Always

Disclaimer: The plot is mine, but the characters and settings belong solely to J.K. Rowling, to whom be praise, honor, and endless profits (to none of which do I lay claim, now or ever). The story title is from the song of the same name, words and music by Irving Berlin.

Author's Note: This story is based on, and directly references, events and concepts introduced in Patronus and Key To My Heart, and anyone who has not read those stories is advised to do so before proceeding.

"Give us a look, then," Ron wheedled for the thousandth time in the last hour -- or so it seemed to Harry as he sighed wearily, removing his glasses to rub his stinging eyes. The tears which his massaging fingers called forth were welcome, washing away the dry itchiness which his deep, unblinking concentration had wrought.

"Don't you have something better to do?" Harry said, not bothering to disguise his annoyance. "Blimey, it's like trying to work with Hedwig perched on my shoulder."

"Come on, Harry," Ron persisted, his good humor not diminished by Harry's shortness. "You've been at it for a month now. You must be nearly finished! We'll be graduating in a week, and I know you'll want to -- "

"Okay," Harry relented, as much to derail Ron's train of thought as for any other reason. "I guess it's as good as I can get it. Let's go to the window where the light's better."

Ron followed Harry to the window that looked down from the modest study of the Head Boy quarters at the very top of Gryffindor Tower. The Hogwarts grounds lay spread out like a bright green picnic cloth, dotted with tiny black "ants" which were Hogwarts students enjoying the warmth of the late June day. Hagrid's cabin was just visible in the distance, squatting like a gnarled toad on the fringe of the Forbidden Forest. Standing at the window, Harry reached into the neck of his robes and withdrew what appeared to be an empty hand. At a touch of his wand, however, a Concealment Charm dissolved, revealing a fine gold chain extending from Harry's neck to his left hand. Harry slipped the chain from around his neck and handed it to Ron, the fingers of his left hand releasing the object cradled in his palm with no little reluctance.

"Don't drop it out the window," he warned Ron, his eyes deadly serious. "Trust me, I will Curse you into the twenty-first century."

"No worries," Ron sang out as he caught up the object through which the chain was threaded and held it up to the early afternoon light. His mouth opened slowly, his eyes wide and unblinking. For one of the few times in his life, words utterly failed him. He handed the chain back to Harry with great care.

"When are you giving it to her?" Ron asked as Harry pulled the chain over his head and reactivated the Concealment Charm with a tap of his wand.

"Dunno," Harry said with considerably less enthusiasm than Ron had expected.

"You can't wait too long," Ron reminded him. "You know she's going off with her parents on a holiday to America as soon as she gets home. She's been talking about it all year. It'll be their last family outing before she starts her new job in the Fall, so you know she's not going to put it off, even for you. She did promise to be back in time for your birthday, but do you really want to wait a whole month?"

Harry's only reply was an almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw. Ron's sky-blue eyes narrowed sharply.

"What is it, Harry? You -- you can't possibly have...changed your mind?"

Still Harry said nothing. He sat on the window ledge and looked down on the peaceful school grounds, at the students moving across the lawn far below like so many specks on the Marauders' Map. His hand rose and came to rest on his bosom, covering the unseen chain and the object suspended therefrom.

"Have you gone 'round the bend?" Ron exploded. "All you've been talkin' 'bout for two years now is how you can't wait to graduate so you can finally ask Hermione to marry you! Okay, so we haven't officially graduated, but finals are over and our N.E.W.T.'s are all in. You got the third highest marks in Seventh Year, Harry! My mum'd eat ten pounds of vomit-flavored Bertie Bott's Beans to see me graduate that high!"

"You did great," Harry said evasively. "Better than Fred and George -- "

"Don't bollocks me, Harry," Ron said in a quiet voice that carried infinitely more power than his previous shout. "Are you going to propose to Hermione or not?"

Harry made no slightest move to indicate that he had heard Ron. Indeed, he continued to stare out the window as if Ron were not there. Sensing the futility of further discourse, Ron turned wordlessly and strode across the chamber, disappearing down the spiral staircase leading to the Gryffindor common room with a swish of his black robes.

When the echo of Ron's footsteps had faded, Harry sat in the silence which was broken only by his own turbulent thoughts. He continued to finger the chain around his neck, feeling the delicate weight of the object pressed against his chest.

"I do love you, Hermione," Harry said softly, his eye following a hawk that was describing lazy circles above the Forbidden Forest. "But you need to be free. Free to fly as high as you can without anything -- or anyone -- weighing you down."

Harry sighed deeply, pressing the back of his head against the cool stone of the window frame.

"I love you," he repeated. "And the best way I know to show it...is to let you go."

Author's Note: Sorry if this first chapter is a bit short. Next time we'll dig a little deeperinto Harry's reasoning. Until then, thanks for reading.

The days following final exams always had a strange, unnatural quality to them. With no classes to hurry to (or to be late for), the students moved through the halls at a leisurely pace, chatting merrily on subjects ranging from plans for the Summer holidays to (for the graduating seventh-years) career goals and aspirations for the future.

As Harry entered the dining hall, he jumped back suddenly as a barn owl the size of a cocker spaniel swooped across his path with an excited hoot and a furious flapping of wings. A small parcel swung gondola-like underneath the owl, its taut binding twine held fast in the grip of two sets of strong, sharp talons.

Harry smiled as he re-centered his glasses, his expression a mirror of dozens of faces sitting at the four house tables. Morning mail was always a favorite time at Hogwarts, especially at the end of term when a student was much less likely to receive a Howler among his parcels from home. (Fred and George Weasley had been notable exceptions to that rule. Life at Hogwarts had become markedly less dangerous since their graduation two years ago. It had also become considerably less exciting. But, as Ron so often said, you couldn't have everything in life.)

Harry enjoyed watching his fellow students opening and reading their letters from home. Most bore congratulations for good exam marks, some accompanied by boxes of sweets or a bit of pocket money to spend on the last Hogsmeade weekend. Such addenda might constitute a reward for a successful school year completed, or they might simply be another way of saying, "We miss you. Hurry home. We love you."

Harry seldom received mail of any sort, but he had long since made peace with this state of affairs. Most everyone in his life who might wish to convey a message to him, whether for good or ill, was near enough to do so personally. And that number, much to Harry's delight, had recently increased by one.

Harry's godfather and guardian, Sirius Black, had just returned from a two-year trek to sate his wanderlust before settling down to a respectable home life, which now included his bride of less than a year, Michelle. Michelle LeGrande Black taught Charms at Beauxbatons Academy in France, where she and Sirius had met nearly two years ago and, ultimately, fallen in love. Michelle's grandmother had left her a small chateau in the Loire valley, to which Sirius Apparated on weekends to enjoy the pleasures -- and, occasionally, the sorrows -- of married life with his fiery bride (Michelle occupied quarters within the school during weekdays, even as the teachers at Hogwarts). But it was a rare weekend when the two of them did not pop into Hogsmeade to spend a few hours with Harry in this, his last year at Hogwarts.

His vagabond days now behind him (and Harry, having come of age, no longer requiring his guardianship), Sirius had made the chateau his permanent residence following his return. Harry knew this full well, having spent the Christmas holidays there (with Hermione, of course), courtesy of the Floo Network and the fireplace at the Three Broomsticks. But, in true Marauder fashion, Sirius had surprised Harry two days ago by turning up at dinner and announcing that he had taken a room at the Hogsmeade Inn; thus, with Dumbledore's blessing, Sirius could share first-hand nearly every moment of his godson's final week of school.

Harry had come to savor every moment spent with his new family, nor had time diminished this. Indeed, seeing Sirius and Michelle so happily married had greatly influenced Harry in regard to his own future union with Hermione. Sirius never missed an opportunity to extoll the virtues of wedded bliss, and Harry could not deny that the once sullen and moody ex-prisoner of Azkaban had never looked happier in the too-brief time Harry had known him than in the year following his marriage.

"A good wife is worth more than all the gold in the vaults under Gringotts," Sirius had told Harry on more than one occasion. "Hermione is a treasure. Don't lose her, Harry. Do whatever you have to do, up to and including swimming naked through a lake of bubotuber pus -- but DON'T LOSE HER!"

Those words echoed in Harry's brain as he entered the dining hall now. But, rather than reassuring him, they left him only more confused. His decision had been well considered. But was it the right one?

As Harry appoached the Gryffindor table, he had no trouble spotting Hermione. She was sitting with Ginny Weasley, Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown, the four of them laughing and joking as they opened their mail excitedly. Harry was just in time to see five gold Galleons spill out of Ginny's envelope and ring musically on the polished wood of the table. Ginny continued to stare in disbelief, but the other girls seemed to take it all in stride.

"You did get the highest marks in Sixth Year," Lavender reasoned, flashing her brightest smile.

"Wouldn't surprise me a bit," Hermione said confidently, "if you made Head Girl next year."

"And speaking as this year's Head Girl," Parvati affirmed, "Hermi should know."

"Don't call me Hermi," Hermione squeaked in annoyance, her brown eyes flashing even as her pert nose crinkled mischievously. "You know how much I hate that!"

"Of course we do, Hermi," Lavender said playfully. "Why do you think we do it?"

"Circe help me," Hermione said, the corners of her mouth twitching as her eyes narrowed dangerously, "the next person to call me 'Hermi' gets the Bald-Head Curse!"

Harry couldn't resist.

"Hi, Hermi!"

The three girls immediately levelled challenging stares at Hermione, eager to see her fulfill her threat. Instead, as Harry sat down beside her, she reached out a hand and threaded her fingers through his thick, black hair before pulling his face toward hers with a pantherish growl. She kissed him for a full minute, displaying an ardor intended as much for her friends' benefit as for Harry's. When she finally withdrew her lips from Harry's, leaving him gasping like a merperson out of water, she continued to tease the back of his head with a look of dreamy amusement in her eyes.

"Sorry, girls," she murmured as she continued to ruffle Harry's raven locks. "It just wouldn't be the same."

"Am I missing something here?" Harry said innocently, his eyes bouncing from one smiling face to another. A round of giggles was the only reply he received.

It was only now that Harry took notice of the many letters spread out in front of Hermione, numbering more than the other three girls' combined.

"More job offers," Hermione said delightedly, reading Harry's questioning expression. "Some of them are very tempting. This one," she tapped a bright purple envelope with a neatly manicured finger, "is from Gringotts. They want me to join the security branch, beef up the protective spells guarding the vaults. They don't want another Vault 713 incident like they had seven years ago."

