Hermione Full of Grace

Summary: Hermione takes on life after Voldemort with renewed enthusiasm, only to discover that the unresolved issues in her heart refuses to be forgotten. In her brave quest for a happier future, she meets eccentric wizard billionaire Lysander Athanasius, a suitor who seems to know exactly what she needs, and seems to raise the hackles of her dearest Harry and Ron. NC-17 for LATER chapters.

SPECIAL THANKS to my beta reader Aurabolt! Really, this entire fic would be a disjointed mess without him! And his true love for H+Hr is inspirational indeed. ^_^

Standard disclaimers apply.

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Prologue – Shifting of Dreams

In which nothing but her matters.

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Something shifted as they watched her sleep.

Harry could tell that it was as significant for Ron as it was for him; how it rearranged thoughts, feelings and perceptions the way only life-changing experiences could. Things were not as easy as they once were, and unlike before, where life was about having someone older, wiser, better to turn to amidst the confusion, this was something only he and Ron could possibly understand.

With Hermione laid out on the bed, unconscious above and pillows and beneath the sheets, “stable” as the healers called it, the only two people who fully appreciated the sacrifices she had made, and might have to make—should the divinities be so cruel—were the two boys; or rather the two men who sat praying for her to wake up.

There were no Mr. and Mrs. Granger to look after her anymore. Hermione had lost her parents to Deatheaters some time during the start of their seventh year; that had been almost three years ago, so really, there were just them; Harry and Ron: the only two people left in the world that could love her as unconditionally as family would.

It was an Avada Kedavra variation, diluted by a powerful shielding spell that would not have been effective if Harry and Ron hadn’t been there to lend her their magic, but Harry couldn’t help but wonder whether he would have been able to give her more; protect her more, if he had only been a bit sharper at reading her thoughts when it mattered most, and perhaps he might have kept her from doing it at all, even if it meant it would lose him his life.

Voldemort had been a powerful wizard; perhaps too powerful even for the likes of Dumbledore who sought life in magic, whereas Voldemort sought death. Harry, Ron and Hermione had recognized this reality, and it was in this acknowledgement that they found a way to stop him. The only magic that could destroy Voldemort was the love their friendship created.

Hermione had pointed out that Harry could separate Voldemort’s essence from himself, enabling them to kill Voldemort once and for all. The separation spell required either one of two things: A collective power fueled by righteousness and uniting love; or the death of another. It was light magic, because the death it asked required the quality of self-sacrifice, but it was the most powerful magic they could find, and they had to believe it would work.

The spell couldn’t be done in advance. It was something they had to do while they were in the presence of Voldemort, simply because coaxing Voldemort’s soul from Harry’s body would only be possible if the soul knew it had someplace else to go. The beginnings of the spell afforded them protection in the form of wards; it would be enough to have the most unforgivable curse bounce off their shield, but the last few seconds of the spell would leave them completely vulnerable, and while Harry would have amassed enough power by that time to battle Voldemort, it was never good to be vulnerable in the presence of such an evil wizard. Timing was everything; there could be no mistake. It was, therefore, unfortunate that they realized too late where their mistake was: Voldemort had found out Harry was a Horcrux, and therefore he was prepared with a spell of his own. Granted, Voldemort’s spell needed its own blood sacrifice, but Voldemort was not troubled by the consequences of taking another life. All that was important to him was that his spell would work, and he could very well go through any of his Death Eaters like picking Mugworth from a jar to complete a potion.

By the time Hermione, Harry and Ron had gathered their bearings to finish their spell, Voldemort was building his spell right with them. He had killed Peter Pettigrew and Lucius Malfoy without batting an eyelash and he had flung his curse at Harry, part Avada Kedavra and part something else to extract his soul from Harry before the unforgivable curse can do him in completely.

Hermione had—like the brilliant witch that she was—realized what Voldemort was doing and promptly acted on it herself, for lack of having someone else do it for her. In hindsight; while it wasn’t the smartest thing she could have done, it was the only thing she could have done, at least the way she saw it. Her books and cleverness had, as always, served her well in theory, but her self-admitted weakness of being unable to take the optimum course of action without careful planning in advance, or at least with a few moments of thought, had put her in a very dangerous position.

She cast the strangest spell ever, like she twisted reality, or at least the reality of their triangle, so that she was up front and Harry and Ron flanked her. She kept the triangle tight as they rushed headlong into the last steps of their separation spell. The protective shield dissolved unto itself, just like the book said it would, to let the final stages of the enchantment come to fruition.

It was at that moment she flung a decomposition charm, breaking Voldemort’s hurtling spell down into the two parts it was made of. Her spell caught Voldemort’s, and it did its work perfectly.

What happened to the extracting spell in Voldemort’s curse, they really didn’t know. Voldemort was furious, but Harry didn’t care. An Avada Kedavra was headed straight for Hermione and all Harry knew was that if she died that very instant, his world would be one-third voided.

Ron’s protection spell enveloped her in blue, but Harry knew it wouldn’t be enough. Nobody survived an Avada Kedavra curse by any simple means, especially one flung by one such as Voldemort who was a cesspool of hate, so Harry used the one thing that might diffuse Voldemort’s curse: the magic of Voldemort residing in Harry.

Harry ripped through himself to tap into the part of him that was Voldemort’s power. Harry was a vessel after all; he was an unwitting horcrux for Voldemort’s soul, and he tapped into that very dark power to cast a protection spell over Hermione: Beat Voldemort with his own magic.

It enveloped her in black, causing her to squeak in terror and step back.

This all, of course, happened very fast. Mere heartbeats, even if it felt like hours.

The curse struck, noticeably struggling to fight through the barrier of Ron and Harry’s spell. It hovered for a split second, as if everything had gone in slow motion. For a moment, Harry believed it was going to work. The curse looked like it was being dispelled by the dark shield, but to Harry’s absolute horror, it seemed to have punched through, and it slammed right into Hermione’s chest.

It was as if she stood in her corner of the triangle for a full second before she was flung backwards in a lifeless heap, lifted by an invisible hand and discarded just as quickly.

It was also that very moment the separation spell took effect, dislodging Voldemort’s soul from Harry forever.

Harry’s agony then was worse than any cruciatus he had felt. His wand fell from his hands as he crumpled to the ground, his knees grown weak from grief pain. The evil that left him only meant that Hermione was dead. She had become a blood sacrifice. She had provided the death to make the spell work.

The horcrux found its owner so quickly, and with such intensity, that even Voldemort hadn’t expected it. He fell back, as if something had hit him unexpectedly and he couldn’t take it standing up.

Ron’s wail of despair rivaled only that of Harry’s and he scrambled to go to Hermione, demanding Harry to “destroy that fucking bastard!”

Harry swore that righteousness had never been so organic for him. With swift determination fueled by love and friendship, he destroyed Voldemort with a wave of magic even Harry didn’t realize he possessed. The ritual of the triad had, no doubt, played a part in magnifying the intensity of his power, but there were emotions and forces at work that Harry could only explain as all-encompassing. Wandless, he screamed the incantation Hermione had spent hours teaching him in combination with their strengthening ritual: “Effligo pravus!”

The words themselves were simple, but it was no easy feat to make the spell work. His practice sessions with Hermione had resulted in no more than a fizzing hiss, but her theory was sound and she was confident, even if he wasn’t, that he would be able to cast it when the time came. She was right, and at that moment, he hit on all the right inner enchantments to make the incantation work. It had felt as if he had thrown his entire being into the spell; like he had dispersed himself into millions of tiny charged atoms that exploded on contact with the Dark Lord. Harry could only describe it as a fiery hurricane; a power so intense in its heat that it melted everything it passed through. If Harry hadn’t seen, with his own eyes, Voldemort combust and dissipate, Harry might think he had merely disapparated, but the silent scream from the look on Voldemort’s face was evidence enough, and the grisly melting that followed convinced him of the spell’s success.

The effort hadn’t been without its price.

Harry’s hands had erupted in flames, scorching them black and raw. Ron had managed to put the flames away before it could engulf Harry entirely, but by then, Harry had passed out, and there was nothing left of the battlefield except the dead, wounded and destroyed.

When Harry woke up in St. Mungo’s, his first thought was that Hermione was dead, and that the hollow feeling in his heart couldn’t possibly heal. No, healing would be betraying her memory. Healing would mean he didn’t grieve her death enough. He had such screaming pain inside him, but it was his quiet sobs of despair that had alerted the healing staff to his consciousness, and moments later, Ron was there beside his bed.

There was no shame in letting Ron hold him as he wept for Hermione, and he was so lost in his grief that he hadn’t heard Ron telling him that Hermione was alive.

When finally, it dawned on him that Ron wasn’t just babbling words of comfort, he let the full meaning of the words seep into him.

Ron’s eyes were glassed over and it was because of the pain in them that Harry couldn’t completely believe Ron’s words: “Mate, she’s not dead!”

Harry wondered how it was Ron could seem so troubled telling him Hermione was alive. And what an odd way to say it: She’s not dead.

She’s alive, thought Harry. He could have broken down in tears again, if it hadn’t finally occurred to him that all his crying would mortify him when he calmed down and regained his sense of equilibrium.

“Hermione’s alive?” Harry had whispered, as if speaking it too loud would blow the dream away to nothing.

Ron looked to be fighting back tears himself, and holding Harry’s gaze, he nodded. “Y-Yes, but Harry, right now… the healers couldn’t be sure if she’ll make it. She’s—she’s fighting, but—nobody knows—“

“She has to make it! She has to live! I have to see her—“ muttered Harry, pushing back the sheets of his bed and realizing, to his utter dismay, that the bandages wrapped around his hands was making it all very difficult to manage. Pain shot through his body when he jerked to swing his legs to the side of his bed. It felt like a cruciatus curse all over again, and his screams rang throughout the hospital before the numbing darkness overcame him.

The next time he woke up, the knowledge of Hermione alive, but in critical condition, checked his emotions, and in a clearer frame of mind, he asked for anyone to please tell him if Hermione Granger was still breathing.

It was Remus Lupin who came to his bedside this time, and the tired werewolf replied that Ron was with her everyday, because he didn’t want her waking up to an empty room, if she ever woke up at all. There was still no surety that Hermione was out of danger.

Harry was still suffering the after-effects of fighting Voldemort. They had put a lethargy charm on him. It couldn’t keep him asleep, but it would make his body very, very heavy, making it less likely to aggravate his injuries. His entire body had been damaged. His insides needed healing and his bones were brittle. It would be at least another three days before he could be restored to reasonable health, and that wasn’t counting his charred hands. According to the doctors, his hands would heal, and they would regain full function, but the scars of his burns would stay forever, like a maze of melted flesh. It could be masked with a simple illusion spell, or “glamour”, usually grounded with a magical object like a ring, or pendant, but if he entered a secured facility like Hogwarts, where wards of trespass were raised, the spell may be nullified while he was on its grounds. McGonagall gave him the pendant, but she said Flitwick made it, and that it would last a lifetime.

He thanked her and owled Flitwick, but it was a minor issue to Harry at the time. The only words he wanted to hear was, “Hermione’s going to be fine.”

The words did not come as soon as he would want.

When Harry asked the healers how Hermione managed to make it, they had mixed theories. They said that something about the Avada Kedavra had been diminished. Like it had tried to kill her, succeeded for a few seconds, but was pushed back by a repelling force. They could only assume that it was something in the shield Ron and Harry put around her, or it could have been a spell Hermione uttered before she was hit. At any rate, when the curse caught her, it wasn’t the same Avada Kedavra that left Voldemort’s wand.

Now she was in a coma because of it. Whatever it was, she was still fighting the curse.

When Harry was pronounced well enough to walk the hospital, he joined Ron’s vigil.

She looked so pale amidst her spill of shiny brown hair. For a while, it horrified Harry to see her like that. However kind the look of peace was on her features, she seemed so much like a corpse prepared for viewing. How can she look so perfectly well groomed and look so dead?

Softly, he had voiced his concerns to Ron, and Ron nodded, understanding completely.

“McGonagall came over yesterday,” said Ron. “Washed her hair and all… cleaned her up. I think I’d rather she looked bedraggled, you know? At least she’d seem like she was tossing in her sleep, or something.”

That was about as far as he and Ron spoke of it. After that, they had just sat around her bed, talking about other things when they felt the need to speak. Sometimes, they talked about their dorm mates Seamus, Dean and Neville; sometimes it was about Fred and George Weasley; sometimes it was about the publicity they were getting as destroyers of Voldemort; a lot of times it was Quidditch.

They didn’t need to tell each other that the flowers Victor Krum kept sending to the hospital didn’t have to be talked about. Ol’ Vicky was a topic too close to their Hermione. Talking about her might tip the delicate balance that was her life. In funerals, people talked about the dead, so Hermione would not be talked about as if she were lying in state. She might still make it. She might.

It didn’t mean they didn’t speak to her, though.

Harry spoke to her when Ron was out fixing 12 Grimmauld Place; their place. Harry could only assume that Ron did the same thing when it was Harry’s turn to run the errands.

They took turns in the hospital now, mainly because they agreed that when “all was right again”, they’d want Grimmauld place to be livable and ready. It didn’t need to be said that they wanted it livable and ready for her. After all, they weren’t particular about living conditions; she was.

What a relief that old Mrs. Black’s painting had been destroyed long before; stripped from its frame and burnt to cinders. Harry didn’t think he’d be able to maintain his sanity if he heard the painting yelling “No mudbloods! Filth! A stain upon this house! Soiled! Disgraced!” while the life of Hermione hung so fragile. He thought maybe he’d have hauled the painting out himself, ripped it savagely from its canvas and watched it burn while he laughed maniacally. Fortunately, or unfortunately, someone else had had the pleasure of getting rid of her long before he even considered destroying the portrait.

The Old Mistress, it seemed, was far noisier, and more malicious than any of them had expected. The lady had, for quite some time, delivered tidbits of information from the Order to the Deatheaters in another canvas. It seemed just to take her down forever when they found her out. No one felt bad for her, except maybe for Kreacher, who eventually wasted away in his grief.

So their turns fixing Grimmauld Place was a good diversion from the worry of Hermione in the hospital, but whenever Harry was alone in the room with her; no Ron to listen and possibly make fun of him later, Harry would lean over her and speak ever so softly.

“You know you have to wake up, don’t you Hermione?” he would ask. “There are three of us. Always has been. What are Ron and I going to do if we lose our third? You’re simply going to have to make it and nag us to our dying days, Hermione. Please, please wake up.”

And when he wasn’t pleading for her to open her eyes, he was speaking to her of everyday things; things she would listen to and laugh about, or scold him about. “A bunch of get-well greetings have been sent to Grimmauld Place for you, Mione. I think Ron’s been hankering to eat the Chocolate Frogs and Jellybeans in the pile, but he’s been pretty grown up about not touching them. Krum keeps sending floral arrangements; as if you need anymore flowers. There are too many of them crowding up this room already. I don’t think the bloke got the message when you told him you only like him as a friend. You did tell him that, didn’t you? Seems too needy for a Quidditch superstar, I think. I swear, Professor Sprout’ll hold classes here some time soon if Krum doesn’t stop sending foliage. Lots of professors have dropped in. You know how all of ‘em love you. You’re their star pupil, after all. So maybe it’s not so much a stretch of the imagination that Snape came by. Could you believe that? I half-expected him to call you a know-it-all, but he acted decent enough. He left a few potions he said would help you gain back your health, told me I should let you work out the dosage because you were the only one with half a brain to get it right. Bloody git. I still can’t bring myself to trust him, even with Mad-Eye vouching for his spying for the Order…”

Sometimes, he felt the need to talk about himself a bit, just because he knew that if she were awake, she would be concerned about him as well. “Ginny came by the other day, you know. Pretty awkward, I admit, even if it has been almost three years since we broke it off. I think she wants me to ask her to go out again, but I’m a little too preoccupied right now to think about things like that. Your condition is delicate, you see, and I don’t know if you’re of a mind to make it. That worries me, you understand, because I want you to get better. I really do, Hermione.”

And when Harry wasn’t with her or Ron, when he couldn’t see the rise and fall of her chest or Ron’s sullen, pouting face, he couldn’t help but contemplate the reality that she could die. As much as he tried to fight those thoughts away, there was no shutting them out. This wasn’t something he could fight with Occlumency; it was something he had to come to grips with by himself. It angered him that he thought about her death. He didn’t know if avoiding such thoughts gave Hermione a better chance in the fight to stay alive, but he knew, at least, that thinking she would make it meant he believed in her, that his loyalty would get her through, like hers did him.

So he didn’t like to be away from the company of either Hermione or Ron for very long.

He was glad to be sitting with Ron now, waiting in supportive silence for Hermione to wake up.

The sun was low in the sky; probably five in the afternoon.

Ron was on one side of the room; Harry in the other. They each occupied a chair that didn’t belong in that room; brought in from one hallway or another. Ron had his long legs sprawled out in front of him as he tipped his chair back, his gaze sweeping over Wizard London and Muggle London alike.

“I think she’ll like her room in Grimmauld Place, Harry,” said Ron distantly. “All beige and organized and with little hints of color. I never thought pink would work for her. Mum and Ginny don’t know her at all.”

Slumped in his seat and his gaze on Hermione still, Harry nodded. “No, they don’t.”

He pulled at the chain of the illusion pendant around his neck. It cast the most uncanny glamour. He couldn’t even feel his scars through the spell, but at night, when he took off the chain to check his burns, there were his scars plain as day. He was mostly healed; its been a month, after all.

One long month, he thought grimly. But I’ll wait as long as I have to.

There was a sound, and it wasn’t the deep, grunting growl of Ron. It was soft, and it pierced the quiet of the room.

It jolted Harry out of his stupor, and Ron practically fell over in his surprise.

“Hermione!” they cried in unison, rushing to both sides of her.

She was stirring.

She’s waking up, thought Harry with desperate anticipation, his gaze on her face. She’s waking up! Oh, Merlin, please let her recognize us. Please… her mind… let her be alright!

He placed his hand on her head, rubbing his thumb gently on her temple. “H-Hermione?”

Ron clutched her hand in both of his, watching her face for a sign that she was waking from her slumber, and that she was on her way to getting better.

Her eyelids twitched before cracking open. Her eyelashes fluttered slowly before lifting completely.

Harry had never thought her eyes so beautiful until then. “Hermione? Can you hear us?” Can you recognize us? Can you even remember? Please remember!

Ron whispered her name.

She stared at them, swallowing as she let something sink in. Her gaze rapidly shifted between Harry and Ron, and then suddenly, she began to cry, and Harry had to hold her, unsure why she had tears at all, partly afraid that something was terribly wrong.

After several minutes, she spoke through her sobs. “You’re alive… you’re both alive!”

Her tears were of relief, then, and it was so ironic that she was shedding those kinds of tears for them, as if she were the one who had been keeping vigil all this time.

“Why of course we’re alive, Hermione,” said Ron. “Did you think for a second we’d go and die on you? Like we were that easy to get rid of!”

She laughed and cried and held on to them as tightly as her weakened grip could manage. “I could—I could hear both your voices, but I was too afraid it was all just a dream! But it wasn’t a dream. It was real, wasn’t it? Oh, Merlin!” She began to sob again, pulling them both into her embrace.

The relief Harry felt was beyond explanation. He breathed. He had been holding it since he found out she was alive. His eyes stung suspiciously, but he held his emotions back.

Moments later, she pulled away. “D-Did…” she croaked. “Did we get him?”

Harry choked on a laugh. That’s right; she didn’t know yet!

Ron made a similar sound. “Oh, Merlin! She gets right down to it, don’t she?”

Harry smiled; really smiled, for the first time in a month. And then he was putting lips to her forehead, holding his end of Hermione gently as Ron held his.

“We got him,” said Harry softly, meeting her gaze as he smoothed back her hair. “He’s gone, Hermione.”

She laughed through her tears and Harry gently wiped them away.

They had a few minutes to themselves before the healer, magically alerted of her rousing, came to check her vitals. Nurses poured into the room, ushering Ron and Harry out. Neither of them wanted to leave, but the healer and nurses spoke to them in gentle, reasonable voices.

“You may see her after we’ve examined her. Please give us room.”

Harry was of a mind to tell them all that they were crowding her, but Ron pulled him out of the room to wait.

When Harry allowed himself to drop in one of the hallway benches, he buried his face in his hands and finally, for a first time in months, allowed himself to really grieve for the dead.

His parents, Sirius Black, Albus Dumbledore, Mr. and Mrs. Granger, Cedric Diggory, Hagrid… oh Hagrid! His first friend; felled in the final battle by his own kind; trampled by giants who rallied by Voldemort. Grawp, too, died defending his brother.

There are many more, really, whose names he couldn’t remember at this time. But Hermione Granger was not among them, and while the death of the others were no less tragic than anyone else’s, Hermione’s death would have taken him with her, maybe not physically, but it would have wounded him so deeply in his tired heart that he would have been the Boy Who Lived, But Didn’t.

Ron slumped beside him, elbows to his knees with his gaze set on nothing in particular as Harry let tears leak from his eyes. “She’s going to get better, Harry. She’s going to be alright.”

It was the only comfort Ron offered, and Harry appreciated it. Harry didn’t think he could take it if Ron embraced him or something like that. Too humiliating.

Harry nodded, lifting his glasses and wiping his eyes on the long sleeve of his shirt. “I don’t know if I could’ve gotten over losing her, Ron. I think maybe I’d have gone nutters if she died.”

Ron sighed, leaning back against the wall. “She’ll deck you for thinking that. You know this, don’t you?” He mimicked Hermione’s posture. “Harry Potter! What do you mean you’ll go nutters if I die? Under no circumstance should you let my death get in the way of your happiness. Now, if I was expelled…”

Harry smiled wanly, chuckling. “She’ll deck you for that.”

“Looking forward to it!”

He let Ron laugh it all up for a bit. It was always Ron’s way. If he wasn’t wrestling his demons down he was laughing at it.

But Harry did wait for what Ron really had to say.

Now they could talk, Harry supposed. Though the healers haven’t said so, Harry saw the life rushing back into Hermione’s eyes and he knew she would make it. She would be alive and well from that day onward, and they would settle her in Grimmauld Place where they would live in utter felicity.

Ron flashed half a smile, his eyes clouding over. “I don’t know what I’d have done if she died, Harry. Probably live the rest of my life blaming you and myself for it.”

Harry chuckled. Typical Ron response, and Harry knew there was more depth to it than Ron would ever let on. Ron loved Hermione just as Harry did. They’d have both lost a very important part of themselves if they lost her.

And that was the whole of it, he supposed. No matter what they lost, gained or kept, Harry, Ron and Hermione were one-third of each other’s lives. They were a trio bound by fire, blood, sweat, tears and love. They were the best of friends; heart, mind and soul.

To Harry, that meant a world of new promises; new futures. He could live his life with them, and they would be his family.

Something had shifted when they were watching her sleep, and now that she was awake, things were actually shifting still.

He would look out for Hermione with extra care. Her parents were gone, and while the Weasleys loved her, most of them—as Ron said—didn’t know her. Only he and Ron really knew her well enough to give her the care and protection she needed. Harry knew he can depend on Ron for that.

It was going to be lovely, living in Grimmauld Place together. They would look after each other, and ask about each other’s day; share in each other’s triumphs and commiserate in their failures.

It was a new Wizarding World for Harry Potter, and he thanked Merlin he and Ron had Hermione back to share it with them.

Beta readers are heaven sent, and none more angelic than Aurabolt, of whom the blush of this fanfic owes its existence to. Oh, sweet Pumpkin Pie!

Standard disclaimers apply.

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Chapter One – Brilliance of His Gaze

In which Hermione asks herself why, what now, and what next.

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It was perfect. It was everything she might have asked for.

Hermione Granger, the brightest, and now most famous, witch of her age, lived with her two best friends, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, who were probably more famous that she was. They showered her with affection and care; sought her approval when they thought it necessary (which was always) and turned to her when they needed mothering (which wasn’t always, but all the more precious for its rarity.)

When they weren’t comfortably basking in each other’s company, they were celebrities; invited for interviews, gala premiers and photo shoots, often together; sometimes individually. They refused more often than they accepted. They did not feel much like celebrating when there were so many lost lives, but survivor’s guilt stood no chance when the ones they loved told them, almost everyday, that they had nothing to be guilty for; that they had saved lives by the thousands. The pain lingered, but the edge wore off, and with the encouragement of those most dear to them, they let themselves realize that the war was over, and that the Wizarding World was safe at last. The novelty of accepting it was overwhelming, but it had its moments. It had its use. It was, in a way, therapeutic, and while Hermione and Harry took it in small doses, Ron took to it with a vengeance.

On Hermione’s part, she had refused being placed on the cover of Witchling: Wizard Magazine, mainly because they wanted her in nothing but skimpy robes and a pointy witch’s hat, but she did rather enjoy being on the cover of Wizard’s Compendium, the wizard gentleman’s quarterly magazine detailing the latest in the discerning wizard’s corporate, sports and casual wear, wizard health, business and the occasional image-spell. She liked having been in her smart (but subtly sexy) business robe, holding her wand like a thinking stick and with Crookshanks staring up at her adoringly as his tail whipped this way and that. Sometimes, especially when Hermione was waving her wand in the air, Crookshanks would slide around her legs. Everyone seemed to love that. Cute pets aside, she looked like she was ready to hex you one minute and then seal a multi-million galleon deal the next.

Hermione figured she was entitled to at least one vanity in her lifetime.

Wizard’s Compendium was the first and last of her commercial exploits. As the months rolled by, she turned down proposals for ad campaigns and other such explosive ventures. She strategically attempted to ease herself back into a regular-life routine (if not absolute obscurity) and began submitting resumes to the varying Ministry offices. She did, after all, feel that she had a lot of catching up to do, career-wise. After they left Hogwarts, she, Harry and Ron devoted all their time and efforts to the Order of the Phoenix. There was a full-blown war, after all, and they weren’t the only ones who put off their careers to fight for the cause. They were soldiers; that was their career for the time being, and only after the defeat of Voldemort was any other career an option. Now was her time to look through those options, and she was going to tackle it with utmost enthusiasm.

Hermione was glad Harry saw eye to eye with her on this aspect and he had eagerly taken a similar path, probably even sooner than she did. It was hard to tell with him, considering he seemed just as busy being the celebrity that they all were, but Hermione knew he couldn’t have gotten his application for Auror-training in so quickly if he had started at the about the same time she began submitting her resumes, so she suspected Harry had been putting in extra hours to secure his place among the Auror hopefuls.

The post-war frenzy made everyone want to be Aurors. The defeat of Voldemort made it seem like such a heroic, impressive job, and of course, it was everyone’s dream to be heroic and impressive. Fortunately (or unfortunately), Harry knew better, and he was applying for the job for all the right reasons. Hermione wouldn’t put it past Harry that he thought he actually had competition for a place in the auror force, hence his diligence in meeting application deadlines.

She actually laughed at him when he asked her help to compose an essay and she promptly pointed out: “You can write about cauldron bottoms and still get the trainee-position, Harry. You defeated Voldemort, for goodness sake… without a wand!”

“That was a fluke!” he cried, before he frowned and retracted his statement a bit. “Sort of…”

“Fluke my arse, Potter. You’ve been doing pretty impressive wandless magic ever since! And—“

“Only the basic spells! I couldn’t do the difficult spells wandless, not since that one time with Voldemort, and let’s not even talk about unlocking charms—“

“AND—“ she continued, as if he hadn’t said anything “—you have your own Chocolate Frog trading card. An auror-in-training’s resume couldn’t get any better than that. They should be rolling out a red-carpet for you.”

Harry had rolled his eyes. “Tonks hasn’t exactly stopped teasing me about that card, thank you very much, and might I remind you that you and Ron have your own cards, simply because you had about as much to do with defeating Voldemort as I did. You almost—well—“

He stopped then, pausing ever so slightly to look like he was suddenly reliving some nightmare in his mind.

Hermione understood that her coma had affected him quite badly, and Ron too, if both their over-protective tendencies were any indication, but they refused to talk about it, with that added feature of Harry looking sick to his stomach whenever he remembered it, so she never pressed, and she was well adapted to continuing conversation as if it never came up in the first place.

She scoffed. “Doesn’t change the fact that you’re the one who really kicked Dark Lord arse, Harry Bloody Potter!”

The Harry “Bloody” Potter always made him grin. He thought it was ridiculously funny. “Shut it. I just want to submit a good essay, that’s all. Are you going to give me a hard time of it, Granger?”

She chuckled, taking his parchment. “Oh, give me that, then. Let’s see what you have.”

And so she helped him write his stellar essay, and his application was accepted, stellar-like, with a letter exploding confetti, fireworks and jellybeans. Poor Hedwig almost popped her feathers as Hermione, Harry and Ron dove for cover under the kitchen table, screaming. Crookshanks was even less pleased, hissing and spitting at Ron as if instinctively knowing it had something to do with him, or his brothers.

“This has Fred and George written all over it! I bet Bill made them to do it, those gits!” cried Ron amidst the whistle of fiery pinwheels and displeased cat-kneazles.

Combustible acceptance letters aside, Ron was the one who enjoyed the attention the most. There was, surprisingly, an odd affection for him as a sidekick. Because Hermione was too much her own person to be considered one, Ron got tagged with the moniker and was actually quite accepting of it. As far as defeaters of Voldemort went, sidekick wasn’t a bad position to be in. It was certainly a heck of a lot more than the rest of the wizarding world, but Hermione supposed it had more to do with Ron’s being Harry Potter’s best friend; the one who “had his back” so to speak, that made him so well-loved. And perhaps, in an imperfect world, there’s always a following for the underdog. Hermione supposed Ron would prefer “sidekick” to “underdog” any day. In any event, he was the guy who had front row seats to the battle between He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and the Boy-Who-Lived. That was beyond wicked.

So Ron was everywhere. He was given invitations to the most exclusive parties and clubs, was made to come out in ad campaigns, was always given (three) complimentary front-row seats to Quidditch games, had a float of his own in parades and he even had his own brand of butterbeer. As much as the fanfare nauseated Hermione, she saw that it made him happy, and that was enough for her to be supportive.

She was only too glad to have peace and quiet in Grimmauld Place. As popular as the house was, very few could actually see it. It was visible to a select few, and accessible to in-house apparation to even fewer. Order members, of course, could simply apparate in its front yard, walk up to its porch and ring the bell, and a few other friends, mostly from Hogwarts, could do the same, but only Hermione, Harry and Ron were allowed to apparate in its living room, courtesy of built-in house wards. Harry explained that the house recognized its true residents, and it was only by unanimous consent of all living in it could permission be granted for others to apparate within the house’s protective walls.

Ron, for one, was glad he didn’t have to come up with lame excuses for his mother as to why she couldn’t just apparate in the house. “Don’t tell her about the unanimous consent thing, Harry. It would be a nightmare to have mum coming and going as she pleases. I love her, but she’s mum for Merlin’s sake.”

It was little surprise that Remus had apparating rights, but he stalwartly declared that he would use the porch, just like everyone else, because God forbid he ever apparate on something he shouldn’t be apparating into.

At any rate, they all agreed that he was always welcome in the house, and he could come and go as he pleased, any hour of the day, for whatever reason he saw fit and he could even stay there, for as long as necessary. It’s what Sirius would have wanted, after all.

Remus demurred, saying his Marauder rights were up and that he would let the next generation of Marauders have it, but he expressed his appreciation for their sentiments. The old werewolf could not help but be touched.

Hermione was glad she could share many quiet moments with Harry and Ron, most nights just Harry. Ron had a terribly busy schedule, and Harry got in late besides since he began training.

She found that she had a bit of difficulty selecting which job opportunity she wanted to pursue. She had many offers from big name corporations and magical research institutions, but what she really wanted was a job in the Ministry, and the Ministry was being a Bitch. It sent her one refusal after another, condescendingly pointing out that while she had all the qualifications and more, they didn’t feel she would adapt to the Ministry’s working environment and office culture. Hermione knew it was because she had caused quite an uproar with her latest S.P.E.W. proposals.

She would never confess this sad truth to Harry and Ron, because it almost felt like she was admitting failure, and she didn’t ever want to admit to something like that. Not Hermione Granger. No way. She vowed that she would never let her personal goals get in the way of her principles, so unfairly refused applications or not, she would submit S.P.E.W. proposals whenever she damn well thought it appropriate.

She didn’t think her current state of unemployment particularly troubling, anyhow. Worse came to worse, she could get a job, but she was willing to fight it out with the Ministry to give her a place in its holier-than-thou walls, and she actually found the challenge invigorating. Besides, it wasn’t as if she didn’t have other sources of income for the meantime. She did. She was, in fact, financially secured for the next year. Money was not a problem.

Everything was perfect.

So Hermione wondered why, especially on nights when she was completely alone in the house, did she feel so utterly lonely?

0000000000000000000

Hermione tore open yet another Ministry letter as soon as she untied it from Hedwig’s upraised claw.

Hedwig hooted from her perch on the kitchen window, as if to say, “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

She smiled, reaching for a bird-treat. “Sorry ‘bout that, Hedwig. Of course you deserve thanks. Here.” She gave Hedwig the treat, smoothed her ruffled feathers and watched the snowy owl set off for the sanctuary upstairs.

Having done her duty, Hermione sat at the kitchen table to read her letter. Crookshanks hopped on her lap, purring as if preparing himself to comfort his mistress at the inevitable Ministry refusal.

It wasn’t a refusal. Well, at least not outright. The letter mentioned that she was a menace to the status quo, etcetera, etcetera, but she did possess certain qualities that this particularly “obscure” Ministry office required. It was the Wizengamot Counsel’s Office, and they needed an assistant Interrogator. The primary Interrogator was a wizard named Thane Archibald, and his second was Winston Heartcomb. She would be assistant to Heartcomb, and Archibald, too, when the need arose. Hermione figured it meant she would be assisting both, but Heartcomb first before Archibald.

She was being made to report at level two, Wizengamot Administration Services Council of Law. The stern reminder of “This is not an acceptance. Your employment is yet to be decided after careful consideration of your upcoming interview,” wasn’t as unnerving as it probably should have been. Hermione had put up with enough written rejection from the Ministry to actually want someone to at least tell her to her face that she wasn’t wanted.

“Bloody cowards, the lot of them,” she had often grumbled.

Thoughts of rejection aside, Hermione didn’t even know there was such an office until then. She was under the impression that the prosecution in court of accused wizards fell in the hands of—well—the Wizengamot. She didn’t realize there was actually an office for Interrogators.

Well, I’ll take what I’m given. It’s a start, and who says I couldn’t use the office’s obscurity to my advantage? Those blockheads in the big offices will never see me coming!

Thus enervated, she decided to learn more about the Wizengamot Counsel’s Office, or as she later found out: WizCOF. Care for a lozenge?

It was a Ministry inside-joke she would come to hate.

With her usual efficiency and enthusiasm, Hermione wrote out her itinerary for the following day.

It was late in the night, and Harry and Ron were still out of the house, so she didn’t bother bringing her work to the library. She quilled-in her plans seated at the kitchen table while she ate muggle potato crisps, which Ron declared to be brilliant. “Especially dipped in sour-cream and onion sauce!”

Stubborn to the core, Hermione decided she would stop by the Magical Legislation Committee to submit another S.P.E.W. proposal. It was really nothing more than a detailing of the more important, general proposal she submitted the previous week, but she liked to pound her convictions over the heads of the committee, or at least she liked to remind them that they couldn’t scare her that easily. She didn’t need to antagonize the lot of committee members anymore than she already has, but they were beyond liking her long before, so this little proposal wouldn’t do anymore worse damage to her reputation, but just like every proposal she had submitted, the Legislative Committee had an obligation to present it to the higher law making bodies, whether they liked the author of the proposal or not. Besides, it wasn’t as if she didn’t have sympathizers in the committee. There was at least one who was rumored to agree with her; one Cecily Ackwater. Hermione had no idea if the rumor was true.

After the important meetings, she figured she could squeeze in a trip to Fred and George’s store. She had come up with a funny new invention and she had the specifications; for the twins to test its feasibility. In the past, she had managed to get two of her inventions up on the shelves and both sold so successfully that Fred and George were always niggling her to come up with more. They had, of course, offered to give her a percentage of the inventions’ profits for as long as the product stayed on the shelves, but Hermione instead opted to sell them the patent so they didn’t have to pay her royalty forever. Their insistence on sharing the profits convinced her to take a profit share of one year, no more. Everybody happy.

Ultimately, it was an acceptable source of income for her while she was unemployed (it supported her Book Addiction just fine, as well as a brand new addiction she had come to acquire, free of the stresses of war: shoes), and she enjoyed having this little secret with the twins. They thought it a grand joke, too, so they liked the secret as much as she did.

It was during Hermione’s planning that she decided to improve on her proposal and thus stayed up later than she was wont.

She was almost done with the revisions when she heard a loud crack from the living room. So attuned was she to the nuances of her best friends’ apparitions that she knew by sound who had arrived. It was too early for Ron, anyway.

She looked up at the Whereabouts Clock hanging on the kitchen wall.

It was a clock reminiscent to the one at the Burrow, only instead of nine hands, there were three: One for Ron, one for Harry and one for her. It contained the standard indicators: home, school, work, traveling, lost, hospital, prison and mortal peril. There was an extra indicator that said “out”, which she put there specifically for Ron who was always “out” as in: out on dates, out partying, and out doing Merlin-Knew-What.

Right now, Harry’s hand shifted from “traveling” to “home”. Ron’s… well, that was a no-brainer.

“Hi, Harry!” she called from the kitchen, not removing her gaze from her parchment.

Harry dragged himself through the kitchen, his face drawn weary. He pushed up his glasses briefly to rub at his eyes before setting them back down on the bridge of his nose. Out of habit, he scratched at his lightning scar.

“Hey there, Hermione. You’re up late.” He went to the magical chill-box, opening it to rummage for something. He brought out one of Ron’s butterbeers.

Crookshanks gave a yowl as he jumped off Hermione’s lap, quickly padding to Harry and winding affectionately around his legs.

He gave Crookshanks a nice scratch behind the ears. “Hi there, boy. Been keeping Hermione company, haven’t you?”

The cat-kneazle rewarded him with a purr, as if to say yes, before he slid out of Harry’s reach and out of the kitchen. Perhaps Crookshanks knew Hermione had company now and that he could go back to his usual haunts.

Hermione nodded. “Crookshank’s a dear, that way. I’ve been busy. I have to get this done now if I want to get anything done tomorrow.”

“More spew?”

“That’s S.P.E.W. to you, Potter.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.”

She looked up, expecting that he would be cocking her that grin Witch Weekly declared to be the most charming since Lockhart conned the Wizarding World. She agreed heartily with Witch Weekly on that, but Harry’s grin lacked luster this time. He looked tired.

“Shaklebolt drive you hard today?” she asked, smiling as she offered the crisps.

He ate some and nodded. He spoke through the crisp. “Man’s an unforgivable curse in himself. He had me dodging boggarts all morning and rounding up hostile pixies in the afternoon. He hates pixies, so naturally he assigns me that job.”

Hermione pitied him the boggarts but knew that Harry was more than capable of fending off boggart-created Dementors. “Well, at least you got to practice your patronus summoning skills.”

Harry was silent for a few seconds, tilting his bottle of butterbeer idly as he thought. He had a look of pain on his face, as if someone had poked a stick at a healing wound. “I’m not afraid of Dementors any more, you know. I mean, they still give me the willies, but I seemed to have… developed a fear deeper than that these last few months.”

She knew immediately that the tiredness so evident in the slump of his shoulders was from a little more than physical fatigue. “I’m listening, Harry.”

Hermione found that the unobtrusive quality of “I’m listening,” as opposed to, “Do you want to talk about it?” worked better for her boys. They were often less resistant to it. Often was the operative word; not “always”.

He smiled wanly, resolving to eat more crisps. “I know. That makes me feel better already. Is Ron still out?”

That was Harry for “Thank you for being concerned, Hermione, but I’d rather not say...” Hermione tried not to roll her eyes at the absurdity of it. He was as guarded about his emotions as always.

“Ron’s still out,” she said. “Probably another one of his ridiculous parties. But you’re in quite late yourself, Harry. Don’t tell me Shacklebolt made you stay in after he put you through all that.”

“Oh, he didn’t. Gail Coppercane asked me out to the Leaky Cauldron for happy hour. A bunch of other Aurors-in-training were there. I really needed to unwind, so…”

“Always good to unwind,” said Hermione, going back to writing on her parchment with nonchalant ease.

She felt that harsh twist inside her when Harry mentioned other women. Every inch of her knew Harry didn’t like her in that way, and while she had supposedly gotten over this unimpeachable fact after he kissed Ginny Weasley in the Gryffindor common room in sixth year, she realized that having him single throughout seventh year and the critical year after that had managed to awaken a sad little hope in her. Forever the realist, Hermione never lost sight of the fact that—well—she didn’t seem to be his type at all, but sometimes it was easy to forget whenever he took such good care of her, especially these last few months.

He was always very thoughtful with her, like when he remembered she had a craving for egg-rolls one day when even she had forgotten about it already, or when he bought books on impulse because he thought she might find them interesting, and how he always asked if she wanted company to go somewhere; so that she didn’t have to be alone, he said. The only reason she didn’t think Harry felt more than friendship for her was his occasional mention of strange women. He went out with them, as was expected of a handsome, famous and young bachelor such as himself, but the thing about Harry was that he had this look in his eyes, like he was constantly in search of The One. It wasn’t hard to deduce that he wanted what James Potter had with Lily Evans; that same all-encompassing love. It was romantic, but such a quest directed at other women was thoroughly heartbreaking as far as Hermione was concerned. He was out there looking for his greatest love because he hadn’t found it in 12 Grimmaul Place.

Well, lah-dee-dah, there’s nothing a dashing bachelor would find remotely attractive in S.P.E.W. and library-couture, so don’t act so surprised, Granger, she often thought bitterly.

As for Ron—the Boy Who Was Supposed to Fancy Her—, he was never quite that consistent to begin with. The fact of the matter was she could’ve loved Ronald Bilius Weasley, red-headed temper and all, if he hadn’t been so damn eager to suck Lavender Brown’s face in sixth year and the face of every starlet in these last few months. She supposed she was a little jealous when he harried off to yet another date with “this really hot bird”, but not so much that she would be as bitter about it as she was about Harry’s women. Ron was thoroughly enjoying his blonde (brunette… redheaded… in all colors, really) bombshells and he had absolutely no plans of settling with a proper young woman who can put two sentences together without pouting fashionably between dangling participles. Ultimately, her feelings for Ron before could be considered her way of “settling for the next best thing”, but if they ever did get together, she would be of a mind to deny that “settling” concept to her dying day. It would be unnecessarily cruel of her to tell him that he was second—even in her affections—to Harry Bloody Potter.

So maybe she loved Harry, and she fancied Ron (sometimes), but no one could accuse her of being a selfish spoiled brat, because she hadn’t really said anything to either of them to stop them from seeing and being with their bimbos—

Er, women, I mean.

It went without saying that hearing Harry being with another girl hurt for real. Ron’s exploits annoyed her, but Harry dealt that proverbial knife through her heart every time he mentioned someone new. Hermione sometimes felt masochistic and had the urge to ask him about Ginny, but she hadn’t enough painkillers handy for that one.

She ground out her frustrations about this new name—this Gail Coppercane—by churning out more nouns and adjectives in her proposal, and only after she’d included “bodacious” in the legal jargon did she look up. It had all taken no more than a few seconds, really, but she did, after all, have incredible self-possession. She met Harry’s steady gaze without blinking once.

“How’s Tom, by the way?” she asked.

He blinked first. “He’s alright. Business has been up since the end of the war. I s’pose there are more things to drink to, these days.”

Her mobile telephone rang and he smirked at the look of displacement on Harry’s face. She had cast an enchantment on Grimmauld Place to get a cell-signal for hers, Harry’s and Ron’s phone while they were in the house, and it pretty much worked everywhere else except enclosed magic-warded places. Predictably, the two boys didn’t find the phone as handy as she did, but the reason she gave them telephones in the first place was so that she could contact them from anywhere. It wasn’t her fault wizards didn’t use “telly-phonies”. It was just as well. It meant 99.9% of the time their lines would be free for her calls to get through.

She checked her caller I.D. and was pleasantly surprised to discover Ron’s name flashing on her digital screen. “Why, it’s Ronald!” she couldn’t help but exclaim as she exchanged grins with Harry. It was the first time Ron ever used the mobile and she couldn’t help but feel a bit of thrill. She answered the call.

An unfamiliar female voice spoke through, music beating in the background. “Is this Hermione Granger?”

Hermione’s smile melted to nothing and morphed into a frown. “Yes. Who is this?”

“Oh, goodness! It really is you on his speed dial! So you really are friends! I thought it was some kind of nutty propaganda!”

“Who the hell is this?”

There was a clatter, and suddenly Ron’s voice was there, laughing. “Hi, Hermione!”

“Ronald, what was that?”

“That was Nancy! I mean—Nina! Oh, bother, it’s so hard to keep track of names!”

Hermione felt her annoyance rising. “I am working, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t have your groupies calling me, unless you’re dead or bleeding to death on some blooming sidewalk!”

“Well, don’t go in a snit. I was just being nice to her! She wanted to hear the voice of the great Hermione Granger—“

“Goodbye, Ronald.” Hermione snapped her phone shut and banged it on the tabletop. “Unbelievable.” She went back to her parchment but felt Harry looking at her. She met his gaze; his was expectant and she arched a questioning eyebrow.

He kept staring with the same look.

She quit guessing. “What? Something on my face?”

His brows knotted. “No. It’s nothing… I think I’ll go to bed now.” He got up, leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Goodnight, Hermione.”

Hermione liked these kisses, even if they were meant to be brotherly and nothing else. “Goodnight, Harry.”

He flashed a weary smile, squeezed her shoulder and left the kitchen.

She watched him go, sighing softly. “Books and cleverness…” she muttered. “Who cares about that except me?”

000000000000000000000

The following morning, Hermione found herself anxiously smoothing out dark-gray kimono-inspired business robes. She checked her high-heeled shoes and stockings. No runs on the nylon; Mary Janes were perfect. She didn’t care what the Wizarding World said; muggle shoes were a joy. She touched her hair; it was swept up to perfection and the two oriental pins held it tightly in place.

She gave the WizCOF waiting room another survey, trying to familiarize herself with the territory.

The entire office was a hole in the wall; literally. When Hermione first arrived in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement on Level Two, she spent almost ten minutes going back and forth down a designated hallway looking for the said office. Imagine her chagrin when she discovered that she had been passing the WizCOF door again and again simply because she had thought the hole in the wall was an accident pending repairs. Was it her fault that the sign by the door looked like some poorly tacked-on “Wet Paint, do not lean” sign scribbled on by some kindergartener?

Of course, once she stepped through the powdery, crackling stone, the office looked bigger than it seemed (but not by much.)

The waiting room itself was a mess. There were books, scrolls and quills scattered everywhere. There were two owls perched on the ceiling beams, peering down with their wide, blinking eyes. They shook their feathers then ignored her. There were windows lined up on one wall, overlooking a steamy bog. There had to be something living in the greenish goop of pond-water, as was the Wizarding World’s wont. Hermione stopped trying to figure out how in the world there could be a bog outside windows that weren’t supposed to be there in the first place… in level two of the Ministry no less!

The waiting room was about as large as a storage closet, and to the far left from the entrance was a dungeon-like, tall wooden door placed against ancient, moldy stone. The door had a slot at the top, but the slot was closed. She could only assume it was the door to the office proper.

Hermione’s first steps into the waiting room sent her crashing to the floor, a book flying from beneath her foot. She landed on her behind and she cursed soundly, forgetting that someone might hear her. The owls hooted but left her alone.

Gathering her bearings, she went to the door and grabbed hold of the knocker. She rapped it, and the sound was inadequately pert. She didn’t know if anybody could’ve heard anything through the thick door.

She was about to use the knocker again, more vigorously this time, when the slot slid open and she met deep brown eyes topped by thick, bushy eyebrows looking down at her.

“Yes?” croaked a toad, for that was the only way Hermione could describe the quality of the voice.

“H-Hermione Granger, sir. I—“

“There’s no Hermione Granger here.”

She blinked. “Yes, I know. I’m Hermione Granger. I received—“

“You’re Hermione Granger? Well, why didn’t you say that in the first place? Would’ve saved me the trouble of asking!”

“But—“ She stopped, immediately realizing it would be futile. “Yes, sir.”

She stood there, waiting for him to open the door, but he merely stared out at her, unmoving.

“Well?” he asked. “What do you want, Hermione Granger?”

Hermione blinked back her befuddlement. “This office sent me an owl telling me to come here today so I can speak to Messrs. Archibald and Heartcomb.”

“The office sent you an owl?” he cried in amazement. “How can an office do that? It doesn’t have hands to write with, or a brain to think with, for that matter! If an office can hexing well write owls, I’d have it make me tea and scones! Office sending an owl… the idea!”

Hermione felt the first signs of frustration. “I didn’t mean—sir, I’d just like to speak to Mr. Heartcomb. The owl said he was considering me to be his assistant.”

“Assistant to the owl, you say? Didn’t even know those feathery things could talk! What does Mr. Heartcomb have to do with any of that, then?”

Hermione had a strong urge to pull at her hair and scream.

“Thane,” came a dignified voice from behind him. It sounded old, and wobbly, much more ancient than how Dumbledore used to sound. “Is someone looking for me?”

Before Thane Archibald could speak, Hermione tiptoed as near to the slot as she could. “Mr. Heartcomb! It’s Hermione Granger! I think you might have sent me an owl—“

“Granger?” said Heartcomb. “Why, yes, Granger! Well, of course I sent you an owl! It’s only proper, isn’t it? Thane, let her in. And send that other person you were talking to, away. She’s wasting mine and Ms. Granger’s time!”

Hermione decided she wasn’t going to be the one to explain this very odd situation to Heartcomb.

Thane Archibald’s response was uncannily simple. “I think she’s gone now, Winston. Good riddance, I say. She sounded rather batty. Office sending an owl…”

He swung the door open and Hermione carefully walked across the threshold. The office proper was neater… but not by much. The twenty-foot shelves lining the walls were filled with books and scrolls, some of the volumes rattling in place. The entire room looked like it extended a mile down, and the farther down the aisle, the more active the shelves. The shelves spat books at each other, the dismayed cries of the tomes whistling in the air. Amazingly, the disenfranchised books shimmied back to their shelves quite desperately. A lot of the mess was confined to the two enclosed cubicles nearby set on opposite sides of the office. She could only assume they belonged to Thane Archibald and Winston Heartcomb. There was a utility table in the center of the room, like the dining tables they had in the Great Hall at Hogwarts, but miniaturized to sit three on each side instead of a hundred. Atop it were a collection of the strangest things. They may have either come from the junkshop further down Diagon Alley or Borgin and Burkes in Knockturn. She spotted one with a label floating just above it that said, “Item 12^th; Case No. 231546423156 and so on and so forth.” There were other items that were labeled as well, but she couldn’t read what was written on them.

Pulling her gaze from the room, she let her eyes fall on Archibald and Heartcomb.

Archibald did not look like a toad. Archibald looked like a wisp of a tall man with wide brown eyes, white, bushy eyebrows and absolutely no other hair anywhere else. He wore a pinstripe brown robe with tasteful silver frills. His feet were clad in gleaming black boots; no heels. He was tall enough as he was; at least as tall as Ron who was almost a foot taller than her.

Heartcomb was of regular height, the same build as Archibald, but he had more hair. It went all the way down his back streaked in white, gold and gray. His robes were black pinstriped, but he wore a dangling round pendant down his front—the image on which wasn’t quite discernible—sparkly gem-encrusted rings, a trimmed mustache and silver shoes; heeled with bows at the arch. The heels pegged him to be about as tall as Harry.

That was the way with her, she supposed. Harry and Ron were always her gauge for the men-folk.

“Why, you’re a child!” cried Heartcomb, horrified.

“No children in this office!” barked Archibald.

Hermione’s eyes flashed. She had suffered the worse kinds of criticism from the Ministry, and so she knew how to hold her own against them, whoever they were. “Mr. Heartcomb and Mr. Archibald, I am not a child. According to Wizarding Law, a witch and wizard shall be declared of-age on and after the seventeenth year of his or her birth! I am twenty, going on twenty-one, and incidentally, I stopped being a child when I turned eleven!”

“Hang on,” said Archibald. “Aren’t you the one on the—what was that in the papers, Thane? Something about someone, something…”

Heartcomb’s brows knotted in thought. “Good God, Archibald! What could this child have to do with an Antipodean Opaleye? She’s so little!”

I am not little! And she wasn’t all that small, anymore, really. Somehow, she grew another few inches before she hit the eighteen-year-old mark for women, and she managed to hit five feet and six inches, but Ron, Harry and practically everyone else she knew (mostly Weasleys) were so tall she was definitely dwarfed by comparison.

Archibald continued to speak. “Not that! The one with the chap who doesn’t want to be named…”

Hermione almost had a stroke hearing them refer to Voldemort as a “chap” who “doesn’t want to be named,” for she could only assume they were talking about that.

Recognition sparked in Heartcomb’s eyes. “Ah, yes! With that young man… Gardener, was it? Or maybe Planter.”

“That’s Potter,” said Hermione, unable to help herself. “Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. The Chosen One—“

“Well, no wonder the poor chap couldn’t remember his own name! He has so many of them!” said Heartcomb. “Tragic, really. Now, what should we do about this child?”

Hermione grit her teeth. “Mr. Heartcomb, you were the one who summoned me here. From what I read in your letter, you wanted to determine whether I was fit for this office—“

“Egad! All that kerfuffle to get me an assistant! It’s quite simple really: Can you read?”

“Of course I can read!” she cried indignantly.

“And are you quite willing to learn the Magical Laws of our lovely Great Britain in all its moods and nuances? Can you write about them? Laud their precision and wave it proudly in the face of those who disrespect it?”

Hermione raised her nose haughtily at his utter nonsense. “I am willing to learn, yes, and I know I will be able to grasp it in all its ‘moods and nuances’. I can certainly write about them and use it to build a strong case against the rightfully accused, but I have my issues with certain laws, particularly those governing elves.”

“Humph!” sniffed Archibald. “We can certainly condition that out of your pretty little head! But the rest of your qualities will do. I might like you. What do you think, Winston?”

“Minerva did recommend her. Highly, I might add, and she doesn’t give in lightly, that witch.”

Hermione might have fallen all over again in her surprise that McGonagall had recommended her to these—these bumbling fools!

Hermione, calm down. There must be a perfectly good explanation as to why McGonagall sent you here. She loves you, remember? She would never do anything mean to you, right?

Archibald sniffed again. “Indeed. And with all those Deatheaters getting their trial dates postponed, they’re really too much to handle by ourselves…”

Hermione’s interest was suddenly piqued. “Pardon me… Deatheaters? Aren’t they all in Azkaban?”

Heartcomb rolled his eyes. “Well, not all of them. There are still quite a bit roaming free; as fugitives, of course, but I’d expect the aurors to round up the lot of them soon.”

Archibald nodded. “And those that are in Azkaban have been properly convicted. However, there are still those out on bail. Due process, you know. I don’t expect they’d be doing anything nasty while they’re awaiting trial, though. It’ll be bad for their case if they get caught pre-trial doing unsavory things. With their supposed leader dead, they have no one to turn to but themselves!”

Hermione suddenly didn’t feel like she had walked into a hole in the wall and it suddenly became absolutely clear why McGonagall wanted her there. “Of course; due process. Mr. Heartcomb; Mr. Archibald; it would be an honor to work for your office, if only to lighten your burden. I promise you that I will give you nothing but my best efforts and I will see to it that every Deatheater who has ever postponed a hearing will be duly processed if I have to use every Magical Law in these crotchety shelves!”

Heartcomb scoffed. “We’ll see about that! Thane, we will consider Miss Granger, won’t we?”

“We will,” said Archibald. “At the very least, she was tenacious enough to find the office door. Most applicants just miss it altogether.”

I wonder why, thought Hermione wryly.

Heartcomb nodded. “We shall send you an owl, Miss Granger, informing you of our decision. Good day to you.”

Hermione nodded. “Good day.”

She was feeling good enough to give each of them a firm handshake. This initially dismal prospect was beginning to look terribly interesting; in fact, she believed that she could actually love this job.

She left the office proper and climbed out of the hole in the wall. Shoes clacking smartly on the stone floors, she headed to the Legislative Committee, her smile growing wider as she went.

Thank you, Professor McGonagall!

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Hermione left the Legislative Committee’s office with her cheeks aglow. She had learned during her past dealings with the committee that her proposals were considered no more than nuisances in their dockets. She had learned that while she can convey her convictions through constant submissions, follow-up and lobbying, she couldn’t very well yell at any of them, whether she had reason to or not. She often kept her cool, letting her cause and proposals speak for themselves, but it didn’t mean that the condescending tones and acidic comments they made at her expense didn’t affect her.

By all things magical, Hermione had dealt with worse, what with Malfoy and his goons calling her “mudblood”, but she hated it when she was being patronized. At least with Draco, she knew that his disdain stemmed from his being threatened by her; because she was brighter, and better, but the flunkies at the Legislative office didn’t care if she was the brightest witch of her age. They didn’t care that she had helped defeat Voldemort. They didn’t give a damn that she was friends with the great Harry Potter. All they knew was that she was an annoying young lady who was fighting a cause no one cared to support. She was a fly in their ointment; a bother to their busy lives.

It made her want to scream, and it was enough to throw ice-cold water on the good mood she had built up after her meeting with Heartcomb and Archibald.

Her foul temper churned within her as she left the Legislative Committee’s office and headed for the fireplace that would take her to the Atrium.

She considered passing by the Law Enforcement Squad’s office to see if Harry was free to have an early lunch but decided against it. He would surely notice her bad mood and she probably wouldn’t be much for company, anyway.

Grumbling, she turned a corner and ran right smack into a wizard. She felt the jarring collision through her body, like she had ran into a stone wall, and she stumbled back, barely keeping her poise as she felt her head spin. It was the oddest thing, to be so bowled over. She hadn’t been walking that fast, and the man she ran into wasn’t that big, but there she was, feeling lightheaded, like something taken her by the legs and shook her like a rattle.

Someone steadied her with a firm grip and she believed it was the only thing keeping her on her feet.

“Shhhham it!” she cried, beating down the flare of pain from her knocked forehead by sheer will. She didn’t care if she was partly to blame. She was in a bad mood, dammit, and she hated it even more that this wizard had an entourage of official-looking men all scuttling to see to him when she was the one who felt like she had been hit by a cannonball. “Watch where you’re going!”

“You watch where you’re going!” said one of the haughtier robes.

She sneered, glaring at him. Oh, she knew these types of wizards; looking and smelling like galleons a mile away; in-love enough with money to let themselves be yes-men who would kiss their employer’s arse if their employer so required. Too much like Malfoy for her not to judge them. She was about to spit out, “Paid you to say that, didn’t he?” when she set her spinning gaze to the wizard she had collided with.

She promptly hated herself for thinking that he was quite the gorgeous specimen. Sure, he looked, at first glance, to be the type to call her “mudblood”, what with his polished, platinum hair, but his eyes—they were the kindest, warmest eyes she ever did see… or something like it. They were a peculiar shade of purple; beautiful, shimmering and sincere, and if she were the slightest bit inclined, she would have been content to look at those magnificent orbs forever. But she pulled her gaze away, almost afraid to get lost in them, turning her eyes instead to the rest of him. And when she was done admiring the finer features of his nose, mouth and forehead, she found her gaze traveling to the svelte shape of his build.

