granger, a heaping salad bowl in his hands.

"Five minutes," he said, setting the bowl to the left of a cut glass vase in which a
single rose stood alert. A white rose, Hermione noted. "Just enough time for a pre-dinner
chat," her father concluded. "Catch up on things, what?"

Before Hermione could reply, her mother appeared, her hand extended. She motioned Hermione to a
short couch, seating herself beside her daughter. Mr. Granger plunked himself down in an easy chair
facing the two women.

"Now, princess," he said in a cheerful voice, though with eyes wholly serious, "tell
us about this young man of yours. He's not...that is...he's not one of us, is he? He's
a...wizard."

"Daddy," Hermione said slowly, her brow furrowing with mild puzzlement, and not a little
fearfulness, "you've met Harry. He spent last Summer with us. The two of you chatted on
for hours."

As Hermione hesitated, uncertain how to proceed, Mrs. Granger placed a hand on her daughter's
arm.

"Yes, we've known Harry and his friends for seven years now," she said with what
seemed to Hermione to be a sort of forced calm. "But these people...they're
not...well...they're not..."

"They're not exactly...normal," Mr. Granger finished.

Hermione's brain was spinning. Her reason told her that these were not her parents; her parents
were hundreds of miles away, at the Burrow. These figures before her were merely images drawn from
her thoughts and memories, given solidity by Merlin's powerful enchantments.

But -- and suddenly Hermione felt a chill -- *were* they nothing more? Hermione had seen ample
demonstration of the potency of Merlin's magic this day. Could that magic be reaching beyond
the confines of the Dome? Were tendrils of insidious sorcery even now sifting through her
parents' minds, drawing forth these unexpected -- yet perfectly understandable -- doubts
regarding their daughter's strange new lifestyle apart from them and the world they knew? Were
these, then, her parents' true feelings, harbored in secret for seven years and never divulged
until now?

How long Hermione sat inert, batting these thoughts about like so many Bludgers, she did not know.
Turning to face her mother, she placed her hand atop the one still resting on her arm and smiled, a
distant light hovering behind the surface of her soft, puppy-dog eyes.

"When I was a little girl," she said softly, "you used to tell me all the things I
should look for in a husband. Do you remember what you said?"

"Of course, dear," Mrs. Granger said, returning her daughter's gentle smile. "I
said the man who marries my little girl must be good and kind. He must be honest, with good moral
fiber. He should not abuse his body with poison, nor his mind with unclean thoughts. And above all,
he must honor you and respect you for the woman you are; for if he cannot do this, then any love he
claims to have for you is a lie."

"Guess what, Mum?" Hermione said, her smile growing radiant. "You just described
Harry."

"Princess," Mr. Granger said, leaning forward in his chair, "You know we love you.
We only want what's best for you. When we got your Hogwarts letter, we scarcely knew what to
think. It all seemed like some elaborate practical joke -- until Minerva appeared and convinced us
it was all very real. TOO real, come to that."

Mr. Granger paused, covering his mouth with his hand. But the muscles of his cheeks tugging
backwards revealed the smile hidden thereunder. He shook his head wonderingly.

"We always knew our little girl was special. But -- flippin' Guy Fawkes on a trolley, luv!
-- this was something we just weren't prepared for! I mean, blimey, who *could* be? Magic!
Real, honest to God magic! And *our little girl* -- a *witch*!"

"Yet you let me go," Hermione said. "I never heard a word of discouragement in seven
years. You supported me all the way."

"But through it all," her father said with an undisguised heaviness in his voice,
"we always thought, I dunno -- we thought, when it was all over, you'd -- you'd come
back to us. To our world. The *real* world."

"Real," Hermione repeated, withholding a pointed sigh. "What *is*
'real', Daddy? Magical people are still people. Flesh and blood. You've met the
Weasleys? I think they're more normal than any family I've ever met. They feel -- *we*
feel -- " she stressed, including herself in this company, " -- the same things as
non-magical folk. We laugh when we hear a funny joke -- and groan at bad ones. We cheer when our
favorite team wins the Championship Cup. And we cry just like everyone else. And for the same
reasons. When a baby is born...when we suffer a loss...or when someone steps on our
heart..."

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut for a minute, fighting for control.

"When I found out I was a witch, I thought I was suddenly different from what I was before.
And I was a little scared at first, though I'd *never* have admitted it, of course."
She opened her eyes to find her parents smiling, causing her own smile to reappear. "But the
funniest thing about Hogwarts was how bloody *normal* it turned out to be. The teachers, the
students, the classrooms and the dorms; everything just reminded me, year after year, how ordinary
I really was. And still am.

"So I can do magic. I can make things fly, or appear, or vanish. So what? What if -- what if
you'd been told that I was a musical genius, a prodigy? What if someone from a conservatory had
come and said I should be trained for the concert stage, that if I practiced hard every day, that
my name would someday be on the marquee at the Royal Albert Hall? Would I be any different? Or
would I still be Hermione Granger? Would I still be your daughter? Your little girl?

"Have I ever told you about my friend Dean Thomas? He's a wonderful artist. He's still
a wizard, but it's very likely that he'll spend his life doing something that has
absolutely nothing to do with magic. Well, unless you count paintings that talk back to you, and
leave their frames to go visiting."

Mr. Granger's eyebrows rose, and Hermione chuckled.

"We're all of us the same, really. We all do the best we can with the tools we're
given. And hard work pays off in the magical world just as much as in the Muggle world. I
didn't ace my classes because my blood was more magical than anyone else's. There are
hundreds of witches and wizards with magical ancestry going back three thousand years. But that
didn't add up to a hippogriff's toenail when it came time for O.W.L.'s and
N.E.W.T.'s. I got top marks because I worked harder than anyone else. You taught me that --
both of you. Everything I am or ever will be isn't because of Hogwarts. It's because of
you."

"Do you really love him, princess?" Mr. Granger asked softy, seeming almost ashamed of
his words before they left his lips. "It's not because..."

"Daddy," Hermione said warmly, "I love it when you call me 'princess'. It
makes me feel more magical than anything in the wizarding world. But I know I'm anything
*but* a princess. You always taught me to respect the truth. And the truth is, I'm
*not* all that pretty. And you're wondering if I agreed to marry Harry because I thought I
might not get another offer. It's okay, really. I used to think the same thing myself... when I
was little, and all the boys ignored me in favor of the girls with the long blonde curls and big
blue eyes, and faces like sugar candy. That certainly doesn't describe *me*, does
it?" She felt a little laugh bubble forth, one entirely devoid of bitterness. "Not enough
magic in the *world* to bring *that* owl to roost. Add to that I'm opinionated, I
never compromise, and I've been told I nag like a fishwife. And in spite of all that -- and
other things best left to my diary -- the bravest, noblest hero in the wizarding world thinks
I'm beautiful.

"But that's...that's not why I love him. I love him because...I just..."

As Hermione's voice faded to a hushed whisper, her father reached out and tilted her face until
her eyes met his.

"I know that look," he said almost breathlessly. "I see it in your mother's eyes
even after all these years -- and I thank God for it."

Hermione leaped up and wrapped her arms around her father, feeling all of a sudden like she was six
years old again and there was no bad thing in the world that a hug from Daddy couldn't set to
rights.

Mrs. Granger was on her feet now, waiting to receive her daughter in a loving embrace. Hermione
fell upon her with a joyful sob.

Her eyes closed fast, vainly attempting to block the flow of tears threatening to erupt, Hermione
felt the warmth of her mother's arms spread through her in soothing waves. She did not know how
long she stood thus. But at some point she realized that she was no longer standing on a carpet.
Her once more shoeless feet felt only smooth stone. The loose, comfortable folds of her wedding
robes were a reassuring caress against her skin.

Hermione knew without opening her eyes that she no longer held her mother, that the walls
surrounding her were not those of her house. But the warm feeling permeating her was not
diminished. The glow of love was an aura independent of the glowing candle. And, opening her eyes
slowly, Hermione now perceived that yet another radiance suffused the Corridor in which she stood.
Her breath trapped in her chest, Hermione looked past the candle to see not a dark passageway, but
an opening from beyond which a pallid, surreal light shone.

"Harry," Hermione sobbed softly. "Harry."

Her love lending wings to her feet as well as to her heart, Hermione stepped through the doorway
and into the Soul Chamber.


*


Harry had been watching the candle for what seemed ages. It was completely motionless, had been for
what seemed hours to Harry's heightened, anxiety-laced senses. The featureless door stood
behind the flickering taper in all its mute impassivity.

Harry shook his head as if to clear his vision. And when he looked again, the door was gone! In its
place was a wall, painted a pale, tranquil green. Harry saw that his enchanted candle was now
resting in an ornate holder in the exact center of the wall, its light dispersed by a bronze
reflector. Like candles occupied similar places on the walls at either hand. Two of the walls bore
windows, the curtains drawn. The third wall, which he supposed was an inner wall, was unbroken. All
three walls were decorated with pictures and small shelves upon which objects of varying size and
dubious identity sat in a sort of friendly casualness.

Harry felt heat against his back, indicating that the unseen fourth wall bore a well-stoked
fireplace. The dry heat was reassuring on his shoulders, which he realized felt somewhat strained
from his recent ordeals.

"Welcome home, Harry."

Harry whirled as if jerked by a leash. That voice! How many times had he heard it in dreams, in
visions -- in the Mirror of Erised...

"Mum?" It was almost a sob.

Lily Potter smiled, her green eyes soft and tender. The loving smile on her delicate face was
mirrored on the countenance of the man standing next to her, blocked momentarily as he ingenuously
raked his fingers through a tousle of unruly black hair.

"Dad!"

Harry caught himself from rushing forward blindly. These were not, could not possibly be, his
parents. James and Lily were dead. These were but shadows clothed in illusion, fleshed by his mind
through Merlin's pervading magic.

But in the end, none of that mattered. Discarding logic like a tattered and unwanted cloak, Harry
rushed forward and fell upon James and Lily, sobbing as he had not since that day following the
third task of the Triwizard Tournament when Molly Weasley had held him as she would her own son.
And though Harry loved Molly as much as he did anyone in the world, there was no price he would not
have paid on that day to replace Molly's warm embrace with that of his mother. And now...

Lily's gentle fingers were laced through Harry's hair. A strong hand that could be none but
James' was upon his shoulder, its firmness yet as loving as Lily's feathery touch. In that
moment suspended in time, Harry felt 17 years of loneliness and anguish spill out of him like water
from a sundered dam. He wanted to hold them like this forever.

When at last Harry drew back, he noted for the first time that he was more than half a head taller
than his mother. The same thought seemed to have occurred to Lily as she appraised her son
approvingly, her head inclined slightly.

"He's almost as tall as you, James."

"No 'almost' about it," James said, clapping his son on the shoulder
jovially.

"I've missed you so much, " Harry said hoarsely, determined not to break down, not so
much from pride as from an unwillingness to squander this cherished moment with such unproductive
foolishness.

Smiling broadly, James steered Harry to an upholstered chair as he and Lily seated themselves
before him on an antique loveseat.

"Now, son," James said with an air of fatherly command in his voice, "tell us what
you've been up to lately. We do see quite a bit from the Other Side, but a lot slips through
the cracks.

"Tell us," he said in a low, slightly thick voice, "about the war against
Voldemort."

Speaking mechanically through his befuddlement, Harry said, "Voldemort is dead. Destroyed.
He'll never again hurt anyone like...like he..."

Harry's throat constricted. They looked so alive! He had felt the warmth of their flesh against
his. It was all a bad dream, he told himself in an effort to sweep reason into the forgotten
corners of his mind. He had been hypnotized, made to believe that they were dead as some form of
punishment, though for what crime he could not say. Voldemort was clever that way. Even with his
power shattered all those years ago, the Dark Lord had reached out from the Nether Realms and
corrupted Harry's perception, twisted his mind, shaped it to his own perverted ends.

Harry jerked his glasses away, his hand covering his eyes to stay the onrush of burning tears. And
that innocuous action rent the tapestry of delusion and stripped the veil from Harry's mind and
heart. For as he swept away his tears, Harry felt his fingertips brush the jagged outline of his
scar. His touch lingered thereon, tracing the irregular line against the smoothness of his
forehead. Harry felt the urge to laugh hysterically. Here, then, was proof of the lie -- the
wonderful, impossible lie. For if Lily yet lived, whence this mark on his flesh? No. Lily was dead.
It was her sacrifice that had caused Voldemort's Killing Curse to rebound from baby Harry,
leaving behind this reminder, this signpost to mark the fate of its perpetrator.

"We always knew you could do it," Lily said with motherly pride. "Your father and I
never doubted but that you would avenge our deaths."

"And not just us," James added. "How many hundreds, even thousands did Voldemort
kill or destroy? And how many more would have suffered by his hand had he gone on unchallenged?
Killed outright, like us. Or the Bones'. Or made to suffer something *worse* than death,
like the Longbottoms. Our end, at least, brought a closure of sorts for those we left behind. But
Neville's suffering goes on. Nor can Voldemort's destruction dry a single tear from his
face.

"This was about more than vengeance, son. It was about justice. About opposing evil for no
other reason than that it is right to do so. You've honored us beyond measure,
Harry."

Harry felt a hand clutching at his heart.

"I -- I didn't do it alone. There was Dumbledore. And Moody. And who knows where we'd
have been without Sirius? So...so many...

"But...I really couldn't have done it without Hermione."

"Tell us about it," James prompted.

"Yes," Lily echoed. "And tell us about Hermione."

"Well," Harry said stumblingly, his mind rejecting the rationality of the scene in favor
of its deeper meaning to his pained soul, "She's Muggle-born, like you, Mum. But she's
an only child. Her parents are dentists, about as thoroughly Muggle as you could imagine. Never
know to look at them that they'd give the world the smartest witch of the 21st
century."

Lily's face lit up at this, and Harry felt a surge from deep within that strove to burst his
chest like a balloon.

"She broke every existing record for O.W.L's and N.E.W.T.'s," Harry declared.
"There's never been anyone like her. Even hung a plaque of her in the Great
Hall."

"Next to yours," James affirmed gently.

"Hagrid once said," Harry resumed, struggling against the redness rising to his cheeks,
"that there hadn't been a spell invented that Hermione couldn't do. And -- "
Harry hesitated, his voice dropping noticeably, " -- she needed every bit of magical skill she
had when -- when Voldemort attacked."

James and Lily sat quietly as Harry's eyes took on a far-away look.

"There were Death Eaters all around us. It looked like there was no stopping them. But
Hermione held them off with hexes and attacking spells and counter-Curses. She cleared the way for
me to challenge Voldemort. Without her, I wouldn't have had the strength to withstand his
attack. She very nearly sacrificed herself. All so I'd be up to facing Voldemort at full
strength.

"But it wasn't just her magic and her bravery. It was just -- knowing that she was there.
She's *always* been there for me. They -- they carried both of us off the battlefield
thinking we were dead. I woke up first, days later, and when I learned that Hermione was still
unconscious, I -- I thought more than once that...that I...I didn't want to live in a world
without her. If she had died, then I wanted to die, too."

"It sounds like you love her very much, son," James said.

"More than I ever imagined I *could* love someone," Harry said haltingly. "I
feel she's...she's the reason I was born...the reason I was spared when -- " Harry
swallowed dryly. "She...she fills me up inside. All the empty places deep inside of
me."

"The emptiness left by our deaths?" Lily asked delicately.

The question startled Harry into a fearsome silence.

"Are you marrying her because you love her?" James queried. "Or because *she*
loves *you*?"

Harry shook himself, staring into his father's piercing hazel eyes, which in that moment
reminded him forcefully of Hermione's penetrating gaze that could crucify his soul with the
merest flicker.

"Do you love her," James pressed, "because she offers you the love you were denied
for so long? The love you ached for on those cold nights in the cupboard under the stairs? The love
that *we* couldn't give you?"

"What if we hadn't died?" Lily now interjected. "What if...what if you'd
boarded the Hogwarts Express for the first time with your father and me waving to you, smiling at
you, wishing you good luck and telling you how much we loved you? What if you'd grown up into
an adult wizard with the two of us beside you every step of the way, with Christmas presents and
birthday parties, and everything every other child had, whether wizard or Muggle? What if you...if
you had no empty places that needed filling? Where would you be today, Harry? And more importantly
-- where would *Hermione* be?"

After an eternity, Harry spoke, though with difficulty, being as there was a lump the size of a
dragon egg lodged in his throat.

"It was hard growing up without you. Without anyone who cared. I think...I think if I
hadn't turned out to be a wizard, I might never have found a way out. When Hagrid finally
delivered my Hogwarts letter, I never imagined that I'd come to regard it years later as a gift
from God.

"I found more than my 'own kind' -- witches and wizards -- at Hogwarts. I found a
family. More than one, actually. But what I really found was the *meaning* of family. I
learned how to love, and just as important, I learned how to let myself *be* loved. My
schoolmates became the brothers and sisters I never had. The teachers were like aunts and uncles --
well, most of them..."

Harry's eyes flashed devilishly before lowering demurely. He just made out his father's
smile, saw James' eyes flicker at Lily as he lifted a finger to the point between his eyes and
make an arching gesture representative of Snape's hooked nose. Lily's eyes scolded her
husband, but her lips curled in a smile and she emitted a titter of laughter.

"And then there were the Weasleys," Harry said with a joyful light dancing in his eyes.
"Being with them made me feel how it might have been with the two of you. A real home, with
loving parents -- and the fighting, the arguing -- the whole package. It was almost more than I
could accept. I had a family. All the Weasleys, from first to last, took me in as if I were their
own. And even though I still miss the both of you so much...at some point I...I began to think of
Arthur and Molly as my parents."

"That makes us very happy," Lily said warmly.

"Hold on, then," James put in, his eyes taking on the same glint as Harry's a moment
ago. "What about Sirius? Your godfather and duly-appointed legal guardian?"

"Merlin save us all from Sirius Black," Harry smirked. "I love him almost as much as
I love you two. But you can't deny, he has more contradictions than Trelawney's Divination
class. Father figure one minute, incorrigible Marauder the next. Though I will say this for him:
Once Pettigrew was caught and his confession exonerated Sirius, your old schoolmate did everything
in his power to make a real home for me. Fudge's signature was scarcely dry on the pardon
parchment before Sirius was lobbying Dumbledore to get me away from the Dursleys, and Voldemort
Curse any who got in his way. I never knew how mucked up wizard bureaucracy could be. But to his
credit, Sirius worked like a dog to cut through the bollocks and win through."

"Worked like a -- " James choked, covering his face as his shoulders shook with muffled
laughter. "Blimey, Harry! I'd say you've been hanging around him *too*
long!"

"Sirius, my bum!" Lily chortled. "That's *your* sense of humor, James! Tell
*me*!"

His spirits thus lightened, Harry sighed through an easy, tranquil smile.

"You see how it is, then? Whatever empty places I had were filled long before I gave my heart
to Hermione. Arthur, Molly, Ron, Sirius, Hagrid, Dumbledore -- everyone gave me a little piece of
themselves, and together those pieces filled up every empty place I had. All but one.

"You remember I said there was a time when I not only didn't know how to love, but how to
let myself *be* loved. That was the real gift my friends gave me. Hagrid was the first, I
think. Pulled me from the ruins of the house, didn't he? I think I knew from the day we met at
the Dursleys' cabin that Hagrid and I would be great mates.

"But it *really* all started with Ron. And Hermione. We all started from square one,
though they did have a bit of an edge, coming from whole families as they did. But still, together
we learned how to love each other, and how to let ourselves be loved in return. From the day I
first realized that I loved Hermione in a special way, I also realized that I never could have
loved her that way if I didn't first love her as a friend.

"I've had lots of opportunities to look back on those years lately. And I know that the
Harry Potter who used to crawl out of that broom cupboard every morning to fix Dudley's
breakfast could never have loved *anyone* in *any* way. But I'm not that Harry Potter
any more. He was only an empty shell with a hole where his heart should have been. But, by the
grace of God, that Harry is dead and gone. I'm a whole wizard now. A whole man. And it's
*as* a whole man that I gave my heart away.

"You asked how it would have been had the two of you never died. I think... think I would have
fallen for Hermione even sooner, actually. If I'd grown up with a bit of confidence and
self-worth, I wouldn't have wasted so much time chasing after pretty faces just to bolster my
sodding ego. I would have seen Hermione's inner beauty sooner. As Ron did.

"Hermione isn't a substitute for any loss, real or imagined. The empty place she fills in
me is the one every man has, the one that can be filled only by the woman he was born to
love.

"Without her, I would still be who I am. A whole man. A man I hope you would have been proud
to call your son. But I know, too, that every man can become *more* than he is. And he can
only do that with the love of the right woman. And there is no doubt in my mind -- or in my heart
-- that Hermione is that woman."

Lily rose from her seat next to her husband and bent over Harry. She brushed his unkempt hair aside
and placed a light kiss upon the scar her death had caused nearly 17 years ago.

Harry's eyes closed, valiantly endeavoring to seal off escaping tears. And failing.

How it happened, he was not able to determine. Whereas he had been sitting, now he was standing. He
opened his eyes. The candle was precisely where it had been. But the wall into which it was set was
gone, with everything else. His parents had returned to that secret place inside Harry, where they
would continue to live on in denial of Voldemort and his Killing Curse. But though James and Lily
resided securely in Harry's heart, yet was there still room and to spare for many others. And,
in particular, for one other.

Looking beyond the candle now, Harry felt a rush of mingled fear and euphoria. For beyond the
candle was no door, but an open portal beyond which an unearthly light danced as if to strains
unhearable by human ear -- but not to human heart.

It was a song, Harry thought. A song of celebration. And the last mote of doubt was swept with
finality from Harry's soul. The one final, heart-wrenching doubt: Would she be there? Was
Hermione waiting for him in the bosom of that mystical iridescence?

Yes. She was there. He could hear her voice, calling to him.

"I'm coming, love," Harry called in a voice born neither from lips nor tongue, but
from his heart. "I'm coming."

And he followed the prelusory candle into the heart of the Soul Chamber.



10. The Soul Chamber
--------------------

Harry sensed that the chamber in which he stood was not large, yet there was a perception of
vastness beyond comprehension. It reminded Harry of Arthur's enchanted Ford Anglia, increased
exponentially. Harry believed that the whole of Hogwarts castle, if not the very mountain on which
it sat, could fit easily into this modest chamber.

A soft radiance surrounded Harry, a light that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere. As he
stood motionless, listening with more than ear, he seemed to hear...a pulse. The light was
resonating...breathing. It was alive in some mysterious way, alive with magic and...what? Harry
mentally shook himself. Here were secrets not meant to be unraveled by human thought. The
*how* and the *why* did not matter. This was real and undeniable. The Chamber in which he
stood was, in very truth, a living thing; and its heart, its soul, was the Crystal.

Quickly learning not to rely upon the physical in this occult setting, Harry reached out with his
inner eye and spied that which he sought: The Soul Crystal. Its size he could not determine, for
distance was an illusion. It seemed miles away, yet close enough to reach out and touch.

The Crystal throbbed silently with unimaginable power. But, even as Dumbledore had said, it was a
benign power, nurturing, its strength like unto the embrace of a loving parent. And as he stood in
its presence, Harry knew he did not fear this thing of wondrous magical creation. He was ready. And
though he could not see through the magical light-mist to the far side of the Chamber, he did not
doubt that Hermione was standing even as was he.

Harry instinctively spread his arms in a gesture of complete surrender. As if in acceptance, the
Chamber tugged at him. Harry no longer felt the stone floor under his feet. It was not that Harry
had risen; rather the floor, walls and ceiling had dissolved away. The Soul Chamber was now a
Universe in and of itself. And Harry -- Harry was become All, and Nothing. He was no longer flesh
clad in robes; he was free, naked Spirit. He was the Universe, and the Universe was Harry
Potter.

There was no sensation of motion. There was no wind whipping his hair, no weightlessness in the pit
of his stomach, as when he flew his broomstick. But he must be moving in some manner, for the
Crystal seemed closer now, its light more intense, its power tangible. Harry felt waves of magic
washing over him like a warm tide. The whole aspect was womb-like as Harry floated in a cosmic sea
whose shores were the limits of rational thought.

Harry felt a touch upon his mind. It was a caress, an embrace; a kiss without lips, and a promise
without words.

"Hermione," Harry's mind called out.

"Harry," came the reply.

The two lovers drifted inexorably one toward the other, borne as floss on a Summer breeze. Their
incorporeal hands outstretched, they met and embraced, yet did not touch. Like silver mist on a
moor, they flowed together, into and through each other, the Soul Crystal at the apex of their
joined hearts so that its fire burned within them. Merging with the Crystal, they became one. There
was no Harry Potter, no Hermione Granger. They were a single entity, flowing through one another
like the sands of two shattered hourglasses until none could say where the one ended and the other
began.

Feeling exhilaratingly free of every trace of fear and restraint, Harry opened the depths of his
soul to Hermione, even as she to him. In an explosion greater than that of a dying star, yet with
the gentleness of a baby's sigh, two souls became one.

And, as with a single voice, two souls cried.

Her eyes jerking wide, Hermione Granger stared out from the face of Harry Potter. There was a peal
of hideous laughter, a flash of green light, a searing pain between her eyes. Screaming silently,
Hermione folded her arms around her as she attempted to shut out the green incandescence and
replace it with blessed darkness. But when the darkness came, it was not a blessing, but a curse.
The gray shadows of a dank, spider-haunted broom cupboard pressed in on her as despair washed over
her like cold rain. And in that interminable darkness, Hermione found that, try as she might, she
could not weep. She felt only emptiness, without, and -- most terrible of all -- within.

The eyes of Harry potter burned with tears, of humiliation, of heartbreaking loneliness. His heart
aching with desolation, he stumbled blindly for a place where he could shut out the world and its
cruel, heartless laughter. But the next moment his tear-swollen eyes froze in gaping horror as a
huge, stinking monster with stony gray skin loomed over him, its bludgeon lashing out to dash his
brains to red porridge. Shuddering mournfully, he wept in his soul and prayed silently for
deliverance.

In the dank tunnels deep under Hogwarts, Hermione screamed in the shadow of the stone image of
Salazar Slytherin as the basilisk's saber-like fang splintered in her arm, sending venom
coursing through her veins like fire from the devil's very cauldron.

Harry felt that same vile serpent's terrible, cold stare stab into his eyes like needles of
flaming ice. His body seized in a paralysis bordering on death, painless, but the more fearsome for
that. Staring out through sightless eyes, his lips unable to voice the scream of horror
reverberating in his chill, enmarbled heart, Harry shuddered from the depths of his soul and wept
tears that would not, could not, escape.

Moment by moment, eternity by eternity, the sands that were Harry Potter and Hermione Granger
sifted. Two souls interwove in a manner indescribable and inconceivable. In this magical crucible,
no remotest corner was hid, no deepest fear nor buried pain unrevealed. Each saw the other in stark
relief, in sharpness to slice flesh and pierce heart and soul. And through it all the two clung one
to the other. There was no consideration of retreat, no withholding, no hesitation. As each
soul-wound was opened, it was as quickly closed by the healing balm of pure, flawless love.

And as suddenly as it began, it was over. The pain was no more. It was replaced by gentle waves
that caressed Harry’s mind and heart. If the essence of love could be given corporeal form, it
would feel like this, Harry thought. The sensation flowed through him, imbuing him with an
all-enveloping feeling of contentment such as he had never known.

But no, that was not true. He *had* known such a feeling, more times than he could count. It
was the feeling that came over him every time he held Hermione in his arms. But those blissful
moments had been a mere shadow of the feeling permeating him now. For they were embracing now on a
level beyond the worldly and the physical. They were One now. He knew it with a certainty beyond
reason and understanding. His soul and Hermione’s were one and the same, inseparable, for all
time.


*


With a sudden burst of soundless fury, the mist surrounding Harry exploded with the force of a
supernova. Blackness descended upon the instant, total, engulfing Night.

Harry’s eyes snapped open. He blinked, shook his head, but despite his best efforts to bring his
surroundings into focus, he beheld only an indistinct blur. A wave of dizziness passed over him,
and he sank to his knees, thence to all fours. His outspread hands encountered cool, damp stone. He
drew a long breath, lifted his head. A soft, pulsing light throbbed not ten feet in front of him.
Its source was a crystal the size of a dragon’s egg which sat upon a pedestal of wrought gold.
Runes and symbols were etched into the soft metal, as well as tiny figures, all of which seemed to
dance to the rhythmic heartbeat of the Soul Crystal’s ethereal light.

Rising to his knees, Harry removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. His glasses once more back in
place, he stood up, his brain pulsing distractingly in time to the silent throb of the Crystal. A
voice in the back of his mind screamed. WHERE WAS HERMIONE? His heart skipped a beat. Had he been
guilty of the arrogance of which Snape had always been so ready to accuse him? Was his triumph
premature, his journey yet unfulfilled? No. He was *not* mistaken. All doubt had been left
behind in the Corridor. He knew this with unshakable certainty. But again he asked himself: Where
*was* Hermione?

A sudden thought struck him. Where was the candle whose beckoning light he had followed unerringly
to this place of magic and wonder? As if jerked by an invisible cord, his head snapped upwards. The
candle was hovering above and before him at the edge of the vaulted ceiling, its flickering light
sending shadows capering across the mosaic of the ancient stones. Harry got the uncanny impression
that it was waiting for him. Even as he thought this, the flame pulsed brightly for a moment, as if
acknowledging his scrutiny. Slowly, smoothly, the candle began to move, swinging around the Soul
Crystal like a satellite orbiting its parent star. As he had done since journey’s beginning, Harry
followed. As his bare feet slid across the smooth stones, his concentration upon the flame of his
candle was so intense that it was several seconds before he noticed a second flame approaching his
own. His heart leaped.

“Hermione.”

A figure appeared around the edge of the Soul Crystal, face glowing dimly in the magical twilight
under a crown of bushy brown hair. Following her own candle, Hermione glided forward, the eagerness
on her face implying that she would have broken into a run had she not felt compelled, even as
Harry, to maintain the pace set by her magical herald.

Though all doubt was cold, dead ash in his mind and heart, Harry yet wondered that there had been
as yet no tangible sign that he and Hermione had indeed been Joined. As the space between bride and
groom slowly closed, their candles drifted inexorably one toward the other until they hovered less
than a hand’s breadth apart. The scene held for a moment, then the candles slowly inclined, tilting
toward each other as if bowing. Ultimately, the tips touched, the two flames now burning as one. As
Harry and Hermione looked on with faces radiant from more than the Chamber’s magical illumination,
the bodies of the two candles slid together as if the wax of which they were composed were liquid
and not solid. A moment later, a single candle hovered between the two lovers, its flame growing
brighter by the moment, as if striving to equal the glow of love suffusing the faces of the man and
woman who were, now and forever, Joined.

The flame of the unified candle now cast a circle of golden radiance upon the stone floor. Acting
as with a single thought, Harry and Hermione stepped into that enchanted circle, the candle
hovering directly above them. Harry held out his hands, felt Hermione’s soft touch as their fingers
curled and locked with gentle yet unbreakable fastness. Their eyes met, sharing an embrace that ran
to the depths of their souls.

“We did it, love,” Harry said in a throaty whisper. “Looks like we’re stuck with each other. What
do you say, then? Shall we have a bash?”

“Ready when you are, lover,” Hermione beamed.

As their linked hands exchanged a squeeze of promise and hope, the flame hovering above them
expanded, leaping out to envelop the Joined couple in a magical, engulfing embrace. An instant
later, the stone confines of the Soul Chamber lay empty save for the pulsing Crystal at its
heart.



11. The Bells
-------------

The wedding guests sat in two rows in a wide semi-circle facing a low, broad dais of virgin
alabaster. A high arch spanned the platform, a latticework of cherrywood throughout which was woven
a lavish abundance of blood-red roses. At the heart of each rose, unseen by the onlookers, was a
tiny bell. Every now and then a soft breath of air would flutter the petals of one rose or another,
causing the unseen bells to whisper a faint, high-throated note. However, none observed this
phenomenon, everyone being occupied in nervous and excited conversation.