This news brought a smile to Harry's face, a pleasure born partly of selfishness. He had received an offer from Gringotts as well, to join Bill Weasley as an apprentice Curse-Breaker. If he and Hermione both shared the same employer, maybe --

"And this one," Hermione continued, interrupting Harry's reverie, "is from St. Mungo's. Madam Pomfrey told them about my work during the Insurrection last Summer."

Harry felt his pulse rate quicken. The Death Eater Insurrection; The last, desperate attempt by Voldemort's remaining supporters to avenge their master's defeat and inspire others of like mind to join their dwindling ranks, culminating in an attack on Azkaban to free the one-time Dark Lord and restore him to full power. The revolt was doomed almost before it was initiated. Lacking a powerful, charismatic personality of Voldemort's stripe to lead it, the Insurrection had failed miserably. Those Death Eaters who survived were summarily reunited with their imprisoned master, thus freeing the magical world from the last vestiges of Voldemort's tyranny.

But victory came not without a price. There were many casualties during the month-long conflict. Neither Harry nor Hermione had been permitted to serve in the front lines, as they were both underage. A disgruntled Harry had been stationed, with Ron and a few other student volunteers, at Hogwarts, forming a skirmish line against an attack that all knew would never come. Hermione, however, had distinguished herself by volunteering to work at one of the various aid stations established along the primary defense perimeter. These facilities, patterned after Muggle M*A*S*H units, provided emergency medical assistance on the very edge of the battle lines. Displaying coolness and bravery under conditions of indescribable pressure, Hermione had saved countless lives by the swift application of potions and healing spells, which sustained her patients until they could be evacuated to proper hospitals like St. Mungo's. She had received the Order of Merlin, Third Class, for her service, the youngest recipient in half a century.

"And this one," Hermione said now with great emphasis, indicating a bright green envelope with a gold seal in the left-hand corner, "is from the Ministry!"

"The Ministry?" Harry said, his wandering mind snapping back to the present. "Don't tell me they want you to stand for Minister?"

Harry was only half-joking. Having been seen as lax in his duties in allowing the Insurrection to occur at all, Cornelius Fudge had very nearly been ousted as Minister of Magic in the very midst of the subsequent Death Eater Hearings. Not a few witches and wizards of high standing had allowed as how Fudge should have been chucked into Azkaban as Lucius Malfoy's cellmate. Once his present term of office expired, he was not expected to be retained.

"Bloody near," Ginny said proudly. "Tell him, Hermione."

"Well," Hermione said slowly, her enthusiasm decidedly curbed now, "after last Summer's fiasco, some of the council think the Ministry needs a complete restructuring. One council member went on record as saying that the entire Ministry needs to be turned upside-down by its heels and have some sense shaken into it."

"And they want you to..." Harry stammered, looking gobsmacked.

"Not quite that," Hermione smiled. "But they want someone to act as a coordinator, to implement whatever changes the various committees deem necessary in the most expeditious manner. Organization is the key."

"And do you know anyone more organized than Hermione?" Lavender beamed.

"It was my dad who recommended her," Ginny said warmly. "They couldn't believe the upturn Ron's grades took after he started following that study schedule Hermione drew up for him."

"Ron worked hard for those marks," Hermione said defensively, growing embarrassed by so much praise.

"Organization," Ginny stressed, ignoring Hermione's modesty. "Without it, all the work in the world isn't worth a tinker's dam. If two people try to dig a ditch, and each one chucks his dirt into the other's hole, they can work their bums off until the Queen's Jubilee and not have a bloody thing to show for it. Organization!"

For a wonder, Hermione seemed to have lost the power of speech. She lowered her eyes as she fiddled self-consciously with the envelope, her finger idly tracing the embossed surface of the gold leaf Ministry of Magic emblem.

"That's -- that's incredible," Harry said weakly. "I don't know what to say. You're accepting, of course?"

"I suppose I'd be a fool not to," Hermione said with something less than the enthusiasm Harry expected. "It's immensely flattering. But...so much responsibility...I don't know..."

"Merlin's bum, Hermione!" Parvati exclaimed. "I think you're just what the Ministry needs! Sweep out all the whitebeards and start over from square one, I say! It's time the Ministry moved into the twenty-first century! Go in there and give 'em a goose right up the old arse!"

Overcoming his astonishment at hearing the normally ladylike Parvati sounding more like Tom the barman at the Leaky Cauldron, Harry said, "Right. Absolutely! Parvati's right, you're just what the wizarding world needs to straighten out all the bollocks. Remember the Sorcerer's Stone -- the chamber with the seven potions? You said it yourself, love -- most wizards haven't got an ounce of logic! A little Muggle common sense will soon set the Ministry to rights."

"Hear hear!" Ginny chanted as Lavender pumped the air with her fist and Parvati crossed her arms triumphantly.

Stirred to action by Hermione's continued silence, Harry slipped his arm around her waist and hugged her against him. He felt the gentle pressure of Hermione's arm tightening around his own waist.

"Do you really think I can do it, Harry?" she said, her head now pressed against his chest.

"You can do anything," Harry said quietly but emphatically as he nuzzled her bushy brown hair. "This is your moment, love. Don't let anyone or anything stand in your way."

And a voice in the shadowed recesses of his mind added, "Not even me."

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who stuck around after The Joining folded its tent. I hope you find it worth your while.

The essence of Harry's conflict will be revealed next time. And those who believe they know the ending based on their reading of Patronus may be surprised when the sixth and last chapter is up.

Again, forgive the weekly posts for a story completed more than a year ago. I feel compelled to edit my earlier work, which seems to pale before my more recent efforts. Even now, this chapter feels like it's flying with a broken wing. Maybe all writers feel that way about their work. Ah, well. We can't all be as talented as Ryoko Blue; if I'd known she was in the running, I'd likely have withdrawn The Joining from the story contest before the first vote was cast. (I almost voted for her myself.) You go, girl!

Thanks for reading.

"Oh, bugger, Sirius! Not you, too?"

Sirius Black, sitting cross-legged on the grass beneath the Whomping Willow, looked down in puzzlement on his godson. Harry was lying with his head propped against the rough bark of the tree, his eyes closed, his glasses discarded to one side. His hands were folded across his chest in what appeared to be a relaxed manner, but close examination revealed that his interlocked fingers were tensed like the links of a steel chain being pulled from two directions. A deep furrow marked his brow just beneath his lightning scar.

"All I asked," Sirius said, "was whether you intended to propose to Hermione before the graduation ceremony or after."

"First Ron, now you," Harry sighed wearily. "I just...don't want to talk about it, okay?"

"What is it, Harry?" Sirius said with growing concern. "I thought you sorted out your feelings for Hermione a long time ago. Nothing's changed -- has it?"

"Everything's changed," Harry said. Though his eyes remained closed, Harry could tell from the scuffling sounds beside him that Sirius was rising to a standing position. Even unseen, his godfather was a dominating force whose very presence radiated authority and strength. Harry shifted uncomfortably, the muscles in his shoulders growing stiff as they pressed against the gnarled roots of the tree. He could almost feel Sirius' eyes as they burned down on him.

"You're not telling me that you don't love Hermione any more?" Sirius said, his voice comprised of equal parts of shock and alarm.

"It's not that," Harry grunted with a note of unmistakable anguish. "If anything, I love her more than ever. More than I thought possible."

"Then what the bloody hell is the problem?" Sirius growled, his patience eroding rapidly. "When two people love each other, they get married. It's as simple as that."

"It's not that simple," Harry said. His left hand felt for his glasses, which were lying on a tuft of grass just out of reach. Realizing that he had tossed them too far away in his indifferent haste, he blew a weary sigh and drew his wand.

"Accio glasses."

Harry felt his glasses thump into the palm of his upraised hand. Pocketing his wand, he pulled his glasses on and surveyed Sirius through slightly smudged lenses.

"We're not kids any more, Hermione and I," Harry said. "In two weeks we become certified wizards. We have to go out into the world and find out where we belong."

"You belong together," Sirius stated, as if the matter were settled and any rebuttal on Harry's part pointless. Harry responded with a humorless laugh.

"Hermione is the smartest witch Hogwarts has seen this century," Harry said flatly. "Which is a damn sight better than being the youngest Quidditch player in that same period. So I won Gryffindor the Quidditch Cup. She's going to change the whole bloody wizarding world! In Parvati's words, she's going to 'Hold it upside-down by the ankles and shake out all the bollocks.' Something like that. She's going to make a real difference, Sirius."

"And you're going to be beside her every step of the way," Sirius said resolutely.

"Why?" Harry said blankly.

"WHY?" Sirius fairly roared. "Because you LOVE each other! What other reason IS there?"

"If I really love her as much as you seem to think I do," Harry said, "then I have to let her go."

"Let her GO?" Sirius exploded. "What kind of sodding blather is THAT?"

"I'd only hold her back, don't you see?" Harry said, his eyes fastening on his godfather's imploringly. "Saying 'I love you' doesn't make the world's problems go away. There's no such thing as a 'storybook marriage.' It takes work, and time, to make a solid marriage. A husband and wife have to devote themselves to each other. They have to focus on their marriage, keep building on it to keep it strong so it doesn't come crashing down around their ears.

"Look at you and Michelle."

"What?" Sirius said, taken completely by surprise by Harry's statement. "Me and Michelle? Why -- she's the best thing that ever happened to me. This last year with her has been the best time of my life."

"So, you like living in France, then?" Harry said casually. "Is Michelle's chateau as nice as our house?"

"It's...fine," Sirius said unconvincingly.

"You'd much rather she live here with you," Harry said. "I've heard you say it a hundred times. But you continue to live there, because of Michelle's job, and because she's happy there. You do it for her. You put her happiness before yours. Because you love her."

"Damn right I do," Sirius said. "As much as you love Hermione." But Harry was not to be swayed so easily.

"Yes, I love her. And that means I have to do what's best for her. Hermione has great things to accomplish, Sirius. But she can't do that if she's tied down to me."

"Tied down?" Sirius exclaimed. "Is that all you think marriage is, Harry? You make it sound like a -- a prison sentence."

"For Hermione, it would be," Harry said. "She'd be sentenced to a home, and a family -- "

"Merlin forbid!" Sirius spat caustically. "Why, I'd rank it right up there with the Unforgivable Curses. 'Cruciatus.' 'Avada Kedavra.' 'I take this woman to be my lawfully wedded wife.' Worst one of the lot, no question about it."