It was astounding that he had seemed so strong when she ran right smack into him. Looking at him, he seemed almost delicate, like he had gained strength from dancing instead of—say—Quidditch. But she recalled how firmly he stood his ground, how his grip had held her steady, and now he was holding her, it seemed, blocking her body against the haughty “yes man”.

“Favisham,” he said in a softly reproachful voice. “Do mind your manners.”

It certainly took the fight out of her. Gingerly, she slid out of his grasp, stepping back and regaining her dignity; thankful that she hadn’t “spat” her words at the so-named Favisham. It was then she realized that the wizard looked somewhat familiar, though it was difficult to put a name to him, considering she was still reeling a bit from his devastatingly good looks. Amazingly, she didn’t stutter when she said, “Well, I’d say it’s rather too late for him to do that. Excuse me.”

She made a motion to leave.

“Miss Granger?”

She was quite used to people recognizing her, by now, but she wasn’t enough of a diva yet to ignore those who called her by name. It also struck her how the sound of this beautiful stranger’s voice saying her name caused a panicked flutter in her heart. Not trusting herself to say anything very complicated, she put on a mask of martyr-like patience and turned to look at him. “Umm-hmm?”

He was smiling. How she despised herself for thinking the smile swoon-worthy.

“Hermione Granger… brilliant,” he said in his honeyed tone. “How I’ve wanted to meet you for so long. I should have known I would find the opportunity here in the Ministry. Your proposals on Elf Rights are a fascinating study in slavery and its abolition.”

She blinked; shocked, really. “You’ve read—“ She stopped, frowning as realization struck. Of course he hasn’t read it. Who has? Even the flunkies at the Legislative Committee’s Office haven’t bothered! And of course he knows about my efforts on Elf Rights; I mentioned S.P.E.W. in my Wizard’s Compendium interview! “Well, that’s the most insightful pick-up line I’ve heard so far! Not creative; insightful. Goodbye, Mister—“

“Lysander Athanasius. I am so very pleased to meet you.”

She glared at him. “I wasn’t planning on knowing your name.” She turned and stalked away, thinking, where have I heard that name before?

“Your accompanying thesis on Elf vs. a Corporation as a Legal Entity was judiciously enlightening, Miss Granger. I especially liked your point about Corporations establishing a non-corporeal existence based on laws originally intended to free slaves from bondage.”

That actually got her to stop in her tracks. That hadn’t been in the interview. “You—“

“Read it, yes. They’re open to the public at the Legislative Committee’s archives. I’ve developed a habit of looking forward to your submissions. You submit a new one every Friday, don’t you? So I assume you came from the L.C.O.”

She stared at him, mouth agape. His smile widened, perhaps knowing he had finally made a positive impression.

She blinked and she wracked her brain for a reason to tell him off. She couldn’t find one, at least not in the state she was in. Here was someone who actually had respect for her beloved S.P.E.W., and she was suddenly ashamed for wanting to bite his head off earlier.

Letting the astonishment diminish, she told herself that of course, there were people out there who could actually think beyond themselves and be more than what was expected of them.

She finally graced him with a respectful nod, her features softening. “Thank you. I worked particularly hard on that thesis. Nobody has—thank you.”

“Nobody has appreciated it,” he finished for her. “Please, Miss Granger, let’s start over.” He stepped towards her, straightening his robes as he extended one hand. “Lysander Athanasius. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

She blushed fiercely as she took his hand. “And I’m glad to have met you, Mr. Athanasius.”

“Please call me Lysander,” he said, the gentle but firm grip of his hand distracting her ever so slightly. “And you were right, you know.”

She arched an eyebrow. She wasn’t sure about what he was referring to. “Right? About what?”

He hadn’t let go of her hand, turning her palm over with the least demanding touch. “About the pick-up line. It wasn’t creative. But given the circumstances, I was too flustered to spout anything worth your intelligence. Forgive me, but I was too desperate to meet you.”

“Mister Ath—“

“Lysander.”

“L-Lysander, that’s quite alright. I think—I think my opinion of you has changed, anyway…” Hermione almost widened her eyes at her forwardness. As much as she loathed playing mind games when it came to attraction, she at least wanted to come off as a bit mysterious, particularly with someone she just met. How very dowdy of you, Hermione Granger! “Well, anyway, I must be going!”

“Of course you must.” He gracefully bent over her hand as he brought it to his lips.

Oh Merlin, he’s—he’s kissing my hand! Who DOES THAT these days?

He does, apparently; probably to every fluttery bird he mesmerizes in government facilities.

Trying not to seem overly uncomfortable, she took her hand back, gave a stiff nod to Lysander and his posse and strode to the fireplace without looking back.

As she stepped over the hearth, she turned to face the hallway with complete poise and saw Lysander’s gaze still on her. She kept her demeanor cool and composed as she said, “Atrium!”, secretly cheering for how she handled the walk-away.

Nice save, Granger! She thought, grinning. At least you didn’t look like a total Hermio-ninny!

Oh, but the eyes on that man! I simply couldn’t be blamed for screwing my part up so badly. Made me forget I had a brain at all.

She paused in her musings as a new thought began to form.

Made me forget, period…

And that, she realized, was his strongest allure.

SPECIAL THANKS to my beta reader Aurabolt! Really, this entire fic would be a disjointed mess without him! And his true love for H+Hr is inspirational indeed. ^_^

Standard disclaimers apply.

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Chapter Two – Milk for Her Bitter Tea

In which Hermione deals with the women in Harry’s and Ron’s lives and somewhat appreciates the men in hers.

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“The Snarky Shoes sold as well as we expected,” said Fred.

George grinned. “Which was about as long as blokes could stand to take a beating from offended witches.”

Hermione looked between them clutching her stack of newly bought books. She grinned at the twins’ account of their latest to late product: the Snarky Shoes. The shoes looked relatively ordinary, and even fashionable, until they began to get comfortable to the wearer and started to criticize other people’s shoes with hilarious commentary. Sometimes the shoes “looked” up witches’ robes and criticized more than just footwear, hence offended witches everywhere who didn’t like their under-things being called “Lacey Daisies.”

As Fred and George said, they expected that the product’s monumental sales of the first and second week fell by the third, when the shoes began to get too comfortable.

“I suppose I’d be a little upset with a bloke whose shoes called mine names,” said Hermione, thinking that her footwear deserved more respect than that. She looked at them lovingly. “Harry thinks I spend too much money on them, but he said that if I was going to give an arm and a leg for each pair, he may as well say nice things about them. He likes these in particular, he said.” She shoved her foot out from beneath her robe to show it to George who stood closer to her.

She stared at her Mary Janes, remembering fondly Harry’s smile when he saw her modeling them in front of the drawing room mirror.

“I think those are worth the arm and leg, at least,” he had said.

“Oh, you think so, don’t you?” She was vastly amused at the time, as Harry never really gave his opinion about her footwear before, unless she asked him. She figured this particular pair must be quite extraordinary indeed to warrant his unsolicited critique.

“In my humble opinion, of course. You make them look good, I suppose. Merlin, what do I know?”

It was no surprise that it quickly became her favorite pair.

The twins grinned.

“And how’s Harry…?” asked Fred.

“…by the way?” finished George.

Hermione looked up from her musings, recalling that she was in other people’s company. “Oh, he’s alright. Auror training tends to wear him down every once in a while, but you know Harry. He thrives under challenges. Poor man hardly has enough time to go out and have fun anymore. He’s usually out of the house before either Ron and I are up, so I haven’t caught up with him today. Ron keeps extending invitations to him for parties and such, but Harry’s just too overworked to go to any of them. Personally, I think Ron’s overdoing it, himself. All those wild parties would find him passed out drunk on some curb somewhere one day soon…”

She found a secret satisfaction in the fact that Harry didn’t like those kinds of things in the first place. She supposed it was because one could hardly be expected to find the girl of one’s dreams in a house full of intoxicated wizards and witches, with music blaring, the lights dimmed and everyone smoking Merlin knew what.

“Poor Harry,” said the twins in unison.

She shot them both a wry grin. They always teased her whenever she began to sound like Molly Weasley. “Shut it.”

“No sympathy for Won-Won, though,” said George.

Fred shook his head. “Doesn’t deserve it!”

“Plays the field, that!”

Fred went from gravity to all smiles. “And we don’t mean the Quidditch pitch!”

Hermione frowned at that, but not wanting to be too much of a wet blanket to the ever laid-back twins, she managed to chuckle lightly. “He does seem happy, doesn’t he?”

“Delirious!” Fred said, laughing.

“Wouldn’t resent him for it if he had a real job, though,” George pointed out.

“Did ickle Ronniekins agree to do the product endorsement for us, yet?” Fred asked his twin.

“Of course he did! Knock him over with a bludger, I will, if he didn’t!”

Hermione laughed. No matter how high Ron rose, Fred and George would always be there to keep his feet firmly planted on the ground.

They spoke a bit more after she presented her new invention to them, laughing conspiratorially at the thousands of delighted pranksters who would enjoy the use of it. By the time they were done, it was past noon and the twins invited her to go with them for a bit of lunch at the Leaky Cauldron.

Hermione agreed. She hadn’t thought much of Fred and George while they were in Hogwarts. She liked them fine, of course, but apart from being far from model students, they were in a different year and they picked on Ron incessantly. Naturally, she was a bit biased then, but since Harry and Ron began making friends she didn’t know, she realized she had to make friends of her own. Fred and George had become such friends, although originating from a business relationship.

Fred and George were as at-ease in her company as she was in them, and she appreciated the way they understood how she was their friend because she was Hermione, not because she was housemates with Harry and Ron.

Hermione thought that no one would have thought she, of all people, would be such friends with pranksters like Fred and George. That was a joke in itself, which the twins no doubt enjoyed.

She walked between them, her hands hooked into their arms as they divided their conversation between them, one twin beginning a sentence while it was being finished by the other. It always made for twice the laughs.

They passed Flourish and Blotts and Hermione let her eyes linger briefly over the store display. There was a display of magazine publications, set up like a fan, and her gaze lingered briefly on Business of Magic. She recalled that Fred and George had been given a two-page article in it because of their interesting histories before they put up the immensely successful Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes. It was a perfectly respectable magazine, read by very few because the articles were sensible instead of sensational. The magazine prided itself on being informative, insightful and intelligent. Even Fred and George admitted that the only reason they agreed to be in it was because it was important to get the confidence of their colleagues.

“Boring sods though they are,” Fred had said.

Something suddenly clicked in her mind, recalling an article she had read not so long ago regarding a Wizard Billionaire whose ancient family made their fortune buying, selling and developing enchanted real estate in Ireland in the last seven hundred years. Manor Lord Group of Companies had since then expanded to other businesses and investments in the Wizarding World and the Muggles. It occurred to her that she had seen Lysander Athanasius before: On the cover of Business of Magic.

The article also mentioned that he was of the peerage in Muggle society.

Duke, I think. Goodness, that’s practically a prince!

“Hang on,” she said, finding herself thinking out loud before she could stop herself. “I think maybe I met a billionaire today!”

“You don’t say!” said Fred.

“Stellar, this day,” said George to complete the rhyme.

“Stop teasing, you two! I did meet a billionaire; at the Ministry, even. None other than Lysander Athanasius, thank you very much!”

George’s eyebrow quirked. “Athanasius! Owner of the Kenmare Kestrals, no less!”

Hermione almost groaned. It always boiled down to Quidditch.

Fred mirrored his twin. “Have the Vrasta Vultures beaten them since the last World Cup?”

George shrugged. “Not sure. Ask Hermione. I’m sure Vicky Krum keeps her constantly informed.”

She should have known it would lead to that. “Viktor does not bore me with details of his games or his ‘spectacular’ Wonky Faints.”

“Wonky Faints!” cried Fred, laughing.

George shot him a comical scowl. “Don’t laugh. Ron still gets conniption fits when he hears Hermione say it!”

“Oh, honestly! You boys and your Quidditch!”

They arrived at the Leaky Cauldron and they were given a table amidst the lunch crowd. The waiter immediately served them drinks.

Hermione was just about to examine the menu when she looked up and saw Harry. She was about to eagerly call out to him when she saw that he wasn’t alone. He was with a statuesque woman with sleek brown hair. She wore robes identical to his. Hermione was sure the woman was an Auror-in-training, but it was difficult to shrug off that familiar twist of jealousy in her stomach, seeing as the woman had a lovely chiseled face on her, and judging by the way she held herself, she seemed strong and intelligent.

Hermione went back to scanning the menu as if she didn’t see them, praying that Fred and George wouldn’t spot Harry and call him over.

They did, of course, spot Harry from across the room and were loudly calling Harry over before she could finish examining the appetizers.

She did a splendid job pretending she was delighted to see Harry and whoever his companion was.

Harry immediately pulled up a chair beside her. Hermione could at least take pleasure in his proximity. She was even more pleased to note that Harry hadn’t pulled up a chair for his companion, opting instead to gesture to the space between Fred and George. The woman grabbed her own seat and squeezed a place on the table.

Harry draped his arm casually over the back of Hermione’s chair, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Hermione, this is my training partner, Gail Coppercane. I was telling you about her last night.”

“Oh!” Hermione managed to say, setting her eyes alight to seem delighted/interested/intrigued to hide the jealousy/indignation/heartbreak.

Harry grinned, no doubt pleased that Hermione had remembered. “Gail, this is Hermione Granger, and these are Fred and George Weasley.”

Gail was better at appearing delighted/interested/intrigued. She probably was, anyway. “Hermione, Harry has told me so much about you! I swear to Merlin he thinks everything you say is scripture.”

Hermione drank from her pumpkin juice to hide her blush, elbowing Harry for it even if she was, in actuality, very pleased.

He chuckled. “Oww…”

Gail looked at the twins, grinning. “Weasleys… I’ve heard of about you two! You’re Ron Weasley’s brothers and you own that brilliant joke shop down the alley.”

“Guilty!” peeped Fred.

“As charged,” finished George.

“So which one of you blokes have the honor of dating her?”

Hermione almost choked on her pumpkin juice and Harry gave a soft cry that was a cross between showing concern for Hermione and scolding Gail for it.

Fred didn’t bat an eyelash. “Forge, do you have the honor?”

“I’m not sure, Gred. I thought the honor was yours.”

“Well I did invite her to lunch.”

“But I’ll likely be the one to pay for it.”

“We’ll both have the honor, then!” they cried in unison, grinning.

Hermione took a napkin and wiped her mouth with it. “Taking the mickey out of me, aren’t you?”

“Never!” Fred cried.

She waved their teasing away. “Let’s stop picking on Hermione Granger, then.”

Gail looked only slightly befuddled, but she was polite enough to silently acknowledge that everyone on the table except her were old friends.

Harry drank some of Hermione’s pumpkin juice. “I thought you’d be at the Ministry. I dropped by the Legislative Committee’s Office early this morning to catch you. You didn’t show.”

“I ran a few errands before I went to the L.C.O.,” Hermione explained. She didn’t want to tell him about WizCOF yet, lest she jinxed it. It was her first real (and perhaps the only remaining) prospect in the Ministry. She would tell him about it when she got the job. “I got there pretty late so there was no way you could have caught me unless you skived Auror training.”

He shrugged. “You might have run by the Squad Office. Shaklebolt would’ve let me take an early lunch to go with you. He still believes I can convince you to be an Auror.”

Hermione exchanged knowing glances with Fred and George. “I had a few more errands to run after the L.C.O., so that would’ve been impossible, Harry.”

Fred grinned. “She was busy meeting billionaires. They have a few of them in the Ministry, apparently.”

Hermione turned beet red. She hadn’t expected Fred to say anything about that. It wasn’t exactly top-secret information, but considering the feelings of attraction she had upon meeting Lysander, it wasn’t the sort of thing she would have brought up with Harry.

Harry’s eyebrow shot up upon reading her expression. “Billionaire?”

“Lysander Athanasius!” said George.

Gail’s blue eyes widened. “Ah, owner of the Kenmare Kestrals! I thought I saw him lurking in the Ministry. There was talk of him being expected today, besides. Is he as good looking in person as he is in the magazines?”

Hermione realized that Gail had directed the question at her and she blushed even more. “Er—yes. I mean, I think so. Nice eyes.” She couldn’t believe she said that. She hurried on to other things. “He had a bunch of robes with him; looked like he was there on official business.”

Gail nodded. “They were all a-flurry in the Improper Use of Magic Office. Apparently, the Department of Magical Games and Sports confiscated the team’s Four Leaf Shamrock because it seemed to possess powers that enabled them to win every single game in their last ten matches. Athanasius was apparently set to make a personal appeal for the Shamrock’s return.”

Hermione frowned. “Is the Shamrock enchanted?”

Gail shrugged. “Who knows? Say, didn’t you date Viktor Krum before? The Bulgarians haven’t won against them since they lost in the 1994 Quidditch World Cup, have they? Does he think the Shamrock’s enchanted?”

“I like the way this witch thinks, Gred.”

“Me too, Forge.”

Harry shot Gail a wry look. “How’s Hermione supposed to know what Krum thinks? Honestly…”

Gail rolled her eyes. “Well, the gossip column in the Daily Prophet did say she and Krum ‘got together’ every now and then.”

“Nice source, Coppercane.”

“Oy, what’s wrong with the Daily Prophet?”

Hermione and Harry swapped knowing looks. Fred and George snickered, muttering something about “Scarlet woman.”

Hermione snorted. “I haven’t believed the Daily Prophet since that same year of the Quidditch World Cup. You’re better off reading the Quibbler.”

Gail nodded eagerly. “Oh, I agree. Aurors are required to give the Quibbler a read, daily. They’re very good at spotting Dark Wizards in hiding. They usually mistake them for rogue creatures and beasts, though. Still, it serves its purpose.”

The rest of the lunch period breezed by with similar conversation. Hermione found that in spite of her jealousy, she was actually beginning to like Gail. There were times that Gail would exchange a private joke with Harry, which was only fair considering she was sort of an outsider with Fred and George being there sharing private jokes with her and Harry, but Harry didn’t seem to make a big deal of the Auror-jokes, as if he was conscious of the fact that the majority on the table wouldn’t know how to appreciate them.

When they were done with lunch, George insisted on picking the tab, saying that he may not be a billionaire but he pretty damn well had a lot of money.

The twins offered Hermione their arms as they stepped out of the Leaky Cauldron but she shook her head.

“I’ll be heading home from here, thanks,” said Hermione. “Floo me, though, won’t you?”

Fred and George promised they would and made their goodbyes before setting off back down the alley to return to their shop.

Hermione smiled at Gail. “It was nice meeting you.”

Gail grinned. “Likewise. I had fun at lunch. We should do this again.”

Hermione thought they shouldn’t, but she nodded anyway.

“I think I’ll be home early tonight,” said Harry. “D’you want me to bring home Chinese take-away?”

Chinese take-away indeed! she thought, half endeared because he was offering such a thing to give her a break from her cooking and half indignant that Harry would think she’d let him eat take-away when she had all the time she needed to make a home-cooked meal for them both. “Sod off, Harry, I’m cooking your favorite.”

“S-Seafood casserole?” he asked hopefully.

“No less,” she said haughtily.

“You’re amazing, you know that?”

“Humph! I know that, Potter.”

“She cooks, too!” cried Gail. “What else can you do?”

“I can do anything. Haven’t you figured that out, yet?” she replied dryly before rolling her eyes at the sheer absurdity of it.

Gail giggled.

Harry grinned and gave Hermione a half-hug with an affectionate kiss on her head. “I’ll see you later.”

Hermione nodded, stepping away just as eagerly as she wished she could stay in his arms. His touch lingered a bit, she thought. She always thought it did, but she had learned to shrug off whatever extra warmth she derived from it.

She watched Harry and Gail disapparate, Gail giving Harry a wink before they disappeared.

Isn’t there some law against flirting and apparating? thought Hermione, rolling her eyes at her own insufferable thoughts.

She went back into the Leaky Cauldron to use their passageway to Charing Cross, deciding she wanted to shop for the ingredients of that night’s dinner in Muggle London.

She needed a break from the magic at this time.

I wonder if that exquisite muggle book in my favorite series is out yet…

0000000000000000000

The book wasn’t out, but Hermione did find comfort walking through the market and buying her ingredients.

When she got home, it was almost time to start cooking anyway.

She took down a volume from the growing Black library annotating the constitutional laws of the Wizarding world. She wasn’t being presumptuous about her job in the WizCOF, she was merely gearing up for the possibility that they wouldn’t hire her, in which case she’d fight her way into that office if it killed her. McGonagall was, after all, on her side.

She read the book as she cooked. She had learned, since she could legally use magic outside of Hogwarts, that using magic to do household chores made multi-tasking so much easier. Carrots, for instance, were more manageable with magic than with any kind of muggle knife, and magic was a joy when it came to cleaning fish. No more fishy fingers!

Crookshanks, drawn by the smell of fish, tried to wile her into giving him some. She wasn’t forthcoming, and thus offended, Crookshanks sauntered off with an outraged hiss, possibly to wreak havoc with the remaining doxies that cropped up once every few months.

Time flew by, and before she knew it, the casserole was down to its last few minutes in the oven and she had filled up rolls of parchment with her note-taking.

She was pleased to hear Harry’s resounding clap of apparition just when the oven’s timer went off. She congratulated herself for her perfect timing as she put her books and parchment away.

“Smells wonderful,” said Harry, walking through the kitchen archway and unhooking his bag from him. “Need help?”

He dropped the bag unceremoniously at a counter-top corner while enchanting the center of the kitchen table to protect it from the heat of the casserole. As was common of late when it came to simple spells, he didn’t need to draw his wand.

Hermione levitated the dish from within the oven and placed it right on top of the enchanted spot. “Thanks for that, Harry.”

Harry leaned over the casserole and savored the aroma. “Is Ron going to be joining us?”

“I’m not sure. He hasn’t flooed and I tried calling him on his mobile but he wouldn’t answer. You think he’s ignoring me deliberately?”

He shot her a confused look. “Of course not, Hermione. He’s just probably somewhere he couldn’t hear his mobile ringing.” He went to gather plates as she gathered their utensils.

She pouted slightly. “He’s never home,” she grumbled. “Sometimes I wonder if he still likes us.”

Hermione knew it was an absurd thing to say, but she wasn’t sure if she didn’t believe her words to be true. Ron was always so preoccupied, and not that she didn’t like having Harry all to herself, but Ron’s her best friend too. She missed the stupid git.

Harry chuckled as he levitate and set the placemats. “He—you know—“ He was grinning and his ears were a shade pinker. Whatever he was going to say, he had a bit of trouble spitting it out. “—loves us.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. Boys and their aversion to the “L” word.

He went on. “Just that right now he likes his—um—parties.”

She found herself stifling a smile at his obvious hesitation. She charmed some table napkins from their drawers and slid two of them in napkin holders. Harry levitated the plates on the mats just as she arranged the utensils with a flick of her wand.

“You mean he likes his groupies,” she said, laying the ringed napkins across the plates by hand. She set down two small side dishes and set out the gravy for the casserole. Seeing that Harry had pulled out some white wine, she plucked two glasses from the cupboard with her wand’s swish and set the glasses down.

Harry sat across from her, giving her that same look he gave her the previous night.

Hermione frowned as she unhooked her napkin from its ring and shook it out. She daintily spread the napkin on her lap. “Alright, I give up. What is that?”

“What’s what?” He adjusted his glasses as if they weren’t a perfect fit and carefully began to undo the cork of the wine with a corkscrew. He was doing it the muggle way. Magic tended to make it bubble and spill over.

Hermione gestured in his direction. “That look. You were giving it to me last night. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

For a moment, he looked as if he was going to deny it, but then he let out a breath, defeated. He was able to pop the cork from the wine and he began pouring some out for both of them. “Just… well, Ron, you see…”

She arched an eyebrow, cutting a block into the casserole then gesturing for his plate. He gave it as she asked, “What about Ron?”

He watched her put casserole on his plate, the steam rising from the rich filling and from the missing block in the dish, but it didn’t look as if Harry was thinking of food. “This thing… it’s just a phase, Hermione. He’ll get over it, and when he does…”

Heat rose in her face, and it wasn’t from the casserole. For a moment, she was mortified.

Wonderful. Even Harry thinks Ron dumped me before we even began dating.

And then her mortification was gone, her self-respect taking root. She gave him his plate back, beginning to cut her own piece of dinner. “Oh, Ron is having a grand time. It’ll be a good ten years before anyone expects him to settle down.”

He frowned, as if she had completely missed the point. “You’re—You’re thinking like a muggle,” he said, sounding somewhat flustered.

“Harry, a man doesn’t have to be a muggle to want to remain a bachelor.”

“And just because a man’s a bachelor doesn’t mean he has to go out and shag as many skirts as he can.”

Hermione stared at Harry in mild shock. Harry, or anyone else for that matter, had never put it quite that bluntly. She knew Ron was having the time of his life, but she never really considered what he did. She supposed shagging girls on a regular basis was part of it. Heck, it wasn’t as if Ron stayed out all night to have wholesome fun.

She didn’t know if she was jealous, exactly. She was a little miffed, maybe, but not because she wanted to shag Ron. She never thought of it in that sense, but she wished at least that he found her sensible, wholesome company more appealing than the boatload of shallow slags throwing themselves at his feet. But then, that was the thing, wasn’t it? He didn’t quite see her the way he probably used to.

Ron used to fancy her. That had changed, and that was regrettable because it was always nice to feel that someone she could have loved fancied her back. She wasn’t exactly the kind of girl that inspired men to line up and crowd at her door. Oh, she had a smattering of them, every now and then, but not so many that she’d consider the advances of men commonplace. Besides, her best feature was her intelligence, and it wasn’t as if BEST N.E.W.T. SCORES written on her forehead was all that flattering, anyway. She didn’t think herself attractive enough to get men to look her way twice; it was usually because of something she had said that got them interested enough to pursue her, so that narrowed down her choices considerably. She wasn’t like Ginny, or Cho, or even Lavender, whose looks gave them all the choices they could ask for.

It was depressing to realize that the only other significant man in her life was Viktor Krum, and that wasn’t saying much, considering she hadn’t thought about him romantically since they parted ways in fourth year.

First Viktor, then Ron, and then there was none.

She wasn’t even sure if Harry considered her a girl. He had asked her advice about his love life for goodness sake. That was a clear enough indication of his regard for her.

She lowered her gaze, reaching for the seasoned potato wedges. “That’s true, too,” she said in response to his statement.

Harry’s apologetic look was heartbreaking, like he had hit a puppy and he was regretting it horribly. “They’re all just flings, anyway. Slags, really…”

“Try not to sound so jealous of the girls, Harry,” she joked.

He reddened. “My point is, when reality sets in and he comes to his senses—“

“What, he’ll look to me?” She might as well put it out there. She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Did someone crap desperation all over me and am I now reeking of it? Honestly, Harry… maybe I expected things from him at some point of our… relationship, but things have changed. I’ve changed, and I have more important things to worry about than wanting Ron to ‘come to his senses’ and asking me out. Besides, Ron isn’t the only wizard in London.”

Harry was staring at her as if waiting to catch her in a lie.

She sighed again. “Yes, contrary to popular belief, Hermione Granger isn’t lovesick for Ronald Bilius Weasley.” It somewhat sucked to be so obviously lacking in male attention. “There. I finally said it!”

Harry began to look a bit lost. “It happened in sixth year, didn’t it? You completely lost interest in him when he overdid the snogging bit with Lavender.”

She began to eat. “Well, I don’t know, Harry. Don’t ask me to explain when and how. When did you decide that getting back with Ginny wasn’t as easy as you thought?” She regretted it the moment she said it. She wasn’t ready to face that truth, but it was there, and she had no one to blame but herself.

He blinked, his fork freezing over his plate. “What are you—what does that have to do with any of this?”

Before she could stop herself, she went on. “Well, you said you broke up with her because you had to focus all your efforts on defeating Voldemort, and that you didn’t want Voldemort using Ginny to get to you. Now that you’ve defeated him, what’s stopping you from going back to her? She’s right there, Harry. I bet she’s waiting.”

It was, perhaps, a good time to kick herself, probably in the mouth; get her foot stuck there. Smashing, Hermione! Just keep turning the knife in your own heart. That’s the spirit!

For a moment, all he could do was blink and blush, looking mightily uncomfortable, and then just as quickly as the tension came, it disappeared and he shrugged. “It’s complicated.”

“Umm-hmm. My point exactly.”

He frowned. “It’s different! Ginny is Ron’s little sister! Even then, it was rather—well, I had to be breaking some kind of best friend rule…”

“Ah, and me, dating Ron, who happens to be my best friend, isn’t breaking any best friend rule?”

His brows knotted while he poked his casserole with his fork. “I don’t know… just that it was supposed to be you and Ron… or something.”

“Right. Thank you for your wisdom, Madame Trelawney.”

He smiled wryly, chuckling. “You know it isn’t as ridiculous as that.”

She returned the smile. “I suppose it isn’t; rules and all.”

“But you do know what they say about rules, don’t you?”

“Yes. They’re made to be broken by Gryffindors.”

“Snarky,” he said, threatening her mildly with a fork before using the very same one to shove casserole into his mouth. “Oh, delicious… Hermione—“

“I know. You love my cooking.”

“Yes. And if I’m following this conversation correctly, you’re certain you’re not in love with Ron—or his cooking.”

Interesting how he juxtaposed being in love with Ron and his culinary (non-)skills.

“Indeed, I’m certain. I know what love looks like, after all.”

Harry seemed surprised. “You do?”

Hermione felt her face warm. In the words of Hagrid: Reckon I shouldn’t ha’ said tha’. “Yes, but don’t ask how I know.”

“Who—“

“I said, Don’t ask.”

This time, Harry listened, but he shot her a questioning look. She ignored it.

Let him wonder. He’ll never figure it out. He hasn’t in the last eight years filled with anvil-sized hints. He’ll miss this anvil too.

“So, Harry,” she said in an attempt to get their easy conversation back. “How was your day?”

He spooned tartar sauce on his wedges. “Exhausting. After Gail and I got back to the Ministry, Shaklebolt thought to punish us for having a good lunch. He assigned us the Red Caps infestation in the dungeons of Level Ten. Bothersome little buggers…”

Hermione tried not to choke on her potato wedge. “Interesting, that Gail. Nice girl.”

Harry arched an eyebrow at her. “She’s just my partner.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You have this look.”

Hermione didn’t know she had one of those, particularly when it came to Harry’s women. “I do?”

“Yes. Right now; and at lunch, too. You were sizing her up. You’re deciding whether she’s good for me!”

Hermione felt her temper bubble for an instant. Was she doing that? Of all the sad things! Maybe she indeed had a habit of determining whether his women were any good for him on some unconscious level. After all, she had accepted that Harry didn’t want her, so she supposed she would feel better about it if she knew the girl he chose was better than her in brains and in the way she would take care of him. She had conceded defeat to most women in the looks department, but she was never going to live it down if someone stupid and less caring won Harry’s affections. She had invested too much of her brains and her tender loving nature on him to give him over to some negligent, insipid bimbo.

However, she’d like to think that she wasn’t that pathetic of a martyr. She was more inclined to believe that she wanted these women to fail miserably at measuring up to her standards.

“I hardly think my opinion important if you happen to actually like the woman, Harry,” she said with a haughty sniff. “Do you like her?”

He frowned. “Not like that, no. And I don’t think she likes me like that, either.”

“She flirts with you.”

“She flirts with everyone. She thinks flirting is great fun. Understandably, it upsets her husband every now and then.”

“She’s married! More’s the pity,” she muttered.

“And I’ll have you know that your opinion is always important to me.”

“Thank you very much, Harry Potter.”

“I’m serious.”

“Alright, but can I still be Hermione?”

He laughed. He always did when she cracked that particular joke. Only with her, though. She doubted if he’d find it amusing coming from anyone else. Ron didn’t like the joke at all; he said it wasn’t respectful to the dead.

Harry seemed to enjoy it because it was the sort of joke Sirius himself would appreciate, especially because it was about him. Sirius always did have a healthy ego.

They finished dinner and they set the dishes aside to be cleaned later. Hermione moved to the seat beside him so that they could share really good tea.

It was in the midst of creamed Earl Grey that Harry shook her out of her calm once again.

“Ginny sent me an owl the other day,” he said.

“What about?” she asked, without batting an eyelash. God, why do I keep doing this to myself?

He shrugged a shoulder. “She’s asking whether we should give it another try. The relationship, I mean.”

She set her cup down, leaning over the table to cradle her head on her propped up hand. Steeling herself for the kill, she managed a small smile. “What do you think, Harry?”

He mirrored her position, tilting his head back just a bit as he thought his answer over. “It’s like what you said earlier: Things have changed. I’ve changed. Everything… it’s just different now. If I give it a chance, I suppose it might work out, but I don’t know if I’d like to make the effort anymore. What’s important to me these days weren’t as important to me in sixth year… or maybe I just didn’t realize how much it meant to me then. Now that I’ve become this person, I don’t know if someone like Ginny would be able to understand any of it.”

Hermione watched him for any sign that he was just babbling nonsense; any indication that he still loved Ginny just that he was being as hesitant about it as he tended to be about personal relationships. But all she could see was Harry; what he’d become because of the last two years. The changes made little difference to her, but only because she had grown with him.

He knew what he was saying; she could tell that much. He had thought about this before Ginny wrote him the letter. And it was true what he said a while ago: it was complicated. She saw that now.

“I would’ve liked Ginny for you, you know,” she said, and she meant it, too. If her opinion was indeed as important to him as he said it was, then she was going to give him one that would allow him to love Ginny entirely if he ever got the notion. It hurt her to say it, but she wouldn’t begrudge Harry the blessing.

He smiled tiredly and he reached across to give her head an affectionate rub. “I know.”

She liked the idle circling of his fingers, the sensation of his touch trickling all the way down her spine. He played with her hair a bit. If it weren’t so strange, she would be purring.

If he knew how much electricity it was generating in her, he might be more careful about administering it. She blinked languorously, grinning stupidly at the intimacy of the moment, when there was a tap at the kitchen window.

Harry turned on his seat, removing contact. Hermione could have hissed in aggravation.

“I’ll get it,” he said, scraping his chair back as he got up.

He swung open the windowpane and unhooked the bundle of owls. He gave Hedwig her treats, praised Hedwig’s hard work and watched the owl fly off.

Harry sat back down with Hermione, sifting through the mail. There was a time when a deluge of fan-owls was inflicted on Grimmauld Place. Harry claimed that he hadn’t seen so many owls since his Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon tried to keep him from getting his acceptance letter from Hogwarts. The fan-owls were definitely a problem, but after the first week, Hermione had had enough and she set up enchanted mail baskets in the rooftop. She left treats out for the owls which they could only get if they deposited the mail in the right bag. Howlers were given their own tin can, and for several months, there were tiny explosions emanating from the roof.

Harry handed Hermione three letters with an upraised eyebrow: One from Viktor Krum (it was rather thick), one from the Ministry (thin, almost insubstantial) and one unmarked envelope (just right).

She liked seeing that look on his face when she got anything from Viktor. She could pretend he was being jealous.

“If he doesn’t talk about Quidditch with you, what else could he possibly write so much about?” asked Harry.

She rolled her eyes. “Contrary to popular belief, the man is well informed about many, many things. And he’s glad I don’t talk about Quidditch with him. He once said that if he hears someone mention the Wonky Faints one more time, he’ll AK himself into oblivion.”

“Good gracious, Hermione, it’s not Wonky Faints! How many times does Ron have to tell you that? The poor bloke dies a little each time you mispronounce it.”

She grinned. “I know what it is. I just say it to annoy everyone in the house. Wonky faints, wonky faints….”

Harry couldn’t help but laugh. “What’s that fancy envelope there?”

“Goodness, you’re quite nosy about my mail tonight, aren’t you?”

He reddened visibly. “Sorry.”

She grinned, stealthily putting away the Ministry letter. She didn’t want Harry asking about that. If it was another refusal, he’d want to comfort her and she’d be forced to talk about it.

He fidgeted. “I’ll leave you with—“

Well, she didn’t want him leaving her, either. She grabbed him by the sleeve of his robe. “Oh, honestly, Harry. Don’t be ridiculous. I was just teasing! Sit and drink your tea. Open your mail, if you want.”

The discomfort in his expression faded and he did begin to check his owls while she checked hers.

It was so nice to be doing such domestic things with him, like they had been doing such things forever; like they never lived apart.

He sat but an arm’s length away from her, and from her seat, she had an urge to rub her foot against his leg. It wasn’t a new thought; she had been stifling the urge to touch him in the most un-platonic ways since he and Ginny broke up. There had been thousands of opportunities when she could have spontaneously kissed and caressed parts of him that could have sent their friendship crashing and burning, but she had successfully pushed every urge away by telling herself, “If you do that, you’ll either have him for a moment or lose him completely. Are you willing to risk losing that much, Granger?” Her answer was always “No,” of course.

She gripped the unmarked envelope with fingers that were itching to brush through his rich black hair. It was, as usual, a fierce mess on his head, but she loved that his hair was like that.

Hermione fluffed her own hair, made more comely by a simple long-layered cut. Harry said the hairstyle fit her really well. She’d probably keep the style forever on account of it.

Breaking the seal on the fancy-looking owl, she peered inside. There was a note and a sheet of expensive-looking stationary. She pulled out the note first, and it was personalized; the monogram L.A. gleaming in elegant silver-leaf.

Dear Ms. Granger,

I hope this owl finds you well and in calmer spirits. Though I would not exchange the circumstances of our unforgettable meeting for the world, I hope that by the time you finish reading this, you’d have developed a kinder opinion of me since this morning.

The man was taking responsibility for her acidic behavior. It was gallant, if not a bit embarrassing. She read on.

I have enclosed an invitation to the grand opening of my Muggle/Wizard gallery in Paddington. It is a gallery of modern art and the exhibits are quite fascinating. There will be wine and cocktails served and everyone there could either afford to buy the art or are pretending they could. All in all, you understand why I am desperate to have someone there with whom I could speak about intelligent and more important matters with.

You are in no way required to attend, and I do confess that my primary agenda is to see you again while letting you decide whether I am worth the trouble. The invitation admits you, plus two, should you feel more comfortable bringing companions.

She arched an eyebrow. Usually, invitations were for two, but it seemed Lysander at least had the intelligence to realize the importance of her two best friends.

I pray you decide to come, as I have thought of nothing else but you since you “crashed” into me this morning and knocked me senseless.

Hopelessly smitten,

Lysander Athansius

P.S. Please don’t forget that attire is strictly Muggle cocktail couture. Personally, I’d like to see you in Muggle wear. Bears promise of great felicity. ~l.a.

Hermione never realized she could be this girlishly thrilled. A billionaire—a handsome, possibly kind and intelligent billionaire, who was a Duke (practically a prince)—was wooing her! How she managed to steel her features while she read the note would remain a mystery forever. All she knew was that there was this warmth on her cheeks and across the bridge of her nose, possibly marking the line of her blush.

She felt a tiny bit like Cinderella, sweeping soot from the hearth and then being called upon to try on the glass slipper for His Highness the Prince. The shoe will fit. It always does in the fairytale.

She wondered if Lysander actually had a butler and whether his dinnerware at home was as elegant as crystal goblets and silver spoons. It had to be wonderful, having meals prepared everyday by award winning chefs. And while the food was fantastic, Lysander didn’t have to worry about getting flabby. He would no doubt have a trainer who was paid an exorbitant amount of money to harden his abs and firm his arse. And even if Lysander did gain weight, his suits were tailored and custom made to make him look perfectly fit.

The man’s a fantasy in himself.

“Anything interesting?” asked Harry, looking up from one of his owls.

She felt herself jerked back to her senses, Harry’s beautiful green gaze washing away the silly daydreams Lysander’s letter brought.

She began to blush again, but this time at her own thoughtlessness.

So Lysander had offered her elegant hors d’eorves, expensive champagne and impossibly gorgeous people aside from his charming, debonair self. She would take such offerings in a heartbeat if she didn’t know where true warmth and belongingness was.

She loved being in Grimmauld Place; she loved her best friends, and she loved that they loved her back, though one didn’t love her the way she wanted him to and the other was a little too in love with himself at the moment. Nevertheless, the solidity of what she had right now; the preciousness of the last few hours with Harry, and the bond she shared with her two best friends, was more than enough for her.

She wasn’t going to give up what she had for a quick fix, because that’s what Lysander would likely be: a quick fix who would shower her with expensive things and then drop her when he was done. That was the way with his type, anyway. They might fall in love, but they fall out of it just as quickly.

Hermione slipped the note back into its envelope, not even bothering to look the invitation over. “It’s just one of those invitations. Nothing new.”

“Strange. Hedwig should have known better than to deliver it here. She should have left it in the basket on the roof.”

She shrugged. “It’s spelled as important. Not Hedwig’s fault.” She tucked the invitation away with the Ministry letter and prepared to rise from her seat. “More tea, Harry?”

“No, thank you. Are you folding in, then?”

“With the dishes dirty? Are you nutters?”

He chuckled. “Leave them. I’ll take care of them in a while. I just have to read some of these. Auror stuff, you know.”

“But—“

“You cooked; I’ll clean. Go to bed and be assured those dishes will be sparkling clean in the morning.” He gave her head a brief caress while going back to reading his letters, as if it was all settled.

Hermione had a feeling he knew his affectionate touches almost always defeated her during their arguments.

She stifled a pout, cursing her own weakness. She rose from her seat. “Fine, then. Goodnight.”

“G’night.”

She left the kitchen.

As she climbed the steps to the rooms, she caught one last glimpse of Harry flipping through parchments with lazy ease.

She sighed. What was it about seeing him so studious that she found so attractive? Must be the entire thing she had with libraries and learning.

Hermione, get a life.

I will. As soon as I get over him, I will.

So… never?

Hundred years, tops.

SPECIAL THANKS to my beta reader Aurabolt! And I can’t thank my reviewers enough. ^_^ I had sent this story as my first application to Portkey and while I wasn’t denied, I’m afraid I hadn’t made a good first impression with the mods. I had to send a different story which, thankfully, got approved! So now I can put this story out and I’m so glad to get favorable responses!

Standard disclaimers apply.

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Chapter Three – Rainbows in the Crystal

In which Hermione is disappointed and vengeful; Harry concerned and freaked-out; and Ron bemused and exasperated.

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When Hermione opened her eyes that morning, she realized that it was Saturday, and that the previous night, she had received a letter from none other than Mr. Thane Archibald and Mr. Winston Heartcomb telling her that while they thought her too young to be of much use to them, they would, nevertheless, tolerate her presence, and assistance, in their most honorable office. They pointed out that they originally intended to give her peanuts as payment (literally, and she had to shell them herself), but upon consultation with Minerva McGonagall, they decided on a rather sizable amount (“Enough to feed the whole of Westminster, if you ask me!” wrote Archibald.)

In actuality it was standard Ministry rates; perhaps a little bit higher, probably on account of McGonagall’s interference. No doubt, her dear professor had played up the whole most brilliant witch of her age thing.

It wouldn’t have mattered much to Hermione. She had every intention of doing a lot more than she was paid to do, and as long as she had ideas for Fred and George, she would have a pretty comfortable income besides.

Hermione smiled and challenged the brilliant rays of the sun streaming through her third story window. When Harry and Ron decided during her coma that they would live together in Grimmauld Place, they also decided their rooms would all be on the third floor. Ron would’ve wanted the attic (the preference had everything to do with his Burrow life, of course), but they weren’t sure if the ghoul in the upstairs toilet was really gone or merely in hiding, and Ron wasn’t keen on the idea that he could be attacked by a murderous ghoul while he was on the crapper.

“It’s no way for a man to die, Harry. On the loo? No way, at all!” he had said.

So now they had all their rooms on the third floor, all of them facing East.

Drowsy but excited to begin the day, she crawled out of her large bed and went straight to her bathroom.

Her personal bathroom, once old and spitting rust from its pipes, was now a mosaic of color and charm. Its tiles were pristine, the knobs on its shower stall and sink gleaming pearly porcelain, and its curtains a perfect complement to everything else. She had her own tub, which was by Ron and Harry’s standards too tiny, but it was perfect for her. She had pink candles all around that didn’t drip wax and the enchanted ceiling overhead showed puffy white clouds during the day and a star spangled sky at night. But no matter the hour, it always smelled like lilac and sweet peas; her favorite bath scents. The scent was her shampoo, her soap, her lotion, her scrubs; Harry and Ron thought it was a grand mystery.

“How come her bathroom smells great while our bathroom… doesn’t?” Ron had once asked while he and Harry rummaged through her supply cabinet for mouthwash.

“I dunno,” said Harry. “But girls’ bathrooms get that way. Hey, now! Don’t these salts smell wonderful? Like raspberries and strawberries.”

“Give me that. D’you reckon it tastes good?”

Hermione had, of course, caught them red handed, and Ron had the audacity to ask her, “Let me get this straight: This taaam-ponnn goes where?”

They never got to see the inside of her bathroom again after that, but every time she remembered the incident, she was glad she kept her bathroom sparkly clean and smelling great.

She took her sweet time showering, as was her wont, singing, as was also her wont. She liked the sound of her voice in her acoustically sound bathroom. When she was done, she prettied herself up in her best house clothes and, knowing she was the earliest one up, decided she would make a really good breakfast for her boys. They would be having sausages, eggs and waffles while she told them about her new job and the wonderful things that came with it. Then perhaps later, they can celebrate by eating out and watching a Muggle Movie, her treat. Ron would love that. He loves the movies. He found it fascinating.

Crookshanks was outside her door when she stepped out and he meowed piteously, rubbing against her legs.

Hermione patted him, making her way to the stairs.

She passed Ron’s bedroom door. She paused briefly and reached out to turn the knob. It was locked.

Well, at least he’s home.

She hurried down to the kitchens and was struck by the sight of Ron sprawled out on the couch, his robes in complete disarray. His long red hair was a tangled mess and he was hugging his Firebolt like a sword. He had taken one shoe off, forgetting to remove the other, but since it was the shoeless foot he had up on the couch, she decided she wasn’t going to throw a fit. He was snoring and the sound of it reverberated through the room.

He also reeked of alcohol.

Hermione rolled her eyes. She supposed she would have to brew very strong coffee, and she didn’t even want to ask why Ron’s bedroom door was locked.

She left him there as she fed Crookshanks and made breakfast. She took special care making her waffles, adding a dab of mayonnaise to the batter and giggling at the remembrance of Harry and Ron wondering out loud how in the world she made them taste so good, all crunchy on the outside and fluffy on the inside.

“Even mum don’t make them this good,” said Ron. “Don’t tell her I said that.”

She happily assembled breakfast. The coffee, sausages and eggs were perfect when she heard Harry’s footsteps on the stairs. He stopped for a few seconds, probably to absorb the sight of Ron, before he headed for the kitchen.

She smiled at him. “Good morning, Harry!”

He smiled back, heading straight for the coffeemaker. He gave her the briefest once over before getting a mug to pour himself some coffee. “Great breakfast, good coffee, and you, looking rather cute in your sundress. What’s the occasion?”

She blushed at the compliment. “I’ll tell you later. First, I have to wake up Ron.” She poured coffee into a mug and dug out a magically preserved potion in a vial from one of their many drawers. She used her wand to relieve it from suspension and poured the vial’s contents into Ron’s coffee. It was a hang-over potion and it should work within minutes after ingestion. She went back to the living room.

She set the mug aside and heard Harry following behind her to watch the morning entertainment.

Ignoring Harry, she bent over Ron and shook him by the shoulder gently. “Ron? Ron, dear, wake up.”

“Five more minutes mum…” he muttered, shrugging his shoulder away from her.

Hermione pursed her lips and she heard Harry snickering. She loved Molly Weasley, but goodness knows she could hardly be mistaken for the kind matronly woman.

She shook him again and he groaned, turning over to show his back to her.

“Shove off, Renee. I did all the work last night…”

Hermione heard a ringing in her ears like never before. What did he call me? “Ronald Bilius Weasley!” she shrieked, slapping him pertly on his forehead. “Do I look like one of your bimbos?”

The slap woke him in a hurry and he sat up, eyes half-closed. “Gah! Son of a—that hurt, you bi—“

“You just try and call me by that infernal name, Ronald Bilius Weasley!” she yelled.

Ron fell off the couch in his panic, his horrified gaze trained on her face as he realized his mistake just right before he made it. “Fuc—S-Sorry! Shhhite!” He moaned in pain, hands to his head. He valiantly went on. “Wasn’t going to say it, really! Not to you--!”

She glared at him. “Your mother would be ashamed that you even know how to use the word, you git! How could you?”

“I wasn’t going to call you that!” He winced. “Merlin, what time is it?”

“Nine in the morning,” said Harry as he drank his coffee. He wasn’t smiling, but his eyes sparkled. He was vastly amused by all this.

“Nine in the morning!” cried Ron. “Too early for a shit storm, I tell you.”

“Humph!” she said, holding out the coffee she brought him. “Here. Drink this, then.”

Ron looked at it suspiciously.

Hermione scowled. “What are you waiting for? It’s not poisoned! If I wanted to poison you, I’d be more creative than putting it in your coffee.”

“It’s terrifying how true that is,” he said, taking the cup and finally drinking from it. The potion was designed to have a few immediate effects and it showed on Ron’s face. Some of the crinkling around his eyes cleared. “Blimey, that’s good… thanks.”

“That’s better. Now if you can get your half-drunk arse off the floor, maybe I’ll let you join Harry and I for breakfast.” She left him, and Harry followed right after her, the morning entertainment done.

It was awful, the way Ron carried on sometimes after his nights out. She was never angry when she saw him; not really, just that even with the Whereabouts Clock, she found she was often so relieved to see him at home and alive. However, when the relief came, that was when things sort of rushed out of her. It was only lately she understood why Molly Weasley carried on the way she did with her children, fussing over them as if they were still in diapers.

“Honestly, when is he going to grow up?” she asked out loud as she began to cook the waffle batter.

Harry grinned, waving his wand to set the table. “You’re expecting him to? That’s giving him rather too much credit.”

“I heard that!” cried Ron.

She exchanged grins with Harry.

When the table was set and she had all the waffles ready, she called Ron over impatiently. “Get your arse over her, Ron!”

Ron ambled in, wincing while he tried to keep his head steady. No doubt he had a hangover headache the size of Great Britain, but the potion should take care of it soon enough.

“If breakfast didn’t smell so good, I wouldn’t put up with your nagging, I’ll tell you that,” grumbled Ron, plopping down on a chair.

She scowled as she passed the butter to Harry. “Don’t go blaming us for your hangover, Ron. If you weren’t so hell bent on making yourself dead pissed before coming home, you wouldn’t have locked yourself out of your room by accident.”

“I’d have been able to open it with a simple alohomora or apparated inside it if you hadn’t made the locking charms in this house so damn complicated…”

“And have you boys walk into my room while I’m in my knickers? No way!”

Ron grinned broadly. “Like I said, ‘too damn complicated’.”

She blushed as she glared at him. “Oh, shut it, Ron! Besides, do you really want to be apparating while you’re intoxicated? I’m sure you’d splinch yourself sterile.”

Ron scowled, muttering, “I splinch my eyebrows once… just once and I’m Mr. Splinch-It forever.”

Harry levitated a blueberry and darted it straight at Ron. Ron flicked his wand and splattered it to bits with a muttered Eruptio. Unfortunately, his half-pissed aim caused the bits to blow up in his face.

Harry laughed, piercing a piece of sausage. “Great aim. That hang-over potion working yet?” He ate the sausage, chortling.

Ron wiped off the bits of blueberry with his napkin. “Before the pair of you convict me of my crimes, I’ll have you know that last night, I was trying to get a job.”

Well, that did manage to void all her thoughts, and seeing as Harry had left his fork stuck in his mouth as he stared at Ron, Harry was quite nonplussed himself.

And then her senses began to return to her and she frowned. “Oh, honestly, Ron! That’s disgusting! I’d ask you not to bring such things up while we’re eating!”

Harry sputtered and it looked as if the sausage was going down the wrong way. Concerned, Hermione began to slap his back to help him.

Ron’s eyes widened. “What? Bloody hell! I wasn’t talking about a hand job! I was talking about a real job! A means to a career!”

Distracted by Harry’s conniption fits, Hermione continued to berate Ron while she gave Harry a glass of water. “What kind of a job is it if you have to get drunk trying to get it? I don’t think this job—whatever it is—is good for you and—“

“Chudley Cannons need a new manager. I put in my resume two weeks ago and the owner called me in for a dinner meeting last night. He doesn’t know if I can do it properly right off the bat, but he said the publicity I could generate just being myself would help the team loads, and it’ll be worth having to train me for a quarter-of-a-year. Naturally, when he invited me to have a few drinks with him and his cronies, I couldn’t say no, so off I went, getting pissed, but I got the job, too.”

There was another several seconds of silence before it finally hit her.

When it did, she was filled with gladness and pride. It was everything Ron wanted. To get a job with the Chudley Cannons! She would have thought he’d be playing with the team instead of working for it, but a manager’s job suited his talents better. He may have been a Keeper in Hogwarts, but he wasn’t a particularly brilliant one. Team Manager for the Chudley Cannons was perfect for him.

She jumped out of her seat and threw her arms around him, smiling. “Oh, Ron! I’m so proud of you! This is wonderful news! You have a job!”

Harry was beside them, clapping Ron on the back jubilantly and shaking his hand with brimming enthusiasm.

“Listen to this woman, why don’t you?” cried Ron. “I can’t tell if she’s happy I got the job or happy I have a job, as if I were some bum on the streets…”

Hermione pulled away from him, laughing as she dealt him a light, playful slap. “Oh, hush Ron. I’m happy about both. It’s no proper thing for an intelligent man like yourself to live off your popularity. Popularity fades, you know.”

Harry laughed. “She thinks you’re intelligent, Ron!”

Ron grinned. “Shut it, Potter! What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. But I’ll have you know, mum, that the only reason I got this job in the first place is because I am popular.”

“That’s true, but by the time your popularity runs out, you’d have been trained to do the job well and they wouldn’t dream of sacking you, then,” Hermione said, returning to her seat.

“You’ve got it all figured out, haven’t you?” said Ron, taking his utensils and beginning to assemble his waffle breakfast. “So am I forgiven for coming home drunk?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “What do you think, Harry?”

Harry was pouring maple syrup on his waffles as he smiled. “Do we get front row seating at Quidditch games for the rest of our lives?”

“At least!” said Ron.

“Then yes, we forgive you.”

Hermione frowned. “Well, that’s not fair. I don’t care much for Quidditch. What’s in it for me?”

Ron’s eyes twinkled. “You do have a penchant for Quidditch Seekers. Maybe I can introduce you to Galvin Gudgeon.”

Hermione felt her face grow so hot from embarrassment that she wanted to hex Ron for it. It wasn’t so much that he wanted to introduce her to Gudgeon, nor was it the fact that she happened to attract the Bulgarian Quidditch Seeker, Viktor Krum, but it was the fact that she did have very deep feelings for the Gryffindor Seeker and he was sitting right there that made her want to crawl underneath a rock and hide.

“D-Don’t even think about it!” she cried.

“Shut it, Ron!” said Harry, his ears pink.

Oh, goodness, I think he’s thinking it, too! How awkward! she thought miserably.

She scrambled to steer the conversation to safer waters. “So, Ron, when do you start? Do they pay you while they’re training you?”

He nodded. “Oh, absolutely, but not much while they’re teaching me the brooms. After I’m officially trained, I’ll get the regular manager’s pay, which isn’t bad pay at all! I’ll start training on Monday, so it’s all good.”

Harry cut his waffle. “Ron, you do realize that once you start this job, you can’t go partying every night anymore, right?”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Listen to yourself, Harry. You’re beginning to sound like Hermione! Of course the partying will stop! Or at least lessen…”

She exchanged amused glances with Harry.

It suddenly occurred to her that she had great news, too, and while her job was a little less—well, a lot less, really—glamorous than Ron’s, it was important enough to steal the limelight from him. She would be putting away Death Eaters, for goodness sake! The mere concept of it would eclipse Ron’s grand news, so she decided to put off telling them and letting Ron enjoy the moment. She could tell them later, when she took them out in her parents’ car. Ron and Harry liked riding the BMW. They said she drove like a maniac and that was the best part.

“So we should celebrate tonight, then!” she said by way of introducing the idea. “I can drive us around London, have dinner then see a movie. I’ll treat! What do you boys think?”

Both boys winced. Not good.

“Shacklebolt has me in for the entire day and I’m not sure what time he’ll let me go,” said Harry.

Hermione frowned. “On a Saturday?”

“Er—Auror’s job is never done? I can definitely follow if Shacklebolt lets me off early enough, though. I can use the mobile to call you. Sound good, Hermione?”

Hermione’s frown morphed into a smile. That was certainly a workable arrangement.

“I’ve a date tonight,” said Ron with an apologetic grimace. “Sorry. But I really appreciate your wanting to celebrate, Hermione.”

Harry shot Ron a glare and Ron shrugged helplessly.

Her enthusiasm deflated completely. What was the point of celebrating Ron’s job if Ron wasn’t there? And she wanted to tell them both about her job, too. Was it too much to ask to have her best friends with her on a night out in London?

Bugger.

She pouted. Really pouted.

Ron gave an audible sigh. “Well, don’t get like that! It wouldn’t be polite of me to cancel on her in the last minute.”

“It’s fine, Ron,” she said. She couldn’t hide the dejection from her tone.

“I might be here tonight,” said Harry, by way of making her feel better. “We can watch soaps on the Eklectic Telly.”

Eklectic Telly. That’s what they called it to tease Ron. Ron thought it was a brilliant device, but he was too afraid that he’d get “eklectricuted” to ever turn it on himself in he could help it. Harry had to have the power supply specially installed, and since it was rare to have a Wizard electrician, Harry had to pay a lot of galleons to make it work, but he wanted the T.V., possibly because the Dursleys had deprived him of it all his life and now he wanted one of his own.

“You might be here,” said Hermione. She was in no mood to be cheered up. She seriously needed a life if her going out was completely dependent on Ron and Harry’s free time. “It’s alright, Harry. I’ll just—“

There was a tapping on the windowpane. It was Hedwig again, and this time, aside from the letters, she carried an elegantly wrapped box. The gold wrap shimmered against the light, throwing rainbows off the windows and cupboards. The ribbon holding it slowly flashed various colors in deep shades.

Harry got up to fetch the mail. Hedwig was soon off and Harry was back on the table. He handed the package to Hermione. “Says it’s for you.”

Hermione blinked. “Odd… who would—“ She looked at the tag and the sender’s name was magically revealed to her. It was from Lysander. “What in the world…”

She took hold of one end of the ribbon and started to pull.

Harry and Ron yelled for her to stop.

“Aren’t you going to check for dangerous spells?” Harry cried.

Ron scowled. “Blimey, Hermione! I thought you were the smart one.”

She frowned. “Oh, both of you are being ridiculous! Ly—Mr. Athanasius wouldn’t hex me.”

Ron’s brows knotted. “Who?”

Harry’s eyebrow arched, his look of panic replaced with an unreadable calm. “Athanasius. Wizard billionaire. Hermione met him yesterday.”

“What’s a billionaire doing sending you fancy packages, Hermione?”