There was no division for friend of bride or groom in the assemblage, as at a Muggle wedding.
Groups gravitated and settled in according to common bond and natural affinity. Nevertheless, there
was a pattern to the groupings, in accord with the occasion for which all were assembled.

At the center, seated in a simple folding chair despite his preeminence, was Albus Dumbledore. In
his capacity as Speaker, he was, by custom, central to all.

To Dumbledore's right sat Ginny and Ron, their places also ordained by their rank as Attendants
to the bride and groom. Next to them sat their parents, Molly and Arthur Weasley. Completing the
right arc of the crescent were Lavender Brown, Parvati Patil and her twin sister, Padma (one of the
few non-Gryffindors present).

Seated at Dumbledore's left were Hermione's parents, resplendent in their wizard's
robes, if still somewhat ill-at-ease around so many magical folk. Beside them sat Sirius Black,
serving as Harry's surrogate parent. Next came Remus Lupin, who chatted and reminisced with his
fellow Marauder about good days gone forever, and better still to come. Completing the forward left
were Professors McGonagall and Flitwick, the latter floating above his chair at eye-level by
benefit of a Hover Charm.

Hagrid sat directly behind Dumbledore on a sturdy bench conjured to order by the Hogwarts
Headmaster. There had been outright laughter at the first when the officious Percy, having taken
charge of the proceedings, perfunctorily handed Hagrid one of the folding chairs upon which the
others now sat. The seat of the chair was roughly the size of Hagrid's hand, and upon receiving
it, the half-giant said politely, "Thank yeh, Percy. This'll do nice fer me stoat
san'wich. I din' wan' ter squash it in me pocket when I sat down on the
groun'."

Fred and George Weasley sat to Hagrid's right (from which vantage Molly could keep watch on
them from the corner of her eye), followed by their fellow Gryffindors from Harry's and
Hermione's year. Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan joked and swapped stories in their places
behind Lavender, Parvati and Padma, who exchanged compliments regarding each other's dress
robes, hair styles and various accessories. Last of all came Neville Longbottom, fidgeting
nervously as he tugged at dress robes that didn't seem to fit quite right. Every now and then
he essayed to sneak a surreptitious glance at Ginny, who pretended not to notice but was secretly
more than a little pleased with the attention.

The remaining Weasley siblings sat to Hagrid's left. Charlie had much with which to regale his
friend and mentor regarding his adventures with dragons in the wilds of Romania. Bill and Percy
conversed soberly on subjects ranging from the fluxuating value of the Galleon to the smuggling of
magical contraband from countries not signatory to the International Magical Trade Charter.

Last of all sat Oliver Wood, tall and striking in his best dress, his eyes flitting occasionally in
the direction of Dumbledore as if seeking to see past the Headmaster's high wizard's hat
and billowing robes.

Alone of those assembled, the Grangers were slightly less than informed regarding the ceremony in
which their daughter and only child was participant. It was generally felt that the true nature of
the Soul Chamber was a bit much for mere Muggles to accept with aplomb. They knew Hermione was
being married in wizard fashion, and their curiosity prompted the inevitable questions. For answer,
Hermione had given them a book describing the procedures of an ordinary wizard wedding.

In conversation with his future defacto "in-laws," Sirius had endeavored to outline the
tenets of wizard marriage in a comfortable manner.

"Marriage is a very personal thing in the wizarding world," he explained. "It is
believed that, since only God can sanction a marriage, true and meaningful vows can be exchanged
between none save the betrothed couple and the Almighty. It's custom for the bride and groom to
sequester themselves in a secret chamber and make their vows one to the other. This done, they
appear and declare their union to the wizarding world, sometimes in a ceremony like this one, but
not always.

"This declaration is never questioned. It's a point of deepest honor amongst wizards.
It's believed that even the lowest of the low would not defile the sanctity of the wedding
chamber by lying about their union. And if any are found to have done so, they are typically
ostracized by the wizarding world, made veritable outcasts. Nothing short of rape or murder is
regarded with as much abhorrence as to make a false claim of marriage. And it's worth noting
that divorce is virtually unknown in the wizarding world. We take marriage very
seriously."

The Grangers had, of course, asked about the purification ceremony, which was not mentioned in the
book given them by Hermione. Sirius merely shrugged and stated that this was merely an elective, to
show the true devotion of the couple to be married. This seemed to please them greatly, reinforcing
their confidence in their daughter's convictions. But through it all, Sirius still sensed an
underlying trepidation on the part of the Grangers. Though their support of their daughter's
strange, new lifestyle had been manifest, they were still Muggles, after all. There was a vast gulf
between the two worlds, and Sirius was not naive in regard to the pitfalls of a wizard-Muggle
union. Hermione was a true witch, of course, but still Muggle-born. Only the strongest of loves
could overcome the differences of two such diverse worlds. But when such doubts surfaced,
Sirius' thoughts immediately turned to his beloved James and Lily. She, like Hermione, had been
Muggle-born. But Sirius had never seen a stronger love than that shared by his old Gryffindor
classmates.

Never, that is, until today.

His thoughts thus occupied, Sirius was among the last to notice that everyone's attention
seemed riveted on the arched platform before which they sat. Every voice was suddenly stilled, and
in the quiet, broken only by the voice of an occasional sparrow, a song of a different heart was
rising on the September air.

The bells! The tiny bells in the eye of each rose decorating the arch were singing in a soft,
melodic voice; each infinitesimal of itself, but in chorus a rhapsody to the soul. He, who had been
party to this same ceremony years agone, was as enthralled as those to whom all was new and
wondrous. Alert now, he looked for the next stage in the culmination of this most joyous of magical
rites. And he gasped aloud with everyone else. The roses were changing. One by one, from the
topmost and along either flank, the red roses were turning white! It was as if some Muggle
electrician were flipping switches on a board, one after another, to light a marquee.

Sirius wasn't aware that he was holding his breath until he suddenly expelled a wheezing
lungful. Another onrush followed -- one of tears.

A sphere of light was growing at the center of the dais. It expanded until its borders kissed the
petals of the snow-white roses, whose song now lifted to the heavens.

Between the span of two heartbeats, the magical tongues of the rosy arch stilled. The milky sphere
of light popped silently like a soap bubble. Harry and Hermione stood on the dais, their hands
joined, the hoods of their brilliant robes thrown back to reveal faces more brilliant still.

The young couple's eyes immediately sought those of their Speaker. Dumbledore placed his hands
together, his smile shining brighter than the sun.

"Once in a lifetime," Dumbledore whispered reverently, "is an honor passing
description. But twice! Twice!"

And, buoyed by the lightness in his bosom, Dumbledore rose from his seat and approached the
dais.



12. The Voice of the Speaker
----------------------------

As Dumbledore approached the dais, followed immediately by Ron and Ginny, a number of curious
things happened at nearly the same instant.

Upon seeing Harry and Hermione appear, Parvati had immediately reached into her beautiful
peach-colored dress robes and pulled out a small camera. She lifted it, one eye closing to permit
her to view the newlyweds through the sighting lens -- then immediately lowered the camera and
returned it to her robes. The expression on her face, which Harry observed with a trace of humor,
reflected a complete lack of awareness, as if her mind suddenly had no knowledge of what her body
had attempted.

Within the same span of seconds, Lavender, seated next to Parvati, had whipped out a roll of
parchment and a Quick-Quotes-Quill. Hermione found this spectacle particularly entertaining,
knowing as she did that Lavender had secured a position at Witch Weekly magazine on the strength of
a promise to deliver the first-hand goods on the "Wizard Wedding of the Millennium." But
any impressions that may have formed in her mind would never be read by the magazine's
readership. Lavender smoothly returned parchment and quill to her robes in a single fluid motion,
seemingly oblivious even to her attempt, much less its lack of success.

And in his place behind his Gryffindor housemates, Dean had opened the flap of his pouch and
withdrawn several sheets of artboard even as a packet of colored chalks rose from a side pocket and
hovered at his side. A moment later he dismissed the chalks with a wave of his hand, returning the
artboard to his pouch with an expression indicating that sketching the scene before him had never
entered his mind.

Dumbledore now stood before the dais, smiling warmly at the white-robed couple. Ron and Ginny,
coming up behind Dumbledore, had separated and were now circling the dais. They stepped up behind
Harry and Hermione and took their hooded cloaks, thereafter stepping back and standing at either
side of the Speaker.

It was only now, standing close enough to observe the scene in greater detail, that Ron and Ginny
noticed that Dumbledore's attention was no longer focused on Harry and Hermione, but rather on
a point just above them. The other guests seemed to have made the same discovery, for there was now
a collective intake of breath. Hovering just above the newlyweds was a single white candle, its
magical flame steady in defiance of the breeze ruffling the petals of the nearby roses.

Drawing his wand, Dumbledore made a pass over the candle. A globe like unto glass, yet reflecting
none of the bright sunlight, appeared around the candle. Though effectively sealed from the air,
yet the flame did not waver, but continued to shine brightly.

"The two lights are now one," Dumbledore said reverently, his smile softer now as his
blue eyes regarded Harry and Hermione over the rims of his half-moon spectacles. "One heart.
One life. One love.

"This light is the Unity of Spirit. No power on Earth can extinguish it. Always know, my
children, that whenever the weight of despair bids to overwhelm you, this light will be your
beacon."

Dumbledore waved his wand once. The candle vanished. But to Harry and Hermione, it had not gone.
They saw it still, a ghostly image which they could see merely by willing. Reading their
expression, Dumbledore smiled more broadly now.

"This light will burn in your hearts forever. With but a single thought you may summon it, and
by its presence know that, though a world separate you, you are not alone. Henceforth, and for all
time, you are One."

With a final nod, Dumbledore turned his back on the smiling couple and addressed the
assembly:

"Ladies and gentlemen. Witches and wizards. And any other magical folk upon whose ears my
words might fall.

"Nearly two decades agone I was honored to preside as Speaker at the Joining of Lily Evans and
James Potter. May God rest their souls. I had thought that I should never again know such happiness
and contentment as that occasion bestowed upon me. Yet today am I doubly honored to stand before
this august company and speak for James' and Lily's son, Harry Potter, and for his
beautiful bride, Hermione Granger.

"There is much of his father in Harry, nor in appearance alone. And also of his mother, I
daresay. Each of them possessed of great courage and nobility. Like his parents before him, Harry
strove to do what was right as opposed to what was easy, to put the good of others ahead of self.
Though he endured much hardship in his early life, he did not let it embitter him. He chose instead
to see good in all people, to regard evil as aberration rather than the natural order of things.
Were he anyone other than 'The Boy Who Lived,' he would still be deserving of the praise I
bestow upon him today. For if history remembers Harry Potter as a great wizard, it will not have
been his name that made him great, but *he* who elevated his *name* to greatness. For
these things, and others too numerous to relate upon this joyous occasion, I honor him today.

"And of his bride I may say nothing less. Not without cause was Hermione Granger placed in
Gryffindor House, even as was her predecessor, Lily Evans. Both of these exemplary young women came
from Muggle parents, being the first and only members of their families to possess magical blood.
In each case, they brought with them to Hogwarts the Muggle ethic of accomplishment through
endeavor. For magic is a tool, neither more nor less, and it falls to the individual to employ that
tool for good or ill. There is therefore no praise I can withhold from the parents of this splendid
young woman for blessing the magical community with the light of her presence."

The Grangers reddened visibly as the crowd chorused unanimous agreement with Dumbledore's
words. When Dumbledore bowed deeply to them a moment later, Mrs. Granger sobbed softly, gratefully
accepting a handkerchief magicked to her by Molly Weasley.

Throwing his head back so that his long hair cavorted about his shoulders, Dumbledore raised his
arms, his palms skyward, his eyes uplifted in concert with his spirit.

"Let the word go forth, from this place and time, that Harry and Hermione are forever Joined
one to the other, husband and wife. Let all of us who love them partake of their happiness. Let us
rejoice with them. Let us further pledge ourselves to them, to support them in this union and to
lend them our strength as need may arise, seeing in them the heights to which mortal flesh may
aspire upon this Earth.

"For if there is one true magic in all our lives, it is love. Let their example light our way
as we strive against the powers of darkness, in whatever form, from whatever quarter. When all is
bleak, when all seems forlorn, let us remember this day as a light to dispel all
shadow."

As Dumbledore's words flowed through him in tangible waves, Ron struggled valiantly against an
onrush of tears. But it was not from the sadness he expected to feel at losing Hermione forever.
Seeing the light of love on the faces of his two closest friends was a balm for his heart. He knew
beyond all doubt that they were Destiny's lovers, and the happiness he felt for them in that
moment could have kindled every electric light in the city of London.

For her part, Ginny made no attempt to stay her own tears of joy; she hugged Hermione's snowy
cloak to her bosom and wept until her freckled face fairly glistened in the September sun. Her love
for Harry would never die; but it was now a love that rejoiced rather than mourned.

As if reading Ginny's very thoughts, Dumbledore cried out now:

"Rejoice with me, friends! And again I say, rejoice! For Harry and Hermione have pledged their
troth this day! Let us celebrate the blessed union of these two gentle souls! Come forward, one and
all, and drink the cup of their happiness!"

Dumbledore turned aside, his hands extended. With one hand did he beckon to the guests to rise and
come forward; the other he extended to receive Hermione's as she and Harry descended the
dais.

The moment Harry set foot upon the ground, there was a silent burst of light which dazzled all eyes
for the briefest moment. When all could see clearly once more, the rose-covered dais was gone,
leaving no slightest mark upon the ground to betray that it ever had been. Nor were the young
couple unchanged, for their ceremonial wedding robes had given way to more conventional wizard
attire.

Harry's formal robes were a brilliant blue, shimmering in the morning sun with highlights of
aqua and turquoise. Pride surged through him, for these were the very robes in which his father was
married; a gift to Harry from his godfather, who himself had been gifted by James in the hopes that
Sirius would "find a nice witch and settle down."

*Ah, James,* Sirius thought tearfully now at sight of his godson looking so like his departed
comrade, *if only you could have lived to see this day!*

Hermione was still garbed in white, but her elegantly tailored robes displayed elaborate stitching
which reflected the sunlight in patterns of stars and birds and garlanded flowers. Hermione fairly
shivered with excitement, exchanging a triumphal look with Lavender, with whose help she had found
this perfect wedding robe in a shop in Milan after days of seemingly fruitless searching. (Thank
Merlin for Apparation!)

The guests surged upon Harry and Hermione, but none was able to precede Dumbledore. The old wizard
wrapped his arms around them, his glasses misting with tears, even as were Harry's.

"Thank you, Professor," Harry said.

"Yes, Professor," Hermione said. "Thank you. For everything."

"You are *very* welcome, " Dumbledore said. "And as I am no *longer* your
Headmaster, I shall remind you that my name is *Albus*, and I should be very pleased if you
would so address me from now on."

Harry had no time to reply, for Dumbledore was quickly overwhelmed by the remaining guests, all of
whom wanted to be first to congratulate the newlyweds. But it was no surprise to Harry when the
first hand to find and clasp his belonged to Ron.

"Good job, mate!" Ron said sincerely. "You got the best girl -- no, the best
*woman*-- in the bloody world, and I'll Curse anyone who says otherwise!"

"I agree," Ginny said, releasing Hermione from a crushing hug. Before stepping aside to
let the other guests express their sentiments, Ginny reached into her robes and placed an object
into Hermione's hand. "It's not a portkey any more," Ginny said as Hermione
cupped the white rose in her hands. "But it still represents a journey of sorts. And I know it
will be a long and happy one. For both of you."

Smiling tearfully, Hermione drew her wand and placed a protective spell on the rose before slipping
it into her robes.

By now there was no holding the crowd back. Diverse hands pounded Harry on the back and crushed his
fingers in congratulatory handshakes. Hermione was smothered with hugs from male and female alike,
and Harry threatened to use his wand on more than one enthusiastic well-wisher (though the
imprecation came always from smiling lips).

Parvati's camera was out now, snapping away furiously with a sound like a Muggle typewriter.
(Curiously, Dumbledore appeared not once in any of the hundreds of photos taken that day.)
Dean's colored chalks were streaking across artboard like a swarm of hornets, and
Lavender's Quick-Quotes-Quill danced like it was still attached to its original donor's
bum.

No one was keeping track of time, but it wasn't long before the chatter was split by a mournful
cry:

"Blimey, I'm starving! Anything to eat around here?"

Before anyone could reply, Dean held his hand out, a triumphant smile splitting his darkly handsome
face as Seamus dug into a pocket of his robes, muttering under his breath.

"Sucker bet," Dean declared as his hand closed on a gold Galleon that a moment before had
resided in Seamus' pocket. "Knew I could count on you, Ron."

Ron's face turned the color of his hair as laughter exploded from every quarter. But the smile
on his face was broader than Dean's.



13. Let Them Eat Cake
---------------------

Ron's words proved to be prophetic. A muted "bang" sounded, and all heads turned
to see Arthur Weasley with his wand upraised. He waved his wand once, and the crowd parted like the
Red Sea under the command of Moses' staff. The resulting corridor found Harry and Hermione
standing at one end, Arthur and Molly at the other, the latter of whom stood before a long,
white-draped table. The table was empty, but it did not remain so for long. Molly clapped her hands
twice. A soft popping sound followed, and immediately the crowd gasped.

The wedding cake that had appeared on the table was beyond magnificent. It stood fully seven layers
high, its snow-white frosting trimmed with green. And there was something curious about it that the
newlyweds could not quite define. As they approached the table, beckoned forward by Arthur and
Molly, the details of the splendid cake sharpened, and Hermione let out a tiny squeal and gripped
Harry's hand convulsively.

The cake was covered with tiny figures of people, and, just as with wizard paintings and photos,
those figures were moving. As if unwilling to believe their eyes, Harry and Hermione stared in mute
wonder as they watched their seven years at Hogwarts being played out on the frosted surface of the
cake.

Harry saw himself catching the Golden Snitch, his fist held high as he soared on his broomstick. In
another place he was dashing past a raging Hungarian Horntail, a golden egg tucked under his
arm.

Hermione found her own triumphs, if less spectacular than Harry's, no less thrilling to relive.
In one place she was holding the congratulatory scroll she'd received upon shattering the
school record for O.W.L.'s at the end of Fifth Year. Elsewhere she was delivering her
valedictory speech, holding the bronze plaque celebrating yet another record for
N.E.W.T.'s.

They appeared together as well. One scene illustrated their adventure in the corridors deep under
Hogwarts in their quest to safeguard the Sorcerer's Stone. Another scene showed them flying
Buckbeak up to the North Tower to rescue Sirius from Flitwick's office. And on the topmost
layer (which station was a proclamation of triumph) they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, wands out,
facing the unmistakable figure of Lord Voldemort.

So it went, from first layer to last. Seven years of adventures, triumphs -- and heartaches.
Memories of the Triwizard Tournament were austere, relived with reverence for Barty Crouch and
Cedric Diggory, who fought the Good Fight without living to see its ultimate success.

As if sharing a single thought, the newlyweds exchanged a look of regret that this panorama of
remembrance should be defiled for something so prosaic as hunger. (And given that both of them had
just endured a three-day fast, that was not a sentiment to be entertained lightly.) But a moment
later, a familiar *click-whirr*, *click-whirr* lifted that weight from their minds with
the sureness of a Levitating Charm. They looked around to see Parvati smiling at them over the
eyepiece of her camera, in which was now impressed for all time the image of the Hogwarts elves’
seven-layer masterpiece. Exchanging a smile, Harry and Hermione gave each other’s hand a squeeze as
they turned toward Arthur and Molly.

"I trust you have a knife, Molly?" Harry said.

"Actually, no," Molly said somewhat airily. "But I know someone who
does."

Molly clapped her hands again. With a sound like a whipcrack, tiny figures had appeared on the
table on either side of the cake. They were nearly identical from first to last, sporting long,
bat-like ears and eyes the size of tennis balls. Their attire was likewise identical, consisting of
a crisp, white tea towel, worn toga-fashion and emblazoned with the Hogwarts crest.

One alone differed from his fellows in this respect, and it was upon this individual that the
newlyweds bestowed a warm smile.

Dobby was resplendent in raiment outrageous even for him. He wore his omnipresent mismatched socks,
one a bright canary yellow, the other a shocking violet that pained any eyes unwise enough to dwell
overlong theron. A bright orange tea cozy topped his head, clashing blindingly with a baggy crimson
sweater on which a Gryffindor lion was woven in gold thread.

“Mr. ‘Arry Potter, sir!” Dobby said, bowing so deeply that his long nose nearly touched the table
between his stockinged feet. “Please allow us to serve you and your lovely wife, sir!”

In the wink of an eye, Dobby produced a large, wedge-shaped knife from thin air and sprang eagerly
at the cake (which was nearly as tall as he). Only a quick, sharp rebuke from Molly stayed the
knife-edge less than an inch from its target.

“Now, Dobby,” Molly told the house-elf in a quiet yet forceful voice, “it’s tradition that the
bride and groom be first to cut the cake. Once they have done so, *then* you may serve the
other guests.”

Dobby's disappointment was manifest, but he brightened quickly and bowed toward Harry and
Hermione, extending the knife, handle first.

Harry grasped the long handle near the blade, leaving room for Hermione to grip the end. Together
they carved a slice of cake and fed each other enthusiastically, to the accompaniment of cheers and
laughter, augmented by the chatter of Parvati's camera and the scratch and swish of Dean's
chalks and Lavender's quill. The young couple then proceeded to kiss and lick cake crumbs and
dabs of icing from each other's faces. Molly Weasley gasped, her plump face taking on the
aspect of a tomato. The younger guests giggled and hooted, shouting encouragement, while the adults
coughed uneasily and accepted small servings of cake from the solicitous house-elves. For his part,
Ron inhaled his cake with alacrity, knowing it was but the prelude to the proper feast to
come.

The plates, once empty, were not collected by the house-elves. Instead, Arthur Weasley waved his
wand with a great flourish. The plates abruptly transfigured into small, empty goblets of polished
crystal.

"And *that's* how it's done, Finnigan," Professor McGonagall stated with a
sidewise glance even as she saluted Arthur with her upraised goblet. Dean chuckled, clapping his
best friend on the back merrily.

Silence fell. The guests raised their goblets, and one-by-one each cup magically filled with that
person's drink of choice. This accomplished, Dumbledore stepped forward, a warm smile on his
bearded lips and his blue eyes glowing. He raised his goblet toward the newlyweds, the others
following suit.

"To Harry and Hermione," he said in a voice like water flowing through a quiet meadow.
"May their happiness know no end."

Bowing to their Speaker, Harry and Hermione linked arms and drained their goblets. The guests did
likewise, whereupon everyone lifted their empty glasses high in one great, sweeping motion.
Immediately the goblets flew from their hands, soared into the sky -- and turned into a cloud of
snow-white doves which scattered to every corner of the azure sky and were gone.

There followed a series of muted explosions as Fred and George ignited an assortment of Filibuster
Fireworks, filling the sky with a riot of color -- and their mother with ire.

"Those boys!" she hissed at Arthur, whose attention was arrested by the fireworks display
along with everyone else. "What will the Muggles think?"

"Not to worry, Molly," Arthur said reassuringly. "We'll modify a few memories,
if need be. This is a special day. Do you remember *our* wedding day? I know *I'll*
never forget."

Arthur's arm drew Molly close, and a quick glance showed that she was smiling wanly in spite of
her irritation.

"Right, then," Arthur said as the sky cleared of smoke and the sun shone unimpeded upon
the host of smiling faces. "Dobby, would you do the honors?"

Bowing low, Dobby turned and gestured at the table. The lopsided remains of the cake vanished (
eliciting a mournful groan from Ron). But Ron and everyone else immediately cheered and applauded
as the table was suddenly filled to overflowing with platters and dishes of the grandest foodstuffs
any had seen since the Leaving Feast at Hogwarts. His eyes glowing like sapphires, Ron pushed back
the sleeves of his dress robes and gestured enthusiastically at the air, whereupon a knife and fork
appeared in his hands.

"*That* one he *learned*," Professor McGonagall said bitingly, but her smile
belied the sharpness of her comment.


*


It was a mobile feast, with small groups milling about in conversation as house-elves darted hither
and yon to heap every empty plate higher than before and fill every goblet to overflowing. The
plates and goblets had all been enchanted to hover in mid-air before the feasters, freeing both
hands for their necessary tasks, and bewitched napkins flitted about like hummingbirds to catch
dropped bits of food and dab at a mouth or chin where needed.

When at last of the guests had eaten their fill (even Hagrid, whose appetite had sorely tested the
mettle of six eager-to-please house-elves), Hermione insisted that she and Harry go to the table
and express their thanks for the elves’ hard work. Dobby had acted as a sort of headwaiter
throughout, directing the other elves with the precision of a British Army sergeant from his post
atop the table. He was standing now amidst heaps of empty plates, surveying the table (and its
marked absence of food) with nods of satisfaction. When he saw Harry and Hermione approaching, he
greeted them with a broad smile and a tip of his tea cozy.

"You all did a marvelous job, Dobby,” Hermione said as Dobby’s face glowed with unrestrained
delight. "A feast like this would cost a fortune at the best restaurant in Hogsmeade. I hope
Professor Dumbledore is paying you what you're worth."

The light in Dobby's eyes dimmed only a trifle, but, as if in compensation, his smile broadened
until it was nearly touching his long, pointed ears.

"I is a free elf, Missy Hermione," Dobby announced proudly. "I is choosing where I
works, and how much I is getting paid.

"And today I is wanting no paying, Missy. We is all loving Mr. 'Arry Potter, and we is all
wanting to do this for him. This is our -- our wedding present."

Dobby's large eyes grew softer now, almost misty.

"We is all wanting Mr. 'Arry Potter to be happy. We is all seeing how much you loves each
other, and we is all loving you very much, Missy Hermione, for marrying Mr. 'Arry Potter and
for making him so happy."

Hermione's cheeks were now the color of rose petals, and Harry chuckled as he gave her a hug,
which she returned.

"You'll be staying on?" Harry asked Dobby as his hand gently caressed his bride's
softly curving hip. "The party's just getting started, and I want *all* my friends to
share this day with us."

Dobby's oversized eyes began to brim with tears.

"I -- I is Mr. 'Arry Potter's friend...?"

"Of course," Harry said warmly. "I want you to stay and have a good time. Didn't
you tell us that Professor Dumbledore gives you a day off now and then? So take *today* off
and enjoy yourself!"

Dobby's face twitched, as if a great conflict were going on just beneath the surface of his now
quivering smile.

“Dobby,” Hermione said suddenly, “Fred and George are preparing more fireworks for later, but I
think it’s proving to be a bit more work than they anticipated, truth to tell. What they need is
someone to help them a bit…” She raised her eyebrows meaningfully, and Dobby’s face became
positively incandescent.

"I is knowing much about such things, Missy Hermione! I is got good magic! I is thanking you
very much, Missy!"

Dobby leaped down from the table and darted through the scattered clusters of witches and wizards
toward a cloud of black smoke which unmistakably marked the location of Fred and George. Hermione
turned to Harry with a satisfied look on her face.

"Okay," Harry said teasingly, "who are you and what have you done with my
wife?"

"Pardon?" Hermione smirked musically.

"The Hermione I know and love would have got up on her soapbox and delivered a ten-point
speech on elf rights, quoting chapter and verse from the SPEW manifesto."

"I *was* a bit naive then, wasn't I?" Hermione smiled placatingly.
"Don't worry, love. Voldemort may be gone, but there's still a Good Fight to be
fought. And won. But I've come to the conclusion that this is a battle best won by working
*through* the system rather than against it."

She paused meaningfully, and it was several seconds before the light came on in Harry's
brain.

"The Ministry?" he said, his eyes widening with excitement until he began to resemble a
tall, bespectacled house-elf. "You mean they -- "

"Their owl arrived two days ago," she said with barely suppressed excitement.
"Naturally I couldn't tell you, we were miles apart and bound to silence.

“I’m just an intern, of course,” she added. Then a firm smile engraved itself on the soft oval of
her face. “But I’m going to climb that ladder rung by rung...and I’m not stopping until I reach the
TOP.”

"Hermione Potter, Minister of Magic," Harry laughed, hugging his wife playfully.

But Hermione was not laughing. Her smile merely set itself a bit deeper as she took her
husband's hand and led them back into the midst of the celebration.



14. Dance With Me
-----------------

**Author's Note:** I'm very grateful for the warm reception, and for the kind
reviews.

In particular, I would like to thank gal-texter for rendering the kind of thoughtful reviews every
writer craves. Sometimes the reviewer spots something the writer missed, and and the wake-up call
can be most welcome (after the initial sting wears off) if it prevents similar missteps in the
future.

The question of whether Harry and Hermione are suited for marriage at age 18 is a valid one.
Realistically, not one couple in a thousand is mature enough to take such a step at so young an
age. For the sake of the story, and in the spirit of pure romance, we assume here that our favorite
couple IS ready to take the big step. But even if we stick to pure pragmatism, arguments remain to
validate such a "hasty" marriage.

Until very recently in human history, it was not uncommon for couples to marry at 18, or even
younger. The success of these marriages hinged on the fact that young people were compelled by a
harder, crueler world to grow up sooner. Today, we cry, "Let 'em be kids for as long as
they can!" But history is full of people who accomplished great deeds at a young age, and no
one laments their lack of a "normal" childhood. And what IS "normal," anyway?
But to return to the topic, young people were once encouraged to take on as much responsbility as
they could handle, and not to be denied the chance to advance based solely on their age. Maturity
does not automatially swoop down and land on one's shoulders like a post-owl at 12:01 a.m. on
one's 18th birthday (or, in the case of the wizarding world, 17th).

In truth, we know very little about J.K.'s world of witches and wizards. But from the archaic
nature of their lifestyles, we get the impression that the wizarding world as a whole embodies a
more old fashioned mode of living (and thinking), stressing individuality and encouraging
responsibility as quickly as one may be found ready to shoulder it. Dumbledore told Harry in Goblet
of Fire that he had shouldered a grown wizard's burden and been found equal to it. Similarly,
Percy Weasley went straight into the Ministry of Magic upon graduation and quickly assumed a
position of greater and greater responsibility, despite his youth. The magical world seems content
to live according to pre-20th century values, and there is no indication that any of its members
feels any lack thereby.

In this admittedly idealized fantasy world where Harry and Hermione have each one found true love
in the person of the other, it is natural that they marry, not in haste, but in the spirit that
delaying such a perfect union would serve only to postpone their ultimate happiness needlessly. In
the books, both act in a more normal fashion. Neither is ready to take the big step -- yet. The
future may yet validate all our dreams. Order of the Phoenix was rife with clues, not least of
which was James and Lily not pairing up until Seventh Year. This seems to foreshadow Harry and
Hermione, themselves obvious counterparts of the elder Potters. And I read on an HP web page a long
time ago (I think it was the Harry Potter Lexicon) that James and Lily married "just out of
school." Well, what's good enough for THEM is good enough for US, what?

This is a touchy subject, one that can easily be debated for weeks on end. But there are better
places to bring that cauldron to a boil. Here and now, as Shakespeare's so aptly put it,the
play's the thing.

So, has anything been resolved? Only that, as we fan writers exercise our power to make our
literary puppets dance to the tune we alone call, we must endeavor to justify ourselves, at least
marginally, in terms of rational thought. If we choose to join Harry and Hermione in marriage just
out of school, we can argue fairly successfully in our defense. If, on the other hand, we elect to
marry off Ron, or Fred, or George in the same manner, we might first want to hold a seance and
conjure up the shade of Clarence Darrow to plead our case. (Ron MIGHT be ready at about age 25;
Fred and George would do well to wait until at least 30.)

Well, that's my two Knuts' worth. Time to let the story do the talking.

Those of you who fell asleep four paragraphs ago -- WAKE UP! I'm DONE!

Well, they can always read the chapter later. Those of you who successfully withstood the power of
Morpheus may read on. And, as always, thanks.