"My mind is made up, Sirius," Harry said.

"It damn well is made up -- " Sirius snapped, " -- of hippogriff droppings!"

Sirius jerked his right leg back, and Harry flinched, fearing for just a moment that his godfather was actually angry enough to kick him. But Sirius' booted foot swept past Harry and struck the knot at the base of the tree, freezing the violent branches into quiescence.

Harry watched in silence as Sirius stormed off in the direction of Hogsmeade (either to his room at the Hogsmeade Inn, or, more likely, to the Three Broomsticks for a tankard of ale). Without knowing he was doing so, Harry began to finger the chain around his neck, twisting it around his finger until it began to tug at the back of his neck. This sensation seemed to awaken something in him. Releasing the chain as if it were burning his finger, Harry bolted up so suddenly that he had to lean against the tree until a momentary wave of dizziness passed. When his brain cleared a minute later, he had made a decision.

Harry slipped into the secret passage at the base of the tree and began to walk. He was in no hurry. The cool dampness of the underground passage was refreshing after the heat of the day. His mind was a blank slate as he continued on until he reached a familiar stairway. Just above him, he knew, was the Shrieking Shack. He was now within the borders of Hogsmeade, outside the barrier of protective Charms surrounding Hogwarts.

Harry reached into his robes, pulled out the chain until his hand folded around the object depending from it. He could not see it, nor the chain to which it was attached. But his touch told him it was there. He closed his eyes and concentrated, using the object in his hand as a point of focus. As he steadied his breathing, his mind formed an image. Harry concentrated harder until the scene in his mind was sharp and clear.

The next moment, with a soft popping sound, Harry was gone.

Author's Note: Apologies again for the shortness of the chapter, but it served its purpose. We now have a cauldronful of questions to be answered. Where did Harry go? What is the mysterious object hanging around his neck which none but Ron has seen? And will Harry ever come to his senses and realize what a berk he's being? All will be answered next time. Tune in again next week...and thanks for reading.

Harry stood at a small window, looking down into a lush mountain valley. The peacefulness of the view was a healing potion for his troubled soul. Or rather, it had always been before. Now, the serenity mocked him. The tranquility of that valley had scarcely changed since before recorded history, and would likely endure for millennia to come. Its enduring steadfastness had always provided Harry with a subtle reassurance that, no matter how complicated life became, the world remained unchanging, eternal.

Harry turned away. He looked around at the circular walls of the tower in which he stood. It looked the same as always. The same as it did...that night.

Harry walked slowly, aimlessly, letting his eyes wander over the familiar surroundings. To his right was the place where he and Hermione had dined on roast squab and Charmed wine. That night. To his left was where they had danced to the music of Harry's wand, Hermione dressed in brilliant blue, Harry attired in dazzling green. That night. And here, on this very spot, was where Harry had given Hermione the Eternity Glass, had finally found the courage to confess his undying love -- and had vowed some day to get down on his knees and beg her to marry him.

That night.

Harry had visited this tower room many times in the last few months. It had been his first destination the day he received his Apparating License, for which he had qualified at the beginning of second term.

Harry had turned 17 on July 31st, and he'd begun Apparation training almost immediately. But learning to Apparate turned out to be a tricky business, and he'd not yet qualified for his license when September 1st arrived. This was a frustrating state of affairs, as Harry knew that the grounds of Hogwarts were Charmed to make Apparation (and, consequently, Apparation training) impossible. Even assuming he could secure permission to continue his training, he would have to practice in Hogsmeade, away from Hogwarts' protective wards; but the widely dispersed Hogsmeade weekends were hardly sufficient to permit the frequent training sessions he would need to refine the craft sufficiently to earn his license.

But, to his surprise (and undisguised delight), Dumbledore intervened on his behalf. Harry was, after all (argued Dumbledore), Head Boy, which office conferred certain priveleges not accorded to the rank and file; and he had already completed the bulk of the training required by the Ministry, leaving only the finer points to be honed by practice to the sharpness necessary to satisfy the members of the Testing Board.

And he was also no ordinary student. He was Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived. Loathe though he was to agree with Snape, Harry could not refute the Potions Master's assertion in the first class of term that it was his famous name that had, in the final analysis, secured him this special consideration. But, to Snape's disgust, this distressed Harry not at all. For with the passage of time (and the maturity it necessarily engendered), Harry had long since ceased to care what Snape thought or said about him. And would Snape have been quite so adamant had a student from his own House -- say, Draco Malfoy -- been similarly favored by the Headmaster? Harry would not have wagered a Knut against the entire Malfoy fortune.

It was agreed that he would be permitted to visit Hogsmeade every weekend, which arrangement engraved an even more sour expression than usual on the stony face of Argus Filch, whose official checklist was the first and last word for students wishing to visit the little wizarding village. An advert was promptly posted in the Three Broomsticks, and it was answered in short order by an old witch who agreed to take up Harry's interrupted training (for a none-too-modest fee, which Harry paid gladly).

A problem quickly arose when the witch, being overly fond of her cups, periodically changed the appointed hour of Harry's weekly sessions according to her fluxuating state of sobriety. This created inevitable conflicts with Harry's Head Boy duties. Fortunately, Hermione quickly agreed to assume Harry's duties (with Dumbledore's blessing, and over Snape's tacit disapproval) in addition to her own when such overlaps occurred. In his turn, Harry arranged to cover for Hermione at future dates to be determined, giving her extra time to study for their upcoming N.E.W.T.'s, or to knit a few hats and scarves for the Hogwarts house-elves (whose servile status ever remained a sore point with her).

Harry's weekly sessions were necessarily less efficient that his daily Summer regiment had been, but the outcome, if delayed, was no less foregone. Following months of sporadic but rigorous training, Harry journeyed to London by Floo on the morning of Saturday, January 3rd (the last weekend of the Christmas holidays), to take his test. He returned that afternoon, popping straight into the Three Broomsticks (where Ron and Hermione were waiting to celebrate with him), his Apparation license clutched in his hand.

Harry sighed now as he let his eyes roam across the dusty tapestries masking the chill stone walls. This castle had been the base of operations of a small group of hand-picked DADA students (Harry among them) led by Sirius Black during his one and only year as the teacher of that class. Harry had found it to be an invaluable hands-on exercise against the Dark Forces. However, Cornelius Fudge had ruled the following Summer that, with the imprisonment of Voldemort, such exercises were unnecessary, and all such future expeditions were abandoned. Sirius disagreed with the Minister obstreperously, arguing that the Dark Arts, though slumbering, were far from extinct in the world (an argument borne out in short order by the Death Eater Insurrection). But when Sirius left Hogwarts at the end of term to take the Vagabond Road (which would lead him eventually to Beauxbatons, and Michelle) his replacement was only too willing to toe the line wi th Ministry policy. Though the castle remained under the auspices of the Ministry, it promptly fell into disuse and was eventually forgotten.

But not by Harry. Never by Harry. For there were few places on Earth that held such special meaning to him as did this dank, time-forgotten tower. Here it was he had brought Hermione by clever means (a Quidditch book secretly converted into a portkey) three years ago almost to the day, to celebrate their first anniversary as a "couple." And it was here he had been coming (fleeing?) for the past six months, his doubts gnawing at him like a swarm of moonstruck doxies, in an effort to exorcise his inner demons. An endeavor, alas, doomed to failure.

Harry removed his glasses and wiped his eyes. It had all seemed so simple then. With the naiveté of youth, he had declared himself and Hermione to be "Destiny's Lovers," their union written in stone, for ever and always.

Always. He laughed bitterly. How deceptively brief "always" had turned out to be.

His arms hung limply at his sides. In the dim light filtering in through the tiny window, Harry could almost see Hermione before him, resplendent in her blue dress robes, looking lovely as she had that night. No, he amended -- lovelier. Time had wrought its own special brand of magic on Hermione in the ensuing three years, surreptitiously replacing the comely young girl of his memory with a stunning young woman who could steal his breath away with a wink and a smile. For a moment it seemed that he could reach out and pull her to him, hold her softness against him and feel her warmth flowing through him. Harry sighed again. It had all seemed so perfect then. And now...

Though it was only scarcely past mid-day, Harry felt tired. A fatigue of body and soul seemed to descend on him. His eye quickly sought out his bed. He'd brought it up from the lower part of the castle (where he and his classmates had slept on their DADA adventure three years ago), Charmed it to weightlessness, and guided it up the seemingly endless flights of stairs to this chamber. He'd spent many a Friday and/or Saturday night here in recent weeks, the frequency of his visits increasing in inverse proportion to the dwindling distance separating him from graduation day. Alone in this room, with neither teachers nor classmates to distract him, Harry could commune with his deepest, most secret thoughts. But to what purpose? He'd come, then as now, seeking answers, searching the twilight of his soul ever more desperately for signposts by which to divine the right path from among the many laid out before him. Now, as his days at Hogwarts dwindled to a precious few, he had chosen his road at last and was prepared to set his feet upon it.

Why, then, was his soul still not at peace?

His steps leaden, Harry approached the bed, an affair of cast iron and tarnished bronze, with an ornate headboard but no canopy. The blankets were, as always, rumpled and disordered. Harry's housekeeping habits, an emulation of his longtime bachelor godfather's, were rudimentary at best. With a weary sigh, Harry pulled back the blankets -- and immediately jumped back with a cry of astonishment.

Hermione rubbed her eyes, smiling apologetically.

"Did I fall asleep? Sorry. I didn't know how long you'd be in arriving, and this mattress is so comfortable. Did you enchant it, Harry?"

Harry's mouth was moving soundlessly. Finally he managed to croak, "Hermione! What -- how?"

"I told you," Hermione said, sitting up and adjusting her robes, "I was waiting for you."

"But -- how did you get here? How did you know -- how did you even find this castle? It's Unplottable! Even the Ministry doesn't keep a record of it."

"I have my ways," Hermione smiled slyly. "I didn't set the school record for N.E.W.T.'s by accident, you know. Do enough research, you can find out anything. How did I know? Call it...intuition. I knew you were going somewhere all those times when no one could find you. And when I realized today's date, this seemed to be only answer that fit the criteria.