She decided to ignore them both, unwrapping the box while conscious of the expectant looks on the boys’ faces. She opened the box and gasped at what she saw inside. She brought it out. It was a perfectly cut crystal image of an Elf in Muggle Corporate attire.

She laughed, getting the joke. “Brilliant!” she said.

“What in hell is it?” asked Ron.

Suddenly, she didn’t feel like explaining. Not to them. It wasn’t their fault they had lives, and she should really have her own, but she couldn’t help but feel a bit abandoned by them, so she let herself be a bit snitty.

“It’s an Elf,” she said loftily.

“An elf doesn’t dress like that,” Harry pointed out.

“This does,” she replied, her eyes flashing. “Unlike some people I know, Mr. Athanasius has shown a genuine interest in Elf Rights. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll skip the rest of breakfast. I have a bit of shopping to do.”

She needed to buy a Muggle cocktail dress, and shoes to match, of course.

Her boys had let her down, tonight. It was time she gave other boys a chance.

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Harry went to work that afternoon and gladly found himself being released earlier than he expected. He rushed to the fireplaces to get home. He wasn’t sure why he was in such a hurry, but he thought maybe if he got home early, Hermione wouldn’t feel so bad about not going out, and he’d feel less guilty about all of it.

He was painfully aware of how badly he and Ron had neglected Hermione in the last few months. It wasn’t so bad when they were all trying to cope with the End of War fanfare. The interviews and publicity had kept them all preoccupied, but these past couple of months, when she and he began distancing themselves from the hoopla by finding jobs, he knew he hadn’t spent as much time with her as he should have.

He wasn’t sure if Ron realized it yet, but Harry did, and he felt terrible for it.

When Hermione was in her coma, he had promised, with everything he had, that he would never take Hermione for granted again. He promised to take care of her, and protect her if it was necessary. It was easy enough to believe he would do as he promised while she lay unconsciously close to death, but now that everything was near to perfect, he knew he wasn’t fulfilling his promises at all. Or else, he was doing a half-arsed job of it.

And it wasn’t as if he didn’t like taking care of her. It was a joy, really. Seeing her happy in his and Ron’s company was just too delightful a thing to pass up, but his schedule… he wished he had a time turner. So he could give her the time she deserved.

The memory of her disappointment at breakfast broke his heart for the nth time that day. She had something important to tell them; he remembered her saying that, but apparently, she had forgone it, opting instead to be happy for Ron and his new job. She probably didn’t know Harry knew it, but he did, and he felt so bad that she put off her own news to celebrate for Ron then got turned down dismally when she offered to take them out tonight.

And then that elf figurine came.

Harry frowned. What the hell is Lysander Athanasius doing sending her little crystal elves? Thinks he’s being funny, isn’t he? Well, ha-ha-bloody-ha!

The git’s romancing her. Fucking Bugger…

He didn’t have anything against wizard billionaires, per se; they were capital fellows when they weren’t Death Eaters and when they weren’t going after dear little Hermione.

Of course, they could have been scrubbing toilets for a living and Harry would still be at their throats.

It had nothing to do with a wizard’s career, or how rich (or poor) he was. Unless Harry was sure, beyond reasonable doubt, that the blokes weren’t prats, none of them were allowed to get near her without his watchful eyes in the background.

And then there was Ron, the idiot who let Hermione slip from his fingers. Harry was so ready to see Hermione happy with Ron, but nooo. Ron had to go and snog Lavender; he had to go snog the whole of Wizarding Europe!

There went the only man he would ever trust Hermione’s heart to. Now she was left to consider prats like Viktor Krum and Lysander Athanasius.

Why’d they have to be so damn impressive? An International Quidditch star? A business mogul billionaire? This would’ve been so much easier if they were intellectual losers and dorky dolts, he thought grimly. But I suppose Hermione wouldn’t attract deadbeats. The lot of them would be too intimidated to try. Of course she’d be hauling in the big-shots.

Like I said: Buggers.

He couldn’t be blamed for being so partial, at least not since he realized just what all his vacant staring at her in the last two and a half years meant. All sorts of things shifted while she was sleeping, and a few weeks after she woke, he realized two things: (1) He was in love with his best friend; and (2) Had been in love with her for the better part of two and a half years. Why hadn’t he realized it sooner? Well, there was Voldemort, see…

So bloody well Avada Kedavra me if I have feelings for her. That’s not my fault, is it?

And it wasn’t, really. One such as himself couldn’t be expected to maintain platonic feelings with one such as herself who saved his life countless times and was willing to pay the ultimate sacrifice for him. It couldn’t be helped either that the mere memory of her willingness to stick by him through the best and worse of times warmed him to the point of desire. It was completely natural that he would have these feelings, and he’d be damned to hell if he sat back and let some moron come along and sweep her off her feet; at least not without his approval.

Of course he could’ve just told her his feelings, but he already decided that it wouldn’t do. He had three reasons—well, just one, really, but originally, there were three: First, she apparently didn’t have that kind of interest in him.

Out of all the women that had ever been part of his life before and after seventh year, she hadn’t shown a modicum of jealousy, not one blessed hint. The only reason he went out with those women at all was to find someone he could “move on” with. Someone who could make him forget.

That hurt. That sucked, but if he lost her friendship because he was fool enough to confess, he’d probably go mental.

Secondly, he knew (or thought) Ron fancied her, and Ron was his best friend, so Harry wasn’t exactly about to do something as horrible as try to take Hermione away from Ron. Harry thought it was bad enough that he, Ron’s best friend, had gone and dated Ginny; he should have been thankful Ron hadn’t renounced their friendship right then and there.

Lastly, he thought Hermione fancied Ron, what with all those canaries…

Obviously, the last two reasons no longer applied, but it didn’t mean the first reason wasn’t any less significant.

So that was the way it was, and the best he could hope for was letting some worthy bloke have her.

It was supposed to be Ron…

And now it seemed it couldn’t be.

He had to hurry home. He just had to. Whatever the reason, the need was urgent, like something in his head was telling him that he had to get home.

He almost crashed into Tonks as he rounded a corner.

“Wotcher, Harry!” Her green hair trembled.

“Sorry!” He skidded to a halt to avoid colliding with her, then he made a sharp turn to go on his merry way.

It was seven thirty in the evening and perhaps Hermione hadn’t reached full-mope.

His trip to the Atrium, up the elevator to Muggle London and his subsequent apparition into 12 Grimmauld Place took about ten minutes (the phone booth was pretty crowded).

The lights in the house were still on so at least that meant Hermione wasn’t moping in the library. He was just about to make a stop at the kitchen for some pumpkin juice when he thought he saw a most astonishing sight pass the kitchen entrance.

It had been a blur of maroon and purple, red shoes and shimmering brown ringlets of hair. And there was skin. Lots of it.

He stumbled out in the hallway and found Hermione in a cocktail dress, busily rummaging through her matching purse. The fancy envelope she received the other night was tucked between her fingers.

He took the briefest moment to absorb her look. The length of the skirt reached her knees, but her arms, shoulders and back were bare except for the two string-like straps that were dubiously delicate. She had a necklace on; an intricate beadwork choker up front that had a diamond shaped ruby-like stone hanging from a chain like a pendulum down her back. It was harmless, by itself, but sliding down her spine like that, it made him want to see exactly what the stone was pointing to.

Harry had to control his temper. Where was she going and where was she going in that?

“Where the hell’s the rest of the dress?” he cried before he could stop himself.

Hermione looked up in surprise, blushed, then scowled. “There’s nothing wrong with the dress. It’s perfect.”

“For what?”

She narrowed her gaze at him before she decided she’d be haughty, instead of angry. “For a gallery opening; a perfectly respectable gallery opening, thank you very much, and I’d appreciate it if you don’t make me feel like a slag.”

His face warmed, feeling the tiniest bit ashamed. “Sorry,” he muttered. “You don’t—you don’t look like a slag. You look great, but shouldn’t you… I don’t know, cover up… a little. Shawl, maybe…?”

“It’s the way the dress is supposed to be, Harry.” She dealt him a weary look before walking past him to go to the reception hall.

He followed. She really did look fantastic in her cocktail couture, and as far as Muggle clothing went, it was terribly tasteful, but…

Who’s she dressed up for?

Seeing her now in her Muggle finery was astonishing, distressing and sexy all at the same time.

“So where is this gallery supposed to be?” he asked, wondering if the straps of her dress were holding the dress up or whether they were purely ornamental.

“In Paddington.” She looked into the mirror while she put on lipstick, setting down her bag and the envelope on the small table in front of her.

“Paddington! You’re going to drive all the way there on your own? I’m going with you.”

“What are you talking about?” she cried. “It’s barely three miles away! And I’m going to apparate there, Harry. Honestly! Sometimes you’re more muggle than I am. And no, you cannot come with me.”

“And why not?”

“Because—Because it’s by invitation only!” She blushed again, pulling her gaze away from him as she fluffed her hair.

The mirror spoke. “You look wonderful, Ms. Granger! Fabulous! Gorgeous! You’ll—“

Shut it! he wanted to yell. “Look, Hermione, it’s late. You really shouldn’t be out on your own. Lots of crazy people out there—“

“Newsflash! The war’s over. It’s not as dangerous as it used to be.”

“Who said anything about Dark Wizards? Do you even remember how awful muggles could be? They’ll stick you up with a switchblade for twenty pounds!”

“Oh, honestly, don’t be such a drama king,” she hissed irritably.

Ron, possibly drawn by the sound of bickering, appeared from the other entrance. He stopped in his tracks to stare at Hermione and he scowled. “Well, what in hell is that on you? Are you sure that’s all of it?”

Harry made a “told you so” sound and crossed his arms over his chest. She dealt him another glare before transferring it to Ron. This time, she looked to have crossed her limit.

“It’s a perfectly decent dress!” she yelled.

“It’s clinging to you for dear life! Are those straps even useful? What the hell kind of jewelry is that? It’s practically saying ‘Look here!’”

“Argh! Just you two leave me alone!” she cried, stomping her perfectly clad foot, high-heels giving a satisfying clop on the wooden floor. “I asked you two to go out tonight but you were both too damn busy, so what the hell am I suppose to do? Wait and jump at the chance for when you’re free? Well, no effing way! I am going out there tonight for a bit of my own fun. Yes, my own. No Harry. No Ron! I don’t know why you’re both being so snitty about it, anyway. You seemed to have built your post-Voldemort lives without me and I never complained. I think I’m entitled to have friends outside the two of you without you biting my head off for it. If my getting a life bothers you, then you can both sod off and… and… and screw yourselves!”

And with that, she disapparated, leaving Harry and Ron slack jawed by her parting shot. Not that they’ve never heard her swear; they’d listened to her spew a profanity or two every once in a while, but at them? This was almost tragic!

When Harry regained his senses, he threw down his workbag. He didn’t even know he still had it on. “Gods damn it, Ron! Why’d you have to fucking go and bite her head off?”

“Well, don’t go blaming me for it!” cried Ron. “From what she said, it wasn’t just my fault!”

Harry sighed exasperatedly, throwing his hands up. “You know Ron, you were here the whole day. You could’ve offered to go shopping with her, and maybe she wouldn’t have bought that stupidly sexy dress!”

“Since when has my opinion of her clothes mattered to her? Merlin! If she ever listened to me, she wouldn’t be buying those ridiculously expensive shoes!”

“Hex it! What are we going to do now?”

Ron stared at him, almost shocked. “What do you mean, What are we going to do now? We’re not going to do anything! She’s right, Harry. You and I go out there and have fun while she stays here and does whatever it is she does… we should go easy on her now that she wants to go out on her own. She’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself and making the right decisions, in case you haven’t noticed. Hermione’s too smart to let some git—“

“Are you nutters, Ron? Do you know how many crazy, randy, disgusting blokes are out there just waiting for someone like Hermione to show up beside them on some bar, or dance with them in some club? Hermione could be pretty damn well attractive when she wants to be, you know!”

“I know that,” said Ron through grit teeth. “But what are you going to do? Lock her in her room and let her be alone the rest of her life? Come on, Harry. You know you don’t want that for her.”

He didn’t, and for once, Ron was right on so many levels, but that dress!

“Maybe… maybe we should just make sure she gets there alright. You know, just to be sure…”

“Harry, we don’t even know where she’s going.”

Harry paced. Honestly, he wasn’t sure what he was so worried about, but something in his instincts screamed for him to obsess, to be vigilant. Mad-eyed Moody would be proud. It whispered insistently enough when he was in the Ministry, how he felt he should get home as quickly as he could, and now this.

He couldn’t place it, but it was there.

His eyes fell on the small table in front of the mirror. On it was her tube of lipstick and the envelope. She had forgotten both in her anger.

He hoped it was what he thought it was. He pulled out its contents.

It was the invitation. It contained a description of the event, where it was going to be held and who was responsible for it.

Lysander Athanasius.

“That prat!” growled Harry. He was just about to tuck the invitation into his robe when he saw another important detail: The invitation had been for three.

Whatever she wanted to do tonight, she had decided she would go it alone. But he would have to worry about that later. He knew where she was going.

“I know where she is,” said Harry. “I’ll apparate us together and we’ll—“

“Um, Harry, see I have a date.”

Harry paused to give Ron a look. He was indeed dressed to go out with a witch. Harry frowned. “Well, stand her up! This is more important.”

“More im—I’m not going to give up my social life watching Hermione’s! She’s having fun without us! What the hell is the big deal?”

Big deal? thought Harry, his temper rising. He strode over to Ron, eyes alight with suppressed anger. Ron may be several inches taller than him, but he was never afraid to get in anyone’s face. He had done it with Voldemort several times; he sure as hell can do it with Ron. “The big deal, Ron, is that she shouldn’t ever have to lie by omission to have fun without us, but she did. If we didn’t screw up so spectacularly by making her feel so neglected, she wouldn’t want to get back at us by going out there by herself when she could’ve asked us to go with her!” He shoved the invitation against Ron’s chest. “I don’t know about you, but I’m going there to watch over her. I don’t care if she catches me and tells me she’ll never speak to me again. She will, anyway. The both of us mean too much to her and I want it to stay that way if I have to beat it down your throat.”

Harry picked his bag up from the floor. His invisibility cloak was in it and he had a feeling it would be useful. “I’ll apparate Northeast of Hyde Park, as close to the gallery as I can get without leaving the park. I hope I see you there.”

Taking out his wand, he shot Ron one last glare before he disapparated with a crack.

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Ron stared at nothing. He was alone in the house. The silence suddenly felt overbearing.

Crookshanks sauntered into the reception hall, tail held high without paying the least attention to anything around him. The cat-kneazle settled beneath the reception hall table, curling up with his paws tucked into his chest without a care in the world.

“Bloody beast is mocking me,” Ron muttered.

On the floor were the contents of the envelope that Harry had apparently found so distressing. Reluctantly, Ron picked it up. It was creased, having been crumpled in Harry’s hand, no doubt from anger, or maybe frustration. It was hard to tell with Harry sometimes.

Ron really didn’t want to follow Hermione; or at least, that’s what he thought at first. The girl wanted to go out for goodness sake, and she probably had a date, too. While he wasn’t about to stand by and let just any jerk take her from them, he wasn’t going to stop her from trying to find someone who might make her happy, either. Frankly, he thought Harry was overreacting just a tiny bit, but he was used to Harry being that way; so fiercely protective about everyone, especially Hermione who had almost died saving his life.

But Harry had said something about Hermione lying. Worse, he had said something about Hermione lying so they wouldn’t go with her. It almost sounded as if she had deliberately left them behind, and that was—Ron admitted—somewhat disturbing.

Since when had Hermione stopped wanting to be with them?

But unsettling as that was, it wasn’t the kind of lie that would move Ron to run in circles while screaming. He felt more hurt than freaked out, so he couldn’t exactly understand where Harry’s ravings were coming from.

Granted, Harry had a saving-people-thing that often got him (and everyone he took with him) in serious trouble, and at the very least, Harry had an uncanny ability to have near-psychic hunches, but the war was over; the bad guy had been defeated; what was Harry so worried about?

Guy’s gone mental.

Ron frowned, wondering for the nth time whether Harry’s concern for Hermione these days pushed the envelope of friendship a bit too far. Ron didn’t want to seem daft, but the three of them had been the best of friends for years, and it was just difficult to see Harry going for Hermione in that way. Or was it? After all, Ron had, at some point, seen Hermione as someone more than a friend, but considering the status of their relationship now, he often found himself asking, “What was I thinking?”

Not that Hermione wasn’t “snoggable”. In the last two years, Hermione had grown extremely snog-worthy, especially in those Wizard’s Compendium photos, but he had transcended that physical attraction, upon which he could say, with utmost sincerity that she looked good, but it didn’t make him want to actually snog her.

Between him and Harry, Ron had always considered himself more prone to trying for a relationship with Hermione, and since Ron found himself getting past that, he was almost certain that issue in their trio was done. It never occurred to him Harry would be part of that issue. Hermione was so not Harry’s type if Cho and Ginny were any indication.

Cho and Ginny were so athletic, heart-wrenchingly gorgeous and yes, they had luscious straight hair. Hermione was bookish (mind-numbingly intelligent), had bushy chestnut hair and while pretty enough at first glance, wasn’t particularly a stand-out beauty. She only started to look really beautiful when you began to learn how to appreciate the glow she emanated when she had one of her many brilliant ideas. It wasn’t to say Harry didn’t like quirky, intelligent women; he just seemed to like them show-stoppingly out-going. Hermione had her really awesome moments, but most times, she preferred the quiet of the library, she scorned parties and she thought Quidditch ridiculous.

So exactly what did Harry see in Hermione? Apparently not the usual draws. Hermione had saved Harry’s life more times than Ron could count. She covered their arses when it counted most and she broke rules with them, if only to keep them from getting caught. She was braver than most people Ron knew and she was one hell of a powerful witch. Terrifying, really, but Ron could understand how Harry thought all of it positive.

And then there was that best friend thing… that thing which Ron had been trying to figure out since fourth year.

Ron considered Harry to be his best mate, and it was safe to assume Harry saw him in the same way. They, like most blokes, had disagreements, shook hands on it or exchanged fists on occasion, but they were best friends in the boys club. They understood matters as only boys could, and they understood one another even more because they were best chums. So if one of them burped loudly, there was no need to apologize, and if the Chudley Cannons lost, they didn’t need to talk about it; a moment of silence would suffice, and Harry knew it.

So, perhaps it was this boy-hood that had Ron puzzling over how Harry and Hermione managed their best friend thing. Ron’s bickering with Hermione defined their relationship; straight and simple. Harry and Hermione were more complicated than that.

Hermione’s main flaw was her propensity to nag. She nagged them about anything that she thought they tended to neglect. When they were in school, she nagged them about doing their homework. When they were at war, she nagged them to practice their spells and first-aid charms. When they moved in together, she nagged them about putting down the toilet seat in the common bathroom. She was a nag, but to be fair, she nagged only when necessary. Ron hated it. Harry didn’t mind, at least not as much as Ron. When Hermione got on their case for leaving messes of chips and peanuts in the viewing room, Ron’s reaction was to keep leaving messes. Harry never left a mess again. So on nagging alone, Harry was strangely resilient.

Ultimately, Hermione’s nagging was her way of showing how much she cared, but Ron noticed that he was less on the receiving end of Hermione’s more gentle ministrations than Harry was. Harry always got gently offered potion for his hangovers; always got offered the last bit of pumpkin pie; always asked about whether he had anything that needed laundering since she was going to wash her own clothes anyway…

Laundry! In what world did BEST FRIENDS do that? Honestly!

Harry received tender loving care when he was sick as opposed to Ron who often got told to “Drink your potion and stop being a baby! And get into your ice-bath before I push you in myself!” Of course, this was usually because Harry was a more compliant patient than Ron.

And then they had those friendly kisses and tender caresses; the unnecessary hugs they gave one another; and the reading of each other’s minds with a single look. Harry and Hermione often said something along the lines of: “You have that look on your face again!” as if they hadn’t said that about each other in twenty different, completely unrelated instances. It was as if they had a “Look Language” and they were the only two people who understood it.

Ron didn’t have any of that from Hermione. No kissing, no touching, no nothing. It wasn’t as if they repulsed each other; it just wasn’t natural with them. They could sit side by side on a table and the closest they’d come to touching was when the fork clattered to the floor between them and they’d butt heads trying to catch it.

So maybe now that Ron had thought more on it, it was possible for Harry to have something for Hermione, and this was Harry’s way of pursuing it.

Harry hadn’t shown interest at all before, so how could he, now? Hermione hadn’t changed so much to suddenly call the attention of Harry Bloody Potter. She was still Hermione, but… was Harry still Harry?

Oh, Ron didn’t mean the question in the Barty Crouch-Mad Eyed Moody way. He simply meant to ask whether the last two and a half years hadn’t significantly changed Harry’s perception of his ideal woman. That was, after all, the only thing that would make sense in the Harry and Hermione scheme of things.

Ron looked at the paper in his hand again. It looked like an invitation, the address clearly written out at the bottom.

Harry thought he had reason to be worried. Harry believed there was something “not right”. Ron had a distinct feeling he was being drawn into another Aragog situation.

Bugger. Why do I let Harry talk me into these things?

Ron raised his wand and apparated himself to Paddington.

SPECIAL THANKS to my beta reader Aurabolt!

Standard disclaimers apply.

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Chapter Four – Risking the Dragon

In which Ron saves the day for everybody… mostly.

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Ron supposed his date might forgive him for showing up late.

When he met Natalya Vasik-Lalovic, she seemed like the sweetest, most accommodating woman ever to wear a plunging neckline, and it certainly seemed she had a big heart if she had been so willing to kiss before the first date. So maybe she wouldn’t mind waiting a bit.

He had no intention of sticking around to watch Hermione “have fun”. He merely had to drop in, possibly give a high and hello to Hermione and whoever it was she was with, and hurry on his way. He figured that would make Harry happy enough.

He emerged from the bushes and onto one of the many park walkways, gaining the attention of a few passersby but no more than their briefly curious glances. Lots of strange people in London. To them, he was just one of them.

The lights on the park were very dim, particularly deeper in; easy to hide almost anything in the shadows, but towards the outer edges of the park, lights from the streetcars and commercial establishments lit its surroundings. He could’ve sworn he aimed to apparate a little farther from where he stood, hoping he could avoid getting found out by Harry. Honestly, were his apparating skills that bad? It was very weird, anyway. Splinching himself, yes, but appearing in the wrong spot? It was almost as if some warding had been done…

He turned a bit and could see in the direction of the supposed Art Gallery.

Now… if only he could avoid bumping into Harry altogether.

Bump!

Too late.

Harry’s face hovered above the ground, the rest of him covered by the invisibility cloak. “Took you long enough. You had a minute left before I went on ahead and decided you were being an arse. Good thing I put up wards. You were so trying to apparate elsewhere so I wouldn’t find you!”

So he did ward the area. I KNEW it, Ron thought grimly.

He rolled his eyes. “Look here, Harry, unlike someone I know, I have a life. There is a very beautiful, long-legged Russian dooshyenka waiting for me in a restaurant who had expressed a desire to get right to pudding—“

“Go tell your little wand that it’s not going to be doing any magic tonight, hmm’kay?”

“Little!”

“Ron, shut it! There are dozens of those types of women for you from now until the foreseeable future and there’s only one Hermione. Now are you going to be a prat about this or are you going to help me?”

Well then now he had no choice but to do it, did he? Because there’s only one Hermione and hundreds of Natalyas. Ron sighed. “Fine then! Let’s go and get this over with!”

Harry spread-open the invisibility cloak. Ron grimaced and ducked in with him.

As they scrunched tighter to fit in the cloak, Ron stepped on Harry’s foot. Harry made no complaint since it was his idea to get under the cloak together in the first place.

“Harry, you do realize that we haven’t tried to fit under this thing since seventh year,” said Ron. “And we’ve grown since then, too. Now, it’s impossible! We’re both too big.”

“We’ll manage. Hermione and I fit fine.”

“That’s because you can put your arms around her and she’s tiny. I don’t want you putting your arms around me, and I sure as hell am not going to put my arms around you.”

“I’m not excited by the prospect either. Got any ideas?”

Ron frowned. He should’ve known Harry would rush into this without any kind of foresight. “Blimey, Harry! This is your mission! I thought you had everything figured out!”

“I did, but honestly Ron, I kind of… hadn’t counted on you showing up.”

Ron shot him a dry look. “Thanks a bloody lot for the vote of confidence.”

Harry ignored the sarcasm. “Well, I don’t usually have a Plan A and a Plan B like Hermione does, you see.”

“Right. You just jump all the way to Plan Rush-In-And-Get-In-Trouble,” Ron said with a roll of his eyes. “I doubt Hermione would be accommodating enough to plan her own stake-out, you know.”

“Stop being snarky and try to help me figure this out. Since we’re both in agreement that Hermione usually comes up with the best plans, what would she do in this situation?”

“Probably chew my head off…”

Harry shot him a glare.

“And then cast a charm,” finished Ron as he raised his eyebrow.

They fell silent, thinking.

Ron easily grew frustrated. Were they that dependent on Hermione that they couldn’t think for themselves?

Harry’s eyes widened momentarily and he began to mutter. “Can’t believe we didn’t think of this sooner.” He plucked his wand from his sleeve and aimed it at the cloak. “Dilato apto!”

The cloak expanded considerably, and when Harry held it up, it was large enough to fit them both comfortably.

Ron couldn’t help but grin. “Brilliant! Can you do that with food, too?”

“You can, but the spell is temporary, so the food’ll shrink when it’s inside you and doesn’t make much of a difference in making you full. Spell’s too complicated to stay permanent. S’all about visualizing threads and patterns expanding…”

“Oh.” That was disappointing. He should have known there was something difficult about the spell, seeing as Harry had to use his wand for it.

But Ron also found himself appreciating the fact that Harry’s eyes hadn’t rolled at the question. That was the thing about two blokes being best friends; there was a mutual understanding when it came to their perceptions of food, women and cleaning habits. Food was an essential (therefore all efforts to get them in large quantities must be undertaken: coupons are a must); women were a luxury (expensive, but you want them anyway) and cleaning habits were—well—moderate to bad without need of explanation. Harry had probably tried the expanding spell on the food himself.

They ducked under the cloak and headed towards the street. Reaching the edge of the park, they walked out of it through the gates and stopped at the light with the rest of the pedestrians.

Ron scanned the shops on the other side of the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Gallery of Contemporary (Magical) Art. Of course, it was likely “Magical” wasn’t visible to muggles, and usually, wizarding establishments amongst muggle haunts weren’t so easy to spot, but this establishment was. In fact, it was quite an eye-catcher, but not gaudily so.

“There,” said Ron, pointing to a brightly lit establishment with a glass façade and a golden, glowing marquee sheltering its red-carpeted sidewalk. There were elegantly dressed muggles everywhere crowding the entrance, and if there was a wizard in the crowd, they were dressed to fit in.

“D’you see Hermione anywhere?” asked Harry.

“Not from here, no.”

The pedestrian light signaled their turn and they crossed the lane, scurrying away from the crowd as they did so. There was a line at the elegantly set door and a well-dressed lady was checking names off a list. On both sides of her stood two brawny men wearing expensive suits. They were there to drive away those who weren’t on the list but insisted on it nevertheless.

Ron let his eyes linger on the line. He rather thought Muggles were a peculiar if not absolutely mental lot, but their women sure carried their little dresses well.

Harry brought out his wand and balanced it on his open palm. “Intendo Hermione!”

The wand swiveled to the left of them, its tip glowing softly. Harry began to walk, wand still on hand as he followed its silent directions.

It still amazed Ron, the spells Harry had learned to use over the months training as an auror. It often made Ron wonder why the spells hadn’t been taught to them in school. “That’s wicked, Harry. You have to teach me that spell!”

“You’ll need to learn Occlumency first. Thought shielding required.”

“Oh.” Second time he’d said it that night.

They found themselves being led to the tiny alley at the side of the building. It was dark, damp and unaccommodating. Ron began to feel his stomach squeezing within itself in anxiety. What the hell was Hermione doing way back here? Had someone dragged her to the back to rob her, maybe? Or worse, do unthinkable things to her?

He was beginning to feel real panic creeping up his spine when Harry clapped him on the chest to stop them both in their tracks.

There was Hermione, her back to them. A smartly dressed woman and an oppressively big man in a suit were escorting her up a low ramp that looked like it had been newly installed.

“Dreadfully sorry we didn’t catch you earlier, Ms. Granger,” said the woman in a breathless, flustered tone. “I was horrified when Jasper here told me you’d been standing in line for the longest time! It’s such a crowd out there and practically impossible to get in within half the hour.”

“Oh, but I’d just gotten there when you found me, really,” said Hermione, sounding somewhat flustered herself. “I wouldn’t have minded going through the regular way, either. You’re being too kind—“

“Oh, no, no, Ms. Granger! Please! It’s bad enough that we didn’t send the limo to pick you up from your home—“

“But I didn’t know myself if I would be here. This is… rather a spur of the moment thing…”

“We should’ve sent the limo anyway.” The woman turned to the door and took out what looked like a wand. “Alohomora.”

The large lock slowly shrieked open.

“Wizards who look like muggles!” hissed Ron. “The lot of them! I bet those folks at the front are wizards, too.”

“Quiet, Ron!”

Harry urged them forward and they hurried towards the platform.

Ron, in his hurry, promptly kicked a stray tin can right across the ground. He swore Harry wanted to murder him if the look on Harry’s face was any indication.

Hermione and the lady gave a yelp.

“Goodness!” cried Hermione.

The man called Jasper tutted. “Those rats are getting bigger by the year,” he said in a throaty, gasping voice, like he had something stuck in his cheeks.

Hermione was looking right where Harry and Ron were standing. She seemed more alarmed than suspicious. “I-I don’t think that was a rat—“

“We’re in Muggle London. They’re everywhere around here,” said the lady. “Come along, now.”

They finally slipped through the door.

Harry was scowling. “Oh, fantastic job, Ron. Why don’t we just tell her we’re following her?”

“It’s not my fault these muggles leave their trash lying around!”

Harry sighed. “Let’s just go.”

They climbed the stairs and Harry pointed his wand at the huge lever. “Alohomora.”

Nothing happened. Ron began to worry, but Harry didn’t look the least bit perturbed.

“Must be charm sensitive,” said Harry. He dropped to one knee, checked the lock and muttered something under his breath. His wand sent out a small stream of energy but the lock stayed benign.

Ron nudged him. “What are you doing?”

“I’m checking to see if the lock’s cursed or charmed so that it doesn’t backfire at us when I destroy it.”

“Oh, do they teach you breaking and entering in Auror-school, as well?”

“Among other things.”

“Why don’t we just apparate inside?”

“Too noisy.”

“Right.”

“I think there are wards around, though there doesn’t seem to be any anti-apparition ones. The wards are probably artwork focused. This should be easy…” Harry pointed his wand again. He took a moment to focus before speaking the spell. “Amoveo signum.”

The lever shuddered.

Harry grabbed Ron and pulled both of them back just when the door flew wide open and banged loudly against the railing.

Ron panicked. “Are you mad?”

“Shhhh! Let’s go!”

A soft beeping sound pulsed somewhere along the entryway and Ron was almost afraid something was going to explode. He saw it happen in Muggle movies all the time. There was a beeping sound before the bomb went off and blew you to bits.

Harry hustled them through the door and he led them down the hall. They pressed their backs against the wall as the cloak shrouded them.

There were footsteps from around the corner and two moderately sized men in suits walked right past them. They weren’t as beefy looking as Jasper and his two brothers at the front, but they were tall and formidable in their own right. They had wires plugged into their ears, their crew-cuts doing nothing to hide it. If they were wizards, they would have their wands out. They were muggles.

“Looks like the lock’s out,” said one of them, flipping the lever as it swung uselessly from its knob. There was a large bolt aside from the knob, and the bolt had been melted right through, like Harry had used a lava-hot knife to cut through it.

Ron tried not to think about what Harry was capable of when it came to protecting Hermione. Gave him the willies.

“What the hell did this?” asked the suit’s companion. He sounded utterly mystified.

Harry and Ron hurried away. The lock wasn’t their problem.

They emerged from the back entrance into a busy muggle kitchen where cooks were putting together tiny portions of food and pouring wine for waiters to take out to the guests. Nobody seemed to be using wands. Ron suppressed the urge to grab a hand full of treats as they went.

They wove through the chefs and saw Hermione with her escorts just about pushing through the kitchen doors.

Ron suddenly felt Harry’s grip on his arm, pulling him forward.

“Grip any harder and you just might successfully cut the flow of blood, Potter.”

“Sorry.” Harry let him go.

They managed to get behind a waiter who was just leaving the kitchen and realized that Hermione had stopped a mere few feet away from them. Jasper was gone, but the lady was still with her, smiling and gesturing to the wonderful gallery floor.

“The pieces of art are individually protected by anti-theft spells,” said the lady. “Many of our artists like putting their own twist to their hexes and the gallery doesn’t mind, as that ups the value of the artwork. At any rate, we opted not to ward the gallery against apparitions so that willing wizard customers can come and go as they please. We do, however, put up anti-apparition wards when we close up. No sense in tempting wayward wizards to come and try, after all. As you will find out, a lot of the art was inspired by the post-war high. You might find quite a few in tribute to your friend, Mr. Potter.”

Ron grinned, nudging Harry. Harry didn’t look like he cared.

Sometimes, Ron wondered if Harry even liked all the publicity. Probably not.

“Oh, that doesn’t surprise me,” said Hermione. “I’m sure Harry was and continues to be an inspiration to a lot of people. He’s going to be an auror, you know. Best one ever, I’m sure. He conjured a Patronus when he was just thirteen. Strong enough to stave off a dozen Dementors, too. Did you know that?”

Ron watched Harry’s face. His cheek gave the slightest twitch, but a blush was spreading over it. Whether it was from sheer embarrassment or the pleasure of hearing Hermione say something nice about him, Ron couldn’t tell.

“Really? Fascinating.” said the lady, sounding about as interested as Ron was when it came to Elf Rights.

Hermione frowned slightly.

“And Mr. Weasley? He’ll be an auror, too?”

“No, but he’s going to be the best manager the Chudley Cannons ever had. You just wait and see, Ms. Northanger. He’ll bring them right to the Quidditch World Cup and finally win it for them.”

Now Ron felt really bad for ditching her.

“A shame neither of them were able to make it here. They both sound fabulous.”

“Yes.” There was a snarky hint to Hermione’s tone.

Ron couldn’t tell if it was on account of them getting on her case for her dress or because the lady was dripping with bullshit.

“Oh!” yelped Ms. Northanger. “Here comes Mr. Athanasius!”

Harry made a sinister sound, like a bulldog, maybe. Ron inched as far away from him as much as the cloak allowed.

Hermione’s eyes fixated on the man that was approaching her.

He looked like he stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine. Everything from his platinum-blonde hair down to his expensive leather shoes was the epitome of perfect grooming and style.

Ron didn’t know much about muggle fashion, but even he could tell this man was rich, magnetic and intelligent.

He caught a glimpse of an arm holster, much like Harry’s. It peeked from the cuff of his thousand-galleon suit. It was enough to tell them that the man at least took his wand dueling seriously. Most wizards liked to keep their wands in their breast pockets, but the best duelers kept their wands in their sleeves.

“Ms. Granger,” said Lysander Athanasius in a voice that sounded like he could blow honey through his nose. “I am so pleased to see you.”

“It’s a pleasure to be here.” She extended her hand for a shake. He took it but brought it to his lips for a perfect hand-kiss; the sort that wasn’t smarmy but lingered enough to be full of promise.

Smooth, thought Ron.

“Who the fuck does that these days?” muttered Harry.

Not smooth, Harry. Try not to sound so jealous.

Hermione looked flustered all over again.

Ms. Northanger smiled. “Mr. Athanasius, I was just telling—“

“Thank you, Samantha, you did a splendid job. That will be all,” said Lysander, his gaze never wavering from Hermione’s face.

Ms. Northanger paused, as if to absorb the dismissal before smiling and whispering her excuses to leave.

Hermione pulled her gaze away from him and took back her hand, shifting her clutch-bag in it. She tried to speak to Samantha Northanger but Lysander reclaimed her hand and looped it over his arm.

“I don’t imagine Samantha had a lot of interesting things to say,” he said.

Hermione frowned, trying to pull away from him. “Well, that’s not very nice of you.”

He laughed, keeping her hand firmly on his arm. “No, but it’s the truth. I wager she used the word ‘fascinating’ or ‘fabulous’ at least once during your conversation and she sounded neither fascinated nor fabbed.”

Hermione stopped pulling away, a stubborn pout threatening to settle on her lips.

“I hired her for her efficiency,” said Lysander, unaffected. “Not her conversational skills. Now, let me show you the art on display. Champagne? It’s Blason Rosé by Perrier-Jouët. The best from France. I read in your Wizard’s Compendium interview that you have been to France many times, yes?”

“Y-Yes… Blason Rosé is one of my favorite champagnes…”

“I’m not surprised. Champagne connoisseurs always have it on their list of top tens.” He began to speak to her in French, and she answered back in the same language, as if dazed by the sound of his voice. They walked the gallery as he gestured to the paintings on display.

Ron sighed, shaking his head. Now he barely understood a thing.

It hardly mattered, anyway. Hermione didn’t look like she was in any particular distress, and even if she was, all she had to do was make a scene and all the people in the gallery would secure her safety.

Her eyes, which had been wary at first, had began to acquire that brilliant glow. If she looked attractive a few minutes ago, she was mesmerizing now. Lysander, whatever kind of person he was, was bringing out the best in her. She was his work of art that evening, and he was enjoying his success.

The guy was polite, if excessively flirty, but Ron found that the look of mixed admiration and desire he gave Hermione rubbed him the wrong way. He was beginning to feel a strange crawling under his skin, like he wanted to smack the look from off the git’s face.

Lysander placed his hand right on the small of Hermione’s back, his thumb rubbing her spine delicately. She didn’t seem to mind in the least.

Ron stifled a growl and glanced at Harry briefly, wondering what his friend was thinking in light of the situation.

“Look at him,” hissed Harry. “He knows what he’s doing.”

Ron nodded, a slight grin forming on his face. “Should we jump him, then?” He was kidding, of course.

“No. He really hasn’t crossed any lines yet. If we jump him now, Hermione’ll have every reason to take his side in the matter and give us a hard time of it. We’ll wait.”

Harry was serious. Ron didn’t think he should making anymore stupid jokes.

“Oh, this piece is lovely,” gushed Hermione in English, stopping to stare at a painting bright with red but dark with deep orange fire. It was a painting of a flying Chinese dragon. A man rode its back, the smoke from his pipe building a pathway through the sky. The dragon seemed to be following this pathway quite happily.

Lysander seemed pleased. “It’s called ‘Riding the Dragon’. It’s about—“

“Opium addiction. That’s what they called getting high in the late eighteen hundreds. Opium came into London from China, and muggles associate China with the twelve animals of the Chinese Lunar calendar, particularly the Tiger and the—“

“Dragon,” Lysander finished for her. He was grinning, like he was terribly impressed. “I bet you were always the first one to raise your hand in class when a professor asked a question.”

Hermione reddened. “I’m sorry. It’s a bad habit of mine. In grammar school they called me Know It All Ninny; as in Hermio-Ninny.”

Ron arched an eyebrow. He never knew she had that nickname. She never told them.

Lysander chuckled, leaning closer to her. “Don’t apologize. I think it’s brilliant. People are too quick to dismiss intelligence, especially in a woman. Not me. I think intelligent women never grow uninteresting, and I think the more intelligent they are, the sexier they can be, and Ms. Granger… your intelligence overwhelms me in the extreme.”

His hand on her back moved up in a feathery caress as he pulled away from her. It seemed so much like a casual gesture, because he was using that same hand now to indicate another art piece, but the light contact, however fleeting, did not go unnoticed. Hermione’s breath caught visibly before she let it out slowly between her lips.

Ron’s eyes widened in astonishment. The man was affecting her! He really was!

The damn playboy’s trying to do her in!

He turned to Harry and was about to point out just that when he realized Harry knew it even better than he did. The tip of Harry’s wand was beginning to glow, and his green eyes flashed murder.

Uh oh, thought Ron. His best friend was going to lose it and was going to lose it bad. Was it for love? Maybe. Was it jealousy? Totally possible. But was it worth losing Hermione’s confidence for it?

No bloody way.

You’ll thank me for this later, Harry.

He grabbed Harry by the wrist and with all the focus he could muster apparated them both out of the gallery as softly as he could manage and back into the park.

000000000000000000000

Hermione heard the pop; not loud, but distinct. So did Lysander and every muggle-dressed wizard in the room.

They all turned at the sound of it and wondered who in the world had dared to apparate in the middle of a gallery filled with Muggles. No answers were forthcoming as there was no sign of a wizard appearing anywhere.

The Muggles seemed just as curious but weren’t very concerned. There seemed to be nothing amiss, after all.

She had an unsettling thought flitting in her head but she shook it away, refusing to believe it. She could’ve sworn that crack reminded her of Ron’s disapparation, but not quite. There was something distinctly different about it, which obviously meant it wasn’t him at all.

No, it couldn’t be him. He doesn’t know where I am and he wouldn’t do such a ridiculous thing, especially not if he has a date to occupy his evening…

She frowned and shut her mind to it. She wasn’t going to think about either of them tonight. Tonight, she was going to have fun.

Her eyes roved back to Lysander. He was shifting his gaze between his security people, ordering them with the intensity of his violet eyes to find out what was going on. There was no doubt about it; it had been a wizard.

Hermione understood the stakes. It was the establishment owner’s responsibility to uphold the Statute of Secrecy, especially if the business catered to wizards and muggles alike. Failure to comply with the statute could amount to fees, increased taxes, premiums and at the very worse, Ministry Lock-down. It was bad for business.

Lysander turned to her and smiled. “Well, that was odd, wasn’t it?”

“Quite.”

“I dare say that’s the most interesting it’s going to get around here. I have an idea, Ms. Granger. I was thinking we leave this place so we can go somewhere more… stimulating. Get the blood pumping.”

Hermione didn’t know whether to slap him or slap herself. Is he joking? She tried not to look too affected. “I’m not sure I understand, Lysander.”

He chuckled. “Do you like to dance, Ms. Granger?”

Oh.

“I do, actually.”

“Then lets. Come along, then!” He gently took her hand and began to lead her to the front door.

“B-But,” she held back a bit. “This is your gallery, and it’s opening night! Won’t they look for you?”

“My Gallery Director is far more important tonight than I am. The gallery won’t miss me.” He looked around briefly then flicked his fingers at someone.

Samantha Northanger approached him. He told her to fetch the limo and she nodded, unhooking a short-wave radio from her hip and speaking into it.

Hermione felt Lysander’s hand on her back again and she shuddered. His touch was firm, and warm. She blinked rapidly, desperately trying to repress the naughty thoughts forcing their way into her mind.

He had been doing that to her all night; had been making her think things that no proper English-woman should be thinking; or more particularly: things that Hermione Granger shouldn’t be thinking, but it was like it couldn’t be helped, and it didn’t make things easier in the least that when he looked at her, she felt like she was desired. She had never had that before. Not with any of the men she had dated. It was like a drug; she got high from it, and she found herself becoming more animated; thinking faster; feeling more vibrant.

It had to be her confidence. He made her feel beautiful through his eyes, his words and his touch.

Oh, what a temptation this man is! she thought before telling herself that she was being an absolute air-head.

His purple gaze met hers and he smiled, touching her chin briefly as if he were terribly fond of her. “How can you be so intelligent yet look so innocent at the same time? Drives me mad…”

She blinked, her face growing incredibly warm. Well, she might know the answer to that, but she wasn’t about to tell him.

It was embarrassing to be the oldest virgin she knew. Even Harry, the seeker—as in “Seeker of Meaningful Relationships”—, hadn’t exactly remained celibate in the name of that golden snitch called Love.

She couldn’t blame Harry, really. Even she would’ve found it laughable if the greatest hero of their age hadn’t gotten any action for his efforts. The least witches could do was show him their appreciation.

Didn’t mean she wasn’t jealous of them, though.

Damn slags.

She couldn’t help the thread of her thoughts, and she couldn’t help feeling a bit nervous about where Lysander was taking her as they stepped out in the sidewalk, probably to wait for his so-called limo.

“Lysander, where are you taking me?” She didn’t care if she sounded distrustful. There were very few people she trusted in the world, and fewer still she trusted unconditionally. Since her parents died, the number of people she completely trusted had been narrowed down to two: Harry and Ron. They could be pushing her off a cliff and she’d still have total faith in them.

He must have seen the mistrust. He smiled slightly, as if to forgive her for it instantly. “There is a club at the other side of town; purely muggle. Tonight’s salsa night.”

“S-Salsa?”

“You don’t like salsa?”

“It’s not like I don’t like it… just that—I’m not sure I can—“

“Of course you can. I will lead; all you have to do is follow.”

See, I’m not very good at letting anyone lead me, is what she wanted to say. The only person she ever allowed to lead her was Harry, and those were mostly life and death situations. But she supposed it wouldn’t be all that bad to let someone lead her on the dance floor.

After all, it was just a salsa, right?

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Harry wrenched himself away from Ron the moment they cracked into the park. He tore the invisibility cloak right off and checked himself for any missing parts. He had all his fingers, and his shoes certainly looked whole, so his toes were likely there. He checked his crotch and all troops were in place. He breathed a sigh of relief before turning on Ron with a frown.

“Are you mad? You could’ve splinched parts of us! You could’ve splinched us together!”

Ron, having just finished checking his own family jewels, was checking his eyebrows. “Well, I didn’t! So shut it, alright? I swear, Harry, sometimes you can be bossier than she is!”

Harry sighed and looked across the street from the park to the gallery. He wanted to run back in there and beat the living flobberworms out of Lysander Athanasius, and he would’ve, if Ron hadn’t apparated them both.

As much as he wanted to yell at Ron for risking them both to his questionable apparating skills, Ron had called it right. Harry had lost it in there and Hermione would’ve—he didn’t even want to think about how angry she could have been. She’d probably hex them both with boils and banish them to Siberia butt-naked, or worse, she’d never speak to them again (or at least in the next two weeks, which would feel just as horrible.)

“We can’t leave her in there with him,” he said.

Ron sighed. “Honestly, Harry, do you think Hermione will fall for a bloke like that? He’s so—“

“Rich? Handsome? Intellectually her equal?” Harry was getting frustrated at how Ron wasn’t getting the picture.

“I was going for corny, smarmy and anal, but I suppose now that you mentioned all those, I’ll just sound jealous of his money, good looks and brains.”

Harry sighed, watching the gallery from behind the shadow of trees. He and Ron could run back in there, he supposed, but the risk would be too great. He knew their disapparating had created enough of a disturbance. He just hoped Hermione hadn’t recognized the sound of it.

He was just about to tell Ron they should head on back there under the cloak when he saw Hermione and Lysander emerge from the gallery.

Oh, shite, they’re ditching the joint!

“Harry! Crapper, I think they’re leaving!”

“I know!”

“Where the hell are they going?”

“Oh, like I’d know that!”

Harry grabbed Ron by the collar and he threw the cloak over them. He apparated them both from the park to a relatively isolated and dark alley on the other side of the street. The noise of the traffic and the busy crowd of people somewhat masked the noise of the spell, but he knew it was still audible, particularly to those who happened to be nearby.

There were a few yelps, but nothing that caused widespread panic.

Ron muttered curses, but Harry ignored him as he maneuvered them through the throng.

Harry could see Hermione being ushered into a limousine with Lysander climbing in with her. Harry panicked and was just about to fire an exploding charm at the car’s tire when Ron held him by the wrist.

“Don’t!” Ron hissed.

The door was shut and the car drove off, leaving them watching from the curb.

Harry wondered if punching Ron would attract too much attention.

Ron gripped his arm more firmly and dragged him back to the dark alley where they could remove themselves from the invisibility cloak without notice.

“It’s over, Harry.”

Ron’s words made Harry sick, if only at the sheer truth of it. He turned his ill-feelings at a garbage bin, kicking it with such a degree of force that it rang loudly through the alley and scared all the cockroaches in it silly.

“I just—“ he tried to explain. “There’s something wrong with that man, Ron!”

Ron sighed. “There’s a pub just another block from here. Let’s talk about this over a whiskey or two. How ‘bout that?”

“No. We can get into the gallery, actually. Ask for Ms. Northanger and tell her we lost our invitation. She’ll let us in! She knows us! And then we can ask her where Hermione and Athanasius ran off to—“

“Harry!” Ron cried. “Let her go.”

Let her go…

Harry couldn’t. He had been trying, since he realized his feelings for her, to do just that, but he couldn’t. “Let’s just ask Ms. Northanger—“

“And if Ms. Northanger tells us, Hermione will find out from her—through Athanasius—that we were snooping around. D’you realize how angry she’d be? How hurt? You do know that we’re the only two people Hermione trusts, don’t you, Harry?”

Harry scowled. “I know that, Ron. And it’s not like we’re betraying her trust! We’re looking out for her—“

“Oh, there’s no doubt about it; she’ll always trust us, but what’ll hurt her is that we didn’t trust her. Think about it, Harry. Why are we even here? You afraid she’ll put out for this git?”

“Hell, no!”

Ron snorted. “That’s right. You should’ve thought of that before you dragged us both out here.”

“It’s not—“ He cut himself off, sighing. He suddenly wasn’t sure about his reasons, anymore. “I think maybe I’ll take you up on that offer of whiskey, Ron. But I’d rather take it at the Leaky Cauldron, if you don’t mind. Familiar faces… you know?”

Ron clapped Harry’s shoulder consolingly. “Let’s go then. Sooner we talk this out, the better, because Potter, have I got a lot of things to ask you.”

Harry cringed. Shite. I think he knows.

SPECIAL THANKS to my beta reader Aurabolt! I tell you, he played a particularly special role in this chapter. His comments were so important that I had to revise SO MUCH in this chapter and the chapters that followed it! Aurabolt’s the best. And he’s such a gentle guide, too. He’s never mean about pointing out the flaws. ::sobs while dramatic music plays in the background:: This story would’ve crashed and burned without him.

Standard disclaimers apply.

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Chapter Five – Bring Down the High

In which Harry tells all; Ron tells a bit and Hermione tells them off.

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The Leaky Cauldron was always alive with activity, more so on Saturday nights, and you can always count on seeing several familiar faces. It was a waterhole of old friends, ancient rivalries and yes, ex-girlfriends, whether in person or by memory. In many ways, the Leaky Cauldron had more ghosts than the Shrieking Shack ever did.

When Tom, the barkeep and owner of the Leaky Cauldron, sat Ron and Harry down in a relatively (and this term used loosely) isolated corner of the bar, Harry wasn’t expecting to get ambushed by his failed relationships.

Cho showed up with Marietta and three other witches. Harry didn’t know any of them, and Ron looked like he knew at least one too well, judging by the way he tried to hide behind the whisky bottle.

It seemed that whatever possessed Cho to resent Harry Potter in the fifth, sixth and seventh year had all but been exorcised from her system, and that now she was more than ready to take him up on his fifth year crush on her.

She was still as pretty as ever, of course, but Harry hadn’t thought of her in the last two and a half years all that much.

Upon seeing her approach, he managed to impart a sincere smile. “Hi there, Cho. Hi, Marietta… ladies…” He half expected to see the word “SNEAK” imprinted on Marietta’s face. That was just the way things worked: Get turned into a ferret once and you’d be called Ferret forever. Splinch your eyebrows and you’ll be called Mr. Splinch-It for the rest of your life. Tell on the D.A. and you’ll never be trusted again.

Cho flashed her signature, dimpled smile. That cute grin had felled many a sighing Hogwarts boys during its time. It made her look precious and lovely, almost unattainable. That was her allure. “Hullo Harry; Ron.”

Marietta merely smiled shyly, reddening as their eyes fell on her. The other witches smiled more confidently. Maybe Marietta was remembering she was a sneak, too, or maybe his eyes were reminding her. Harry certainly couldn’t look at her any other way.

Ron’s half-smile was unmistakably acidic. “Fancy seeing you two… and—err—your companions here. Unwinding?”

And so the small talk began. Harry and Ron seated in their booth; Cho, Marietta and a bevy of witches standing above them. The women weren’t offered seats. Harry wondered if Hermione would chastise them for it; ungentlemanly, she would call it, but then he remembered how Hermione had lied for them to keep them out of trouble with the professors; lied for him to get him out of detention; confunded Cormac McLaggen for Ron’s sake and possibly his, if Cormac’s insufferable control-freakishness was any clue.

Hermione would disapprove of their inability to offer Cho the simple courtesy of joining them on the table, but if Hermione were there, she wouldn’t rat them out to Cho either. Hermione was just so loyal that way.

And as if Cho had read his thoughts, she turned to him and asked, “So, where’s Hermione?”

Harry could see Ron’s eye-roll. It always boiled down to Hermione when Cho was concerned, it seemed.

Stifling a sigh, Harry replied. “It’s just us boys tonight, Cho. She’s out doing her own thing.”

Cho raised an eyebrow. “On a date, is she?”

“Aren’t you the concerned one,” muttered Ron, loud enough for Cho to hear.

Cho shot him a glare and Harry wondered how Ron managed to charm his dozen or so women with the kind of cheek he had sometimes. He supposed Ron was charming when he wanted to be. Hard to imagine, though.

Ron deflected her glare with a beatific grin. “If you really want to know, ask her. Harry, why don’t you lend Cho that mobile telly-foney Hermione gave you. You know, the one she got you so you can call each other wherever and whenever?”

“There’s no need for that,” said Cho, raising a superior eyebrow. “Anyway, the girls and I have to be going. We’ll see you around. Harry, we should catch up. Floo me?”

Ron kicked Harry under the table.

Having seen just how much Ron seemed to despise Cho’s being there—and being snitty about Hermione, besides—, Harry assumed it meant he wasn’t supposed to encourage Cho. “Maybe… but I’m really busy these days, so it probably won’t be anytime soon.”

“That’s fine,” said Cho, her smile reappearing without looking the least bit discouraged. “Just floo at your soonest convenience, alright?”

Harry nodded and Cho finally left with Marietta and the other witches following behind her.

Ron poured himself a whisky. “Still jealous of Hermione and always will be.”

“And how very nice of you to insinuate that I’m involved with Hermione these days.”

Ron scoffed. “Got rid of Cho, didn’t it? I just wanted her to go away and bring her petty little manipulations with her.”

Harry had to admit that Ron’s ruthlessness was handy; better than squirming their way out of the situation.

“So, Harry, speaking of old girlfriends… Ginny’s asking about you.”

Enter ex-girlfriend number two.

Harry knew it was going to come up. “She owled, actually.”

“Answered her yet?” Ron poured him a shot.

Harry fiddled with his shot glass. “No.”

“And why not?”

Harry sighed. “Look, I don’t mean to be a prat, but is that really any of your business?”

“Well, she is my little sister, mate.”

“And so?”

Ron frowned. “What do you mean, And so? I’m watching out that you don’t hurt her!”

Merlin, why do these things happen to me? thought Harry as he downed his first shot of whisky. “That’s the last thing I want to do.”

“D’you want to go back to her? Are you even considering it?”

Harry didn’t know if he should even be telling Ron. It would have been alright if Ron and Ginny weren’t brother and sister, but they are, and it just seemed awkward, but as Harry looked Ron’s facial expression over, there seemed to be no animosity; just a frank curiosity. Against Harry’s better judgment, he answered.

“No. I’m not. I can’t have a relationship with her anymore; not without—without messing something up very badly.”

Ron nodded. “Sorry to hear that, mate, but you should tell her this is how you feel. She’s waiting. Least you can do is tell her she’s waiting for nothing.”

Harry did feel a measure of relief. Part of the reason he couldn’t go about turning Ginny down was Ron. He didn’t want Ron taking it the wrong way; as a slight to their friendship, because Ron had a tendency to be sensitive and protective about his family. Harry couldn’t blame him for that, but it didn’t make the situation any easier before. Now it was.

“I’ll tell her. I’ll tell her soon,” said Harry.

“I’ll hold you to that.” Ron tossed his whiskey.

Harry poured them their next shot.

“So, who is it then?” asked Ron, taking his glass.

Harry raised an eyebrow, not sure about what Ron was referring to. “Who’s what?”

“Who’s the girl? There has to be one, right?”

For some reason, this caused Harry’s heart to beat very fast. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Ron.”

“It’s Hermione, isn’t it?”

Good lord, he DOES know! Harry downed his shot and began to pour himself another one. “What? Now, Ron—“

“Don’t deny it. You think I haven’t noticed? The special way you treat her? The cute little looks? The touching?”

“Touching!”

Ron drank his whisky, eyeing Harry with the expression of Mad-Eyed Moody. “Yes. And tonight, Harry. What’s all this about? Are you worried about Lysander, or are you worried she’ll fall in love with him?”

Harry felt trapped, not because he didn’t have a way out, but because he could never lie to Ron. Ron was his best friend; they’d take an Avada Kedavra for each other if the situation called for it. You just don’t ruin that kind of trust by lying.

“I just want Hermione to be happy,” he said desperately. “I want her to find someone who’ll take care of her and give her the treatment she deserves. He has to be perfect. But this guy… there’s something wrong with this Lysander bloke. He’s too perfect. It’s like he knows what she wants, and he’s giving it to her. It’s like he’s luring her.”

Ron shook his head. “Harry…”

“You have to trust me. I’m not just being some jealous prat—“

“Aren’t you?”

There it was again; that feeling of getting trapped. “Ron,” he said weakly. “Don’t ask me that.”

Ron made a motion to say something, hesitated then went on. “There’s nothing wrong with fancying her, Harry. If there’s any guy I’d want for her, it’s you. You don’t have to keep it from me.”

Harry took his whisky shot. “She doesn’t see me that way.”

“That’s… beside the point. You fancy her, then?”

“It’s… a little bit more than that.” He felt the heat rise in his face, and he wasn’t sure if the whiskey had more to do with it. Admitting his feelings for Hermione to Ron of all people was spectacularly disconcerting.

Ron sighed, but it was one of sympathy. “Mate, you should’ve said something… when did you start—“

“Seventh year, I think, but I didn’t realize it until after her coma. I didn’t use your sister, alright?”

Ron managed a grin. “I know. So, you knew after the coma, but figured you’ve—liked her a lot since seventh year…. were you DAFT? How hard was it to figure out? I mean, honestly! Stewing on it for two years? Talk about major denial…”

“You fancied her, Ron. I didn’t want to be thinking I fancied the same woman my best friend did, so I just sort of closed my mind to the idea completely.”

Ron seemed to have been struck by his words before he shrugged. “So you knew about that?”

Harry shot him a sardonic frown. “Ron, mate, the hints—they were anvil sized.”

“That bad, eh?”

“Yes. And then you did nothing. I sat back and watched you and Hermione duke it out like an old married couple but you never got together. I wanted to kill you.”

“All this time you’ve been plotting my demise.”

“Why didn’t you tell her, Ron? I mean, I think she fancied you back. Canaries and everything!”

Ron leaned back on his seat, giving it a brief thought. “Many reasons… there was the war to worry about, then there’s the fact that she hates Quidditch. She still calls Krum’s move a—“

Harry laughed. “Wonky feints?”

“Yes! And then she gets angry because the whole world is nuts about Quidditch! Angry at—“

“You?”