***


Now that the guests were all well-fed and contented, the house-elves (with the exception of Dobby)
began to slip away quietly. After making a last sweep of the celebrants to magically refill their
goblets with their drink of choice, they returned en masse to the once heavily laden table, which
was now as barren of food as if assailed by a plague of locusts. With a last (less than approving)
glance at Dobby, who was laughing gleefully as he worked alongside Fred and George around the
corner of the house, the elves mounted the table and, with the ease of long practice, lifted their
arms in a single sweeping motion. The table vanished soundlessly, carrying the elves along with it
back to the kitchens of Hogwarts whence it had come.

The guests now stood at their ease, talking in small groups, some of them sipping elderflower wine
or something similarly potent (Hagrid brandished a flagon of mulled mead the size of a milk
bucket), others (the bride and groom among them) preferring less spirited fare.

Harry and Hermione were talking merrily with Ginny and Neville (the latter of whom, Harry observed,
seemed to have become a virtual satellite orbiting the youngest Weasley). Just now, he and Neville
were both listening somewhat distractedly to Ginny and Hermione discussing Ginny’s upcoming final
year at Hogwarts. Ginny hadn't made Head Girl, but she *was* a Prefect, the third Weasley
so honored. Despite Percy's efforts to become his sister's mentor in this respect, Ginny
preferred Hermione's perspective, and the new Mrs. Potter was more than happy to oblige.

Harry and Neville, finding themselves virtually ignored by their companions, merely rolled their
eyes and smiled indulgently as they essayed their own dialogue of sorts. Neville was little changed
outwardly from his school days. But, though still somewhat withdrawn, Neville was no longer the
bumbler who had been the bane of Professor Snape's Potions classes for seven years. He had, in
fact, opened a small apothecary shop in Hogsmeade, funded by a small inheritance left him by his
parents and released by his grandmother upon his graduation. He might be unable still to
*brew* a viable potion, but when it came to preparing the *ingredients* for one, there
was none this side of London who was his equal. Harry found himself giggling uncontrollably at the
image of Snape patronizing his former student's shop to restock his Potions larder. The irony
was too delicious for words.

Unfortunately for Harry, he found the topic of herbology considerably less fascinating than
Neville, who could go on for hours on the subject (and, if not physically restrained, frequently
did).

From where he stood in the Weasleys’ back garden, Harry could take in the entire gathering at a
sweeping glance, and as Neville droned on, Harry let his eyes wander across the lawn from one small
group of conversationists to another. His expression changed subtly as his focus shifted from
moment to moment, and in this manner he gave Neville the impression that he was attending his every
word, thus sparing his classmate the embarrassment which a blank, vacuous expression might
otherwise convey.

Near at hand, Harry saw the Weasleys and the Grangers engaged in animated conversation. Arthur
appeared to be examining Mr. Granger's pocket telephone with the unbridled joy of a
five-year-old opening a birthday present. He was pushing buttons delightedly, and Harry chuckled as
Molly shook her head in exasperation ("I keep telling you, Arthur, it won't *work*,
there's too much *magic* around this house!").

Charlie Weasley was having a pointed discussion with Hagrid on the subject of dragons. Hagrid was
punctuating his arguments with great sweeps of his tree trunk sized arms, slopping mead from his
flagon and skewing the hat of any witch or wizard who happened to drift too close.

The oldest Weasley, Bill, was presently being fawned over by Lavender, Parvati and Padma, who
couldn't decide which was cooler, his new earring (a manticore fang) or his long, flaming pony
tail, which seemed at least six inches longer than Harry remembered.

Dean, Seamus and Oliver were debating the relative merits of Quidditch versus soccer, with Dean
pontificating, "Goaltender is *much* more difficult than Keeper. *You* try blocking
a shot-on-goal without a broomstick to ride on!" Harry might have expected Oliver, himself a
Keeper, to dispute this assertion with adamance, but the former captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch
team seemed strangely detached from the fray. More than once Harry thought Oliver was trying to
catch his eye, but whenever Harry gestured with his goblet of sparkling pumpkin juice, the other
seemed to be looking right through him.

Spotting any of the Weasleys in the modest gathering was not difficult. Harry spied Percy
conversing with Remus at the edge of the frog pond. Percy was gesturing in a bewildering manner,
holding his arms apart for Remus to see, as a fisherman might when describing a prized catch. But
Harry had never known Percy to engage in anything of an outdoor nature, preferring the seclusion of
his office at the Ministry of Magic. Nevertheless, his gestures were eliciting nods from Remus, and
Harry puzzled slightly before letting his gaze wander further across the lawn.

Another blaze of red hair marked Ron, who was having what appeared to be a very grave discussion
with Sirius. A wide variety of emotions played across Ron's face, like a kaleidoscope being
turned in rapid succession. Harry would have pondered this further, but a commanding voice abruptly
arrested the attention of all. Turning his head, Harry saw Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall and
Flitwick (the latter reposing comfortably on a floating sofa cushion) clustered in a tight, almost
conspiratorial, knot. The Hogwarts Headmaster was holding his wand aloft, gold sparks flying from
its tip. These fell harmlessly over the heads of the guests, drawing their attention toward the
Speaker.

"If I may have your attention," Dumbledore said in a quiet yet commanding voice. The
guests fell silent as one as all attended the Speaker’s words.

"The time has come," Dumbledore said, his eyes finding and transfixing Harry's,
"for our guests of honor to celebrate their union with their first dance as a married
couple."

His eyes leaving Harry's now, Dumbledore turned toward Professor McGonagall.

"Minerva, if you please?"

Lifting her head majestically, Professor McGonagall waved her wand with a grand flourish. Near the
center of the Weasleys' lawn, in the very midst of the guests, a spot of brilliant white
appeared on the green of the grass. The spot began to expand, people retreating hastily as it
spread outwards like a pool of spilled milk. At length it was at least twenty yards across,
gleaming in the afternoon sun like a full moon fallen to Earth.

Necks craned inward. Dean Thomas knelt and touched the white surface lightly.

"Marble," he said wonderingly. "Amazing. Absolutely flawless."

But Professor McGonagall was not finished. She waved her wand again, and a spot of rich, lambent
brown appeared in the center of the brilliant white disc and flowed outwards until it was within an
inch of the edge. This time it was Seamus who exclaimed, “Blimey! Rosewood, or I’m an Englishman!”
He ran a reverent hand over the surface, which was an intricate parquet of unquestioned artistry.
“It’s – it’s like silk!”

"Brava, Minerva," Dumbledore smiled. "You have outdone yourself."

Harry knew this was high praise, coming as it did from one who himself once held the position of
Transfiguration teacher at Hogwarts. But Professor McGonagall merely tilted her hat to one side and
said, "You haven't seen anything yet, Albus!"

She pointed her wand at a small clump of trees standing between the garden pond and the back hedge
(Percy and Remus both jumped out of the way with alacrity). To a chorus of gasps, the branches of
the trees transfigured into musical instruments. One tree became a string section; another
woodwinds; yet another, brass. A small number of trees had a place where a branch had been cut off,
leaving a blunt stump. These became the drum section.

As everyone applauded, Dumbledore turned to Professor Flitwick, who, hovering on his floating
cushion, was level with the Headmaster's eyes.

"Filius?" Dumbledore prompted. "Or should I say -- Maestro?"

Standing indifferently on his cushion now as if it were solid ground, Professor Flitwick waved his
wand at the tree orchestra in a sweeping motion. Immediately there came a soft, nameless strain of
music from the enchanted branches. To this accompaniment, Dumbledore led Harry and Hermione to the
exact center of the circle.

"Requests?" the old wizard asked, his eyes twinkling as at a secret jest. Harry and
Hermione smiled at each other before Harry spoke.

"You know the one, Professor -- Albus."

“Indeed,” Dumbledore smiled, turning to nod at Professor Flitwick, who returned the gesture with a
knowing smile.

At a wave of the maestro's wand, the melodic strains of a dynamic waltz filled the air. Harry
slipped his arm around Hermione's waist, cradling her soft hand in his, and they began to dance
as if they were the only two people in the entire world.

As they danced with a grace that held the onlookers spellbound, Hermione felt as if they were
floating on air. Suddenly, her heart skipping a beat, she realized that they were doing precisely
that! Emitting a tiny squeak of alarm, she clung more tightly to Harry, who laughed gently.

“Don’t worry,” he soothed. “You won’t fall. Trust me.”

“I do,” she said as she relaxed in her husband’s arms, her smile warm as the Autumn sun on their
faces.

As they danced and spun in mid-air, Harry saw a light growing in Hermione’s eyes which seemed to
spread across her entire face. She was completely at ease in his arms now as they capered through
the air like wingless pixies.

“See?” Harry said, drawing her ear to his cheek. “I always told you that flying was the greatest
thing ever. I can see us now, flying through the clouds on his-and-hers broomsticks. What do you
say, love?”

“And right after that,” Hermione retorted with a smirk, “Voldemort will return and be elected
Minister of Magic.” Harry’s eyes widened with amusement as his wife laughed. “Planting your bum on
a piece of enchanted wood isn’t flying,” she breathed onto Harry’s cheek. “*This* is
*flying*!”

“I walk on air every time you’re in my arms,” Harry whispered. Their lips found each other’s as the
music faded into silence and they sank slowly to the rosewood surface beneath them, oblivious to
the applause of the guests – and, indeed, to the universe as a whole – as they shared their first
kiss as husband and wife.

As Professor Flitwick lowered the newlyweds to the ground with a wave of his wand, Dean and Seamus
sidled up and cleared their throats.

"Professor," Seamus asked, "what was the name of that song you just
played?"

"I believe it is called 'Artist's Life'," Flitwick answered.
"Exquisite," he added wistfully before pointing his wand at the orchestra again.

“Bloody ‘ell,” Seamus grumbled, digging into the pocket of his dress robes for another gold
Galleon. “How in Merlin’s name did you reckon *that* one out? The only music *you* ever
chatter on about is that bloody Muggle rock and roll!”

"Simple," Dean said, dropping the Galleon into his pocket where it clinked against the
one he had won earlier. "It was while they were dancing to that song at the Halloween Ball
last year that Harry proposed. Since then it's been 'their song'. You'd know that
if you'd have come to a dance now and then."

"Like I want your ruddy leftovers, mate," Seamus grunted. "I swear, you must've
set a flippin' school record. Tell me you didn't snog the knickers off every bird at school
two years either side of our class!"

"Not every one," Dean said softly, his eyes on Harry and Hermione as the orchestra began
to play again. "Come on. Parvati told *me* that Lavender told *her* that she's
saving the first dance for you."

This news seemed to reinvigorate Seamus, and the two friends moved toward the dance floor in search
of their prospective partners.


***


**Author's Note:**Put your dancing shoes on! Things are just starting to jump, and
there's always room on the floor for one more. You might overhear some interesting
conversations if you dance next to the right people, so hurry back, won't you?




15. Love Lost and Found
-----------------------

**Author's Note:** A writer always appreciates detailed feedback, especially those with
thoughtful questions. Trivial little things may seem hardly worth the mention, but all honest
inquiries are deserving of response. Thus, when gal-texter asks why Dobby speaks with what is
evidently a cockney accent that is not evident in the books, I reply gleefully in the following
manner:

I am an unabashed devotee of the Harry Potter books-on-tape as performed by Jim Dale. He brings a
full range of voices to the stories, adding emotional subtext that truly brings the characters to
life. He won the Grammy award for his performance of Goblet of Fire. In addition, he made the
Guinness Book of World Records for essaying no less than 134 different characters in GoF (a record
since broken with OotP). I have listened to the first four books five times now, and OotP twice.
Whenever I read the books, each character speaks with Jim Dale's voice, his inflections. And as
you may have guessed, I have portrayed Dobby here as Dale chose to interpret him, because that is
the voice I hear every time I write Dobby's dialogue. So, far from distressing me,
gal-texter's query gave me the chance to endorse Dale's exemplary work, which I highly
recommend.

(And you thought this site was unburdened by pop-up ads. ^_^ )

So, everyone ready for some dancing? Then read on.


***


As the newlyweds touched down to the accompaniment of polite but enthusiastic applause, Hermione
narrowed one eye as she said in accusatory fashion, "Whose idea *was* that Levitating
Charm, yours or Flitwick's?"

"Actually, it was Ron's," Harry said. "After all, if it wasn't for good old
Wingardium Leviosa, who knows where the two of us would be today?"

"*I'd* be a mural on the wall of the girls' loo," Hermione said with a
nervous laugh, memory of the mountain troll they'd faced in First Year still frighteningly
clear in her memory. Then her smile softened. "Quite the romantic, our Ron."

"Someone talkin' 'bout me behind my back?"

Ron and Ginny were approaching, the latter with arms outstretched. As she gave Hermione a
congratulatory hug, Ron said, "So, fancy a change in partners, you two?"

Harry stepped back as Ginny released Hermione -- whereupon Ron caught Harry around the waist and
spun him around as the two girls wept tears of laughter. Harry promptly disengaged himself from Ron
as they laughed and smacked each other upon shoulder and back.

"Ah, I'd rather dance with you, Hermione," Ron said as he extended a hand. Jerking
his head at Harry, he added, "This git keeps wantin' to lead." And drawing Hermione
close, he whirled her away, leaving Harry and Ginny facing each other, Harry's intense green
eyes meeting her soft brown ones. Exchanging a wordless smile, they linked and began to
dance.


*


Ron was silent at first as he guided Hermione across the dance floor. She did not press him,
certain that he would reveal whatever was on his mind when he found the proper words.

They passed Sirius, who was leading -- or was he being led by? -- Professor McGonagall, whose
normally severe face seemed somehow unnatural with so bright an exprssion upon it as she wore now.
Ron lifted his head, looked meaningfully into the Marauder's dark eyes. Sirius smiled shortly
before being jerked away by his partner with a force that might have torn a limb from the Whomping
Willow.

Without any warning, Ron said suddenly, "I had a talk with Sirius today. Twice, actually. At
Harry's house this morning, and again a little while ago."
Hermione nodded politely, waiting for Ron to continue.

"Can I tell you a secret, Hermi? I mean, something only you and I can share. Not even Harry
can know."

Hermione stiffened slightly in Ron's grasp, uncertainty clouding her eyes. She knew that one of
the foundation stones of a marriage was trust. Could she begin her life with Harry by promising to
keep a secret from him on the very first day of their marriage?

To her relief, Ron seemed to recognize her quandry almost immediately and amended his statement
hastily.

"I guess that wasn't fair, was it? Okay, then. I'll tell you, and I'll trust you
to tell Harry or not, whatever you think is best."

Relaxing once more, Hermione nodded. Ron cleared his throat in what might have been a decisive
manner.

"Sirius told me that, in his Hogwarts days, he, um, sort of fancied Lily Evans."

"Harry's mum?" Hermione said at last with a note of surprise.

"At one point," Ron went on, "he was certain he loved her. And he wanted to do the
whole courtship thing, you know? But then...he saw how much she loved James, and he knew he
didn't stand a chance. He was kind of down for a while when the two of them got together. He
wasn't sure he could be a proper friend with someone he'd fancied as *more* than a
friend.

"Then James came to him and told him he wanted him to be Best Man at their wedding. So he had
a decision to make. He could either be a selfish git and say no...or he could be the best friend he
knew how, and stand by his two best mates, come what may.

"We all know what his choice was, don't we?"

Hermione did not speak. But her smile was warm, her eyes soft, and these spoke without benefit of
words.

Ron began to fidget a little.

"Are you going to say something? Or are you just going to let me keep rambling on like an
idiot?"

"I haven't decided," Hermione said, looking thoughtful. Then her façade dissolved and
her face began to glow in a manner to turn Ron's knees to water.

"Do you know how much I treasure you, Ron? Do you really, truly know?"

Ron felt a burning in his ears as they reddened perceptibly, bringing a musical chuckle from
Hermione's throat.

"No matter how much we fought," Hermione said brightly, "I always knew you'd be
there for me when it really mattered. I feel so lucky, you know. Me, plain old
Hermione-Muggle-born-Granger, poofy-haired bookworm, who used to watch all the boys fawning over
Parvati and Lavender and want to go crawl under a rock for a hundred years. How did someone like me
get so lucky? Some women live an entire lifetime without ever being genuinely loved by a man. And
I've been loved by two."

"Hermione," Ron said uncomfortably, "I -- "

But Hermione shushed him, her soft brown eyes suddenly hard as mahogany.

"Not another word," she said firmly. "Words are much too limiting. We don't need
words to define what we have. Do we?"

"No," Ron said in a throaty hush. "We don't."

Hermione put her head on Ron's shoulder, and with the touch of her cheek upon his neck, Ron
felt a great weight fall away. He felt so light, in fact, that he was sure his feet would rise from
the dance floor without benefit of a Levitating Charm.


*


A short distance away, the youngest Weasley was staring into the deep, emerald eyes of Harry Potter
as the two of them moved to the slow rhythm of the music.

"You're very quiet all of a sudden," Harry observed. "For a moment there you
reminded me of that shy little girl who used to put her elbow in the butter dish, and not the
beautiful young woman I'm dancing with now."

"Harry!" Ginny admonished, her eyes darting to either side to see if any of the other
dancing couples had overheard. "You're a married man!"

"Married men are still allowed to appreciate beauty," Harry said in an amused voice.
Then, more seriously: "Within limits, of course. All that time in the library has taught
Hermione a *lot* of Curses I still haven't learned the counter-Curses to yet --

"Look out, she's pointing her wand at us!"

Harry swung Ginny around abruptly. Her eyes went large as saucers, darting about until they fell at
last on Ron and Hermione, who were dancing not far away, their attention focused wholly on each
other.

"Harry, that's not funny!" But though her eyes were piercing, there was a tremble of
laughter in her voice that did not escape Harry.

Ginny was still observing Ron and Hermione from the corner of her eye, and she stifled a gasp as
she saw Hermione place her head on Ron's shoulder. Alerted by Ginny's exclamation, Harry
followed her gaze and smiled warmly.

"Harry!" Ginny said, his benign expression seeming to horrify her. "How can you be
so calm?" Continuing to stare at her brother, she said without thinking, "If this was
*their* wedding day, and he saw you and her like that, he'd -- "

She caught herself, embarrassed to have said aloud what should have remained a secret thought. But
Harry seemed not the least disconcerted by her remark.

"If the shoe was on the other foot, he'd understand, just as I do."

Ginny caught Harry's eye, and he smiled down on her benevolently.

"She loves him," he said, as if this statement were the most natural thing in the world.
"And he loves her."

Ginny's face took on an aspect Harry had not seen since the Chamber of Secrets.

"How -- how can you -- "

Harry's smile softened.

“Did Dumbledore tell you what happened when Hermione and I – “

Harry suddenly felt his throat constrict. The images of his and Hermione’s journey through the
Corridors of Doubt, and of their souls mingling in the heart of the Soul Chamber, were clear in his
mind. But no power on Earth could break through Merlin’s enchantment of secrecy to permit him to
utter a single word of what he saw and felt under the influence of the Soul Crystal. He looked
helplessly at Ginny, her lovely face framing an expression of patience and expectation.

“I could never name all of the reasons why I fell in love with Hermione,” Harry said at last. “But
one of them is that her heart is so big that she doesn’t know how to love half-way. It’s all or
nothing with Hermione. When she loves someone – anyone – it’s with all her heart. It’s a part of
her I pray never changes, because there aren’t nearly enough people who can love so completely and
unconditionally.”

Harry’s arm tightened gently around Ginny’s waist as he smiled down on her, the two of them still
moving to the slow rhythm of the nameless waltz being played by the tree-orchestra.

“It’s rare when two people share something the way Ron and Hermione do. And I could never be
jealous of the feelings she has for him – will always have for him. Because I know exactly how she
feels. Because as much as she loves Ron – that’s how much *I* love *you*.”

Ginny’s mouth moved silently, but the power of speech seemed to have left her as effectively as if
Merlin’s enchantment had leapt from Harry and onto her. In a sudden convulsive movement, she trod
on Harry’s foot, and he yelped in surprise before the astonished expression on her face caused a
delighted chuckle to rise from the back of his throat.

"Blimey, luv! I would have thought it was obvious. And Hermione accuses ME of being
obtuse!"

Harry laughed again as he tightened his grip on her waist with gentle but unmistakable affection.
He looked into Ginny’s eyes, his smile softening.

"I've come too close to death too many times in the past seven years," Harry said in
a low, serious tone. "If it's taught me anything, it's to hold onto the people I love,
and to let them know how I feel – not tomorrow, but now. Because the future isn't guaranteed,
and tomorrow may never come.

"All my life I wondered what it would be like to have parents who loved me. Then I met your
mum and dad, and just like that, I knew. More than that, I suddenly had a whole family. It
wasn't long before I realized that I couldn't love Ron more if he was my own brother.

"And then there's you."

"Your sister," Ginny said at last, an unmistakable note of resignation just detectable in
her voice.

"There *was* a time," Harry said earnestly, "when I thought we might become
something more. I think it may have had a bit to do with Ron warning me off, as much as
*ordering* me to keep my hands off his little sister. Well, a bloke can't resist a
challenge like that, can he? Tell him he can't have something, he suddenly finds he wants it
all the more.

"Childish, innit? I mean, people aren't things to be possessed, are they? So, as I got
older, I stopped looking at you as some kind of trophy to be won. I began to look at *you*,
the *real* Ginny Weasley. And I saw someone very much worth loving.

"I'm sorry if it's not the kind of love you hoped for. But it *is* real. And
it's forever. I can't imagine a day when I don't love you as much as I do right now.
Which is more than I can put into words."

Ginny's hand slipped from Harry's as she wrapped both arms around his waist.

"Harry, I love you," she said, her voice muffled against his robes as she felt years of
suppressed emotion rushing out of her as through a sundered dam. As Harry hugged her tightly, she
said, "I'm -- I'm glad you married Hermione. I really am. I know she's --
she's the one you were meant to be with. And I'm happy for you. For both of
you."

“I know," Harry said, kissing the top of her head. "I never doubted for a
moment."

As Harry produced a handkerchief for Ginny to dry her eyes, a voice interrupted them.

"May I cut in?"

Harry and Ginny both turned to see Oliver Wood, a tall, dominating figure in robes of deep russet.
Seen up close, his shoulders seemed nearly as broad as Hagrid's, enhanced as they were by his
immaculately tailored dress robes.

Harry gave Ginny a questioning look. She paused a moment, regarding Oliver from the corner of her
eye, then nodded. Accepting his handkerchief back, Harry smiled graciously and backed away as
Oliver took his place, promptly spiriting Ginny away and across the dance floor.

"Been wanting to do this for ages," Oliver told Ginny with a very pleased look on his
face.

"Oh?" Ginny said, feeling Oliver's strong hands controlling their movements in a very
decisive manner. He was holding her very close. "And why is that?"

"Had my eye on you for a while now," Oliver said, in a tone that implied that for him to
bestow such favor upon her was all she could have desired. "Saw you at the Wasps match last
month. And I liked what I saw!"

"Did you, now?" Ginny said coyly. "Funny...I don't remember seeing
YOU."

"Yes...well..." Oliver said, flushing slightly, "I wasn't in the game, strictly
speaking...on the bench...reserve, you know."

"Oh," Ginny said innocently, feeling his hands lose some of their aggressiveness.
"But you noticed me, then?"

Oliver's chest seemed to inflate once more.

"Too right I did! Blimey, but you looked positively *smashing* in those
robes!"

"Oh," Ginny mouthed softly. She remembered that day in July when she, Ron and the twins
had gone to see Puddlemere United play the Wimbourne Wasps with the tickets given to her father by
Ludo Bagman. All of the robes she'd wanted to wear that day had been in the wash, so she'd
found some old robes in her closet which she hadn't worn since the Summer between fourth and
fifth years. Ginny had filled out considerably in that two-year interval, a fact which her
snug-fitting robes displayed all too obviously. Her brothers had teased her relentlessly all that
day.

"So," Oliver continued, his swagger returning, "as it happens, I'll be making a
personal appearance at Quality Quidditch Supplies in Hogsmeade next month -- signing autographs,
taking photos, that sort of thing. Thought you might like to come to town that day, have a drink at
the Three Broomsticks. Maybe have lunch at the Hogsmeade Inn. Got an expense account, I have,"
he added smugly.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Oliver," Ginny said soothingly, her brown eyes going puppy-dog soft.
"I have an engagement that day."

The music was fading now as Oliver stammered, " But -- but I didn't tell you which
day."

"Fancy that," Ginny smiled, disengaging herself from Oliver's suddenly lifeless
hands. "Thank you for the dance, Oliver." Then, almost as an afterthought: "Hope you
make first string soon."

And before Oliver could summon the presence of mind to close his slack mouth, he found himself
standing alone on the dance floor.

"Tell me I didn't see what I just saw!" hissed Parvati with a mixture of astonishment
and admiration as Ginny joined her, Padma and Lavender at a self-serve punch table erected by Molly
Weasley. "Tell me you didn't just blow off Oliver Wood as if -- as if he were Colin
Creevey!"

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Ginny said demurely as she
ladeled some punch into a small goblet and sipped indifferently.

"Did you see the shoulders on him?" Lavender said, her eyes transfixed as Oliver slowly
left the dance floor. "They're wider than a Centaur's!"

"*You* look," Padma said with a determined smile on her darkly sensuous lips.
"Flitwick is raising his wand again, and if I time it just right, I can 'accidentally'
intercept Oliver just as the music starts."

And so saying, she was off.

Not willing to be outdone by her twin, Parvati followed with as much decorum as she could manage,
her robes flying as if in a windstorm.

"Ginny?" came a quiet voice seemingly from out of nowhere. "M-may I have this
dance?"

Neville was standing at Ginny's elbow, a hopeful smile on his round face.

"I thought you'd never ask," Ginny smiled, setting her goblet aside and taking
Neville's hand. "Let's go."

As Ginny and Neville mounted and dance floor, Ron stepped up beside Lavender.

"What d'you reckon *that's* about?" Ron said, taking a swig of punch as he
watched Neville and Ginny dancing considerably more smoothly than their first abortive attempt at
the Yule Ball nearly four years ago.

Lavender merely shook her head, sipping her punch somewhat meditatively. Ron shrugged.

"So, Lavender, want to dance?"
Lavender answered with a smile, and they went off together, Ron still watching Ginny from the
corner of his eye until he felt Lavender's arms slip around him, at which point his mind went
blissfully blank.


***


**Author's Note:** Did anyone wonder who Oliver was trying to get a look at, when he was
trying to see past Dumbledore's hat, and later when Harry thought Oliver was trying to get his
atention? Now you know!

When this story was originally laid out, Oliver Wood was not included in the gathering at the
Burrow. But when the time came to write this chapter, the scene between Oliver and Ginny just
popped into my head, so I had to go back to the earlier chapter and squeeze Oliver in at the end of
the row. Obviously, this is NOT the Sean Biggerstaff Oliver, but the one from the books, who is
described as "burly," and who is clearly the epitome of the egotistical jock.

This was also my way of pairing up Neville and Ginny (more than a year before OotP came out, I
might add). I always suspected that Neville had more of his Auror parents in him that we had seen
thusfar, and Book 5 bore that out most forcefully. If the two of them survive J.K.'s future
"purges," I can see them pairing up quite nicely.

The fun resumes in the next chapter, so, as they say on the Beverly Hillbillies, "Y'all
come back now, hear?



16. All the Way
---------------

Due to an unfortunate (but unavoidable) imbalance in the guest list, there were more males than
females in the assemblage. Female dance partners were thus at a premium, and none was more sought
after than the bride herself. Hermione was forced at last to beg off and sit out one dance, to the
dismay of every wizard not yet lucky enough to have partnered with her.

Hermione found Harry standing alone at the punch table, so deep in thought that he seemed not to
have noticed that the goblet in his hand was empty. The flash of brilliant white that was
Hermione's wedding robes caught his eye, and he smiled sympathetically as he saw the slight
drag in her step. If his own feet had begun to grumble like a pair of surly Gringotts goblins,
Hermione’s must be screaming like banshees right about now. Drawing his wand, Harry Summoned a pair
of folding chairs and steered his new bride into one before dropping beside her. Hermione expelled
a long, low breath as she lay her head upon her husband's shoulder. Harry leaned in, pressed
his cheek against Hermione's hair, in which bushy corona a single rose petal remained in
testimony of their morning's ordeal.

"Knut for your thoughts?" Harry said.

"I'm trying to remember the incantation for a foot-massaging Charm I learned last year
after the Halloween Ball," Hermione said. "I looked it up in the library that
night...just after I danced with Neville."

"That's one incantation you can retire," Harry said. "You have a husband for
that now."

Hermione sighed gratefully and nestled more closely against Harry.

His lips pressed against her ear, Harry said softly, "Do you know how much I love
you?"

Looking up, Hermione curled her lips mischievously and said, "We'll find out tonight,
won't we?"

Harry jerked back, and Hermione chuckled under her breath as she reached up to touch Harry's
face. He took her hand in his, caressing her fingers as he leaned in again.

"Parvati is definitely having a bad influence on you," Harry said, his reproving tone
entirely undermined by a decidedly devilish smile.

"There's bad," Hermione said, her eyes dancing with dark fire, "and there's
*bad*."

Harry was still searching for an appropriate response when, as if the speaking of her name were a
Summoning Charm, Parvati appeared, along with Dean, their faces set with purpose.

"I believe this is my dance," Dean said to Hermione, extending his hand. Resigned to the
unavoidable, Hermione returned to the dance floor with Dean as she valiantly attempted to put some
spring into her tired feet.

For her part, Parvati did not solicit Harry's participation, as Dean had Hermione. In much the
same manner as she had during the Yule Ball in Fourth Year, she merely took charge of the
situation, grasping a fistful of Harry's robes and pulling him to his feet before he could
utter a sound of surprise or protest.

"You may be a married man now, Potter," she said in a musically seductive voice.
"But for today, you still belong to the whole wizarding world. And I'm taking my slice of
the pie right now."

They exchanged a look of mutual affection before sharing a brief hug. Harry then raised an
admonishing finger and announced, "But *I'm* leading this time, got it?"

The two friends and schoolmates made their way arm-in-arm to the dance floor just as another couple
approached the now vacant chairs and sat down.

Giving no hint of warning, Ron bent and reached a hand under the hem of Ginny's sky-blue dress
robes. He swung her right leg up and across his knees, slipped off her matching blue pump, and
proceeded to massage her foot in a manner that brought a moan of ecstasy from the back of her
throat. Ginny lay her head gratefully on Ron's shoulder and murmured, "You're a good
brother, Ron."

"Too right I am," Ron agreed as he kneaded the bones in his sister's foot with
enthusiasm if not expertise.

Working mechanically, Ron allowed his eyes to drift across the dance floor, moving back and forth,
but always coming to rest at last on Harry and Parvati.

"She's right, you know," he said, as if thinking aloud.

"What?" Ginny said, lifting her head. "Who?"

"Parvati," Ron said, his eyes still staring straight ahead. "All his life,
Harry's belonged to the whole wizarding world. Had his name in the history books before his
second birthday. The Boy Who Lived. The Child of Prophecy. The One ordained by Fate and to save the
world from You-Know-Who. Well, he's done it, hasn't he? So now I reckon it's time for
the whole bleedin’ world to just bugger off and let Harry start living for *himself*. Not for
Dumbledore, or for the Ministry..."

"Or us," Ginny said almost painfully, her head returning to her brother's shoulder as
if seeking sanctuary thereon.

"Or us," Ron agreed.

After a pause, Ginny said softly, "It still hurts, Ron."

"I know," Ron said. He heaved a deep, cleansing sigh. "But I'm not the first
bloke who lost a bird to his best mate. I bloody well won't be the last, either."

Ginny knew that Ron's flippant use of "bird" in reference to Hermione was merely his
attempt to lessen the ache in his soul, which she knew would not entirely depart, even with the
passage of time. She knew this because her own ache was still acute, no matter her bravado. She
gave her brother a reassuring squeeze around the neck.

"We'll get through this, Ron," Ginny said with a confidence that once would have
surprised her. "You and I. I couldn't talk about this with anyone else. Not even Mum and
Dad. But you understand. You're the only one who does."