"And as for getting here..." Hermione's smile broadened as her eyes twinkled impishly. "I had a little chat with Professor McGonagall after the Christmas holidays, and she agreed what a shame it was that that poor old witch in Hogsmeade would be losing her only student when term began. And we also agreed that what was good for the Head Boy should also apply to the Head Girl. So," she concluded, "all those times you took over my Head Girl duties for me during second term...well, let's just say I found better things do do with my time than knit jumpers for house-elves."

His mind spinning, Harry sat down at the foot of the bed. Hermione giggled softly.

"I know we agreed to wait until the wedding night, Harry, but you can sit closer to me than that."

Harry slid over, his feet leaving the smooth stone flags until the bowing of the soft mattress precipitated him virtually into Hermione's lap. As her arms slipped around his neck, the walls of Harry's defenses crumbled. His hands tangling in her hair, which the pillow had turned wild, Harry's lips found and devoured Hermione's. She gave back in kind, and the two chaste lovers swarmed over each other like a hoard of nifflers in a vaultful of gold. Harry's glasses were cutting into Hermione's face, and she jerked them off and tossed them carelessly into the air. They struck the stone floor with a pop of breaking glass.

"I'll fix them later," Hermione mumbled into Harry's ear as his kisses crept down her smooth neck and across her panting throat.

With a suddenness as if a Filibuster Firework had exploded underneath him, Harry leaped up and back, tearing himself from Hermione's clinging arms. Standing back out of arm's reach, Harry lifted his eyes hesitantly, dreading the look of shock and horror he was sure would be painted across Hermione's startled features.

But the shock and surprise turned out to be Harry's. For Hermione's face (allowing for the blush their mutual passion had induced) wore only a soft, compassionate expression.

"Are you ready to tell me about it, Harry?"

Though he wanted to look away, unwilling to see the pain he was about to inflict, Harry knew it would be unmanly to speak what was in his heart without looking Hermione in the eye.

"I...can't marry you, Hermione. Not now."

Hermione's smile faded only a shade.

"And why do you think that, Harry?"

Harry swallowed dryly. "Because -- because you're going to accomplish great things, Hermione. You're going to leave your mark on the wizarding world. Change things. Make them better. For everyone."

"Yes," Hermione said, eschewing false modesty. "I believe that, in time, I will do all those things."

Something about Hermione's unflappable manner lit a fuse inside Harry.

"Yes! Time! It'll take time to do all those things. Time, and dedication, and devotion. But you won't have that time if you're tied down to a husband and a family! How in the bloody hell can you change the world if you're busy changing nappies? How can you use that -- that brilliant mind of yours -- if you're up at all hours with a crying baby on your shoulder?"

Hermione's smile had melted away; her bow-shaped lips were tranquil, her deep brown eyes unreadable.

"I never wanted to be the hero of the wizarding world," Harry said in a hollow echo. "The Boy Who Lived. All I ever wanted was a home...a family...I want what my parents had...what was taken from them. I want to be the father to my children that my dad never got the chance to be with me. I want to be...just plain Harry Potter.

"And I want...I want...you...because without you, all the rest isn't worth having.

"And if the day ever comes when you want..." Harry drew a ragged breath, as if to stay the release of something deeper, "...I'll be here. I'll wait as long as it takes. There'll never be anyone but you for me, Hermione. But our time isn't...now. This is your time to shine. Spread your wings and fly. Fly as high as you can. I know you can do it. You can do anything."

"Yes," Hermione said in a quiet, even voice. "I can do anything. And I am going to have it all. Everything I want. And that includes you, Harry Potter. Together, you and I will fly to the stars."

Harry shook his head. "No. I'll just be a dead weight, holding you down. How can I say I love you if I steal away the best years of your life for my own selfish wants? How can I ask you to sacrifice your dreams just to fulfill mine?"

As Harry fell silent, a pregnant hush fell over the small chamber. Harry did not know precisely what Hermione's response would be. But he was in no wise prepared for what met his ears now.

Laughter.

"Harry James Potter!" Hermione said through giggles which were only increased by the look of utter astonishent on Harry's face. "You've been living in the magical world for seven years now. When in Merlin's name are you going to stop thinking like a Muggle?"

"WHAT?"

Harry stared stupidly, his eyes watering for want of his glasses. Seeing this, Hermione drew her wand and pointed it at Harry's fallen glasses. A quick "Reparo!" sent the glass fragments back into their frames, whole once more. She Summoned them to her, then used a Banishing Charm to send them unerringly onto a dumbfounded Harry's face.

"How old are we?" Hermione asked unexpectedly. Harry hesitated at the deceptive simplitity of the question, certain that there was some hidden meaning to which he was unforgivably blind.

"Almost eighteen."

"And if we were Muggles," Hermione said, sounding too much like a Hogwarts professor for Harry's comfort, "we would have used up roughly a fourth of our life span already. Maybe a fifth, depending on circumstances.

"But we're not Muggles, Harry! We're wizards! Do you know how long wizards live, Harry? Do you know how old Professor Dumbledore is?"

Harry hesitated. He knew Dumbledore was old, of course. But to Hermione's question Harry could only shake his head.

"He's nearly a hundred and sixty!" Hermione said. "And does he seem old to you? I mean, really old? He's the most powerful wizard in the world. Despite his age, he was the only wizard Voldemort ever feared. His mind is sharp as a razor, and he's healthier than any teacher half his age!

"Harry, don't you know that a wizard's lifespan is upwards of two hundred years? That is," she added pointedly, "if he doesn't do something stupid, say, like crashing his broomstick headlong into a Quidditch goalpost."

In spite of himself, Harry smiled. He was rewarded by the most brilliant smile he had ever seen on Hermione's face.

"Don't you understand, Harry? We don't have to give up anything! We can have it all!

"You're bloody well dead on I'm going to give the wizarding world a swift kick in the arse. As many as it takes to make the dragon fly, to use the expression. But there's plenty of time for that. Right now...right now I want the same things you want."

Harry wondered all of a sudden if Hermione had mouthed the words, "Wingardium Leviosa," and he simply had not heard. For he was certain that his feet were no longer touching the ground.

"I think I'd like to have at least two children," Hermione said with a far-seeing look in her dark, fathomless eyes. "Maybe three. I was rather lonely as an only child. Ron said in our first year that I had no friends. That condition existed long before I came to Hogwarts. My mates always came from the books I read...but that's scant comfort for a little girl who wakes up from a bad dream and needs someone to hold onto until the demons go away. I always envied Ron and Ginny, having so many siblings. And even though Parvati and Padma are in different Houses, each always knew that she had a sister at Hogwarts when she really needed her. That's what I want for my children -- for our children.

"And I want to start that family now, while I have the strength and sanity to cope with all those things you mentioned, and the thousand and one things you left out. Setting the Ministry of Magic to rights is ruddy tea and cakes compared to raising a houseful of children! And when we've done our best and the last of them finally graduates from Hogwarts, we'll be what, 40 years old? That might be considered middle age for a Muggle -- but in wizarding years, we'll still be babes in the woods!

"And even before then, the kids will be in school ten months a year, leaving both of us plenty of time for our careers. And," she added with a devilish smile, "think what we can do with those ten months, all alone in a big, empty house with no children to burst in on us."

Harry thought about it, and his smile broadened wickedly, mirroring Hermione's.

"When the kids are grown and gone," Hermione said, "we'll have well over a century of good years ahead of us. Prime years! Years do go out and do things, and see things. Time enough to change the world. Together."

Hermione dipped a hand into the neck of her robes, emerging a moment later, seemingly empty. But Harry was not deceived. At a touch of Hermione's wand, a tiny golden hourglass appeared, its protective Charm dissolved; Harry's anniversary present, which she had promised to wear forever as a token of their undying love.

"Still running," Hermione said, holding the Eternity Glass for Harry to see. "The eternal sands of endless love. Our love." Her fingers closing softly about the Glass, Hermione looked into Harry's eyes and said, "We both made a promise that night, Harry. I've kept mine. And as for yours..."

Hermione returned the Eternity Glass to her bosom, her eyes never leaving Harry's.

"If you're not going to say the words, I am! Harry Potter, will you m -- "

"NO!" Harry nearly shouted, his eyes green fire. Then, more softly: "No. You're right, we did both make a promise in this room. You've honored yours. And I can't think of a more perfect time for me to honor mine."

Mirroring Hermione's gesture, Harry reached into his robes and withdrew the chain encircling his neck, the Concealment Charm melting away by pure force of will without benefit of wand or incantation. As Hermione looked on, excitement and curiosity warring in her darkly glowing eyes, Harry folded his fingers around the forward part of the chain and jerked. The fine links parted, and the chain fell away, leaving Harry holding a gleaming object between thumb and forefinger.

Fulfilling his vow to the letter, Harry slid smoothly from the bed and dropped to his knees. Hermione allowed him to take her left hand in his. He caressed her soft palm for a moment, then raised his hand. Hermione held her breath as Harry slid the ring onto her third finger. The Charmed band contracted slightly, hugging itself to her as if a part of her. Raising her hand tremblingly, Hermione felt her mouth go slack, her eyes enlarging like twin crystal globes in Trelawney's perfumed classroom.

"OH-MY-GOODNESS!"

The exquisitely-cut gem set into the gold band was the most perfect diamond Hermione had ever seen. But it was much more than a mere diamond. Floating within the stone's crystal heart was what appeared to be a droplet of frozen fire, pulsing redly in the wan light like a miniature heart in a bosom of purest white.

"Harry!" Hermione said breathlessly, trembling violently as from a chill. "That -- that isn't -- "

"A ruby," Harry confirmed in a soft voice. "Your birthstone. Everyone says a diamond symbolizes purity. But I know of nothing and no one who defines purity more than Hermione Granger. So I simply combined the two. With a little help from McGonagall, of course."

"You -- " Hermione stammered weakly, " -- you Transfigured -- "

"It took me three months," Harry said. "Been at it since Easter. Dodgy business, Transfiguring diamond molecules -- hardest substance in nature, you know. I wanted to finish it before our fourth anniversary. That was the day I was planning to..." He stopped himself, feeling a rush of shame that he had ever considered postponing this moment, especially for such foolish reasons as he had nurtured for so many months. As Hermione continued to admire the stone, Harry added apologetically, "It still needs a bit of work. I can -- "

"Don't you dare touch it!" Hermione said in a commanding squeal. "It's -- it's -- "

"It's nothing," Harry said. "Dust in the wind. I could give you a diamond the size of Hogwarts, mountain and all, and it still wouldn't represent a fraction of the love I feel for you.