“Yes, at me! As if I was responsible for it! Not that she gave me credit for much else. She doesn’t mean to do it—sometimes, but I couldn’t help but feel daft when she takes that high and mighty tone with me. Anyway, after the war there were just all these… “

Harry arched an eyebrow. “Easy women?”

“Could you please stop finishing my sentences?”

“Sorry… so, we were talking about easy women…”

Ron shot him a sardonic grin before continuing. “Least I don’t have to worry about them correcting my Latin.”

Harry supposed almost a decade of Hermione pointing out Ron’s academic shortcomings would inevitably drive Ron into the arms of more amicable and accommodating women, but then again, Hermione’s best assets were definitely worth the intellectual acrobatics, in Harry’s humble opinion. Woman’s a genius! And she makes books look good. Harry was so down with that. “Do you still fancy her?”

“I still hoped to measure up some time last year, because damn, Harry, she has that sexy, sophisticated, high and mighty walk going that—I didn’t know whether to snog her or yell at her! I think it’s because of those legs of hers. Fine pair, those. If her genius mind weren’t so bent on pissing me off… Wingardium levee-YOH-sahhh! She was a nightmare!”

Harry managed to laugh. It was exactly those very words, with that same retching diction, that led to that fateful meeting with the Troll. It was a precious memory, wrestling the troll, if not a bit terrifying. Of course, it was the only way Hermione would’ve given them the time of day. A couple of average blokes like them couldn’t have hoped to get her full attention if they hadn’t saved her life. She was just so special that way.

Ron shrugged. “I guess I just realized that I enjoyed watching her walk away more times than I liked watching her walk to me, if you get my drift. She’s our best friend, you understand, but if I were to consider having a serious relationship with her, that means I’d have to consider marrying her, and if I had to consider marrying her… Merlin, I don’t think I can stand to be ‘Ron and Hermione’ ‘til death do us part. Know what I mean?”

“I actually do,” said Harry after a pause. The “Ron and Hermione” thing meant “Arguing, Nagging and Forever Disagreeing” thing which, one had to admit, was the basic ingredients for “Miserable Marriage”.

Ron nodded. “It just went from there, mate. I can’t look at her that way anymore. I really can’t imagine having to put up with her as someone more than a friend. I think I overdid it with Lavender-thing, to begin with.”

“You think?”

“Oh, shut it with your cheek, Harry. It’s not like you’re doing any better by dating all these strange women…”

Harry frowned. “I was just trying to find a way to move on, Ron, and it’s not as if I did any of that hoping to make her jealous. I went out with those women hoping one of them would manage to—I don’t know—“ He made a helpless gesture “—make me fall in love, or something… but as you may have noticed, I’ve failed miserably at it. Or they have. Pathetic, yes? But I don’t think it’s going to happen, at least not right now. Hermione’s just—she’s just so there. How can she not be when I see her every blessed day? She’s just—I can’t stand it, Ron. One day I’ll attack her from behind and snog her, and it’ll be all over…”

“And you think she doesn’t see you that way?”

“She doesn’t. Told me she would’ve wanted Ginny for me and everything.”

“And this is the only reason you’re not telling her?”

“Merlin, Ron, how much does it take for you to understand? She never saw me that way. Remember how she gave me advice about Cho Chang? And how she gave advice to Ginny; about how Ginny could get me to notice her? And how about the time she knew, ahead of everyone else, that there was something going on with Ginny and I? She thinks of me as her best friend, and if I tell her how I feel in spite of how she obviously sees me, I’m just ruining everything altogether. She’ll move out; I just know it. She wouldn’t want to keep hurting my feelings so her solution would be to ‘give me space’ or shite like that. I just can’t lose her completely; not like that, so if it means I have to be her best friend to keep her, then that’s just the way it’s going to be.”

Ron winced. “I don’t suppose your ‘Gryffindor Courage’ applies in this case.”

“Sod off, Ron. Fat lot your Gryffindor Courage did you when it came to Hermione.”

“You have a point…” He paused a bit. “Now she’s going out with the dashing billionaire.”

“Yes. He can’t have her, Ron. There’s something wrong with him.”

Ron gave him a skeptical look.

Harry sighed. “Maybe I’m a little jealous—“

“A little? You had us follow her on her date, Harry. And if you hadn’t lost your cool in the gallery, we’d still be tailing them. And you thought she looked sexy in her dress!”

“Well, so did you!”

Ron looked affronted. “I did not. I thought the dress was too revealing. I’d have reacted the same way if Ginny were wearing it. You thought it looked too good on her. Don’t deny it. You said it was ‘stupidly sexy’.”

“Okay, so maybe I’m more than a little jealous, but I don’t trust Athanasius, whether or not he’s dating Hermione. I just need for you to be on my side in this.”

The worry on Ron’s face was worthy of Molly Weasley’s son, but after a long moment, his gaze guarded while Harry’s remained pleading, he nodded. “Fine, then. I’ll stick by this hunch of yours for as long as I can.”

Harry actually felt relieved. He couldn’t stand it if he was at odds with both of his best friends. He tried to go it alone in sixth year and that had turned out to be disastrous.

Ron glared at him and pointed a finger at Harry. “You know I trust you Harry, so don’t be playing me! And don’t be playing Hermione! Or I’ll kill you. Got that?”

“Yes, yes! I’m not playing. Just… just give me some time to work out something solid, alright?”

“Alright. Now, I see Neville over there. Mind if I call him over?”

Harry grinned. Neville was always good company. He turned in his seat and called Neville over himself.

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Hermione felt her heart racing to the beat of salsa. The rhythm and earthy voices that accompanied the red-hot tunes lent an intoxicating flavor to the atmosphere, and for the few minutes she danced with Lysander Athanasius, everything was right.

When she first laid eyes on the salsa dance floor, the rich colors and smoldering movements heating up the scene, she was more than a little hesitant. The thought that she would ever be pressed so close to another man—practically a stranger—and be expected to move like that where everyone could see, was intimidating in the extreme. She literally stepped back from the sensual arena and began to formulate an excuse as to why she didn’t want to do this anymore.

But perhaps sensing her discomfort, Lysander had gently slipped his hand around her waist and coaxed her forward as he walked back, drawing her in with the honeyed tone of his voice.

“It will be fine, Miss Granger,” he said, smiling as the kindness of his eyes washed over her. “We’ll… take it slow.”

Hermione had blushed at the way he said it. It was embarrassing, but it also made her want to try.

It was little surprise that when he raised her arm above her head and pulled her close, she yelped awkwardly and made to resist with an outraged, “Mr. Athanasius!”

He found it all extremely amusing, reminding her again that she should call him by his first name, and that she had to relax if she wanted to enjoy dancing at all.

It was then the music raised its beat to an overwhelming crescendo and Hermione found herself getting swept, pulled and swirled into all of it. She was still so very uncertain about it all at the beginning, the sweat beading out of her temples causing her discomfort, but then his touch on the skin of her back, the firm grasp of his hands on her hips to guide her movements and his breath warming the crook of her neck, began to penetrate through her nerves, igniting the tingles that coursed throughout her body.

When she finally let herself, she was suddenly in the swing of it, smiling and moving with near expert ease. She felt euphoric; lost in the dance, lost in his touch, and she let him put his hands where he deemed it proper, which probably wasn’t proper at all in many instances. But then, it was just salsa, right? Everyone seemed to be doing it. Everyone seemed to be lost in it. She could get lost in it too, and Lysander was so very good at what he was doing, whatever it was.

They could have been dancing for hours, but she was having the time of her life. It was only when she finally looked at her watch and saw that it was two in the morning that she realized that it was way too late for one such as herself to be out at all.

She begged her leave of Lysander Athanasius who did a very convincing job of expressing his reluctance to let her go.

He was so close to her. It was because of the noise, really. The music was so loud one couldn’t have a proper conversation face to face. Shouting did not become Lysander, so he didn’t even try. The alternative was so much more pleasant, anyway, with his breath grazing her ear as it slid down her neck.

“You want to stay,” he said. “You know you do.”

It wasn’t a question and it almost sent bolts of shame through her. But she regained her senses, and instead of lying about wanting to leave, she pressed her point. “I really have to go.”

“And so you must,” he finally said.

He escorted her out of the club and just as they left the intensity of salsa behind them, he began to engage her in light conversation, asking her about Harry and Ron as if he had been interested about them all along.

She found herself talking freely, telling Lysander about their accomplishments. She was immensely proud of them, and she was glad Lysander was much more responsive about it than Ms. Northanger.

The limo brought them exactly where Grimmauld Place was, squeezed magically between 11 and 13.

Her car door was opened and the chauffer helped her step out. He was an unimposing individual, and Hermione couldn’t even remember what he looked like.

Behind her, Lysander stepped out with her.

Then the chauffer was gone, and she only had Lysander to deal with.

She felt awkward all over again. Did she have to kiss him now? After showing her such a wonderful time, he certainly deserved one. Just something casual. Nothing that promised too much. She liked him, but she didn’t know a thing about him except for what they wrote about him in Business of Magic.

Blushing, she tiptoed and kissed both his cheeks, one after another and then a third time. “Thank you for the wonderful evening.”

He smiled at the kisses, looking amused. He knew what her kisses meant, and he was a gentleman for appreciating it. “I do hope to see you again, Ms. Granger.”

She reddened again at what she was about to say. “Please call me Hermione.”

“Hermione.” He squeezed her shoulders and heat coursed through her at the contact. He knew it, by the smoldering look in his eyes, but he did not pursue it. He let her go and stepped back into the limousine.

She turned around, walking to 12 Grimmauld Place.

Don’t look back. It would be terribly cool if you don’t look back!

But she wasn’t exactly of the “cool” variety. She did look back and caught him watching her from his window. He chuckled visibly, rolling up his window as the limousine drove away.

She smiled, unembarrassed. They had both caught each other looking; but he had been looking first.

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Hermione apparated into the living room, flushed and grinning. She didn’t know if it was right to be so pleased with herself.

She was exhausted; really exhausted, like she had used up all her energies in the dancing. She felt the familiar wobbling of her legs, but she was happy; or high on something. She hadn’t felt that way in a long time so she welcomed it.

Even the sight of Harry and Ron, playing chess in the living room, didn’t upset her. The anger she had for the both of them earlier was gone. She was ready to forget that their fight had even happened. It had been a stupid fight, anyway, and now that she had proven that all their concerns were unfounded, that was satisfaction enough for her. Bygones!

She grinned broadly as they looked up from their game. “Hullo, you two! You’re back early, Ron. I’d have thought you’d—er—be all night.”

Ron frowned. “Do you know what time it is?”

Hermione was completely caught off guard by the hostility in his tone. “Er—yes. It’s a bit past two thirty in the morning. You usually get back in at around five or six—“

“Where have you been?” he asked, cutting her off.

She was shocked to realize that Ron was upset, and it was because she was rather late coming home.

“Harry said you went to an Art Gallery,” he continued, getting up. “I didn’t know they stayed open until two in the morning!”

Her shock withered and anger began to suffuse her. Her head spun at the sheer effort at being furious. It seemed her dancing had taken more from her than she thought possible. But she was riled enough to ignore the exhaustion.

She scowled and her stance stiffened. “Well sor-ree, Dad! I didn’t realize I had a curfew seeing as everyone else can stay out as late as they want. At least I don’t come home banjaxed out of my skull unlike some people!”

At that Ron blinked rather uncertainly, as if just now realizing he didn’t have much on him to lecture her about coming home late.

It was then Harry rose out of his seat, looking even more displeased than Ron was. “Wherever you were, you should know better than to let that prat Athanasius fool you, Hermione. Do you think he hasn’t had a lot of practice winning over someone like you? He’s like—forty years old! He’s had a lifetime of an advantage over you!”

For a moment, she marveled at how Harry found out about Lysander and some of her suspicion that evening crept through her mind.

No. They WOULDN’T! They simply wouldn’t! But how did Harry know…?

She remembered how she had forgotten the gallery invitation in her hurry to leave Grimmauld Place. Her resolve to be furious rose anew in a terrible blaze. She didn’t even care that they found out that the invitation had been for three.

Hermione couldn’t believe she could get this angry with Harry, and she couldn’t believe he hit so close to her deepest insecurities, too. The many nights she had spent alone in Grimmauld, feeling somewhat abandoned, suddenly came rushing back to memory. She had listened to Harry discuss strange women and she recalled the strain on her lips and eyes as she smiled for him. She had been so supportive of them both. Why can’t they do the same for her? And what was so wrong about Lysander liking her, anyway?

She exploded. “I’m not even going to ask if you two followed me tonight, because frankly, I’d rather DELUDE myself into thinking that you would never do such an outrageous thing! And for your information, Harry, he is not forty years old! He’s not a day over twenty five and I didn’t realize you thought the likes of me so common, Harry Potter. I suppose, then, that Lysander’s had plenty of practice with plain, bookish, bushy-haired witches like me whose desperation is written clear across their faces! Because goodness knows the likes of me would ever feel special and actually have someone as brilliant, rich and handsome as Lysander Athanasius after me for my looks and personality. No way! Obviously, he’s just looking for a quick shag! Oh, dear me! Poor silly me! So delusional! Good thing there’s Harry Sodding Potter to point that out for me!”

She was so fiercely eloquent that she disarmed Harry instantly by the look on his face, and it hurt her to see him so stunned, as if she had hit every thought he had, right on the mark.

He started. “Hermione, that’s not—“

“Shut it!” she hissed, her anger twisting into something so profoundly painful inside her. “The two of you just shut it!”

“He’s not good enough for you, Hermione!” Harry cried desperately.

“And neither is Viktor, right?” she yelled back. “So just who’s good enough for me, Harry? A prince, maybe? I’ll tell you something: I don’t think it’s because you think any of these blokes aren’t good enough for me. I think you just don’t like the fact that Dependable, Smart, but Sad Little Hermione is suddenly realizing that there are other boys beyond Riotous Ron and Handsome Harry! You and Ron probably enjoy it when I make goo-goo eyes at you both, thinking that I’ll always be around for your Yule Balls when there’s no one left to ask, or that I’ll always be willing to give advice on how to deal with pretty, tall, athletic girls with perfect hair who happen to like Quidditch! Or maybe it wasn’t even for all that! Maybe I was just really good at helping you both with your homework, because goodness knows I’d let you flunk your way out of Hogwarts!”

She pointed an accusing finger at Ron. “So you had your fling with Lavender and I did the complimentary jealous bird bit, thinking perhaps there was some kind of payoff in the end, but I suppose it was a bad way to expect things to happen. I couldn’t begrudge you that, and now you want to go around London shagging every skirt you come in contact with! Incidentally, I wasn’t much of the shag-now-worry-later-variety, so I’m guessing we never would’ve worked out. If I ever considered fancying you, Ron, that’s done! And you, Harry! Well, what can I say? Nothing! Because you’ve done nothing, and that just makes me want to hang myself!”

She was out of breath, out of words and out of strength. She stormed out of the living room and apparated into her bedroom.

Muttering a locking and silencing charm on her door, she felt the tears sting her eyes and she let them go, kneeling by her bed like she used to as a little girl to sob into her sheets.

She was so tired, wracked by emotion.

Sobbing still, she pulled herself up on bed and buried her face in her pillows.

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Harry watched her leave the living room, the distinct sound of her apparating bouncing through the hall. A second crack, muffled and distant, came from upstairs, then silence.

He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to do. She was so angry, and her words were honed to slice through the thickest of barriers, like she had been sharpening them for years.

Was that how she felt? Was that how they made her feel? Like she was back-up?

No, no, no! he thought. It was never that way!

But it pained him to think she thought it, anyway.

He looked to Ron for the answers; he didn’t appear to have any. He was just as stunned as Harry was.

Harry immediately made his way up the stairs and Ron followed grimly.

“She’s not going to talk to us now, you know,” said Ron.

Harry sighed but didn’t say anything. When they arrived at her door, Harry pressed his ear to it. He couldn’t hear a thing but he could feel the magic of her wards. She had put up several locks and he could tell there was a silencing charm. “Hermione?”

Nothing.

Of course, he wouldn’t hear her if she said anything on account of the wards.

He looked at Ron who shook his head. Ron was a veteran when it came to this situation, but Harry was a little hesitant to take Ron’s advice. After all, Ron and Hermione were still fighting.

“Hermione, look, we’re sorry…” He was going to say he was sorry they followed her but he thought better of it, remembering her angry request not to say anything more about that because she’d rather ‘delude’ herself into thinking they wouldn’t do such a thing. There was no point in making her angrier, anyway. “We’re sorry about… everything. Just that we were worried, you know?”

Ron leaned over to give his two knuts. “Didn’t help that you lied to us about the invitation, though.”

Harry’s eyes widened in horror and he actually felt his hands itching to throttle his best friend. “Ron!”

Suddenly one of the wards went down and Harry froze, thinking that Ron had actually gotten through to her somehow.

Of course, when it came to Ron, who had the emotional range of a teaspoon, that was expecting too much.

“Leave me… the fuck, ALONE!” she growled from behind the door before the ward was put back up with excessive force.

Harry felt like someone had smashed a gong while his ear was pressed to it. He stumbled away from the door to absorb the impact. He hissed and grabbed Ron by the collar of his shirt. He walked them farther down the hall until Ron wrenched his hand away.

“Gerrof me!” Ron muttered.

Harry made a frustrated gesture. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he whispered angrily. “It’s like—it’s like you took advanced classes on How to Say All the Wrong Things to Hermione and you got top marks for its N.E.W.T.s! Did you hear her in there? She SAID the F-word! She never says that to me!”

Ron looked astonished. “Never? Well, that’s not fair! She’s said it to me two or three times in the past already!”

Harry shook his head, narrowing his gaze.

Ron sighed. “Look… right now, I reckon talking to her isn’t a very good idea.”

“Oh, you think so? Then maybe I should take that advice, because you’re so good at that. You puke good advice, ‘specially when it comes to Emotional!Hermione.”

“Fine, fine. I screwed that one up. But what’s done is done. We’ll talk to her tomorrow. Think that’s good enough advice for you?”

Harry wasn’t sure if he should wait that long.

Probably seeing the doubt in his eyes, Ron shook his head. “If you want to insist on now, be my guest. See if you don’t get the F-word again. That’ll about put the two of us at par.”

That stopped Harry in his tracks and he couldn’t believe he was considering Ron’s words, especially after fucking up an already fucked up situation, but he had to admit it was difficult not to listen to Ron when Ron had seen Hermione in all her angry glory. The bloke was experienced after all.

They had both been so upset about Hermione being late in the first place. All the waiting they did in the living room had definitely worked them into a lather, but it seemed their anger was severely misplaced; at least she thought so, and she managed to convince them that they had to apologize for it.

Ron was right for now, however belated his “good” advice was.

Not now.

Reluctantly, Harry nodded.

Tomorrow. We’ll talk tomorrow. And I’ll tell her I’m sorry. She’ll forgive me, won’t she? She has to. We’re best friends.

We’ll always be best friends.

Ron is right.

Tomorrow would be best.

SPECIAL THANKS to my beta reader Aurabolt!

I’m really sorry I did a double post a while ago! But to make up for it, here. I’m done revising it! *And* I have the next chapter out as well. Least I can do for the false alarm.

Standard disclaimers apply.

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Chapter Six – Across the Silent Chasm

In which Harry and Ron seek penance while Hermione finds respite from her pain in latte, shopping and a billionaire’s sweet attentions.

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Tomorrow was not best; or at least it didn’t start that way.

By the time Harry woke, Hermione was gone. She had left her bedroom door open, everything inside it neat and perfect just like she was. There were no clatter of pans from the kitchen and she wasn’t in the library either.

She was out of the house, and it was only nine in the morning; on a Sunday, too!

It occurred to Harry that she was that pissed at them; to leave the house so early to avoid them, even when she went to bed so late.

When he got to the ground floor, he found Ron in the viewing room, snoring on the couch in front of the open television. Harry was surprised Ron found the gumption to turn it on. He supposed sleeplessness can do that.

Harry certainly hadn’t gotten that much sleep. He kept seeing Hermione’s anger; kept hearing her wounded voice.

If she only knew why he had been so upset. If she only knew how jealous he was, or how protective Ron was being; maybe she wouldn’t be so angry; maybe she’d understand.

He woke up Ron, telling him Hermione had left the house.

Ron’s scrunched up morning face turned up at him from the couch. “She hates us, doesn’t she?”

“I s’pose.”

“Bugger all… this Athanasius is going to abso-bloody-lutely get it from me when this is over.”

Harry had to smile at that. “So you do believe me when I say there’s something wrong with him?”

“I believe you now,” said Ron, pushing himself from the couch. “She was furious at you, Harry. That’s just unnatural.”

Harry realized that Ron did indeed mean to say that if Hermione had been furious with Ron, that wouldn’t have been so out of the ordinary.

They lumbered to the kitchen.

Crookshanks rose from the counter and hissed at them both when Harry tried to pat him.

“Even the cat knows we’re arseholes,” muttered Harry.

Crookshanks didn’t leave, fully expecting Harry to do something to appease him. Harry fed him.

“What do we do now?” asked Ron as he began making coffee.

“We call her,” said Harry.

“Floo her?”

“No, call her, on the telephone. If she doesn’t pick up, we’ll leave a message. I don’t know if it’ll get her to talk to us, but I know she’ll like it.”

“She will?”

Harry nodded, smiling wanly. “Saw her face when she thought you were calling her. Like a kid who got exactly what she wanted on Christmas.”

Ron reddened, remembering. “That wasn’t me.”

“I know. You prat.”

“Yeah, you and me both. Wasn’t my idea to follow her last night.”

Harry sighed, conceding it.

He summoned his mobile telephone from his room. It passed through his bedroom window and zipped through the kitchen window quickly. He looked at Ron pointedly. “I don’t hear you accio-ing, Ron.”

Rolling his eyes, Ron did what he had to.

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It was maybe the sixth time Hermione listened to her phone ringing that day, and she found it much to her satisfaction that it was either Harry or Ron calling. She had finally gotten them to use their mobiles.

She stirred her iced latte with her straw, pushing around the cream that swirled atop it. The goat-cheese panini on her canopied table remained untouched as she thought about the last time she spoke (or yelled) at Harry and Ron and wondered what they possibly had to say to her as they busied her mobile phone.

Leaning back on her chair, she made sure shrunk package at her feet was close at hand before she let her eyes rove to Muggle London. She watched the people walk by, totally unaware of the magical world existing beyond theirs.

I would’ve been one of them, without Hogwarts. I wouldn’t have known Harry and Ron if I weren’t a witch.

And that thought was just the tiny bit terrifying and unspeakably sad.

She would still have her parents, likely, and while she’d probably do almost anything to get them back, she wouldn’t exchange her life with Harry and Ron for the world.

I love those two insensitive idiots, she thought, half-glumly. And hex me, how they know it!

It was a mixture of fondness and slight resentment; that they knew they had her wrapped around their fingers.

In fact, even in her anger, she had managed to find Harry a birthday present while she moped in the muggle shopping district.

How pathetic, she thought, tapping her wooden swizzle stick viciously against the rim of her tall coffee mug. She had been planning to buy a load of books, instead she managed to find the one wizarding shop among the muggle stores and bought a present for the one responsible for her foul mood.

That’s just dandy of you, Hermione.

She ate her panini.

Moments later, her phone rang again, and when she ignored it, it buzzed seconds later. Someone had left a message. It did the same thing again after a few minutes had passed.

She finally checked it. It was Harry and Ron.

Humph. Let’s see what Harry Bloody Potter has to say.

She put the phone to her ear.

Harry’s voice came clearly through. “Hermione, please… just please pick up the phone…” He sighed, and it was filled with such dejection that she felt her heart begin to melt instantly. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I yelled at you. I’m sorry I said those things. I’m sorry I—I’m sorry I made you feel like you weren’t special, or that someone like—like him can’t like you. He should be so lucky that you like him back. Ron and I… we’ve been terrible to you these last few months… years, maybe, haven’t we? We’ve neglected you… I’ve neglected you. And I promised I’d take care of you, too. I promised when you were… asleep.”

He still can’t talk about the coma, can he? she thought, a wave of warmth washing over her. He can’t even say the word for it. Oh, Harry…

He went on, his tone repentant in every way. “I was so afraid you’d… leave us then, that I promised—I don’t know—God maybe, that if He let you live, I’d take such good care of you; protect you… but I suppose I botched that one right good. I’ll not try to make excuses for… any of my behavior last night, but I was protecting you, Hermione. This bloke you’re seeing…” His voice took on a slightly edged tone. “He knows you’re special. That’s why he wants you, but he doesn’t know how special you are to me and to Ron, and I think he’s just a randy little fucker—“

He stopped, but Hermione was already slightly astonished by the profanities. Still, she couldn’t help but feel a bit endeared, too, bad words and all.

“S-Sorry. Just that—I can’t—he’s a stranger to me, Hermione. What the hell does he know? How could he know any better when it comes to taking care of you? How can he be better at taking care of you than Ron and I are? I just don’t want you to get hurt. I worry about you even if you think I don’t care. Just please… please tell me you still think I’m your best friend. Please don’t be angry. Please talk to me.”

The message ended.

Goodness, I have to be a major bitch not to forgive him after that. But Lord, do I love him like an idiot.

The second message began in Ron’s embarrassed, grumbling way. “Whatever Harry said, that’s how I feel too, Hermione. Really sorry… can you get back here, already? Harry’s more worried than mum ever was about all of us put together!”

Harry’s “Ron!” came over the background and the message ended.

Hermione couldn’t help but giggle, flipping her phone shut as she did so.

She was going home. And she was going to forgive her boys.

Protective. She scoffed, but she was not entirely disapproving. Must be all that testosterone, Merlin bless ‘em.

She decided, on her way home, that she would make brownies for them, as a peace offering. She shopped for her ingredients quickly enough and was on her way to one of the apparating stations when she passed by a shoe store and saw the shoe of her dreams.

This was, of course, the nth time she saw a “shoe of her dreams” and decided to make it a “shoe of her reality.”

Laden with packages, she pushed through the store doors. The ladies in the store eyed her disapprovingly, unaccustomed to getting customers that carried grocery bags. It was a fairly highbrow store that definitely wasn’t impressed by her burgeois casual-chic canvas cut-offs and brown paper bags, but she was determined to buy, and no one was going to intimidate her. Besides, she faced Voldemort and lived; a store full of snobby ladies couldn’t scare her if they tried to, all at once.

She put down her belongings and swung her shawl over her like an absolute prima donna. She haughtily pointed out half a dozen pairs of shoes, one of which was the one she wanted, and it effectively sent everyone scurrying.

I may know what I want, but I’m not going to make it easy for them, she thought snootily.

When finally, all her selections were piled up before her, a shoe attendant appeared and had the decency to assist her.

She was beginning to have a wonderful time when from the corner of her eye she noticed a commotion at the door. Half the clerks in the store scuttled to attend to the newly arrived customer.

For the most part, Hermione didn’t care. It wouldn’t be a headline stopper if some actor or celebrity graced the boutique’s threshold. This was a ridiculously expensive store, after all.

She was trying on her fourth shoe when her shoe attendant was tapped politely on his shoulder by someone in a crisp, tailored suit.

“May I, good sir?” asked the stranger to the attendant.

Hermione looked up and saw Lysander, breathtakingly handsome in his Muggle thousand pound suit. A flush instantly rose in her cheeks and her spine tickled briefly.

“If the madam is amenable,” said the attendant.

Lysander seemed amused, glancing at Hermione with a wink. “Is the madam amendable?”

Her stomach flip-flopped and she scolded herself inwardly for being a ditz. But always the picture of poise, she merely shrugged nonchalantly. “Why not?”

Smiling, the attendant rose and Lysander knelt on one knee while he took her foot up gently upon the other.

His hands cradled her heel delicately, careful not to overstep her boundaries and he looked up at her with twinkling purple eyes. “This is not the shoe you want, madam.”

And it wasn’t. She smiled and pointed to the perfect pair lying in a box of packaging tissue.

“Ah, that’s more like it,” he said, reaching for it.

Delicately, as if he were handling crystal, he removed the unwanted shoe from her foot to slip on the beautiful stiletto concoction. The shimmering blueness of the shoe was the perfect shade. He caressed the arch of her foot and the bend of her ankle.

“You like?” she asked, breathless.

His eyes traveled from her foot upward. “Very much so.”

She let the pleasant flutter in her stomach still before she rose to her feet and walked on the pretty shoes. She posed her feet as she looked in the mirror.

“Lovely,” he said, looking her over.

She cocked a smile at him, hand to her hip. She felt flustered enough to have seen him there, and his oblique compliments made her insides ripple with suppressed thrill, but she had learned to hold her own in the worse of situations; this was a situation far from bad. “And what a coincidence, your being here. Are you following me, Lysander?”

He chuckled. “Like I’d have the time.”

“Oh, yes. How silly of me.” She wasn’t the least bit embarrassed. It was likely he hadn’t followed her, but possible that he had seen her and had decided to make an impromptu appearance in the store. It made her feel the slightest bit empowered.

“I was hoping to get my mother a scarf,” he explained without further prompting. “She’s feeling a bit under the weather. I thought a token would delight her.”

Classy cover story, she thought wryly. Expensive silk scarf, maybe, for a moody mama. Nice touch.

She shrugged. “I’m sure your mother will feel better after she receives it.”

The saleslady came over, holding out two flat boxes containing a scarf each.

Just as I thought, Hermione thought with smug satisfaction.

The lady showed them to Lysander.

He turned to Hermione. “Tell me what you think is prettier.”

She arched an eyebrow pointedly before looking the scarves over. One was an exquisite silver and deep red with tinges of gold and royal blue. The other was a lemon yellowy with orange, red and green accents. The yellowy one was beautiful, though it wasn’t her type of coloring. She wouldn’t buy it for herself, but she would buy it for her mother.

“The yellow one,” she said with absolute certainty.

He smiled. “The yellow one, it is.” He nodded to the saleslady.

The lady left to pack his purchase.

“It goes well with that bag,” said Hermione, pointing to a bright red Kelly. “Your mother might like that, too.” The bag cost a fortune, but if he was going to lie to her, she was going to make him sweat it out a bit.

“And so she might.” He nodded to a saleslady who was watching their exchange with clear fascination.

A large box was pulled out from a covered cabinet underneath. The contents of the box were shown to him and he nodded, confirming that it contained the exact same bag on display.

Inwardly, Hermione was half-impressed, half-scandalized. I can’t believe he’s really going to buy it! she thought. But I suppose what costs a fortune to me is pocket change for him.

Soon they were at the counter, her with her shoes and him with his outrageously expensive PROPS.

When she finished paying, she was mildly surprised to see that he furnished no card or cash.

He must have figured out what she was thinking, because he said, “Store credit.”

“Of course.” As much as she knew about rich people’s store credit in fancy boutiques, it was still a bit of a shock. She steeled her facial expression and gathered her packages. Well, it was great fun while it lasted, but I have two offenders to forgive. “I’ll see you around, then?”

His charmingly amused smile, when he realized that she wasn’t planning to spend the rest of the day flirting with him, was devastating. “Is that a promise?”

She flushed. She hadn’t exactly expected him to say something like that. She thought he would simply say farewell and good day. He was apparently better at this than she thought.

“It’s a possibility,” she managed with equal finesse. “‘Twas charming to have bumped into you, Lysander. I hope your mother feels better soon.”

“Thank you, Hermione.”

The sound of her name from his lips jolted her. From him, it wasn’t merely her name; it was sweet golden honey ladled with and cascading from a silver spoon.

He took her hand and kissed it, the warmth of his lips spreading from her arm to the rest of her body. She stifled a shudder before she took her hand back.

The magic was instantly gone, but his eyes upon her made her blush and think very pleasant thoughts.

Turning with what poise she could muster, she took the rest of her parcels and made to leave. She realized instantly that leaving the store with her grocery bags wasn’t all that sexy looking, but she managed it with practiced dignity. Goodness knows, after turning herself into a cat and having her teeth grown out to beaver size, she had learned to endure the worse kinds of humiliation.

It occurred to her as she walked down the sidewalk that she had never given Lysander her phone number or her floo designation, but there was hardly anything to worry about. She was certain he’d find out for himself if he cared.

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Harry heard the pert clap of an apparition from the viewing room and he looked at Ron who sat beside him on the couch.

Ron was asleep and Harry decided it would be better to meet with Hermione without Ron’s emotional range of a teaspoon botching things up.

Crookshanks, who was contentedly purring beside him under his light caresses perked up at the sound of his mistress’s arrival.

“You’re glad she’s back too, aren’t you boy?” Harry whispered to the half-kneazle.

Crookshanks gave a small meow before hopping off the couch to dart out of the viewing room.

Bracing himself for the worse, Harry padded meekly to the living room and then to the kitchen, where he could hear her clattering about.

Crookshanks was already rubbing circles around Hermione’s calves as she waved her wand about with her newly bought groceries. There were a few more packages set in the far corner on the floor.

She’s gone shopping. Good. At least she’s in a better mood, thought Harry. He watched her for a few seconds, gauging his chances. She certainly looked like she was glowing, probably flushed from purchasing shoes. She looked lovely, anyway. Her cut-offs, flattering halter-top and high-heels was feminine and becoming to her body-type. She must have seemed terribly sophisticated with her shawl around her and everything. He was just admiring the shape of her backside when she looked over her shoulder at him and smiled.

Brilliant.

“Hullo, Harry! I’m making brownies. I know you don’t like almonds so I’m using walnuts. But I guarantee you’ll love the icing.”

His heart soared. She had forgiven them! And such a sweet peace offering too. She was going to bake them brownies. This was what he loved best about being best friends with a girl. Girls were such sweethearts; thoughtful and tender. Where Ron would be content to buy him a shot of firewhisky (which wasn’t bad at all, but…), Hermione would bake brownies.

He loved her that way.

“Hermione?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m sorry.” He’d already said it on the phone, but he wanted to be able to say it in person.

She smiled, a blush rising in her cheeks. “I know. And I’m—I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean to push you and Ron away last night… or lie about the invitation. I was just so… well…” She took the apron and put it on.

His brows knotted. “Hurt?” he said softly.

She smiled again, this time brightly enough to coax one from his own lips. “Anyway, I’m over all that. I swear, Harry. Sometimes, I don’t know how you and Ron put up with me!”

Harry hadn’t even thought about the invitation. He was just glad she was talking to him again and he couldn’t bear to think about how utterly abandoned they had made her feel that she felt she had to lie to them just to prove she can do things on her own.

The tragedy was he already knew how independent she could be. Sometimes, he wondered what he would do if Hermione woke up one day and realized that she didn’t need them, the two blithering idiots who talked about Quidditch all day, burped in her presence and spilled beer on the viewing room carpet on rugby weekends.

“We don’t put up with you,” Harry said. “Ron and I’d be sodding lost without you. We’d be wearing mismatched socks and we’d always be too banjaxed to be of any use to anyone!”

She giggled and it was a wonderful sound.

He grinned. “We’d probably be sitting around in our alans and scratching ourselves—“

She laughed, shrieking in scandalized delight. “Oh, shut it, you! Too much information! Sit down, Potter. We’re done with all that talk, aren’t we? So we’ll move on to other important things! Tell me about auror training. How’s Ginny? Have you spoken to her yet?”

Harry was glad they were working things out famously, but he didn’t think he could take another Ginny-talk, and he really didn’t want to talk about Auror-training. He wanted to talk about Hermione; he wanted to catch up on what she had been doing. “I haven’t spoken to Ginny, but I’ll have to get to that. Ron already has my neck on the chopping board for it.”

She laughed softly, cracking eggs mid-air into a bowl.

“But Hermione, I want to know how you’ve been. I want to hear all about you today.”

She grinned as she arched an eyebrow, but she flushed too, and it looked like she was glad he asked. “Alright then. I was going to tell you and Ron, but I suppose if I put it off any longer it would never get told; I got a job at the Ministry.”

Harry absolutely hadn’t seen it coming, but he was ecstatic for her. “Hermione, that’s wonderful!” He gave her a hug, squeezing her affectionately. “You must be so proud!”

She chuckled. “I am! And oh, Harry, guess where!”

There were so many offices she was qualified for. He could roll off a slew of Ministry positions and she’d be perfect for every one of them, but the excitement in her eyes told of something extraordinary. “Are you an Unspeakable?”

Hermione laughed at this. “Merlin, but wouldn’t that be exciting! But no; not quite that mysterious. However, the position is rather—shall we say—unspeakably important.”

He couldn’t think what. He was too thrilled for her. “The suspense is killing me! Tell me already.”

Smiling madly, she began mixing ingredients with circular motions of her wand. “I’m Assistant Interrogator to the Wizengamot Counsel’s Office. Harry, I’ll be prosecuting Death Eaters. I’ll be putting them in Azkaban!”

Harry had heard about this obscure office in the annals of the Department of Magical Law. It was headed by a couple of kooks that made him feel rather queasy when he heard about them. He couldn’t help but wonder if they were competent enough for the job, but with Hermione now there, he thought life better already.

Hermione in charge of prosecuting Death Eaters in the Wizengamot! It was brilliant! She was going to make sure every single one of them paid for their crimes, and he had complete faith in her.

“This is beyond phenomenal,” he said, still in a slight state of shock.

She laughed again, obviously pleased with herself.

He draped an arm over her shoulder, grinning ecstatically. “I wouldn’t trust anyone else with the job. You deserve this and when Ron finds out, it’ll blow his mind. And you know the best part? We’ll only be a couple of offices apart! We can go to lunch together; go to work and leave for home together… we can interrogate criminals together, too!”

She seemed to think this hilarious. “Oh, don’t be silly, Harry. That one we can’t do together! You run them through the gauntlet first before I even get around to interviewing them, and I can only build a case against them based on the evidence your department provides, so you better do your job well, Potter! Makes mine easier.”

He grinned. He wanted to kiss her, but he didn’t suppose he’d be able to stop himself from going further, so he pulled himself away, taking his seat at the table while he worked. “When do you start?”

“Tomorrow, first thing in the morning. I really have to go on over to Hogwarts to thank McGonagall for recommending me to the office. Heartcomb and Archibald… do you know them?”

Harry nodded.

She went on, grinning. “Those two are the oddest men I’ve met! But they seem to think highly of McGonagall’s recommendations. I don’t think they would’ve taken me without her telling them they should. They weren’t very pleased with the way I want to—err—change certain laws.”

He cocked a smile. He knew the entire Ministry had been giving her a hard time because of the Elf Law Proposals she’d been submitting, but he thoroughly admired her for sticking to her wands. In spite of the flack she had gotten for it, she did not waver in the least, not even when she couldn’t get a job in the Ministry because of it.

True Gryffindor if I ever saw one. What a woman.

“Well, when you’re through with the Death Eaters and the Ministry, they wouldn’t even know what hit ‘em!” he said.

She giggled again. It was pleasant to hear, and he realized that she really was thrilled with her job. He could now rest easy, knowing all his hard work as an auror catching the bad guys won’t go to waste in her capable hands.

She told him about her first meeting with the oddball WizCOF (“Care for a cough-drop?” asked Harry, to which he earned a sprinkling of flour) and he laughed at the bizarre dialogue. He could just imagine Hermione getting frustrated at the utter lack of logic in her conversation with them.

The entire time they talked and laughed, she was mixing the brownie batter, and after she scraped the last of it in a baking pan, she popped the pan in the oven and sat down, mixing bowl on hand.

“Best part!” she cried, handing him his own plastic scraper while she ran hers down the residue chocolate mix.

Harry thought the entire thing perfect.

He scraped his share of brownie batter, and while he looked at the sweet, chocolatey goodness of it, he realized, with a slight twist in his stomach that there would be none of this if he never knew her; or if the troll had managed to kill her; or if Dolohov’s curse had succeeded; or if she never woke up from her coma.

If you lost her during any of those times, you’d be dead.

The magnitude of it all gripped him, and he felt a little lightheaded for it. He can’t ever lose her. He put his scraper back in the bowl.

Hermione looked up and her eyes became concerned. “Harry, what’s wrong?”

He took her hand and pressed it to his heart. “Everything you’ve ever done for me; everything you’ve been for me… it’s why I’m here now. It’s why I’m alive.”

“H-Harry…” Her voice was softly chiding, like she was scolding him, and she reddened at the cheeks, embarrassed.

“I think maybe I’d have been a goner first year if you and Ron weren’t there beside me. You’ve both gotten me this far. And I think if Dolohov had done you in when we went to the Department of Mysteries—“

She shushed him. “You don’t—you don’t have to talk about that.”

“Maybe I should. I thought you were dead, and then when it was all over and you were alive, nobody even explained to me what happened to you. I couldn’t ask; I was too afraid that the curse had done something terrible to you.”

“I’m fine,” she told him, almost emphatically. “Nothing very bad happened to me, Harry, so you can just stop feeling guilty about that. Alright?”

He smiled wanly. “And then Voldemort killed you.”

She scowled, spatula held up in one hand and the other cupping the rim of a huge mixing bowl. “I’m right here.”

And she was. She looked like she was going to curse all the brownies in the world with her eleven-inch flexi-plastic, chocolate tip spatula from Baker-ware. All things considered, it was quite funny.

He sputtered into a laugh and she got the joke quickly. She shrieked when the batter threatened to drip off the spatula and onto the floor. She rushed to catch it with her mouth and tongue.

Harry found himself watching her acrobatics with prurient fascination. He could hardly be blamed for it. There she was, a beautiful woman with her plump lips and tongue and there was chocolate involved. What else was there to think about? And now Hermione had some of that chocolate on the corner of her lip.

Sweet Merlin, the torment! He wanted desperately to clean that spot off in the best way he knew how, but that would be the end of all things platonic.

She grinned. “What?”

He pointed to the corner of his own lip before pointing to hers. “You have—umm—chocolate.”

“Oh, my!” She giggled, sticking her tongue out to lick it off. “Mess I’ve made of myself, haven’t I?”

“Never,” he said, taking back his spatula. “You’re never a mess. You’re perfect, and you don’t even try.”

Her giggling dwindled and she blushed. “Oh, shut it, Potter, I’ve already forgiven you. No need to kiss my arse.”

“I mean it,” he said somewhat softly, blushing himself. “I think—I think anyone who ever likes you should understand that, and appreciate it, so that they give you the respect and love you deserve.”

She quieted. “I’m… I’m not perfect, Harry. And I don’t particularly have unreasonable demands of—men. They’re not exactly lining up at my door, you know.”

He frowned. Is that what she felt? That she had to settle because there were so few who seemed to want her? She had it all wrong, then! Honestly, did she think so little of herself? “Hermione, the only reason they’re not lining up at your door is that there are very few men who would have the guts, or the nerve, to think themselves worthy of asking you out. Lord knows… Neville would’ve asked you out if he wasn’t so afraid you’d take house points from Gryffindor, and there were others in Hogwarts who were stupid enough to talk to me about how best to ask you out.”

She seemed utterly surprised by this. “You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not. I don’t even know how many shit-for-brains went to Ron for help.”

“That can’t be right, Harry. I didn’t get a lot of invitations…”

Harry sniffed. Maybe because Ron and I were less than helpful.

“Well, I don’t know why. Probably lost their balls, or something.” Which was actually quite true. Harry didn’t feel the least bit guilty. If any of these boys had had the slightest bit of gumption; the slightest bit of spine; and if their intentions were true, they would’ve asked Hermione out anyway. As it turned out, they were all bloody cowards, Gryffindor or not. And then something clicked in what she said. “Wait, didn’t get a lot, you say? You mean some actually—“ got away from us?

She began to scowl and he realized what he was saying.

“What I mean to say is, some guys actually gathered the bulloks to—“

“Harry!”

“Sorry! But who were they? Just curious, really.” So that next time I see them…

She shot him a suspicious look before replying. “Oh, just a few, really…”

“Go on, then.”

Hermione shrugged awkwardly. “Lee Jordan…”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “Lee! He’s practically ten years older than you! When did he ask you? He was gone by the time we got to sixth year!”

Hermione shot him a reproachful glare. “He’s barely two years older than me, Harry, and I did happen to like Lee. He asked me out after he left Hogwarts and I think I would have liked to go out with him some more, but there were more pressing matters then… so I couldn’t give him a second date when he asked…”

Harry wondered if Lee happened to be the one who “showed” Hermione what “love looked like”. It seemed unlikely, since by Hermione’s narration, they only went out once, but then again, love could take as long as forever to happen yet in some cases happen in a second.

“Then,” said Hermione, “there was Justin…”

“Finch-Fletchley?”

“Yes, but he had such a lame pick-up line… I didn’t go out with him.”

“How lame?”

“Oh, he went on about how we were both petrified by the ‘basilisks’, as if there was more than one, and how we’re both ‘mudbloods’ like it was some sort of thing we could joke about. He also bragged about being down for Eton before he found out he was going to Hogwarts; as if I should be impressed.”

“What a moron.”

“And then there was Ernie McMillan…”

Harry scowled. “I knew it! I knew he would try something, being Head Boy and all that!”

“Oh, give him some credit. He stuck up for you a lot during your worse times, and he joined the D.A. just to prove he believed in what he was saying. You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

Harry muttered that he hadn’t. And then a thought came to him, which made him slightly queasy. “You didn’t—I mean to say—you had your private quarters as Head Boy and Head Girl… you don’t have to tell me, though! Just—erm—“

She frowned. “Oh, honestly!” She got up from her chair, gathering the bowls and spatulas to dump them in the sink.

So, what does that mean? Did she, or didn’t she? Not that it mattered all that much, but Ernie McMillan? He was a good chap, and all, but really, she could’ve done so much better. McMillan, for all his virtues, was almost as annoying as Percy Weasley, except Ernie was even more boring as far as personalities went. At least Percy was interesting enough to be the butt of Fred and George’s jokes. Then again, maybe that had more to do with Fred and George than Percy.

Regardless, Harry might have felt better if he knew Lee Jordan had been her first time. At least Lee Jordan looked like he’d give her a good time in the sack. Then again, he didn’t know if Ernie McMillian even got as far as snogging her.

Hermione would, of course, strangle him if she knew what he was thinking.

Suffice it to say, none of those mentioned had approached Harry for advice with regard to Hermione. Apparently, they had more nerve than all the others.

He already knew what he was going to say to Ernie McMillan when next they saw each other, but Lee Jordan was going to be a problem. Harry had liked Lee Jordan, and he was Fred and George’s friend. He would have to approach the matter delicately—and then kick the stuffing out of Lee.

“That look on your face frightens me, Potter,” she said in a warning tone.

Harry blinked, mustering his best look of innocence. “What? Why?”

She stared at him a moment before she laughed.

They were momentarily distracted by two unfamiliar owls tapping on the windowpane. They were carrying a rather large parcel together and Hermione immediately went to the window to relieve them. She took the package, gave them treats and sent them on their way.

Harry eyed the package with sudden hostility. It looked fancy. Too fancy, and lately, that meant it could only come from one person.

He observed Hermione’s reaction. She looked absolutely perplexed.

“Who’s it for?” he asked nonchalantly.

“For me.” She set the box on the table.

“From whom?”

She didn’t reply. She lifted the lid off the box and paled immediately, before turning a bright red. As red—Harry observed—as the bag inside it. A silk scarf was tied to its strap and Harry noticed Hermione giving it a particularly horrified look.

He was becoming a bit concerned.

She reddened. “I can’t believe he—“ Her brows furrowed.

She ripped the store-card from the box and rummaged through her purse for her mobile. She dialed the number from the card and waited, foot tapping impatiently. A few seconds later, she spoke. “Yes, this is Hermione Granger, I was in your store—“ She stopped. “No, I don’t want his number. I’m sending the bag and the scarf back. N-No, there’s nothing wrong with the bag or the scarf; they’re perfect, but I can’t—I can’t take this. I’m sending everything back.” She listened for a bit before crisply saying, “I’m sending it back.” She clipped her mobile shut. “Where’s Hedwig?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Up on the roof… problem?”

“No problem,” she muttered, grabbing the box to head on up. “I just—I’m just so mortified right now, is all. Lysander—“

His eyes widened. “What’s he done to you? What did that bastard—“

She seemed surprised. “N-Nothing horrible, Harry, just…” She paused then sighed as she climbed the stairs, box in her arms. “I’ll explain in a bit.”

He accompanied her to the owlery and summoned both Hedwig and Pigwigeon. It was quite a task attaching the box to the owls, and it tested Hermione’s temper in the extreme, but soon enough, she sent the owls off to the Muggle-Post Service Center. It was where packages from the Wizarding world that needed to be sent to the Muggle world were brought. Similarly, muggle packages that needed to be sent to wizards came from the service center.

They watched the owls go as a latent howler exploded in the howler bin.

“I could be such ninny sometimes,” muttered Hermione, as if the explosion had prompted her to say it.

Harry arched an eyebrow. He crossed his arms over his chest, turning his gaze to muggle London. “So, what’s the story with the bag and scarf?”

She didn’t reply immediately, and a single glance at her told him of her shame, but after a moment’s silence, she chuckled. “It’ll sound silly. You had to be there to appreciate it.”

He thought about it. “Try me.”

She looked at him sheepishly before shoving her hands in the pockets of her cut-offs. “Well I was shopping for shoes.”

He valiantly avoided not rolling his eyes and he could tell she was waiting for him to. When he didn’t, she went on.

“It was a rather ritzy store but this particular shoe was divine and I just had to have it!”

His eyebrow finally went arching up again, but he was grinning and she stifled a laugh at the look on his face as she continued.

“Anyway, Lysander walked into the store. I was quite surprised.”

“I bet you were. Following you now, is he?”

She smiled. “I don’t think so, Harry, but I asked him outright if he was and he came up with some lame excuse about how he wanted to buy a silk scarf for his mother because she wasn’t feeling well. Of course I knew he was lying, but it wasn’t the kind of bad lie that would make me—you know—angry. So I figured I’d play along.”

They were flirting, he thought indignantly, but he said nothing, listening instead.

“I helped him choose the scarf, and since I was feeling impish, I pointed out that his mother would like the Kelly bag, too. You know, sort of punish him for lying? I thought I’d make him sweat a bit because of his cover story. I didn’t think he’d buy the bag for real. The damn thing costs almost two thousand pounds, Harry! I mean, bloody—“

“Hell!” he finished for her. And he meant it, too. That bag was almost two thousand pounds? And that man just dropped the cash like it was change? “Well, that’s just—“

“Ridiculous! I know! And I really didn’t think he was buying it for me, Harry. I swear! But now that I think about it, why wouldn’t he think so?“ The mortified look settled back in her gaze. “Obviously, his Mother Story was stupid, and he knew I knew it! Damn it all to Voldemort, I made him think I wanted that bag!”

Harry blinked, astonished.

She had turned a deep shade of red, wringing her hands in her adorable, anxious way. She was looking around uncertainly, as if she was trying to find something. “It’s so mortifying! Now I’ve sent it all back and he’s going to think I’m some sort of diva and that I’m silly and fastidious! But there’s no winning, is there? If I accepted that bag, he’s going to think—he’s going to think I’d be willing to sleep with him for it, or something!”

He didn’t even know what fastidious meant, but he definitely felt like killing Lysander right now. He frowned. “You didn’t do anything, Hermione. It wasn’t your fault. He had no right to send that bag over because he thought he could buy your affection. I think you dealt with him right properly.”

Her eyes widened at something and she looked up at him half-frightened, half hopefully. “But what if I was acting unconsciously—“

“Don’t be stupid. Unconsciously my arse! You’re not a gold-digger and you don’t go around making men buy expensive things for you. Get that ridiculous notion out of your head.”

She looked relieved, and his hatred of Lysander Athanasius was definitely waking up monsters in his chest. He hated the man for making Hermione feel this way. He hated Athanasius for making Hermione doubt herself. And he especially hated the fact that he had somehow made Hermione feel that this was all her fault.

“I can’t believe I let him—“ She stopped, perhaps deciding that what she was about to say wasn’t worth saying and turned to go back into the house, muttering about shoving a bubotuber down Lysander’s throat.

Harry followed. “Let him what?”

She looked over her shoulder at him, smiling apologetically. “Nothing. Listen, even if that thing in the boutique hadn’t happened, I still wouldn’t have taken that bag. You know this, right?”

He rolled his eyes. “Really, Hermione, who knows you better than yourself?”

She turned on the staircase, leaning against the railing as she grinned up at him. “Who else!”

He smirked, continuing to descend the stairs. He tugged at a lock of her hair as he stepped past her. “That’s right, so you don’t need to be explaining to me, Granger. Ron’s right. Sometimes, you can be mental.”

She laughed, pinching his shoulder from behind. He complained, rushing down the stairs as she followed in hot pursuit. She shrieked as he caught her in his arms at the bottom of the stairs just when Ron emerged from the hallway looking fresh from sleep.

“Something smells chocolatey,” he said, his long nose raised in the air.

“Hermione’s making brownies,” replied Harry, chuckling as Hermione squirmed to get away from his tickly embrace.

She struggled and laughed, helpless. Her petite, five-foot-six frame was no match for six feet of Auror-trained muscle. “Leggo! Leggo or I swear, Potter, I’ll step on you! I’ve got stilettos!”

Ron winced. “Ooh, Harry, better let her go. Last time she threatened me with heels, she accidentally did in my family jewels with her knee.”

“Not my fault!” cried Hermione, grinning.

Harry was having too much fun holding her to want to let her go, but he supposed he didn’t want her doing in his family jewels… at least not in that way.

He did release her and she collapsed on the ground, giggling and catching her breath.

“You boys…” she gasped “… will be the death of me.”

Ron frowned. “What’d I do? I was just standing here!”

She grinned, extending her hand out to Ron who hitched her to her feet. “Nice message on my phone, Ron: ‘Duhhhh, what Harry said!’ You get a Troll for Emotional Range. Small improvement from teaspoon.”

Harry laughed. He knew Hermione would have something to say about it.

Ron scoffed. “That’s why Harry’s the hero and I’m the sidekick.”

This took the laugh out of Harry. “I’m not a hero!”

“Of course you are. Didn’t you get the memo?”

Hermione looked over her shoulder at them. “Honestly, you’re both my heroes so you can just shut it about all this hero-sidekick nonsense. Ron, I have something to tell you.”

“You’re married. I knew it!”

Hermione shot him a glare.

Harry, knowing what it was Hermione had to say, rolled his eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, just let the witch speak!”

“Thank you, Harry,” she said. “As I was saying… Ron, I got a job at the Ministry.” She proceeded to tell him about the WizCOF and what kind of work she would be involved in.

It took Ron a bit longer to find his senses and realize just what she was saying. Seconds later he had her in his arms, spinning her around the living room with her feet off the ground.

“Wicked!” he cried as she laughed in his arms. “Those Death Eaters don’t stand a chance!”

She grinned, leaning her elbow on Ron’s shoulder as he held her. “Oh, you think so, don’t you?”

“Know so! Now let’s celebrate by eating your brownies.” Ron easily turned her on the side of his hip, carrying her like a rug. She demanded to be put down, which he easily ignored.

Harry chuckled, following behind Ron. It was so much easier to pick on Hermione being the size she was, especially for Ron, who was huge.

Ron easily hefted her on the kitchen counter and left her there as she hissed and scowled like Crookshanks. Ron’s primary concern was the brownies in the oven.

“I swear, the abuse I get in this house!” she said, barely managing to hold down her smile.

Harry’s primary concern was, as always, her. He leaned his hip against the counter beside her. “Are we alright now? You still love us both?”

She smiled, tilting her head as she looked at him. “Of course. That was never the issue. The question was whether I would ever speak to either of you again, and as you can see, I’ve decided nagging you both is so much more vicious than giving you the silent treatment.”

Harry laughed. So did Ron.

She reached out and gave Harry’s arm a gentle caress.

The touch made him flush to his roots. He wished she’d stop, or else he’d kiss her right there. She was close enough, anyway, for him to do it in a second, but he supposed it wasn’t the sort of thing he should be doing in front of Ron. Whether Ron still liked Hermione or not, it would be extremely awkward for him who had just recently graduated from having the emotional range of a teaspoon to a troll.

He must have projected some of his discomfort because her gaze dropped and she pulled back her touch. He regretted her withdrawal, but he took advantage of it, too, smiling at her as he moved to sit at the kitchen table.

Ron and Hermione began to bicker. On any other day, Harry may have found it annoying, but on this day, it gave him a welcome sense of normalcy.

For a brief moment, he wondered if Lysander Athanasius was still going to be a problem.

He decided rather quickly that if Athanasius persisted, Harry wasn’t going to play nice anymore.

SPECIAL THANKS to my beta reader Aurabolt!

Standard disclaimers apply.

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Chapter Seven – Marauding the Ministry

In which Harry goes to work and deals with the good, the bad and the hopelessly incomprehensible.

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Harry rather liked going to work with Hermione walking briskly beside him. He took every opportunity he could to usher her through doors, make her step first into elevators and hold her hand through the rush hour crowds. She didn’t seem to think any of it out of the ordinary, anyway, and while apparating or flooing would have been easier for both of them, he liked his early morning routine, just as she liked hers. Apparently, her trips to the Ministry for her S.P.E.W. proposals took a route similar to his: Apparate to the city, walk through the cross-buildings and weave through the crowds. The normalcy of it, it seemed, soothed them both.

When they finally arrived in the Ministry, Harry proudly walked her to her office, but he was more than a little surprised when Hermione pointed to a hole in the wall and said, “Well, this is my stop. I’ll see you at lunch?”

He was a bit confused. “I’ll—er—come by to pick you up…”

She grinned. “Yes, please. I’d really like to show you what’s inside this hole in the wall.”

He had no doubt it would be interesting.

She ducked through the wall and he left to head for the Auror Department.

Telling Remus, Tonks and especially Shaklebolt that Hermione was the new Assistant Interrogator to the WizCOF was quite the experience. They were ecstatic, instantly assured that there could be no better person to fill the Interrogator job than Hermione. Harry could tell there was an underlying “If she carries on in her Interrogating duties as stubbornly as she does her S.P.E.W. proposals we can rest easy” tone, but he couldn’t blame them for it. He and Ron adored her, but they still thought her S.P.E.W. convictions a wee-bit bothersome. If he had to knit another elf-hat one more time…

Mad-Eyed Moody was livid at the news, insisting straight away that “Ms. Granger” needed a bodyguard since many a suspected Death Eater would be “thinking worth a lick” if they did her in for her competence alone.

Harry had to admit that the prospect alarmed him. He hadn’t thought about that angle until Mad-Eye mentioned it and his panic must have been showing on his face because Remus patted his shoulder and said, “If anyone’s going to off Hermione, they’d have to go through you first, now won’t they?”

It implied, mostly, that Hermione already had a bodyguard.

Still, it was unsettling. Mad-Eye’s paranoia was contagious, and it didn’t help either that he was having problems with certain recent acquaintances of hers.

Gail’s arrival helped a bit in making him forget his worries. She almost never failed to make him laugh. Flirt as she was, it was mainly because she was comfortable with everyone, and she had no notions of going too far, as she made no secret about her being attached. He wasn’t sure if she ever cared to be serious about anything, but the woman certainly showed a keen sensitivity to everyone around her, particularly when it came to dealing with Shacklebolt. She knew just how to put him in a better mood and just when to leave him alone; at least most of the time. It benefited her and Harry a lot of times.

She was happily chatting him up about various little things when she paused and widened her eyes. “Ooh, I almost forgot! There’s a rumor circulating that Lysander Athanasius and Hermione Granger are a pair, to Viktor Krum’s consternation! Is that true?”

Harry frowned. “Where did you hear that?”