Ron nodded. The gesture was meaningless to Ginny, who could not see her brother's face from her
point of vantage. It was an affirmation of self, indefinable by speech or text, engraved in
uneraseable script upon the tapestry of his soul.

"They'll need us," Ron avowed. "I don't give a fig for Merlin's ruddy
ceremony. Marriage isn't easy. Takes a lot of work, and a lot of support.” He paused. He had
been about to quote Dumbledore’s exhortation from the old wizard’s speech, but the words would not,
could not, make the transition from his brain to his tongue. With a mental shrug of resignation, he
said simply, “We’re their best mates, you and I. Whatever happens, we need to be there for them.
And we will. No matter what, whenever they need us, we'll be there."

Ginny's response was a firm squeeze on her brother's neck. It was all the answer that was
needed.

"Let's change chairs," Ron said. "Can't reach your other foot from this
side."

Ginny laughed, hugged Ron with both arms, then allowed him to roll her across his lap as he slid
into her chair and eased her into his. As Ron lifted Ginny's left ankle up and onto his knee,
he stared unwinkingly ahead, his blue eyes sharp as cut sapphires.

"All the way, mate," he said under his breath, his jaw set firmly in an avatar of
unshakable resolve. "All the way."


***


**Author's Note:** To gal-texter: It's always a pleasure to respond to a reviewer who
endeavors to ask thoughtful questions. Regarding Brit-speak versus Yank-speak, I am a longtime fan
of British telly, beginning with Monty Python. I strive to use British terms when I can, but, like
J.K. herself, I hedge sometimes in favor of clarity. We have our own football, so I use soccer here
for clarity. But I will continue to use as much of Harry's native tongue as possible.

Concerning the Ron/Sirius thing, to quote my remarks at FanFiction.Net, this story is nothing more
than a personal vision, justified. I wanted to eliminate Ron as a romantic threat, leaving Harry
and Hermione totally free of emotional baggage. This was the most convenient method. To address the
situation in detail would have taken time, and that time must needs be stolen from the primary
thrust of uniting Harry and Hermione utterly. I chose to sacrifice reality for expediency. One more
reason why I'll never be a professional writer. I write for fun, and if others enjoy it, so
much the better.

To everyone: Thanks for reading, and keep asking questions. I need all the help I can get.

See you next time.



17. Once Is Not Enough
----------------------

"So, what do you think?"

Harry waited, surveying his audience expectantly, not knowing who would be first to respond.

"I think it's marvelous," Molly Weasley said at last. "I know it can't be
easy for Hermione, being part of two worlds, each one so different from the other."

"No, indeed," Arthur agreed, sipping gingerly from a goblet of elderflower wine.
"It's really quite generous of you, Harry."

"Yes," Hermione agreed, holding tightly onto Harry's arm with both hands, "it
is. When he told me his idea, I was speechless."

"And when's the last time *that* happened?" Harry grinned, trying to cover his
embarrassment with humor. Hermione responded with a sharp stab of her finger into his ribs,
eliciting a yelp from Harry and laughter from the Weasleys.

"How about you, Ron?" Harry asked, rubbing his bruised rib as Hermione snuggled close in
apology, giggling silently.

"Right!" Ron said cheerfully, popping a last bit of wedding cake into his mouth (saved
just moments before the buffet table vanished) and licking his fingers clean. "Sounds like a
bash. Wouldn't miss it for a sackful of Galleons."

"And don't give a thought to time off," Arthur added with assurance. "I'll
swing it with the Ministry, never you fear."

Ron continued to lick his fingers, seemingly oblivious to a dollop of icing lingering at the corner
of his mouth. But Molly, whose shrewd eyes missed nothing, quickly conjured a damp cloth and lunged
toward her son's face with a speed that would have shamed a striking cobra.

"Blimey, Mum!" Ron exclaimed, recoiling. "You can't keep doing that! I'm not
a little kid any more!" Ron's indignation was all the more pointed, coming as it did from
a height that was easily the equal of his father's.

But Molly was having none of it. "I'm still your mother," she snapped. "And I
don't care if you grow as old as Dumbledore and as tall as Hagrid, I'll always *be*
your mother! Now stand still before a put a Body-Bind on you!"

Harry and Hermione nodded to Arthur and made a hasty retreat, withholding their laughter until
their lungs ached.

They found Hermione's parents engaged in conversation with Dumbledore and McGonagall, and as
snatches of the exchange came to their ears, Hermione felt her cheeks go slightly pink. She heard
her name mentioned repeatedly, and from the way that her parents were beaming, she surmised that
the two professors were recounting some of Hermione's scholastic triumphs from the past seven
years. Harry realized this as well, and he squeezed his new bride's hand.

"I married the smartest witch at Hogwarts," he said in a low voice. "So how smart
does that make *me*?"

Hermione had no time to reply, for her mother had spotted them and thrown her arms wide to receive
them.

After disengaging herself from her mother's embrace, Hermione said, "Mum...Dad...Harry and
I have an announcement to make. "It's sort of a wedding present...from us, to
you."

Dumbledore's snowy eyebrows leaped upward.

"It was my understanding," the old wizard said in surprise, "that the bride and
groom *receive* presents on their wedding day, they do not *bestow* them. Or is this some
purely Muggle tradition of which I am unaware?"

"In a way," Harry said. "Maybe it will become a *new* tradition."

Hermione, standing once more with her arm around Harry, said, "Mum, Dad, it was so wonderful
of you to be here today. I know that, even after seven years, the wizarding world still seems a bit
strange to you, maybe even a little frightening."

The Grangers seemed momentarily nonplussed, suddenly aware not only of their unusual mode of dress,
but of the precise nature of the two professors with whom they had been conversing. They smiled
warmly at their daughter.

"We couldn't miss the biggest day in our little girl's life, now could we?" Mrs.
Granger said, her face positively glowing. "We both love you so much..."

"So much," Hermione said, "that you both wore wizard's robes so you'd fit in
properly. For me.

"*But* -- it's not exactly what you envisioned whenever you thought about this day
for the last eighteen years, is it?"

The Grangers exchanged a quick, sidewise glance, uncertain how to respond without insulting their
hosts, who had treated them with every kindness they could have asked. Hermione sensed their
predicament, speaking quickly as she concluded:

"And that's why Harry and I have decided to get married *twice*!"

The Grangers' eyes widened as they looked from Hermione to Harry and back again.

"Since you were good enough to participate in a *wizard* wedding," Harry said now,
"it seems only right that Hermione and I should also have a Muggle wedding. That way,
you'll be able to introduce us to all your friends and relatives as a proper married couple.
We'll also avoid a lot of awkward questions. Just because Aunt Petunia isn't around, that
doesn't mean *someone* might not be peeking over the garden fence when you're not
looking."

"It also means," Hermione added, "that Harry and I will have *two*
anniversaries. The first, today, we'll celebrate with our magical friends. And the
*second*, whatever day it turns out to be, we'll celebrate with *you*."

The Grangers both appeared to be too overjoyed to speak, but the light in their faces needed no
qualification.

"There *will* be *one* other wizard in the wedding party," Harry said. "I
can't get married without Ron as Best Man. The three of us have been through too much together.
But the Maid of Honor will be Hermione's choice entirely."

"Oh," Mrs. Granger suddenly said. "Oh...my..."

"What?" Harry said. He turned to Hermione, only to find her face a reflection of her
mother's.

"I have two cousins," Hermione explained. "One on Dad's side, one on Mum's
side. And each is convinced that *she* and *only she* is going to be my Maid of Honor.
I'd completely forgotten. If I choose either one, the other will be devastated."

Harry pondered for a moment.

"Let me ask you," he said, a meditative finger upon his lips. "Do *you* have a
preference? One you would definitely choose over the other?"

"Well," Hermione admitted, "yes."

Nodding sagely, Harry looked up at Dumbledore.

"Pr -- Albus. You don't suppose we could...bend the rules a bit...just this
once?"

"A Memory Charm?" Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling merrily behind his half-moon
spectacles. "I think something can be arranged."

Harry and Hermione both smiled. The Grangers' reaction remained unvoiced, for at that moment,
to everyone's surprise, the sunny sky overhead began to darken.

"That's odd," Hermione said. "The WWN didn't mention rain. Was there
anything on telly this morning, Mum?"

"Not a word," Mrs. Granger said.

Suddenly Dumbledore smiled broadly, his long fingers shading his eyes as he looked up. The others
followed his gaze. The Grangers looked puzzled, but the rest emulated Dumbledore's delighted
expression.

"Come, Harry, Hermione," Dumbledore said. "Let us go and receive our
'guests'."


***


**Author's Note:** I'm glad this story continues to entertain, despite its obvious
shortcomings. Impatience is my curse, and and it is never more evident than when I try to write
romance. My direct style is better suited for straightforward drama, with which I am much more
comfortable. This story is not my usual fare, but it virtually demanded to be written, so here we
are.

Aside to Enter Name: No, I am not a teacher (how does that Hogwarts tie taste?). But I admit that I
seem to have developed a teacher's mindset over time. Whenever I download a story, I can't
help making corrections for spelling, grammar and punctuation. Ah, well. It keeps me off the
streets.

Again, thanks to all who are still hanging in there. The final phase of the celebration is about to
begin. Stick around, won't you? The fun is just beginning.



18. Present Tense
-----------------

"Merlin's beard!” rang out the astonished voice of Seamus Finnigan. "Did you ever
see so many owls in your life?"

Indeed, from horizon to horizon in every direction, the sky was a solid mass of flapping wings.
Seamus' awe was matched by most of his classmates, though not by the adults. They had seen few
such sights, it was true, but two stood out plainly in their minds. The first had been on
Halloween, 1981; the second, less than three months ago. Both occasions marked the downfall of Lord
Voldemort. And those times, even as this third occasion, were linked by a common thread: Harry
Potter.

"Where are they going to land?" someone asked. "They'll bury us!"

Many faces reflected this concern. But not all.

"Filius," Dumbledore said calmly, his eyes bright as they lifted upwards, "if you
would assist me?"

Professor Flitwick levitated himself onto the now empty punch table and pointed his wand into the
air in imitation of Dumbledore. As the guests craned their necks in wonder, the messages attached
to the owls' legs began to rain down in a veritable blizzard of parchment. A few of the younger
guests flinched involuntarily, expecting to be smothered by the falling missives. But Dumbledore
and Flitwick worked in a seamless tandem. As the Headmaster separated the letters from the owls
(all of which instinctively soared away upon being relieved of their burdens), Flitwick's
masterful hand sent the letters to spinning as if caught in a whirlwind. A graceful flick of his
wrist dispatched them unerringly toward the open space where had stood the magnificent dance floor
(since discharged by Professor McGonagall, along with the tree orchestra). The letters neatly
assembled themselves into ordered stacks, piled row upon row, each as tall as the point of
Dumbledore's hat.

"So many?" Harry gaped, blinking repeatedly to assure himself that it was not an
illusion. "I expected...I don't know *what* I expected...but not
*this*!"

"Be grateful," Dumbledore smiled with delight, "that it is only the witches and
wizards of *Britain* who love you so. Had Voldemort's immediate threat extended to the
continent, or to the colonies, we had needed a venue quite as large as the Quidditch World Cup
stadium."

But as the neat stacks continued to grow and spread across the lawn, Ron said scornfully,
"What, just letters? No presents? Bunch of ruddy cheapskates!"

"And you'd be the expert on that, would you, Ron?" Seamus remarked. Ron's
classmates all tittered, though he himself managed only a weak smile.

While this exchange was going on, Dumbledore drew a folded square of parchment from his robes and
opened it. He tapped it with his wand, and it stiffened and rose into the air to hover at about the
height of Dumbledore's chin. Instantly a number of letters detached themselves from the
seemingly endless piles and converged on the square of parchment, stacking themselves thereon as
upon a serving tray. When the flurry ended with a stack some twelve inches high, Dumbledore plucked
them from the air and presented them to Harry and Hermione. The parchment he kept, extending it for
the young marrieds to see.

"This list," he explained, "bears the names of those whom I believed you would
treasure most on this day. I was certain that you would want to read and keep these letters above
the others."

Harry smiled. Letters from fellow Gryffindors were here, as well as those from other students and
various peoples they had befriended over the years. Harry saw Cho Chang's name in her elegant
script, as well as the clumsy scrawl of Viktor Krum. A heavily perfumed letter sealed with red wax
stamped with the Fleur de Lis could be from no one but Fleur Delacour. But one letter in particular
caught Harry's attention, and he opened it mechanically and read it, oblivious to the people
around him, including even his wife. He lowered the letter quickly, reaching up to wipe the corner
of his eye. In his moment of distraction, Dumbledore very smoothly slipped the letter from
Harry's hand and read it. After a moment, he asked, "May I read this aloud,
Harry?"

Harry hesitated before a squeeze upon his arm by Hermione's hand compelled him to nod
slowly.

"Our congratulations to Harry," Dumbledore read, "and to his beautiful bride. Please
know that we have made a contribution in your name to the Cedric Diggory Fund. May your happiness
ever be the equal of that which you have brought to the wizarding world. In sincerest
gratitude,

"Mr. and Mrs. Amos Diggory."

"What's this Cedric Diggory Fund?" Charlie Weasley asked. "I never heard of
it."

"Not surprising," Arthur said, "being as you just got in from Romania. The advert
only appeared in the Daily Prophet two days ago."

"It's a fund to help wizarding families who've suffered loss at the hands of
You-Know-Who and his lot," Bill explained. "Harry donated half his vault to get it
started. I was at Gringotts the day Harry set it up. I'm also an executor."

"Way to go, mate!" Ron declared, cuffing Harry on the arm. "But why didn't you
tell me?"

"He told no one," Dumbledore said, folding the letter and handing it back to Harry.
"But I thought, at the least, his friends should know the kind of man Harry Potter
is."

"There was really nothing to say," Harry shrugged uncomfortably. "It was just
something I had to do."

A reverent silence followed Harry's statement, during which Hermione took the letter from him
and replaced it on the small pile that now reposed on the seat of a folding chair. None seemed to
know how to break that tenuous silence until Molly Weasley burst forth suddenly and wrapped Harry
in a tearful hug.

"I won't be able to do this as often as I used to," Molly said, her voice both happy
and sad. "As of today, the Grangers are officially your 'parents.' "

Releasing Molly from his own fierce embrace, Harry said with a smile, "I don't think my
new wife and family will mind if I pop over now and then for a hug from the best cook in Ottery St.
Catchpole."

"I should say not," Mrs Granger put in. "Besides, I'm only his mother-in-law.
From what I've seen these last few days, Molly, you and Arthur are as much Harry's parents
as his own mother and father would have been. James and Lily couldn't have asked for better for
their son than you and your family have given him. If only half of what Hermione's told us is
true, Harry wouldn't be quite the man he is today if not for you.

"It's not easy giving a daughter in marriage, especially when she's your only child.
So thank you, Molly -- thank all of you -- for giving us a son-in-law worthy of our little
girl."

Hermione and Molly began crying at almost the same moment. Molly was immediately comforted by
Arthur and the Grangers, while Hermione melted into her new husband's arms. As Harry peered
over his wife's shoulder, his eyes caught those of Arthur Weasley, himself similarly engaged in
staunching his wife's tears. Harry's smile of gratitude was returned in kind ere the two
men restored their spouses to something resembling composure.

As if suddenly eager to dispense with so much rampant emotionalism, the younger guests pressed
forward now and began to steer Harry and Hermione toward what was evidently a carefully prepared
destination. With but little resistance, the newlyweds allowed themselves to be deposited into a
pair of ornate, high-backed chairs that could have passed for thrones. A jostling match then ensued
among the foremost as all endeavored to be first to bestow their gifts upon the guests of
honor.

Glancing around now in an effort to politely detach himself from the melee, Harry was surprised to
see a stack of boxes and parcels, all brightly wrapped, standing to one side. He was certain that
there had been nothing but empty lawn there only a minute ago. The mystery was solved when Harry
saw Sirius flashing a thumbs-up to Flitwick, whom Harry supposed had just removed a Concealment
Charm from the area surrounding the presents. Flitwick bowed, his arms extended with his wand
displayed prominently. Harry smiled, realizing that, even after seven years as a practicing wizard,
he still took far too much for granted in the magical world. Had Mad-Eye Moody been present, he
would have chided, "Constant vigilance, Potter! Constant vigilance!"

But not today such paranoia, Harry thought as he squeezed his wife's hand and smiled so
brightly that the sun itself seemed to pale in comparison. Today was his wedding day. Today was the
best day of his life!

Before he could bring his errant thoughts to heel, Harry found a package flashing before his eyes
(evidently Summoned from the nearby pile), wrapped in white paper and decorated with artificial
flowers which appeared to be singing. He lifted a hand to intercept it, but the package bypassed
him and deposited itself on Hermione's lap.

"This is for Hermione," Parvati Patil said, her smile a mirror of her sister's as the
two stood shoulder-to-shoulder before him. "But I don't think you'll be
disappointed."

The box was wide and flat, virtually weightless in Hermione's hands as she lifted it and tore
the paper away. The discarded paper, no doubt Charmed by Flitwick, leaped up in an arc and
deposited itself in a nearby dustbin.

"Oh, my!" Hermione said breathlessly as she opened the box and withdrew a black lace
negligee that was so transparent as to be nearly invisible.

"It's the first of a line Padma and I are developing," Parvati announced. She pointed
to an ornate script on the box lid which read, OH, WICKED WITCH! “Mail-order to start,” she smiled.
“But if things pick up, Fred and George said they think they can get us a good deal on a shop near
theirs.”

Harry saw Fred and George in the midst of the crowd, their freckled faces shining as they gestured
energetically with circled forefingers and thumbs. Harry had the sudden notion that The Weasley
twins were going to be seeing a lot of the Patil twins in the not too distant future.

"Its enchanted, of course,” Padma said as Hermione continued to caress the wispy fabric. “We
devised the Charm ourselves and registered it with the Ministry under the Experimental Charms
Act."

"What kind of Charm?" Hermione asked. She was regarding her husband through the gauzy
material as Harry looked on with an eagerness Hagrid could not have equaled had he awakened
Christmas morning to find a dozen dragon eggs under his tree.

"Well, a Love Charm, of course," Parvati said. "Now that you've touched it,
it's bonded to you alone. When you wear it, it gives you complete control over the object of
your desire. He'll be your obedient servant. Your slightest wish will be his
command."

"Which will differ from every other day exactly how?" Harry said innocently, his chin now
resting on Hermione's shoulder so that their cheeks touched. He planted a quick, playful kiss
upon the blush quickly spreading across her face. Looking up, he said hopefully, "You, uh,
don't suppose we can put off the rest of the presents for a bit? Say, August? August is good
for me. How about you, sweetheart?" he said as his eyes rolled over toward Hermione, whose
face was now resembling a sunburned tomato.

"You're hopeless!" she said in a hush, her grin bringing his own to the fore in full
force. She carefully folded the garment and replaced the box lid. She was about to set the box
aside when it rose from her lap and drifted to an open spot to her right, where it settled itself
to the ground as light as a feather.

Looking up, Harry saw Professor Flitwick hovering nearby on his floating cushion, the tiny wizard
preening like a peacock. Emulating his godfather, Harry gave the Charms professor a thumbs-up.
Flitwick bowed smartly, smiling through his mutton chops.

As Harry and Hermione thanked the Patil sisters (Harry quite sincerely and enthusiastically),
Lavender Brown approached, her wand out. Employing a Levitating Charm (at which Flitwick nodded
approvingly), she was directing a large, flat object wrapped in scarlet foil toward the space
before the curious newlyweds. Tall and wide, it put Harry in mind of nothing so much as a door. He
remarked on this, adding, "Does this mean your door is always open if Hermione chucks me out,
Lavender?"

Laughing, Hermione swatted Harry with the back of her hand, sending his glasses flying. Dean Thomas
reached out to catch them, but his hands closed on empty air as the glasses swung around sharply
and flew back to Harry, settling onto his face without any fuss.

"When did you learn the Boomerang Charm, Harry," Hermione said, clearly impressed.

"Arthur taught it to me last week," Harry said, winking at the tall, balding redhead as
the latter adjusted his own glasses for emphasis.

"Not to worry, dear," Molly announced with a smirk. "I'll teach you the
counter-Charm."

Both of them giggling, Harry and Hermione peeled away the red foil wrapping to reveal a magnificent
mirror, six feet by three and mounted on a swivel base. It was simple and tasteful, not nearly so
ostentatious as the Mirror of Erised. It's simplicity would enable it to match virtually any
decor of their future habitation, wherever that might prove to be. But as Hermione regarded her
reflection idly (Harry again leaning over her shoulder), Lavender said, "Touch it with your
wand, Hermione." Drawing her wand, Hermione touched the glass lightly.

"Beautiful, my dear," the mirror said, surprising Hermione only momentarily, talking
mirrors being fairly common in the magical world. "Your robes are very tasteful, not too
flashy. The stitching is exquisite. Milan, if I'm not mistaken?

"Now, as to your hair..."

At a quick, prompting glance from Lavender, Hermione touched the mirror again. It fell
silent.

"My own creation," Lavender announced proudly. "A personal fashion mirror, Charmed
to critique and advise one person only. I activated the Charm just before I wrapped it. When you
touched it with your wand, it automatically bonded to your reflection. You have only to tap it with
your wand and tell it the occasion for which you're dressing, and it will tell you exactly what
to do to make the perfect fashion statement. Someday every home in the wizarding world will have
one,” she stated confidently.

“I thought you were working for Witch Weekly,” Harry said.

“I’m a multi-tasker,” Lavender shrugged. “What can I say? I learned from the best, didn’t I?” She
winked at Hermione, who beamed proudly, encouraged by a squeeze of Harry’s hand on her arm.

"The standard model is programmed for witches and wizards only,” Lavender went on. “But this
is the *deluxe* model. It's also programmed for Muggle fashions. I used all the latest
fashion magazines for reference. And once a year -- for a small fee, of course -- we – that is to
say, I -- come over and update the Charm with the very latest fashion news. Cutting edge all the
way."

Hermione was looking very thoughtful as Lavender concluded her presentation.

"So," she said, her eyes flicking back and forth between the mirror and her husband,
"it always tells the absolute truth? It never, um, fudges?"

"Guaranteed," Lavender said.

Hermione nodded, remembering that the mirror had, indeed, been about to comment on her bushy hair
in something less than favorable terms before she stopped it. A sly smile spread across her face as
she regarded Harry from the corner of her eye.

"You hear that, Harry? From now on, whenever I ask you for an opinion on how I look, the
mirror will tell me if you're being truthful, or if you’re just chatting me up so you can get
into my knickers."

Lavender hooted with laughter, which was echoed by the younger guests. Even some of the adults
chuckled (though a stern-faced Professor McGonagall was not among them).

Harry, assuming an exaggerated demeanor of injury and astonishment, said, "You wound me, love!
As if it's *my* fault that you're the sexiest, most beautiful witch in Britain! And
anyway, who are you going to believe, your adoring husband, or a hunk of enchanted
glass?"

Unable to resist Harry's puppy-dog eyes, Hermione felt her stern façade crumbling. At length
she giggled and hugged Harry to her, whispering a silent, "I love you," into his ear.
Thus vindicated, Harry was struck by a sudden thought.

"Hang on. You're up on me two presents to nil so far. Okay, I won't dispute the first
one," he said quickly, failing to mask a wolf-like smirk. "But this mirror only works for
*you*. Who's going to tell *me* when *I'm* not dressed properly?"

"Blimey, mate!" Dean exclaimed. "What do you think a *wife's*
for?"

This time the laughter was wholesale, with even Minerva McGonagall joining in.


***


**Author's Note:** As I mentioned on FanFiction.Net, these remaining chapters represented a
roadblock for me for a long time. I knew the wedding would not be complete without presents -- and
they had to be MAGICAL presents! Talk about painting oneself into a corner! So be kind, gentle
readers. J.K. Rowling I am not, nor ever shall be.

Now, since portkey reviewers ask such thoughtful and intelligent questions ( ^-^ ), I feel it
behooves me to answer some of them directly.

**quietlylurking:** Yes, Harry DID experience Hermione's memories, as stated in the Soul
Chamber chapter. I chose to abbreviate the experience to avoid unnecessary wallowing in canon
already well-known, but the essence is there.

**Purple_Starz:** I know exactly how you feel. I always crave as much Harry/Hermione interaction
as possible in the stories I read. But from here on, our favorite couple will be the center of
attention. Merlin's honor.

**enter name:** While I might envision Harry and Hermione enjoying the pleasures of connubial
bliss, I fear to attempt any description thereof. So many other writers (with greater gifts than
mine) have already described such moments in prose beside which mine pales. I do have some ideas
for stories involving Harry's and Hermione's newlywed years, and beyond. As the billboards
say, Watch This Space.

Your other point is well taken. I'd read that J.K. herself chose Stephen Fry to perform the
audio books for U.K. audiences, and I'm keen to test his mettle against Jim Dale. If you or
anyone else from "across the pond" would like to exchange copies of the recordings, Fry
for Dale, let me know. I think we would both profit from the experience.

**nurray:** I fear I will never write the Muggle wedding of Harry and Hermione. My mind works
best with twisting plots and such. Even this story is a deviation from my normal path.

When I conceived the notion of a second wedding, it was solely to address the Grangers' unease
with magical folk. Hence, no wizard guests. Ron must be the exception. The three of them ARE the
"Dream Team," as Snape named them. I see them as always being together (J.K.'s
sadistic streak in future books notwithstanding), be the venue wizard or Muggle.

Yes, Dumbledore might well have enjoyed the sport of reminding Harry that he is no longer
"free" by alluding to his new status as a married man. The Headmaster's most
endearing quality might well be that, despite his advanced years, he seems never to have forgotten
what it's like to be a schoolboy. May we all be so blessed. But Dumbledore had already stressed
to Harry the informality and egalitarianism of magical friendships, so I felt that for him to do a
180 back to formality, even in jest, would be self-defeating. And I likewise felt that
Dumbledore's unique position as Speaker entitled him to regard the proceedings as his as much
as Harry's and Hermione's. Were this an ordinary wizard wedding, he would not have been so
entitled. (And as you have seen, the "guests" in question were themselves a bit
unconventional.)

And thank you for taking the time to formulate and pose such pointed questions. Reader involvement
is a writer's tea and cakes, and I enjoy what I once described to gal-texter as "verbal
tennis" over a story almost as much as writing the story itself.

Again, thanks to everyone who is still following this story. Only seven chapters to go. What new
and magical presents await? There's only one way to find out. See you next time.



19. A Feast For the Senses
--------------------------

As the laughter subsided, Dean Thomas emerged from the crowd and took the place formerly
occupied by Lavender. The package in his hands, wrapped in simple brown paper and tied with twine,
resembled Lavender's in shape if not in size, its dimensions being roughly half those of the
enchanted mirror. Both Harry and Hermione felt their hearts leap in anticipation as Dean snapped
the twine with a Severing Charm so that Harry could peel away the heavy paper.

It was, as most had expected, a painting. But it was a painting of a skill and genius to take one’s
breath away. Encompassed by a frame of antique wood was a masterful rendering of Hogwarts castle
and its surrounding grounds. And to the surprise of no one, the painting was alive with motion.
There was a ripple on the lake marking the languid passage of the giant squid. The borders of the
Forbidden Forest were alive with the shadowy movements of centaurs and hippogriffs. Tiny figures on
broomsticks were flying above the Quidditch pitch, scarlet pinpoints which were undoubtedly the
Gryffindor house team, intermixed with darting motes of pale green which just as obviously
represented the Slytherin team.

Varicolored specks also moved across the Hogwarts grounds, including one very large dot which Harry
could swear was swinging a dead rooster in his hand. Harry's eyes rose above the picture frame
to where the real Hagrid stood, head and shoulders above the crowd, his black eyes shining with
unrestrained joy.

"A lot of it is just symbolic," Dean said. "There's not really a Quidditch game
going on now, of course, since school hasn’t started yet.”

Even as he spoke, a tiny red dot swooped up, rather like a Seeker who had just caught the Golden
Snitch. The specks in the seats of the tiny stadium quivered as if in celebration (all except those
in the Slytherin section, naturally). Harry grinned at Dean, his blood pumping as if he himself had
just won the Championship Cup for Gryffindor one more time.

“But I *did* Charm it like the ceiling of the Great Hall,” Dean said, his finger moving here
and there across the canvas. “Those clouds moving across the sky are really there. When you look at
the painting, you'll know exactly what the weather is at Hogwarts. When you see snow on the
ground *here*, you'll know there's snow *there* as well.

"And at night," he continued, "the castle windows will light up at random and
gradually go out by midnight.

"All except Gryffindor Tower, that is. *That* light stays on until past Three a.m."
Dean winked at Hermione, who colored slightly under her former house-mate's discerning eye. Ron
saw this exchange, and immediately a light went on in his eyes.

"Of course! That'll be Hermione, staying up all night studying!"

"Well, it certainly isn't *you*!" Molly said with a light touch of reproval
lurking just beneath her otherwise festive tone.

"That's for *ruddy* sure!" Seamus echoed, clapping Ron on the shoulder
jovially.

"I'd be careful about casting aspersions, Seamus," Hermione warned, tapping the side
of her nose meaningfully. "Remember, I helped Professor McGonagall grade the seventh-year
N.E.W.T.'s. Minerva, do you happen to recall Seamus' final marks?"

"I do indeed!" McGonagall said sternly. Then, with a twinkle in her eye, she added,
"However, I shall refrain from disclosing that information at this time. A wedding reception
is hardly the place to indulge in...obscenities."

Universal laughter rang out, and, to his credit, none laughed louder than Seamus. As he wiped his
eyes, he caught an encouraging nod directed at him by Dean. Seizing the moment, Seamus took his
friend's place before the young marrieds and dipped a hand into his dress robes. He drew forth
a tiny box with intricate scrollwork marking its surfaces. Many of the adults were visibly
impressed, and there was an unmistakable flash of recognition in Dumbledore's blue eyes.

As Hermione tilted back the lid of the box, Harry drew from it a small whistle that gleamed in the
sunlight with a sheen of pure gold. Curious, Harry instinctively lifted the whistle to his lips
--

"NO!" Seamus cried, surprising nearly everyone (though not, it seemed, Dumbledore, who
merely smiled). As Harry lowered the whistle, Seamus gathered himself and resumed with some relief,
"I’d treat that with respect if I were you, me lad.”

“Why?” Harry said, regarding the whistle curiously. “What is it?”

“That,” Seamus preened, “is nothin’ more nor less than a Leprechaun Whistle!"

Harry never knew that someone could swagger without actually walking, but Seamus seemed to be doing
a pretty fair imitation.

"A what?" Harry said, studying the object in his hand as he fingered the fine gold chain
to which it was attached. "I never heard of a Leprechaun Whistle."

"’Tis not surprising," Seamus said with a regal air, "you having been blessed by the
Good Lord with nary a drop of Irish blood. Rare, that is," he announced as he nodded toward
the whistle. "There's not one been given in more than a hundred years."

"One hundred and twelve," Hermione said casually as she took the whistle from Harry and
scrutinized it in the bright sunlight.

"You *know* about this thing?" Harry said in complete surprise.

"'Course she does!" Ron declared, as if stating nothing but the obvious. "She’s
Hermione, isn’t she? Probably knows the name of the first bloke to have one, come to
that."

As all eyes, Seamus' most of all, fastened on Hermione, she looked thoughtfully at the gold
whistle in her hand.

"His name was Sean McEnnis. While out hunting, he found the Leprechaun King up a tree, chased
there by a rogue wolf. The King was injured; he'd used all the magic he could summon to reach
the highest branch. But he was too weak to magic the wolf away, or even to call for help.

“McEnnis was returning empty-handed from his day's hunting. He'd nocked his last arrow to
kill a deer, which his family desperately needed for food, but when he saw the Leprechaun King’s
plight, he didn’t hesitate, killing the wolf instead.