"As I said, I was going to give you this ring on our anniversary next week. I arranged with Dumbledore to use the Room of Requirement, and when Dobby told the kitchen-elves, they insisted on preparing a special dinner, just for two -- but only if I promised not to pay them," he added with a grin as Hermione chuckled softly. "I never imagined that we could be here," Harry said reverently, "together again, almost where it all began. Sirius got into loads of trouble the last time for enchanting that portkey without Ministry approval, so I didn't dare ask him again. But I should have known that, if anyone could find a way for us to be here one more time, it would be the smartest witch at Hogwarts.

"I know I don't deserve a wonderful witch like you, Hermione. But will you marry me anyway?"

"Will I?" Hermione sobbed. "I'd like to see anyone try to stop me!"

"So," Harry grinned, "that's a 'yes?' "

"YES, you green-eyed git! YES!"

Harry bounded up and flung his arms around Hermione. They fell onto the bed, laughing and crying, exploring each other with anxious hands and hungry lips in a pique of wild abandon. They became tangled in a confusion of rumpled blankets and disheveled robes, Hermione finally coming to rest atop Harry. Pressing her face to his panting chest, she admonished, "Don't let this give you any ideas, Harry Potter. We're still waiting until the wedding night."

"Pity," Harry said, his hand toying with the nape of his new fiancee's neck. "So, then, what do you reckon is an appopriate term of engagement for 'Destiny's Lovers'?"

"Not long," Hermione said musically as she traced a finger along Harry's collarbone. "Especially seeing as how I already arranged for Dumbledore to marry us just after the graduation ceremony."

"You what?"

"I told you," Hermione said triumphantly, "I go after what I want, and I always get what I go after!"

"You're bloody impossible," Harry said helplessly. "What am I going to do with you, Hermione Granger?"

"Two things," Hermione said. "You're going to change my name to Hermione Granger Potter." And in a barely audible whisper, as if she were afraid that speaking the words aloud would somehow undo the magic, she said, "And love me. For ever and always."

"For ever and always," Harry promised, holding Hermione so tightly that he could feel her heart beating like a sledge hammer in time with his own. "For ever...and always."

Author's Note: This story was very theraputic, as it relieved me of the guilty pleasure I derived in whipping up the extreme fluff of Key To My Heart. That story fits much better as a mere cog in the now-trilogy. The burden is lifted.

But it's not over yet. Two chapters remain. What is left, you wonder? Well, there's the formality of the wedding, for one thing. But you may have to look over the shoulders of two very special (if uninvited) guests to see what's going on. Who are these unannounced observers? Ah-ah, that would be telling! But I leave you with this: In the wizarding world, ANYTHING is possible! And now, as the wheels begin to turn in your brains, I take my leave.

Thanks for reading.

To say that the wedding of Harry Potter and Hermione Granger was the event of the year at Hogwarts would have been the understatement of the year. The Daily Prophet proclaimed it the Event of the Decade, outstripping even the Triwizard Tournament (which competition, given the number of official complaints registered by the then-headmaster of Durmstrang, Igor Karkaroff, had been judged as something less than the success its planners had purposed).

The ceremony was held immediately following the graduation exercises and attended by the whole of Hogwarts, making it, by some accounts, the largest such affair in British history, wizard or Muggle. And once the snide remarks of Draco Malfoy had been muted by a Silencing Charm (courtesy of Professor Flitwick), prompting the remainder of Slytherin House to withhold any further remarks of a discordant nature, the celebration proceeded apace with an enthusiasm not soon to be approached, and unlikely ever to be equaled. The festivities carried on well past midnight, with the house-elves outdoing themselves with food and refreshments, and even Peeves the poltergeist seemed to be having so much fun that any thoughts he may have entertained of disrupting the festivities were entirely forgotten.

Nor had it been necessary to send out invitations, for everyone whom Harry or Hermione could have wished to attend was already present for the graduation ceremonies. The Weasleys were all there, from first to last, as were the Grangers (graduation being one of the few times when Muggles were permitted on the Hogwarts grounds). Harry was torn between whom to name his Best Man, but Sirius insisted that the honor go to Ron. Ginny was a vision in cornflower blue in her capacity as Hermione's Maid of Honor, while Lavender and Parvati served as attendants. Rose petals were strewn along the bride's path by dozens of fairies, and Hermione arrived in a silver coach drawn by two dazzling unicorns, courtesy of Hagrid.

As wizards favored bright colors for festive occasions, Hermione did not wear the chaste white to which she was entitled (Malfoy's cruel barbs aside). Her wedding robes were a stunning apricot, harmonizing fashionably with Harry's rich burgundy robes. As wizarding tradition held that marriage was a union not merely of a couple, but of their families as well, Hermione's parents stood beside her on one side, while Harry was joined not only by Sirius and Michelle, but by Arthur and Molly Weasley. He who had endured for nearly seventeen years with no true family to speak of suddenly found himself with three sets of parents, and he could not have been happier.

When Professor Dumbledore spoke the words which sealed the union of Harry and Hermione, a silence reigned like unto the calm before a storm. And when the newlyweds kissed for the first time as husband and wife, the storm broke. Even without the participation of the conspicuously taciturn Slytherin House, the resounding cheer from the student body caused the giant squid to leap dolphin-like above the surface of the lake, while the owlry exploded, sending a cloud of flapping birds into the afternoon sky like smoke from an erupting volcano.

As Harry and Hermione celebrated their first dance as a married couple, surrounded by hundreds of enthusiastic celebrants, they were also observed, most unobtrusively, by a man and a woman who were themselves observed by not one person save each other.

They were old in years, if not so evidently in appearance. The man was a head taller than his female counterpart. Both of them stood tall and straight, their hands joined, their eyes clear and glowing with an indescribable exhilaration. The woman's hair was brown and full-bodied, with a streak of white that began at her left temple and flowed down her back like a waterfall of molten silver. The man's hair, once jet black, was salted with white, lending him a dignified aspect. He wore his hair in a long pony tail, longer than that of Bill Weasley (who stood nearby with his own new bride, the former Fleur Delacour), though not so long as Dumbledore's flowing silver mane. No trace of a beard hid his face, which was strong and serene. He stroked his smooth chin contemplatively.

"I do keep forgetting how magnificent Dumbledore's beard was," he mused. "I may have another go myself one of these days."

"I hope you'll be very comfortable in the broom cupboard," the woman said in an even voice, her deep brown eyed fixed straight ahead as she observed the ceremony with a fond smile on her lips. "Because kissing a beard is like snogging the tail of a broom, and if you insist on looking like a broom, then you'd ruddy well better get used to sleeping with them."

"No, thanks," the man laughed gently. "I've had my fill of broom cupboards. I'll stick with the tried and true. Same old bed..." A pair of emerald green eyes flickered briefly to his side before returning to the wedding ceremony, "...same old wife."

"If we're speaking of forgetting," the woman said, ignoring her husband's feeble barb, "I'd forgotten how pretty I used to be." She allowed a wistful sigh to escape her smiling lips as she savored the feel of her husband's hand holding hers.

"Used to be, my arse," the man said, punctuating his remark with a gentle squeeze of his wife's hand. "You're still the sexiest witch in Britain, and Voldemort bugger anyone who says otherwise."

Freeing his hand from hers, the man began to caress his wife's shoulders and back before his fingers, seemingly with a will of their own, crept down to cup her backside through her elegantly tailored robes. His hand was promptly slapped away, accompanied by a reproving glare from a pair of eyes that, befitting their color, simmered like boiling coffee as they narrowed dangerously.

"Stop that, Harry! You're too bloody old to be acting like a horny schoolboy!"

"You're only as old or as young as you feel," Harry returned, resuming his exploration of his wife's charms. "Or is that who you feel?"

"It's whom," Hermione said, pulling away with a schoolgirl giggle to match her husband's schoolboy antics. "And if you try that again, I swear, I'll use my wand!"

"Not if I hold your arms to your sides," Harry said, suiting deed to word with a triumphant laugh. Hermione continued to giggle as she struggled playfully against her husband's unyielding arms.

"I can always use wandless magic," Hermione said defiantly. "Incantation only."

"Only if I let you speak the words," Harry said.

"And how are you going to stop me?" Hermione challenged, an impudent gleam in her eye.

"Like this." Harry bent and covered Hermione's mouth with his. On the dance floor, another Harry and Hermione were also kissing, and of the two couples, it was impossible to say whose passion was the more ardent.

Sighing against her husband's cheek, Hermione said, "Well, as long as you're using both arms to hold me, that doesn't leave you a free hand to get into my knickers."

"I think I remember a potion," Harry said as his lips trailed with slow savor along his wife's jawline, "in Moste Potente Potions, that grows extra arms. I might try brewing up a batch one of these days, just to sort you out."

"You're bugger all when it comes to brewing potions," Hermione chided. "It's common knowledge that I'm the potion brewer in this family."

"Then you brew it," Harry said. "I'm not proud."

"What you are is a horny prat, Harry Potter," Hermione declared. "But I love you, anyway."

"Let's go home, love," Harry said. Nodding at the wedding festivities taking place only a few yards away, he added, "We know how this ends, don't we?"

"Yes," Hermione said, smiling in the direction of the young couple who were taking their first halting steps on a new and untried road, on what they would come to regard, even after a century's perspective, as the happiest day of their lives. "We do."

"And they lived happily ever after," Harry quoted, kissing his wife tenderly.

"Not yet, they didn't," Hermione said, her eyes piercing her husband's declaratively. "It's not over yet, Mr. Potter. We still have a long road ahead of us."

"And we'll walk it together, Mrs. Potter," Harry said. "Always."

They joined hands and turned their eyes upward searchingly, as if they could see something beyond the sky and clouds to which the myriad guests all about them were unforgivably blind. A swirling silver mist appeared, enveloping them until the wedding, the guests, the towers of Hogwarts castle, were obscured. The pair became weighness, as if they were swimming in a sea of liquid smoke. Upward they rose. For a moment, the world was blank whiteness, with no up, down or sideways. Their stomachs lurched, they seemed to somersault once, twice.

Their feet touched down on a hardwood floor. They were once again surrounded by the familiar walls of their living room. A fire was burning comfortingly in the hearth. The silver mist was gone. But it was not far away. It swirled still, in the stone bowl of the pensieve sitting on the table between the fireplace and the sofa.