“The Daily Prophet’s gossip section. Athanasius and Hermione were seen in a muggle club last Saturday. Salsa night, no less. They were apparently very hot on the dance floor.”

Harry simmered. Oh, were they? “They did go out last Saturday, but they are not a pair; at least, not as of yesterday. And Krum had absolutely nothing to do with any of it.”

Gail grinned, poking him with the tip of her quill. “Did you know that your eye twitches whenever I mention Hermione and other men?”

He reddened. “My eye does not do that.”

“Oh, yes it does! And I don’t even want to think why. God knows it’s none of my business. Just thought you should know I noticed, is all.”

Harry suddenly decided that Gail wasn’t so funny anymore. He focused on his paper work, getting his reports done before lunch.

When noon struck, Gail said she would be joining Tonks and Remus at the Leaky Cauldron. She winked before she left him and he tried not to think about what that wink was for.

He hurried to the WizCOF, running his hands through his unruly hair. It was a lost cause, his hair, and he knew it, but it was somewhat of a nervous tick.

He didn’t even know why he bothered to try to tidy up. Hermione had already seen him at his worse, which was torn-white undershirt and snitch-print boxers, but still…

She looks so good in her Chinese-inspired business robes. I almost felt like a pageboy walking next to her. “Almost” was the operative word. He was Harry Potter, after all. Offing the great Voldemort had quite naturally done a number on his confidence.

He turned the corner to the hole in the wall and was stopped short at the sight of a perfectly dressed man in a muggle business suit. He was peering into the hole in the wall, an amused smirk on his face. He was touching the hard surface surrounding the wall, as if he were checking for something. In his other hand he held a bouquet of flowers.

Harry glared at him as he approached and Lysander only looked up to meet his gaze when they were near enough to talk.

Lysander’s smile was magnetic. “Why, Mr. Harry Potter, I presume?”

Harry was not fooled, nor was he in the mood to be polite, but he wasn’t about to lose his cool in the face of Lysander, either. “Fancy that. It seems our reputations precede us both. Athanasius, I think you’re a bit lost. The Improper Use of Magic Office is at the other side of the level.” He had deliberately used Lysander’s last name without an honorific, much the same way he said “Malfoy” or “Crabbe and Goyle”.

The smile from Lysander’s face faded just a bit as he appraised Harry anew. Clearly, niceties were not welcome in this conversation and he probably knew just what the problem was. “I’m not that lost, Mr. Potter. I am merely contemplating the charm of this… WizCOF door before I go in and see Hermione.”

Harry’s gaze on him did not waver in the least. He was in his element; facing enemies in the heat of battle. “I don’t think she’s keen on seeing you right now. Best you go on home and give her some space. Nice flowers, those. I can give them to her. Can’t promise I’d tell her they’re from you, though. It would be a shame if she threw them out.” He didn’t mind exaggerating a bit about Hermione’s feelings. He wasn’t sure if she was angry, but at least he knew Lysander wasn’t on her favorites list now.

Lysander’s amused facial expression remained, but the luster drained from it. Now his smile seemed frozen; his eyes gone flat. The lines were clear: Harry didn’t want him there and Harry didn’t want him near Hermione.

It took a moment, but Lysander did speak again. “I seemed to have gravely offended Ms. Granger and have come to apologize in person, as any gentleman would in this situation. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I do believe Ms. Granger would appreciate the propriety of—“

“You know nothing about her. You already proved that by what you did yesterday.”

“I have every intention of righting that wrong, Mr. Potter.”

“And what exactly were you expecting from that little stunt, anyway? Did you think she was that easy? I ought to shove that two thousand pound bag up your arse, see if I can get it far up enough for you to taste it.”

Lysander smirked. “So, this is why she never mentions you during our conversations, Mr. Potter. Everything about you is too crude to insert into intelligent discussion.”

Harry wasn’t the least bit bothered. “Say what you like, Athanasius, but I’m the one she likes living with and I’m the one she’s been best friends with for almost a decade, so don’t even try to make me think I’m not important to her.” He practically pushed Lysander aside to get into the WizCOF waiting room.

Point for Harry. Lysander was frowning by the time he decided to follow into the office.

Damn, I thought that was enough to send him away.

Apparently recovering quickly, Lysander had that charming smile back on his face. “Swept her off her feet, lately?”

Harry glared at him.

Lysander gave a satisfied nod. “I thought not. Now let’s see… my, a knocker! How delightfully archaic.” He rapped twice before Harry could beat him to it.

Before they could resume their acidic banter, a slot slid open at the top.

“Yes?” came a croak.

“Hermione Granger, please,” they said in unison.

Harry turned to glare at him but Lysander merely arched an eyebrow.

The silver brows sitting atop dark brown eyes knitted in annoyance. “I am most certainly not Hermione Granger! She’s in her office right now and I’ve spoken to her several times today! I am sure I am not and do not even look like her! Who are you both trying to fool?”

Lysander’s forehead pinched, irritated.

Harry was more prepared, remembering Hermione’s story of her first meeting with the toad-voiced Thane Archibald and the crotchety Winston Heartcomb. “Mr. Archibald, my name is Harry Potter. I would like to speak to the Assistant Interrogator, please?”

“Harry Potter? I think she mentioned you before. You’re that chap who slew that Antipodean Opaleye! Well, come in, then!”

Harry wasn’t sure about any of it, but if he was going to be admitted inside, he was certain Hermione wouldn’t be too disapproving of his taking advantage of the situation.

The door was opened and Harry stepped in. Lysander tried to follow behind him and was stopped by Archibald.

“And where do you think you are going?”

“My name is Lysander Athanasius. I am here to speak to Ms. Hermione Granger and give her these.” He showed the flowers.

“She didn’t say she was expecting anyone to bring her flowers.”

Harry mostly succeeded in suppressing his smirk.

“It’s a surprise,” said Lysander smoothly.

“Well then if I tell her you’re here, it’s not a surprise anymore, is it? You’ll have to stay in the waiting room, it seems, if you bloody want this surprise to work. Watch your shoes!”

Lysander Athanasius was promptly pushed back while Archibald laboriously began to close the door.

Harry waved to Lysander just before he was completely shut out.

With Lysander temporarily out of the way, Harry took a moment to absorb his surroundings. The place looked like a library on steroids and there was no sign of Hermione.

A head popped out from behind an office stall, scowling while his multi-shaded hair waved almost like it had a life of its own. “Egad, Thane! What is all this racket?”

“Mr. Planter’s here to see Hermione.”

Harry did not aspire to correct him.

“Planter? That lad who got rid of that chap who doesn’t want to be named?”

“No, no! That’s the Potter boy. This one slew the Antipodean Opaleye.”

“Good gracious! And he wants to see Granger? Whatever does a child like her have to do with six-foot dragon slaying thug, hmm? Keep her company, Thane. Don’t leave her alone with him.” He shot a glare at Harry. “I don’t trust you, Planter. I don’t trust you one bit.”

Harry fidgeted. “Erm… yes, sir.” He supposed he should be grateful that these two oddballs were being so protective of Hermione in their strange, distorted way.

“Well, come along, Planter,” said Archibald, marching ahead of him. “I haven’t got all day!”

Harry followed the tall, nearly hairless man down the aisle of shelves, maneuvering briefly to avoid a long wooden table stacked with what Harry could only assume was physical evidence. Books flew across their path on occasion, flapping and screaming as they plunged to the floor with a papery splat. Harry had to avoid stepping on a few that were scurrying to get back on their shelves, and when Harry tried to help a particularly small tome cope, Archibald barked at him to leave it alone.

“If you pick the damn thing up, they’ll never learn to go back by themselves! And Winston, Hermione and I will be stuck having to put them back to their proper shelves one by one every cursed day.”

Harry obediently left the book to fend for itself.

The aisle was a long walk, and when Harry looked over his shoulder, he could barely make out the details of the front door.

When the man with the colorful hair (whom Harry could only assume to be Winston Heartcomb) called to his friend from behind them in his desk, he had to yell as loud as he could.

“Be a good chap, Thane, and fetch me Magical Faults and Foibles, Edition 4^th, by May A. Culpa!”

Archibald cleared his throat before replying in a yell of equal magnitude. “Very well, Winston! Just hold on to your unicorns!”

When finally, they reached the last shelf, they turned a corner and there, buried behind tall stacks of books, was the top of Hermione’s bushy brown head. Harry could hear the diligent scratching sound of quill to parchment.

Archibald cleared his throat and Harry could tell that she froze at the sound. “Hermione, there is a gentleman here to see you. One Mr. Planter. Do you know him?”

Hermione’s eyes popped up from behind the books inquisitively. Harry thought it absolutely adorable and he grinned.

“Hi, Hermione.”

Her eyes crinkled pleasantly. She was smiling behind the books. “Harry! Is it lunch already? Oh, my! Time did go fast!”

“You know this Planter-person?” asked Archibald with a stern frown.

Hermione rose from behind her pile of books, gingerly sliding around her huge desk as she smoothed down her robes. “Mr. Archibald, he is not Planter-person.”

She approached them and with perfect dignity gestured to Harry. “This is Harry Potter, the one who destroyed the chap who doesn’t want to be named.”

Harry blinked back some of his confusion at how Hermione described Voldemort but managed to passably cock Archibald a smile.

The old Interrogator frowned. “Nooo, this is Planter, the one who slew the Antipodean Opaleye.”

“That was Gardener,” said Hermione, to Harry’s utter confusion.

Archibald frowned. “So what did Planter do?”

“He potted plants.”

“Planter pots plants! Ingenious!” He smiled, as if everything made perfect sense. He turned to Harry, extending a hand. “How do you do, Mr. Potter?”

Harry, thinking that it was best if he didn’t try to figure out what just happened, shook Archibald’s hand. “Fine, thank you, Mr. Archibald.”

“Good! Now, then! What can you tell me about this chap who doesn’t want to be named? What drove his eponymous phobia? Was he a very bad fellow?”

Harry looked at Hermione and she smiled, the mischievous twinkle in her eyes compelling him to glare at her, though rather fondly, because he smiled back in spite of himself.

Little minx is going to let me answer that, isn’t she? he thought as he stifled a laugh. Well, then…

He cleared his throat and replied. “He was a very bad fellow. Nasty, actually, and the Wizarding World’s better off without him. As for his name, he did have a certain phobia for his given name, so he changed it from Tom Marvolo Riddle to Lord Voldemort. People were so afraid of this man that they called him He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and I think he rather liked it that way.”

Archibald scowled. “Egad! As Winston would say: All that kerfuffle for a name? Why doesn’t everybody just call him Tom and get it over with? Certainly easier to say than Lord Marvolderiddle!”

“I quite agree.”

“And so you’ve destroyed this chap, yes?”

“I did, and Hermione helped. Did she tell you that?”

Archibald looked scandalized. “Look here, Hermione, what is the meaning of this? I don’t think you should go spreading such fearful things about yourself! Little girls like you ought to stay away from destroying nasty chaps and slaying dragons!”

Hermione nodded sagely. “Wise, as always, Mr. Archibald.”

Archibald nodded. “Thank you. Well then, I shall leave the two of you to talk, though I dare say Winston will not be pleased I left little Hermione alone; but then again, you’re not Gardener, so I think she’ll be alright with you.”

“She’s perfectly safe with me, sir,” said Harry.

They watched him walk away. He had a long walk ahead of him.

Harry turned to Hermione and appreciated the glow on her cheeks. It seemed her first day at work was going really well. “Like it here, little Hermione?”

She laughed. “Yes! It’s wonderful! This place is a pit of knowledge and jurisprudential history! First day, I’ve learned so much, and I can hardly wait to get started on the Death Eater cases. Archibald and Heartcomb are still working on the preliminaries for those, but I think they’re coming along fine—“

“You think so?” Harry meant to ask her if she should trust those two at all on the matter of putting away Deatheaters, but he didn’t want to be too crass about it. They were nice enough to take care of Hermione, after all.

Hermione smiled knowingly. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking they’re a couple of fools who cann’t get anything done if they tried.”

He gave a noncommittal shrug.

“Well, I thought so too, in the beginning, but Harry… you should read their briefs and pleadings! Awesome, brilliant work! They’re so disciplined and focused on their work that they’re literally holed up in here. That thing they do: confusing everyone? I seriously think they’re doing that on purpose. Makes their enemies think they’re incompetent.” She beamed. “This morning, I thought I was going to hang myself trying to make sense of it, but then I went with it and began to talk like them, and before I knew it, I was having conversations with them about absolutely nothing, and it was rather fun! I think they approved. In the meantime, they managed to give me all that work back there and it’s sensible work, Harry. Important work, that trains me, too. I’m going to absolutely love this job; I just know it!”

Harry watched her animated features. She was in her element; gorgeous in her sea of books and disciplined thinking. She was going to shine so brightly on this job that he was afraid Mad-Eye’s paranoia had merit.

“Mad-Eye thinks you need a bodyguard,” he said.

She frowned. “Alastor is being as paranoid as always.”

“Alastor is right. A lot of Death Eaters aren’t going to be happy that you’re putting them away. D’you think they’ll believe Heartcomb and Archibald are the brains behind this operation?”

“I already told you—“

“No one but you knows that. Face it, Hermione. The entire Wizarding World knows how brilliant you are. You can’t pretend to be incompetent like your bosses do so convincingly. Mad-Eye said that if the Death Eaters had any brains at all, they’d go after you, and you know they’re not all like Crabbe and Goyle.”

She sighed and smiled up at him. “Then you’ll be my bodyguard, Harry. What’s better than living with an auror?”

“Or two.”

Finally, she rolled her eyes and began to gather some things from her desk. “Harry, I promise you, the moment I get a death threat, I’ll let you know, and only after we’re sure the threat is real will I even consider this bodyguard thing. Really, it’s ridiculous! First day at work and I’m getting ‘Constant vigilance!’ from Alastor. He’s relentless! And so are you, come to that.”

Harry sighed. He knew she would react this way and he let the subject drop. He’ll bring it up again some other time. He had other more important things to deal with right now, like Lysander waiting outside the office.

She had looked so misplaced the previous day when she received the bag, and he wasn’t sure if she’d gotten over her feelings of embarrassment. He had to at least warn her, and if she didn’t feel like dealing with Lysander herself, he’d be more than happy to dispose Lysander for her.

Harry was just about to bring it up when Heartcomb suddenly said, “Granger, there’s a dandy chap waiting for you outside. I think he brought flowers. He wanted to come in with Planter but Thane wouldn’t let him ruin his surprise.”

Hermione stopped in her tracks and winced, looking exasperatedly at Harry.

“I was going to tell you!” he said. “And for the record, I told him you didn’t want to see him. Do you want me to… tell him off more forcefully?” He actually felt a tingling in his knuckles. Won’t that be satisfying? Land one on Lysander’s kisser.

She sighed and shook her head. “I can handle him fine.” She seemed sure enough as she made her way to the door.

Harry opened it for them both and they found Lysander gazing out of the window with curious fascination.

Lysander turned when they emerged and his eyes were immediately fixed on Hermione. Her gaze was more frigid than Harry had ever seen it.

“Hermione—“

“That’s Ms. Granger to you, Mr. Athanasius,” she said with chilling calm. “I must say that I have never, in my life, been so mortified.” She wasn’t yelling. In fact, she was speaking in a somewhat lowered tone, but it was definitely effective.

Harry smirked and dealt Lysander a look of mock-pity.

The man looked flustered for about a second before he regained perfect poise. “I cannot express how sorry I am about the entire misunderstanding.”

“That’s tragic,” she said, walking past him.

Harry followed, trying to block Lysander from her.

Lysander persisted, much to Harry’s consternation.

Bloke doesn’t know when to give up!

“I should have known I was going too far with the bag,” said Lysander as he walked with them. “I had a feeling—“

Hermione did not slowing her pace in the least. “Oh, did you? Too bad you didn’t listen to it.”

Lysander managed to swing himself in front of her. “I did. The Crystal Elf worked because it was novel, not expensive. You liked salsa for the dancing, not the fancy club and you thought ‘Riding the Dragon’ was fascinating because of its brilliance, not its price. I made a mistake; I wanted to please you; your pleasure intoxicates me, Hermione Jane Granger.” He offered her the flowers.

Harry’s eyes flashed. Where does this git get off spewing romance novel hogwash, thinking she’d be impressed by it?

She frowned, ignoring the flowers as she walked past him. Harry glared at him over his shoulder, draping an arm over Hermione as they walked away.

Lysander glared at him with unveiled hate and rushed to catch up with them. He took Hermione by the arm to stop her in her tracks.

It looked like she was going to shake his hand off, but then she gasped as his eyes caught hers, mouth agape as if shocked by the intensity of his gaze.

Harry felt his anger threaten to burst at the seams. Perhaps it wasn’t so much that he grabbed her. It did, after all, seem that Lysander’s hold was not the least bit rough, but it was that Lysander could affect her so much. He had seen it happen in the gallery, and he was seeing it happen again. The way her breath caught, and how she seemed frozen, then pliable. It provoked his instincts. He didn’t care if his anger had reason or if he was acting out of jealousy. He just needed to do something, so he whipped out his wand, practically shoving it at Lysander’s throat. The man didn’t look particularly threatened, but he did lean back a bit.

“Let her go and back the fuck off,” Harry hissed in a menacing whisper, pulling Hermione closer against him.

She gasped, jolted to awareness and no doubt alarmed by the suddenly escalating situation. They were a tight group, but they were getting suspicious stares from the people surrounding them. She certainly wouldn’t want him getting in trouble; not even for her. “What are you—put the wand away, Harry!”

“Not until he lets go.”

“Harry!”

Lysander released her, raising his hands as if to show he had nothing up his sleeves. He stepped back and only then did Harry lower his wand.

Harry was just about to issue a grave warning when Lysander began to speak in her ear. His tone was soft and whispered so that only she could hear. Hermione’s eyes widened, as if Lysander had gotten through to her somehow.

Harry had a raging urge to punch his face in.

“Ms. Granger?”

The voice was pleasant; accommodating, so detached from the mini-drama they were having. It forced all three of them to look to the source.

A pleasant looking witch was smiling at them, her gaze focusing on Hermione. “Hello there, Ms. Granger! My name is Cecily Ackwater, from the Legislative Committee’s Office. I’ve been meaning to speak to you for such a long time now regarding your proposals, and I was wondering if I can have a few moments of your time. It won’t take long. A minute or two?” Her gaze traveled between Harry and Lysander. “Is—umm—this a bad time?”

Hermione stared at her, as if trying to come to grips with what was happening with Lysander and then sorting out the mundanity of Ms. Ackwater. Finally, Hermione breathed and said, “Of course not, Ms. Ackwater. Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I shall only be a minute.”

She shot Harry a warning look before gliding out of his embrace and going to Ms. Ackwater.

Harry took heed, putting his wand away but stepping close to Lysander, practically getting in his face. “Lysander Athanasius, I’m watching you. Hermione may think you’re harmless, but that’s only because she doesn’t make it a habit to think the worse of people. I’m not quite so generous in my judgments when it comes to looking out for her safety. I’ve known the worse of them, you know. And I’ve destroyed the worse of them.” He didn’t usually go around scaring people with what he had done and what he can do, but for Hermione’s sake, he was willing to pull all the stops. There was something more than jealousy dogging his antagonism and he was going to find out what it was.

Lysander merely smiled, “Voldemort never scared me, you know. He meant nothing to me and his Death Eaters were a nuisance. And unlike other people, he couldn’t threaten me to do his bidding. But that’s all beside the point, isn’t it? The fact of the matter is, I can give her what she wants, Potter. And she’s going to want it. She already does. Can you give her what she wants? What she really wants?”

Harry glared at him, and it took every ounce of his self-control not to grab Lysander by the collar of his suit and throw him down for an all-out brawl. If he did that, Hermione would be furious, and he didn’t want getting on Hermione’s bad side, especially not right now. At any rate, it rattled him that Lysander had hit a nerve with him.

“Stay away from her, Athanasius,” he said with a surprisingly steady voice wrought with conviction.

Lysander straightened his stance, smoothing the front of his already pristine suit. “Only if she wants me to, Potter.”

Hermione returned, looking just as flushed as when she left them. Clearly, she had rushed her conversation with Ms. Ackwater, distracted by the potentially explosive situation between them.

He felt her hand in his and he instantly felt the calming warmth she always managed to give him.

“Harry, let’s go, now.” She didn’t sound impatient, but the word “now” was telling enough of her subliminal urgency.

“Ms. Granger,” said Lysander. “I feel nothing but the deepest regret for any offense I have caused. Please believe me when I say that I have nothing but respect for you, and perhaps if you would extend your kindness to me one last time, I can prove to you that I have learned my lesson well. Please… I am humbled.”

Harry wanted to tell him to shut the hell up, but Hermione looked troubled enough. She just wanted to get out of this situation without any more hostility.

“Mr. Athanasius, your apology is noted. But perhaps we should talk about this some other time.”

What! She’s still going to talk to him!

He bristled at her forgiving nature as if that very nature of hers hadn’t been directed at him a countless number of times.

If Harry weren’t so aware of Lysander’s own determination on the matter, Harry wouldn’t have been able to decipher the triumphant look Lysander shot him. Harry would’ve found great pleasure in hexing Lysander with a slug-retching charm. Seeing the manicured, perfectly groomed, Armani suited mogul barf slimy slugs would be worth all the scolding Hermione would give him, but he would never risk the spell being repelled and hitting Hermione.

He endured as Lysander smiled ever so faintly.

“Of course, Ms. Granger. I’m sorry. I should have owled, or flooed.” He reached into his pocket. “At your convenience; when you see it fit to hear a bit more about how sorry I am, go to the Leabharlann Ársa Runa and cast a summoning charm on this key. It is the key to the library and you may use it anytime you want, whether or not you wish to summon me; midnight, two in the morning… your convenience. I am at your mercy.”

Hermione’s eyes widened momentarily as Lysander slipped the ancient-looking key in her hand. “The Leabharlann Ársa Runa…”

Harry couldn’t even pronounce it, much less know what it meant. If he was ever as prone as Dudley was to throw a tantrum, he might have done just that, but Lysander had managed to make a come-back just when Harry thought he was sunk, and there was really nothing left to do but be dignified about it.

“Come on, Hermione,” he said, tugging at her hand.

He saw her swallow before she nodded and looked at Lysander coolly. “The key is unnecessary.” She held it out to Lysander, waiting for him to take it.

Unfazed, Lysander did. Holding her gaze, he slipped the key back into his pocket.

Harry could see her eyes following the key and he tugged at her hand again, almost desperately.

He heard her faintly spoken, “Goodbye, Mr. Athanasius,” before he let their footsteps drown out everything else.

Harry recalled Lysander’s whispered words to him. They were bothersome, akin to what troubled him so much about Lysander in the first place. The man had spoken about Voldemort, and the war, as if he were separate from it all; as if he had been watching it from some place else, but most disturbing of all were the words: “I can give her what she wants.”

He looked at her as they walked to a fireplace. She was frowning; thinking. It was that kind of look on her face. He wondered if their thoughts were the same.

No, it couldn’t be. She didn’t hear what Lysander said to me. Whatever she’s thinking, it’s something else.

“Hermione, what do you want?” he asked on impulse.

She blinked, looking up at him in surprise. “What?”

He was going to ask again, but thought better of it all of a sudden. He smiled, squeezing her hand affectionately. “What do you want for lunch? Leaky Cauldron? Or maybe you want to go muggle today?”

She blinked, and her smile came in stages. “Muggle, I think. Italian?”

He nodded. “Italian, it is.”

00000000000000000000000

Lunch wasn’t that much enjoyable. While both parties made an effort to pretend that the skirmish in the Ministry didn’t happen, any conversation they came up with was weighted.

There were pregnant pauses, too, usually because Hermione was lost in thought.

Harry wanted to set down his fork and say, “Fuck it! You want to talk about Lysander, then fine!” But every time he got the urge, Hermione would snap out of her musings, smile and say something cheerful.

It only occurred to him after they separated at the Ministry that the very idea of Lysander was driving him and Hermione apart, and that did it. He was going to find out everything he could about the man, and if necessary, drag him out of their lives.

A page right out of Granger’s book of “Fighting Very Bad People”: Assess the situation, do research, plan then strike.

Of course, the last time Harry had to fight a very bad person, Hermione did all the researching while he and Ron practiced out on the Quidditch pitch.

Good Merlin, Hermione must’ve thought we were complete prats.

So it was no wonder that when Harry got down to doing what he had to do about Lysander, he got other people to do most of the research for him.

First, he looked for references and cross references in the Ministry archives. And while he knew where to look, a bunch of other people prepared the files. It was an auror-perk, at any rate. When an auror asked for information, everyone had no choice but to give it to him, and it helped quite a bit that he was Harry Bloody Potter.

He supposed he had most of the Ministry between level two to eight processing the data he required, but he was on a mission, and somehow, it felt liberating that this time, he didn’t have to be sneaking through hallways in the dead of night under his invisibility cloak to do it.

It certainly gave him more time to make personal inquiries. He turned to his partner whom he was sure he could rely on in this matter.

“Gail, tell me what you know about Lysander Athanasius,” he said, in a matter-of-fact tone.

Without even asking him why, she launched into a tirade, rattling off things she learned from gossip columns and listing off quite a few wizarding magazines that he frequented.

Harry took notes, and he marveled at the fact that while Gail’s eyebrow arched each time he made use of his quill, she said nothing of it.

Only after she’d exhausted all she knew at the moment did she comment.

“Checking up on Hermione’s boyfriend?”

Harry found this extremely aggravating. “He is not her boyfriend. Not if I can help it.”

Gail sniffed. The disapproval in it was palpable. “You can’t keep her away from other men forever, Harry. It’s either you put yourself out of your misery and tell her how you feel or you let her have a life.”

Harry scowled. Gail may be his partner, but they weren’t that close yet. He rose to his feet, rolling his parchment up and tossing it in the air muttering “Repositum!” as he did so. The scroll spun and disappeared into thin air.

Gail gaped at the display. Harry didn’t often flaunt his ability to do magic without a wand and usually reserved this particular skill for only Hermione and Ron to see, mainly because they’d gotten used to it, but sometimes, he found the wandless magic handy for shutting people up without being outwardly rude.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Gail,” he said snappishly as he left her at their joined desks.

He nodded at Remus who merely arched an eyebrow in response. Harry imagined he had quite the storm cloud above his head as he made his way to the fireplaces.

He was in the atrium in seconds and he took the phone booth to Muggle London. Once outside the magical wards of the Ministry, he whipped out his mobile and contacted Ron, hoping he was somewhere the mobile could reach.

Ron answered, sighing. “Yes, Hermione, I made it to work, and yes, my boss hasn’t fired me…”

“It’s not Hermione. Honestly, Ron, don’t you even know how to look at your caller ID? And try not to sound so exasperated when you’re talking to her. You know she only nags you because you need to be nagged.”

“Not Hermione, you say? You sure sound like her, if a bit hoarse in the voice.”

Harry ignored the cheek. “I need you to find out all you can about Lysander Athanasius.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“And how the hell am I supposed to do that? Put on your invisibility cloak and break into his home?”

“That’s not a bad idea, Weasley.”

“Are you serious?”

“No, I’m Harry. Sirius was my Godfather.”

“Not funny!”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Ron, if you’re going to be any good at your job, you’re going to have to know your enemy. Lysander Athanasius is the owner of the Kenmare Kestrals, so if you want the Cannons to break the Kestrals’ winning streak, you’re going to have to find out all you can about their team.”

Ron was quiet for a moment before he spoke. “You bastard. You planned this.”

“Naturally.”

“Are you sure you’re not Hermione?”

“Quite. Oh, and by the way, Lysander came here this morning to apologize to Hermione because he offended her by sending her an expensive, designer purse worth six hundred galleons.”

“WHAT!”

Harry grinned, pleased with Ron’s reaction.

Ron began to rant. “That bloody bastard wants to get in her knickers! Why I ought to hex the git to oblivion! Hermione must’ve been furious! Well, I wouldn’t expect less from a proper witch like her. Came to apologize, you say? Did she accept his apology? Never mind, it doesn’t matter. I’ll get the dirt on him before you can say ‘We shall conquer!’”

There was a beep and the line went dead.

Harry snapped his phone shut, thinking that Ron’s Cannon-inspired motto was appropriately followed by its brother: “Let’s all just keep our fingers crossed and hope for the best.”

Nevertheless, Harry smiled as he walked back to the Ministry. “Mischief managed.”

SPECIAL THANKS to my beta reader Aurabolt!

There aren’t that much H+Hr moments in this chapter and the next, for that matter, which is why I’ve released them at the same time, but I do hope that the ones I put forth in these chapters are worth the scarcity. Lol! Okay, so maybe I’m trying to sell it! BUT, for those of you diligent enough to give this author’s note a read, I promise that in the next release… are you ready for this? IT WILL BE GOOD. Haha!

Standard disclaimers apply.

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Chapter Eight – Uncover the Enigma

In which Lysander Athanasius becomes a matter for serious thought.

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Hermione had a feeling that something was afoot.

She wasn’t a witch that paid particular attention to anything that pertained to “hunches” or “feelings” or (Good Lord!) “Divination”, but she couldn’t help but think there was something odd in the scheme of things.

The day previous, Lysander had come to the ministry to beg for her forgiveness. And on that same day, Harry’s protective tendencies seemed to have reached unreasonable heights.

Harry had to flash his wand, in the Ministry, no less! Not like he needed it to cast basic spells or anything. Obviously, the wand had been no more than a prop, whipped out to emphasize some kind of point, unless Harry had been planning to use worse hexes than the usual schoolyard jinxes... Lysander had taken him seriously, at any rate.

What was Harry so riled up about that he would threaten someone with a wand?

She frowned as she walked down the WizCOF aisle to get to her work station.

I mean, really…

Lysander was just being insistent, and he didn’t even hurt her. He was giving her flowers, for goodness sake, and apologizing. There was nothing remotely inappropriate about any of it. If anything, she acted quite the bitch, but then she had been careful not to cross any sort of line.

Then he touched me, and it was the oddest thing…

She had looked into Lysander’s eyes and understood just how apologetic he was; how he had made a mistake; how utterly and madly regretful he was that he had been such a fool.

Of course, he hadn’t said anything, but those eyes; those eyes! As brilliant then as the first day she gazed upon them.

And there, where his hand touched his shoulder, she had felt such warmth and longing. She wanted to fall right into his arms and tell him he had no need to apologize, that he was forgiven beyond reasonable doubt.

He said words in her ear that alleviated the loneliness in her heart because he knew what she was going through: “The silence in an empty house is the worse, isn’t it?” he had asked cryptically. “When there’s no one to talk to, you turn on the television and it doesn’t change the silence at all. Sometimes it just nails the idea even deeper, that you’re quite alone. And you have this urge to look for some form of life. Unfortunately, when you find your cat or dog, they become ill replacements. There is no replacement for human company. But when you do find it; find one who understands, isn’t it a relief? Isn’t it a great relief?”

But then Harry was there, wrenching her free from that moment of bliss.

When Lysander’s hand left her, she felt confused; disjointed, but with that isolation, she had managed to understand that her loyalties were unconditionally with Harry, and that giving in to Lysander would almost seem…

Like betrayal.

Almost, but not quite. Goodness, it’s not like Lysander’s some kind of Death Eater. He’s just a regular bloke, for Merlin’s sake… alright, maybe not regular, but just a bloke nonetheless…

Lysander had given the key to the Leabharlann Ársa Runa: Library of Ancient Runes. At the bottom of the engraved, bronze sign was the symbol “<”. It was read as “ken” and it meant “to know”. The library admitted very few muggles into its walls, wizards fewer still. There was some kind of secret criteria, and try as she might to find out in the past what this criteria was so she could meet it, she had found no success.

Now, Lysadner Athanasius had offered the key to the library and only by sheer will, strengthened by the loyalty she had for Harry, was she able to give the key back.

But he had you, didn’t he? And he knew it! Now you have to ask yourself: If Harry hadn’t been there, watching, would you have accepted that key?

She scowled. “You’re awful Hermione,” she whispered. “Some friend you’ve turned out to be. Exchange your loyalties to your best friend in the whole world for a bunch of smelly books and scrolls, will you? You’re awful!”

When she and Harry had left work for home last night, she prayed he wouldn’t bring their meeting with Lysander up. She could tell he was trying to bring it up, but maybe he had read the reluctance in her eyes, so he didn’t. Going home, she was afraid he would get on with the asking. He didn’t do it then, either. He was, in fact, quite amicable talking about other things. There were several times during their trip home that his brows would knot. She was sure, during those times, that he was going to talk about Lysander, but then his brows smoothed over and he would quirk his smile. She breathed a little easier each time. When she arrived at Grimmauld Place, she and Harry had made a quick dinner and retired to their respective work spaces to finish work they brought home from the Ministry. She had worked late, and she even heard Ron arriving. He dropped by the library to give her a quick hi and goodnight. He wasn’t drunk; he had come from work, and he seemed exhausted.

Hermione felt so proud of him then that she had given her goodnight with an affectionate kiss on his cheek. He showed only mild surprise, and then he was grinning, pointing to his other cheek and saying, “How ‘bout you even things up a little, eh?”

She didn’t, but only because doing so would spoil him. It was then she knew with absolute certainty that she and Ron would be friends forever, never lovers, and that she was unspeakably happy that they would stay that way. Judging by the twinkle in his eyes, he was thinking exactly the same thing.

She sent him off to bed sternly, but she committed the sound of his laughter to memory long after he retired into his room.

She didn’t see Harry again until the morning, and it seemed he was in a hurry to get to his office.

And now she was back in WizCOF for another judicious day.

Reaching her work station, she began to unload the contents of her briefcase on her pristine desk. In a few minutes, she would have the desk stacked high with books.

She was arranging her quills when she found a tiny box, the kind that looked like it held jewelry. There was a tasteful ribbon wrapped around it, and she knew instantly who had sent it.

Hermione stared at the box warily.

Does it contain what I think it contains?

She breathed slowly, cursing her heart for beating so frantically.

Though ashamed of herself, she used her wand to levitate the box and open it. There sat the key. There was no accompanying note; no explanation; just the key, because the key spoke for itself.

She slammed the box shut and opened one of the many pigeon holes lining the walls of her workstation. She dropped the box inside and shut the tiny door.

Maybe I should obliviate myself and forget where I put it, so that even if I go looking for it, I wouldn’t find it.

It wasn’t advisable to obliviate one’s self, of course, so she scrapped that idea and just left the key where it was, hoping that losing sight of it would be enough to make her forget it entirely.

That didn’t work, of course. She wasn’t the brightest witch of her age for being forgetful.

Hermione then decided she would dedicate herself entirely to her work that day. There was much to be done, after all.

She found herself so busy that she forgot entirely about lunch until she heard a familiar voice calling to her from the small fireplace behind her.

Turning, she saw Harry’s face smiling at her from the flames.

She smiled back, thankful that her conscience was clean… mostly. She knelt on the floor. “Hello, Harry. What’s up?”

He grinned. “Lunch is up, but I don’t think I’ll be able to make it today.”

Oh yes, lunch! she thought. “Oh, well, that’s alright, Harry. I can grab something in the ministry concession stand. I’m a bit too busy to go out, anyway. Shacklebolt keeping you?”

He nodded. “We’re heading off to Hogsmeade. Death Eater sighting.”

All of Hermione’s other concerns disappeared in the face of her worry at this new piece of information. The old fear of Death Eaters past clenched in her stomach. “Oh! Harry, be careful! Don’t go anywhere alone, alright? Have Gail with you at all times! If there’s any problem at all, floo me! I’ll be right here. Or messenger spell me if you can manage the distance. Use our safe-word. You do remember what it is, don’t you? It’s ‘Hogwarts, A History.’ You don’t need to say anything else. I’ll know you flooed or messaged and that you need my help, so I’ll apparate on over there—“

“Hermione, relax. I defeated the great Voldemort, remember? A silly Death Eater is child’s play.”

She scowled. Even through the fire she could see the twinkle in his eyes. “Harry Potter, swear to me you’ll let Gail watch your back! Swear it!”

He sighed before he gave her a faint smile. “I swear it.”

She breathed a little easier. “And I promise you, Potter, if you don’t come back to me in one piece…”

She blushed a bit at the possessive quality of her statement.

Come back to ME? That’s just perfect. Why don’t you just put a stamp on his forehead that says “Property of Hermione Granger”?

He chuckled and didn’t seem to think anything was amiss. “You’ll kill me yourself?”

She was mostly relieved he didn’t notice. “Of course not, but I’ll be so angry you’ll wish you were dead.”

“Warning noted, Hermione. Want anything from Hogsmeade?”

Her scowl deepened. “You’re not there to shop!”

He rolled his eyes. “Fine, then. I’ll surprise you. I’ll see you at home, alright? Give my love to Heartcomb and Archibald.”

He cut the transmission and she fumed just a bit. She did, of course, have every reason to believe that Harry would be completely fine, but Harry wasn’t invincible. The greatest wizards of all had perished just like everybody else.

She remembered Dumbledore and Voldemort and did a double take.

Well, maybe not LIKE everybody else, but they had succumbed to mortality, just the same.

Hermione went back to work and found her thoughts divided between the brief she was writing, Harry in Hogsmeade looking for Death Eaters and the key stuffed into one of the pigeonholes on her walls.

After staring at her parchment for several minutes and making no developments on it whatsoever, she decided to go on out and grab lunch by herself.

She grabbed her coin purse and went down the long aisle to the front of the office.

“I’m going out to grab a sandwich,” she said to her bosses. “D’you want me to get you anything?”

“Grabbing is rude, Granger,” said Heartcomb without lifting his face from the book he was reading.

“Hermione, mind your manners!” said Archibald.

I guess they’re not hungry. She nodded. “Very well then, I’ll head on out and be back as soon as I can, hopefully with my manners minded.”

Heartcomb bobbed his head in approval. “You do that.”

“Oh, and watch where you step,” said Archibald. “Himalayan Yeti: Rights, Privileges and Snow got away from its shelf and is spitting frostbite at anything that touches it.”

Hermione nodded, thinking that there had to be a way of disciplining the books around this place. She had suggested corporal punishment, but Archibald said that short of ripping their pages off, books were immune to behavioral conditioning.

She gingerly made her way out of the WizCOF, easily avoiding stepping on the scattered books.

The concession stand was not very far from the WizCOF and she was soon on her way back to the hole in the wall when her eyes fell on the Legislative Committee’s Office.

She remembered her chat with Cecily Ackwater the previous day and smiled slightly. Though Hermione had been rather preoccupied at the time, she nevertheless felt immensely glad to know that the rumors about Cecily Ackwater were true, and that Ms. Ackwater supported her cause.

Cecily had asked for a meeting with her regarding her proposals. Cecily wanted a better understanding of the matter so that she could better express her support of it during the LegCom general meetings.

Hermione would be receiving Cecily in the WizCOF a bit after lunch. She hoped Heartcomb and Archibald would go easy on the meek and friendly Legislative Committee member.

Her bosses didn’t think much of the Legislative Committee. While the two wizards had an almost unnatural commitment to the letter of the Wizarding Law, they had little to no affection for those who sought to change it. Hermione could barely get away with her Elf Rights convictions in their presence, and she imagined Cecily would get worse flack for having access to changing any law in existence.

Hermione was soon back in the WizCOF exchanging nonsensical dialogue with Heartcomb and Archibald, after which she returned to her workstation and munched on her sandwich, washing it down with pumpkin juice. She worked as she ate, finding focus on her parchment and only occasionally letting her eyes rove to the pigeonhole with the key.

Hermione managed fine for an hour before there was a “kerfuffle” from down the aisle. She looked at the time and figured Cecily had arrived. She considered going on over to the front to rescue Ms. Ackwater but just thinking of the long walk wearied her.

She was glad to hear, moments later, two sets of footsteps. One of them sounded pert enough to belong to the tread of a woman.

Cecily Ackwater appeared alongside the disgruntled Heartcomb. He was glaring at Cecily who merely smiled back in an immensely disarming manner.

Hermione stifled a smile. It seemed that between Archibald and Heartcomb, Heartcomb was more prone to giving in to “pretty young girls”. Of course, Cecily was in no way young, but she was very pleasing to the eyes. Not beautiful, in the usual sense, but more regal than anything else. She was tall, slender and her hair was a shiny, flaxen blonde. Her golden eyes only added to her appeal.

Heartcomb left them after he warned them not to do anything funny. He had probably decided that two women who both had a penchant for changing the law could never be up to any good, but he had no choice in the matter, as it was their Divine Right to speak freely of any matter, whenever, wherever and however.

Hermione rose from her desk and magically cleared a path through her stack of books. She waved her wand and summoned a chair for Cecily and Cecily thanked her with whispered words.

Cecily’s eyes roved for a moment as they sat. “Well, this is an interesting place, now isn’t it?”

Hermione smiled, amused by the expression of wonder in Cecily’s face. “First time?”

“Yes.”

“Would you care for some tea, Ms. Ackwater?”

“Oh, please call me Cecily, and no thank you for the tea. I’m fine. I’d like to make the most of our time, anyway. There’s never a shortage of work in the Ministry. Whether that’s good or bad, Ms. Granger, I don’t know.”

Hermione smiled. “You must call me Hermione… well, then, what can I do for you, Cecily?”

Cecily smiled back. “The question, Hermione, is What can I do for you? You have been actively pursuing the rights of elves for several years now, haven’t you?”

“Since my fourth year in Hogwarts,” said Hermione proudly.

“Indeed, and it would be insulting of me to ask you at this time whether you are serious about all this or not. Obviously, you are. I understand you have an organization.”

“Yes. The Society for the Promotion of Elvish Welfare.”

“You have many members?”

Hermione steeled her features. “Two, aside from myself: Harry Potter and Ron Weasley.” Of course, to call them “members” was somewhat laughable. Aside from Harry “helping” her with the hats, neither of them had done anything since.

Cecily chuckled. “That’s a rather exclusive society, isn’t it?”

Hermione reddened.

“But that’s beside the point,” said Cecily hastily, probably seeing the embarrassment on Hermione’s face. “I came here specifically to make suggestions about improving your… support base.”

Hermione’s eyebrow arched, the prospect of a new hope getting ahead of her. “Really? I mean—err—is that so? How?”

“Money, Muscle and Media.”

Hermione couldn’t help but feel a bit of sarcasm creeping out of her. “Oh, is that all, then?”

Cecily laughed, and it was a melodic sound. “Easier said than done, I know, but see, you seemed to have unwittingly gained favor with someone who has the means to help you in all three aspects.”

For some reason, Hermione’s gaze fell upon the pigeonhole once more then she snatched them back to rest on Cecily. She knew exactly what Cecily meant and Hermione didn’t see the need to play dumb, so instead of pretending she didn’t know what Cecily was trying to say, she asked the next most obvious question. “And how do you know that I have gained favor with this… someone?”

Cecily’s eyes twinkled. “Because every Friday, for several months now, Lysander Athanasius has sent an owl to get him a copy of your latest proposals and accompanying theses. He seems to be immensely interested in your cause, Hermione, and I dare say if you ask him—ahem—nicely, he might take his interest to the next level. Lysander Athanasius might not be a politician, but his connections and his money could get you as far as a hearing in Higher Legislation. And with him publicly behind you, you’d have at least one-third support from the Enactment Committee.”

Hermione managed to calm herself at this revelation. One-third support! Even if that wasn’t enough, that was infinitely more than she ever dreamed of! She pushed her excitement aside and forced herself to be rational. “Every law needs more than a two-thirds vote to be approved for Final Formulation, Cecily. There are a hundred members in the Enactment Committee. Even if I’m assured thirty-three votes, how can I get thirty-four more wizards to see it my way when I can’t even endear myself to your fourteen colleagues at the L.C.O.?”

Cecily shook her head. “You’re thinking of Legislators as individuals, Hermione. You have to remember that we are a body, that while we have individual minds, we don’t ever act alone. How do you think laws are passed at all? We influence each other. We listen to one another. If you get one-third support from the EnCom, it’s not just thirty-three votes, it’s thirty-three supporters. If they have enough motivation from the right… person, they can get the other thirty-four votes for you and elevate your proposals for Final Formulation. Of course, I don’t need to tell you that I’ll take care of the majority vote in the L.C.O…”

Hermione stared at Cecily. Her mind was spinning. Was it that easy?

Well, of course it’s NOT easy, but the potential for SOMETHING worthwhile is there.

Never had the path to Elf Rights been made so reachable. In all her years, pushing and prodding to make others understand, she had never really looked at it from this angle before. Oh, she had considered getting the support of influential wizards, but most of them were Elf Owners in themselves, possibly even purebloods who wouldn’t have anything to do with a muggle-born like her. The few letters she sent out soliciting support for her cause had resulted in pert, unrelenting refusals, with the subtle undertones of “Don’t try to owl us again.” The only person who might have been willing to offer influential support had gone and died on her. Of course, that hadn’t been Dumbledore’s fault…

Hermione looked at the pigeonhole again. She blinked, tearing her eyes from it. She looked at Cecily who was waiting for a response.

“So Lysander Athanasius seems interested,” said Hermione. “But that doesn’t mean he would be willing to rally his support all-out. It doesn’t mean he would be willing to pull favors for the cause. I mean goodness, why would he care about house elves? He probably has hundreds of them in his household!”

“Do his reasons matter?”

“Of course they do! What’s in it for him? What will he get out of all of it? Why should he give it the time of day?”

“Then I suppose you’ll have to bring that up when you talk to him about it.”

Hermione frowned. “I don’t know if I’ll talk to him about it.”

Cecily seemed genuinely surprised. “Why not?”

And indeed, why not? Hermione was supposed to be committed to this cause, wasn’t she? While things got a bit shaky yesterday between her and Lysander, it wasn’t as if they had become enemies, or anything like that. Besides, if she did approach Lysander on the matter of Elf Rights, it should be strictly business. She had been given the means; it would be folly for her to ignore it just because she had some silly, issues about men and shopping…

“You’re right,” Hermione muttered. “I should speak to him about it…”

Cecily smiled. “A wise decision. I can help you set up an appointment with him, if you wish. Make it seem more official. That way, you don’t have to compromise your… relationship—“

“We have no relationship,” said Hermione hastily. “Regardless of what the Daily Prophet has told the world.”

Cecily reddened. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—“

“Of course, you didn’t. And I apologize for being snappish. I’m just a bit flustered by this new… opportunity.”

Cecily nodded. “I’d imagine you’d be. The road to change is never easy, Hermione. But considering the things you’ve been through, I suppose you can do anything you put your mind to. So, shall I set an appointment for you? His owl will surely be by on Friday.”

Hermione shook her head. “No. That’s unnecessary. I have the means to communicate with him. You have helped so much already.”

“I’m glad, then. It’s about time someone spoke up for the rights of elves. Fortunately, we have you on the helm for that.”

Hermione smiled appreciatively.

Cecily rose and Hermione rose with her. They shook hands across the desk, Cecily’s smile brilliant and kind.

Hermione felt the sudden pressure of Cecily’s grip. It was a gentle hold, but she looked up, surprised.

Cecily’s serene gaze met hers. “Some of us would do things for the sake of its own virtues, Hermione. Not everyone has to do it for something.”

Hermione blushed. “I know. I’m sorry. Just that sometimes—“

“Yes, I know. But take heart. Today, you’ve gained a third supporter. There’s hope, yes? I’d expect my—ahem—spew button to be in my In-tray tomorrow.”

Hermione smiled. She didn’t at all feel the need to correct Cecily about S.P.E.W. She reached into her purse for her own button. “Here, take mine. And yes, there’s hope. Thank you.”

Cecily smiled as she took the badge. They parted, Cecily insisting that she’d see herself to the door.

When Hermione sat back on her desk, she fell to thinking, allowing her gaze to rest on the key’s hiding place. So Lysander Athanasius might be able to help her. She should have thought of that before Cecily spoke to her about it, but she had been caught up in the enigma of Lysander that she never thought of him as anything else but a dashing bachelor who fancied her.

Alright, officially, you’ve become a complete and utter air-head. McGonagall would be ashamed of you!

Thoughts of her professor reminded her of the owl she sent the good Headmistress. Hermione had requested an appointment and she was yet to receive a response. She’d likely get it in the mail, later.

In the meantime, she had work to do, and perhaps after office hours, she could do a bit of research on Lysander. It was high time she found out more about the magnetic billionaire.

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Harry stepped out of the fireplace into the Auror department to the bad mood of Kingsley Shacklebolt.

“Tonks, I swear to all the realms that if you weren’t so good at your job most of the time, I’d have you sacked!” cried Shacklebolt.

Tonks stood before him, sheepish beneath her pink hair. “Well, seriously Kingsley… Harry and I didn’t have much of a choice, now did we?”

“Harry had him immobilized! You didn’t have to go blow the roof off Madame Puddifoot’s.”

“Those cupids were getting in the way! I had to get rid of them and blowing off the roof was the only way.”

Shacklebolt groaned. “The Ministry will have my head when I file for collateral damage. I’m half-certain they’d find a way to take it out of my pay. Tonks, you’re a menace.”

Harry exchanged looks with Tonks who shrugged at him helplessly.

“Twas rather funny, though, wasn’t it?” whispered Gail beside him. “All those cupids screaming and scattering hearts everywhere… ”

“Hush. Don’t let Shacklebolt hear you. He’s in the perfect mood for chewing out auror trainees.”

Gail rolled her eyes. “Like you didn’t think it was hilarious.”

“Well, yes, but I’ve been in Shacklebolt’s good graces all day, so I’d rather not ruin it.”

“Oh, yes. Good job on that, Potter. Casting Incarcerous without a wand!”

Harry noted the sarcasm. “Do you have a problem with that?”

Gail frowned. “No, but it seems to me you’ve been casting wandless magic forever. I should think that being your partner, it would have been nice of you to teach me how to do it!”

He sighed as they walked to their desks. “Look, Gail, I’d teach you if I could, but I’m not quite sure how I do it, myself. And it’s not wandless wandless. I still need my wand to be within a certain proximity of me. Hermione explained it to me before, but… I forget the details. Anyway, she said she couldn’t do it and I had to sort of learn it by myself, so I learned it while fighting Voldemort, out of sheer necessity, it seemed. If I can find a Dark Lord sitting around doing nothing, maybe I can ask him if he would be nice enough to help me train you.”

Gail pouted. “You are so mean sometimes.”

Harry didn’t have to worry about Gail getting angry at him. She always pouted when she didn’t get her way with anyone.

Turning to his desk, thoughts of panicked cupids and pouting partners diminished. There was a tall stack of documents on his table, and he knew that all the information he requested from the different ministry departments the previous day had just been delivered. It was a thick pile; more than a hand-span, and he couldn’t believe there was so much to say about a single person. Of course, it completely escaped him that he was Harry Potter and that he had a section of books all about him in Flourish and Blotts.

He sat at his desk and sifted through the pile. There were parchments and folders about Lysander Athanasius’s dealings in the Ministry, but there was also a handy Clipping Keeper, an enchanted scrapbook containing all the articles ever written about him from different magazines and periodicals in the last fifteen years.

Putting off his Auror paperwork, he concentrated on processing all the new information. With any luck, he would be one step closer to figuring out just what he was up against.

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Hermione flipped over to the next magazine and looked up briefly from her table in the ministry library.

She realized, much to her surprise, that other than one wizard scanning the shelves, she was the only one left.

What time is it?

It was half past ten.

Goodness, have I been reading that long?

As if in reply, something akin to a headache nudged through her temples.

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, rubbing the pain gently with her fingers.

She had entered the library just shortly after she left work, which was seven in the evening. She purported to find as much material about Lysander Athanasius as she could, hoping that if and when she decided to speak to him about Elf Rights, she would have the right information to convince him that her cause was worthy.

And while right now, she knew a lot more about Lysander than she was probably supposed to, she wasn’t sure what information would be useful to convince him that her proposals were more than just interesting reading.

So far, the information she had of him was basic.

The Athanasius line was of Greek origin, dating back as far as seven hundred years. They were originally a line born of warriors and smiths answering to several masters and land-owners. It was only around five hundred years ago, when they moved to Ireland, that they came to a sizeable plot of land. They took to the enterprise of landowning and found that they thrived in it, specializing in the development of fertile enchanted grounds.

Most of their businesses today were less about land and more about merchandise, but real estate was still their biggest earner, and it would ensure the prosperity of their line for a long time.

On the more personal side of the family biography, it was well-known that they were captivating individuals. Aside from being heartbreakingly beautiful, they possessed an almost unearthly charisma that immediately won them the friends they wanted. It was almost disturbing just how well they chose their associates. They kept many business relationships and had only the most worthy enemies, but most interesting was that they had the most intriguing, fascinating, intelligent and brilliant friends. There were celebrated authors, talented artists, brilliant scientists, heroes, musicians, adventurers… none of them ordinary in the least. Their wives and husbands, too, presented a fairly impressive roster. The Athanasius clan chose their significant others with almost academic precision.

Hermione had blushed briefly at the relation of this ideology to her but immediately decided she didn’t want to delve on it. It felt rather too much like she was full of herself.

Refocusing her thoughts, she had continued with her research:

When the clan members weren’t “collecting” these friends, they were collecting beautiful, rare objects. Not unusual for rich people, but their tastes were very particular. Nothing to do with something’s popularity; in fact, a lot of their collectibles seemed rather obscure.

Hermione managed to find a kind of Athanasius Clan family tree. It was a long tree, but rather narrow: Very few children each generation. Some couples would have one, or two, others none at all. It seemed they wanted to keep the family riches tight.

At present, Lysander was the family patriarch. His mother and father were diseased.

Humph. I knew he was lying about his mum.

Still, she didn’t think Mrs. Athanasius was dead.

How morbid. Using a dead mother as an excuse.

Then again, she and Harry had that running joke about Sirius.

She decided not to judge him on that particular aspect.

Upon further research, Hermione discovered that Lysander’s cousins had very little say on the matter of the family fortunes, which didn’t seem to be much of an issue, considering his cousins were pretty comfortably placed on their own.

No kin feuds, she had thought.

But interesting as it all seemed, there was nothing in their known family history that could be handy for the rights of House Elves. Like Hermione supposed, she had every reason to believe their clan had been keeping elves for generations, and Merlin knew how their house elves were treated.

She could hardly assume the Proud and Noble House of Athanasius would give up their battalion of House Elves just because Lysander was enamored of her.

Enamored.

How very conceited of you, Hermione.

But that was the point, wasn’t it? It seemed that right now, the only thing she had going for her was his fancy little crush on her. That was the sad part, because there was no way in hell she was going to use that particular aspect to get his support. That would be just like the Kelly bag, except it didn’t come in red.

Her head throbbed briefly and she closed her eyes for a moment.

She sighed and began to gather her things, ready to give up for the night. It was then her eyes fell on a particularly interesting piece of symbolism among the texts. It was a rather random image, actually, but it tickled something in her brain: It was a silver snake.

School. She suddenly felt compelled to find out where the Athanasius children were educated.

She flipped through her materials, checking for their educational backgrounds. It was frustrating to find that the lot of them were home-schooled. “Tutored by the best” it said. Lysander himself never knew the joys of boarding school. Fortunately, it didn’t mean nobody in the clan tried it.

Lysander’s grandfather, Danaides, went to Hogwarts.

Danaides was Ravenclaw.

Interesting.

She smiled faintly. Interesting, but not particularly useful.

It was time to call it a night. If she had found anything at all, her tired brain was not keen on processing it.

Gathering her things, she brought out her wand and shrunk her possessions for the trip home.

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Harry heard Ron apparating in the living room. It was twenty past ten in the evening.

He frowned slightly. Where was Hermione? He looked at the Whereabouts Clock.

Ron’s hand clicked beside Harry’s on “home”. Hermione’s was still at “work”.

Harry wondered where at work she was. He had passed by her office two hours ago, before he set off for home, and she hadn’t been at the WizCOF.

He immediately assumed she had left for home earlier than he did, but when he got to Grimmauld place, she wasn’t in. The clock had said she was still at work and it hadn’t changed since.

The clock was vague, but dependable enough. So long as none of them were pointing at lost, hospital, prison or mortal peril, it meant they were all relatively safe. Still, he could worry. If someone locked Hermione in some broom closet in the Ministry, the clock would still say “work” if she wasn’t actually in mortal peril.

He wondered if there were clocks with a second hand that had a kind of Danger Meter; that having it cross a certain point meant the danger was considerable.

“Hullo, mate,” said Ron. “Hermione home?”

“Nope.”

Ron checked the clock and snorted. “Typical. Anyway, it’s good she’s out for the meantime.”

“That’s rather sweet of you, innit?” said Harry dryly.

Rolling his eyes, Ron grabbed a butterbeer and sat on the chair across from Harry. “That’s not what I meant. You asked me yesterday to get some dirt on Lysander Athanasius.”

Harry was instantly interested. “Oh? You got some information already?”

Ron shrugged. “Just a bit. Don’t even know if it’s useful, but you’ll be surprised how ready secretaries and receptionists are with information when you ask them just right.”

Harry didn’t even want to know how “right” Ron’s methods were. “What’d they tell you?”

“That Athanasius is no Quidditch fan.”

Harry didn’t think much about that, but he let Ron speak.

“His interest in Quidditch is purely financial. Tax cuts, profits, commercial exposure. It’s a business venture, not a hobby. Doesn’t mean the Kenmare Kestrals aren’t well taken-cared of, though. The bunch of them earn a pile of galleons just for showing up at practice, much more for games and winning them. Interesting thing about this Four Leaf Shamrock of theirs, though…”

Harry nodded at that. “I checked that out in the Ministry. The Shamrock’s non-magical. It doesn’t bring luck to the team at all. The Kestrals are just really good at what they do. The Ministry had to return the Shamrock to Athanasius when he came to get it back. He pulled muscle, though. Accounts for why he had to come over himself. It’s never easy to recover a Ministry confiscated item, whether the item is being misused or not. Bothered me why he wanted it back so badly if it didn’t have any magical properties.”

Ron grinned. “Two reasons. First reason: It’s because the Kestrals are as superstitious as hell. Athanasius probably knows the Shamrock’s non-magical, but it doesn’t matter what he thinks; he’s not the one playing on the pitch. If the Kestrals believe that the Shamrock gives them luck, then they’re as likely to believe that the loss of it would bring them bad luck. Athanasius recovered the Shamrock so that the Kestrals would feel lucky, and probably win the game. Apparently, the profit margin is considerable enough between won games and lost ones for Athanasius to use his weight to get the Shamrock back.”

“So he’s an accommodating team owner. Big deal.”

“Well, see, this is the interesting part: Reason number two. There’s a rumor.”

“There’s always a rumor.”

“This rumor involves Hermione.”

“Again, there’s always a—“

“The git’s been sending owls in the last few months to the Ministry to pick up copies of Hermione’s spew proposals. The bloke’s been paying a lot of attention to what Hermione has to say, and he knows the proposals get in on Friday mornings and be available for public access in the afternoon.”

Harry was listening now. “How do your sources know this?”

Ron chuckled. “Like you didn’t know how office gossip gets around.”

“Go on, then.”

“Are you ready for this?”

“Just tell me, Weasley.”

“The person that called in the alleged misuse of the Shamrock came from inside; Lysander’s personal assistant, Ms. Northanger.”

This was most interesting.

Harry leaned over. “Samantha’s not a Kestrals fan?”

“Oh, she is. More than her boss, apparently. She has autographed pictures of them in her office and everything, but she was hired for her efficiency, yes? She does as she’s told.”