"The King was so grateful, he conjured a pot of gold on the spot and presented it to his
savior. But McEnnis refused, saying it was unseemly to accept gold for performing a simple act of
compassion.

“So the king, unwilling to let McEnnis’ selfless deed go unrewarded, removed this very whistle from
around his neck. One blast would have been enough to summon his people to his aid, but, wounded and
exhausted, he hadn’t the strength to blow it. He gave it to McEnnis as a keepsake, on which terms
the hunter gratefully accepted. It was only after the hunter returned home to his family that he
learned the truth.

"While McEnnis slept, the Leprechaun King came to him in a dream. He promised that, should
McEnnis ever be in desperate need of help, even unto the peril of his life, he need only blow the
whistle and a legion of Leprechauns would rush to his aid as if he were the King himself. He
further told McEnnis that the magic of the whistle prevented him from discarding it, or giving it
to another. Thus persuaded, McEnnis gave in and kept the King’s gift. It's not recorded if he
ever used it. No doubt the Leprechauns know, but none keeps a secret like a Leprechaun. Right,
Seamus?"

"Sure an' that's the truth of it," Seamus said, shaking his head. "And I had
to stop you, Harry, because the whistle can be used only once. Once blown, it returns to the
Leprechaun King so it can lead him back to the one in need. And, well...no offense to Hermione, but
only *you* can use it, Harry."

Seamus gave Hermione an apologetic look, greatly relieved to see that she had, indeed, taken no
offense.

"But," Harry said bewilderedly, "I haven't done anything to deserve such a
gift."

"Have you not?" came a quiet, grandfatherly voice from the crowd. All eyes turned toward
Dumbledore, who was regarding Harry as he might his own son or grandson. "Ask those who will
grow up and live happy lives in a world free of the tyranny of Lord Voldemort. I daresay
*they* will tell a different story."

"Tis a rare thing that this gift is bestowed on one not of the blood," Seamus said
soberly. "But when I gained audience with the King, I asked him if he knew of anyone who
deserved it more, blood or no."

"I agree," Hermione said, replacing the whistle in its box and closing the lid. "If
Harry doesn't deserve it, no one does."

As a smiling Seamus made his departure, there was a lurch in the crowd, accompanied by a grunt of
apparent surprise. Neville Longbottom burst into view, propelled as if booted by the hooves of a
centaur. Neville cast a flustered look over his shoulder, the hint of a smile on his round face. He
seemed not to have seen the owner of the foot which had made contact with his backside, but his
suspicions appeared nevertheless certain.

Looking somewhat embarrassed now, Neville stepped forward. In his hand he held not a box or a
parcel, but what appeared to be a folded and crumpled length of white tissue paper. He handed this
to Hermione, who peeled the paper back curiously and promptly let out a gasp of surprise.

A single rose resided within the enveloping paper. But it was a rose such as none had ever seen.
Not red, nor white, nor pink. It was brown. But not merely brown. It was, in fact, a myriad
different shades which burst upon the petals in tiny, soundless explosions, flowing back and forth
like oil upon water, a magical kaleidoscope of indescribable wonder. It was a miniature American
Fourth of July in earthtones, a silent symphony for eye and soul and heart. Mahogany, ochre,
sienna, sepia, mocha -- hundreds upon hundreds of variations, encompassing every imaginable
description, and some which human eye nor human mind had never imagined. And all contained in a
single bloom held tremulously in the hand of the woman who was its inspiration.

"I've never seen anything so beautiful in my life," Hermione squeaked, her eyes
filling with tears. "Did -- did you create this?"

Neville nodded, his face reddening uncomfortably. "I worked with Professor Sprout all last
year to breed it," he said in what sounded almost like an apology. "G-Ginny always said
that you thought your hair and eyes were...dull and...uninspired. She said you...sometimes wished
they were...anything but brown. B-but I always thought you were...I mean..."

Neville swallowed heavily, during which pause none spoke nor made the slightest sound.

"Anyway...I bred this...and Professor Sprout said it was real pretty, and that everyone would
want one. But I didn't make it for everyone. Just for you.

"But Professor Sprout told me that, even if it was only for you, I had to register it with the
Ministry as a new magical species. And when I filled out the form, they told me I had to give it a
name, so no one else could use it. I thought about it for a long time. And then the perfect name
came to me. I -- I knew there was already an American Beauty Rose. So I...decided to call
this...the Hermione Beauty Rose. Is -- is that alright...?"

The dam of Hermione's self-control broke. She fell onto Neville, hot tears cascading down her
cheeks. Neville looked positively horrified as he stood rooted to the spot, his eyes darting about
madly in every direction. "So..." he said feebly, "...you like it, then?"

This proved to be too much even for Hermione. Her sobs dissolved into insane laugher as she
continued to hug Neville, raining kisses upon his cheeks until they burned like living
flames.

"Blimey," Dean whispered to Seamus as Hermione gradually composed herself, backing away
so Harry could help her smooth out her exquisite robes. "I should have paid more attention in
Herbology."

"And we used to laugh at Neville behind his back," Seamus said, quite as impressed as
Dean. "The laugh's on *us* now, innit?"

When Hermione was back in her chair, Parvati having appeared from nowhere to help her restore her
face and hair to a semblance of order, Harry extended his hand to Neville, the rose held reverently
in his other hand.

"Good job, mate," Harry said.

Still somewhat flustered, Neville shook Harry's hand and quickly melted back into the crowd,
clearly not enjoying all this attention after so many years of being virtually ignored at
school(except in Potions, of course, where he would have dearly loved to be ignored by Snape and
the Slytherins). As he strove to slow his wildly beating heart, he felt a hand place itself on his
shoulder, where it remained as the crowd swelled forward, each endeavoring to be next to bestow his
or her gift. Neville did not look around to identify the owner of that hand. There was no need. The
light dusting of freckles on the slender fingers was testimony enough. Though still considerably
less than at his ease, Neville smiled in spite of himself.


***


**Author's Note:** So, who will be the next trio to gift the newlyweds? Answers next week.
Thanks for reading.



20. When Worlds Collide
-----------------------

Now that Harry's and Hermione's schoolmates had for the most part been served, the
adults (with a touch more decorum) began to assert their own prerogatives in the matter of gifting
the newlyweds. A cluster of three young men, all with hair the color of a sunset, approached. Bill
Weasley was first to detach himself, affecting a smiling bow that sent his long pony tail dancing
like a jet of flame.

Reaching into his robes, Bill withdrew a small envelope composed of gold foil and handed it to
Harry. Exchanging an amused nod with his wife, Harry broke the red wax seal and opened the
envelope. A small card was all he discovered. Turning it over, he found it to be blank on both
sides, though the reverse was white, the top being a dull gold.

"Touch it with your wand, Harry," Bill instructed.

Harry did so, and he was startled to see two images appear on the card. One was the official seal
of Gringotts bank. The other was a small photo of Harry, which immediately flashed a grin up at its
living counterpart. Her own curiosity now fully aroused, Hermione took the card, scrutinized it
carefully, then looked up at Bill.

"It looks like a Muggle credit card," she said doubtfully. "But there's no such
thing as a *wizard* credit card."

"There is *now*!" Bill declared in obvious triumph. All eyes were instantly riveted
on the tall, pony-tailed wizard.

"You can't be serious?" Ron said, his own doubt the equal of Hermione's.

"Dead serious, little brother," Bill said, displaying his own amusement plainly. Assuming
a more formal tone, he explained: "There's been discussion for years about how the Muggle
world is surpassing the wizarding world in too many areas, none moreso than in convenience of
lifestyle. When a wizard has to make a major purchase, it must be made in gold. But a large amount
of gold carries a bit of weight. Lugging around gold Galleons by the sackful is a nuisance at best,
and it can be a downright burden for folk who are infirm, or short of stature."

To this last, Professor Flitwick gave a hearty nod and a squeaky, "Hear hear!"

"But how does it work?" Hermione said, unable to disguise the excitement in her
voice.

"Simplicity itself," Bill said. "A new Charm, just approved by the Ministry, infuses
the card with a designated value. In order to buy something, the amount of the purchase is written
on the back of the card in a special ink, which only authorized merchants may possess. Both buyer
and seller touch their wands to the card, and that amount is subtracted from the card's
value."

"But how is payment actually made?" Harry asked.

For answer, Bill produced three squares of parchment, each of which, like the card itself, bore the
official Gringotts seal. After displaying each square separately, he slid them together so that
they took on the appearance of a single sheet, held together, Hermione reasoned, by a Sticking
Charm.

"Once the purchase amount is recorded," Bill explained, "the card is placed upon the
topmost of these parchments, which are likewise enchanted. Both parties touch the parchment with
their wands, and the amount of the purchase appears, along with the names of the buyer and seller.
Each then signs below his name in the same enchanted ink." Separating the three squares again
for effect, he continued, "Everything affixed to the top piece of parchment also appears on
the bottom two. One of these becomes the buyer's copy. Another remains with the merchant, for
his sales records. The *top* square is owled to Gringotts, where the transaction is officially
recorded. The card holder then has thirty days to appear at the bank and authorize the transfer of
funds to cover his debt."

"What if the card holder doesn't pay within thirty days?" Parvati asked somewhat
fearfully.

"You don't want to know," Bill said with no slightest trace of his earlier levity.
Not a few people shuddered at this, Harry being among them. He remembered Ludo Bagman's
gambling troubles related to the Quidditch World Cup and, later, the Triwizard Tournament. The last
place a wizard of any common sense wanted to find himself was standing between a goblin and any
amount of gold, however small, which it was rightfully owed.

"Anyway," Bill concluded, "it's traditional in situations like this that the
first of an item intended for mass distribution go to the Minister of Magic, out of deference to
his position. However, in the light of Fudge's, erm, shall we say, lack of foresight in certain
matters..." Bill's eyes flicked rapidly from Dumbledore to Percy, judging as he did so
that the latter's smile seemed considerably less genuine than the former's. "...it was
decided that the very first Gringotts credit card should go to someone closer to the heart and soul
of the magical community."

"What's this 'it was decided' rubbish?" Charlie Weasley laughed, stepping up
beside his elder brother and clapping him on the shoulder. "The way I hear it, you and father
practically twisted Fudge's arm out of its ruddy socket!"

His ears reddening in the traditional Weasley manner, Bill said hastily, "And don't worry
that it's only Harry's face on the card, Hermione. As his wife, you're entitled to use
it, just as the bank recognizes joint ownership of Harry's vault."

Having thanked Bill one last time, Harry turned to Hermione with his hand extended to take back the
card -- only to see Hermione tuck it into her bodice with an elaborate flourish, her lips curling
into an impish grin.

"Get used to it, mate," Charlie advised, grinning in concert with most of the
crowd.

Charlie had taken Bill's place now, and Harry noticed for the first time that the
dragon-wrangling Weasley held an object under his arm, inexpertly wrapped and resembling in size
and shape a melon or a small pumpkin. Or a...

But, no, it couldn't be...

Charlie handed the object to Harry, who felt no small amount of weight as it settled onto his legs.
Hermione helped him to peel the paper away, and Harry's mouth nearly fell open. It *was* a
dragon egg, though not a real one. It was an identical copy of the golden egg Harry had snatched
from the nest of the Hungarian Horntail during the Triwizard Tournament.

"Open it," Charlie prompted.

"Cover your ears, everyone!" Ron cried, suiting deed to word.

But, to Harry's great relief, the nerve-rending screech of the original egg was not repeated.
Instead, slow, lilting, hypnotic strains of music filled the air, music which seemed to creep into
the soul and bathe it in a sense of wonder and majesty. The crowd fell silent as one, enraptured by
this haunting symphony. It was if magic itself had been transfigured into sound. Not a few of the
listeners found their eyes misting with the beginnings of tears. Harry and Hermione were among
them.

"I've..." Hermione said in a breathless gasp, "...I've never heard anything
so...so..."

His glasses fogging up, Harry said in a voice intended for his wife's ears alone,
"It's like...all the love I've ever felt for you...or ever *will* feel for
you...has been translated into some kind of magical language...one that doesn't need words. It
makes me think that if...if love itself had a voice...it would sound just like this." Removing
his glasses to wipe his eyes, Harry lifted his head and said,
"Charlie...where...how..."

"Believe it or not," Charlie said, wiping his own eyes with the sleeve of dress robes the
color of dragon scales, "it was created by a Muggle.

"For as long as I can remember," Charlie confessed, "I've been addicted to
Muggle cinema. Whenever the weather prevented me from practicing Quidditch up on the paddock,
I'd be down in the village at the theatre, eating popcorn with the Muggles and none being the
wiser.

"Well, as time went on, I realized that nearly every film I really liked had music composed by
the same bloke. Fantastic stuff, really. I thought sure he *must* be a wizard, because no one
could *possibly* create such music without magic. Anyway, when you announced your engagement
last year, I brainstormed for the perfect gift. And all of a sudden it hit me like a Bludger
between the eyes. Acting purely on impulse, I converted a sack of Galleons into Muggle money and,
using a bit of magic to help me along, I found this composer's agent and arranged a meeting. I
told him I was an independent film producer, and I asked him if he could compose something that
would describe the greatest and noblest hero in a world of myth and magic...someone who was so
great that he didn't even know how great he was...nor how loved he was by the people of this
magical world. And, well, this is the result.

"I had to place a Memory Charm on him afterwards, of course," Charlie grinned somewhat
guiltily. "Not strictly according to the rules, I know. I hope no one here will report me to
the Improper Use of Magic office." He tilted his head in the direction of Percy, who returned
an uneasy smile. Everyone knew Percy would sooner eat Bubotuber pus than break a Ministry
rule.

"As for the egg," Charlie concluded, "well, no explanation needed there."

The newlyweds expressed their sincere thanks, Harry shaking Charlie's hand while Hermione
pulled him nearly double to kiss his cheek. But as Charlie was backing away, Harry called out,
"What's his name, Charlie? The composer?"

"Actually, you two may have heard of him, growing up as Muggles," Charlie said.
"John Williams?"

From first to last, every witch and wizard displayed a blank expression. Harry and Hermione merely
smiled.

It was now Percy's turn, and, as if miffed at having been relegated to last place after his
older brothers, he inflated his chest with an air of self-importance that brought snickers from a
few younger guests, Fred and George chief among them.

"Harry. Hermione," Percy said somewhat formally. "You might say I am today an
official representative of the Ministry of Magic. My gift is one of official capacity, not unlike
Bill's. But as the Ministry is involved, what I am about to tell you is most secret. Owing to
that, a top Ministry official has infused my voice with a very specific Memory Charm. Once I have
imparted my news, you will be unable to repeat anything I say for twenty-four hours. Further,
should you *attempt* to do so, by means non-verbal, or even magical, you will immediately
*forget* everything I will have said."

"You're giving yourself too much credit, Perce," Fred cried out.

"Yeah," said George. "We *always* forget everything you say as soon as
you've said it!"

The twins erupted into fits of laughter. But this was cut off abruptly by an incensed Molly
Weasley, who pointed her wand at Fred and George and said, "*Silencio*!" The two
jokesters suddenly found themselves with their mouths wide open and no sound coming out. This
brought a different sort of laughter, mostly from the younger guests (though Percy seemed
uncommonly pleased as he stifled his own chortles until he coughed).

"Nicely done, Molly," Hermione said (though she had been guilty of a few titters at
Percy's expense herself). "I may use that one on Harry when he starts rambling on about
the Quidditch finals."

As Harry smiled good-naturedly to the accompaniment of affirmative nods from his female
schoolmates, Arthur sidled up to Harry while Molly was distracted and whispered, "I'll
teach you the counter-Charm later, Harry. Non-verbal, of course. All in the wand."

If Hermione heard Arthur's words, she allowed her husband the dignity of pretending she had
not.

"*As* I was saying," Percy resumed with as much of his *own* dignity as he
could salvage, "the Ministry is keeping this under wraps until certain details are
finalized."

Percy now cleared his throat and straightened to his full height, leaving him scarcely an inch
behind his father and Bill in that regard.

"Not unlike Gringotts, the Ministry is endeavoring to move the wizarding world boldly into the
21st century. As a first of many planned steps, we will be forging ahead next month with the
introduction of...wizard television!"

The excited murmurs which ensued extended even to Molly Weasley, who gave Percy her undivided
attention (which respite allowed Arthur to spirit Fred and George away and restore their voices
with a deft twirl of his wand).

"Wizard television," Percy pressed on, "is based on the combining of two common
magical items, the Fire-com, and the clairvoyant crystal. A slab of hollow glass is cast, roughly
three feet across and six inches thick. Magical cold fire is kindled within the glass, upon which
surface images may then be viewed, transmitted by the same basic principles as the Wizarding
Wireless Network.

"A dealership is presently being set up in Diagon Alley for the purpose of selling wizard
tellys to the public. The Ministry is even now establishing an official network, like the Muggle
BBC. Independent networks will follow in the next few months. Everything will be reported in
tomorrow's edition of the Daily Prophet.

"However, the manufacturers have graciously donated a number of sets, to be distributed at the
Ministry's discretion to certain...um...select members of the magical community. Many, of
course, will go to high-ranking Ministry officials. The rest are to be divided among a few
designated persons held in high esteem by the Ministry."

"Rich pure-bloods," grunted Seamus, whose sentiments were echoed by more than a few of
his fellows.

"However," Percy concluded, "it was decided -- on *my* recommendation -- "
Clearly, Percy was not nearly so reticent to blow his own horn as was Bill, " -- that one of
these sets be redesignated and presented to Harry and Hermione, in congratulations and in gratitude
for their service to the magical community."

"Redesignated?" Dean said. "Who was the *original* designate, then?"

"In other words, Percy," Bill said, clearly enjoying the pink glow beginning to creep
across his brother's face, "whose telly did you nick for Harry and Hermione?" The
gleam in Bill's eye clearly indicated that he knew the answer already.

His face reddening by the moment, Percy mumbled something unintelligible.

"Say again?" Bill prompted, his smile becoming positively wicked.

"Er...Malfoy," Percy said in a low, somewhat embarrassed murmur.

"You're ruddy joking!" Ron exclaimed, clearly impressed with his brother. "You
pinched Lucius Malfoy's telly?"

"Er, no, actually," Percy said. "Even with You-Know-Who gone, I'm afraid Lucius
is still too well-connected."

It took a moment for the significance of Percy's statement to penetrate Ron's head. But
others were not so slow on the uptake.

"DRACO!" Seamus and Dean chorused. Percy nodded once, smiling uneasily through his
glowing cheeks.

Ron now clapped his hand on Percy's shoulder, tears of silent laughter running down his face.
"I take it all back, mate! Every rotten thing I ever said or thought about you! Draco
flippin' Malfoy's telly! I love it! I absolutely love it!"

"That wasn't *exactly* according to the rules, was it, Percy?" Hermione said
sweetly, her large brown eyes dancing like the kaleidoscopic petals of Neville's rose.

"Well," Percy shrugged, "I guess there comes a time when you have to bend a
rule...now and then," he added somewhat defensively.

"If I die tomorrow," Ron said, gulping back the dwindling remains of his laughter,
"at least I lived long enough to hear *that*!"

Even Percy was forced to laugh.


***


**Author's Note:** If anyone is wondering, yes, I borrowed the chapter title from the
classic science fiction movie. But in this case, the two worlds in collision are the wizarding
world and the Muggle world.

The gifting continues next week. See you in seven.




21. Memories, Set in Stone
--------------------------

As the three eldest Weasley siblings melted into the sparse crowd, their place was taken by
another trio before whom all gave back to a respectful distance. Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall
and Flitwick smiled as one, Flitwick embellishing his greeting with a courteous bow from atop his
floating cushion.

"Professors," Harry and Hermione said almost together, flashing each other an amused look
as their voices overlapped. His own smile broadening, Dumbledore tutted softly with a brief shake
of his silver mane.

"Must I remind you again that we are *no longer* your professors?"

Harry smiled graciously, but Hermione seemed to fluster just a bit.

"It's going to take some practice," she said. "It just seems...I don't
know...disrespectful..."

With a chuckle of amusement, Dumbledore said, "You continue to hold to Muggle convention.
Granted, students must display to their professors the courtesy which is their due, else the school
could not function. But among equals, the truly enlightened do not stand on such formality. And so
far as respect, there are many who address me by my various titles -- Professor, Headmaster,
Supreme Mugwump -- who have not an ounce of respect for me. Respect comes not from a label. Respect
either exists, or it does not. And none here has ever given me cause for doubt, least of all you
and Harry."

Harry secretly thought that *he*, at least, had done more than a few things in his school days
which would not bear up under the light of such scrutiny. But perhaps Dumbledore made allowances
for the sins of youth, marking such actions as the product of enthusiasm and immaturity rather than
disrespect. Through it all, however, Harry had never doubted in his own heart that he would sooner
snap his wand and live forever as a Muggle than do anything that would tarnish the mutual respect
between himself and Dumbledore.

Harry saw that Dumbledore had Summoned a box from the gift pile, directing it with his wand to
hover in place between himself and Harry.

"This is rather too heavy to rest on your lap," Dumbledore remarked. That said, he
twirled his wand casually, producing a low, sturdy wooden table onto which the box settled with the
lightness of a dandelion puff.

The box was not wrapped, but bore a removable lid decorated with a crimson bow. Harry removed the
lid, and the sides of the box fell aside to reveal a stone bowl upon which curious runes stood out
in relief. Most of the younger guests, Hermione included, did not recognize the object. For Harry,
recognition was immediate.

"A Pensieve!"

Hermione's eyes widened with interest.

"You told me about the Pensieve you fell into," she said to Harry. "I was never
quite able to imagine what one looked like. But you said Dumbledore's was full of swirling gas
or liquid. This one is empty."

"Of course," Dumbledore said. "It is waiting for the two of you to fill it with
*your* memories. I expect you will amass a good many with the passing years. Today will be but
the first of many. And I hope and pray that you will have naught but *good* memories to place
herein."

"But," Harry said to Dumbledore, "I thought you had to actually *remove* a
memory from your mind to place it in the Pensieve."

"That is its chief function, yes," Dumbledore said. "To store those memories which
would otherwise overwhelm our senses if kept inside us. But a Pensieve can be employed in many
ways. Allow me to demonstrate."

Dumbledore touched the tip of his wand to the side of his head. It came away trailing what appeared
one of the old wizard's long silver hairs. In fact, the silvery thread was a memory. Dumbledore
placed it in the Pensieve and swirled it around. At a nod from the Speaker, Harry and Hermione
leaned over the edge of the stone bowl and peered into the now misty pool. A scene resolved itself
within the swirling liquid. A miniature Harry and Hermione were sitting in the Headmaster's
office, their mouths moving soundlessly. The newlyweds saw the tiny figure of old wizard smile, and
they beamed in concert with their diminutive selves within the bowl. They recognized this scene as
being the moment they had first informed Dumbledore of their betrothal. The Headmaster was in the
process of congratulating them. He shook their hands in turn, his ancient face shining with the
exuberance of a schoolboy. Looking up now, the living counterparts of the Head Boy and Head Girl in
the Pensieve saw an identical smile lighting the face of their Speaker.

"Observe," Dumbledore said. He plunged his wand into the midst of the scene in the
Pensieve. Very crisply he said, "Mitos!"

Harry and Hermione gaped in surprise. The memory floating in the stone bowl quivered for a moment.
It began to spread out, flowing like a puddle of jelly on a plate. The ends re-formed smoothly,
leaving only a thin strand joining them before it parted. Amazed beyond words, Harry and Hermione
saw that there were now two identical scenes swirling within the Pensieve. Nodding meaningfully,
Dumbledore lifted one of these twin tapestries with his wand. It emerged from the bowl as a silvery
thread, which was promptly restored to the old wizard's snowy head.

"My memory is now restored to me," Dumbledore smiled warmly. "Nor shall I ever want
to be without it, as I treasure it deeply. But it now resides in the Pensieve as well. In this same
manner, you may add whatever memories you choose without erasing them from the canvas of your
minds. One of the benefits of this procedure will become evident if you are fortunate -- if that is
indeed the proper term," he added with a chuckle, "to live so long that certain of your
most cherished memories grow cloudy with the passage of time. In such a case, you have but to enter
the Pensieve to revisit that memory in its full, undiminished clarity.

"And, of course, on that day when your children and grandchildren ask you to recount this most
happy and joyous occasion, you need not suffer the constraints of fumbling for the proper words.
You need only invite them to enter the Pensieve *with* you so that they may experience it for
themselves."

"But we can't show them -- " Harry began, his words terminating abruptly with a
magical finality.

"No," Dumbledore said. "*Those* memories can never leave your minds.
Merlin's enchantment will hold them fast within each of you. Indeed, my very presence here --
even unto the bestowing of this gift -- must ever remain unrecordable. But you will still have
memories and to spare, will you not? And not even the most powerful Obliviate spell can penetrate
the magic of a Pensieve to subvert its contents."

"I can't imagine a better gift," Hermione said, "than to hold the memory of this
day forever. Thank you, Albus."

Harry shook Dumbledore's hand, whereupon the old wizard magicked his present from the small
table (which promptly vanished) and spirited it onto the ground next to the others.

Dumbledore now stepped aside as Flitwick stood up on his cushion, his eyes level with those of
Harry and Hermione, and hovered before them. He bowed smartly, his hand extended.

"Congratulations, both of you," he squeaked as each shook his hand in turn. "I knew
Hermione was destined for greatness from the first day she entered my classroom. It was no surprise
to me when I learned that the two of you were engaged. We all knew that Harry's destiny was
written beforehand, of course. But it was problematical as to who would eventually come to share
that destiny with him. I don't fancy myself a matchmaker, but I knew from the start, if there
was ever a witch who could stand beside Harry in full equality, it was Hermione
Granger."

"Thank you, Filius," Hermione said warmly. To her surprise, she found it quite easy to
speak his name. But then, she reasoned, Charms class had always held a special place in her
thoughts, having been the scene of some of her greatest triumphs at Hogwarts. Charms always seemed
to come easily to her, whether conjuring portable, waterproof flames or casting Summoning and
Banishing spells. Her first magical achievement had been the Levitating Charm, which was but the
first of countless scholastic triumphs she would earn for Gryffindor house (not to mention saving
her life in the girls' loo at Halloween, forming in the process the first bonds of friendship
and love between her and her eventual husband). That was not to say Hermione did not revere Minerva
McGonagall as her mentor and inspiration in nearly all things magical. But, judged purely within
the walls of a classroom, none held so fond a place in her heart as did Flitwick. Hence his
presence here today.

Hermione was now aware that Flitwick was reaching into his robes, his hand emerging with a smallish
object reminiscent of a gobstone. The sunlight played curiously upon its polished surface, and
Harry and Hermione stared with equal fascination.

"This," Flitwick said with evident pride, "is a very special magical object, seldom
spoken of, and even more rarely seen. It is -- a Hearthstone."

This revelation impressed Hermione considerably more than it did Harry.

"I've read about them," she said, her eyes fixed on the stone resting upon
Flitwick's open palm. "They're extremely rare. The Charm that powers them is among the
most difficult in the wizarding world. It can take up to a year to Charm one properly, and most
magical folk don't seem to want to go to the bother nowadays.

"Did you Charm it yourself, Filius?"

"Indeed, I did!" Flitwick said, his pride like a tangible aura surrounding his beaming
face. "Ten months, less two days. I could have finished sooner, of course," he added
quickly, as if to leave no doubt that his skill in the matter was beyond reproach. "But I
wanted it to be absolutely perfect!"

Plucking the stone from his palm, he held it up between thumb and forefinger and appraised it with
deep satisfaction.

"Flawless!"

As Flitwick handed the stone to Hermione, who was growing more fascinated by the moment, Harry
asked, "What does it do, exactly?"

A glance at Hermione revealed to Harry that she clearly knew the answer. But neither she nor anyone
else present was about to deprive Flitwick of his moment of glory.

"This stone must be placed behind the topmost stone of your hearth," Flitwick explained,
clearly relishing his role as teacher, even apart from school. "At precisely midnight on the
first full moon of the year, the stone is set into place. The two of you then link hands and touch
the stone with your wands, speaking an incantation which I will teach you. Once this is done, a
spell will permeate your home *and* yourselves. From that moment, and for as long as you
reside in its presence, it will be impossible for either of you to tell an untruth to the other for
a dishonorable purpose."

"Dishonorable," Harry repeated thoughtfully. There was no inflection upon the spoken
word, but the look that passed from the younger wizard to the elder was clearly questioning.

"Permit me to illustrate," Flitwick said. "Should you come home late from work one
night, and Hermione asks you where you've been -- if, say, you'd been doing something you
shouldn't, like gambling, drinking, carousing, or somesuch -- you will be *unable* to lie
to avoid your just desserts."

With a nod and a smile, Harry said, "But if I'd been planning a surprise party for
Hermione's birthday, and she asked me what I'd been up to..."

"You would be free to lie through your teeth," Flitwick chuckled with obvious delight.
"You would be lying for unselfish reasons. Only such untruths as would cause harm are
stymied."

"To make so many fine distictions..." Hermione said, caressing the smooth stone in her
hand as she regarded it with an appreciation bordering on awe. "I don't believe
there's another wizard in the world who could have worked so intricate a Charm, in ten months
or a hundred."

Flitwick inflated with pride, but almost immediately his face grew earnest.

"Lies and deception are worms which eat at the foundation of any relationship. You may, of
course, decline to employ the stone. Some, in fact, find such an object an insult to their
integrity and to the sincerity of their vows. But it is my experience that there is nothing so
terrible, so harmful, as a lie. Howbeit, the decision rests with you."

Hermione looked at Harry, who eyed the stone in Hermione's palm before taking her free hand in
his.

"It's easy to promise that no silly argument or misunderstanding will ever come between
us," Harry said. "But I don't want a careless word spoken in the heat of the moment
to cause you even a moment's pain. Not if I can prevent it. Even sitting here now, I still feel
like a thief, stealing you away from some wizard who deserves you far more than I do. If I'm
going to be the kind of husband you deserve, I'm not too proud to take all the help I can
get."

Harry folded Hermione's fingers around the Hearthstone and covered both her hands with his. He
searched her eyes, which in that moment seemed deep enough to drown in.

"I'm the luckiest witch in the world," Hermione said an almost unbelieving tone.
"If anyone needs this stone, it's me. I sometimes feel like I could tell you how much I
love you a thousand times a day, and it still isn't enough to really make you
understand."

Harry felt Hermione's hands tighten beneath his, holding the Hearthstone in a grip that could
not have been equalled by the foreclaws of a hippogriff. Then, just as suddenly, her fingers
relaxed. Her hand opened, allowing Harry's to cover her palm and the stone nestled therein.
Both of them turned to face Flitwick.

"You put a lot of work into this, Filius," Harry said. "I promise, it won't have
been in vain."

"*We* promise," Hermione said, her smile returning like the sun emerging from behind
a cloud. "Thank you."

Flitwick essayed a grandeloquent bow, smiling broadly as he floated away on his Charmed
cushion.

Minerva McGonagall, her spine stiff as an iron rod and her face scarcely less rigid, now stood
before Harry and Hermione. Harry reflected that he had seen generals in parade dress that looked
less imposing than the Hogwarts Transfiguration teacher and head of Gryffindor house. Her hands
were empty, leading him to believe that she, like Flitwick before her, bore something small enough
to conceal upon her person.

Without a word, nor a twitch of her stony face, McGonagall reached into her black velvet dress
robes and produced a small crystal phial, its narrow mouth sealed with a rubber stopper. At first
glance, the phial appeared to be empty. But closer examination showed it to contain a single, all
but invisible object.

"Is that a hair?" Harry wondered aloud, his eyes narrowed to mere slits behind his
glasses.

"Maybe it's a Veela hair," said Fred Weasley, who had finished preparing the
fireworks with his twin, and whose caprice remained undaunted by his brief state of
voicelessness.

"Yeah," George chimed in. "She's going to pop it into a goblet of Polyjuice and
do a dance for you!"

"It is a *thread*," McGonagall said sharply, ignoring Fred and George, whose mother
was now glaring at them venomously. "To be precise, it is a thread from the Hogwarts Sorting
Hat."