"It doesn't seem possible," Harry said, holding his wife to him as if, even now, he still couldn't believe that she was his. "A hundred years. Where did the time go, Hermione? I don't feel any different. Not inside, I mean. It seems like only yesterday that I married the most beautiful witch in Britain. I keep thinking that I'm going to wake up in my four-poster in Gryffindor Tower and find it was all a dream. A hundred years, and I still love you more than I thought possible."

"I feel the same way, Harry," Hermione said, her face pressed to her husband's chest as her tears dampened his robes. "It must be true, that the happy years fly by too quickly."

"We were so young then," Harry said, remembering the images of themselves dancing happily in the pensieve. "Not even eighteen. Our whole lives ahead of us. And now..."

"Speak for yourself, old man," Hermione sniffed. "'I' still have a lot of living to do!"

"You mean we do, old woman," Harry said as he hugged his wife more tightly to him. "Blimey, it's not all been easy, has it? But I'd not change a thing. I'd walk every mile of that road, all one hundred years, again. Just so I knew I was walking it with you."

Hermione was not looking at Harry. Snug in his arms, she was surveying the broad mantel of their stone fireplace. Every inch of space, on the wall above as well as on the mantel itself, was covered with animated wizard photographs. She saw herself and Harry at various stages of their life together, along with children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. It was as if the entire wall was a hallowed shrine to an earthly happiness beyond description, of blessings piled upon blessings to which no couple had any rightful claim. Yet it was all theirs.

Two of the four walls were lined from floor to ceiling with shelves of books (indeed, there was not a room in the house that did not boast at least one fully-laden bookcase). Even these were decorated with photos. Hermione saw herself standing at her desk the day she assumed her duties as Minister of Magic. Harry was beside her, of course, hugging her proudly and holding up her name plate for all to see. In another photo, Hermione looked just as proud of Harry as she stood beside him the day he was appointed by Minister of Magic Arthur Weasley (Hermione's predecessor) as an International Ambassador-at-Large, which post sent him all over the world and resulted in prolonged separations during which time they might not see each other for weeks at a stretch. But, if anything, those separations only served to strengthen the bonds of love between them. For they were elastic bonds, which stretched to allow each of them to soar alone, yet which snapped back unfailingly to reunite them in the end.

Looking now at the ruby-diamond ring on her left hand, Hermione remembered Harry's words the day he had slipped it onto her finger. Even true love required ceaseless toil to keep its flame burning bright and hot. To Hermione, that tiny ember floating in its crystalline womb upon her finger was the flame of their love, unwavering, eternal. It had not always been an easy path to walk. The last century had seen its share of hard roads as well as smooth for the two of them. But nothing worth having came without a price. All that mattered was that they walk that road together.

Hermione pulled Harry's face to hers and kissed him with a fire which ten decades had not dimmed.

"I'm going to pour us something to toast our hundredth anniversary," she said, flashing Harry the smile that could still turn his knees to water after more than a century. "And I think a little music is in order. You know the one."

Harry knew indeed. He walked to the wall behind the sofa, which was very nearly a solid wall of books of every description. But in the very center, just above an antique writing desk (which had been new when presented to them as a wedding gift a century past), was a state-of-the-art entertainment system of a type found in no Muggle home.

Impelled by the far-seeing vision of Minister Hermione Granger, the wizarding world had taken a bold step forward in the mid-21st century. A shotgun marriage of wizard technology and Muggle science had brought about an electronic revolution not seen since the development of wizarding wireless. Now, a generation later, not a wizard household was without the simple convenience of music at the touch of a finger (or, to be more precise, at the wave of a wand), brought about by the development of what came to be termed the Magic sound Disc, or MD.

Drawing his wand, Harry was about to point it at a particular slot among the many rows of MD's. Hermione had insisted that their discs be strictly alphabetized, and after a time Harry could find every one with a single glance. Now, however, a glance was all he needed to see that the space where he had intended to point his wand was empty.

"It's not here," Harry called over his shoulder.

"I must have been playing it in the portable and forgot to put it back," Hermione said from the kitchen. "Look on the sofa. It may have slipped under a cushion."

Walking to the sofa, Harry quickly saw that the cushions were empty. Unperturbed, he picked up the throw pillow nearest at hand, and a smile spread across his face. A smooth object of a size and thickness approximating that of an English muffin was revealed, through the transparent face of which a gleaming silver disc was clearly visible. Harry bent and picked up the portable MD player --

Gasping in surprise, Harry felt a sharp -- and very familiar -- tug behind his navel. In a dizzying swirl of mist, Harry felt his insides lurch violently before his feet settled once more onto solid ground. Or rather, so he now noted, stone.

"She didn't!" Harry gasped as he took in his surroundings: Circular stone walls, set with flickering torches whose golden radiance gleamed dully from the surfaces of dust-covered tapestries older than Excalibur.

"Oh, but she did!" came the reply.

Hermione stood before him with a crystal goblet in each hand. She wore a dressing gown of shimmering black silk, enhanced by a smile bright as a Summer's morn, and a devilish look in her eyes that Draco Malfoy could not have equaled on his best day.

"What am I going to do with you?" Harry smiled, taking the goblet proffered by his wife.

"We already established that," Hermione said meaningfully. "Ages ago."

His goblet held before him, Harry said with a tremulous flutter in his voice, "Here's to us. To the last hundred years."

"And to the next hundred," Hermione said earnestly.

The rims of their goblets rang together musically, as they had more than a century ago on this very spot. Hermione quickly drained her goblet in a single draught. Not willing to let his bride of one hundred years demonstrate a greater degree of youthful exuberance than he, Harry followed suit.

Instantly he choked, his face screwing up in surprise and no small degree of disgust.

"Blimey!" he shuddered, his insides churning rebelliously. "That's not wine!"

Harry stared at the dun-colored dregs of his goblet, the whisper of a distant memory tugging at his thoughts. The sour taste on his tongue -- boiled cabbage? Why did that seem so --

The goblet fell from Harry's limp hand, shattering on the stone flags. He reeled momentarily, his skin crawling as if it were swarming with gnats. The sensation passed quickly, as did the dizziness. He blinked, brought his eyes back into focus. He gasped, blinking again, furiously, his brain unwilling or unable to accept the testimony of his eyes.

Hermione stood before Harry, a goblet in each hand, a mysterious smile on her lips. Was he having a flashback? No, the goblets were empty now. No doubt Hermione had reassembled the one fallen from Harry's hand and retrieved it. His eyes rose from the goblets to his wife's face. Harry felt his jaw drop so far that, whereas he had once nearly swallowed the Golden Snitch in a Quidditch match more than a century gone, he was sure he could now have swallowed an entire Quaffle!

Hermione looked precisely as she did on their wedding night! Her face was young and smooth, her hair a lush and tameless chestnut with no trace of silver. Her skin was glowing in the torchlight, the color of cream and so supple and soft as he had not seen in --

It hit him like a Bludger between the eyes.

"Polyjuice!"

"I told you I was the potion brewer in this family, Harry," Hermione smiled immodestly, the two goblets vanishing with a flick or her wrists. Her hands thus freed, she placed them on her hips, which were round and seductive and tilted in a tantalizingly solicitous manner that brought a flush to Harry's cheeks.

"How?" Harry croaked. It was the only word his stunned brain could conjure.

"Time enough for talk later," Hermione purred. She opened her dressing gown, revealing a black lace baby doll that drifted about her lithe body like a veil of charcoal mist. Harry felt a surging through his own body of a strength and power he had not experienced in --

Harry nearly cried out. He looked at his hands. They were young, smooth and strong. Seventeen-year-old hands. He touched his chest, his neck, his face -- he gasped again as his hand encountered the back of his neck, finding short-trimmed hair in place of his black-and-silver mane. What in the name of Merlin...?

"Well, lover?" Hermione said invitingly. "I'm not getting any younger."

Harry cursed himself inwardly. By some means beyond his understanding, the two of them were seventeen again -- and here he stood, devouring his wife with nothing but his eyes! In a rush he was on her, Hermione opening herself to him. Her dressing gown fell to the floor, revealing an abundance of moonlight-pale flesh which Harry attacked like a starving man at a banquet.

"No need to hurry," Hermione said in a throaty rasp as Harry's lips turned her skin to flame. "We have all night."

"Polyjuice..." Harry mumbled incoherently as he nuzzled his wife's perfect shoulders, "...wear off...hour..."

"Not...this..." Hermione panted, her passion rising in concert with her husband's. "Last...all...night..."

Without warning, Harry swept his wife off her feet and into his arms. He carried her to his bed -- the same bed in which they had frolicked with joyous (if inconsummate) abandon the day their engagement was sealed -- which sat in hushed readiness, its sheets turned down in a silent yet eloquent invitation. It was a canvas a hundred years waiting for the final brushstroke. Now, by what miracle Harry neither knew nor cared, the canvas would at last be complete.

As Harry lay his companion and lover of more than a century upon the crisp sheets, felt the soft mattress yielding to their weight as he nestled against her warmth, his again-youthful cheeks burned with tears reflecting a happiness for which he had no words.

"You really are," he choked as he caressed his wife's face tenderly, "the most brilliant...the most wonderful...do you have any idea in the world how much I love you?"

"You have all night to show me," Hermione said wantonly through the blush of her own tears.

And with a wave of her hand, the torches all went out.

Author's Note: No one guessed that the uninvited guests were Harry and Hermione themselves? All the better to segue to the future on my way to next week's finale. HP fiction is SUCH fun to write! Virtually ANYTHING is possible!

Now, reviewer alex seems to have come to the conclusion that my making Hermione a strong character automatically renders Harry weak. It is always my goal to make Hermione as strong as I can, to show her clearly as the equal of the legendary "Boy Who Lived" (and putting her so far ahead of Ron that even to consider pairing them up is laughable). In this case, Harry wanted to fight and was frustrated that his age prevented him from doing so. Hermione ewas not permitted to fight, either. She was able to serve the cause in a non-combative manner due to her superior knowledge and skills. The books clearly indicate that Harry is generally NOT Hermione's equal when it comes to learning spells. Whenever he needs to learn a new spell to get out of a jam, it is she who teaches Harry, because she has already mastered it, whether it be the Summoning Spell, the Four-Point Spell, the Stunning Spell, you name it. Harry himself reflects in OotP that his grades and Ron's are not all th at far apart. In this case, maybe if Harry had worked a bit harder and learned as much as Hermione, he could have been a Healer's Aide in the Insurrection, too, and worked by her side. They would now be sporting matching Order of Merlin medals. Ya snooze, ya looze.