Harry recalled those very words from Lysander’s lips in the gallery. “So are you telling me her boss—Athanasius himself—told her to ‘report’ the Shamrock as a Misused Magical Item? That makes no sense.”

“It does, if it gives him an excuse to show up in the Ministry on Friday at the exact time Hermione drops off her proposals.”

Harry’s eyebrow arched before his gaze narrowed. His anxiety rose to disproportionate levels. “He’s stalking her…”

Ron nodded. “What I don’t get is, Why go ‘round about? Billionaires don’t need an excuse to introduce themselves to the women they want.”

Harry was almost certain of the answer to that when he replied. “Because he probably knows more about Hermione than he’s supposed to. Think about it, mate: Would she have given this bloke the time of day if he had simply tried a line on her? Or maybe he could’ve waited for her at the L.C.O. and introduced himself, but that would’ve seemed way too weird, don’t you think? Sent her an owl? It’ll go straight to the fan owls on the roof. You know Hermione; you have to be able to make some sort of impression on her, preferably spontaneous.” Harry paused to reminisce about a certain fateful Troll-attack that brought them all together. “They could’ve been introduced through a common friend, perhaps, but tell me… when was the last time Hermione went to a fancy party with people like Lysander Athanasius on the guest list?”

“Shite,” Ron whispered. “He’s mental… d’you think he’s dangerous?”

There was nothing to indicate that he was, yet, but Harry maintained there was something very wrong with the man and he was going to find out what it was. He showed some of his findings to Ron, pointing out the most interesting information.

“The Athanasius family has discerning tastes. They take trophy wives and husbands and they choose incredibly fascinating friends. Check out the spouses. See if you recognize any of them.”

Harry slid a list over to Ron who read it over quickly.

Ron’s eyes widened immediately. “Gifford Ollerton! Why, that’s—“

Harry nodded. “The famed slayer of the giant Hengist of Upper Barnton.”

“And Burdok Muldoon!”

“First wizard ever to fight for the rights of ‘two legged beings’. Sounds familiar?”

“Sounds like spew.”

“That’s S.P.E.W. to you, Weasley.”

Ron read down the rest of the list. “No way! Agrippa married into the Athanasius clan?”

“He did, but after the muggles imprisoned him, he was divorced by Hesperia Athanasius. See?” Harry pointed to a note at the bottom that told of the divorce.

Ron nodded. “Wicked… but I’m not very familiar with the rest of these names.”

“That’s because you’re an uncultured git, but rest assured, every one of those names have accomplishments and distinctions attached to them. A bunch of ‘brightest witch of her age’ right there.”

Ron looked up at Harry, mouth agape. “Are you saying—“

“Yes. Apparently, Lysander is far more aware of how special Hermione is than any of the blokes who went after her. Think about it, Ron. She was instrumental in the defeat of Voldemort, she was Head Girl at Hogwarts, she’s brilliant, she’s beautiful and her career’s on the fast track to explosive success. She’s perfect.”

Ron’s eyebrow shot up at the excessive praise, but even he couldn’t deny that Hermione was the most accomplished and high-profile witch of their time. She was the ultimate trophy girlfriend to a successful real estate billionaire. “But Harry… does that make him bad?”

“That’s what I’m trying to prove.”

Ron waved Harry’s words away. “I mean, yeah, maybe he’s living up to a clan standard by going after her, but—“

Harry frowned. “Hermione deserves someone who loves her, not someone who wants her because she makes them look good.”

Ron sighed. “I know that, but don’t you think Hermione would see right through it if that’s the case? She won’t get into a relationship like that.”

“Normally she wouldn’t, but…” He looked at Ron uncertainly, debating whether he should say something about his meeting with Lysander the previous day. “I don’t know. I just—I just think he’s doing something to her—“

Ron frowned gravely. “You think he’s imperiused her? Harry, that’s a serious charge. He could go to Azkaban for something like that.”

“I—I don’t think it’s that, Ron. It’s something else. I mean, if it were anything like imperius, we’d know, right? We’d notice, but this… this is more subtle.”

“You need proof to put him away for anything remotely like Imperius, especially someone like him who has a shitload of galleons at his disposal and friends in very, very high places. You just can’t press charges against him because you have a hunch.”

Harry was beginning to get frustrated with Ron’s arguments. He was, in fact, getting rather angry. Why the hell was Ron trying to discourage him? Who the hell’s side is he on?

“If I have to, I’ll take my chances!” he growled. “I’m Harry Bloody Potter. I saved this Voldemort-cursed world and I’m fucking cashing it in, dammit!”

Ron groaned. “Harry! Would you listen to yourself?”

“This is Hermione, Ron! What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“I know that! And you aren’t making me forget it, either! The problem with you, Potter, is that you think I don’t care! I may not want to shag her anymore, but I bloody well care for her almost as much as you do!”

Harry glared at him. “Then why are you sticking up for Athanasius?”

“I’m not! Look, mate, I might not be the brightest out of the three of us, but when it comes to the people you love, you don’t exactly think with your head straight. I don’t want you to get in trouble and Hermione wouldn’t want that for you, either. Be rational about this! Now are you going to calm down or do we have to settle this outside? Because you look like you want to murder me right now.”

Harry was having visions of charging into Ron and having an all-out knock-down brawl with him, but Ron had spoken in an even tone, and his words seeped into Harry’s brain.

Slowly, Harry released the anger and breathed.

A minute later, he was casting Ron an apologetic look. “Sorry.”

The hard lines on Ron’s face smoothened. “That’s alright. Now, how do you reckon we’re going to do this? Are you even going to tell Hermione?”

“Are you really asking me that or are you being rhetorical?”

“Well, why wouldn’t you tell her?”

“Because!” Harry cried. He sighed, gesturing helplessly. “Because she doesn’t—she doesn’t respond well when either of us objects to something remotely connected to Lysander. Didn’t you notice that? When she got that crystal elf… when she left for the gallery… when she came home late…”

“Yes, but we were kind of being arseholes, Harry.”

“Yeah, maybe, but yesterday…” He finally told Ron about the incident in the Ministry, and how he thought Lysander seemed to be affecting her on a highly unnatural level.

“I tried to bring it up at lunch,” continued Harry. “But you know how Hermione and I—how we communicate with our eyes sometimes?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, it’s like she could see that I was going to bring it up and she got this—this reluctant look in her eyes, like she didn’t want to talk about it with me. So I didn’t. I just didn’t because she didn’t want to.”

Ron snorted. “She always had you whipped, mate. I wouldn’t ‘ave stood for that.”

“Which is why you two always argue and she and I get along blissfully. But for the most part, I just don’t want her to be angry with me on account of that bastard. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction. Besides, if this really is some kind of spell, I think it drags her farther away from us the more we try to pull her in. I don’t want to risk anything. I’ll keep her as close as I have to, even if it means not telling her anything.”

After a moment’s thought, Ron finally nodded in agreement. He sighed. “I can’t believe he said that, though; about giving her what she wants. Arrogant bugger.”

“I’ve been wondering about that, Ron. D’you know of any spell—“

“And you think I can answer this question because?”

“Right.”

“Ask Hermione. She’d probably know.”

Harry shot him a sarcastic grimace.

They fell silent.

Harry tapped his quill on the parchment. “I didn’t mean to say you cared less for her, you know.”

“I already said that’s alright.”

“And this has nothing to do with wanting to shag her, either.”

Ron’s eyebrow arched so high that it could’ve broken a hole through the ceiling. “Ohhhh?”

Harry scowled, reddening. “Well, that’s bloody not the main thing!”

“But you want to shag her.”

“Stop calling it shagging!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, make luuuuv!”

Harry glared at him. “Look, I’m secretly crazy about the woman, alright? That’s frustrating as hell, and then she’s got these bloody curves… it’s not like I could help it!”

Ron doubled over and laughed. Harry grumbled something about how it wasn’t funny.

There was a crack from the living room and Hermione’s hand on the clock shifted from “traveling” to “home”.

Repositum! thought Harry, enveloping the spell in magic and attaching the necessary password to it.

All the documents on the kitchen table jumped into the air and disappeared with a twinkle leaving no visible trace. And just like the scroll he made disappear in front of Gail, all the papers would be stored for later retrieval in some kind of magical limbo.

Hermione walked into the kitchen, smiling. “Ron! I can’t believe it. You’re home at forty past ten! Oh, rapture and joy!”

Ron flashed a sardonic grin. “And in an ironic twist of fate, you’re the last one home on a Tuesday night! Where’ve you been, young lady?”

She sighed, walking to the chiller and taking out a small bottle of pumpkin juice. “Work. Stayed at the library a bit to read a few things.” She punched a straw through the top of the bottle’s foil, setting the bottle on the table with a graceful wave of her wand.

Harry looked up at her as she got behind him, her hands resting on his shoulders.

She smiled down at him. “Alright, Harry? How did your trip to Hogsmeade go? Nothing broken? Nothing lost?”

He grinned, covering her hand with his own. “All in one piece, just like you asked, and Hogsmeade was pretty entertaining. Tonks blew the roof off Madam Puddifoot’s and all the cupids got out, screaming and scattering hearts.”

Hermione laughed at the description.

Harry remembered something. “I got you something from Hogsmeade.”

“Goodness, Harry!”

“Well, I said I would, didn’t I?”

Ron smirked. “Did you get anything for me?”

“I forget,” said Harry without the slightest hint of remorse.

“Right.”

Ignoring Ron’s knowing look, Harry summoned his work bag with a wave of his hand and rummaged inside it. He took out a prettily wrapped package that came from Scrivenshaft’s. He gave it to her.

She smiled in spite of herself. She tore off the wrapping and yelped in delight when she saw what was inside. “It’s that stationary! It engraves your monograms magically and everything. Harry, you remembered how I said I liked it, didn’t you? How do you do it?”

Easy. I think about you all the time. He smiled. “Well, that’s just the kind of friend that I am.”

“Uh-huh,” said Ron. “Like how he remembered not to get me anything.”

“Oh, shut it, Ron, you’re just jealous.” She stuck her tongue out at him.

He made a face at her.

She laughed before giving Harry a light hug. “Thank you. I love it. But I still think you shouldn’t be going shopping while you’re tracking down Death Eaters.”

Harry scoffed. “Bloke was an easy catch. Got him with a simple Incarcerous hex. Didn’t even use a wand.”

“I bet that scared the shite out of everyone,” said Ron.

“Well, I don’t do it to scare people, mate,” Harry said sternly.

Hermione nodded approvingly, arching a superior eyebrow at Ron with a hand to her hip. “You tell ‘im, Harry.”

Harry grinned, chuckling. “But it was pretty wicked seeing the looks on their faces!”

Ron laughed. Hermione bopped Harry on the head with the very stationary he gave her.

“Ugh! Children, the both of you,” she said. She drank some of her pumpkin juice. “So, what have you boys been plotting while I was away?”

For a second, Harry paled at her question. Did she know? Did she suspect? But then Ron didn’t look the least bit bothered by it.

“Many, many things you’ll nag us for,” he said.

“Humph. I wish I can take house points from you right now, for sheer impertinence.”

Ron’s eyes lit up. “Oh, do a Percy. Please? I haven’t seen you do it in ages!”

“Oh, Ron, I don’t think you should be asking me to make fun of your brother like that!”

“He’s a prat! But that’s beside the point. Come on, then… do a Percy!”

Hermione rolled her eyes and immediately took on a Percy posture. “Don’t give me that ah-tee-tyude, Weasley! I won’t stand for it because I’m HED BOIII!” She stomped a foot in Percy’s outraged way.

Even Harry couldn’t help but double over in laughter. He didn’t know how Hermione did it, but she did manage to channel Percy the best. Even Fred and George conceded defeat to her on that.

Ron gasped for breath as he controlled his guffaws. “Blimey, I’ll never get tired of that one.”

Hermione smirked, going back to her snooty self. “Now that you’re done making fun of me, did either of you bother to get the owls?”

Grinning, Harry held his hand out again and a handful of owls were summoned. Hedwig had come by earlier to deliver them and one letter was addressed to Hermione. He gave it to her.

She pouted a bit. “Just this one?”

Ron grinned. “Ickle Vicky too busy to write, Her-mee-own-ee?”

Hermione reddened. “Shut it, Ron.”

Harry shot Ron a glare. He hated it when Ron teased Hermione about Viktor Krum, and now that Ron knew how Harry felt about her, he could damn well let Ron know it. Ron just shrugged.

Hermione opened her one letter and grinned. “Ah, Minerva’s available tomorrow. Excellent.”

“Dropping by Hogwarts?” Harry asked.

She nodded. “I owe the Headmistress a thanks. Don’t wait up for me tomorrow, boys. I’ll likely be spending the night over there. No wild parties while I’m away, alright?”

Ron nudged Harry. “Oy, I think we have to nix the wild party, mate. She’s on to us.”

It was no wonder Ron was always on the receiving end of Hermione’s nagging.

“Just try it, you two. See if I’d stand for it,” she said in a huff. She took her pumpkin juice and work bag. “Now I’m going to turn in as I’m completely knackered. Harry, d’you still have some of that ache-away potion in your stock? My head’s killing me.”

He frowned in concern. “Boys’ bathroom. Medicine cabinet. You going to be alright?”

“I’ll be fine just as soon as I take some of the good stuff, thanks.”

He watched her carefully to see if she wasn’t in more pain than she let on. She saw the look on him, grinned and rolled her eyes.

He chuckled, conceding the point. “’Night, then.”

“‘Night, Harry.” She rounded the corner.

“’Night, Her-me-own-ee,” Ron chimed out.

“’Night, ickle-Ronniekins,” came her distant reply.

Harry just shook his head at Ron’s constant attempts to provoke her, but he had to admit, Ron had excellently steered the entire conversation to safe waters. Hermione was completely oblivious to what they were talking about and she didn’t insist on being let in on whatever it was. Ron was showing a real talent for misdirection. First Cho and now Hermione. The man knew how to take the reigns of a conversation, however subtly he did it.

“You handled that really well, though,” said Harry. “I’m impressed. Assuming of course you did all that on purpose.”

Ron snorted. “Of course I did. You don’t beat everyone at Wizard’s Chess and not know how to manipulate a situation in real life. It’s easy as hell.”

Harry chuckled. Sneaky spawn, these Weasleys..

Thank you, Aurabolt, for beta-ing this fic in the way it needed to be!

Standard disclaimers apply.

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Chapter Nine – Guidance from the Wise

In which Harry and Hermione consult their respective guardians.

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After Harry and Hermione separated at the Ministry the following morning, Harry hurried to his office in the hopes of getting there before Shacklebolt remembered to look for him.

Unfortunately, Shacklebolt was to his trainees as Mad-Eye Moody was to danger: Constantly vigilant, and within minutes of Harry’s arrival, Shacklebolt had him rushing off to one minor incident after another.

Gail was with him the entire time, of course, but she was sensitive enough to be extra efficient that day and not chatter on too much about insignificant things. Harry tried his very best to be nice to her because he appreciated her efforts.

They returned to the ministry late for lunch and he wondered if he could still catch Hermione for the break. He flooed her and soon, he was looking at her through her tiny fireplace. Things would be so much easier if her fireplace was full-sized. He’d be able to step into her office anytime and he could speak to her face to face, but he supposed her workspace wasn’t big enough to accommodate such a big hearth.

She was smiling at him and he couldn’t help but smile back. He loved this woman to death and he didn’t know what he would do when she left them for someone worthy of her.

“Hullo, Interrogator Granger. Had lunch yet?”

Her look was apologetic. “I already grabbed something in a hurry about an hour ago, Harry. I’d join you for lunch, anyway, but I promised Mr. Archibald I’d have a petition ready for him in about thirty minutes. I can’t skive.”

He was disappointed, but he understood completely. “Of course you can’t. Are you still going straight to Hogwarts tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Ron and I can drop by Hogsmeade later if you can squeeze us into your busy schedule.” He hadn’t consulted Ron on the matter, of course, but if Ron wasn’t handy, he had no problem going to Hogsmeade all by himself to meet her.

Again, the apologetic look. “I’ll floo you, alright? I’m really not sure if I can.”

More disappointment, but he shrugged. “But you’ll be back tomorrow, won’t you? Promise me lunch.”

Her bright, luminous smile returned. “Definitely, Harry. I’ll try to drop by later at your office before I set off for Hogwarts. Hope you’re there.”

“You can blame Shacklebolt if I’m not.”

She chuckled. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then, if not tonight. Take care while I’m gone.”

“You too, Hermione.” He wished he could reach through the fireplace and touch her.

The flames dwindled and her image disappeared.

He sighed. One day without Hermione and he was acting like he’d never see her again.

Pathetic, he thought, grinning in spite of himself.

He looked up from the fireplace and just about saw Remus Lupin turning a corner.

Just the person I need to talk to!

Harry hurried to catch up with him and caught him down one of the many hallways. “Remus! Got a minute?”

Remus turned and smiled. He looked tired, and worn, especially with his sloppy brown suit and drooping, lusterless hair, but then the poor man always looked like that. The lifestyle he led, werewolf that he was, tended to wear him out. “Of course, Harry. How may I be of service?”

Harry went up to him and moved slightly to let a witch pass them. “I was wondering if we can talk privately.”

Remus seemed to give it a quick thought. “Well, I know Shacklebolt had you out all morning. Have you had lunch yet? Tonks and I were just about to go, but I can tell her you and I have to talk—“

“Oh, we can take her along. I don’t mind if she doesn’t.” He trusted Tonks almost as much as Remus, the only exception being that Tonks couldn’t apparate into Grimmauld Place. Harry had wondered about it for quite some time, until he realized Hermione probably didn’t want Tonks stumbling into their home and blowing off parts of the house in the process. Hermione adamantly denied she was the one keeping Tonks from apparating, but Harry surmised one couldn’t keep one’s true intentions from the magic of the house. Harry actually thought it was funny, but Hermione thought it a spiteful subject.

“I would never be so awful as to keep Tonks from apparating into our home, Harry!” she had hissed. It was apparently a sore spot, so Harry hadn’t brought it up again, even as a joke.

Remus smiled. “Excellent, then! We’ll go somewhere quieter, so we don’t have to shout above the noise.”

Harry surmised they had probably originally planned on going to the Leaky Cauldron and he felt a little shy about changing their plans, but when Tonks was informed, she seemed quite pleased.

“Well, this is a nice change! I’ve lately grown tired of the Leaky Cauldron’s fare!”

Remus looked a little distraught at this declaration. Apparently, he would’ve wanted Tonks to have been more honest about it sooner.

Tonks had a hankering for Spanish food, so they ended up apparating to a secluded street by the muggle restaurant Cocina de la Madre.

Hermione had brought him and Ron there once, under Ron’s protests, but she had a mission to “broaden their horizons” and she was absolutely insistent. As it turned out, Ron rather liked the food, as did Harry.

They were settled in a cozy spot to the side and the low murmur of conversation was just perfect for a nice, relaxing ambience. No one was ogling him, which was excellent. In Muggle London, he was just another four-eyed bloke. Tonks got stared at more with her pink, stand-on-end hair; then again, not by much. There were many muggles in London who wore pink, blue and green in their hair.

“Well, Harry,” said Remus. “I see you practically everyday and I don’t know a thing about what’s happening in your life!”

“That’s Shacklebolt’s fault, dear,” said Tonks, almost knocking her drinking glass over when she reached for it.

Harry blushed, knowing that in spite of the truth in Tonk’s words, he had his own share of the blame. “I’m sorry, Remus. I’ve been preoccupied.”

Remus smiled. “Of course you are, Harry. I remember when I was training. The only days I had off was when I had to cope with my Lycanthropy. You’d understand why I never considered them holidays. It’s alright. I’m just glad we had this chance to catch up. How have you been, Harry?”

Harry knew he at least owed Remus a personal account of his life. So he told Remus and Tonks as much as he could recall, and it was easy conversation.

Their food came in a bit and it was a pleasant break in his story telling.

Tonks eagerly piled beef stew on his and Remus’s plates before she took some for herself. Never mind that some of the sauce splattered on their dress shirts.

“So, Harry,” began Tonks with a twinkle in her eyes.

Remus saw it and obviously knew what it meant. “Now, Tonks, sweetheart—“

“Oh hush, Remus. Let me have my fun,” she said loftily. She turned to look at Harry. “Have you been seeing anyone in particular, lately?”

Harry grinned but eyed her suspiciously. “No. Why?”

She smiled. “Well, I happen to know a whole gaggle of witches just dying to meet you and make you happy, Harry Potter.”

Harry could have laughed as he exchanged looks with Remus. “You think I’m not happy?”

“Oh, it’s not that. Just that I know for a fact that there are things in life that become infinitely sweeter in the company of a loving witch, is all!”

He grinned. “Hermione takes care of that part, thank you.”

Tonks and Remus’s eyes widened and Harry immediately realized he had been misunderstood.

“We’re not—you know—dating or anything like that,” he stammered. “She’s my best friend and… just that—that is to say, she takes good care of me, is all…”

“Oh,” said Tonks.

“We knew that,” said Remus, who was suddenly very interested in his food.

Harry sighed. “Honest!”

Remus smiled. “And how are Hermione and Ron?”

Harry didn’t know if Remus meant to ask about “Hermione” and “Ron” or “Hermione and Ron.”

Tonks was less subtle, or else just tactless. “Have they finally gotten together, then?”

Remus tossed her a disapproving look.

“What?” she asked.

Harry’s grip on his fork tightened. If he had a knut every time someone asked him that… “They’re not together. They won’t ever be. Ron and Hermione don’t fancy each other anymore. They told me so.”

“Well, that’s tragic,” said Tonks. “They seemed so right for each other.”

Harry scowled. “Apparently they thought they weren’t.”

Remus’s eyebrow arched. “And of course, they—of all people—would know that. But I think it makes sense. Those two never agreed on anything; not like you and Hermione who seem to agree on everything.”

Heat rose up in Harry’s cheeks. “We don’t always agree,” he muttered.

Remus coughed. “Well, of course not always always, but often enough. Lily and James sort of had that same dynamic. They’d argue, but only so they could come to an agreement. Unlike Ron and Hermione, who only argue for the sake of it.”

Harry couldn’t seem to look Remus in the eye. “Right.”

He turned his gaze and caught Tonks staring at him with an arched eyebrow all her own, as if she was just realizing something.

Suddenly, that restaurant seemed very small. He shoved food into his mouth and drank some wine to wash it down.

“Bright witch, that Hermione,” said Remus. “Always admired what she could do. I had a notion before that she would be right for you, Harry, but then I had supposed that if you ever thought that way of her, you’d have done something about it already.”

Harry almost choked on his food and Tonks had to slap his back several times to help him get the food down the right way.

“Good heavens, Harry! Have some water!” cried Tonks, shoving a glass in Harry’s hand and sloshing half of it on his lap.

“I-I’m fine,” Harry croaked, downing what remained in the glass. He pounded a fist on his chest to force it to find its natural rhythm again. “Food just went down the wrong—what was that you were saying, Remus?”

“I was just saying that if you liked Hermione at all, you would’ve done something already. You know… asked her out, maybe.” Remus took a long drink of his water before pointing to his plate. “Oh, these sirloin strips are delicious, Tonks dear. Have you tried them?”

She smiled. “Oh, yes. So, Harry—Hermione’s single? That’s fortuitous! I happen to have a slew of wizard friends—“

“No!” he snapped fiercely.

Tonks and Remus froze, shocked at his tone.

Harry’s eyes widened at his own vehemence. “Oh shite… s-sorry! I didn’t mean to—that is—Tonks…”

Her features softened. “That’s alright, Harry. So… how long has this been going on?”

Harry sighed at his own careless show of emotion. There was no use playing dumb. He knew what she meant. He wasn’t surprised Tonks figured it out. She was an auror whose powers of deduction had been honed by years of experience. Besides, he had been so obvious. “For a while, now.”

Remus cocked a faint smile. “You should tell her.”

Harry shook his head. He told them about how Hermione thought of him, and he told them a bit about his talk with Ron. But before he knew it, he was running off at the mouth about Lysander.

His anger and jealousy became apparent enough, but Remus didn’t judge. Neither did Tonks.

“Am I looking at Imperius, Remus?” Harry asked. He didn’t need to tell Remus this was what he had wanted to talk about when he asked a moment of Remus’s time.

Remus thought for a moment before he shook his head noncommittally. “I don’t think so, Harry. Someone under an Unforgivable would act—shall we say—stranger than that. You and Ron know Hermione better than anybody. You would have noticed and you, of all people, would’ve been sure she was Imperiused. The fact that you’re in doubt now…”

Harry nodded miserably. “Then she probably isn’t. I know. Have you encountered anything in your studies to suggest that there’s a more subtle spell than the Imperius curse?”

Remus gave him an understanding smile. “Amortentia, I suppose, is the closest we’ve come, but that requires continuous dosage, and if the potion is potent enough to last for days at a time, that would have meant she ingested a relatively strong mix, so you’d still know there was something wrong with her, yes?”

Harry remembered how Ron had acted when he ingested those laced chocolate cauldrons during their sixth year. It hadn’t been a very pretty sight. Nauseating, actually. He wondered if Lysander could have slipped her something that time Hermione went to see him in the Gallery. “Can amortentia have more subtle effects?”

Remus shrugged. “In small doses, I suppose, if given on a regular basis. But then that would require an even more consistent administering of the potion. Has Hermione been taking anything regularly? Anything he might have given her like candies and wine?”

He shook his head. “No. Nothing like that.” At this point, Harry wished there was something like that. At least he’d know where the problem was. “Are there any bespelling charms that he could have used? A combination? Heck, do you think he made a spell of his own?”

Tonks winced. “Assuming he did, he’d have to be better than the hundreds of wizards who have tried.”

“Theoretically,” Remus said. “It doesn’t seem possible. Wizards have, throughout time, tried to improve on amortentia. They’ve mixed spells and charms to come up with variations to the usual love potion. They’ve made amulets and artifacts, and most of those objects ended up becoming accursed, killing their owners or driving them mad. The quest to find true love and desire amidst spells and potions is an elusive one, and the closest any of these fools have come are those faulty persuasion spells. The problem of persuasion spells, as you well may know, is that if you’re going to go through the trouble of casting a persuasion spell that will require the caster to go through the motions of wooing the object of their affection in the first place… why not just try to woo them without the assistance of magic?”

Harry shrugged. “Well, the magic assures success, I suppose.”

“Then that defeats the purpose of finding true love. It will just be like amortentia, but with more work.”

Tonks chuckled. “And we’re back to square one.”

“That’s correct,” said Remus, affectionately pinching Tonk’s chin. “The muggles have a peculiar way of expressing it… Catch-23, I think?”

Harry sighed. “Catch-22.”

“Yes, something like that.”

“What does that mean?” asked Tonks.

Remus cleared his throat to explain in his usual professorial way. “Oh, it’s very interesting, this expression. A Catch-22 means a situation that is inherently self-defeating upon which the very act of performing it prevents it from happening.”

Tonks seemed to understand somewhat. “I see, but why call it that?”

“Oh, some muggle author wrote a whole story based on this circular logic and entitled it Catch-22. Supposed to be some kind of Military Law designation of some sorts.”

“You can ask Hermione,” said Harry. “I’m sure she’d know. She knows everything.”

Tonks smirked.

Harry frowned. “Well, she does!”

“I assure you,” said Remus, “that we are well aware of what Hermione knows. Which brings me to this point: Can’t you talk to her about this bespelling?”

Harry shook his head. “I just can’t. Trust me when I say that.”

Remus and Tonks didn’t look like they agreed with him, but they said nothing, and Harry was content, for the meantime, to leave it at that.

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When Hermione left the WizCOF that evening, Harry was not at the Auror Department. She was gravely informed by Kingsley Shacklebolt that Harry had been assigned Hit Wizard duties that evening.

Hermione frowned, extremely displeased. Another headache was blossoming at the back of her eyes. “Hit Wizard? But he’s not—“

“Tell him that,” muttered Shacklebolt. “Addicted to danger, that man. Requested the assignment himself, and his hair-brained partner just up and went with him. Isn’t content with tracking down Dark Wizards, that. He just has to go Hit Wizard and capture petty criminals…”

Hermione was getting frantic, and a bit angry. It was just like Harry to dig up his own trouble. Why he did it, she still wasn’t sure. She already had a notion that Harry was, as Shacklebolt said, “addicted to danger” but it was just so preposterous that she always discarded the theory… until he does the unthinkable again and gets himself half-killed. She was about to go into a rage when Shacklebolt continued on his tirade.

“I don’t know why he bothers so much with Mundungus, anyway. Not like Old Dung could nick anymore silverware from Grimmauld Place.”

Hermione blinked. “Du—I mean, Mundungus got out of Azkaban?”

“Yes, would you believe it? I tell you, Azkaban used to be a prison. Now it’s some kind of half-way house before criminals could escape completely.”

Now Hermione understood why Harry went off. Well, mostly…

She wasn’t exactly sure about how Harry felt about Old Dung. Sometimes, she had the impression that Harry was disgusted of him, and then there were other times she thought she saw a soft spot for the pilferer from the look in Harry’s eyes. She supposed it had to do with Mundungus giving Harry the locket hocrux out of the goodness of his heart. When Mundungus first gave the Slytherin locket up without asking anything in exchange, they were all very suspicious of him. He said something about nicking it from Grimmauld Place anyway, and that technically, it belonged to Harry. He said he didn’t want to be stealing from the man who was going to save the Wizarding World. At the end of everything, it turned out that he really did give the locket up out of the goodness of his… something. Whatever his reasons, Harry appreciated him for it.

Going after Old Dung himself would at least ensure that Mundungus got fair treatment, whatever his crimes were this time. Didn’t necessarily mean Harry wasn’t going to hurt him, but in that sense, Harry probably felt that he was the only one who had a right to.

Defeated by Dodgy Old Dung, Hermione accepted that she wasn’t going to see Harry that night.

She scribbled a quick note using some parchment and the quill on Harry’s desk. She didn’t bother to cast a masking charm on the letter. It wasn’t exactly top secret information. She folded the note, signed her name and charmed it to hang suspended above Harry’s desk in a mist of glitter and a hint of vanilla scent. The note spun lazily in its place.

Shacklebolt saw it, sniffed disdainfully at the wisp of vanilla floating in the air and arched an eyebrow.

Blushing, she gave her thanks and left the department, making her way to one of the bigger fireplaces.

She decided she would floo to the Three Broomsticks and just go to Hogwarts from there. She prayed it was one of Madame Rosmerta’s good days.

Ever since Rosmerta recovered from the Imperius curse in sixth year, she hadn’t been quite the same. It wasn’t that she had gone batty, but she had certainly lost her carefree outlook, grown bitter each passing season. It seemed that saddled with the guilt of Dumbledore’s death, she had chosen a kind of self-punishment, loathing herself and believing everyone else felt the same way about her.

Her attitude had taken on a repulsive sheen, and only out of kindness did those who knew her before the curse associate with her. Those who never knew the old Madame Rosmerta thought her vile, spiteful and incapable of the smallest pleasantry.

Hermione soon found herself grasping for equilibrium as the floo delivered her to the Three Broomsticks fireplace. Steadying herself, she stepped out of the fireplace and shook off some of the soot that got on her robe.

Regaining her poise, Hermione looked up and found Madame Rosmerta leaning over the bar, a stiff frown on her face.

Rosmerta gave a crisp nod. “Granger.”

Hermione flashed a hesitant smile. “Hello, Madame Rosmerta. How are you doing?” You know, these days that you’re bitter and angry at the world?

“As well as could be expected.”

Which must be miserable. “Ah, good,” said Hermione, for lack of something better to say. She wanted desperately to hurry out and just get her business over with, but she supposed common decency prompted her to at least stay for one butterbeer.

She settled on one of the many unoccupied tables. Business was, it seemed, slow. It was never this empty before, even on week days. But then again, she’d never much been here during the summer.

Making herself comfortable, she respectfully asked for a butterbeer.

Rosmerta tossed a towel on the counter, wiping purposefully. She took her sweet time before leaving the counter to get Hermione’s order.

Hermione sighed softly, blowing hair off her face from the corner of her mouth. The silence in the bar pounded soundlessly in her ears and she wondered when the Three Broomsticks had ever been this heavy with regret.

What in God’s name am I doing here?

You’re keeping an old friend company, that’s what.

Rosmerta isn’t your friend. She smiled at you once or twice before, in fourth and fifth year. Sixth year doesn’t count; she was possessed then. But fact remains: You never really spoke to her before…

She needs a friend.

She doesn’t want one.

Rosmerta returned with a butterbeer.

“Thanks,” said Hermione. “Umm…”

“Anything else?” Her tone was impatient, like “God, what now, Miss Snooty?”

Hermione tried her best to smile. “Won’t you have a seat?”

Rosmerta rolled her eyes. “Spare your pity for orphaned young boys with scars, alright?” She left.

Well, that went really well.

Spiteful witch.

Sad witch.

Hermione sighed. Miserably, she drank her butterbeer alone.

000000000000000000

Hermione walked the empty hallways of Hogwarts and smiled.

Her footsteps echoed off the walls and her multiple shadows, tossed here and there by the candles lighting the way, seemed strangely welcoming.

Even in its silence, it felt like home. She had, after all, spent many nights as prefect and Head Girl roaming the halls by herself, making rounds. She couldn’t even count how many students she had caught snogging in the corners and shagging in the broom closet. And contrary to popular belief, she did not derive a perverse pleasure from catching the lot of them. Finding couples in a passionate embrace, barely decent, had been a constant reminder of her own lack of love life, or maybe even just sex. It also reminded her of the sordid fact that the only boy she’d ever let herself be caught snogging, or shagging, didn’t see her as anything more than a best friend. She wasn’t even sure he saw her as a girl, let alone the object of sexual desire. It had been depressing, and she recalled how each time she caught offenders in the shadows, she got this look on her face, like she was bored to death, and she’d say, “Oy, you two there. That’s right. Head Girl coming through. Get your robes back on so I could at least tell which house I’m supposed to deduct points from. That’s it, now. Don’t forget your knickers.”

She thought maybe her emotionless tirade ticked students off more than if she had been shrieking for them to put their damn clothes back on.

It was a blessing Harry had been single in seventh year, at least. She didn’t know how she would’ve handled it if she caught him with his pants down, so to speak.

“Who’s there?” came a tragic voice, mildly startling her. “Oh, Ms. Granger!”

Hermione turned and smiled to find the gruesome spectral remains of Sir Nicholas de Mimsy Porpington, better known as Nearly Headless Nick. The bit of skin holding his head swayed morbidly to the rhythm of his body. The ruff was a prop, she thought; a sad attempt at hiding the debacle that was his execution. “Hullo, Sir Nicholas! How do you do?”

“Well, dead like always, but enduring,” he said in a melodramatic tone.

“That must be horrible,” she obliged.

He sighed and nodded. “Yes. Yes it is… will you be coming back to Hogwarts, Ms. Granger? Applying for a Professorial position? The school is in desperate need of a Transfigurations professor to match Headmistress McGonagall.”

“Is it? That’s tragic. But I’m not applying for anything, Sir Nicholas. I’m just here to visit the good Headmistress. I badly owe her a visit.”

Sir Nicholas nodded. “Very well, then. I’ll let you go on your way. I dare say I’m not the most interesting company. Haven’t been in the last five hundred years, really. Death can do that to a person, you know.”

“I’d imagine so,” she said gravely.

Sir Nicholas drifted away in a dramatic exit.

Hermione was beginning to feel that people (and ghosts) were feeling too sorry for themselves to stand to be with her for very long.

She reached the bottom of the Headmistresses office and Hermione looked up at the gargoyles guarding them.

“Registered Animagus,” she said, grinning.

The column spun to reveal the secret stairway.

That’s rule-abiding Minerva McGonagall for you, she thought, chuckling.

She climbed the steps and arrived at the top with the portrait swinging open to let her through.

McGonagall was out of her desk towards one of the many tables, having what appeared to be a stern conversation with her cat. “I have told you that rats are unsanitary things and if you must eat them, eat them outside my office.”

“Oh, but cats will be cats, Minerva,” said Dumbledore’s portrait, eyes a-twinkle while he tapped the tips of his fingers together. “And I’ve heard that rats are quite the delicacy. Ah, Ms. Granger!”

Hermione smiled at the portrait, then at the Headmistress who peered at her above her spectacles.

“Oh, hello, Hermione,” said McGonagall, like it was the most normal thing to suddenly have Hermione in her office. She transferred her gaze to the fat, gray tabby. “We’ll discuss this later. You may go.”

The cat did leave, rather forlornly, with its tail trailing low behind him.

Hermione stifled a laugh. Nobody could elicit so much shame for rule-breaking like McGonagall can. Sinners beware.

McGonagall bustled to her desk, waving her wand to get some tea ready as she did so. “Do sit down, Hermione. You must excuse me for being a bit disheveled. I had to scourgify a rat off my floor after its remains under my desk surprised me.”

Hermione sat, chuckling. There was nothing disheveled about McGonagall. Not ever. Dumbledore’s portrait grinned and nodded, exchanging knowing looks with her as McGonagall levitated cups and lumps of sugar.

“How have you been doing, dear?” She sounded a bit preoccupied, making the tea just perfect, and for all intents and purposes, there was hardly anything warm about the “dear”, but Hermione knew her favorite professor—well, Headmistress now—enough to hear the affection in the even tone.

“Very well, Minerva, especially after I got that job at the WizCOF.” There was no point in saving that for last. “Thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

The barest hint of a smile touched McGonagall’s lips. “I’m happy you’re pleased. I thought maybe you would be, though I’d imagine Winston and Thane gave you a hard time of it. Batty, those two, but I assure you, it’s all an act.”

“I figured as much. I’m grateful you thought highly enough of me to get me that job.”

“Pish posh, you deserved it,” McGonagall said while waving away Hermione’s words. The tea was ready and McGonagall served the cups. “You would have been a most welcome choice if they didn’t take so badly to your Elf Proposals.”

Hermione took her cup and turned pink at the cheeks. “Do they hate it so much?”

“With a vengeance, but they believe they can beat it out of you.”

“They can’t.”

“I know, but I’ll let them figure that out.”

Hermione laughed softly, drinking her tea. Even if she knew McGonagall wasn’t exactly a S.P.E.W. supporter, the stern woman never really said anything to discourage her. Must be the professor in McGonagall; letting students learn from their own “mistakes”.

McGonagall, in her seemingly detached way, continued to ask Hermione about other matters pertaining to her life, and they flowed into easy conversation, with Hermione asking McGonagall about the Headmistress’s on-goings. Talking about Hogwarts was a welcome topic. They both, after all, loved the place, and Hermione was interested in how school was going to be conducted in the coming school year.

Hermione hadn’t quite lost touch with who the students were. After all, being Head Girl in seventh year, she felt it her obligation to at least be aware of who the students were, first to sixth years included. She’d only been away from Howarts a year, so she still knew who was who now that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy had taken themselves off the running.

“You recall Millificent Nettles?”

“Slytherin?”

“Yes. She’s up for Head Girl.”

Hermione cocked a grin. “Well, I suppose that’s not bad. She’s terribly ambitious, but not particularly nasty. Lots of people listen to her and follow her lead. I can live with that choice.”

Fellow Gryffindor McGonagall offered a knowing smile of her own. “Trent Horton, however…”

“Head Boy?”

“Quite. I think they’re—well—involved.”

“Oh, goodness! Gryffindor and Slytherin! What has the world come to?” Hermione laughed.

“Not that it matters, of course,” McGonagall hastily said. Heaven be saved if McGonagall was ever accused of being a gossip. “But I dare say that the Head Suite needs to be smoked every year of magical pheromones. It never fails, how that suite always seems to incite romantic involvement in its occupants. You know me, Hermione. I’m not superstitious, so I’m quite certain there’s magic involved.”

Hermione threw her a sheepish glance. “Sorry I helped it along, then.”

“Goodness, I should’ve known you wouldn’t be immune to it!” said the Headmistress disapprovingly. “Ernie McMillan kept giving you these silly looks every mealtime.”

“I only snogged him once. And that was after he asked me to Hogsmeade. I had a good time and supposed he needed some kind of reward.”

“Good heavens, child. I need no details, as you might understand.”

“Sorry.” She reddened. Sometimes, she felt so comfortable with McGonagall that she forgot that the Headmistress would hardly stand for talk like that.

“And how goes Harry Potter and Ron Weasley?”

Hermione didn’t know how they went from snogging Ernie to that. She became even redder at the implications. “Well, Ron’s mindlessly happy. He loves the attention everyone gives him and sometimes, I actually think he’s growing up.”

“Weasleys have always been late bloomers in that sense. Except maybe for Bill and Percy.”

Ah, Bill! Hermione always thought Bill was the Weasley gem. Not only was he exceedingly good looking (pre-werewolf-scars of course) but he was Prefect and Head Boy. She suspected Ron was going for the “Bill Look”, what with Ron growing his hair out and tying it down. As for Percy…

I’ll wager the man was born with a stick shoved up his arse.

She told McGonagall about Ron’s new job, which seemed to please the Headmistress immensely. Hermione had to remember to tell Ron that McGonagall wouldn’t mind receiving Quidditch tickets herself.

“And I’ve heard many good things about Harry Potter, lately,” said McGonagall. “Kingsley has nothing but praises for him.”

“That’s odd. Shacklebolt seems to consider Harry the bane of his existence. At least that’s what Harry tells me.”

“I wouldn’t expect less from Kingsley, but it’s an instructor trick, Hermione. We should never let our pupils think that we’re too pleased with them. Makes them slack off; so you understand that you shouldn’t tell Potter that Kingsley actually likes him.”

“I’ll try my best,” muttered Hermione. It would be a difficult promise to keep, seeing as when Harry showed frustration, Hermione wanted nothing but to soothe those frustrations away.

McGonagall smiled her tiny smile, looking at Hermione introspectively above her square-shaped glasses. “Are the two of you taking care of each other well?”

Hermione was spectacularly surprised of this question. McGonagall, though soft on the inside, absolutely did not show her concern this blatantly. “Well—I—yes, I suppose so. Harry does take care of me, and I’d like to think I take care of him.”

McGonagall nodded. “I realize this seems… strange of me, but since you and Potter left Hogwarts, I’ve always felt that—well, you both had no one left to look after you except each other. In my entire teaching career, I have made it a point to have faith in my students; that they would be able to hold their own once they leave these walls.” She gestured lightly to the rest of her office. “I didn’t think so much of your being by yourselves after Hogwarts. Sometimes, but not much. You were in the Order, and in a way, there were still… elders looking out for you.”

Hermione arched an eyebrow. That wasn’t much of a shocker. Being in the Order, they seemed to have everyone looking out for them. Molly, Arthur, Remus, Alastor… but in the end, it was just her, Harry and Ron, after all. There was something extremely liberating about that, and she supposed that finally convinced the lot of “adults” that they were adults themselves.

“But now there’s only you and Harry,” continued the Headmistress. “I hope the both of you understand that.”

“Well… there’s the Weasley family…”

“You know what I mean.”

And Hermione did. While in everything but blood the Weasleys would always be there for them like family, there was still that essential truth that Hermione and Harry were not Weasleys.

Ron… he might never know how it was to be one person away from losing everyone, God bless him. Harry and Hermione, parents gone, no other family to turn to, had faced that possible nightmare everyday of the war; Harry for most of his wizarding life.

If she had lost Ron…

If she had lost Harry… she didn’t know how she would’ve managed. She didn’t know how she could’ve gone on.

And maybe yes, that was why she took such care of him, and why, in turn, he took such good care of her.

They were it.

By circumstance, they were the closest to family they could hope to have.

She smiled, nodding. “Yes, I do know what you mean. I think we’re doing well.”

“Good, because—well—Remus and I; we can only be there so many times, you know.”

Remus for Harry and Minerva for me…

Hermione steeled her facial expression, never letting on that it warmed her immensely that Minerva McGonagall was telling her that she, Headmistress of Hogwarts, would almost always be there for her, former Hogwarts Head Girl.

“I understand,” said Hermione. It was by sheer act of will that she didn’t jump off her seat and throw her arms around the dignified Headmistress.

They talked a long time after that, bringing their conversation to the Great Hall where Hermione had dinner with her and a few of the Hogwarts staff. Professor Flitwick was as jolly as ever and Madame Pomfrey was still as nurturing as her good nature allowed.

It was during dinner that Hermione remembered something from her research the previous day. She looked to Flitwick.

“Oh, Filius, I’m just really curious… do you remember having a student named Danaides Athanasius in your house? I’m not sure when but it was quite a while back…”

Flitwick’s eyebrow rose in immediate recognition. “Well, of course, I do! Danaides, oh but he was a brilliant dueler, that boy! You remember him, don’t you, Minerva?”

McGonagall looked like she did.

Madame Pomfrey looked like she didn’t. “Humph. Probably has his name engraved on one of the beds like Potter does.”

Hermione giggled softly. The engraved name was Ron’s handiwork, and Flitwick did declare that it was one of the best Permanency Charms he ever did see cast.

Flitwick smiled. “No, this boy can dodge them faster than he could throw them. He only took a hex once, right on his breast bone. It left a scar, I believe, and I think he used that scar to remind him never to get hit by a hex again. You would’ve liked him, Poppy. Why do you ask, Hermione?”

Hermione shrugged. “I know his grandson, Lysander. I just thought it would be interesting…”

“He has a grandson?” said McGonagall. “I didn’t even know he had a son!”

This struck Hermione somewhat. “Well that’s… odd. Filius, when did you say he was here?”

Flitwick gave it a thought. “Well, it was his fifth year when Minerva started teaching… so it would have been 1951 to 1958.”

Hermione’s brows furrowed a bit before she shook her head and let it go.

Minerva started teaching in 1956. She was new to Hogwarts, then, but…

McGonagall nodded. “Astounding lad, that Danaides. He was a very diligent student. Determined as anything to learn all he could, and he was a solitary boy. Didn’t want to get in with a crowd. Always thought there was an otherworldly wisdom in his eyes.”

Hermione stifled a sigh. Way to discover things about Lysander and what could win him over to my cause.

All this information, though interesting, was useless.

“This grandson of his, I hope, is as brilliant as his grandfather if you’ve taken an interest in him, Hermione,” said McGonagall, eyebrow raised.

Hermione blushed. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I’m only interested in him on a professional level.”

She wasn’t so sure about that, either, but it was better to speak prudently.

“Of course you are, dear,” said Madame Pomfrey… prudishly.

Hermione sighed. Maybe she was being a prude.

They spoke the rest of the evening, laughing over pudding, and as expected, McGonagall offered to accommodate her for the night, which she was more than ready to accept. She was offered a guest quarter but she opted for the old Gryffindor common room. Empty and quiet as it would be this time of year, she craved its familiarity.

She laughed a bit with the Fat Lady before settling herself inside, reveling in the silence of the tower.

Having been prepared for an overnight stay, she had a change of clothing for the night and the next working day. And it was all going very well, with her reading by the light of the fire, until the loneliness set in.

The orange light of the fire suddenly seemed so dim, and she recalled the many, many nights she spent there with Harry close by.

Very close by. She ran her hand against the space on the couch beside her. Close enough to kiss.

Maybe if she had stopped being—

Being me, for just one second, I could’ve done it.

The entire place; the entire castle was not home. Not without Ron or Harry.

Oh, bugger me. One day away and I miss them… I miss Harry.

It was late. Probably late enough for both of her boys to be asleep, but maybe…

She looked at the corner of the fireplace and was glad to see there was floo powder where it usually didn’t have any.

McGonagall thinks of everything!

Grinning, she knelt before the fire and called for Grimmauld place before she threw in some floo.

When the green flames erupted, she bent over them. “Harry? Ron? Are you there? Can you hear me?”

She waited a while. She yelled again, and she noted the desperate sound in her tone. She realized that if she went back to the emptiness of the Common Room without having talked to either of them, she just might go nutters.

It took another few seconds but soon, she saw him, smiling at her from the other side. He was dressed in an old t-shirt and cargos. She could only suppose he had been in his usual boxers, and that he had hurriedly put on a shirt and a pair of trousers to answer her summons.

She could see the garter of his boxers peeking some from his sloppily put on shirt and it made her blush. Even at his most unglamorous, this bespeckled, messy haired boy was terribly sexy to her.

“Well, hullo! Got your note at the office. Sorry we missed each other,” he said with his heart-wrenchingly charming smile.

I’m sorrier than you know, she thought, smiling with such longing that she wasn’t sure if Harry didn’t see it through the flames.

“Where are you flooing from?” he asked.

“The Gryffindor Common Room.”

He grinned. “Oh? Must bring back memories.”

“It’s quite lonely here, actually.”

She couldn’t help but tell him the truth. He would’ve heard it in her voice, anyway.

His smile dwindled and he regarded her for a few seconds. “Will you be alright?”

“Just… just talk to me a while, Harry.” She had a real urge to reach out and have him snatch her out of there, but she was sure McGonagall had gone through enough trouble getting her fireplace temporarily back in the network for talking. Allowing for transport would have been far too much trouble. “It’s different when you… and Ron aren’t here.”

Harry moved closer to the fire. “Is the couch still as comfortable as it used to be?”

“Yes.” No. It was better when you were there with me.

“And you’re reading a book, aren’t you? One of those great big ones that you can cover your face with?”

She smiled, the oppressive quality of loneliness lightening immediately. “Yes. How did you know?”

“Who knows you better than yourself, Granger?”

“Who else!” She laughed.

He grinned. “Ron and I would be playing Wizard’s Chess while you ‘remind’ us that we have some Potions reading to catch up on.”

“More like ‘nag’ you, Potter.”

“Your word, not mine!” he said defensively.

She laughed again.

He kept grinning. “And then someone calls your name and you peer over the top with your lovely honey brown eyes…”

His grin disappeared and her laugh dwindled.

She stared at him beyond the flames; beyond the distance and wondered, for a split heartbeat, what it was she was seeing in his gaze.

He had called her eyes lovely. What a nice way to describe them. Harry could be so kind that way…

“Harry?” she asked, softly.

He made a motion to speak. “Hermione…”

Her breath caught, and perhaps, if there had ever been a time where her compulsion to touch him was so strong, now would be the most compelling.

But it wasn’t going to happen. Not tonight, and probably never. The distance between them had never felt so vast. She breathed, and so did he.

“I can—“ he said uncertainly “—I can actually floo on over to the Three Broomsticks and fly to Hogwarts on my Firebolt… I can keep you company…”

She had to wonder if he was telling her or asking her. She wished; wanted to tell him, “Please do come over here. Keep me company like you always do. And maybe… maybe we can talk awhile of things I’ve always wanted to talk about with you…”

She smiled, painfully. “It’s too late, Harry. Madam Rosmerta would Glacio you with her eyes alone.”

Glacio was a freezing charm. It wasn’t as binding as Petrificus Totalus but the discomfort of a biting cold more than made up for the spell’s limitations.

He cocked a grin. “Madam Rosmerta nothing. I’d imagine McGonagall would take fifty house points from Gryffindor and give me detention for being inconsiderate of other people’s bedtimes.”

She laughed and let it ebb into a wan smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow at work, then, Harry.”

“You promised me lunch, remember?”

“I remember. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

She pulled away from the fire, breaking the connection.

Hermione sat back on the couch, watching the fire dance in the dimness.

And like many a late night in the Common Room, it was there she fell asleep.

Again, special thanks to my beta-reader, Aurabolt. Really, I feel that I should mention him in all my chapters because I cannot have made this story without him. And thank you, reviewers! I’m so overwhelmed. It’s just so shocking (but pleasantly so) to wake up and find all these review alerts lined up in my inbox. Truly, I’ve never gotten so much in one go! You readers are the best.

Standard disclaimers apply.

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Chapter Ten – Examine the Truth

In which the truth struggles to set them free.

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The following day at the Ministry had Hermione staring at the pigeonhole again.

It was disconcerting, really. Up until she reached her office, she had been daydreaming about Harry in the fireplace, confessing his love for her. Now, faced with the reality that the key—that key!—was within reach, she realized she had to get her bushy brown head out of the clouds and into the reality that was her obsessive life.

The key to the Leabharlann Ársa Runa.

The library of all libraries.

To her at least.

Children dreamed of Disneyland; she dreamed of Runic Libraries.

What’s a nerd like her to do?

She would be writing a proposal that morning asking Lysander to support her Elf Laws, and when she had it prepared, she would have to give it to him. For the proposal to make any impression at all, she had to speak to him, face to face, primarily to tell him that whatever happened the last time they met has nothing to do with this worthy cause. She would go to the library, use the key to summon him and there she would serve the proposal up. Of course, it was perfectly natural if she perused the shelves of the library before she summoned him…

Shite. I don’t even believe that dribble.

She rubbed delicately at her temples, easing the ache creeping into her skull.

When the ache eased, she stubbornly sat on her desk and furtively wrote her proposal. She alternated between work and her proposal, which was rather naughty of her, but considering the emotional investment she had made for S.P.E.W. and everything that went with it, she wasn’t about to put things off another second.

She was so completely engrossed in her task that she hadn’t noticed the time, yet again, until Harry peeked over her books and startled her.

Given the stealthy nature of her proposal writing, she gave a sharp yelp, almost overturning her ink bottle in her guilt.

“Harry! G-Goodness!”

He chuckled. “Well, don’t you look like you got caught with your hand in the cookie jar?”

She reddened, briskly reorganizing the papers on her desk. “Whatever do you mean, Harry?”

“You look very cute when you’re breaking some kind of rule.”

She reddened even more. “Is that why you always asked me to bail you out of trouble?”

“Oh, most definitely!” he replied, charming smile at its best.

Hermione tried not to drool all over herself seeing it.

Reorganizing her thoughts, she put her papers away, wordlessly charming her proposal pages to seem insignificant and not worth anyone’s perusal. Transeo! she thought, casually waving her wand.

As she rose from her desk, Harry shot her a funny look.

She blinked. “What?”

He looked pointedly at the papers on her desk, then at her, before saying, “Nothing. So, where are we going to have lunch today?”

He knows I’ve charmed something! she thought with a slight chill. These were the kinds of things one couldn’t get past Harry. There was a reason he was predictably on the rise in his department; he was just such a natural at his job.

“There’s a nice little Korean place just off the Leaky Cauldron…”

They headed out of the WizCOF and out of the Ministry, discussing mundane things and laughing lightly over her visit to Hogwarts the night before.

It was when they were seated, picking at their kimchi when Harry popped the question.

No, not that question; a different one.

“So, what’s so important with those papers on your desk that you don’t want anyone to think they were interesting enough to read?” He moved his chopsticks to open and close in his grasp.

Blast it all! He even knew I used a Transeo! Surprise me, will he? Well, two can play at that game!

“Well, what was so important about Mundungus that you had to pull Hit Wizard duties when an Auror has no business doing so?”

He grinned. She grinned back.

“I asked first,” he said.

“Woman’s prerogative not to answer a question she deems inappropriate.”

His eyebrow arched looking vastly amused. “Oh? Inappropriate she says! Now I’m really interested.”

She laughed, raising her own chopsticks to fend off his that were suddenly attempting to clip her nose. “You answer my question and I’ll answer yours.”

He smiled. “Shacklebolt’s such a traitor. I asked him nicely not to tell you. I knew you’d be displeased.”

“Yes, because Hit Wizard duties can be every bit as dangerous as Auror duties and you, taking on danger someone else is supposed to deal with is like you jumping into a burning house to save someone when there are firemen all over the place.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” he said, picking at some flavored seaweed. “Old Dung is generally harmless.”

“Old Dung is a dirty crook who once tried to hex Arthur Weasley when Arthur’s back was turned.”

Harry scoffed. “Like Dung could ever get away with something like that with me. At any rate, I just didn’t want anyone there forgetting that he was pivotal to the destruction of Voldemort. He gave us that horcrux, Hermione, because he had decided, just that once, that it was the right thing to do, and because of that, we had one less of Voldemort’s soul to deal with. If Voldemort had gotten hold of that locket, he may have been too powerful that day we fought him and you might be—I might not have been able to save you.”

She smiled gently, noticing the break in his sentence. She knew Harry pulling Hit Wizard to deal with Dung himself had something to do with the horcrux, she hadn’t realized that he had appreciated Mundungus’s gesture so much because it just might have saved her life. “I think you would have been able to save me still, Harry.”

“I don’t want to think about what might have happened if Voldemort had just been the slightest bit stronger.”

“You would’ve come through for me. You always do.” And she did believe in what she said, wholeheartedly.

He shrugged.

What a marvelous man he was, more so because he didn’t know it.

“And now it’s your turn to tell,” he said. “What were you writing when I caught you at it?”

She blushed. “Proposal,” she said, hoping he would take it at face value.

Harry wasn’t fooled. “For what?”

“Elves.”

“Oh, doing personal stuff while at work. Granger, I’m surprised at you!”

He looked anything but disapproving and Hermione almost breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn’t going to ask details. He wasn’t.

“So what new proposal have you come up with now?” he asked. “I believe you haven’t gone into maternity benefits yet.”

Oh, Merlin, he’s going into details. Why, of all times, did he have to be interested now?

Because he knows you’re guilty of something. The auror in him can practically smell it.

Well, wait a minute… what do I have to be guilty for? This proposal is for a worthy cause! I have an obligation to set aside my personal issues with Lysander to get the help I need. It’s just business!

Harry doesn’t like Lysander, you know it, and by associating with Lysander, you feel like you’re betraying Harry. Kind of like associating with Draco Malfoy…

It is NOT the same as associating with Malfoy! Malfoy is an evil little bugger whose twisted ideals represent everything I, Harry and the side of good stands against.

And Lysander is…?

A flirt; a rich man who’s just too used to getting whatever he wants with money and irresistible charm. A man who’s after me and someone Harry simply doesn’t approve of for some reason.

He tried to buy you with a bag.

He came over to the Ministry to apologize for it. He now knows it was a mistake.

Harry hates him anyway.

And why should Harry dictate the men I go out with?

Because his opinion matters to you.

Well then, that’s just dandy. Lysander’s perfect, if a little misguided… Harry’s just going to have to give the man a second chance, because by God, Lysander can really help the cause! I just know he can!

Hermione snapped momentarily out of her thoughts. She caught Harry gazing at her curiously. She reddened.

“I… “ she swallowed. “I’m writing a proposal to Lysander. I’m asking his support to lobby for Elf Laws in Higher Legislation. Cecily Ackwater told me she’d get the majority votes necessary in the Legislative Committee to elevate my proposals if I can get Lysander to help me push for a two-thirds plus one vote in the Enactment Committee.”

Harry stared at her, frozen by her words.

Desperately, she went on. “Cecily said I can get the two-thirds plus one vote with Lysander behind me. And if it gets passed in EnCom, it will be up for Final Formulation. Harry, this is the farthest I’ve ever aspired since I set up S.P.E.W. Don’t you see? When before I could hardly get someone in the LegCom to accept my proposals in their dockets, now I’m looking at a possible Final Formulation! Harry…”

He breathed, and she couldn’t tell exactly what he was thinking, but she had seen that look on his eyes before; when long ago, he was raging to go to the Department of Mysteries to save Sirius and she was pleading him to reconsider. His eyes on her were cold.

“I thought you didn’t want to have anything to do with him, anymore,” he said in an even tone.

“On a personal level,” she said. “This is business.”

“And what’s in it for him? What would compel him to give his support?”