There were a few gasps of amazement at this revelation, one of which came from Hermione.

"Well you may react so," McGonagall said. "More than a millenium has passed since
Godric Gryffindor took the hat from his own head and enchanted it to serve as official selector for
Hogwarts' four houses. The very thought of vandalizing so revered an object, even to the
removing of a single thread, has always been...well...unthinkable. It was only after much internal
turmoil that I approached the Headmaster with my...proposal. As this phial bears witness, I was
granted permission to remove a single loose thread from the very edge of the hat brim."

"It would be a unique keepsake," Ginny observed, remembering her own fateful Sorting six
years ago this very day. Indeed, excepting only the Grangers, every member of the wedding party,
Dumbledore included, held an equally treasured memory of a new life begun at Hogwarts School of
Witchcraft and Wizardry, initiated by the donning of the Sorting Hat.

"So it would," McGonagall returned. "*If* that were all it represented. But not
for so maudlin a purpose would I have countenanced the defiling of Hogwarts' most sacred
icon."

It was with no small reluctance that McGonagall pulled the stopper from the phial and was about to
shake the thread into her open palm. But she quickly shoved the stopper home as a light breeze
sprang up, tugging at a single hair escaped from her tight bun and sending it dancing across her
face.

"Filius," she said without looking up, a forced calm in her voice, "can you do
something about that wind?"

Flitwick made a hasty pass with his wand, squeaked, "Placidus." Instantly the wind
ceased, blocked by the invisible barrier placed around the participants by the tiny wizard's
incantation.

With a curt nod toward Flitwick, McGonagall shook the thread onto her palm, the phial vanishing
thereafter with a muted 'pop.' She held the thread aloft, regarded it respectfully for a
moment, then touched it with the tip of her wand as she muttered a soft word which even Harry and
Hermione, leaning close, could not make out.

The crowd let out a collective gasp. McGonagall was suddenly holding an exact replica of the
Sorting Hat, complete to the last rip and tatter.

"Oh my goodness!" Ginny exclaimed. "You've -- you've cloned the Sorting
Hat!"

Most of the guests found Ginny's remark wholly incomprehensible. But Hermione, who had
participated in many a Muggle-related conversation with Ginny in recent years, nodded, her own
interest now piqued.

"Not quite, Miss Weasley," McGonagall said with a thin smile. "But not too far
amiss. I commend you on your astute observation. I think I can expect great things from you in
Transfiguration this year."

Treating the newly-conjured hat with only a touch less reverence than she would have accorded the
original, McGonagall handed it to Harry and Hermione, who demonstrated an equal respect as they
held it between them carefully.

"This copy does *not* share the enchantment of the true Sorting Hat," McGonagall
announced. "It cannot think, nor speak -- nor, thankfully, sing."

This last remark resulted in a few low chuckles from the crowd, and Hermione lifted her hand to her
mouth to hide a smirk. She had always suspected that McGonagall regarded the Sorting Hat's
yearly song to be of little value to the Sorting Ceremony, if not an outright waste of time.
Perhaps the Deputy Headmistress' age had distanced her from the thrill and wonder of the
Sorting experience. But if that were so, how explain Dumbledore's undisguised delight at the
song every year? He was easily twice McGonagall's age (though, in spirit, the old wizard
sometimes seemed quite as young as the students inhabiting his school).

"However," McGonagall continued, "the two hats *are* magical cousins, so to
speak. *This* hat is infused with a very special enchantment entirely its own. But rather than
explain, I believe I shall let the hat itself demonstrate. If one of you would be so good as to put
it on."

"You do it, Harry," Hermione said, pushing the hat away. "I don't want to mess
my hair, especially after Molly worked so hard de-tangling it."

"Your hair looks -- " Harry began, but he was cut off as Hermione caught up the hat,
swept it high and slammed it down over Harry's head, to the accompaniment of scattered laughter
and not a little appause.

"What do I do?" Harry asked, his voice muffled by the hat, which his wife had jerked
clear down to his chin.

"Simply relax and empty your mind," McGonagall instructed.

"Ronniekins should be a natural," Fred called out. "His mind is already -- "
But Fred's words were cut off abruptly, as if a Silencing Charm had just been used on
him.

As Harry obeyed McGonagall's instructions, the dark lining of the hat seemed to expand. The
darkness itself was receding, as if a tiny flame were slowly growing brighter, its light more
expansive. The darkness was breaking up, defining itself into images -- walls, windows, a ceiling,
furnishings...people..."

Harry cried out with a suddenness that made Hermione recoil in alarm.

"Harry? What is it?"

"It's..." Harry stammered, his voice still muffled by the hat covering his mouth. He
gave the hat a tug, raising it up and over his nose. "It's *Hogwarts*!"

Hermione's worried expression exploded into one of wonder.

"I'm in the Entrance Hall," Harry said as he felt Hermione's hands clutch
excitedly at his robes. "The doors are open...I can see into the Great Hall. The teachers are
having lunch. It looks like -- yes, Professor Sprout is having a mild row with Snape."

"What are they saying?" Ron asked, leaning closer in interest.

"Dunno," Harry said. "There's no sound."

"That will come with time," McGonagall assured Harry. "It's like learning a
spell, or mastering a broomstick."

"*That* was a *snap*," Harry said, remembering his first time on a broomstick
as if it were yesterday, how he had taken to the air as if born to it. "*This* is going
to take a while. Hang on -- I'm getting a word here and there. It looks like Professor Sprout
is trying to convert Snape to vegetarianism. He doesn't seem to be taking too kindly to her
arguments."

"Can't say as I blame him," Ron said.

As Hermione had recently taken Professor Sprout's advice and cut back on meats in favor of
vegetable-dominated meals, she toyed with the notion of rebutting Ron's statement. But her
fascination with Harry's virtual tour of Hogwarts quickly supplanted all other
considerations.

"I'm getting the hang of this," Harry said. "All I have to do is think where I
want to go, and it's like I'm actually walking the halls of the school. With practice, I
should be able to go anywhere I want."

"*Almost* anywhere," McGonagall amended. "Certain areas were excluded from the
Charm. Teachers' offices and private chambers are off-limits, as are lavatories and bathing
facilities -- and, of course, dormitories."

A loud snapping of fingers interrupted McGonagall's enumerations.

"Darn it," Dean said. "I *was* going to borrow the hat so I could look in on a
sixth-year Ravenclaw I was dating last year, but never mind."

Ron laughed out loud, oblivious to a disapproving look leveled at him by his mother (which
distraction gave George the opportunity to remove the Silencing Charm from his twin).

"Ooh, I wish I could see," Hermione said enthusiastically. "Oh, bother my hair! Give
me the hat, Harry!"

"No need, Hermione," McGonagall said pleasantly. "Simply take Harry's hand and
close your eyes." When Hermione did so, McGonagall added, "Who wears the hat controls the
journey. You will merely be a 'passenger.'"

"So, where to, Hermione?" Harry said. "Just think of me as your magical
chauffeur."

"Hmmm," Hermione said. "How about...the library?"

"Oh, who didn't see *that* one coming?" Ron laughed, to which accompanying
chorus even Molly contributed an amused chuckle.

Seeing Harry's shoulders vibrating silently, Hermione demanded, "Are you laughing at me
under that hat, Harry Potter?" Her tone was menacing, but the light touch of her hand in his
belied the implied threat.

"Who, me, love?" Harry said, tugging the brim of the hat down to cover his mouth.
"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Don't *make* me use the Hearthstone," she warned.

"That won't work here," Harry countered.

"It will if I stuff it down your *throat*!"

Harry pulled the hat off, adjusted his glasses so that he could look over the rims and into
Hermione's eyes. Their hands were still linked, and Harry gave Hermione's palm a gentle
squeeze that melted her stern mask into a visage of helpless surrender.

Cradling the hat in her lap, Hermione turned to McGonagall and said, "Thank you so much,
Minerva. After having found so much happiness at Hogwarts, I couldn't quite deal with the
prospect that I might never see the school again. But now -- "

Hermione's throat constricted, as if she were herself choking on the Hearthstone with which she
had teasingly threatened her husband. Harry gently took the hat from her lap, set it aside, and
wrapped his arms around her. He held her for long moments until her quiet trembling subsided.
Hermione's arms encircled Harry in a grateful hug, which a part of him hoped would never
end.

"Hey, now, none o' that!" Seamus reprimanded as the younger guests all snickered.
"Plenty of time for that stuff tonight. Some of this lot still have presents to hand out.
Right! Who's next, then?"

There was some restrained activity as the crowd shifted, but before anyone could step forward,
there was a sharp report as an unexpected figure appeared suddenly in the space vacated by the
three professors.

Harry and Hermione nearly fell off their high-backed chairs.


***


**Author's Note:** If anyone outside the U.S. is wondering, this week's delay can be
blamed on Thanksgiving last Thursday. Things should be back to normal until Christmas, when chaos
will rule in its uniquely festive fashion. Until then, it's full speed ahead.

Aside to KypDurron: As regards John Williams, it was his two Harry Potter soundtracks that prompted
his use here. In fact, the notion was that, since there cannot be a HP movie in a world where Harry
actually exists, the music composed for the egg is the HP theme music itself, written here solely
FOR Harry.

I hope everyone is continuing to enjoy the magical presents. Three more await next time. Until
then, thanks for reading.



22. Time and Tide
-----------------

"Dobby?" Harry exclaimed, pushing his glasses back into place from where they had
slipped to the very end of his nose. "You nearly scared the life out of me! What are you doing
here?"

"Why, Dobby is here to give Mr. 'Arry Potter his *present*, sir!" Dobby
declared, a radiant smile making his comical face seem even more absurd, if that were
possible.

"But you already *gave* us a present, Dobby," Hermione said. "You and the other
house-elves prepared and served that magnificent feast, and that truly marvelous wedding
cake."

"Ah, but that was *before*, Missy Hermione," Dobby said, as if this simple statement
needed no clarification.

"Before what?" Hermione said. Dobby's bright smile retreated slightly, though his
huge eyes seemed to glow brighter as if in compensation.

"Before Mr. 'Arry Potter called Dobby his *friend*! Dobby knew then that he must give
Mr. 'Arry Potter and his bride a *real* present, just like everyone else!"

"But, Dobby," Harry said, "you didn't have to get us anything."

"Yes," Hermione agreed, "you should be *saving* your money. After all,
you're only making a Galleon a week."

"*Two* Galleons, Missy Hermione," Dobby corrected, with what seemed to Hermione to
be a definite note of displeasure. "Professor Dumbledore is *forcing* it on Dobby, he
is." Dobby shot an accusatory glance at Dumbledore, who appeared to have developed a sudden
interest in a passing butterfly and consequently took no notice of Dobby's reproval. "But
Dobby is not needing gold to be giving his friends a proper gift," the elf resumed, his smile
back in place as if it had never left. "Dobby is needing only *magic*!"

Moving quick as a flash, Dobby caught up a nearby folding chair and set it before him. He then
waved his hands over the seat of the chair, and with a soft popping sound a large, domed serving
platter appeared, its lustre proclaiming it to be of the finest sterling silver.

"It's beautiful, Dobby!" Hermione cried, clapping her hands together in delight.
"It's...it's...oh, Dobby, thank you!"

But Harry withheld his own thanks, for he took note of a curious gleam in Dobby's enormous eyes
that looked suspiciously familiar. Harry fancied that he knew Dobby as well as anyone, and better
than most, in fact. He had seen that particular gleam in the house-elf's eyes before. Whatever
Dobby had in store for them, it was far from over.

"Please to be removing the cover, Missy," Dobby said, his excitement suppressed only with
the greatest of efforts, Harry thought. Hermione lifted the shining dome, and she cried out
anew.

The serving platter was laden with steaming hot food. A succulent roast beef dominated, abetted by
potatoes, gravy, peas with butter, heaps of bread...

"Hang on," Harry said, leaning closer so that the delicious aroma made his mouth water.
"This is...this is what Snape was eating for lunch! I saw it clearly, in the Sorting Hat.
Dobby -- did this food come from Hogwarts?"

Seeming not to have heard Harry's question, Dobby took the lid from Hermione's limp
fingers, covered the roast beef dinner, then uncovered the platter again with a grand
flourish.

The roast beef was gone! In its place was a huge bowl of tossed salad, with sides of croutons and
dressings, as well as separate dishes of steamed asparagus, niblet corn, green beans...

"Is this...?" Hermione began, her eyes darting from the platter to Harry and back
again.

Harry nodded. "This is Professor Sprout's lunch. Dobby -- this platter is linked directly
to the Hogwarts kitchens, isn't it?"

Dobby laughed with unrestrained delight as he snatched up a crouton and popped it in his mouth, all
but dancing with joy.

"*Yes*, 'Arry Potter! You is *got* it!"

"But -- I don't understand, Dobby. What exactly *is* this?"

Clearly looking as if Harry were missing something perfectly obvious, the excited house-elf said,
"Dobby is knowing that both you and Missy Hermione is to be working at jobs while you is being
married. This is a good thing, 'Arry Potter! To work hard is to be making the world a better
place. All house-elves knows this, which is why we is all loving work so much.

"But Dobby knows that there will be days when you is both working late, and you will be coming
home to a kitchen where there is no food prepared. And this made Dobby sad, sir. One of the
strongest desires of a house-elf is to see that no one ever goes hungry. That is why we all likes
kitchen work the most. Dobby did not want his friends to be going hungry after a long day's
work. So *now*, when you is both too tired to prepare a meal, you is only having to touch this
tray with your wand and lift the lid, and whatever food is being prepared in the Hogwarts kitchens
will appear on Dobby's platter!"

"So," Harry said, "if I have this figured right, the platter will only work three
times a day -- at breakfast, lunch and dinner, right?"

"Of course, 'Arry Potter!" Dobby said, looking mildly scandalized. "All
*other* times is for *working*!"

Replacing the lid on the platter, Dobby looked up at Harry and Hermione, and his bat-like ears
seemed to droop just a trifle.
"D-Dobby hopes you is both liking his gift. Dobby got special permission from Professor
Dumbledore to enchant it. House-elves is very good with food magic, and...and..." Dobby's
voice trembled ever so slightly now. "It was the only thing Dobby could think
of..."

"Are you kidding, Dobby?" Harry said without hesitation. "This is the *best*
present we've got all day!"

"Oh, yes!" Hermione echoed. "Nothing else even comes *close*! And certainly no
one but *you* could have come up with something so *useful*! There's not a day that
will go by when we don't see this platter and think of you, Dobby. Thank you *so*
much!"

"Yeah, thanks, Dobby," Harry said.

Almost instantly, Dobby's tennis ball-sized eyes began to overflow with tears. Harry feared
that the elf would burst out in a full chorus of wailing at any moment. But even as he wracked his
brain for some way to prevent the inevitable, the calm, resonant voice of Dumbledore addressed the
situation in a manner Solomon would have envied.

"Dobby," the Headmaster said with his typical air of benevolent authority, "the
Hogwarts Express will be pulling into Hogsmeade in a very few hours. It will be filled to bursting
with hundreds of students, all of whom will be in need of a hot, nourishing meal after their long
journey. I'm sure the other elves are all working diligently at this very moment, but you
*do* know, I trust, how much I value you among all the elves at Hogwarts. Nothing puts my mind
quite so at ease as knowing that you are on the job, for not only I, but everyone at school knows
that Dobby is *never* one to shirk when there is work to be done."

Dobby's formerly dismal features erupted into a coruscation of ecstasy, enhanced with the
unmistakable stamp of elvish pride.

"Oh, yes!" Dobby cried. "Dobby must *go* now! Dobby has been away *far*
too long! There is much work to be done, and Dobby must not let *others* do *his*
share!"

Dobby spun about and looked up at Harry and Hermione, apologetic tears in the corners of his
eyes.

"Mr. 'Arry, Missy Hermione, Dobby must go now. But Dobby wishes you much happiness always!
Dobby does not know when he will see his friends again. The school year begins anew, and Dobby has
much work to do, oh, yes, so much work! But Dobby will always be grateful that he was permitted to
share this very special day. Dobby thanks you *very* much."

"Thank you for coming, Dobby," Hermione said warmly.

"Thanks, Dobby," Harry said. "And remember, our door is always open to our friends.
Of course, we haven't actually *got* a door yet," he chuckled. "But quick as we
get one, we'll expect you to come visit us on one of your days off, okay?"

Tears began to cloud Dobby's eyes again. With a mournful sob, the house-elf vanished before
their eyes with a loud crack.

"What a nutter," Ron said with a shake of his head.

"I think he's very sweet," Ginny said reproachfully.

Ron merely rolled his eyes in reply.

As Hermione set Dobby's serving tray aside, Harry made to remove the folding chair on which it
had sat. But he had no sooner set hands upon it when a voice called out, "Don't bother,
Harry. I think that will do nicely."

Arthur Weasley was approaching, with Molly and the Grangers in tow. The latter stared with
ill-disguised amazement as Arthur pointed his wand at what appeared to be the last parcel remaining
on the lawn and levitated it onto the folding chair in front of Harry and Hermione. In both size
and shape it was nearly identical to the box which had held Dumbledore's Pensieve. Like that
box, this one was topped by a removable lid. Smiling at Hermione, Harry did what was evidently
expected of him and lifted the lid. The sides of the box did not fall away this time, and Harry and
Hermione leaned forward to peer into the box, only to be stopped by Arthur's upraised
hand.

"Allow me," Arthur said. He twirled his wand, and an object rose from the box, its
polished surface gleaming luxuriently in the bright sunlight.

"A mantel clock!" Hermione exclaimed. "It's lovely!" Turning to Harry, she
said, "We can put it right in front of the Hearthstone brick. It will be perfect!"

Exchanging a smile and a wink with Molly, Arthur tapped the finished wood surmounting the clock
face. The whole began to rise, changing Hermione's thrilled expression to one of astonishment
-- and Harry's to absolute delight.

It was nothing less than a full-sized grandfather clock, slowly but steadily emerging from a box
undoubtedly Charmed by Arthur in the same manner as he had enchanted the insides of his long
departed Ford Anglia. The Grangers did their best to look nonchalant as they watched an object the
size of a full-grown man emanate from a box which common sense told them could scarcely have
contained the Christmas goose which habitually graced their table every December. Magic, they
decided, (not for the first time), was something best accepted without explanation.

As the great clock settled to the ground before them at the direction of Arthur's wand, it was
Harry's emotions which bade to spill forth rather than Hermione's. It was true that
Hermione had visited the Burrow nearly as often as Harry in the past few years, and her abiding
fondness for the tumbledown house -- and for the family living there -- was no secret. But in the
end, those visits were little more than a pleasant escape from the sameness of the loving but
familar home she had known all her life. To Harry, however, the Burrow was not a home away from
home; in every sense of the word, the Burrow *was* home to him. It was, in fact, the
*only* home he had truly known -- moreso, he was ashamed to admit in the presence of Sirius,
even than the house he had shared with his godfather in the months following Sirius' full
exoneration by the Ministry.

It wasn't the house itself that stirred these feelings in the core of his soul. Rather, it was
the sense of family that so endeared Harry to the Weasleys' home. And nothing had quite defined
that spirit to Harry more than the great clock standing in the hallway adjoining the Weasleys'
living room.

It wasn't a clock for telling time. Instead, the clock face bore hands representing each member
of the Weasley family, the direction of which revealed that person's location or state of
being. There was an indicator marked "School," others indicating that someone was
"Home" or "Traveling." And at the very top, in the place where a number 12
would have been on an ordinary clock, was the designation "Mortal Peril." Not a few hands
had swung suddenly and heart-stoppingly into the upright position during the final battle with
Voldemort. When the last hand had finally dropped down to a safe location on the clock face
following the culmination of that terrible ordeal, Molly's relief had very nearly been tangible
enough to register on a Muggle seismograph.

Hermione saw Harry tremble slightly as these memories flowed through him. She was instantly at his
side, her arm around him. Harry held his wife tightly with his left arm while his right hand slid
under his glasses to swipe at his eyes, which were clouding with wetness.

"My dears," Molly said now, her own eyes not far from tears as they embraced the
newlyweds with motherly tenderness, "with the passing of the years I have come to think of you
almost as my own children. But today you are children no longer. You are young adults, preparing to
go out into the world to find your place in the Great Plan in which we all play our respective
parts. You have done great things already, and I foresee that even greater accomplishments still
await you. But through it all, you must never forget the importance of home. Home is the anchor
which keeps us grounded in times of uncertainty. It is the one true sanctuary, without which
life's sweetest delights are naught but bitter ashes on the tongue.

"You have both brought much joy to our home. It is our wish -- myself, Arthur, all of us --
that your own home will be an unfailing haven of love and happiness. You deserve nothing less. In
furtherance of that hope, we felt that nothing could so express that sense of hearth and home more
than this."

Molly turned, wand in hand, and addressed the grand clock. Its polished wood gleamed richly in the
sun, its clean lines radiating strength and steadfastness. It was only now that Harry noticed that
the clock face was entirely featureless. It did bear two hands, labeled "Harry" and
"Hermione," but they were skewed off in random directions; there was not a single point
of designation toward which they might direct themselves. But Molly made short work of that state
of affairs. She touched her wand to the place where a number 9 would be on an ordinary clock.
Immediately the two hands swung around and pointed themselves at this spot as if drawn by a magnet.
Harry and Hermione leaned closer, and their faces lit up as one as they appeared to share a single
smile between them. For they saw the two clock hands pointing to the words, "The
Burrow."

"I expect those hands to be pointing to that spot often in future," Molly said
forcefully. "Never forget that you will always have a home away from home here at the
Burrow."

Hermione sprang forward into an enveloping hug from Molly, which Harry joined a moment later. When
a tearful Molly finally released the newlyweds, Arthur caught their attention and directed their
eyes toward a space just below the clock face. At a tap of his wand, a narrow drawer slid outward.
Harry and Hermione both looked, the latter stretching to her full height to do so. The shallow
drawer was piled from front to back with extra clock hands of every imaginable shape, length and
color.

"Feel free to add as many as you like," Arthur said. It took a moment for the meaning of
Arthur's words to sink in, whereupon Harry and Hermione both blushed so deeply that they could
have passed for outright members of the Weasley family.

As Arthur used his wand to levitate the clock off to the side with the other presents, Molly stood
back so that the Grangers could stand before their daughter and her new husband.

"Mum..." Harry smiled, "...Dad."

Hermione could not suppress a muted sob of joy at hearing Harry address her parents in this manner.
For his part, Harry found the words came easily. Not once in his eighteen years had he ever uttered
those words in other than abstract form. The closest he had ever come to employing them as an
address was when he had seen his parents in the Mirror of Erised in his first year of school, and
then three years later, during his first face-to-face battle with Lord Voldemort, when the ghostly
echoes of his parents had emerged from his enemy's wand to lend him their strength in his
moment of direst need. Now, at last, the words were being used as they were intended. If Hermione
were now spiritually the "flesh of his flesh," so, too, were her parents. From this day
on, they were *his* parents as well. Harry could not quite define the feeling which this
realization gave him. But it needed no definition. It simply *was*. That was enough, and
more.

Harry saw that the Grangers were still putting on a gallant front, though their unease was apparent
even to passing scrutiny. Watching so much magic from such close proximity, culminating with Arthur
Weasley levitating a ten stone clock as if it were fluff from a dandelion (both had expected the
flimsy folding chair to collapse at any moment), was testing their mettle to its limits. But their
love for their daughter -- and, Harry sincerely hoped, for their new son-in-law -- seemed to
outweigh all other considerations. Nevertheless, it was with what Harry judged to be equal portions
of embarrassment and apology that Mr. Granger plunged his hand into his wizard robes and withdrew
an ordinary envelope and held it before him. He hesitated, as if engaged in some inner conflict.
Then, perhaps as a gesture of welcome to the new addition to his family, he extended the envelope
to Harry, who took it with a grateful smile.

Hermione was clinging to Harry's arm as she looked on curiously. The envelope was quite
ordinary, unmarked and unsealed. With a glance at his wife, Harry opened it and extracted its
contents.

At first Harry wasn't certain what he was holding. But Hermione did not share his doubts. With
an explosive squeal she jerked the two strips of paper from his hand, her eyes wide as those of a
house-elf.

"Oh, my gosh, Harry! Do you know what these *are*?"

Straining to read the fine printing from a less than ideal point of vantage, Harry said casually,
"Tickets, unless I miss my guess. Now, if you'll move your thumb so I can read --
"

"A CRUISE!" Hermione shrieked. "I can't *believe* it! All my life I've
wanted to go on a cruise to the Caribbean! Oh, my gosh! Oh, my GOSH!"

With an impish grin on his face that could have been pinched directly from Fred or George, Harry
looked up and said, "Um, I think she likes your gift, Dad. What do you think, Mum?"

Suddenly Hermione was crushing her husband's windpipe with a strangling hug as she continued to
squeal, "We're going on a CRUISE! We're going on a CRUISE!"

"You really like it, Princess?" Mr. Granger said, his trepidation abating, if slowly.
"We were afraid it wouldn't be...I don't know...magical enough."

"Magic comes in many forms," Dumbledore said with warmth and sincerity, his eyes glowing
softly behind the lenses of his half-moon spectacles. "And in my experience, there is none
greater than love. I daresay there was magic and to spare in the Granger house long before
Hermione's Hogwarts letter arrived."

Sobbing like a child, Hermione ran to her parents and wrapped them in a fierce hug, the two tickets
still clutched ferociously in her fist. Harry approached at a more leisurely pace to join
them.

"I've already arranged things with the Ministry," Arthur put in. "The ship
leaves Southampton on the fourth. A week to cross the Atlantic, a fortnight of island-hopping, then
back in England on October first."

"A one-month Caribbean honeymoon," Parvati sighed dreamily. "It's just *so*
romantic!"

"Especially if Hermione remembers to pack *your* present," Lavender said with a
blushing giggle.

"Oh, she *will*!" Harry said emphatically. "She *will*! I'll pack it
*myself*, and put an unbreakable Locking Charm on the case!"

There followed a round of good-natured laughter, and not a few encouraging hoots and thumbs-up
gestures(these from the Gryffindor boys). But Harry and Hermione were oblivious to everything but
each other. His new bride was sobbing happily onto Harry's shoulder, clinging to him with the
ferocity of Devil's Snare.

"it's all so perfect, Harry," she said in a trembling whisper. "I just know
I'm going to wake up and it will all be a dream."

"This is *our* dream," Harry breathed into his wife's ear, controlling his voice
with an effort. "Yours and mine. And when we finally wake, it will be to find that our dream
has come true. You'd better get used to the thought of waking up next to me, Hermione Granger
Potter. If I have anything to say about it, you're going to be doing it for a long, *long*
time!"

"I love you so much, Harry," Hermione said in a hush so faint as to barely register on
her husband's ears. But Harry was listening with more than his ears alone. He was listening
with his heart; and the echo of his wife's declaration reverberating in his bosom could, he was
quite certain, have rung every bell in Westminster Cathedral from now until St. Swithin's
Day.


***


**Author's Note:** Thanks for the contest alert, gal-texter. With luck, the last chapter
will be up well before the 31st. I can't post the remaining chapters together because they
still need a lot of work, which must be done in my free time. But I'm flattered beyond words at
being nominated. I've been so busy, I wouldn't have known had you not mentioned it.

If, like Santa, you are all "checking your list," you'll have seen that only a few
gifters remain. The big question remaining is, who am I saving for last? If you were writing this,
who would YOU choose? The list gets halved next time, so be back next week to see who elbows his
way into line next (yes, that's a hint). Thanks for reading.



23. Books and Cleverness
------------------------

In the time it took Hermione to regain her composure, the crowd adjusted itself to permit those
guests who had not yet presented their gifts easy access to the newlyweds. After receiving a
reassuring glance from Ginny, Ron took a single step forward. But, abruptly, Oliver Wood elbowed
past him, a condescending grin just visible over the athlete's square shoulder.

"Sorry, Ron. Got to be popping off shortly. The team only gave me a half-day off. Reckon they
can't risk starting the match without their number one back-up, eh?"

Ron grumbled something unrepeatable under his breath, adjusting his robes with an annoyed jerk as
Oliver stood before Harry and Hermione with the air of a Prince Regent granting an audience. Oliver
essayed an elaborate bow that Dobby would have approved, and when Hermione extended her hand
graciously, he bent his head and kissed it. This seemed to amuse Harry, who laughed as he shook
Oliver's hand. Ron, however, merely grimaced.

"I have to say, you two," Oliver said as he threw his shoulders back (eliciting sighs
from Parvati, Padma and Lavender -- and an amused titter from Ginny), "I never saw it coming.
Granted, I left school after your third year, and things didn't start heating up until Fifth
Year, I'm told. Still, I should have seen it from the first. The two of you are as perfect a
match as I ever hope to see."

Harry and Hermione thanked Oliver modestly. Ron muttered something in which Ginny, standing beside
him, thought to make out the words, "Smarmy git." She politely hid a grin behind an
upraised hand.

"Well, now," Oliver said, looking a bit less decisive than he had a moment ago, "I
really wasn't sure what kind of gift would do. In the end, it was Ludo Bagman who bailed me
out. Seems he'd had something on his mind for a while, and he came to me during a match to ask
my opinion. He knew we were Quidditch teammates at Hogwarts, and he said he'd act on my
recommendation."

Swelling once more with self-importance, Oliver plunged a hand into his robes and produced an
envelope bearing the seals of both the Ministry of Magic and the Department of Magical Games and
Sports. He handed the envelope to Harry without a word. His curiosity clearly aroused, Harry opened
the crackling parchment and reached inside. His hand emerged with a rectangular plate of a size
roughly twice that of his new Gringotts credit card. It gleamed in the sun with the unmistakable
lustre of fine gold. It was graven with letters that were etched beneath the same seals which
adorned the envelope. Harry tilted the writing so he could read it, and a moment later he nearly
dropped the plaque as if it were suddenly burning hot.

Grinning broadly with utmost satisfaction, Oliver announced for all to hear, "That, Harry, is
the first and *only* Lifetime Quidditch Pass ever issued by the Ministry and the Department of
Magical Games and Sports!"

Harry suddenly began to comprehend the pure excitement Hermione had felt upon seeing the tickets to
their honeymoon cruise. Had his wife not been leaning against him, her hand resting on his shoulder
as she shared his boyish exuberance in her typically selfless way, Harry was sure he would have
floated straight up into the sky without benefit of a Levitating Charm.

"So," Harry said, controlling his bubbling emotions by taking short, deep breaths,
"I just present this at the gate like an ordinary ticket?"

"Precisely," came an answering voice seemingly out of thin air. Harry and Hermione both
jumped as Oliver gave a short laugh. For the voice had come from the gold Pass itself, upon the
surface of which a face had now appeared. It was essentially a genderless face, but the voice
reminded Harry of the Fat Lady in the portrait guarding the entrance to the Gryffindor common
room.

Recovering her wits before Harry, Hermione asked the Pass, "Am I allowed, too? I like a good
Quidditch game from time to time."

"Oh, yes!" the Pass said cheerfully. "I have been enchanted to recognize any four
persons designated by Harry Potter."

This statement seemed to please Harry quite as much as Hermione as they hugged each other before
joining forces to return the Pass to its envelope, which Hermione held open before her.

"Don't you have something softer to put me in?" the Pass said with a trace of
impatience. "That parchment is quite scratchy, you know. My finish will suffer dreadfully. But
*don't* leave me out in the open! Dust makes me sneeze!"

"I know just the thing," Hermione said, drawing her wand. She tapped the envelope once,
and its crackling surface at once became soft and pliable. "Will lambskin do?"

"Splendidly," the Pass declared, sighing comfortably as Harry slipped the golden slab
inside its newly Transfigured sheath. As Hermione closed the flap, she looked up to see Professor
McGonagall giving her an approving nod. She returned the gesture with a smile before handing Harry
the pouch, which he very carefully placed atop their growing pile of presents.