In canon, Harry continually complains that he does not want the weight of the wizarding world on his shoulders. He dreads the thought of facing Voldemort in an ultimate death-duel. Does this make him weak? No; it makes him sane! He wants nothing more than to be plain Harry Potter, not "The Boy Who Lived." I have merely given him his wish.

Besides, Hermione was duly impressed last time by Harry's Transfiguration work on the diamond. Harry CAN do powerful magic, as he proved in PoA when he conjured his Patronus. All he has to do is apply himself. Harry is far from weak. But I would feel embarrassed to make him a swaggering, macho stud like Oliver Wood. That is not Harry's style. Nor is it mine.

Someone recently included the following quote from the TV show Joan of Arcadia in an e-mail: "Humility isn't really humility unless you're GOOD enough at something to BE humble." Clearly, Harry is good enough to be humble, and that is how I feel most comfortable writing him.

Thanks to all who are reading and reviewing. The talent running rampant on this site continues to make me feel like I crashed the party. It's good to know that some people, at least, feel I belong.

Next, the final chapter, in which we learn the secret of the Polyjuice potion, and the full significance of the story title. Surprises await, so don't be late.

The morning sun shone over the snow-kissed peaks of central Europe, through a small window set in the highest tower of a nameless wizard castle, and onto the flushed faces of Harry Potter and his wife of one hundred years, Hermione Granger Potter.

"That," Harry sighed, his finger idly running along the streak of silver marking his wife's tangled chestnut halo, "was a night to write about in my diary."

"You don't keep a diary, you silly old goat," Hermione returned. Her eyes remained focussed on her task at hand, that of platting a length of her husband's salt-and-pepper mane into a braid.

"After last night," Harry said, hugging Hermione's warm body against his, "I may have to start. If only to remind myself later that last night wasn't all just a wonderful dream." The arm encircling Hermione's abdomen, which rose and fell gently under her husband's embrace, relaxed. Harry's hand began to creep downward, halting only when his wife folded her hand around the now-finished braid and jerked sharply, causing him to cry out in surprise and amusement.

"We're not seventeen any more, Harry," Hermione said softly.

"You're more beautiful now than on the day I married you," Harry said with gentle emphasis as he detached his wife's hand from his hair and threaded his fingers through hers. "A hundred years more beautiful. And if it comes to that, maybe you didn't notice that the Polyjuice Potion wore off just before dawn. The woman I made love to twenty minutes ago was the same one who's lying in my arms right now -- the same perfect goddess who came to me on our wedding night, in the Honeymoon Suite at the Hogsmeade Inn. Seventeen, or a hundred and seventeen, you're still the sexiest witch in Britain."

"And you're still the lyingest old sod in Britain," Hermione said.

"Oh, am I, now?" Harry said. He shifted his weight, gave a mighty lurch, and suddenly Hermione was on top of him. As their bodies merged, Hermione melted into a puddle of trembling sighs. Kissing his wife passionately, Harry murmured, "Now do you believe me? Am I still a lying old sod?"

Hermione could not answer. Not in words. But the heat of her skin against his, her quickening breaths, her responsive motions, her urgent moans, were all the testimony Harry needed.

Neither knew how long they lay in each other's arms, listening to the songbirds in the trees outside the window, before the power of speech returned to them. Harry's long hair spilled over the pillows, mingling with his wife's to create a rainbow of black and brown and silver. Hermione lay on her stomach at an angle, one leg protruding from the sheets which hung precipitously from her hips, puddling on the stone floor like spilled milk. Her face was pressed against her husband's chest, her fingers clinging gently to his shoulders. Her eyes were closed, but her eyelids fluttered now and then. Her breathing was even, issuing silently from lips painted with a wan, enigmatic smile.

Harry's right hand caressed his wife's hair, wisps of silky chestnut threading through his fingers like fine sand. His left hand played along the smooth curve of her back, returning with each upward sweep to the delicate chain that hung drunkenly from her neck. Each time, his touch lingered on the fine links, calling his attention to the tiny golden hourglass pressed against his ribs, its sands running as they had for more than a century. Even as their love.

"How did you do it?" Harry said at last, seeming less to ask a question than merely putting a thought into words.

"Bit of a long story, that," Hermione said, tilting her head slightly while keeping her cheek pressed to Harry's chest.

"I'm not going anywhere," Harry said as he used a single finger to draw expanding circles upon his wife's back.

"It's difficult to know where to begin," Hermione said. "But wherever I start, it all comes back to Neville."

This revelation came as little surprise to Harry. Neville Longbottom, their old Gryffindor classmate, had become something of a legend in the wizarding world over the past few decades. Expanding upon his proficiency in Herbology, Neville slowly but steadily began to press the boundaries of standard magical procedure to the bursting point. As a result of this revolution, he founded an entirely new branch of magic, Theoretical Potions. This involved reasoned speculation on how to improve existing potions, as well as the creation of new and heretofore unimagined potions, through the crossbreeding of plants for specific purposes. Once a theory was put forth, a new strain of plant was bred and tested to see if it performed as predicted as a potion ingredient. Many potions experts, Severus Snape chief among them, scoffed at the notion that existing potions could be improved by altering basic ingredients.

"Nature has been doing quite well enough without you, Longbottom," Snape was once heard to sneer when the twain encountered each other one day in the Apothecary in Hogsmeade. "I shall be greatly surprised if you do not end up poisoning half the wizards in Britain before that fool Weasley finds the backbone to put a stop to your foolishness."

But the last laugh was Neville's when a mutant variety of Wolfsbane, developed by him in his own small greenhouse, produced a potion that succeeded in arresting all symptoms of werewolfism. Remus Lupin had volunteered to test the new potion, and he it was who enjoyed the singular honor of placing the Order of Merlin, Second Class, around Neville's neck, before the smoldering eyes of Snape (who attended the ceremony at the direct order of an almost obscenely smug Minister Arthur Weasley). Headmistress Minerva McGonagall followed by esablishing the wizarding world's first Theoretical Potions course at Hogwarts. The smiling face of Professor Neville Longbottom graced the front page of the next day's Daily Prophet. The accompanying article included lauditory comments from the Hogwarts faculty, save only one; Severus Snape's comments were deemed unprintable by the editorial staff of the wizarding newspaper (The Quibbler, to no one's surprise, ran them verbatim).

Harry now sat up in bed, pulling Hermione up next to him so he could look into her eyes. His own eyes shone with boyish excitement as he waited to hear the full tale of his former dorm-mate's latest triumph. Her cheek resting against Harry's shoulder, her hand tickling his abdomen just above the crumpled sheet, Hermione lowered her eyes, drew a breath and began:

"After that business with Barty Crouch before Fourth Year, Neville reasoned that Polyjuice Potion should be good for something besides deception. And he began to ask himself, why couldn't people simply add parts of themselves to the potion? You remember that Crouch planned to impersonate Mad-Eye Moody, before Dumbledore hired Sirius instead. Under the influence of Polyjuice, Crouch would have lost his leg and his eye, just like Moody. But when the potion wore off, Crouch's leg and eye would grow back straightaway, because they were a part of his natural body. So Neville wondered, what if the real Moody had clipped and saved a bunch of his hair from before he incurred his injuries? He could use it to make Polyjuice Potion, and when he drank it, he wouldn't change into someone else, he'd simply change into himself, as he was when the hair was taken from him years ago. Both his leg and his eye would be restored."

"Why didn't someone think of this before?" Harry marveled.

"Maybe someone did," Hermione shrugged. "Ages ago. But they would have found, as Neville did, that drinking Polyjuice with bits of yourself in it didn't work. As I discovered when I drank the cat-hair potion all those years ago, Polyjuice was created to accomplish a specific purpose and none other. So any witch or wizard who tried and failed in the past wouldn't have bothered to leave a record. Magic, like science, remembers success, not failure."

"But those other blokes had never thought of changing one or more of the ingredients through crossbreeding," Harry smiled appreciatively.

"After resigning from Hogwarts, Neville worked in secret for years, breeding new strains of fluxweed and knotgrass," Hermione said. "He didn't actually brew the potions," she added with a chuckle, and Harry laughed at the memory of Neville's bumbling efforts in Snape's Potions classes at Hogwarts. "Fortunately, like someone else we know," she smirked, "he had the good sense to marry a good potion brewer. But he did test each new batch on himself. He refused to put anyone else at risk. He'd mark himself in some small, harmless way, like putting a little scratch on the back of his hand with the point of a quill. Then he'd add a bit of hair to the latest test potion, hair he'd taken from himself before he marked himself."

"Until the day came when he drank the potion and the scratch vanished," Harry said, whereupon Hermione rolled her eyes up at him and smiled.

"And the potion doesn't have to be taken hourly, like regular Polyjuice. Changing into someone else is very traumatic, and the body fights against the potion every moment, trying to change back to its normal self. But if you simply become a different version of yourself, the potion is more readily accepted, more easily integrated into the system, and the body isn't in such a hurry to change back. Neville believes that, if he stays at it, he can eventually come up with a potion that lasts a full 24 hours. And who knows? Maybe someday a formula can be created that will make the effects permanent."

"Bloody brilliant, " Harry said. "Think what this could mean for the wizarding world -- for everyone, wizard or Muggle. Aurors can carry flasks of this potion, and if they get wounded they can heal themselves in a second. Why -- why, if Neville's parents had hair clippings from before they were -- they -- they might..."

"I think that's what Neville had in mind all along," Hermione said with a trace of sorrow in her voice. "They're both gone now, but I'm sure Neville wanted to ensure that no one else ever had to go through what he did all those years."

After a respectful silence, Harry asked, "So, how did you and I fall into the picture?"

"It was the oddest thing," Hermione said with a floaty lilt in her voice. "I ran into Neville in Hogsmeade, and we had lunch at that little sidewalk cafe I love so much. We got to talking about this and that, and naturally he mentioned his Polyjuice experiments, as they're all he seems to think about these days. He doesn't usually rabbit about it, but he knows I won't go running off to the Daily Prophet, so he always ends up saying more than he intends. You know Neville. And this seemingly innocent remark just popped out of his mouth. He knew you and I were about to celebrate our hundredth anniversary, and there we were in Hogsmeade, just that far from the scene of the crime -- "

Harry laughed, giving his wife an appreciative squeeze.