“Well, there are a number of incentives, of course, mostly financial and the like. It’s not a lot, but he’s a decent man—“

“Decent man? You don’t know anything about him.”

“I know that in the past five hundred years, they have a flawless record of business dealings—“

“That doesn’t tell you anything about him. That just means he’s good at making money while he’s sleeping with the right government people. I’m talking about what kind of person he is.”

Disgruntled by Harry’s terminologies, she frowned. “That’s all beside the point. I will give him this proposal and we will see how it works out. Ultimately, if he asks for too much, I cannot work with him. Are we understanding each other here?”

Harry’s gaze didn’t waver and they stared at one another, waiting for one or the other to blink first.

She did.

Dammit!

Harry finally pulled his gaze away, but he looked as displeased as ever. “You’re going to meet with him when you give him this proposal, I assume.”

“Yes, of course I will.”

“I can accompany you.”

She frowned. “I can do this by myself, thank you.”

“You can, but I’d like to offer my support. I am a member of S.P.E.W., aren’t I?”

“Could’ve fooled me!” she shot back. “Knitted any hats, lately?”

He wasn’t the least bit moved. “Hermione, I don’t trust that man. I can’t exactly explain why, yet, but I have a bad feeling about him. If anything, you’re always one of the first to weigh out my hunches. You don’t have to listen to me now, but you’re most welcome to disprove me. I want you to disprove me, just so I don’t have to worry about you getting in way over your head with Athanasius.”

“Harry, this is ridicul—“

“Remember Malfoy? Sixth year. I was right about him!”

Hermione gaped at him, mildly shocked at Harry’s forthright manner. Of course, one of the things she loved about her relationship with Harry was trust and honesty, but until now, she was the one who was being brutally honest with him. She hadn’t realized how difficult it was to be on the other end.

She remembered Malfoy, and sixth year and every sordid detail about it. It was the year she thought she was losing Harry, and Ron and everyone. And in her effort to grasp at straws, she had failed Harry in the worse way.

Sixth year and Lysander were completely unrelated, of course, but Harry was pushing all the wrong buttons.

I can’t deal with this right now.

Regaining her poise, she clamped her mouth shut and narrowed her gaze. She put down her chopsticks and started to gather her things.

He sighed. “Hermione, where are you going?”

“Away. I am going away. I can’t—it’s a little too—I will go back to the ministry, grab a sandwich and work. I can’t understand why I’m obsessing about you and Lysander getting along, anyway. It’s not like its necessary for the Elf proposals—“

Harry scowled. “I don’t want to get along with that bastard!”

“Yes, well…”

He sighed, frustrated and perhaps a little sorry. “Hermione, please don’t go. Look, I’ll shut up about it, alright? I’ll do anything, just don’t leave. I missed having you at the house, you know, and I just want to have lunch with my best friend. Please?”

He wasn’t smiling, but he was pulling out all the big guns. That pleading look on his face that she was yet to resist, the entreaties, declarations that he’d missed her… it was all designed for her to give in. She wished Harry weren’t so good at this.

What in the world am I doing, huh? I’m walking out on Harry because we’re fighting about Lysander?

Ridiculous.

She relaxed on her seat, sighing. Everything about the conversation that had pulled her taut eased away as she looked into his beautiful green gaze. “I don’t like fighting with you, Harry.”

He seemed terribly relieved. “My feelings, exactly. The last time we did, I didn’t sleep very well.”

“Neither did I,” she muttered.

“That fight was about Lysander too, you know.”

She frowned. “Harry…” she said in a warning tone.

He put his hands up in surrender. “Fine, fine…”

The food came, and Harry tossed some cubes of butter on the hot surface of the cooking pan before laying out the strips of beef on it.

Hermione watched him, amused at the easy way he worked the meat and vegetables, as if he had been doing it all his life. In retrospect, he had. Living with the Dursleys had taught him how to cook, if nothing else.

Harry did his share of the cooking in the house, and he seemed to like it, but he didn’t do it all the time, so she suspected it had more to do with pleasing her and Ron than pleasing himself, which is why she tried to do the cooking as much as she could.

As the beef cooked and the wonderful aroma wafted between them, he smiled at her from across the hot pot. “I’m going to see Ginny today.”

Why? Why do I keep doing this to myself?

Hermione shoveled some rice into her rice bowl, waving away some of the smoke from the cooking meat and muttering a charm on her hair to keep the smell of Korean hot pot from sticking to it. “Date?”

He seemed surprised at her assumption. “Oh, nothing like that. She owled me this morning; told me she was dropping by the Ministry to see her father; asked me if we could talk. I owled her back and told her it was a good idea.”

Yes, a good idea. A good idea if you want to take a knife and stab it through my heart.

She smiled. “Good time as any to start catching up, I suppose.” She gestured for him to give her his rice bowl so she could fill it.

He gave her the bowl. “Hermione, if I wanted to ‘catch up’ with Ginny, I’d ask her out to dinner. There isn’t going to be any real catching up today between us.”

Hermione could almost hear the fast paced ba-da-bump of her heart. He’s not going back to her. Oh, but Merlin, is it so very evil of me to be—well—relieved about that?

“S-So—“ She cleared her throat, cursing herself inwardly for her crumbling poise. “So you… and—err—Ginny…?”

He shook his head. “I’ve talked to Ron about it, remember? I promised him I’d talk to Ginny about it soon; how she and I… well, it’s not going to work anymore.”

She nodded. Suddenly, she wasn’t sure what to say. “I’m sorry. For you both, I mean. If it hadn’t been for the war, you and she… well, it might have been different.”

His lowered gaze met hers. “Perhaps a bit too different than I would’ve liked.”

What in God’s name does that mean? she wondered, giving his rice bowl over with a questioning look.

He merely smiled. “Anyway, after lunch, d’you think you can spare a few minutes shopping with me? I—well, after I talk to Ginny, I’d like to give her a parting gift. You know… she and I had something special after all, however brief.”

As much as jumping off a bridge would’ve been easier for her, Hermione couldn’t help but be impressed. “Well, that’s right classy of you, Harry.”

“Are you being snarky or do you really mean that?”

She rolled her eyes. “I mean it, silly. Now I’ll just have to go with you to make sure you don’t botch it up by buying her something stupid like a salad bowl.”

He reached out to give her hand a grateful squeeze. “Thank you, but I’ve got the gift figured out, see.”

“Oh? Let’s hear it, then. Lord knows I can do with a few laughs.”

He shot her a warning glance, though his eyes were alight. “You’ll see. I’m sure it’ll be ready when we get there. And I don’t think you’ll be laughing, either.”

That’s for sure, she thought somewhat bitterly. Parting gift or not, it was still a gift to a woman who wasn’t her.

Isn’t there some kind of award for when you help the love of your life buy a gift for his ex-girlfriend?

Yes, there is. It’s called: Canonization.

Saint Hermione stifled a sigh and began to eat her lunch.

Sad thing was she wasn’t even Catholic.

00000000000000000000

Harry Potter noticed Gail looking past him and over his shoulder as they sat face to face on their joined desks. He turned to follow her gaze and saw that it was Ginny at the door of the Auror Department.

Ginny certainly was quite the distraction. Standing at a tall five feet and nine inches, flaming red hair luscious against her milky, slightly freckled skin, she was much more beautiful now than she was during his sixth year.

Everyone was looking at her; admiring her, and Harry had to admit that he couldn’t blame anyone for it at all.

But what had him sighing and dreaming before now felt strangely…

Unfulfilling, he thought somewhat regretfully.

Ginny Weasley, gorgeous, fiery and oh, so attractive, was now just a sweet memory in his mind.

It wasn’t the least bit fair to compare Ginny to Hermione. They were, after all, two completely different people with qualities contradicting in almost everything.

Where Ginny was athletic, Hermione was cerebral; where Ginny was the epitome of femininity, Hermione was the picture of sophistication; where Ginny had been learning her spells…

Hermione was fighting beside me in the war… died for me… came back to life.

It was not fair. No woman should ever have to compete with something like that, but Ginny had been a part of his life, and Hermione was… right now, she was his everything.

“Merlin, what a lovely woman,” said Gail softly. “And oh, Potter, I think she’s headed this way! Oh, dear… she’s smiling at you!”

“Relax,” said Harry, pulling his drawer open to take out a wrapped package. “I know her. Hullo, Ginny!”

Ginny’s brilliant smile could have lit up the room. “Hullo, Harry. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” She gave him a hug.

He smiled, pulling away from her in a deliberate attempt to mark the distance between them. He gestured to Gail. “Ginny, this is Gail Coppercane. She’s my partner.”

Ginny nodded, extending a hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Ginny Weasley.”

Gail shook the offered hand. “Arthur Weasley’s…?”

“My dad.”

“Why, of course he is! I should’ve known by the hair. I met your brothers the other day.”

“Which ones?”

“The twin ones.”

“We’re not all like them, you know,” said Ginny with a chuckle.

“Really? I was rather hoping you were!”

Ginny’s eyes rolled, as they always did when someone got her started on the discussion of her family, but it never meant she was disgusted of them. In fact, it meant the exact opposite of that, just that Ginny didn’t want anyone realizing how soft she was on her brothers. Harry recognized the tell-tale signs of Gail’s uncanny talent to get everyone (well, most of everyone. Some of the effect has worn off with Harry) in a good mood.

“We’d love to stay and chat, Gail,” said Harry, leading Ginny away. “But Ginny and I have to talk.”

“Fine,” harrumphed Gail. “But don’t be too long, Potter! I can’t cover your arse all afternoon, you know.”

“Yes, yes.”

Ginny waved to Gail over her shoulder as she followed Harry out of the offices and down the hallways. The entire time, he had his hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers, growing nervous at each passing moment.

Wordlessly, Harry let them to the in-house coffee shop. Ginny sat across from him on the small round table and made herself comfortable.

People were staring at her again. She really was quite beautiful, and the red hair made her extremely noticeable.

She leaned over the table, coffee mugs between them, and smiled, the eager anticipation in her eyes doubling Harry’s anxiety. It never occurred to him that this talk wouldn’t end well, and perhaps he should expect the worse. This was Ginny, for goodness sake, and if anyone in the remote vicinity saw him get bat-bogeyed, he’d have to work on regaining his credibility as an auror for the next six months.

“You look good, Harry,” she said.

Steady, captain. Just remember how to counter a bat-bogey and you can save yourself the humiliation, he thought with an inward wince.

“Thanks,” he said, muddling over whether he should return the compliment, as doing so might give her the wrong idea. “I’m well taken cared of.”

The tragedy of it was he hadn’t even planned on making remote insinuations, but there it was, tumbling out of his lips.

Predictably, a slight frown puckered Ginny’s lips. Whether it was because of the insinuation that someone was there to take care of him or whether it was because he didn’t reciprocate with a, “You look gorgeous as always, Ginny,” he couldn’t tell. He’d leave it to her to tell him.

“You’ve been busy these past few months?” she asked.

It made Harry realize that she just might have grown past casting bat-bogey hexes. Still, there was no harm in staying alert.

So they exchanged quite a bit of small talk, trying to get past the awkwardness that had festered between them in the past two and a half years. She told him how she had been and asked him how he was doing.

She never asked about Hermione, which was strange, and, Harry thought, a bit annoying, but he kept telling himself that this was not something to dwell on.

He concentrated on the present thread of conversation.

Ginny had just left Hogwarts, and she was in the midst of pursuing a career. Her smile was tinged with something when she brought it up.

“I was thinking I’d round up dragons with Charlie in Romania,” she said.

Harry thought this quite fascinating and he grinned. “Well, that’s exciting, isn’t it? I’d take the opportunity, if I were you.”

She paused for a bit. “Then… then again, there’s Gringotts, right here in London. Bill would help me get a position if I asked him for it… in case I decided to stay…”

Warning bells rang in Harry’s brain. Uh-oh. Here it comes.

“Do I have reason to stay, Harry?”

And there they were; at the talk.

Harry looked down at his coffee with a soft sigh. “I’m not a reason, Ginny. Not anymore.”

Just like that, he had said it.

He tensed for a moment, ready to spring a shield against her bat-bogey hex. But the hex didn’t come.

“I’m guessing,” she said softly, “that you’re not actually afraid Voldemort’s ghost will come and harm me because I’m your girlfriend.”

He looked up at her, meeting her eyes. He shook his head. “No. Nothing like that.”

She took a deep breath, turning a swizzle stick between her fingers. “I was afraid you’d outgrow me, Harry, but I suppose I was prepared for it. Still hurts, though.”

He was mildly surprised that she had partially understood, but while out-growing her was one of the reasons he couldn’t go back to Ginny, the other reasons were far more compelling.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t plan it this way. When I broke up with you back then, I really thought—I thought we’d have a chance to try again in the future.”

She nodded with noticeable effort. “Me, too. A girl doesn’t just fall in love with the savior of the world and be expected to move on like he was just some notch on her belt…”

“I’m sorry,” he said again, truly meaning it this time. He honestly never thought about it as being “in love”. What he had with Ginny was so special, but he thought he was too young then to be “in love”. He was sixteen; what did he know about it? And what did she know about it, come to that? Now he was nineteen, and he still didn’t know a blessed thing, except that he was in love; had been in love; to the one woman who wouldn’t love him anymore than a best friend would. He therefore understood exactly where Ginny was coming from, and he wished she didn’t have to feel that way.

“I—“ she began, hesitated, then went on. “I think I knew the exact time I lost you, Harry.”

“Ginny, don’t—“

“It’s fine, Harry. I need to get this out of my system. Will you give me that, at least?”

He sighed, nodding.

“It was at the start of the school year, your seventh,” she said, watching him for any sign that he understood.

He didn’t. He waited and she went on.

“First Quidditch match of the year. Gryffindor against the Slytherins.”

He knew in a second and understood it to its full context. She didn’t need to explain any further, but he let her.

“Hermione received the news about her parents,” she said softly. “Right there, on the Quidditch Pitch. McGonagall pulled her to the side of the stands and told her. You didn’t know what news McGonagall brought then; nobody did, but I suppose you saw it on her face. You were supposed to be looking for the snitch—in the storm—but you saw nothing but her face, and you saw—“

“Her pain. I saw her pain.”

Ginny nodded. “She rushed out of there so quickly and you… you just followed, Harry. One of the few things you enjoyed during your life with—with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in the background was Quidditch and beating the Slytherins. When you saw Hermione run away, suddenly nothing else mattered. You left the pitch; left us without a Seeker and we lost that game. But you didn’t care.”

“I didn’t,” he admitted softly.

That day he followed Hermione off the Quidditch Pitch, everything else surrounding his life had melted away, except for how much she meant to him, and how her pain was for him to help her bear. He found out later that McGonagall had wanted to deliver the news to Hermione in the castle, but Hermione had seen the look on the Headmistress’s face and had demanded to be told.

He remembered passing McGonagall on the stands as he rushed after her and heard the good Headmistress’s voice pleading, “Help her, please!” through the howling of the wind.

Hermione had been running through the rain, hysterical as she fought wind and water to get back to the castle across the fields. He had used his Firebolt to catch up with her, and when he did, he had to hold her tight to keep her from getting away.

He had taken her into his arms, held her even when she tried to bat him away, but he was firm, and he wouldn’t let her go off alone, not in her state.

Harry had never heard such wounded sobs from anyone before, and to hear it from Hermione had been beyond intense.

She cried in his arms then, giving up the struggle to get away from him. Huddled in his Quidditch cloaks, she told him her parents had been killed; their clinic attacked by Death Eaters; that they were gone.

Harry remembered how, right then, with Hermione sobbing in his arms, he promised that every single Death Eater was going to pay for taking so much from her. Perhaps back then, he already knew he would be there for her, because the both of them only had each other left, but the threat of Voldemort always put his future planning on the back burner.

But that moment had been different; that moment he was thinking that he would be there for her for as long as he was alive. Amidst the despair, there was a brief instance where he swore to take care of her beyond Voldemort; a whisper of something better. Maybe it was a good omen, and suddenly, he had something—someone—to live for after the war.

Ron arrived a bit later, lending his own comfort to her. The boy with the emotional range of a teaspoon had shown surprising sensitivity when he let her cry on his shoulder, and maybe in that instance, Ron realized something as well.

“Hermione, let Harry take you to the castle. I’ll go on ahead and fix your common room for you. Do you want anything from Madam Pomfrey?” Ron had said. He had been referring to the Head Tower’s common room and Harry had marveled at Ron’s self-possession in the face of this crisis.

“No… please. I just want you and Harry to be with me…” she had whispered.

“Alright. We’ll take care of you, then,” he said. It was the first and last time Ron placed a kiss on Hermione’s forehead. Such loving care that Harry hadn’t failed to notice.

Ron then gave Hermione over to Harry and Harry tucked her securely in his cloak. He held her tight as he took her on the Firebolt. He kept the speed easy so as not to scare her and Ron went on ahead as promised.

They kept her company in her common room that weekend and for some reason, they didn’t see a peep of Ernie McMillan, Head Boy, in the next seven days.

Ron confessed to Harry later that he had threatened Ernie with a good old fashioned beating if Ernie upset Hermione with so much as a careless look. The Head Boy had apparently opted to disappear completely, lest he unwittingly disrupt Hermione’s mourning.

Harry pulled himself back to the present, feeling a suspicious liquidity in his eyes as he remembered just how badly Hermione had taken her parents’ death, and how she recovered because he and Ron loved her well enough to carry her through, and because she had been strong enough to want to get better.

“That’s when I knew I lost you, Harry,” Ginny said, breaking through his reminiscence. “Whether I lost you to her… I wasn’t sure, but I understood just how different our paths would be, right then, and how she would be on your path with you. If you want me to put it bluntly Harry… how could I compete? She—Merlin, she was going to bloody save the world with you, Harry. None of us girls stood a chance in hell.”

He felt the heat rise in his cheeks. She had hit the nail right on the head a second time. “It’s not just that, Ginny. There are other… simpler things about her; hundreds of them…”

She said nothing, and Harry felt like hitting himself for being so insensitive. But he supposed it had to be said. He didn’t want anyone thinking that Hermione’s heroism was all there was to his love for her, although it was no small thing, either. But it was her other special qualities that made him cherish her so much. It wasn’t just that Hermione was the Girl Who Helped Him Fight Voldemort, it was also because she was The Girl whose smile made him feel everything was going to be alright, or The Girl who worried for Ron when he was out late, or The Girl whose unwavering loyalty made her stand by him in the face of opposition, though it would be that same loyalty which would compel her to tell him that he was in the wrong, and so on, and so forth.

“It’s the simple things that make it last, after all,” said Ginny after a while.

He nodded.

They fell silent, and everything that needed to be said had been said. There hadn’t been any hexing, which said a lot about Ginny. She’d grown more than he had given her credit for, he supposed, but it was like she said: they had gone on different paths, and he was on a path she’d never understand quite as well as Hermione, or Ron, does.

“I have something for you,” he said, reaching into his robe for the present he had bought her. He set it gently on the table and Ginny’s surprise was evident.

“R-Really, Harry,” she said. “You didn’t have to…”

“What we had was important to me,” he said. “I’d want you to have this; to make you understand.”

She took the small parcel, unwrapping it daintily. She opened the box and a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. She brought out its contents and she let out a breath, touched by the gentle friendship spell that went with it.

It was a charm bracelet in white, yellow and red gold, and it was spelled to express the friendship the giver had for her. She looked over the charms attached to the chain, chuckling as she understood the meaning of each one.

There was a quaffle, a flower, the Roman numeral six, and a bat. She giggled at the bat.

“It’s lovely, Harry. Thank you,” she said, slipping the bracelet on. “And it’s a Truth Teller, too, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “Tells you exactly how I feel about you. Just this one time, though. It wouldn’t do to have you know how I feel all the time.”

“No, it wouldn’t.” She smiled, leaning back on her seat.

For the first time in almost two and a half years, the silence between them was finally comfortable.

Ginny looked up at the ministry clock. “I think I’ve kept you long enough. Gail would disapprove.”

Harry recognized his cue. “Have my neck on a block if I abandon her.”

They stood.

Ginny gave him a warm embrace goodbye. “Good luck, Harry. Give my love to Ron and Hermione. I haven’t seen either of them in ages, and the git calls himself my brother.”

He embraced her back. “I will.”

She kissed him on the cheek and stepped away.

He watched her walk off for a brief moment before he headed back to his department.

That day, Ginny accepted two things: One, that Harry Potter would find happiness with someone else; and two, the job in Romania.

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Fitfully harassed with all the work she was putting in that day, Hermione thought she could take a moment to enjoy nonsensical conversation with her two zany bosses. She sat down with them at tea, pushing aside the clutter of evidence so they could talk on the long table.

She never thought talking about nothing could be so enjoyable. No wonder Archibald and Heartcomb did it all the time.

When the tea had gone cold, Hermione went back to her desk, put in the finishing touches to her WizCOF work and submitted them to Heartcomb for checking.

Heartcomb was pleased. “Good work, Granger. I think that’s about all for today. You may go home.”

It was about five in the afternoon and Hermione marveled at how early she thought that was. She thought about what she would do with all her spare time that day and decided she would finish her proposal in the Ministry Library.

When she packed up her work things, her gaze once more fell on the pigeonhole.

She was surprised to feel little to no guilt about it.

She wasn’t hiding anything from Harry anymore. She had told him her plans to speak to Lysander and while that conversation hadn’t gone very well, she was glad she didn’t have to feel wretched about meeting with the billionaire.

Hermione took the key to the Leabharlann Ársa Runa with her as she left the office.

The proposal was almost done when she sat in the Ministry Library. It didn’t take more than two hours to put in the last of the details, and after she had refined her work with document spells, she gathered her things and headed to the Auror Department.

She was going to bid Harry goodbye, as she decided she wasn’t going to blindside him and go meet Lysander without telling him about it. She wasn’t looking forward to the impending argument they would be having, but she didn’t like the feeling of sneaking around behind Harry’s back. If he insisted on coming with her, then she would just have to employ every means necessary to keep him from following.

As it turned out, Harry wasn’t in. Remus told her he had been sent out to King’s Cross where a Death Eater sighting had been reported.

Hermione sighed. “Well then, can you give him a message for me?”

“Certainly, Hermione,” said Remus in his kind, accommodating way.

“Please tell him I’ll be meeting with Lysander tonight and that he is not to worry. Tell him not to look for me or go into a conniption fit. I will be home before ten and I would appreciate it if he doesn’t chew my head off when I get there.”

Remus chuckled. “Let’s hope he doesn’t kill the messenger.”

She grinned. “That’s why I told you. Harry’ll have no choice but to treat you with respect, and he’d even listen to you if you tell him I’m a big girl and can take care of myself.” She arched her eyebrow as she said this, hoping Remus would get the hint.

Remus did. “He might listen. I make no promises.”

“No promises asked. Thank you, Remus.”

He nodded and saw her off to the fireplaces.

With her conscience cleared, she happily made her way to the Leabharlann Ársa Runa.

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The library was supposed to be open when Hermione got there, seeing as she was within hours, but the gates were slid shut, and she wondered if the library was on some kind of special holiday. She thought about turning back, but she remembered Lysander telling her that she could have access to the library at her own convenience, whatever the hour. She used the key.

Turning the lock, the gates magically slid open and the door glowed invitingly. Apparently, library admittance was more exclusive than she realized.

When she stepped through the doors, she felt the wards allowing her to pass through before closing her in again. Crossing the threshold from the dimly lit reception hall, the candles flickered to life on their own, lighting the place up entirely for her.

The library was made of dark stone and bright torches. It reminded her a bit of Hogwarts, except there were floors and floors of shelves and books, spinning round like a corkscrew with a complement of tables, chairs and couches set in the middle.

Stone monuments of sleeping kings in full armor were set against the mighty columns. On the windows were tapestries depicting battles, pilgrimages, clansmen dancing with their clanswomen between Beltan fires and burning pines amidst the snow during Winter Solstice.

A ghost floated in from above the crisscrossing rafters; his red tartan and kilt the only color to his phantasmal form. He had a mane of dark hair spilling down his shoulders and his eyes were sunken in, but he didn’t look scary at all. In fact, he looked very kind.

“Welcome to the Leabharlann Ársa Runa,” he said in a dignified tone. His English had a slight Scottish accent, but his Irish Gaelic was perfect. “I am Lord Feargan Gilleasbaig Eircheard Mac a’Bhaird*, Clan Laird of the clan Mac a’Bhaird and present Keeper of the Tomes in this fine collection. Is this your first time here?”

She smiled, liking this ghost instantly. “Yes, m’lord. I’m Hermione Granger and it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He inclined his head. “Then you will come this way so we can begin our brief tour.”

When he turned, Hermione had to stifle a horrified cry when she saw the gaping cavern of a wound on the back of his head. It looked like someone had hit him with a jackhammer; probably a disgruntled clansman.

Trying to keep her eyes away from his brains, she followed her tour guide. He very proficiently explained the main sections in the library. He then asked her if she was familiar with runes, a polite way to ask her if she could read them. She answered that yes, she was fluent in runes, and that seemed to please him immensely. He ushered her to the other half of the library that extended farther than the building appeared to accommodate. They were the runic books, and there were thousands and thousands of them.

Hermione gazed upon the rows and rows in wondrous delight.

“The books in these three rows,” said Lord Mac a’Bhaird, gesturing to the three nearest, “may be taken out of the library. We expect you to return them, of course.”

Her jaw dropped and she looked at him. “You’re shit—er—you’re kidding me, right?”

“Noo, Ms. Granger. I’m no’ shittin’ y’.” He smiled, dropping his dignified diction for his more natural Highland drawl.

She giggled, walking into the first row to look the books over. She let her fingers run on the spines, the embossed runes forming words in her mind.

“Brilliant,” she whispered.

Lord Mac a’Bhaird nodded. “Indeed. If you decide to venture further, Ms. Granger, know that those books cannot be checked out without proper clearance.”

Hermione nodded, sliding a book out of the shelf reverently.

“Way up there,” said the lord, pointing to the higher floors, “are the ancient runic spells. Mostly indecipherable, you understand, but if you’re up to the challenge…”

“One challenge at a time, m’lord,” she said softly, as if increasing the volume of her voice would blow the dream away. She opened the book, barely paying attention to Lord Mac a’Bhaird, and began to read.

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“She said what?” asked Harry, the rush of blood to his face spreading warmth over his eyes. It wasn’t anger, exactly, but a great deal of annoyance. He told her he would go with her. But no, she had to go do it by herself in her own stubborn fashion!

Remus didn’t even look up from the documents he was perusing. “She said she’ll be meeting Mr. Lysander and that you are not to go looking for her or to go into a conniption fit. She’ll be home before ten so you shouldn’t worry.”

Harry pursed his lips. She planned this, the sneak! She let Remus deliver the message so the man can talk me out of going right after her! And she knows I can’t ever be angry at Remus. Sneaky… but brilliant.

He was, however, unable to hold back making an explosively frustrated gesture with his arms. “Argh! I can’t believe she went and met with him behind my back!”

Remus cleared his throat. “Technically, she’s not doing it behind your back. The fact that she told you means she doesn’t want to do it on the sly. Just that it seems she’d much rather do this by herself.”

Harry growled. “Do you—do you see what this man is doing to her? He’s drawing her away from me! He’s—“

“Harry,” Remus interrupted in a kind voice. “If you’re so concerned about anyone taking her away from you, might I suggest you talk to her about it?”

Harry stared at him incredulously, hustling Remus to a more private corner of the office. “You know I can’t do that.”

Remus shot him a disapproving look. “You love her, don’t you?”

“Well, I—“

“Don’t you?”

Harry saw the serious expression on Remus’s face. “Yes. More than anyone or anything.”

“Then listen to me. If what you feel for her is true, then you have to tell her, and when you do, you’d have to… you’d have to be willing to let her go, Harry. You can’t keep doing this to her, and you can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

Harry’s felt a spasm in his chest. He blinked hard, hoping to erase Remus’s words from his mind, but it was useless. “Remus… I-I don’t think I can do that. I don’t think I’m strong enough…”

Remus cocked him an understanding smile. He clapped Harry’s shoulder supportively. “I think you are. You’ve dealt with worse, haven’t you?”

Harry shook his head stubbornly. “I think I’d rather be done in by Voldemort.”

“Too late for that, I’m afraid. Chap’s a bit too under the weather to do anyone any harm anymore.”

Harry should’ve found that funny but he was feeling a bit too beside himself right now. Remus was absolutely right, and the mere thought that he just might lose Hermione that night made him sick, because he did have to talk to her after what Remus said.

He couldn’t go on this way; loving her when she didn’t know it; keeping her away from men who might make her happy. It was either he spent the rest of his life hurting himself for loving her from a distance or telling her and letting the fates take over. If he was lucky, they could find their friendship again, after the awkwardness wore off. They could even be best friends, again.

Fancy a miracle, Potter? She may even love you back.

He dared not think more on it.

Oh, but that look in her eyes last night, when she was hundreds of miles away from you…

Could’ve been the fire. Lights play tricks.

He closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath. He didn’t want to think about it anymore.

Looking at his watch, he saw the time. “Home before ten,” he muttered. It was a while yet. It was only eight.

What the hell am I going to do until then?

His eyes fell on the pile at his desk and he realized exactly what he needed to do.

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Hermione forgot the time.

She quite simply forgot the time as she piled unrestricted runic books around her on one of the library tables and read. It was almost like a time-warp, the way she never noticed how two hours had passed her by. One minute she was opening a book about the duality of Arithmantic charts and then the next minute she had gotten through sixty pages of Gaelic runes.

Her watch said it was nearing nine. If she wanted to get home before ten, she had to speak to Lysander soon.

Her headache made its presence known again.

Another reason to get all this over with.

She was just going over this thought when she saw none other than Lysander Athanasius walking to her from the entrance of the library. He was carrying an old, worn-out book. Maybe he was returning something. Or maybe it was another cover-story, like the scarf. She certainly didn’t summon him.

Sir Mac a’Bhaird was just then bowing away from him.

She arched an eyebrow at Lysander’s approaching form and he dealt her an amused grin.

While she didn’t exactly feel like smiling back, she couldn’t help but look a bit amused herself.

“Buying a scarf for your mother?” she said as he reached her.

He chuckled, pulling up a chair beside her and taking a seat. He looked relaxed in his expensive white linen shirt and beige chinos. This was a new look for him, but it wasn’t unpleasant.

The way he looked at her made her blush and she tried to keep her composure.

“Interesting look you’ve got going there,” she said as casually as she could. “Missed work today, did you?”

“I thought I’d kick back a bit. Try out this thing they call… relaxing.”

“And how’s that going?”

“Boring. I don’t see what the fuss is all about.”

She laughed softly and realized she was getting too comfortable. She touched her fingers to her proposal, as if to draw discipline from it. “Mr. Athanasius—“

“Damn,” he whispered. “And I thought you weren’t upset with me anymore.”

Hermione arched an eyebrow. “Oh, I still am. You should’ve known better than to give me that bag and I shudder at the possible thoughts you had of me when you decided to give it.”

He cocked a smile. “Makes me shudder too, honestly.”

His tone definitely suggested that his shuddering hadn’t been the least bit unpleasant. It made her feel heady and it irked her that she couldn’t control herself completely whenever he was near.

Damn him! she thought bitterly. It’s almost as if he’s casting some sort of spell! She frowned. “Mr. Athanasius, let me make my intentions for meeting you here perfectly clear. I have a proposal.”

“Oh, you know I like those.”

She glared at him but failed miserably at coming across as annoyed.

He raised his hands, letting her speak.

She handed him the scroll and he took it, unrolling it to give it a quick read.

He began to smile. “You’re asking for my support. You’re… trusting me…”

She nodded in as businesslike a way as possible. “Yes. I do trust you, Mr. Athanasius. For the cause, you understand. I wouldn’t have asked for your help otherwise. Some people are more blessed than others, so it is for us graced with the capacity to help to actually do something with what we have. You are a kind and decent man, Mr. Athanasius, in spite of your little foibles and frolics with unassuming women.”

He chuckled at this and she could have sworn there was a hint of mockery in his eyes, like he thought she made too much of him.

She went on. “But I meant what I said the other day, and I was upset. I wasn’t just playing coy. What you did—“

Lysander shrugged, not looking the least bit bothered. “Was a mistake. It won’t happen again.”

“I won’t let it happen again.” She knew he wasn’t stupid. She couldn’t have more than a business relationship with him, but if she had to spell it out, she would, just so there wasn’t any confusion between them.

He smiled faintly. He rolled the proposal and took out his wand. Tossing the scroll in the air, he cast a charm and the roll disappeared. Putting his wand aside, he took the book he was carrying earlier and opened it to the first page.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked.

Arching her eyebrow, she shook her head. She saw the cover. It had some markings on it that made no sense to her.

“It’s one of the first-ever written thesis; about… well, it has a little about oppression and racism and… slavery, you might call it.”

Intrigued, Hermione leaned over, listening.

“There’s a foreword,” he said. “I’ve always found it moving.”

She remained silent. The melodic quality of his voice was hypnotic, and she felt her heart pounding in response.

“Do you want me to read it to you?”

“Y-Yes, please.”

He read from the book. “’I am ashamed that the color of your skin fills me with fear. I am mortified that my fear of change keeps my eyes closed. I am terrified that my blindness has kept me from learning. I have learned that all that stands between me and you is my ignorance.’ Eileithyia Athanasius, wife of Isidore Athanasius. They were my ancestors, and they spoke the Language better than I ever did.”

“What language…?”

He gave her the book. “The book is about five hundred years old. Preservation charms around it abound, and I’ve kept it by me since I was a child. I am lending it to you.”

She looked at it. It was in a language she didn’t recognize in the least.

Her brows knotted. “What is it?”

He smiled. “You will be able to read it soon enough.”

“But—“

“Trust me. You already do, anyway.”

She fell silent, drowning in his gaze.

He stared at her for Hermione didn’t know how long, and when she felt the touch of his hand on hers, she didn’t flinch away.

“I can give you what you want, Hermione,” he said softly. “You just have to let me.”

She frowned ever so slightly. “And how do you know what I want, Lysander? You don’t know a thing about me.”

“I do know something about you. Not a lot, but enough. You are lonely, not because you’re alone, but because the man you love doesn’t love you in return.”

The truth hit her like a sledgehammer to the gut. It was almost like she felt physical pain at his words. “You don’t know that he doesn’t!”

“I can read it in your eyes.”

She trembled at what seemed like an imaginary draft running down her spine.

“You just want him to love you, don’t you?” he asked.

She glared at him with grim determination, but before she could stop herself, words tumbled out of her mouth. “It’s too much to ask of him.”

“Love isn’t asked for. It’s given. I can give you that.”

Hermione shook her head, as if to block out his voice. “It only works if it’s given both ways, Lysander. You don’t give it and expect something in return.”

He smiled. “Oh, but we do expect, don’t we? Which is why it hurts so much when we get nothing.”

She gritted her teeth, half-incensed that he had her caught in this conversation. “What do you mean—“

“I’m laying it out in the open, Hermione. I can love you in any way you want; give you anything you ask; provide for you in every way you require, but I will expect something; the promise that you’ll be there when I need you.”

“There is absolutely nothing that you can give me to agree to—“

He smiled. “I am not talking about material things, Hermione. Since that day we met at the Ministry, tell me how I’ve made you feel.”

She reddened. “I absolutely will not—“

“Tell me.”

His voice was terribly persuasive in its soft insistence.

She swallowed. “Like I was wanted.”

“You were.”

“Like I was beautiful.”

“You are.”

“Like I was—“

“The only thing that mattered to me.” The hushed quality of his tone filled her senses. It was almost like a perfume. Sweet; insistent; intoxicating.

The warmth she derived from his words gave her pleasure for the briefest moment, but then it began to horrify her, and she wasn’t sure why. She tried to resist him; tried to say no, but she couldn’t. A headache pounded through her head and she pulled away physically, but the distance couldn’t be marked.

He cocked a smile. “You fascinate me, Hermione Jane Granger, and that’s the absolute truth. I can make you feel that way every blessed day of your life, for as long as you want me to. I can’t promise that you’ll learn to love me, you know, but as far as substitutes go, I’d say I’m not all that bad.”

She opened her mouth to protest and his fingers gently stilled her lips.

“You do not like that I use the word substitute, but that’s what I, and every man you think to replace him with, will be. Face it, Hermione, every man after Harry Potter will be nothing more than a replacement to you. A dummy you can direct your affections to.”

“That’s—that’s almost obscene,” she whispered in a tremulous voice.

“Almost, but not quite.”

She shook, not certain about the feelings he stirred in her at all.

Temptation.

I want what he has to offer.

No. No, you don’t. You’re drugged.

I’m lonely. Is it so bad to let him give you company?

Perhaps not…

Gathering her materials, she pushed herself away from him, not even bothering to organize everything in her bag as she scooped her things in it.

“I have to go,” she said hurriedly. “I can’t stay here. It’s late.”

Lysander watched her wordlessly, making no move to get in her way.

Frantically, she snatched her bag and muttered a quick goodbye to him.

Sir Mac a’Bhaird met her at the door.

“I must go, Sir Mac a’Bhaird.”

He nodded. “Very good, madam. Shall we see you again?”

For a second, she nonsensically wondered who else was there to expect her. “I-I don’t know.”

“Then it would be a welcome surprise,” he said. “Good evening to you.”

She nodded, hurrying out the library, through the doors and back out into Muggle London.

She wasted no time to find a secluded spot, and waving her wand, she apparated herself to Grimmauld Place while echoes of Lysander’s voice whispered in her head.

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Pronunciation guide:

Feargun Gilleasbaig Eircheard Mac a’Bhaird – FERgun giLESpik ERchart MakBEE

And here’s another one. Hope it measures up.

Thanks so much to my beta-reader, Aurabolt!

Standard disclaimers apply.

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Chapter Eleven – Taken with the Notion

In which all they needed was a whisper.

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Hermione apparated to an empty house. It was dark, lifeless, and the only sound disturbing the silence was the ticking of the Black Grandfather Clock in the warded cupboard under the stairs.

She was alone again, and it felt so very weighted that she could have fallen to her knees and cried out.

Her head throbbed, worse than ever, and she immediately sought to take some of Harry’s ache-away potion. The headache was so bad that she upped the dosage some. It had a bit of sleeping draught in it, but that was just as well. She could sleep off the heavy misery pressing on her.

It was all too much to bear. She didn’t want to go up to her soundless room and be alone with her thoughts. She needed some kind of life, and at that moment, the only thing she could think of was the viewing room.

The telly was not life, but it was a welcome substitute.

She groaned at the parallels of what she was doing now with what Lysander had been telling her in the last few days. It only emphasized the fact that he knew exactly what she was going through.

Hermione took the potion and dressed in her summer pajamas.

She went to the viewing room and settled on the couch. She flicked on the television set.

Flipping through channels, she thought maybe something funny would get her mind off the edge of things. She spotted a fat man in a dress.

And obese middle aged man wearing a tutu: perfect.

Twenty minutes into the show and she still wasn’t laughing. She was, in fact, feeling quite sleepy and feeling dreadfully miserable. Her mind continued to process the thoughts that had so plagued her when she first got home.

And so she let herself think about what happened in the library. The things Lysander said to her; the feelings it invoked. She recalled his promises, and how, for a brief moment, she had wanted to give in.

Since when have I been so weak? she wondered drowsily; miserably.

Everyone gives in to weakness at some point.

She closed her eyes, lowering her head to the cushion.

You’ve always known Harry can’t return your feelings. What makes the hurt different than what it was before?

Lysander is the difference. Lysander makes you forget.

A tear slipped down her cheeks.

She didn’t want to forget, did she?

Sometimes, you do.

Sighing, Hermione rubbed her tears away.

You knew this day would come.

What day?

The day when you’d have to let go of Harry.

I’ve never held him back.

No, but sooner or later, he’ll notice, and maybe you wouldn’t have to tell him, but being Harry, he wouldn’t want you to suffer. Being Harry, he’ll say nothing, while silently, the guilt eats at him, and yet he wouldn’t know what to do with you. So you’ll make it easy for him; help him get through it, the way you always do.

I don’t know if I can.

Yes, you can. You’ve died for him once. Living for him should be manageable.

She sighed in the dark as the light of the television played off her skin.

Tell him. Moving on would be simpler that way, and perhaps you don’t have to resort to taking someone else’s love for the sake of sanity, because you don’t want to forget. You don’t want to forget at all, no mater how painful remembering could be…

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Harry stepped out of Department of Mysteries and trudged the silent hallways leading to the stairs.

It was dark and eerily silent.

He had made his way down to the ninth level earlier through the dungeons and it wasn’t much different. It looked as empty now as it was when he first arrived, yet he felt something nagging in his brain.

That would be the Dedisco spell that Unspeakable cast on you, I think.

He frowned. He wished that Unspeakable hadn’t erased his memories pertaining to the Unspeakable’s identity. If he ever had the notion of going back to the Department of Mysteries for further help on the same matter, he’d want to be able to consult with the same person.

The Unspeakable said he’d… she’d… oh, bloody hell, I can’t even remember if it’s a man or a woman!

Annoyed, he emerged from the dungeons and made his way to the fireplaces.

The Unspeakable promised to contact me if he… she had anything.

After Harry left the Auror Department that evening, he had gone straight to the Department of Mysteries to see if anyone could shed some light into Bespelling Charms.

Knowing that everything he said there would be kept secret, he hadn’t been cautious about disclosing everything he had found out about Lysander Athanasius, and why it was so important that Harry find out why he thought Athanasius so repulsive. Somewhere in the course of his conversation with the Unspeakable, he had mentioned Hermione, and it was because of this that the Unspeakable took such great interest.

The Unspeakable had many questions, and she, possibly a he, took down notes every so often with a Quick Quill Quoter.

All things considered, Harry remembered everything about the conversation, except who or what the Unspeakable was.

At any rate, it didn’t matter, as he felt an overwhelming sense of trust for the same Unspeakable that promised to contact him should significant information turn up.

Harry looked at his watch. It was ten. Hermione said she’d be home.

He arrived at the fireplace and he flooed to the atrium. He had the phone booth all to himself, and as soon as he reached Muggle level, he apparated to Grimmauld Place.

In the darkness of the house, he saw the soft glow of the television in the viewing room. The sound was down and he wasn’t sure if the soft sniffling came from the telly, or from her.

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Hermione heard the crack and knew Harry had arrived.

She wondered briefly if he was angry with her, or if Remus gave him her message at all.

It hardly matters. After tonight.

She didn’t call out to him. Somehow, if she had some excuse to put it off, yet again, she would take it, but then the light of the television would betray her to him, if not the soft sound of her sniffling.

“Hermione?”

She blinked drowsily as she took calming breaths, hoping she would sound normal when she spoke. “Hey, Harry.”

She didn’t. She sounded nasal, and she cursed under her breath, because now he’d know she was crying, and he’d asked. She wouldn’t be able to put it off anymore.

She remained stretched out on the couch, trying to hide her face in the pillows, but she wouldn’t be able to keep anything from him if he went to her.

He was by her in an instant, looking so terribly concerned for her that what she had to say to him was all that kept her from throwing her arms around him. He whispered her name gently, soothingly.

“Why are you crying?” he asked, gentler still. He reached out to her, to take her in his arms probably, but she squirmed away.

She couldn’t bear to have him touch her now. If she let him, she would falter. “N-No… don’t touch me.”

She wished she had said it better than that, but any less would have prompted him to do the exact opposite. He didn’t insist. Instead, he looked at her with such worry that she had to wonder whether having him touch her had been a better alternative.

He brought out his handkerchief and this she took, wiping her eyes and cheeks as dry as she could get them. “What… what happened?”

There was a careful edge to his tone, as if he were afraid to tip some kind of balance. She understood it for what it was. He was wondering if Lysander had made her cry.

In a way, Lysander did, but Hermione wasn’t about to tell Harry that. He would definitely take it the wrong way.

“I just—I just made myself cry, Harry,” she whispered. “I’ve been thinking a lot and—“ She took a deep breath. “I’ve come to realize a few things, is all.”

He settled himself on the floor beside the couch. He wasn’t going anywhere. Mindful of what she told him earlier, he didn’t touch her, but he stayed close.

She gave him a plaintive smile.

“I’m listening, Hermione.”

She recognized the words as her own and remembered how much she meant them whenever she said them to Harry or Ron. She knew instinctively that she could trust him to listen. “I’ve been thinking about love.”

He was still; frozen actually.

Did he see what was coming? Had she scared him?

When he didn’t take off and run, she figured it was a pretty good sign for her to go on; more so when he asked, “What about it?”

“That’s it’s complicated, and wonderful and powerful.” She let out a breath, turning on her back to look at the ceiling. Lethargy was pressing down on her eyes right now, but the rush of emotions was pumping that last bit of adrenaline she needed to get through this conversation. “I spoke to Lysander tonight and he told me he can love me… or make me believe he does. I’m not sure what.”

Harry said nothing, and she was glad for it. Any kind of tirade from Harry would’ve made this harder.

“It’s… “ She searched for a word and found it. “…disturbing when I began to convince myself that being loved and making me believe I’m loved is the same difference. But when I think about it more, it’s easy to let myself be fooled, yes? When I’m with Lysander, he makes me feel beautiful, and desired and fascinating and… well, so many nice things that I couldn’t help but—give in sometimes, you know?”

His breath caught, but still he said nothing, the intensity of his gaze the only sign that he was really, really listening to her. She looked in his emerald eyes and it was almost as if something inside it was dying. She couldn’t be sure.

“It feels good, I suppose,” she said, thinking she couldn’t stop her words, or she’d lose her place. “He promised that he’d make me feel like that for as long as I wanted. And it’s… it’s so terribly tempting, but…”

Something lit back up in his eyes. “But?”

She chuckled bitterly. “It’s still not love, isn’t it? I mean, for him it might be. But for me… it’s not love. I know what love looks like. I’ve seen it. What I feel for Lysander can never be love. But I’m afraid that I’d want what he has to offer anyway, because the man that I do love doesn’t want me, and that hurts. It hurts everyday, and that pain goes away when Lysander is with me. Maybe if only for the numbness, I might give in during a moment of weakness.”

“Hermione…” He reached for her hand, and this time, she let him.

“I’m afraid, Harry, that if the numbness gets so intoxicating, I might forget what love feels like. I don’t want to lose love because I killed it. I don’t—I don’t want to look like Madame Rosmerta who seems to never want to feel anything ever again. When I saw her the other day… it was just so awful. I wanted to speak to her, convince myself that there was still something inside her that was alive; that people couldn’t become like that, but she didn’t speak to me. She said I should save my pity for others. I wasn’t pitying her, Harry. I just wanted to know if a person can be as cold as they say they are. Well, they can, and I don’t want to become that. I want to learn to get on with my life in spite of the pain, because that means I’ll never forget. The pain will be there always, but more a memory and less a heartache each day that passes. And that’s handy, I suppose, because what if we have to face something like Voldemort again? If I didn’t know what love was, if I had forgotten it, then I can’t use its power anymore, can I? I won’t be able to protect the ones I love and that’s bloody terrifying.”

She felt the pressure of his hands before he reached up and caressed her cheek gently.

“How can a man not love you back?” he asked softly. “He’s not worth anything if he can’t love you back.”

She shook her head, smiling sadly. “Don’t say that, Harry.”

“Why not? It’s true. You’re a wonderful woman, and you shouldn’t have to settle for just anybody. A man who can’t give you what Lysander says he can, and much, much more isn’t worth the ground you walk on. He’s dirt. Do you understand?”

“Don’t say that,” she whispered so softly it was almost like a breath. “Because it’s you, Harry, and you’re so important and precious to me. I can’t stand to hear you disparage yourself like that.”

She reached up to touch him, and he was staring at her, open mouthed and shocked.

She couldn’t bear to hear him say that he couldn’t love her that way. If he spoke the words, she would lose it completely. And resigned as she was, she was determined to tell him everything she felt.

Pulling him closer, she kissed him, and for a moment, he was frozen in her embrace, but seconds later he was responding to her kiss, soft lips upon hers. Eyes closed, she lost herself in the sensations, seeking to deepen their kiss with a tilt of her chin.

I’m dreaming, she thought, the fog of lethargy suddenly coming down upon her as the emotional effort of her confession exhausted her completely. Oh, yes, I am dreaming, and it’s such a wonderful dream at that…

Because this kiss felt like he did love her back; lips everything she had imagined them to be. The velvety touch of his tongue gliding against hers spread heat through her. The pressure of his hands buried in her hair and running up and down her arm made her feel desperately wanted.

Dreams are just so lovely that way…

She thought maybe she heard the whisper of her name and she smiled, eyes blinking languorously.

I won’t let him turn me away in this dream. Never in dreams.

And seconds later, tired like she had never been before and her mind soupy with potion, she drifted into heavy sleep.

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Hermione woke up to the dim light of a morning being born. The soft comfort of her own bed sheets making her sigh contentedly. It was morning, but very early morning. It was still dark outside.

For a moment, she was terribly disoriented, wondering about why it felt strange to wake up in her room.

Because you weren’t in your room when you fell asleep.

She gasped as the flood of memories from last night poured into her consciousness.

Oh, shit.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!!!

Stifling a groan, she pressed her hand to her eyes.

What have I done?

I told him, that’s what! And I kissed him!

Now you’ve done it, Granger! You’ve totally screwed it up!

But… had he been…?

Did he kiss back…?

No, silly, you were dreaming! I think…

The potion, she thought with a groan. That stupid ache-away! I must have taken too much!

Stupid, stupid, STUPID NINNY!!

She was going to cry. She just knew she was going to.

She realized Harry must have carried her to bed. Or maybe levitated her. At any rate, the soporific effects of the potion had kept her asleep throughout the transfer.

She didn’t even want to think about what Harry might be feeling for her at the moment. It was too devastating.

Hermione shifted just so she could bury her face under her pillow.

Maybe I can suffocate myself, or else never leave my pillow again.

But she found that her movements were hampered because a certain dead weight pressed against her back and waist.

Eyes widening, she felt for what it was and realized it was a hand, and an arm, and a body…

Someone was with her on her bed, and it could only be Harry.

Oh, dear God… did we…? And I can’t remember…?

Sod it, Hermione! How can you not remember if anything like that happened?

She examined herself in the dimness and realized she was still in her sleepwear, and a quick inspection of Harry behind her confirmed that he hadn’t even changed out of his clothes from the previous day.

Oh, honestly! Boys can be so disgusting! She winced at her own thoughts. Hermione, you ninny, stop being so obsessive and focus on the more important issue right now!

He stirred, muttering something under his breath which sounded suspiciously like her name, and his hold on her loosened. He didn’t wake.

It was beyond her to figure out what possessed him to bring her up to her room and stay with her, but if she were to hazard a guess, it would have to be everything she loved about him, how he was considerate, and kind and such a dear, sweet man…

Goodness, I don’t think I can deal with his rejection quite yet.

Quietly, she crept around her room and got ready for work.

It was dreadfully early. Five in the morning to be exact, but she had to get away, and if she had to be in the office by six, then by God, she was going to be there by six. It would give her enough time, at least, to brace herself for Harry’s inevitable: “Hermione, I’m sorry, but I can’t return your feelings. You’re my best friend. I will always love you as a best friend.”

“Bloody hell. Like I’d ever be ready for that,” she muttered softly as she twisted her hair up in a tight bun. Her hair was still wet from the shower, but she didn’t care. It would be harder to get her hair in a bun if it were dry. She was on the run, so there were details she could forgo just this once.

She was ready in less than an hour, and selecting her footwear from her shoe-closet, she clasped her Mary Janes and her briefcase in one hand and crept out of her room.

She hurried down the stairs as noiselessly as she could.

Mischief so-far managed, she headed out of the house, quickly slipped into her shoes and apparated to the Ministry of Magic.

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It was impossible to concentrate, of course. She tried. She really did. She liked to think that most of the things she did was productive, especially when all she wanted to do was sit and mope, but when her mind was running a hundred miles an hour on something not related to work, it was impossible to focus.

When she looked at her brief and read, “The defendant in question questionably alleged that he wasn’t where they said he was at the time the thing happened…” she knew she was about as useful as Cornelius Fudge in the war against Voldemort.

It wasn’t the first time Hermione found her brain to be uncooperative. Even the brightest witch of the age had her off-days, and whenever she was faced with such a situation, she resorted to the next best all-purpose solution to any problem: cleaning.

So clean, she did. She started with the waiting room and worked her way into the office. She could already imagine Heartcomb and Archibald freaking out at the lost mess. If she gauged those two correctly, they knew exactly where Centaur Semantics Simplified by Ed D. Hoarse and Mistaken Identities in Shapeshifters by Dee Dean Dewitt were not supposed to be.

But she figured they would manage. Lord knows the shelves were spitting out books just because they wanted attention. They were in a horrible state of disorder, after all.

She was half-way through the length of shelves when she heard Archibald and Heartcomb’s anguished cries from the front while they arrived for work.

“Egad, Granger! What have you done?” cried Heartcomb.

“Just a bit of cleaning, Mr. Heartcomb,” she called back in a soothing tone. “No need to panic. Just tell me what you need and I promise I will find it for you.”

“But the books!” moaned Archibald. “They’re—they’re—“

“In the shelves, where they should be,” said Hermione. “Honestly, Mr. Archibald, the disarray in this place! How do you find anything?”

Thus she elevated her obsessive tendencies to nagging.

“She cleaned, Thane! Cleaned! We’ll never find anything now!”

Hermione rolled her eyes and let them stew on the scourgified state of the office. They needed something to talk about during morning coffee, anyway. Griping about how clean everything was would be good for them.

She went back to her task and she labored to return a book to a top shelf. She tiptoed.

I’m not that small! she thought stubbornly. She refused to use her wand and resolved to get that book up there if she had to climb on the rung of the shelves to get it done.

She froze when she felt someone press against the length of her from behind, gently taking the book from her upraised hand and slipping it into the shelves for her.

The smell of freshly soaped skin, zest-scented hair and the very presence that was him told her who it was.

She turned abruptly, falling back against the shelf when Harry didn’t budge.

“H-Harry! U-Umm, what are you—“ She reddened at his steady gaze, losing her trail of thought.

He didn’t seem upset, and for all his staring, she noted affection in his eyes. He seemed anxious, and his body language suggested he wasn’t going to let her get past him through the aisle.

She leaned back, waiting for him to speak.

He did. “You could’ve levitated it, you know.”

She hadn’t quite expected that. She blushed. “Y-Yes, well, you could have, too, but you didn’t.”

“That’s because I can reach it.”

She wasn’t sure what she should say next. “Right.”

Perfect logic, Hermione.

“Why didn’t you wake me up when you left for work?” he asked softly, throwing her for another loop.

Goodness, this is an emotional ambush, is what it is! She wasn’t prepared for this tender assault.

The way he leaned his hand up on the shelf behind her was intensely distracting, as if his beautiful green eyes weren’t bad enough.

“I—“ she stammered. “I didn’t want you to feel awkward… after what I said last night. I’m not… I’m not expecting you to return my feelings, Harry. I just—I just really needed to kiss you last night, and—thanks, for not turning me away. I knew you wouldn’t. You’re such a kind man that way, but I’ll be fine, now. You don’t—really—you don’t have to tell me you only think of me as—well, your best friend. I know that already, and I will always cherish that, just that I can’t go on pretending anymore. I just had to tell you, because there are so many thoughts and feelings swirling in my head these days… so yes, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I’ll move out of Grimmauld Place if it gets too awkward for you. I really don’t mind, Harry. It’s my fault… so… there…”

It was, to her, the lamest closing ever. She lowered her gaze, partially embarrassed, but also partially relieved that she had gotten it over with.

He gently tilted her chin up with the touch of her fingers.

She was completely unprepared when his lips descended upon hers, engaging her in a kiss that was infinitely more moving than what they shared the previous night.

The sweet caress of his tongue laced fire through her, and the press of his lips was possessive enough to thrill her.

She didn’t bother to figure out why he was kissing her this way; it was so easy to get lost in it, so she wrapped her arms around him and responded in all the ways she dreamed she would.

It was decidedly a kiss of the knees-turned-to-jello-variety, and she found herself falling back against the shelves again, depending on Harry to hold her up, and hold her up he did, enfolding her in his strong arms as the kiss lingered.

When finally, they pulled apart, Hermione could have slid boneless to the floor.

“Oh…” she breathed, blinking languorously. “… my!”

It almost seemed he was surprised by that reaction, but he smiled briefly before he began to press kisses all over her face; on her eyelids, her nose, the corner of her mouth, and when his lips traveled to her jaw and neck, the kisses slowed, with soft, intimate suction. He certainly seemed to be enjoying himself.

She closed her eyes, an involuntary, contented smile spreading on her lips. “O-Oh my… Harry… ”

“You’re not going anywhere, Hermione,” he murmured in her ear between the slow kisses. “You’re staying right where you are… with me, because you mean more to me that anyone and anything in this world and I’ve been a bloody idiot for being too afraid to tell you.”

She pulled away from him to stare him in the face, not quite believing what she was hearing. “Y-You’re not an idiot!”

The moment she said it, she realized how spectacularly inane her words were. Really, she could’ve said something better, like, “Oh, you mean so much to me, too!” or even “Kiss me again!” but she supposed Harry’s lips short circuited her brain, somewhat.

“I am,” he said. “Two and a half years, Hermione. I’ve loved you for two and a half years.”

“I’ve loved you forever, and I knew it in the fourth year. I think I rather botched it up worse than you.”

He obviously didn’t know what to say about that. He seemed to struggle with the thought a bit before he decided he didn’t need to say anything. So he just kissed her again, and it was a lip-lock even more engaging than the last.

Maybe it was the high his touch brought, but somehow, she had managed to convince herself that everything Harry had done for her in the last few months suddenly made perfect sense.

Of course he loved her. That would explain a lot of things, now wouldn’t it? The looks they exchanged, the way he held her, the way he took care of her, the way he disdained the men who paid her attention.

She shuddered. She rather liked that he had been jealous all this time, even if she would never, ever admit that it pleased her more than she was wont.

When they separated, she was gasping for breath.

“Good Lord, Harry!” she breathed. How could she get so taken by a kiss? Did he practice it or something? Or was he just naturally fantastic at it?

“I couldn’t believe what you were telling me last night,” he said against her lips. “I thought I was going to lose you to that—that prat!”

She tiptoed to catch more of his lips. “Never!”

“But you said you were tempted—“

She cut his words off with a kiss and he happily obliged her by responding to it.

“And then—“ he paused to suck softly on her lower lip “—you kissed me… I thought I had died and gone—“ he paused with a groan as he let her tongue roll lazily against his “—and gone… well, somewhere really, really good.”

“Harry,” she whined softly. “You should’ve said something!”

“I didn’t think you saw me that way.”

She sighed, and out of sheer frustration—wasted years—really, she almost wanted to cry. “Good gracious, and I thought I was paying close attention to you…”

“And you gave me advice about women! Why?!”

She pouted. “I just wanted you to be happy!”

“Shite… what a mess…”

“Well, goodness, I’m not exactly of the Cho and Ginny, variety! How the hell was I supposed to know?” she said defensively.

He sighed, tilting his head back helplessly to the heavens, or probably just the WizCOF ceiling. “You’re of the Hermione variety, Hermione. What I feel for you has absolutely nothing to do with Cho or Ginny. I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

“Do you really mean that, Harry?” Her mind was going on overdrive again. She could have taken a book and hit her head with it repeatedly. Was this really happening? Was this, really?