"You *did* notice," Harry said in an undertone, "that the packages are all gone
-- the ones Flitwick hid from us with his Concealment Charm. All the remaining gifts must be small,
like Bill's and Oliver's."

"Or like Percy's," Hermione said. "Either too big or too inconvenient to be
carried here."

"Blimey," Harry said with a trace of worry in his voice, "I hope we don't get
anything bigger than Percy's telly. I still don't know how we're going to fit
*that* into our flat."

"We'll worry about that after we get back from our honeymoon," Hermione said. She
squeezed his arm reassuringly, which action erased every particle of worry from Harry's
mind.

Following a hasty goodbye punctuated by more congratulations and good wishes, Oliver Disapparated
with a soft 'pop.' Ron was so pleased to see Oliver go that he stood rooted to the spot, an
expression on his face hinting at thoughts best left unspoken. Seeing her brother thus occupied,
Ginny walked right by him, smiling and shaking her head, and took her place before Harry and
Hermione. A moment later Ron blinked, laughed at himself good-naturedly, and focused his attention
on his sister and his two best friends.

Ginny was holding a small, flat box in her hands, heretofore secluded within the folds of her long,
flowing dress robes.

"It took me a long time to come up with just the right gift," Ginny said. "I almost
*didn't*. But then, it was like something just clicked inside me. And,
well...here..."

Ginny handed the box to Hermione, who paused to admire the pearl gray wrapping paper across the
surface of which a dusting of silver specks moved like clusters of stars against a dusky sky.
Removing the paper and handing it to Harry, Hermione lifted the lid of the box and stifled a gasp.
She removed two small, leather-bound books, each embossed with a letter H in ornate gold
script.

"Diaries?" Hermione exclaimed delightedly as she flipped through the blank pages slowly.
"They're exquisite, Ginny!"

As Harry smiled at Ginny over Hermione's shoulder, he thought to see a faintly haunted look
pass like a moon shadow across the girl's soft brown eyes. Harry understood that look all too
well. Given the unspeakable fate Ginny had nearly suffered in her first year at Hogwarts, her
choice of gift was at once poignant and defiant. Their eyes embraced across the short distance
separating them, reflecting an understanding -- and a bond -- that was beyond words.

"Try them out," Ginny said with an enigmatic smile. "You first, Harry."

Hermione handed Harry one of the books, which were identical to the last detail.

"Write something to Hermione," Ginny instructed. "Something for her eyes
only."

As if responding to an unseen signal, Lavender appeared, a bottle of ink and a quill in her hands.
Ginny opened the ink and held it so that Harry could dip the tip of the quill with his right hand,
the diary held in his left. He thought for a moment, then wrote something on the first page in a
few short strokes. He drew a breath to blow on the ink to dry it, but he checked himself. The ink
had evidently been enchanted to dry instantly upon contact. Such ink was probably standard issue
for reporters, Harry reasoned. He made a motion to hand his book to Hermione for her to read, but
Ginny stopped him with an upraised hand and a shake of her head.

"Close the book, Harry," she said, "and touch it with your wand."

Harry complied, his eyes reflecting a mixture of amusement and curiosity.

"Now, both of you, open your books," Ginny said softly.

Hermione let out a squeal that seemed not far removed from a sob. On the first page of her diary --
in Harry's distinctive script which she knew so well -- were three words: "I love
you."

Hermione showed the page to Harry, who immediately opened his own book. The page upon which he had
written his declaration was completely blank, with no sign that ink or anything else had ever
touched the cream-colored surface.

"I know you're both going to have careers that will separate you from time to time,"
Ginny said gently. "If Harry takes that job he's thinking about, as Ambassador-at-Large
with the Department of International Magical Cooperation, he may be gone for weeks at a time. Dad
told me that embassies typically have anti-Apparation Charms on them, like Hogwarts. But now,
neither of you will have to wait for an owl to deliver a letter from the other side of the
world.

"No one," she said with a slight choke in her voice, "should have to wait...to
hear...the most important words...in the world..."

Molly was suddenly at her daughter's side, and Ginny whirled and buried her face in her
mother's robes. Absolute silence reigned until Ginny turned at last, her eyes moist and nearly
as red as her hair.

"Sorry," she said weakly. "I just...I love you both so much -- "

Hermione fell upon Ginny, her arms encircling her surrogate sister's neck, the diary in her
hand tucked just under Ginny's left ear. Neither saw Harry bend and retrieve the bottle of ink
fallen from Ginny's hand (its stopper still in place), nor saw him open his own diary again and
set quill to paper. He waited patiently until Hermione and Ginny parted before catching his
wife's eye and pointing first to his book, now closed once more, then to hers. Catching on,
Hermione closed her diary and opened it again. Smiling across its pages at her husband, Hermione
held the book out to Ginny, who read:

"Thanks, Ginny. We love you, too."

Unable to hold back her tears, Ginny allowed her mother to lead her away as Ron walked forward
slowly. He slipped an arm around Hermione and gave her a gentle squeeze.

"She'll be okay," he said, the timbre of his voice seeming to include himself in that
promise. "You know how women are -- being one yourself," he added with his trademark
crooked grin. Hermione reciprocated Ron's one-armed hug, punctuating it with a pinch to his
backside which gave notice that his careless pretense was fooling no one, least of all her.
Laughing, Ron eased Hermione back into her chair before straightening to his full (not
inconsiderable) height.

"Harry," he said stiffly. "Hermione."

A few guests chuckled at Ron's patent (and none too flattering) imitation of Percy. The only
one who seemed oblivious to this obvious parody was Percy himself, who stood tall and stiff as the
newlyweds' grandfather clock as he smiled approvingly at Ron's mock decorum.

"A lot of presents have been handed out today," Ron said, the thin, austere line of his
mouth contrasting with the capricious gleam lurking in the shadows of his china-blue eyes.
"Some were given with both of you in mind. Others were specific to Hermione -- and still
others *seemed* to be aimed at *Harry*, but somehow managed to veer
off-target."

Ron turned smoothly to cast a penetrating glance at Bill, who smiled and shook his fist once in
agreement with Ron's assertion. Ron acknowledged his oldest brother with a slow, regal dip of
his head before turning back to Harry and Hermione.

"Therefore," Ron said with a ceremonial sweep of his arm, "it's time to set
matters to rights." He snapped his fingers, and a small envelope appeared in his hand. The
three professors all smiled approvingly, as did Molly Weasley (though Ron, looking the other way,
did not see this). Ron handed the envelope to Harry crisply and stood back with an air of
propriety, his face a mask of concerted effort as he virtually nailed his lips shut by force of
will to prevent himself from grinning from ear to ear.

Wearing his own smile openly, Harry reached into the small envelope and extracted an even smaller
object. He turned it about until it was facing him properly, and his eyes and mouth flew open
together. Her own excitement making her shiver with anticipation, Hermione leaned in until she
could see the object in Harry's hand.

"It's a Chocolate Frog card!" she exclamied with nothing less than pure delight.
"With Harry's picture on it!"

Had Harry's grin not finally ceased growing, it would have met at the back of his neck and
sliced the top of his head off like a melon. In that event, Hermione was sure that the 11-year-old
boy whom she had met on the Hogwarts Express exactly seven years ago today would have leaped out,
cartoon-fashion, complete with taped glasses and his hair sticking out at all angles. Not that the
latter condition was all that improved today, she laughed to herself.

"This is bloody *marvelous*, Ron!" Harry fairly twittered with unrestrained glee.
"I *love* it! I'll have it framed and place it right on the mantel -- quick as I
*get* a mantel, of course," he laughed. "Where'd you have it printed? Zonkos?
Diagon Alley?"

Preening almost obscenely now, Ron said with an unmistakable note of triumph, "Oh, it's
not a joke, mate. That's a *real* Chocolate Frog card. Strictly speaking, it's the
prototype, the one from which the master plate was engraved. So take care of it. That's a
one-of-a-kind collector's item, that is."

Harry's childish delight was now replaced by full-blown astonishment.

"It's -- it's *real*? But -- it *can't* be! I mean -- how?"

"A lot easier than you'd think, actually," Ron said, clearly enjoying Harry's
befuddlement. "I just owled the manufacturers and told them they'd double, even
*triple* their sales if they added a card featuring the wizard who defeated
You-Know-Who."

"But I *didn't*!" Harry protested yet again, rapidly tiring of the mantra.
"I was just part of the Order of the Phoenix. We *all* did our part."

"Sorry, mate," Ron said cheerfully. "That's not the way the world works. Think
about it. All those Quidditch games Gryffindor won, who did everyone cheer when it was all over?
The Chasers, who scored a dozen or more goals apiece?" He turned and winked at Ginny, who
stood smiling beside their mother. "Or the Keeper, who blocked a hundred shots-on-goal to
preserve the margin of victory?" Ron tossed his head back in a leonine manner as the
Gryffindor boys all laughed. "They cheered the *Seeker*, didn't they? The bloke who
took the victory lap with the Golden Snitch clenched in his hand. People are funny that way. I
reckon too many heroes sort of take the shine off the trophy, so to speak. So get used to it.
*And* get used to cashing in on it as well!

"Which reminds me, don't forget to sign the contract before you leave on the fourth. Got
it up in my room, waiting for you. You don't get paid until you sign -- and from the gleam I
saw in Hermione's eye when she nicked your credit card -- " he grinned at Hermione, who
laughed musically, " -- I have a feeling you're going to need every Galleon you can
*get* between now and October first."

"Paid?" Harry said in utter confusion.

"Of course, 'paid,' Harry," Dumbledore put in, his eyes twinkling as the corners
of his moustaches twitched upwards. "You don't imagine I would let them use that
*horrid* picture of *me* without ample compensation, do you?"

"Got you a positively ripping package, too," Ron went on. "Flat fee, paid quarterly
-- oh, and a signing bonus, of course -- bigger than the one Wood got from Puddlemere United, if
anyone asks."

Ron laughed delightedly at this last, though the sound had a hollow ring to it, reflecting
something less than the total satisfaction that would have resulted had Wood remained long enough
to hear the news first-hand. As it was, Ron had to content himself with imagining the look on
Wood's face when the news finally reached him. Ron promised himself that, when the story came
out in the Daily Prophet, he would send Wood a dozen copies by special post-owl. He might even ask
Lavender to arrange for Colin Creevey (who had spent his holiday as an apprentice photographer for
Witch Weekly) to show up to record Wood's reaction for posterity. The thought filled in some of
the hollowness as he laughed again.

"Blimey!" Ron said suddenly, slapping himself dramatically for comedic effect, "I
almost forgot about the royalties! Two Knuts on every pack sold over 120% of pre-Harry sales. It
may not *sound* like much, but on a million packs, two million -- it adds up,
mate!"

"All that?" Harry said, looking as if he had been hit a glancing blow by a Bludger.
"For me?"

"Well, less my percentage," Ron said with a mild shrug.

"Percentage?" Harry said, seeming to come out of his stupor.

"Er, yeah," Ron said with a solicitous smile. "The usual ten percent. You know,
standard agent's fee -- "

"Are you *mental*?" Harry said loudly, his eyes flashing like green flames.
"You expect me to pay you *ten percent* of my earnings?"

Ron's face purpled.

"Well -- I -- I mean -- I thought -- "

"Think *again*, mate!" Harry snapped. "Ten percent, my Aunt Petunia's
*bum*! You'll take *fifteen*, and not a Sickle less!"

Harry turned to Hermione, his face suddenly as placid as the surface of the lake at Hogwarts.
"That sound fair, love? Fifteen percent?"

"Mmmmm," Hermione said thoughtfuly, her finger tapping her cheek lightly. "I
don't know. I was thinking twenty might be more appropriate."

Harry screwed up his face with an exaggerated studiousness, a narrowed eye swiveling toward Ron.
"Twenty, huh? You reckon he's worth it?"

"Yes," Hermione said slowly. "I think so."

Harry gave a single, sharp nod and kissed his wife on the cheek.

"Oi, Percy!" Harry barked. "Can you draw us up a contract? I want to sign this git
before he holds me up for twenty-five!"

"Have it for you tomorrow, Harry," Percy affirmed as he regarded his youngest brother
with a smile of approval, something Ron had never seen before, nor ever thought to see.

"Right," Harry said. "Shake on it?"

Ron was too stunned to move. Leaping forward, Percy had to grab his brother's arm and thrust it
forward so Harry could shake his hand.

"You're a witness, Percy," Harry said with a wink. "A handshake is a binding
interim contract. Twenty percent. Not a Knut more."

Percy grinned. Ron was still speechless.

"Hey, Harry," Dean called out. "Maybe you can get some endorsements, like Muggle
celebrities do. You know, the brand of butterbeer you drink, the broom you ride, the robes you
wear."

"What do you say, Ron?" Harry said, his friend's hand still lifeless in his.
"Have a bash?"

Ron seemed to come to life at last. "Uh...yeah." Then, more resolutely:
"Absolutely!" He gripped Harry's hand firmly now. "We'll turn the wizarding
world on its ear!"

Percy was now clapping Ron on the back. His head bobbing above the crowd, Bill called out,
"Hey, Ron, you'll be wanting to set up a Gringotts account. I can get you a good rate. And
come see me about a credit card straightaway."

As the entire Weasley family came forward to congratulate Ron, Hermione pulled Harry close and
pressed her mouth to his ear.

"I suppose you think you were very clever, the way you turned the spotlight on Ron like
that."

"One of my better inspirations, now that you mention it," Harry said immodestly in his
own dead-on lampoon of Percy.

"Every time I turn around," Hermione said as Harry turned his face toward hers, "I
discover something new to love about you."

"In that case," Harry grinned suggestively, "fancy a quick snog while everyone is
fussing over Ron?"

In a sudden sweeping motion, Harry swung Hermione off her chair and across his lap. With a squeal
of laughter and remonstrance, Hermione jerked Harry's glasses off and tossed them aside. But
just as they had before, they merely spun around in mid-air and flew unerringly back onto his face
as if placed there by an invisible hand.

"Bugger that Boomerang Charm!" Hermione pouted. "I'm going to get that
counter-Charm from Molly before we leave today!"

Harry laughed as he returned his wife to her chair. As he adjusted his glasses while Hermione
tugged her robes straight, a shadow fell across the two of them, as if something had suddenly
blocked out the afternoon sun. Harry blinked, disbelief spreading across his face.


***


**Author's Note:** Only one more round of presents (and two chapters overall) remaining.
With any luck, the last chapter will be up just after Christmas.

*To KypDurron:* The Weasleys gave Harry and Hermione A clock, not THEIR clock (the same as
Dumbledore did with the Pensieve). They may not have too many Galleons to spend, but it's not
yet reached the stage where they're pawning (or giving away) the furniture! ^_^

But what sort of presents remain that are so grand that they've been saved for the very end?
You have a week (more or less) to guess. The winner gets his or her own Gringotts credit card (to
be picked up in Diagon Alley at winner's expense). But be sure your vault isn't empty when
payments come due. You don't want to see an angry goblin. Ask Ludo Bagman.

Thanks for reading.



24. Keys
--------

"Hagrid!" Harry called out. "What are you doing over there?"

The afternoon sun was just visible over the top of Hagrid's shaggy head as he bent down to
catch up a handful of wrapping paper and stuff it into a waste bin tucked under his arm.

"Though' I'd jus'...tidy up a bit," Hagrid said weakly, straightening so that
his broad shoulders blocked the sun completely. "Wind's been kickin' up a
mite."

"This isn't Hogwarts, Hagrid," Bill scolded. "You're not here to work.
We'll clear up everything later."

Harry could tell by the the look on Hagrid's face that something was wrong. The light that
usually shone in the giant's beetle-black eyes was dimmed, and the smile he flashed as he set
the waste bin aside was strangely forced.

"Hagrid?" Harry said, motioning with his hand. "What is it?"

Hagrid lumbered forward slowly, his steps heavy. The crowd parted so that Hagrid could approach
Harry and Hermione. His head hung down, his eyes staring at the grass waving between his massive
feet.

"What's wrong, Hagrid?" Hermione asked tenderly. "You can tell us."

"You can tell us anything," Harry said.

"A-After yer announced yer engagement an' all," Hagrid said in a slow, sad voice,
"I reckoned there was plenty a' time...but then, 'fore I knew it, the school year was
over...an' suddenly it was inter August, an' there weren't no time left,
an'..."

Tears began to trickle down Hagrid's cheeks, to be lost in the tangle of his great, bushy
beard.

"I...I cou'n't think a' nuthin'...ter get yer..."

"Well!" Harry declared. "I shouldn't ruddy well wonder!"

The crowd let out a collective gasp of astonishment. Hagrid's head shot up, his eyes wide, his
mouth slack.

"Hagrid," Harry said warmly, his brusque manner having served its purpose of arresting
Hagrid's attention. "You've given me so much already. More than any one person has a
right to. If I were to ask for one thing more, I'd feel like a robber!"

Hagrid blinked in confusion. "I -- gave yer? Oh...yer talkin' 'bout tha' photo
album a' yer parents? Tha' were a long time ago..."

"Not so long that I'll ever forget it," Harry said. "I'll treasure it for as
long as I live. But that's only the tip of the iceberg."

Hagrid could only stare stupidly at Harry.

"The first gift you ever gave me," Harry said, "was my life. You went into the ruins
of my parents' house and brought me out. You didn't know that Voldemort had been destroyed.
For all you knew, he and a whole squad of Death Eaters could appear at any moment to finish what
they'd started. But you went in anyway and got me out, and you kept me safe until Dumbledore
instructed you to bring me to the Dursleys. Not that I'll hold that against you," he added
with a grin. Hagrid appeared on the verge of smiling for just a moment before his face fell
again.

"And when it came time for me to learn the truth about myself, who came and delivered my
Hogwarts letter? Who took me to Diagon Alley to get my school things, bought Hedwig for me? But
more than that...who became the first friend I ever had?"

"Th-tha' weren't nuthin...special..." Hagrid mumbled thickly. "Tha' were
jus'..."

"That was just the most important day of my life," Harry said. "And who did
Dumbledore trust to bring me through it? Why, the same person he trusted to bring him the
Sorcerer's Stone from vault 713."

Harry removed his glasses and wiped his eyes before he continued in a voice barely above a
whisper.

"I felt so cheated for so long. Growing up with the Dursleys, I never knew what it felt like
to be liked, to be accepted. All that changed when I came to Hogwarts. But, in the end, it's
all down to you. I found a family to replace the one I never knew. The Weasleys became my parents.
Ron became the brother I always wished for to make up for all those years with Dudley. I found
another father in Sirius, and an uncle of sorts in Remus. Even a grandfather." Harry's
eyes flickered to Dumbledore, who beamed at Harry, his own eyes twinking like pale sapphires over
the rims of his glasses.

"And what can I say about Hermione?" Harry felt his wife's hand enter his, and he
closed his fingers around hers in a wordess expression of love and gratitude.

"All this," Harry said, his free hand sweeping before him, "because of you, Hagrid.
There are some things in life that a man treasures above all the riches in the world. A wife. A
family. And his first real friend.

"You may not think you gave me anything important. They were mostly little things. But they
were all little pieces of you. It's like Ron said about bronze Knuts. One, two, a
dozen...doesn't seem like so much. But a million, two million, and suddenly you're richer
than you ever thought possible.

"Everything I am today, Hagrid...everything I'll ever be...couldn't have been without
you. And if you tied a bow around Gringotts bank and dropped it square in the Weasleys' back
yard with a card reading, 'To Harry, from Hagrid,' I still wouldn't trade it for even a
minute of our time together."

"Harry," Hagrid sobbed, his enormous bulk trembling like a mountain in an earthquake,
"I cou'n't love yer more if'n yer were me own son!" The giant fell to his
knees and wrapped his tree-sized arms around both Harry and Hermione. "I love yer
both!"

"We love you, too, Hagrid," Hermione said, her tears dampening the fabric of the
waistcoat just beneath the jacket of Hagrid's hairy brown suit.

Releasing Harry and Hermione, Hagrid pulled out his tablecloth-sized handkerchief and blew his
nose, which sound sent birds scattering from as far away as the Weasleys' hilltop paddock.
Sirius and Remus helped Hagrid to his feet as Molly alertly Summoned the oversized bench from the
other side of the yard. As the two Marauders continued to comfort Hagrid, Ron looked around
suddenly, his brow wrinkling puzzledly.

"Where've Fred and George gone off to? They were here a minute ago."

"Oh, they'll turn up," Charlie assured Ron, who did not notice his older brother
lifting his arm unobtrusively, as if signaling to someone. "In fact," he said more
loudly, "if everyone will stand back, I think they should be here any moment now."

"Charlie?" Molly said suspiciously. "What are you -- "

But Molly was abruptly cut off by the screeching sound of an automobile horn. But there wasn't
a car in sight. Arthur's car -- the one he'd bought to replace his old Ford Anglia, which
was currently running wild in the Forbidden Forest at Hogwarts -- was locked in the garage; and the
sound everyone had just heard was from much closer than that.

"Merlin's beard!" Seamus cried, his finger stabbing upward. "Look!"

A car had suddenly appeared from out of nowhere, hovering some twenty feet above everyone's
heads. Fred, sitting behind the wheel, leaned out the right-hand window and laughed as he honked
the horn again. The crowd retreated until there was a space large enough for the car to settle
gently to the ground.

Some of the guests stared in wordless amazement. Others, Ron, Seamus and Dean among them,
applauded. Molly, however, was livid.

"I don't *believe* it! After all the trouble we had with your father's car six
years ago -- did you boys learn *nothing*!"

"On the contrary, Mum," George said coolly, closing the passenger door behind him,
"we learned a great deal. And we put it *all* to use here."

"This car is *illegal*!" Molly snapped. "If the Ministry finds out --
"

"They already know," Fred said from where he still sat behind the steering wheel.
"We worked it out with Dad ages ago."

"Arthur!" Molly said wrathfully, rounding on her husband. "You *know* about
this -- this -- "

"Er, yes, Molly," Arthur said. "And Fred is right, it's all been squared away
with the Ministy."

"But how?" Harry said now, having sprung from his chair to admire the car up close.
"Ron and I got into loads of trouble when we flew your old car to Hogwarts at the beginning of
Second Year. So did you."

"Ah...yes," Arthur said, remembering the incident well. The resulting explosion from
Molly on that day was not unlike the one he was witnessing from his wife now. "Well, to begin
with, that was a British car, registered as such. And I enchanted it on British soil. Of course,
that was all legal, you'll recall. The law clearly stated -- "

"The law *you* wrote, Arthur!" Molly said scathingly. "And, to my knowledge,
that law has not been changed!"

"No," Arthur admitted, "it hasn't."

"But that law doesn't apply to *this* car," George announced.

"Why not?" Harry said, quite as confused as everyone else.

"Because this is an *American* car!" Fred said, slapping the door for emphasis.
"A 1962 Chevrolet Bel Air! A classic of Yank workmanship!"

"But its being foreign-made shouldn't affect its legal status, should it?" Hermione
said thoughtfully. "I remember Ali Bashir got in trouble when he tried to import foreign-made
flying carpets a few years ago."

"Yes," Arthur said, "but a carpet isn't classified as a vehicle. Until it's
enchanted to fly, it's just -- a carpet. But a car is a transport vehicle *before*
it's enchanted."

"And the law prohibiting tampering with Muggle artifacts applies only to British soil,"
George said triumphantly. "And Fred and I enchanted *this* car in
*America*!"

"When did you go to America?" Ron asked.

"Loads of times," Fred said. "Off and on all Summer."

"You can Apparate that far?" Hermione said, clearly impressed.

"Not at first," George said. "Takes a bit of practice to Apparate that far. We
started off by going to Iceland, then to Greenland and Nova Scotia. But now we can pop straight
over to New York in one jump."

Hermione, who had not yet travelled a distance greater than the length of Britain, beamed at
George. Harry was smiling, too, but for a different reason.

"You flew it clear across the Atlantic?" he asked Fred, who had slid over to let Harry
sit in the driver's seat. "How did it do?" Harry still remembered his and Ron's
perilous journey to Hogwarts in Arthur's turquoise Anglia, which had become so exhausted by the
long, uninterrupted flight that it gave out just within sight of the castle and crashed headlong
into the Whomping Willow.

"Smooth as silk," Fred said proudly. "Here, let me show you the control
panel."

Harry leaned in -- and so, to his surprise and amusement, did Hermione, who was now leaning through
the window so that her bushy hair fell over Harry's shoulder like a chocolate waterfall.

"Controls for levitation," Fred was saying, pointing to one button, guage or lever after
another, "up and down. Another for lateral motion, forward, back or sideways. Invisibility
booster. And we added a Repelling Charm so that it will automatically steer wide of trees and
buildings, and planes, too."

"I should have thought -- " Arthur began, but a sharp look from his wife silenced
him.

"But the real corker," said George, who was now leaning in through the passenger window,
"is the Automatic Pilot. Show him, Fred."

"When you flip this switch," Fred said, pointing as Harry and Hermione watched with great
interest, "the car responds to voice command. We implanted a map of all of Great Britain with
a Memory Charm. Just tell the car where you want to go, and it flies itself straight there. It even
signals you when you're nearly there, so you can look for a place to land without being
seen."

"But what if we want to go to visit Hogwarts?" Hermione said. "Or Hogsmeade?
They're both unplottable. You wouldn't find *them* on a map of Britain."

"You will on *this* map," Fred said, opening the glove compartment and pulling out a
large piece of parchment that was folded many times over. "Bought it in Diagon Alley. It shows
magical locations, but *only* when held by someone with magical blood."

As Harry took the map and unfolded it, Fred pointed out two tiny specks in Scotland marked
'Hogwarts' and 'Hogsmeade.'

"Now, place the map on the seat," Fred instructed.

Harry lay the map on the seat between himself and Fred. The moment his hands released the
parchment, the markings for Hogwarts and Hogsmeade vanished. He extended his hand and placed a
single finger on a corner of the map. Both markings reappeared.

"If a Muggle picks up the map," George said, "those markings remain
invisible."

This bit of magic seemed to please Hermione more than the car itself. Harry, however, was screwing
up his face in thought.

"Hang on," he said slowly. "This is an American car, right?"

Fred and George both nodded.

"Then why is the steering wheel on the *right* side?"

"Wondered when you'd notice that, mate," George said with a throaty chuckle. He
jerked a thumb for Harry to exit the car. Fred and George both walked to the rear of the car, Harry
and Hermione following. The other guests, many of whom had heard the conversation inside the car,
gathered around as well. Fred pointed to the boot, where the name 'Chevrolet' was spelled
out in metallic script. George tapped the side, indicating the words 'Bel Air' in a more
decorative style. Harry and Hermione gaped.

Both words were backwards!

"We didn't want you to have to get used to looking at the road from the wrong side of the
windscreen," Fred grinned. "So we used a Mirror Charm."

"We *did* replace the speedometer and the gas guage with parts from a Muggle shop,"
George said. "Didn't want you thinking you had a full tank when you were really on
empty."

"We could have replaced these as well," Fred said, gesturing at the reversed lettering on
the fender. "But we thought it would be a good joke on any Muggle who read them and thought
he'd had too much to drink or something."

Professor Fltwick was now walking around the car, his squeaky voice overflowing with delight.
"Excellent, boys!" he said. "Very nice Charm work. Good to see you paid *some*
attention in my classes."

But Molly Weasley was not amused. She was only one step removed from having steam issue from her
ears, as if she had downed a large dose of Pepper-Up Potion. She took a threatening step toward
Fred and George as Arthur attempted to soothe her with a tremulous, "Now, Molly..."

"So, Mum," Fred said, clapping his hands together, "fancy a ride over the
paddock?"

Molly's face exploded like a Filibuster Firework.

"FREDERICK WEASLEY! IF YOU THINK FOR ONE MOMENT -- "

But before Fred and George (whose very freckles were paling under their mother's onslaught)
could retreat a step, Molly's contorted face relaxed, her scowl replaced with a bright, sunny
smile.

"Not just now, dear," she said brightly. "This is Harry's and Hermione's
day, isn't it?"

"Thank you, Filius," Arthur said with a deep sigh of relief. "I was hoping it
wouldn't come to that, but..."

"Not at all, Arthur," Flitwick said, returning his wand to his robes. "A good
Cheering Charm is worth a hundred times its weight in Galleons, I always say."

As a wave of relief passed over the crowd, Hermione turned to see Harry caressing the side-view
mirror of their new car with a reverent hand. She chuckled as she slipped her arm around his
waist.

"You're adorable when you get like this," she said. "I know how much you love to
fly."

"It's not that," Harry said with a dreamy look in his eyes. "Oh, it's great
that it can fly and everything. But -- a car! I've wanted one all my life, for as long as I can
remember. And Fred is right, this is a classic! They don't make 'em like this any
more."

"Glad you feel that way, mate," Fred said with a broad smile. "Because a *new*
car was way out of our price range."

Smiling, Harry reached for the ignition, only to find that the keys were gone. Seeing Harry's
action, Fred jingled the keys in his pocket musically. Harry extended his hand, but Fred's own
hand remained in his pocket.

"Well, as to that..." Fred said, flashing George an amused look.

"What?" Harry said, lowering his hand with a suspicious smile tugging at the right side
of his face.

"The car's...um...registered in Hermione's name."

"It's what?" Harry exclaimed, his eyes darting toward his wife. He made a playful
swipe for her hand to pull her toward him, but she jerked it away, laughing gently.

"I had nothing to do with it," she said, pixie-lights dancing in her eyes.

"You see, Harry," Fred explained, "the Muggle laws say a car can only be registered
to a licensed driver."

"I *told* you to let me teach you to drive, Harry," Hermione said. "But, no,
you'd rather fly around on your broomstick every free moment."

Fred tossed the keys over Harry's head in a high arc. Harry lunged for them, but Hermione's
hand darted out and caught them like a Golden Snitch, which image was not lost on the twins.

"Lucky for you Hermione *doesn't* fly, Harry," George laughed. "You might
have had a job keeping your position as Gryffindor Seeker."

When Harry finally gave up trying to pry the keys from his wife's steely grip, the pair fell
into a laughing hug before turning to thank Fred and George properly.

"We knew you'd be living in the Muggle world as much as in the wizarding world," Fred
said. "We reckoned Hermione's parents would rather you brought their grandkids for a visit
in the back seat of a car rather than on the back of a broomstick."

"Or by Floo powder," Harry said. "I still hate that stuff."

"Boys," Hermione said with a deep, searching look on her face, "you didn't
happen to Charm the boot the same way your dad did with the Anglia, did you?"

"They call it the 'trunk' in America, Hermione," Fred said. "And, as it
happens, we did."

"Why?" Harry said, eyeing his wife suspiciously. "What's -- uh-oh. Hermione,
you're not thinking..."

"You know, Harry, we *will* be away for a whole month. And I don't have a
*thing* to wear for tropical weather."

"Oh, no!" Harry groaned.

"So, first thing tomorrow," Hermione said, "you and I are going -- "

"Merlin help me!" Harry cried, flinging his arms in the air.

"Shopping!" Hermione sang out as the nearby guests all broke into laughter.

"Oi, Ron!" Harry called out, shaking his head as he tried unsuccessfully to suppress a
smile. Hermione was now twirling the car keys on her index finger, her eyes dancing like flames of
dark fire.

"Yeah, Harry?" Ron said through a broad grin.

"Start lining up those endorsements," Harry sighed. "Bill's right. I *am*
going to need every Galleon I can get!"

"Hey," George said suddenly, "are we done? Is that everyone?"

"Not bloody likely," said a rough but cheerful voice. "There's *one more*
present to be handed out today!"

George cuffed himself melodramatically in the head as Sirius and Remus appeared. The two Marauders
had a devilish twinkle in their eyes which did not escape either Harry or Hermione.

"Say, George," Fred said in an overly loud voice, his eyes narrowing impishly, "who
do those two remind you of?"

"You kidding?" George returned. "*Us*!"