" -- and he said, 'Imagine if you and Harry had saved some of your hair from your wedding day. You could drink the potion and become seventeen again.'"

Harry's face went white. He looked at Hermione, who wrinkled her nose in reply before answering her husband's unspoken question.

"The morning before graduation, I went to that chic little salon in Hogsmeade, the one where all the girls used to go who had the gold to spread around, you know. I had my bangs clipped, my ends trimmed, all that sort of thing. And when the beautician was finished, she handed me my pouch, as usual." Hermione paused meaningfully. Harry nodded.

Any knowledgable wizard knew that clipped hair was ever a potential danger to its owner. Aside from Polyjuice Potion, there were hundreds of potions and spells that could do grave injury, even cause death, by the addition of the hair of an enemy. Even Muggles knew that Voodoo dolls used such trimmings as hair and fingernails to give them sway over their counterparts, prompting the wise to destroy all such extraneous matter, burning it to ashes and scattering the ashes to the winds.

To protect wizards from such threats to their persons, the Ministry imposed strict regulations upon all wizarding salons and barbering establishments. All cut hair was magically drawn into a pouch, which was then presented to the patron for disposal. Failure to comply with this directive was punishable by a term of imprisonment in Azkaban. No witch or wizard would ever patronize any salon where an official Ministry Certificate was not displayed prominently on the wall.

"But," Harry said as through a haze, "you..."

"Yes," Hermione said. "I kept my pouch. It was to be a keepsake, something to remember that most marvelous day of my life, when I became a fully-empowered witch, and married the wizard of my dreams. I placed a Concealment Charm around the pouch and hung it around my neck, right next to the Eternity Glass.

"And then...I made one more stop before I returned to school."

Harry needed no elaboration. With a chuckle of pure delight, he hugged his wife and placed a smothering kiss upon her bushy brown-and-silver crown.

Like most every student in school, Harry had himself got a last-minute trim in Hogsmeade preceding graduation. The barber in town was an old and trusted wizard who had been plying his trade for longer than anyone could remember. It was not uncommon for a wizard patron to fall into a pattern of trusting such a barber completely, even to the disposing of the cuttings afterwards. It had become second nature for Harry, when the old wizard offered the small pouch, to nod once as if to say, "Take care of it, as usual." So had Harry done that very day. Only that day, unlike those previous, the old barber had not destroyed Harry's clippings. He had given them to Hermione, whom he quite naturally trusted to want them for only the best of reasons on such a special day. (The Ministry quite naturally frowned on such a practice, but it was a common occurance all the same.)

"I never imagined," Hermione said, "to what use those trimmings would be put when I tucked them away a century ago. If I had, I'd have gone back all that year, whenever you got a trim, and saved enough to fill a book bag. But then, they were only a keepsake, weren't they?"

"And now," Harry said, "they've given me the second most wonderful present I've ever received."

"Only the second?" Hermione said with a look of mock hurt.

"Nothing can ever match the first," Harry said. "The first time we ever shared a bed as husband and wife. I was glad that night that you'd put me off that last time we were up here. It wouldn't have been the same if we hadn't waited. You always knew best. Time hasn't changed that. And here's something else that hasn't changed: You're the best thing that ever happened to me. You wrote your name on my heart a hundred years ago, and it's still there, in letters that can never be erased. Hermione Granger. My poofy-haired angel. My sexy witch. My Patronus."

Hermione blinked at this last remark. Momentarily startled at his own words, Harry blinked back before allowing a warm smile to creep across his face.

"That was always my secret name for you," he confessed. "I guess we all keep little secrets, don't we? The hair was yours; this was mine. I never told anyone. I never even spoke it aloud, unless maybe in a dream. I surprised myself just now by saying it. Maybe something inside me just decided, especially on a day as special as this, that a man shouldn't keep any secrets from the woman he loves. Even something so silly as that."

Hermione's eyes were still uncomprehending.

"It means," Harry said in a faltering voice, " that you were sent to me from Heaven to drive away all the darkness in my life. You're the bright, white light that dispels all shadow, all doubt and despair. You're my defender, my protector. Whenever I feel like I'm being smothered by metaphorical dementors -- when nothing makes sense, when everything seems hopeless -- all I have to do is think of you. I speak your name -- my own, private incantation -- and you appear in my heart, weaving your magic spell. Saving me, from the world and from myself. My beautiful, wonderful Patronus."

Harry held his wife to him as if he never wanted to let her go. Neither spoke for what seemed a very long time, each lost in the other. When Hermione finally found her voice, it was infused with an uncertainty that seemed to Harry almost apologetic.

"We can still have some more nights like this. What clippings I saved will be good for a few more anniversaries, at least." She began to tug at the sheet gathered around her waist, self-conscious now that the potion's effects had worn off, but Harry's hand stopped hers with gentle firmness.

"I won't say no to a little cinnamon in the porridge now and then," he said teasingly. "But," he added in a soft voice that masked an edge of unyielding steel, "I don't need a magic potion to show the most beautiful witch in the world how much I love her. That's what you'll always be to me. Never forget that."

Hermione's hand relaxed under Harry's. "You're still a lying old sod, Harry Potter. But I love you." As Harry's arms wrapped themselves around her, Hermione reached up to embrace the gold hourglass hanging between her breasts. Seeing the endlessly falling sands in her mind's eye, she whispered, "It's not been easy getting here. But we made it. Together. Happy anniversary, Harry. Thank you...for the best hundred years of my life."

"Here's to the next hundred," Harry said. "Happy anniversary."

Following a deep, lingering kiss, Harry nuzzled his face into his wife's luxuriant hair and breathed into her ear, "It's not over yet. Just one more piece to make the puzzle perfect."

Acting from more than a century of habit, Harry reached instinctively for his wand, only to realize with a self-depricating chuckle that he presently had no place on his person to keep a wand (though his wife had, on numerous occasions, suggested a place where he could "stick his bloody wand" without benefit of robes or pockets). His wand was in the pocket of his discarded robes, which lay in a heap on the floor in the middle of the chamber. Rejecting any notion of releasing his wife for so much as a moment, Harry raised his hand and pointed his finger. His brow furrowed momentarily; wandless magic took a bit of concentration. A night and a morning of amorous exertions had left Harry with barely enough strength to levitate the feather his future wife had Charmed in Flitwick's class in their first year at Hogwarts. Nevertheless, he concentrated with all his might and, sighting down his finger as along a gunsight, said, "Accio."

An object rose from the floor near his robes and drifted toward him at the best speed Harry could manage. Seeing Harry motioning with his hand, Hermione looked up. Realization illuminated her face with a light to rival the sunbeams streaming through the tiny window. The portable MD player -- dropped by Harry upon his arrival, but (praise Merlin) undamaged by the fall -- now hovered above them, balanced at the edge of the headboard. Harry waved his hand commandingly, and the disc in the player began to turn, releasing the haunting and memory-laden strains of a song.

Their song.

During the Summer preceding Seventh Year, Harry had arranged to spend the last month of the holidays at Hermione's house, freeing Sirius and Michelle to enjoy her own holiday from Beauxbatons with her new husband without fear of Harry interrupting them during an "awkward moment." At a time during their courtship when they were still discovering little things about each other, Harry and Hermione found that they both shared a passion for old Muggle movies. Throughout that final holiday of their Hogwarts years, they spent endless late-night hours sitting on her parents' sofa, holding hands while their faces reflected the harsh light of countless black-and-white movies on the living room telly.

A good many of these movies featured soundtracks with love songs that were old when Hermione's parents were young. On a particular Saturday night in August, one such song touched the both of them in a way that was to change their lives. It's simple message, along with a melody that might have wrung tears from the gargoyle guarding Dumbledore's office, touched them to the core of their souls. In the span of a single heartbeat, as their eyes met, followed by their lips, it became "their song."

There was never a question of their getting married without that song accompanying the ceremony, defining their vows, lighting their path. It was sung by Hannah Abbot, who had been discovered only a year earlier to have by far the most beautiful voice at Hogwarts. Many believed afterwards, Harry and Hermione among them, that it was in that moment when Neville Longbottom fell in love with Hannah. It took Neville more than ten years to summon the pluck to propose, whereupon he promptly fainted before she could give her answer. He was revived by a dose of cold water from her wand, only to faint again when she said yes. It was a story Hannah still loved to tell when they all got together at Christmas, and Neville, even after ninety years, still blushed at the telling.

Harry had declared on occasion that he and Hermione must have played "their song" more times than there were drops of water in the lake at Hogwarts. But neither frequency nor familiarity had dimmed its magic, and not an anniversary had passed in a hundred years but that they celebrated it even as now, to the words and music of that one special song.

With eyes of polished emerald piercing twin pools of deep mocha, Harry took his wife's hand in his and kissed her fingers, his lips brushing the ruby-diamond stone that glimmered like a pinpoint of flame in the dimly lit chamber. And as the song played above them, Harry mouthed the words softly, Hermione following.

"I'll be loving you," Harry's resonant tenor crooned, "always."

"With a love that's true," Hermione's sweet contralto trembled, "always."

"When the things you've planned..."

"Need a helping hand..."

"I will understand...always."

"Always."

"Days may not be fair," Harry croaked, his wife's face blurring before him, "always."

"That's when I'll be there," Hermione whispered, "always."

"Not for just an hour..."

"Not for just a day..."

"Not for just a year...but..."

And, speaking with one voice, befitting the one love uniting them:

"Always."

Author's Note: Thanks to all who read and reviewed (especially Sassy -- now that you're back, I want to see updates!). I always promised myself that I would never write a songfic, but in my mind this does not qualify. Since the song was literally part of the story, and since Harry and Hermione physically sang it together, I maintain that this was not a songfic, merely a fic in which a song played a part. I'm digging my heels in on this one. The song in question, Always, was written in 1925 by Irving Berlin. Those of you who know the tune can sing along with Harry and Hermione if you like. I'm sure they won't mind.

Next time, I'm going to bury the dreaded fluff-monster and replace it with perhaps the darkest Harry I have ever written. It's a little tale of crime and punishment, wizard-style. No ooey-gooey feelings, but plenty of angst mixed with a little history of magic (just call me Professor Binns). I call it: The Price. I hope you'll be back to give me your opinion, for good or ill. Until then, thanks for reading.