Harry was thinking the very same thing. Not for nothing had his parents' old schoolmates been
co-architects of the Marauder's Map (and Merlin only knew what mayhem) in their days at
Hogwarts. Whatever devious schemes Fred and George might be capable of -- and Harry had seen
evidence enough with his own eyes to fill an entire shelf full of textbooks -- he had no doubt that
Sirius and Remus could cap them all. As Harry allowed himself and Hermione to be escorted back to
their chairs, he flashed his godfather an accusatory look.

"Remus, old friend," Sirius said, a look of injury spreading across his face, "I do
believe our integrity is being impuned."

Remus placed his hand over his heart, looking completely horrified.

"What do you reckon, Hermione?" Harry said, his mouth twitching at the corner.
"Knowing these two, they probably pinched Snape's knickers and ran them up the flagpole at
Hogwarts."

"Blimey!" Sirius slapped himself as everyone laughed. "Now why didn't *I*
think of that? We could have got a picture and run it in the Daily Prophet!"

"He's his father's son," Remus said, thumping his fist against his heart.
"James would be so proud."

"Look, you two!" Harry said as he swallowed his own laughter. "Are you going to get
on with it, or am I going to have to sic Hermione on you?"

"That's not an empty threat, Sirius," Remus said dramatically.

"Tell *me*," Sirius said. "So, do you have it?"

"I gave it to YOU, remember?"

"Oh, right."

Sirius dipped a hand into his robes and produced a plain manila envelope with a string clasp. With
a knowing smirk directed at Remus, he handed the envelope to Harry. As Harry took it, he observed
the faces of the guests as they watched with expectant eyes. Yes, that was the impression that
Harry got. Not curiosity. Expectation. He had an overpowering feeling that everyone knew exactly
what was in this envelope save for himself and Hermione. He sought for clues among the many and
varied faces, but none was forthcoming. Receiving an affirmative nod from Hermione, Harry unwound
the string and opened the flap.

There was nothing inside but a flat, stiff piece of paper. It was blank on both sides.

"Oh, silly me," Sirius said facetiously. He tapped the paper with his wand, and instantly
a glossy photograph appeared. It was a picture of Sirius and Remus. They were standing on what
appeared to be a front porch. But, the picture being a wizard photo, the two figures were not
standing still. At first they merely waved cheerfully. Harry smiled, resisting the urge to wave
back.

The figures now bent down before the front door. They picked up a rectangular object and held it
up. Harry thought it looked like a welcome mat, but it had no writing on it. This, however, was
quickly remedied. The black-and-white figure of Sirius touched the mat with his wand.

The photo fell straight through Harry's fingers. Hermione caught it and pressed her face close,
her mouth hanging open. Two words had appeared on the welcome mat:


**THE POTTERS**


Harry felt as if his whole body had been de-boned, in fashion not unlike the botched healing spell
Gilderoy Lockhart had used on his broken arm in Second Year. Had Hermione not fastened her own arm
securely about his waist, he was sure he would have slipped from his chair like a puddle of melted
butter.

"Sirius?" Harry said in a voice dry as graveyard dust. "This isn't -- I mean, it
can't be..."

"It's yours, Harry," Sirius said gently, all levity evaporated from his manner.
"Yours and Hermione's."

"Our -- " Hermione choked, her eyes welling with tears, " -- our --
house?"

Harry could only stare wordlessly at his godfather, who suddenly grinned in his familiar Marauder
fashion.

"Well, you didn't think you were going to live in *my* house *forever*, did
you?" He winked at Harry. "I love you like a son, kid, but I gotta tell you -- you're
cramping my style."

"Please," Remus said, rolling his eyes. "You haven't had a date for a
month."

"And it's all down to Harry," Sirius said defiantly. "So out he goes, and good
riddance, I say!"

"But -- our flat -- " Harry stammered. "We already signed the lease..."

"Sublet it to Ron," Charlie suggested. "He can afford it now."

Wiping away her tears, Hermione said, "How can you possibly have managed this, Sirius? Houses
cost a fortune these days."

The same thought had occurred to Harry, who knew (though Hermione did not) that Sirius, following
his godson's example, had donated fully half his vault to help start up the Cedric Diggory
Fund.

"You should know better than anyone, Hermione," Sirius said, "that the wizarding
world and the Muggle world are far more alike than they are different. Take real estate, for
example. A house goes vacant for thirty or forty years, it gets run down, no one wants it. Next
thing you know, it goes into receivership. It becomes a drug on the market. Back taxes accrue. In
the end, whoever is willing to pay the back arrears gets the deed, free and clear."

"But there *is* a catch," Remus said now. "Repairs have to be made before
it's cleared for habitation. I believe the Muggles call it a 'fixer-upper.' And trust
me when I say that the Ministry has just as many rules and ordinances and bureaucrats -- blimey,
the red tape they come up with -- makes a bloke want chuck it all and go live in a
cave."

Sirius gave Remus a meaningful look, and Harry laughed. Nearly everyone present knew that Sirius
*had* lived in a cave, just outside Hogsmeade, during his time as a fugitive. Remus smiled
sheepishly, and Sirius roared a short laugh and clapped his friend on the shoulder.

"I never worked so hard in my life," Sirius said with a deep, rumbling laugh. "New
windows, new roof, complete paint job. And not a lot of time to do it all. Thank Merlin for the
Weasleys. Dunno *what* we'd have done without them."

"I knew that lot would come in handy one of these days," Arthur said jovially, his eyes
sweeping over his six sons in turn.

Molly, still under the sway of Flitwick's Cheering Charm, nodded and smiled.

"We put security wards all around the house," Remus said now. "Not that we expect
Voldemort to return from the dead to wreak vengeance on you, or anything so melodramatic," he
smiled. "But one can't be too careful."

"And no Unlocking Charm, no matter how powerful," Sirius continued, "can open the
door without this." He produced a door key from his robes and held it up for all to see.
"I used a special Isomorphic Charm, harmonizing it with a lock of hair from each of you. It
will work *only* when inserted and turned by one of you. If anyone else tries it, there's
a kickback that Transfigures the user into something harmless and easily restrained.

"At first I wasn't sure what sort of creature to specify in the Charm," Sirius said
meditatively. "But Moony came up with the perfect choice." He paused, and Harry saw once
again the unmistakable glint of the Marauder in his godfather's eye. "Still got that
special jar you used at the end of Fourth Year, Hermione?" Sirius winked, and everyone
laughed, none moreso than Hermione.

Grinning broadly, Sirius made a great show of handing the key to Harry, whereupon Hermione's
eyebrows rose comedically as she recoiled in a pantomime of indignation that elicited still more
laughter from all quarters.

"Fair is fair, Hermione," Sirius chuckled. "Now you *each* have a
key."

Harry was holding the house key as if it were made of sugar and would crumble to powder if he
applied too much pressure. The photograph of his and Hermione's new home shook slightly in his
other hand, and the tiny figures of Sirius and Remus clamped their arms around the columns
supporting the front porch to avoid sliding out of the picture.

"So," Harry said, still somewhat breathless from the shock of it all, "where are we
living, then? I hope it's a nice neighborhood."

"You don't recognize it?" Sirius said, his dark eyebrows rising. "Look again,
Harry. Look hard. Both of you."

Harry studied the photo closely, as did Hermione. Their expressions reflected various emotions and
states of mind, but recognition was not among them.

"We're not being entirely fair, Sirius," Remus put in. "After all, they'd be
more likely to recognize the *inside* than the outside."

Hermione squealed with a sound like a police whistle. Harry was incapable of any sound at all. His
head jerked up, disbelief in his wide, round eyes. Sirius threw his head back and laughed until
tears came. Wiping his eyes, Sirius placed his arm around Remus' shoulder and grinned with
savage triumph.

"Congratulations Harry, Hermione. You are now the proud owners of the Shrieking
Shack!"


***


**Author's Note:** I've heard it said that the Chinese language character for
"crisis" is the same as the one for "opportunity." Well, this next-to-last
chapter represented a crisis of sorts for me. Try though I might, I simply could NOT come up with a
suitable present for Hagrid. Rather than abandon the story indefinitely (so heartbreakingly close
to completion), I went with my gut and justified Hagrid's dilemma (and mine) as you have seen.
Basically, I used angst as a smokescreen for lack of inspiration. I hope it worked, because I am
STILL stonewalled for a better solution. If anyone has any ideas in this regard, feel free to pass
them along. The contributors on this site are arguably among the best in fandom, and I would
welcome any thoughts on the matter.

To address an issue from the previous chapter, I purposely avoided any details regarding
Voldemort's destruction. That would be another story in itself -- one which I confess I am
unwilling to undertake without a MOUNTAIN of inspiration. As far as Chocolate Frog cards go,
Hermione certainly deserves her share of the glory (which will no doubt be borne out in canon), and
maybe even Ron as well (though I have an overpowering feeling that Ron will die a hero's death
in Book 7, rendering his share of the glory moot). But Ron's allegorical Quidditch speech was
written solely to justify Harry's card for the benefit of the story. As ol'
what's-his-name once said, "The play's the thing."

Say, it's well known that J.K. has already written the last chapter of the book series, wherein
she reveals the paths taken by those who are destined to survive the Final Battle. Maybe Harry WILL
get a Chocolate Frog card! Only one person knows for sure, and she ain't talkin'.

But you can look for the final chapter of THIS story next week. To everyone who took time from a
busy week of Christmas shopping to read this: Thank you.



25. Fly Away Home
-----------------

Shadows were lengthening in the late afternoon sun when Arthur and Molly finally announced (to a
chorus of groans) that the day's festivities were nearing an end.

"Harry and Hermione have a long journey ahead if they're to spend the night in their new
house," Arthur said reasonably. "Scotland may not be far by Apparation, but travelling by
flying car is another matter entirely."

"As my husband can attest first-hand," Hermione said, raising one eyebrow meaningfully,
"having made the trip once before. Right, Harry?"

The newlyweds were now dressed in casual Muggle attire, their wedding robes having been folded and
packed with care by the Weasleys before being loaded into the car. As though still not reconciled
to the fact that Harry had even considered something so foolish as to fly an enchanted car from
London to Hogwarts six years ago, Hermione punctuated her remark with a hard jerk on the collar of
her husband's shirt. Harry rolled his eyes, making strangled choking sounds as he clutched his
throat dramatically. Tugging his shirt down with a laugh, he let his hand rest for a moment on his
left breast, relishing the tiny, embossed image thereon. It had originally been a polo player on a
horse, but his then-fiancee had used a clever Stitching Charm to rearrange the threads into a
red-robed figure on a broomstick, its outstretched hand clutching a tiny Golden Snitch. It
immediately became his favorite piece of Muggle clothing.

"Not to worry," Fred announced as he and George finished loading the grandfather clock
into the magically-enlarged boot. "This car has an overdrive that can fly circles around the
old Anglia. With a good tailwind, you might even beat the Hogwarts Express."

"That reminds me," Ron said to no one in particular, "how is Ginny getting to
school?"

"And what about Hagrid?" Seamus added. "He has to be in Hogsmeade when the train
pulls in, to take the First Years to the boats."

"Oh, I'll be there," Hagrid said happily, "never you fear. Perfesser Dumbledore
fixed me up with a portkey. I'll have plenty a' time ter feed Fang an' raise a glass er
two at the Hog's Head before the Express rounds the last curve."

"So, Ginny's going by portkey, too?" Ron said brightly.

"No," Dumbledore said. "I thought it would be less than egalitarian were she to
arrive without any fuss at Hogsmeade Station after her classmates had made the long journey by
train. Moreover, my own school days -- which I *do* still remember, by the way -- " he
added with a twinkle in his eye as some of his former students chuckled, " -- taught me that
the journey on the Hogwarts Express is every bit as significant as the Welcoming Feast and the
Sorting Ceremony. It allows friends separated by the Summer holidays to reestablish their fraternal
bonds before settling into their familiar pattern of classes and activities. I did not want to
deprive Miss Weasley of that experience, especially as this is the last such journey she will ever
undertake."

"So, you'll be taking Ginny straight to the train?" Ron said.
"Apparating?"

"Ginny's not licensed to Apparate," Lavender reminded Ron with a trace of
impatience.

"But Dumbledore could use *his* magic to Apparate the both of them onto the train,
couldn't he?" George reasoned.

"No, he couldn't!" Hermione said, a hint of annoyance in her voice. "The
Hogwarts Express is protected by the same Charms as the castle. I mean, how safe would the train be
if anyone could Apparate onto it at will? Honestly! Am I the *only* one here who's read
Hogwarts: A History?"

"YES!" her classmates shouted together. Even most of the Weasley siblings joined in,
though not Percy -- nor, Hermione was pleased to note, Ginny. To his credit, Harry had refrained
from joining the chorus. But the smile he gave his wife was laced with the same guilt both he and
Ron used to evidence when she would catch them hurrying to finish a homework assignment that should
have been completed a week earlier. Somehow, the realization that the hero of the wizarding world,
the conqueror of the Dark Lord, still harbored a shadow of that innocent schoolboy made
Hermione's heart flutter in her bosom.

"So, what's the answer?" Ron smiled, his hands spread helplessly.

"Floo powder," Ginny said, which reply turned the heads of more than a few guests.

"Can you *do* that?" Fred asked, looking puzzled.

"Not under ordinary circumstances, no," Dumbledore said. "But the Floo Regulation
Board was kind enough to suspend the rules for today and permit the furnace of the Hogwarts Express
to be linked to the Floo Network. This 'window' will remain open for five minutes only, for
reasons of security. Thus, we must depart shortly, even as Harry and Hermione."

"But so much trouble to go to," Seamus put in, eyeing his two Gryffindor classmates.
"I still don't understand why you wanted to get married on September First. Why not in
July or August, when there'd be no need to hurry?"

"Because," Harry said as he caressed his new bride with his lambent green eyes,
"today is the anniversary of the day we met, on the Hogwarts Express. And you're right,
Albus. Ginny shouldn't skip that experience, even on a day like today. You never know
what's going to happen on that journey. Maybe something that will change your life
forever."

Harry took Hermione's hand in his as she smiled through cheeks suddenly the color of rose
petals. Dumbledore beamed down on his Head Boy and Head Girl of the year past, his blue eyes
shining like stars.


*


A last round of tearful goodbyes was now exchanged. Up until now, everything had been possessed of
an air of festiveness and celebration. But reality began to set in at last. Their school days
forever behind them, Harry and Hermione were about to embark on a new life as husband and wife. Not
a female eye was dry, though Professor McGonagall maintained her severe facade until the very last
moment. Even the Gryffindor boys embraced Harry in a manner they would have regarded as unmanly
under any other conditions. (The hugs and kisses they rained upon *Hermione*, however, were
devoid of any such reservation.)

Harry thought Percy had a slightly haunted look in his eyes as he kissed Hermione's cheek
before shaking Harry's hand one last time.

"He's still upset about Penelope," Hermione said softly, seeing the questioning look
in Harry's eyes.

"Why did they break up?" Harry asked. "The time never seemed right to
ask."

"Penelope told me that Percy's career was becoming more important to him than their
relationship," Hermione said. "Ambition can be a seductive mistress."

"That's not going to happen to us," Harry said firmly. "I *know* where
*my* priorities lie."

Hermione nodded, squeezing her husband's hand resolutely. "No success is worth having if
you can't share it with someone special."

When Parvati, Padma and Lavender said their goodbyes, Parvati cast a glance after the departing
Percy. "What I don't understand," she said to Hermione, "is why you'll be
interning at the Ministry, while Percy started out as a departmental assistant."

"It was my own idea," Hermione said. "I'm going to intern in *every*
department over a period of eighteen months. I'm going to learn how the Ministry operates, from
top to bottom and back again. That way, I'll know exactly where I can do the most good. And
then, watch out, wizarding world! Hermione Potter is coming to kick arse and take
names!"

"You *go*, witch!" Parvati laughed, the four girls swapping high fives preliminary
to a round of tearful hugs. Harry looked on smilingly, his eyes reflecting a mixture of pride,
respect and love.

When Ginny exchanged a double goodbye with the newlyweds, each bestowing good wishes upon the other
ere they began their separate journeys, she whispered excitedly in Hermione's ear, her eyes
bright as polished bronze Knuts.

"I've finally convinced Neville to put the Hermione Beauty Rose on the market!"

"Excellent!" Harry said, seeming more pleased even than Hermione.

"How did you change his mind?" Hermione asked.

"Bill and Percy helped," Ginny said. "And, indirectly, Harry."

"Me?" Harry said in surprise.

"Neville didn't want to make any money on the Rose," Ginny said. "So I convinced
him to set up a charitable organization, like the Cedric Diggory Fund. Percy is drawing up the
papers, and Bill will work out the details with the bank. All profits from the flowers will go to a
foundation that will help Muggle-born witches and wizards blend into magical society. There's
also a fund for students who can't afford proper school supplies."

"Like those bloody overpriced Lockhart books," Harry snorted as Hermione went slightly
pink.

"And," Ginny added, "no one will ever have to be tormented like Ron was because of
those grotty dress robes he had to wear to the Yule Ball four years ago."

Harry and Hermione both smiled at this.

"What's the official name of this foundation?" Harry asked.

"The Hermione Granger Foundation," Ginny said with a smile at its namesake.

"Dead on," Harry said with a firm nod. "She wouldn't listen to me when I
suggested that we hyphenate our names. Harry James Granger-Potter! Sounds aristocratic, don't
you think?"

"Hyphens just seem so...snobbish," Hermione said defensively. "Like Justin
Finch-Fletchly, or Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington."

"But now the name Hermione Granger will live forever," Harry said proudly.

Hermione had no opportunity to reply, as they were interrupted by the kindly but authoritative
voice of Albus Dumbledore.

"It is time, Miss Weasley," the Headmaster smiled. "Our 'window' opens in
five minutes. As the Muggles say, the clock is ticking."

Ginny hugged Harry and Hermione one last time before straightening her robes. She was wearing her
plain, black Hogwarts robes now. As she was going straight to the train, the Muggle clothing she
usually wore when going to King's Cross was unnecessary.

"You'll be returning to Hogwarts as well, won't you, Albus?" Hermione said.

"Yes," Dumbledore said. "Once I have seen Miss Weasley off, I shall be popping
straight into Hogsmeade. I may even have time to share a drink with Hagrid at the Hog's Head.
Though I am not overly fond of that establishment," he admitted. "I greatly prefer The
Three Broomsticks. A much more congenial atmosphere, if I may say so. Alas, Hagrid finds their mead
substandard at times. However, their wine is beyond reproach."

"As is Madam Rosmerta," Hermione said slyly, eliciting a bright smile from Dumbledore.
But Harry's brow had wrinkled above his emerald eyes, which mirrored the question to which he
gave voice.

"You're not accompanying Ginny to the Hogwarts Express? That sounds like a tricky
business, Floo-ing onto a moving train."

"Just so," Dumbledore said. "However, Miss Weasley will not be travelling
alone."

As if on cue, Neville appeared, his eyes darting from his watch to Ginny. "It's nearly
time," he said anxiously. He seemed to be trying to avoid Hermione's eyes, but she was
having none of it. She drew him into a crushing hug, making his eyes bulge like those of Trevor the
toad as Harry laughed and Ginny giggled lightly.

"Thank you again, Neville," Hermione said as her old schoolmate's face began to
resemble a sunburned radish. "You're accompanying Ginny to the train, then?" Neville
nodded, his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth.

"How come you're not Apparating straight to Hogsmeade?" Harry asked. "That's
where your shop is, isn't it?"

"I...can't," Neville said weakly, clearly embarrased. "I can't...Apparate.
Failed...the test...three times..."

"That's alright, Neville," Ginny said soothingly. "Lots of witches and wizards
don't like to Apparate."

Neville smiled gratefully before looking at his watch again, panic suddenly spreading across his
round face. "It's time! I'll -- take your trunk for you. Hurry! Don't want to miss
the train!"

As Neville sped off for the Burrow, Hermione told Ginny, "Don't worry. If you miss the
train, Harry and I will give you a lift in the car. Right, Harry?"

"Hurry, Ginny!" Harry said, pushing Ginny with both hands. "Remember what Dumbledore
said, great experience and all that! Go!"

Ginny waved a laughing goodbye as Harry pulled out his wand and conjured a sign which read,
"No Riders."

"This goes straight on the back bumper," Harry stated emphatically.

"Do you think there's room?" Hermione said, her eyes darting toward the car as the
last of her giggles subsided. Harry's eyes followed his wife's, and he whooped with
amusement.

"Like it, Harry?" Fred asked genially. He and George had attached hundreds of streamers
to the back of the car, framing a sign which read, "Just Married."

"All Muggle-safe," George assured them. "Hand-made, Muggle-fashion. Guaranteed, no
enchantments."

The twins hugged Hermione and clapped Harry on the back. At some point, either Fred or George
magicked a sign onto Harry's back which announced, in flashing green letters, "Kiss Me,
I'm Horny!" When the sign was discovered, Hermione laughed as loud as anyone. She was
still laughing when Fred's and George's chortles suddenly turned to squeaks of shock and
amazement, which sounds issued from a pair of red-furred guinea pigs huddling precisely where the
twins had been standing. She restored them a moment later amidst gales of laughter.

"Never mess with a witch who scored 312% on her Transfiguration Final, boys," Hermione
warned, her brown eyes twinkling merrily. Harry hugged his wife, tears of laughter wetting his
cheeks. Even Professor McGonagall was laughing behind her uplifted hand.

Good sports to the last, Fred and George both bowed to Hermione, who acknowledged them with a nod
and a smile before returning her wand to a cleverly-concealed pocket of her skirt.

Molly Weasley, her Cheering Charm having worn off, hissed, "No more funny
business!"

"We promise," the twins said together as they exchanged a sly, knowing look. Both then
grinned at Sirius and Remus, who gave them an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

Following a final round of hugs (the most tearful coming from the Grangers and the Weasleys),
Hermione slid behind the wheel of the car as Harry closed the door for her and quickly rolled over
the bonnet to the passenger side.

"Honestly, Harry!" Hermione said, grinning as she shook her head. Harry, closing the
passenger door with a resounding slam, flashed her his best puppy-dog eyes, drawing the fangs of
her annoyance with an effectiveness her dentist parents would have admired. Waving her hand through
the open window, Hermione put the key in the ignition -- which, like the gearshift, was on the left
side of the steering column because of the Mirror Charm -- and started the car. The engine roared
to life, and Harry saw Fred, George and Arthur cheering as Molly inflated herself with something
less than approval.

As the car pulled out of the driveway, a raucus clattering echoed from the walls of the Burrow and
its garage.

"Fred!" Molly snapped, her eyes spitting flames. "George!"

"Not us, Mum!" the twins pleaded, their hands in the air, palms forward. "See, no
wands!"

Angling himself to look in the side-view mirror, Harry saw his godfather pocketing his wand
quickly, an innocent look on his face, as Remus laughed out loud and pounded his fellow
Marauder's back in appreciation.

"Shall I use a Severing Charm?" Harry asked, drawing his wand from a pocket of his sport
jacket.

"No," Hermione said, her face glowing brightly. "Tying cans to the bumper of a car
is a time-honored tradition. Besides, I want everyone to look at us as we drive by. I want the
whole world to know that I became Mrs. Harry Potter today."

A more explosive noise was now reverberating behind them. The fireworks which Dobby had helped Fred
and George prepare were now lighting the sky with a rainbow of colors. Leaning out his window as
the car backed onto the road, Harry smiled up at the dazzling bursts of smoke and light that filled
the afternoon sky. Every boom and flash seemed to echo inside his chest. Every cell in his body was
tingling in a sort of empathy. He felt light enough to fly without benefit of either broomstick or
enchanted car.

The car surged forward abruptly, throwing Harry back onto his seat. He flung an accusatory glance
at Hermione, who smirked at him before returning her eyes to the road.

A few minutes' driving brought them to a secluded stretch of road which they knew well from
many a Summer walk on past visits to the Burrow. Surrounded by hills and woodlands, they pulled off
to the side of the road and listened intently. The car motor was quiet as a whisper. The only other
sounds they heard were those of songbirds in the trees on either side of the road.

"Do it," Harry said.

Hermione engaged the Invisibilty Booster. The car vanished. But, to Harry's astonishment, he
and Hermione did not. He could still see the entire inside of the car.

Before Harry could give voice to his confusion, Hermione threw a switch on the dashboard. The car
rose straight up, like a yo-yo jerked by an unseen string, finally levelling off at what must have
been many hundreds of feet above the woods and houses below.

"This isn't the way it was in Arthur's car," Harry said in amazement. "Are
we invisible?"

"I asked Fred and George about the enchantments they used," Hermione explained.
"While you were busy making love to your new play-toy," she added meaningfully, patting
the steering wheel for emphasis.

"*You're* my favorite play-toy," Harry said with an exaggerated leer that
reminded his wife of a hungry wolf. Hermione giggled before continuing.

"It's not an Invisibility Charm so much as a Concealment Charm. Like the one Flitwick used
to hide our presents from us."

"What's the difference?" Harry asked. Hermione gave him a cross look.

"Something that's invisible can't be seen at all," she explained. "But a
Concealment Charm sort of erects an invisible 'fence' around something. Someone on the
*out*side of the fence can't see what's on the *in*side."

"*This* I have to see!" Harry said. And before Hermione could make a move to stop
him, Harry was leaning out his window to look at the outside of the car. His jaw dropped.

There was no front to the car! His left hand was braced against the car door, but though he could
feel the smooth metal against his palm, he could not see it! Craning his neck, he saw that the
window through which he was leaning was a rectangle in the midst of an empty sky. He felt a sudden
jerk on his sleeve as Hermione pulled him back inside the car, genuine anger on her face.

"Bloody Hell, Harry!" she grunted. "Am I going to have to but a Body-Bind on you?
Honestly!"

But Harry was busy looking out through the windshield. The front of the car was there, in plain
sight. He turned to his wife in wordless bafflement.

"The invisible barrier is on the *out*side," she said, reading the question in his
eyes. "*we're* on the *in*side, so we can see everything."

Before Harry could respond, Hermione engaged the forward drive, and the car shot through the sky
like an arrow.

"Are we going North?" Harry asked.

"I may not be Ferdinand-bloody-Magellan," Hermione laughed, "but I *do* know
that the sun sets in the West. That *is* the sun on your side of the car, isn't
it?"

"Blimey!" Harry said, goggle-eyed. "Is *that* what that is?" Hermione
smiled, hissing a response which Harry could not make out.

Looking down now, Harry saw a thin, dark thread wending its way through woodlands and around the
shoulders of low, green hills. Somewhere ahead of them on that steel ribbon, he knew, the Hogwarts
Express was puffing its way toward Hogsmeade with its cargo of students bound for Hogwarts School
of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Harry felt a tug inside his chest. Had it really been seven years since
he had first boarded that train to begin the journey that would change his life forever? It
didn't seem possible that the insufferably bossy girl he had met on the train that day was the
beautiful young woman sitting beside him now. Dumbledore was right. There was more magic to be
found on that train than lurked in the pages of the spell books tucked into its passengers'
school bags. Harry reached out and covered his wife's left hand with his right. They exchanged
a smile of love as Hermione, perhaps thinking thoughts similar to her husband's, turned the
wheel slightly as they foll owed the railroad tracks North toward their shared destination.

As it had been with Harry and Ron during their own ill-fated flight to Hogwarts, the thrill of
staring out at a blue, cloud-flecked sky soon lost its charm. Harry slid along the seat until his
hip nudged Hermione's.

"What do you say we try out the Automatic Pilot Fred and George mentioned?" Harry
said.

"Good idea," Hermione said. She found the appropriate switch and engaged it. Immediately
the dashboard lights blinked.

"Destination?" came a musical voice from nowhere and everywhere.

Momentarily startled, Harry said, "Uh -- Hogsmeade?"

"And you, my dear?" the car said, clearly addressing Hermione. "The driver's
authority supersedes that of the passengers."

"Yes," Hermione said, grinning delightedly. "Hogsmeade."

"Done," the car said. The dashboard lights blinked again. The car shifted slightly, the
wheel turning itself under Hermione's hands.

"Now," Harry said, scrutinizing the dashboard once more, "where's the
overdrive?"

"I can engage that for you," the car said helpfully. But when no change in speed was
forthcoming, Harry glanced at Hermione promptingly.

"Yes, please," she told the car. "Overdrive."

The car took off like a bullet, momentarily slamnming Harry and Hermione back against the
seat.

"You *do* have the Deflector engaged, right?" Harry said cautiously. "We
don't want to slam into a 747 coming in to Heathrow."

"Of course," Hermione said, in a tone as if she were only stating the obvious.

"Well, then," Harry sighed, relaxing visibly, "nothing to do but sit back and enjoy
the ride." Shifting sideways so he could reach over the back of the seat, he muttered,
"We still have a ways to go. I know Ron put a cooler filled with sandwiches and pumpkin juice
back here. We *did* learn *something* from that bloody flight to Hogwarts."

But Hermione's hand was suddenly alongside Harry's head, her index finger tracing lightly
over his ear. In a very sultry voice, she said, "Oh, I'm sure we can find somehing
more...interesting...to do in the back seat...don't you?"

Harry jumped as if stung by a bee. There was a devilish look in Hermione's eyes that made
Harry's blood boil like a cauldron under a white-hot flame.

"You wicked witch," he smiled appreciatively as Hermione began to toy with his
glasses.

"That's what it says on the lingerie box, lover," Hermione breathed, removing her
husband's glasses and folding them in a slow, suggestive manner.

"You're not..." Harry said slowly, his breathing growing ragged. Sliding away from
the steering wheel, Hermione lifted her right leg and placed it over Harry's. Her skirt was
riding up tantalizingly, revealing a hint of black lace. "I mean...you don't
really...?"

Her arms now around Harry's neck, Hermione leaned in until Harry could see his reflection in
the dark irises of his wife's fathomless eyes. "No," she admitted with a smile.
"You're right. It was just a fancy. *But* -- " she added in a throaty whisper,
" -- that doesn't mean we can't get in a bit of practice before the...main
event..."

Neither knew afterwards if it was just a coincidence, or if the car had been listening to their
conversation and taken a hand on its own initiative. But for whatever reason, the seat against
which they were leaning flattened without warning, somersaulting Harry and Hermione onto the back
seat. The front seat then snapped back into place with an audible click. The two of them stared for
a moment, then fell laughing into each other's arms.

As Harry showered kisses over every inch of his wife's face and neck, his mind sought for the
proper words to express the depth of the love he felt surging through his body like an electric
current. Abandoning the effort as foredoomed, he simply repeated the same tired phrase he had used
so often, chafing at its feebleness.

"Do you know how much I love you, Hermione?"

Panting in the grip of her own passion, Hermione rasped, "Yes. I do know. I've always
known. But...don't let that stop you from reminding me...every once in a while..."

"Every minute," Harry breathed into a kiss. "Of every day. For the rest of our
lives.

"'And if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.'"

"Browning," Hermione whispered, her eyes filling with tears. "I've loved that
poem forever. Mum gave me that book for my birthday."

"Your tenth," Harry said. "I saw it in your mind today. In that moment when I
'became' you, I felt the thrill that you experienced the first time you read it. It was a
bit like the way *I* felt the first time I rode a broomstick. I was never able to understand
before just how deeply one can be moved by words on a page. But now, because of what we shared
today, I'll never forget it. It's part of me now. Just as *you* are part of me. The
*best* part."

They melted into each other, their explorations awkward, occasionally tentative and a bit
uncertain. But there was no hurry. They had a lifetime to learn the arts, and the mechanics, of
love. But of its purest essence they harbored no doubts. It flowed through them like the blood in
their veins and the air in their lungs. In the heart of the Soul Chamber they had been tested, and
found true. Now and forever, they were One. One in truth. One in hope. One in purity, and in
selflessness, and in trust.

And One, ever after, in love.


***


**Author's Note:** I hope everyone has a good imagination as regards any furtherance of this
story, because this is all there is. I never officially rule out sequels, but don't expect
anything soon, if at all. I presently have too many other ideas bouncing around in my head, as well
as an inventory of completed stories waiting to see the light of day.

Time now to let the brain cells cool off until January. I hope everyone enjoyed the ride. Thanks
for reading, and for all the kind feedback. See you soon.