She couldn’t believe any of it, but oh—he was quite warm and real. And he was holding her. It was wonderful; more than she ever imagined it would feel.

“What if I told you I’m not of the Krum or Lysander or even Ron variety?”

She scowled. Well, that was absolutely non sequitur!

“Harry!” she cried. Then she paused, realizing that he had just gotten his point across.

He laughed, pleased that she understood, and he kissed her again.

Hermione thought there was perhaps nothing better than snogging the best friend you’ve loved for the better part of your life on a Friday morning, so she let him, and she let herself, too.

She pulled herself closer against him. She had wanted this for so long, and now that it was happening, she needed to experience it in every possible way.

When his deepening kisses began to elicit moans from her throat, she had a vague feeling that perhaps they had to stop. She was at work for goodness sake, and they were acting like ruddy hormonal teenagers!

But it felt so terribly good kissing him like this, and it would be a shame to stop.

He groaned at the sound she made, pressing her bodily against the shelves. He pulled away momentarily, hissing through his teeth. “Good Lord, Hermione…”

“We really have to stop now,” she managed to mutter through their kiss.

He mumbled something about making up for lost time when Heartcomb’s yell from beyond the shelves cut through the pleasurable haze like a scalpel.

“Granger! My quills have been decimated! Where are they?”

Harry muttered a curse and something disparaging about senile, impotent men.

She slapped his shoulder pertly. “Harry, be respectful!”

“Well—“

She made up for the corporal punishment with a tenderly placed kiss. “I’ll talk to you later, Harry. I must get back to work.”

“So do I, but you don’t see me going—“

“Harry!”

“Alright, fine. Lunch. I’ll come by and pick you up…” He planted one last breathtaking kiss on her lips, looping his arm around her waist. His hand began to make its way south of her back and she waited for his touch quite excitedly.

“Granger!” cried Archibald from way up the office.

“Bugger!” Harry hissed, separating from her. “Those fools can’t do shite without you—“

“Go now,” she said, pushing him out to the main aisle.

Archibald stood at the other end of the office. “Where in heaven’s name are Draco Malfoy’s briefs?”

Harry turned to her. “Look here, I don’t think I’m comfortable about you keeping Malfoy’s underpants.”

“Case briefs!” she cried, sputtering into a laugh. “Harry, just… I’ll see you later, alright?”

He smiled, caressing her cheek gently. “Later.” He gave her a quick kiss on the forehead as he turned to leave.

She watched him go, hands in his pockets. He was whistling, and there was a certain bounce to his step.

Archibald glared as Harry passed him. Harry dealt him a jovial salute.

He left with Archibald watching him.

When Harry was gone, Archibald turned to her. “Granger, that boy is batty!”

Hermione grinned.

“Well, then, Thane,” said Heartcomb from his office. “I suppose that means he’ll fit right in with us!”

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Harry took Hermione to lunch at the Cocina de la Madre, mostly because it was quieter there and because it was such a cozy place.

They were led to a relatively secluded table for two. When they sat, Harry began to hitch his chair closer to hers, only to find that she was doing the same thing.

They looked at each other and he broke out in delighted smile. She chuckled, blushing a bit.

“If I wasn’t so happy, all this sap would make me sick,” she muttered.

He laughed softly, draping an arm on the back of her chair and moving as close to her as he could. He watched her face, reveling in the brightness of her eyes, and the glowing blush on her cheeks. He thought she was positively lovely.

Some of her hair had come loose from her bun, and for someone like Hermione who was always the picture of perfect poise, this mildly disheveled state was as sexy to him as anything.

Never minding that they were in a public place, he kissed her, coaxing her tongue to do that wonderful thing it was doing that morning. Her soft, accommodating lips felt luxurious. It was beyond him to understand how he had managed to deprive himself of her kiss in the last nineteen years of his life.

They separated, and he felt the hot touch of her breath on his lips. It made him want more.

“Oh my…” she whispered.

He was really beginning to love those two words to distraction.

The waiter seemed to take their momentary separation as an opportunity to ask them what they would want to drink.

Who the hell cares? thought Harry in lazy satisfaction.

Grinning at his hypnotized state, she ordered non-alcoholic drinks for them.

“We’re going back to work, so…” she said by way of explanation.

He smirked. “We are? I think maybe I’d rather stay here all day.”

She grinned, her fingers flirting with the ties of his office vest. “You understand that I’d love that, but Heartcomb and Archibald would simply fall apart without me.”

He let her play with the laces, liking how she twirled the ties around her fingers possessively; it was rather hot, actually. He kissed the soft flesh just behind the lobe of her ear, tasting the skin there ever so lightly.

She squirmed and made a sound. She seemed to like what he was doing, because her hand came up to hold his head gently in place. Her fingers in his hair felt electrifying and he was more than happy to trail slow kisses down her neck.

He could vaguely tell that their drinks were being placed on their table and the waiter coughed uneasily.

Harry didn’t care much, but Hermione placed their order in a dignified tone. Never mind that he was nipping her ear and smelling her berry-scented hair.

The waiter left in a hurry.

She laughed softly. “The waiter was dreadfully embarrassed.”

“Tell him to sod off. I have a lifetime of remedial snogging to catch up on.”

She smiled, running a finger lightly along his jaw. “We have to talk some time, Potter…”

He returned her smile, his climbing passion calming with the soothing tone of her voice. He reached up and gently ran his thumb over the apple of her cheek. “Then we’ll talk.”

She put her hand above his. “Harry, you are my best friend… but I’m not sure if I really know what that means, between us. I’ve always done things for you because I was in love with you, even when I didn’t know I was in love. I’m not sure if I ever marked the difference between love and friendship.”

“Of course you did. And you know the difference, don’t you? If you didn’t, you might be snogging Ron right now.”

Her eyebrow twitched, and Harry almost laughed at the idea of Ron and Hermione snogging in the common room like Ron and Lavender. Almost.

“I don’t believe that ever would have happened,” she said in a careful tone. “Everyone used to tell me that Ron and I had this ‘sexual tension’ thing going for us, but honestly, all that fighting just made me miserable. Besides, when you’re snogging or shagging someone, isn’t sexual ‘chemistry’ more important?”

He certainly hadn’t been prepared to answer sex questions just yet. “Well… I s’pose…”

She waved the question away. “Between you and Ron, it was always you. There was hardly a doubt in my head, just that it was obvious you didn’t want me, and that I was willing to settle for—well…”

“Ron?”

“Don’t tell him I said that. It will hurt his feelings abominably. I did fancy him for a spell, mind you, but… ” she shrugged.

“Of course I won’t tell him that. But for what it’s worth, he really thinks that you would have been miserable together, too.”

She frowned. “Wonderful. The man I was willing to ‘settle with’ was dumping me even before we got together. That’s another notch on my loser belt.”

Harry laughed, rubbing his lips lightly on her cheek before kissing it. “You are not a loser, Hermione. You never were. Ron just—well—he couldn’t handle you, is all.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Oh, and you can, Mr. Potter?”

“Well, you know me… always willing to take up a challenge—oww!”

She had pinched his ribs and he grinned, nonetheless amazed at how resolute she could be when something got in her head, no matter how small, or how big, the matter was.

“Seriously, Hermione… who knows you better than yourself?” he asked, softly.

She kissed him briefly. “Who else?”

“That’s right. And we’ve always known each other, in a way, from the very moment you came looking for Trevor in our cab.”

A giggle escaped her, endearing her to him even more. “How you must have hated me back then. All bossy and high and mighty.”

“I didn’t hate you. I was thinking, ‘This girl’s not eleven in the head. She’s eleven, but she’s—like—going on forty.’ You were amazing, actually! I wasn’t quite sure what to make of you, but even then, I knew some of you, didn’t I?”

She laughed. “I think maybe you did, Harry! At least you didn’t think I was a nightmare.”

“Never thought you were. I thought it was hilarious, the way you’d get on Ron’s case. Le-vi-OHH-sahh!”

“Oh, is that why you saved me from the troll?”

He grinned. “Maybe. I’m not quite sure what possessed me, but I just knew you were going to be in trouble and that I didn’t want anything like that happening, especially not because Ron drove you to that bathroom. And then when you told McGonagall that lie to get us off the hook, I was hopelessly in love with you.”

She hit him playfully. “You were not in love with me.”

He pretended to think about it. “Probably not, but I desperately wanted to keep you as a friend. I’d just turned eleven, you know. I didn’t think about snogging girls until four years later.”

“And by your count, you didn’t think about snogging me until seventh year.”

“Well, you know, being best friends with you was so comfortable, Hermione, among other good things about it. I didn’t fancy things like snogging getting in the way of what we had. Your friendship was so important to me.”

She smiled. “I know.”

“Then Ron fancied you so it would’ve been pretty rotten of me to—“

“Ron thought he fancied me.”

He shook his head. Ron wasn’t a super brain in many things, but Ron certainly knew what he liked. “He did fancy you, for real, but he thought you were too important to him to just snog without a second thought. I reckon he thought about it too much, was the problem. Besides, if he played you, he knew he’d get it from me.”

“If he played me, he’d get it from me.” She tugged at his laces.

He stifled a growl of delight at that. Who knew a bossy Hermione could turn him on, so? It probably showed in his eyes, because he noticed the blush rising in her cheeks.

“So,” she began. “Are we going to tell him?”

Slightly distracted, he had to scramble to reorganize his thoughts. “Tell him?”

“About us.”

“Oh! That, yes… well, that’s not going to be much of a problem. He—ahem—knows how I feel about you…”

Hermione frowned, thumping her hand heavily on the table in annoyance. “You tell him but you don’t tell me?”

He rolled his eyes. “We’ve gone over that.”

“Right. I’m just pissed, I suppose, that you two can go and talk about me and I couldn’t go talk to either of you about any of it. I love the both of you, you understand, but sometimes I wish I had girl friends to talk to.”

“You had girl friends!”

“Oh, yes, right! I can talk to Ginny, your ex! Or maybe to Lavender, Ron’s ex! Or why don’t I just go to Parvati, no one’s ex but the Daily Prophet’s gossip columnist?”

Harry paused. “I see your point. Sorry ‘bout that.”

“It’s not your fault,” she muttered. “If it were Lavender and Parvati who rescued me from the Troll, I don’t know if I’d be up to telling them things anyway.”

Harry’s brain hurt just thinking about Hermione giggling with Lavender and Parvati… in Divinations, even!

“Honestly,” she said, her smile returning. “I wasn’t ever quite one of the girls, was I? I didn’t even think you saw me as one.”

He laughed at this, eyebrow arching as he let his laughter settle into a smile. “Are you joking? The thing I loved most about you was that you were a girl. Ron’s my best mate, you understand. We’re both blokes and we understand each other on a level wholly unattainable by the opposite sex. We don’t have to talk if we can settle things with fists, Quidditch or a pat on the back; that doesn’t make my friendship with him better than yours, but it doesn’t make it less, either. With you, because you are a girl, it’s about talking, and being sensitive and being affectionate. I liked that so much. You were my special girl, and no one but Ron could understand that. Now we’re together… I’ll take good care of you, Hermione.”

She smiled. “You always took care of me.”

He grinned, wiggling his eyebrow. “Well, this time, I expect something in return.”

“Harry!” She laughed, but she proceeded to “return” the care he had given her in the most accommodating manner.

They managed to talk more when their food arrived.

There were quite a bit of things to catch up on. While they had hardly spent any time apart in the last eight years, the barriers of their hidden feelings had kept quite a few things from each other’s awareness. With the barriers suddenly gone, new thoughts came pouring out, gaps were filled in and questions were explained.

Harry loved it all. Hearing her tell him how third year was one of her favorite memories, holding him while they rode on Buckbeak’s back, and how pivotal fourth year was to her feelings. She spoke about moments in the fifth year that meant so much to her, and she admitted to him how sixth year had been such a difficult time for her.

“Well, there was Ginny, of course,” she said, reddening. “But it was—it was everything else about you and Ron. I felt somewhat faded in the background that year, and I hadn’t been useful to anyone at all, and I thought maybe that was the problem.”

He looked at her sheepishly. “It had nothing to do with you, Hermione. Ron and I were terribly preoccupied.”

She smiled at him wanly. “Yes, you were. And then you hated me for getting on your case with the Half-Blood Prince…”

“I didn’t hate you.”

She shrugged. “I was a terrible nag, I admit. I lacked attention, and I was most horrible to Ron. Then Ginny told me off about Quidditch and it was like everything I ever did meant nothing because I can’t appreciate Quidditch like everyone else.”

“I’m so sorry I let her say that…”

“Don’t be silly, Harry, it wasn’t your fault. Though I could tell you were rather pleased someone had the guts to tell me to shut up.”

He sighed, pulling her close. “It wasn’t like that.”

“I hated that year for many reasons. You and Ron didn’t need me, and that’s all I ever really knew, you know. To be needed. It was my function in the trio. So when you stopped needing me, I—well, I panicked. What else was I there for?”

It somewhat pained him to hear that. She had said something similar, when she was yelling at them that night she got home late. He wished he could have told her that what they wanted of her was more than just books and cleverness.

But why wouldn’t she think that? he asked. Every time she got confined to the hospital wing, neither he nor Ron had ever been there to see her awake. She had been there for them, but not quite the other way around, right? He had taken her for granted when he should have treated her better.

Could have; would have; should have… well, I’ll just have to make up for all that, won’t I?

“Sixth year was… a strange year,” he said.

“It was a horrible year. I was mean to everyone, nobody liked me, I treated Hagrid like dirt and—and Dumbledore died. Nothing was good about that year.”

He nodded. “Seventh year wasn’t much better, now was it?”

“No. I lost my parents.”

“I would’ve done anything to get them back for you.”

“I know. You and Ron were wonderful. You both really took care of me.”

He took her hand and squeezed it. “First time you ever needed us. Ron and I were determined to make it count.”

“Did you—did you do something to Ernie McMillan then…?”

Harry hesitated. “Ron spoke to him. Ask him.”

She glared. “Maybe I won’t. I’ll let Ron have that, gratis. Consider it as a token of my appreciation for his sensitivity.”

He grinned, laughing inwardly at Ron’s good fortune. He played with the loose ringlets of hair brushing against her cheek. “So… Ernie McMillan… nice chap, wasn’t he?”

“Nice enough.” Her eyebrow arched momentarily as she pushed a caper around on her plate.

“You said you and he—“ he cleared his throat “—snogged, was it?”

“Once.”

“So you and he didn’t…?”

She shot him a playful sneer. “And what are you going to do about it if we did, hmm, Potter?”

He felt himself redden. “Nothing, really. Just… maybe… I can find out where he lives—“

“Harry!”

“Kidding! I’m only kidding!” He gave an awkward chuckle. “Just so I don’t ‘accidentally’ hex him when next we meet.”

She glared. It didn’t exactly scare him.

He might have said something along the lines of liking it when she got riled up for nothing, just before he leaned it to take a kiss.

It was easy to forget they were in a restaurant. It’s what he liked best about muggle places. They didn’t know him; they weren’t going to make a fuss about The Boy Who Lived, shamelessly snogging Hermione Granger.

In the Cocina de la Madre, he was just some bloke who couldn’t keep his hands off his girlfriend.

A delightful moan escaped her, then she pulled away, embarrassed that she had lost herself for a moment.

There was no way he could keep himself off her after that.

He cast a Transeo charm over them, and he whispered that she didn’t have to worry about getting noticed, and would she please do that wonderful little sound again.

He was generously rewarded for his efforts.

The Cocina de la Madre was rapidly becoming his favorite restaurant and he would be most happy to bring his business to them again.

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Hermione arrived at Grimmauld Place that evening wishing Harry could have been with her.

She had a lot of work to do in the WizCOF when she got back from her very satisfying lunch, and she wasn’t able to leave the office until after seven thirty.

When she dropped by the Auror department, she saw that Harry had just finished a meeting with Shacklebolt, Tonks and Remus.

Hermione came up to the desk he shared with Gail. “Let me guess; Death Eater sighting.”

Harry gave her an apologetic smile, rubbing her arm affectionately.

She had smiled back, needing no explanation. She turned to his partner. “Hullo, Gail. You running with this bloke tonight?” She jerked her head towards Harry.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” replied Gail, winking.

Hermione squeezed his shoulder, looking at him pleadingly. “Be careful.”

He smiled, exchanging significant looks with her. “Always.”

He did no more than cup her face and caress it as he left to join the other Aurors, but his brief gaze was searing enough to shoot rippling warmth through her.

Gail had merely arched her eyebrow, causing Hermione to blush.

So Hermione headed on off home by herself, remembering a time that she would never have let Harry run off to danger by himself.

Now, standing in the middle of their living room at home, Hermione noted with pleasure that the lights were on all over the house.

“Ron?”

“Here!” he cried from the kitchen.

She smiled upon seeing that he was looking rather studious with all the papers surrounding him on the kitchen table.

“Thank Merlin you’re here,” said Ron. “I was getting hungry!”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “If it’s not homework, it’s food. Honestly, Ron! It’s nice to know I’m needed.”

“Well, it’s all you’re good for, isn’t it?”

She whipped her wand to pelt him on the face with a dirty dishrag. Years ago, she wouldn’t have gotten the joke. Things have changed, since then.

Ron tossed the rag aside with a mild protest, grinning despite himself. “Harry off chasing bad guys, again?”

“Umm-hmm.” She brought out some steaks she had begun marinating the other day.

Ron scoffed. “You’d think that after Voldemort, he’d be done with all that, eh?”

She smiled, taking out a skillet and heating it. “You think so?”

Ron gave it a moment’s thought. “On second thought, no. Wouldn’t be Harry if he just up and went Quidditch Pro, or something. If he was anything like that, he wouldn’t have went and saved you from the troll.”

She laughed, marveling at the parallel this conversation had with her conversation earlier with Harry. “No, I suppose not.”

Ron fell silent as she busied herself with some asparagus and leftover potato wedges. She turned the oven up to pre-heat. She thought Ron was busy with his papers, but when she looked over her shoulder, she saw that he was giving her a ponderous look.

“What?” she asked.

His brows knotted. “How’ve you been, Hermione?”

She laughed. “Well, that’s rather random, Weasley. You know how I’ve been.”

He shrugged. “Harry’s right. We’ve neglected you. Well, I have. At least he got to spend some nights and weekends with you. I can count the times I was there for you in the last few months.”

His concern touched her. “It’s alright, Ron. You had your thing going. You needed it.”

“I guess so, but I can’t help but feel that I have to make it up to you, big time.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Ron!”

“No, really. You were always there for me, even if you were nagging me the whole time.”

She laughed, smiling at him fondly. “I love you, Ron. You know that, don’t you?” And she knew he wouldn’t misunderstand her.

She was right.

“Well, duh. Of course!” he said. “And I—you know—“ he rolled his eyes “—love you too, Granger. Not the way Har—“ He stopped, and reddened. “Are you making steaks?”

“Not the way Harry does, you mean?” she asked, eyes twinkling. “Yes, I reckon, not. You don’t get snogging rights like he does.”

His eyes widened. “He’s told you…” he said breathlessly. “And you… you feel the same?”

She rolled her eyes. “Honestly! D’you think I’d let him snog me if I didn’t?”

“Well, he was so sure you didn’t see him that way!”

“Harry Potter can be wrong, too, you know.”

“Well then, that’s just—that’s just wicked! Kinda weird, I must admit… but wicked!”

She grinned. “I’m glad you approve.”

“I think this is a much better arrangement than the Harry-Ginny thing, because cor, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do if they started shagging. I mean, she’s my sister for Merlin’s sake!”

She scowled. “Alright, then, let’s not talk about that, please?”

“Sorry. So… does he snog better than Krum?”

“Ron!”

“I’m just—“

“If you must know, infinitely better, but Krum’s a poor comparison. Harry snogs much, much better than Lee, and that’s saying something.”

“Lee Jordan? That bastard! I knew it. I knew it! I saw him make googly eyes at you and I thought maybe he was just confused about what you were saying, because you can get that way a lot of times, you know; confusing.”

“Thanks, Ron.”

“Seriously. And you know what else has been bothering me? Did you and Ernie McMillan--?”

“Oh, honestly! Why do you all have to know if Ernie and I shagged? Even Harry tried to ask! It’s un-bloody-believable!”

“Well, you know, all that private space had to count for something.”

“It’s Ernie, Ron. Closest thing he’s ever come to turning anything on is a light switch!”

Ron liked that. He laughed. “You mean he never even tried with you?”

“Oh, he tried. It was pathetic. We snogged once, sure, and seeing as it did nothing for me, I figured that was the end of that, then the next day he goes to me and says, ‘What are your thoughts on the next level, Hermione?’ Honest to Merlin, I thought he was talking about N.E.W.T.s, the way he said it. When I realized he was talking about sex I was mildly afraid constant exposure to him would kill my libido completely.”

Ron thought this hilarious. “So it wasn’t Ernie. Lee?”

She glared at him. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Ron smirked.

She gave him an appraising look. “You know, Ron… maybe there is something you can do to ‘make it up to me’.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Oh? This doesn’t involve getting naked and putting on a bunny costume, I hope?”

“Goodness, where the hell did that come from?”

“There was this girl, see…”

Her piercing gaze stopped him.

“I guess you’re not too keen on knowing the details,” he muttered.

“No. As I was saying… Harry’s birthday is coming up.”

“And you want to throw him a party! Well, I’m absolutely down with that!”

“You realize this is important, Ron. He’s never quite had a real party for his birthday. The Dursleys certainly never threw him one and—well—we were all just too busy in Hogwarts and after that to throw him a proper celebration. So this has to make him feel special. We might make the guest list a bit larger than our immediate circle, but we’ll still keep it exclusive with people he knows rather well. Most importantly it has to be a lot of fun, so yes, I suppose with what I’ll be asking of you, there might be a bit of fanfare, but nothing that will drive him spare. You know how Harry gets when people go nuts about him; he gets this dazed look on his face…”

Ron grinned. “Seems easy enough. Where do you want to hold it?”

“Right here would be fine. Lord knows this place has to be livened up with something festive, don’t you think?”

“Agreed! But what do I have to offer in our dynamic little duo?”

“Well…” said Hermione with a grin. “I’m thinking maybe Harry rather misses playing a really good game of Quidditch…”

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A/N: Sexual tension resolved! At least as far as snogging is concerned, anyhow…

Next chapter, I consider a filler, but I think you’ll like it… ::wiggles eyebrows like a perv::

Author’s notes: I do thank my wonderful beta reader, Aurabolt who endeavored to read this NC-17 chapter. He doesn’t read NC-17 usually, but he did it for me. ;) Thanks!

Also, on the matter of Moon Phases, at this time of 1999, the moon was waxing. So there’s a bit of an anomaly with regard to this story, but I’ll just say that I’m flexing some fiction muscles, here. Life is good in the world of fantasy.

Standard disclaimers apply.

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Chapter Twelve – Present for His Birthday

Upon which Harry gets what’s coming to him.

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The week that came before Harry’s birthday was explosive with activity. Hermione was swamped with work from the WizCOF and Ron had begun portkeying all over the World. It was no fieldtrip for Harry, either. Death Eaters suddenly begun to pop out of hiding in the most unlikely places, as if determined to make Harry too exhausted to give Hermione the attention she deserved.

They were all so wrought with work that going home meant having dinner then passing out where sleep caught them. Three times for Harry and Hermione, it was in the viewing room, usually after a good round snog which they had probably hoped to take further at some point, but ended up forsaking for sleep.

It was somewhat sad, but they didn’t dwell on it, much. Their lunch breaks were always pleasant, anyway.

So on the 31^st day of July, which Shacklebolt had decided to make miserable, Harry was too exhausted to care that only Hermione and Ron seemed to remember his birthday.

It wasn’t so bad, really. Hermione’s tender loving care was enough to make up for the world of friends who forgot.

Ron’s drowsy, “Happy birthday, mate. I’ll give you your present, later. It’s not ready, yet. But don’t worry, it won’t involve one-legged women with eye-patches,” was most appreciated.

The reference would have to be an incident in the seventh year, when Seamus offered them to take a gander at his naughty Wizard’s Magazine. It would have been mighty interesting, seeing as the women weren’t clothed at all, but somehow, the one-legged-ness and the eye-patches (it was the Pirates’ Edition) sort of took some off the allure.

Hermione had asked what Ron meant, of course, but Harry thought it best not to go into any more detail than, “That would be Finnegan’s debacle.”

To her credit, she didn’t want to know anymore after that.

She had been less cavalier about her treatment of his birthday. First thing she did was hand over a packed breakfast.

“It’s freshly cooked eggs, sausage and a muffin. Coffee’s good, too. It’ll stay nice and hot. The chocolate chip cookies aren’t exactly standard breakfast fare, but it’s your birthday, so you deserve a treat.”

He had smiled at her, kissing her fitfully for her efforts. He didn’t usually have any breakfast at all during the weekday, but that was because he didn’t have time. He truly appreciated what she had made for him.

She said she had her present all wrapped up for him, but she preferred to give both of them later, when they didn’t have to go rushing about to get somewhere.

He tried desperately to keep his mind out of the gutter with regards to that.

He succeeded, mostly. Shacklebolt kept him busy the entire day doing silly, first-level auror things. It was fine, considering he was technically still an Auror-in-Training, but modesty aside, after having fought Voldemort and winning, first-level “threats” were as boring as hell.

By the time seven thirty came around, he was ready to call it a day and run into the sweet embrace of his dear Hermione.

So he was thoroughly put off when Shacklebolt came over to his desk and said, “Death Eater sighting in an abandoned warehouse in Islington. This is a big one. I’m sending most of the aurors in.”

“Right,” grumbled Harry, looking longingly at the door. Maybe Hermione would show up and demand that he be let off the hook this once. If anyone could do it, she can.

“Cheer up, mate!” said Gail. “At least this isn’t going to be as boring as everything else we’ve been assigned to today.”

“Can someone please tell Hermione for me that I’ll be back as soon as possible?” he called to no one in particular.

There were no volunteers. He sighed, writing a hasty note to Hermione and leaving it hovering visibly over his desk.

Reluctantly, he got up to follow his seniors.

They converged in the conference room. Him, Tonks, Remus, Gail, Shacklebolt and Mad-Eye Moody.

“I’ll follow with Dawlish and his team,” said Mad-Eye. “Make sure they get it right.”

Now that Harry thought about it, he realized that this was more serious than he thought. They were sending all the big boys to play, and that could only mean this Death Eater was dangerous.

Tonks held out a rusty frying pan. “All together now.”

Harry touched his hand to the portkey and he felt the woosh of magic transporting him.

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The warehouse looked little more than a giant tin can held together by rust and outfitted with one big door at the front.

The growth surrounding the warehouse hadn’t been tended to for years, and they had plenty of weeds to hide behind. The moon wasn’t all that bright, and it was halfway to waning.

Shacklebolt gathered them round. “Gail and Harry, you go on over to the back while Tonks takes the front. Remus and I will go inside and get him in there. We’re looking at a male, freakishly tall. Not much else to describe him since most of him was covered up, but he had the mark of a Death Eater on him, and seeing as the lot of you aren’t exactly the tallest sons of bitches this side of Islington, I don’t suppose you’d have trouble I.D.ing the bloke.

“The whole warehouse has been anti-apparated, so we can’t have him getting out. This is why you have to guard the exits. I don’t want anyone alerting him of our presence until Remus and I have him cornered, got that?”

Harry nodded. He didn’t like guard duty much, but fortunately for him, they always paired him with Gail, which meant he could leave her to do what they were told to do so he could do what he wanted.

When Shacklebolt sent them off, he and Gail took off in a quiet rush. They had to stay low to avoid being seen, but they had to move fast if they wanted to get anything done quickly.

It was quite a long run, seeing as the warehouse was big. When they got around to their position, they saw the back-entrance.

It was just a small door, really. Only big enough to let people and a few crates to pass through. The loading trucks that frequented warehouses would do better to park up front.

He and Gail crouched behind some old oil drums, waiting and staying alert.

Harry knew that as soon as he heard action coming from inside, he would leave Gail out here and slip through the doors. Shacklebolt would definitely get on his case, but he was always very careful. He didn’t want to put anyone in danger anymore than they already were. Most times, anyway, he managed to help bag the bad guy.

“So,” whispered Gail. “How are you and Hermione coming along?”

Well, he had expected that all week from Gail. He didn’t realize she would bring it up now, though.

“Perfectly. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, nothing. Just wondering, is all. She’s been looking rather glowy.”

“Glowy?”

“Oh, you know… lovelier. I didn’t think much of her the first time we met, to tell you frankly, but the more I see her, the prettier she gets. I’m still trying to figure out of it’s all her or if you had something to do with that.”

Harry kept his senses more attuned to the warehouse, but he couldn’t help but respond to Gail’s observations. “Much as I…” He perked his ears to something he thought he heard. After a moment, he decided he was hearing things. “… would like to take credit for her allure, it’s all her. She has that effect.”

“Well, then you must think she’s damn well gorgeous by now, don’t you?”

“Pretty much…” He replied, distracted. He had heard the sound again, and this time, he was sure he wasn’t imagining things. “Did you hear that, Gail?”

“Not really, Harry. Not all of us have bionic ears like you do.”

“Stay here.”

Gail sighed and rolled her eyes. “Here we go again! You always do this to me, Potter!”

“Guard the entrance,” he instructed, inching his way out of their hiding place already. “Anything that comes out of there, hex it.”

“What if it’s you?”

“Gail…”

“Right… far be it I’d be able to hex the great Harry Potter,” she muttered.

He sighed, but yeah, basically, that’s what he meant.

Harry took out his wand. Even if he could do wandless magic, he still needed the wand handy a lot of the time during these man-hunts. He cast a silencio on the door to keep it from creaking and slipped into the warehouse.

It was darker than he expected, and while he had decent night-vision, the total darkness would make stalking impossible to do, undetected. There were boxes, crates and junk everywhere. He’d be knocking things over and giving himself away the entire time.

“Occulus inlumino,” he whispered, tapping his wand to his glasses.

His glasses instantly gave him superb night-vision without casting a light. There were many advantages to being a four-eyed geek, he had often joked to himself.

He found his way around deftly, training his ears for any sound that might give the Death Eater away.

There was a scratching sound to the left of him and as he whirled to find out what it was, he held his wand at the ready.

Rats, he thought, seeing several of them scurrying by. Hermione hates rats.

Focus, Potter!

He stifled a sigh, creeping along a bit further into the warehouse. He didn’t know where he was going, but he was bound to catch someone if he got around.

Harry saw movement, but judging by the bald pate and gold-earring, he wasn’t about to start hexing. Shacklebolt wouldn’t appreciate getting hexed by his own trainee.

There was movement in the rafters above, like the flutter of wings. It was probable that any number of birds could be nesting up there, but if there was a Death Eater living here, it would make sense to have an owl living up with him. They would have to check the ceiling later.

Harry refocused his attention to the hunt, staying alert.

A loud shout and an explosion from deep within the warehouse floor shattered the silence. Harry acted quickly, rushing through the spaces and making way for himself by magically pushing crates aside.

It had sounded like Remus and he was absolutely not going to stand by and wait for further instructions.

There was smoke, and it smelled suspiciously like cinnamon. There was no visible fire. There was soot on the floor and some of the crates, cast in an outward motion from the center of a small clearing. He lumbered through just when Shacklebolt appeared from the other side.

“Potter, what did I tell you?” he hissed.

Harry didn’t care as he searched frantically for Remus. He kept his panic hidden. It was a lesson well-learned from the war.

Where’s Remus? he thought while the beating of his heart rose to a crescendo. Where the FUCK is Remus?

“I don’t see him, Kingsley,” he said, not bothering to answer Shacklebolt’s question. “Are you sure the wards are up?”

“I won’t even answer that,” Shacklebolt replied. “Take that side and I’ll take this. I suppose it’s you and I for now, Potter.”

Two silver messenger spells darted towards Shacklebolt from opposite directions and he sent them back immediately. Harry could only suppose they came from Tonks and Gail.

“Lord knows anyone listens to me in our department,” muttered Shacklebolt.

Harry followed Shacklebolt’s instructions this time, but only because it suited him. He hadn’t gotten far before the same explosion cut through the warehouse from where Shacklebolt had gone to a few minutes ago.

Swearing loudly, Harry rushed to follow the sound, only to be met by more smoke and even less evidence of what might have transpired. “Kingsley!” he yelled helplessly.

He cast messenger spells out, all at the same time, telling Tonks and Gail to keep their positions while informing Dawlish’s team—if they were out there—about what had so far transpired.

He rushed to the back, hoping his instincts were right in supposing that the Death Eater would opt for a rear exit as a better choice to the front, where aurors were more likely to be prepared with back-up.

“Harry?”

It was Gail, and it sounded like she was inside the warehouse.

“Gail, get back out there!” he shouted above the crates.

“Harry, wha—“ She screamed, followed by the all-too-familiar explosion.

Harry was filled with grim determination as he pushed his way to the rear exit.

Who IS this guy?

He was met with the same thick cinnamon smoke. It filled his vision and there was no sign of Gail.

There was movement around him and he didn’t think twice. He shot out an exploding spell with his wand, a binding hex following right behind it. Crate chips flew everywhere in a spectacular display of power.

“Heads up, Potter!” someone cried from behind him.

The voice was shockingly familiar as he whirled around, mouth agape. “Ron?”

Something was heading straight for him and he raised his hand just before it hit him. “Imobulus!”

It hung in the air, inches from his nose. It was a stinky old shoe.

He frowned. “What the hell is going on?”

“Wotcher, Harry!”

Harry turned, startled out of his skin. He was completely unprepared for the rubber chicken that Tonks was hurtling right at his face.

It connected with a splat, and Harry felt the overwhelming swoosh of a portkey.

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Harry stumbled gracelessly to the hardwood floor of wherever the hell the portkey brought him. He scrambled to his feet, wand at the ready but was shocked speechless at the blinking letters, the balloons, the lights and most of all, dozens of grinning people.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY HARRY!” they all yelled at once.

He gaped. There was Remus blowing a horn loud enough to wake the dead. There was Shacklebolt looking rather grim in spite of the smile on his face and there was Gail, throwing up party fairies so they can start sprinkling fairy dust over everything. And then of course there were the other dozen or so friendly faces he had come to love in his young life.

Hermione, the center of his universe, flashed him a breathtaking smile as she and Ron threw up exploding birthday greets, filling the air with a cacophony of “Happy birthday!” in the funniest voices as glitter and ticker rained down on him.

She jumped in his arms and only then did he find the sense to smile and laugh.

Tonks bumped him from behind waving the rubber chicken like a victory banner and Ron waved the other half of the stinky shoe.

“In case the first one didn’t work!” he later said.

Harry whirled Hermione in his arms and set her down, pointing an accusing finger at his co-Aurors. “You right bastards! You had me!”

A loud shout erupted from everyone, with Fred and George agreeing that it was the best joke of the season.

“That lady right there has shown a talent for the properly applied prank!” said Fred, bowing to Hermione.

George bowed right with him.

Harry’s jaw dropped as he turned to the woman in his arms. “You!”

She laughed. “Well, I couldn’t have done all this without the help of the aurors…”

Harry thought she was positively the most beautiful, most brilliant woman ever. He swept her into his arms and kissed her rather lusciously. As soon as the whooping sounds from everyone began, he dipped her down dramatically, eliciting rowdier shouts and catcalls.

When he brought them back up for air, she was all adorable blushes and sheepish looks, but it was well worth it.

But, oh, Hermione COULD kiss, even when she’s embarrassed as anything.

He exchanged loving smiles with her.

Ron clapped him on the back. “I was going to say I had some to do with it, but after seeing that, I didn’t want to take my chances!”

Everyone converged upon him, the women showering kisses and the men giving him breathtaking blows to the back.

The Weasleys, save for Percy, were there in full-force. Even Fleur and Gabrielle graced the clan with their ethereal beauty. And while the sudden recollection of Ginny being there, watching him snog Hermione, brought a blush to his cheeks, her friendly wave, complete with charm bracelet, eased some of his discomfort.

Molly fussed like anything, and Arthur waved a bottle of whiskey in his face. Most of everyone from the Order was there, along with old classmates like Neville, Seamus and Dean. His old Quidditch teammates had been invited, and so were several of his professors. Having McGonagall there was a bit disconcerting, but after she greeted him with as much warmth as he’d ever seen her express and then turn to Hermione with motherly attention, he felt certain that he couldn’t have celebrated his birthday without her.

Dobby and Winky appeared later, and it seemed Hermione had commissioned them to mind kitchen duties because they wouldn’t have come to the party otherwise. They expressed excessive gratitude at the invitation “Hermione Granger, Ma’am” sent them, but they couldn’t possibly come to a party and do nothing.

Hermione’s weak smile was confirmation enough of this. No doubt, she would have preferred to have them as guests, but where Elves were concerned, she was painfully understanding.

Music from the phonograph filled the air with jazz and swing as the drinks and food magically appeared on the tables. The music had Remus written all over it.

Harry loved it all.

He held Hermione’s hand the whole time as he hovered between friends, keeping her near enough when he didn’t have his arms around her shoulders.

A bit later, as Hermione stood nearby conversing with Lavender and Parvati, Harry saw another familiar face waving to him in his usual friendly manner from across the room. It was Lee Jordan.

Lee still had his dreadlocks, though they were shorter now. His job as a sports announcer gave him the celebrity he was destined for, and it was quite a surprise to have him show up for the party.

Harry managed to force his lips into a smile, nodding back a response as he raised his bottle of ale. Lee headed his way.

He nudged Ron who stood beside him exchanging dirty jokes with Seamus, Dean and Neville. Without removing his gaze from Lee, Harry spoke to Ron through his teeth.

“What the hell’s he doing here?” muttered Harry.

Ron looked and gave Lee a grin and a wave, replying without moving his lips. “You’ll thank me for it later. You’ll see.”

“Lee!” cried Harry and Ron in unison. It was the fakest thing Harry had ever heard. Fortunately, nobody noticed.

Hermione turned to offer her own greetings. “Oh, Lee! Ron said you were going to be here, but I wouldn’t believe it ‘til I saw it. How’ve you been?”

Lee grinned, exchanging cheek kisses with her. “Doing quite well, thank you very much! Harry! Been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“Very!” said Harry, his voice a tad pitched as he shook Lee’s hand. Much as he really liked Lee before, he couldn’t exactly take it in stride when Ron told him Hermione compared his snogging abilities to Lee’s. Sure, she said he snogged much better than Lee, but for her to use Lee as a comparison at all! Territory had to be marked immediately!

Lee exchanged pleasantries with everyone and Hermione actually separated herself from Lavender and Parvati to join their conversation.

Two shared private jokes between Hermione and Lee later, Harry just wanted Lee to go away.

Hermione and Lee shared an easy laugh about something witty Lee had churned out.

“Oh yes, he’s sooo funny,” grumbled Harry aside to Ron as he casually wrapped an arm around the front of her possessively.

Ron grinned.

“Lee!” yelled George from the other side of the room. “Stop kissing up to the savior of the world and get over here!”

Lee waved to George before begging his leave. “I have to go, but I’ll definitely talk to you again later, alright, Harry?”

“Sure thing, Lee,” Harry replied.

Lee left and when they were sure he was gone, Hermione turned to Harry and slapped him lightly on the chest.

She frowned. “Way to go, Harry! Why didn’t you just mark the line between me and Lee with your piss?”

Ron and the boys doubled over in laughter.

“What’d I do?” said Harry with the most innocent look he could manage.

“Goodness, Harry!” she huffed. “I’m going to go over there to talk to Minerva and Remus. You stay right here in your boys club until you can grow up!” She kissed his cheek before she left, though, so at least he was sure she wasn’t angry.

He smiled stupidly as he watched Hermione walk away. It was a delectable backside, she had. Possibly had to do with that nice little red and pale-moon clingy dress she had on, then again, he’d seen her in her worse clothes and he still managed to enjoy the view.

Seamus made a whipping sound and pretended to crack it at Dean’s ass.

“Oh, Hermione!” cried Dean in an exaggerated baritone as he threw his head back in dramatic bondage.

Ron and Neville’s laughter rang out through the room.

“Ha-ha, very funny, you guys,” Harry sneered.

After he bore several more jokes from his dorm mates disparaging his manhood, he quite happily moved on to speaking with Professor Flitwick and Katie Bell. Mad-Eye joined them later and didn’t say “Constant vigilance!” once, though Mad-Eye did whip out his wand when Fred exploded a cracker in the fireplace.

Harry was in the midst of exchanging spell theories with Flitwick when the lights were dimmed and a huge cake was brought out for him, magically levitated by Dobby and Winky.

There were twenty merrily bobbing candles on it and Harry smiled bashfully as the attention of the entire party was once again brought to him.

Hermione and Ron were suddenly on both sides of him and he draped his arms over them; the two people he loved most above everyone.

“Make a wish, Harry!” cried Bill.

“But zon’t zay eet out loud,” Fleur said.

Ginny sighed, rolling her eyes. “Of course he knows that!”

Hermione giggled, pressing her lips to his ear. “Make a wish…”

Her breath tickled him, and it sent pleasant shivers down his spine.

Harry thought about it briefly, and he was shocked to realize that he didn’t have anything to wish for. Everything he had wanted in life; everything he could have hoped for; he already had.

He had a home, a family, people who loved him, a worthwhile career… he was alive. There was nothing else he wanted.

He looked to Ron and grinned. “Maybe I’ll wish that you’d find a nice, respectable woman to settle down with. Molly’ll surely like that!”

Everyone had a grand laugh over that, as Ron’s womanizing was a well-publicized fact. Molly dealt Ron a stern look for it.

Hermione grinned. “Oy, don’t waste your wish on a lost cause!”

Harry rubbed his nose against hers fondly. “Oh, but I have everything I want right here.”

She blushed but rewarded his gallant words with a kiss.

There were “awws!” and “blechs!” all around to punctuate his sappy little speech.

He looked up, struck with inspiration. “Alright, then! I’ve got a wish, but it’s for everyone, so I’ll say it out loud. Hear?”

“Hear!” shouted everyone in response.

“Zee?” Fleur snootily told Ginny. Ginny made a sound of disgust.

Harry began, keeping his tone light. What he had to say was serious, but he wanted to keep the festive atmosphere. “It was the beginning of terrible times for the Wizarding World when I first went to Hogwarts, wasn’t it? I didn’t know a thing, and very few people then understood how bad it was going to get in the coming years. I’d dealt with Voldemort five times, one way or another, before he was even acknowledged to be alive, and it was only three years after that Voldemort was beaten at all. We lost so many of the people we love, and even our very way of life was threatened. I couldn’t even begin to tell you how painful the losses were. A lot of you don’t need me to explain. But as filled with tragedy as those years were, I learned to appreciate everything and everyone I had in a way I never would have known if I had chosen to live my mundane, muggle existence. And it’s greatly because of that, that if I had been given a choice to redo my entire life, I don’t think I’d choose to relive it any other way. So I’ll wish that you, everyone you love, and everyone you will love, would know this same wisdom of cherishing what we have without the pain of loss you and I had to suffer. Hear?”

“HEAR, HEAR!”

Harry blew the candles from his cake and a festive shout punctuated the brief, special interlude. The music began again and Ron officiated the cutting of the cake and giving pieces of it away while he ate several mouthfuls of it. This distracted everyone, and Harry found a moment of privacy with Hermione.

Hermione wrapped her arms around him and looked up at him with a smile. “As selfless as always.”

He grinned down at her. “I thought you would be pleased.”

“Oh, I’m very pleased,” she said in a softly suggestive tone. She tugged his vest laces towards her and caught his lips. The kiss she rewarded him with certainly would have sent his blood rushing to unmentionable places if Ron hadn’t clapped him a strong blow to the back.

Harry gasped for breath.

“Time for me to give you your present, mate,” said Ron. “It’s ready.”

“This better be good, Ron,” Harry muttered, shooting Hermione a significant look.

She grinned, her eyes twinkling, and he had a distinct feeling she was in on the secret.

Ron handed him a small wrapped box.

Smirking, Harry tore off the wrapping paper, and when he opened it, he was a little bit more than perplexed. It was a rust-splattered, broken down harmonica tucked in its pristinely cushioned box.

“Err,” he said. “Th-thanks, Ron. I think.”

Hermione laughed.

“It’s a portkey, silly,” Ron explained, grinning.

Harry became more interested. “Where to?”

“You ready for this, mate?”

“Probably not, but let’s get to it, anyway.”

“Well, fancy you, some Quidditch?”

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Harry and Ron swooshed to the Chudley Cannons Quidditch Pitch and was met by the roar of eager spectators from the Quidditch stands.

Hermione appeared moments later carrying with her Ron and Harry’s Quidditch gear and brooms. She looked a little overloaded, but Harry was too awed by his surroundings to be more concerned.

He had seen professional pitches before, of course, but always from the stands. Never from the field itself, and standing in the middle of the pitch, with bleachers and spectators all around while professional players flew and swooped by. It was truly an experience worth savoring.

“This is just practice, of course,” said Ron, gesturing grandly to the entire place. “But the team always has fans watching them. Plenty enough spectators to make a crowd and have vendors cart their food. I asked the team if they would be willing to practice with the Gryffindor Quidditch alumni for a bit. I think they just wanted to play you, mate!”

“Ron… this is… this is…”

“A Quidditch fan’s wet dream?” asked Hermione.

Ron rolled his eyes. “Shut it, Hermione. As if this wasn’t your idear.”

Hermione scoffed and gave over their Quidditch paraphernalia. “Oh, get on out there, you two. I’ll be in the stands with the rest of the party guests. I’d expect the rest of your team would be along—ah, there they are!”

Harry turned and saw Katie, Ginny, Fred, George and Lee approaching them.

He grinned, now knowing why Ron invited Lee. “Lee’s an announcer. What’s he going to do? Talk to the bludger not to hit him?”

Ron chuckled, winking.

Hermione frowned. “You were down one Chaser. Someone had to volunteer.”

“And now we’re a team,” said Harry, eyes twinkling. “Go on up to the stands already, Hermione. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“You better behave, Harry.”

“Like an angel.”

Hermione left in a huff.

The party, who had been given portkeys of their own from Grimmauld Place, started to chant “Weasley Is Our King” and the other fans were beginning to pick up the rhythm.

Ron reddened as they slipped into their pads and robes. “Why did I see that coming a mile away?”

Joey Jenkins, Chudley Cannons beater, hovered by on his broom with a lopsided grin. “Nice song, Weasley.”

“Shut it, Jenkins,” Ron barked. “Or I’ll reconsider those days off I gave you!”

Joey left, laughing.

Way back then, Ron never would have spoken to a Chudley Cannons player that way. Harry supposed being Assistant Manager to the team had taken away much of the players’ glamour.

Harry’s old teammates, already in gear, arrived, and they seemed as awestruck as he was.

“Isn’t this exciting?” gasped Ginny. “Goes to show Ron is good for something.”

“Oy!”

Katie grinned. “Oliver would blow his top if he found out we played with the Cannons starting team! He doesn’t get this much action being in the reserve, you know.”

“Serves him right for joining with the enemy,” said Ron.

George straddled his broom and hitched up his bat. “So are we playing?”

“Or aren’t we?” asked Fred, mirroring his twin.

“Chudley Cannons stats weren’t up to standard at the beginning of the season,” said Lee. “I think things would go a lot better if Gudgeon improved his snitch timing—“

“We’ll be mixing in with them,” said Ron to interrupt Lee’s commentary. “Lee, Katie and Ginny, you play your positions with Team A and the rest of us go to Team B. Come on, Harry. I’ll introduce you to the Galvin Gludgeon.”

Ron shot up on his Firebolt and Harry followed.

Galvin Gludgeon was a fellow Seeker who was jolly and upbeat, but serious about his game. He separated the Cannons to complete two teams and soon enough, Harry was swooping above the field while the players zipped around below them.

Harry could hear the chanting from the stands, and he laughed as he saw Remus twirling a Chudley Cannons towel in the air.

Hermione sat front and center, as usual, biting her nails in anxiety and wringing her hands as she warily kept her eye out for rogue bludgers.

He swooped around, searching for the elusive snitch while Ron let one quaffle after another through the hoops he was supposedly guarding.

George shot a bludger at him for it and Ron loudly complained, eliciting a chorus of “Weasley Is Our King” one more time.

Harry didn’t care if they lost this one. It was pure, indulgent fun, and how many times in his life would he have the opportunity to play against professional Quidditch players?

Probably never again.

Several times, bludgers had gone straight for Lee who dodged with impressive grace, but Ron, with all the quaffles he missed repelling, made the ones he did repel, count. Never mind if he was repelling a bludger. They went straight for Lee Jordan and that’s what mattered. Lee had also been on the receiving end of several “stray” elbows, which Harry thoroughly enjoyed watching.

There was a shout from the stands, and people began to point, their hands and fingers moving in unison to a common target.

Harry saw the snitch and he smirked as he leaned forward on his broom. He shot off, all his focus on the golden snitch.

He zipped by the stands, heard the excited screams of the spectators and let the wind take him. He was close enough to hear the flutter of wings and nearby, Gludgeon raced for the same elusive ball.

Harry maneuvered to swivel right across Gludgeon’s path. He had no intention of making them collide, but the tactic worked, sending Gludgeon way off the snitch’s path. Grinning at his success, Harry corkscrewed on his broom to get it back on track and reached for the snitch.

He was just about to get it when he saw the bludger from the corner of his eye. Harry pulled his hand back, wrenched his broom to the side and dodged the bludger with Seeker-trained grace, following the arch of the snitch as it flew downwards.

He pushed his broom forward for a dive in a classic Wronski Defensive Feint. Gludgeon fell for it, but at the last second, they pulled their brooms up, expertly completing the move but with neither of them catching the snitch.

It was the best feeling in the world and Harry shared a laugh with Galvin Gludgeon.

There was a series of explosions in the stands and the words “GO, POTTER!” formed with the glitter and burst of light.

Harry grinned, waving at Arthur and Charlie who had set it off. Hermione looked like she was going to be sick. He chuckled.

The snitch came into view again, high above them, and he and Gludgeon were off, soaring high above the field. They went after the snitch, neck and neck in speed. They extended their arms, fingers stretched to the limit.

Harry moved forward on his broom and Gludgeon did the same.

His competitive streak kicked in and Harry hopped up, planting his feet on his broom. In a move that would probably have Hermione hexing him to tomorrow, he launched himself into the air and grabbed the snitch. He felt the ball spin in his hand as it folded its wings within his grasp.

He laughed, summoned his broom and had it swoop him back on its seat just in time to save him from crashing to the ground.

Harry felt so very alive. His heart was thumping uncontrollably in his chest and he felt the rush of blood in his cheeks. It was the most awesome feeling in the world. The freedom; the recklessness; the thrill! He loved it all, and he couldn’t help but follow it up with jubilant loops.

A roar erupted from the small crowd in the stands, and louder explosions were set off. Gludgeon was beside him, laughing and thumping him on the back.

“Harry Potter, you’re mental!” Gludgeon cried. “But that was absolutely spectacular! What do you call that move?”

“Hermione’s Nightmare,” he said, smiling so broadly he believed he would feel the effect of it on his face in the morning.

“Hermione’s Nightmare,” repeated Gludgeon, as if trying the name out. He jerked his head towards the stands. “That would be Ms. Granger, then?”

Harry nodded, chuckling. “Sweetest woman there is.”

Gludgeon laughed. “And I bet she hates Quidditch because she thinks you’ll break your neck on account of it one of these days!”

“There’s that, yes!”

His Gryffindor teammates swarmed him, and feeling giddy, he lead the way to the stands while conducting a chorus of “Weasley Is Our King”, much to Ron’s consternation.

Harry hovered to the bleachers on his broom, grinning at Hermione who sat shocked on her seat.

“I call it Hermione’s Nightmare,” he told her with a grin. “Like it?”

This snapped her out of her stupor and she went to him, hitting him once on the shoulder before throwing her arms around him.

“Oh, you git, if it wasn’t your birthday I’d be so angry!” she said. “I can’t believe this was my stupid idea!”

Harry laughed as he held her in his embrace.

The Chudley Cannons team came by to greet him a happy birthday and to congratulate him on a spectacular move.

“Don’t forget!” said George. “You saw it here first! Potter original: Hermione’s Nightmare!”

“Also known as: Harry in the Doghouse,” said Ron aside.

Hermione glared at him.

The pro team chatted him and the rest of the party up. A bit later, a photographer came by and snapped photos of the Gryffindor team with the Chudley Cannons.

Soon after, the Cannons headed back to the pitch.

With the sports done and many of the guests spent, not everyone portkeyed back to Grimmauld Place.

It was just as well. Harry’ nearest and dearest stayed a while more, drinking some and eating some. Among the late revelers, McGonagall said goodbye first, then Remus and Tonks. The Weasleys soon left in pairs and singles.

“I’ll see you around, Ginny,” Hermione said, unable to help the somewhat hopeful tone in her voice.

Ginny seemed a bit surprised. She and Hermione hadn’t been the closest of friends since the sixth year. Many things happened to build the chasm between them. But in light of the war and its outcome, there was really nothing to be awkward about; there shouldn’t be.

The surprised look on Ginny wavered into a smile. “Hope so, Hermione.”

They embraced, and moments later, Ginny was gone.

Fred and George were the last to leave. They had special goodbyes for all three. Ron had his self-respect trounced, Harry got his usual Wizarding Wheezes Prankster’s Pack and Hermione got mysterious palm-sized scrolls.

When they finally left, Dobby and Winky hurried to do clean-up, begging them to go on up to rest and telling them that no proper elf left a home without cleaning it first.

Perhaps too tired to care and knowing that they were well compensated for their work, Hermione let them do what they did best. “Just leave the presents where they are so that Harry can open them tomorrow in the drawing room, alright?”

There was quite a pile from friends and family, and Harry thought it rivaled even Dudley’s stash. It was very touching.

“I’m turning in,” said Ron. “Great game, Potter. Best move I’ve seen since Krum did the Wronski Feint in the ’94 Quidditch World Cup.”

“Thanks for arranging it, Ron,” Harry said, exchanging manly hugs with his best friend. “It was most excellent. I couldn’t have asked for anything more on my birthday.”

“Glad you liked it.” Ron yawed and gave Harry’s shoulder one last pat. “G’night, you two.”

“Good night,” they said.

And Ron apparated to his room.

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Hermione turned to Harry and smiled. “I haven’t given you your presents.”

Harry was mildly surprised. “I thought the party was your present.”

She laughed. “Not nearly! Everyone helped with the party; I just coordinated.”

“Well, it was a bloody brilliant coordinated party, then,” he said, sweeping her into his arms. “You’re brilliant. This is the best birthday I’ve ever had.”

“Let’s hope you think it can get better,” she said softly.

Harry never realized such innocent words could excite him so much.

“Come on, then,” she said, pulling away from his embrace and tugging at his hands. “I’ll give them to you in the library.”

Harry chuckled. “In typical Hermione Granger fashion.”

“Oh, shut it. I think you’ll like these presents.” She hurried up the stairs and he went right after her.

“Hermione?”

“Yes, darling?”

“I have a couple of questions for you.”

“Ask them.”

“In the warehouse… did you know I would follow in after Shacklebolt told me to stay outside?”

She chuckled. “Oh, is that what you did? But I’m not all that surprised, frankly. I left the warehouse operation to the aurors and Ron to direct. I just told them to get you riled up enough to make you think everything was going horribly wrong!”

He laughed. “You’re a right sneaky skirt! You know that, don’t you?”

She shot him a mischievous smirk. “Oh, yes. Next question, Potter.”

“What’re those scrolls Fred and George gave you?”

She giggled. The sound was adorable. “I’d have to ask Fred and George if they want me to share that secret, Harry.”

“Aw, come on! You’re going to keep secrets from me?”

“A girl has to, you know. Every once in a while.”

He ran up the stairs and caught her in his arms. She shrieked as he hauled her up over his shoulder and brought them both to the library.

“I say, this makes me feel rather manly,” he said.

“Put me down!” she laughed. “Or I won’t give you your presents!”

“Hang on! I’m entitled to those presents!”

“More than you know!” she grinned with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes.

He set her down and saw that she was all flushed and glowing; particularly delectable. He was just about ready to sweep her into a luscious kiss when she stepped back and pushed him away gently.

“Behave, you naughty boy,” she said softly.

He marveled at how she expected him to, after that. But with the look in her eyes bowling him in, he supposed she could have said, “Sit!” and he would’ve complied.

She turned to dig something out from the massive office desk and magically brought out a rather huge box. It looked like it was heavy, considering she had to use magic to manage it. It was wrapped prettily enough, with red tartan wrapping paper and glittery gold ribbon. He plucked it from the air and realized it was rather heavy, but not terribly so. She waited expectantly for him to open it.

Grinning, he got to his knees on the floor and ripped the ribbon and wrapper off. She knelt in front of him, watching for his expression. He smiled, pausing to see if she would be impatient.

She chuckled. “Oh, stop teasing, Harry! Go on, then. See what it is! I’m anxious to know if you like it.”

He removed the box and found an elegantly simple, ivory colored wide-mouthed bowl. There were tiny runes along the rim, and the ridges on the outside created a pleasing border to the bowl’s over-all look. When he touched the bowl, it glowed and he gasped.

“It’s a pensieve,” he whispered.

She bit her lip and nodded. “I know Dumbledore gave you his, but I noticed that you never used it again after that time you used it once… It must be hard for you, even after all these years, so I thought maybe I’d get you one of your own. You’ll need it, you know, if you’re going to be a good auror. You have to be able to collect your thoughts and organize them, in proper order, too, so you can find things out; make conclusions, and—and ultimately, you’ll know what you’re getting yourself into before you do something dangerous, because you’ve thought things through properly…” Her explanation trailed off and she blushed. “D-Do you hate it?”

“Hate it? I love it! It’s just the thing!” He admired the craftsmanship of the pensieve. Dumbledore’s had nothing to distinguish it by, but this pensieve, this new one, was exactly what he needed. Hermione was right; the old one was too painful for him to use, so this was perfect.

She seemed pleased by his approval. “Really? I bought this while we—well, we weren’t together yet, so if it seems a bit practical and, umm, unromantic—“

He smiled. “It’s so very thoughtful.”

She giggled and he realized what he said had been a pun, too.

He chuckled. “Thoughtful, just like you.” He set the pensieve aside and reached for her hands. She let him hold them.

“Anyway,” she said softly. “I figured two gifts are better than one. I picked something up at the store the other day. I hope you like this one.”

She rose to her feet and coaxed him to rise with her.

He did, grinning. “Hermione, you didn’t have to—“

“Shush, or I’ll lose my nerve,” she whispered.

“Nerve?”

She hitched one side of her skirt up, revealing what looked to Harry like a thigh holster. It was black, and leather, and sexy. His breath caught when he saw her pluck her wand from it.

He was mesmerized by the movement of her hand as she waved her wand, touching it delicately to her dress.

“Revelare,” she whispered.

Her dress; her wonderfully clingy dress of red and pale moon yellow unraveled like a sensual sheet of rippling water. It pooled at her feet and she delicately stepped out of it in her heels. She gently nudged the pile of dress aside and looked up at him with determined grace.

He thought maybe he had gone on cerebral arrest. All he could do was watch her; look at her. Her bare skin; her perfect curves.

The light sheen of her body glowed golden in the candlelight, and the sharp relief of bone cast shadows in places he wanted so badly to explore.

She was still covered in parts, but what exquisite covering it was. It was a lilac purple concoction with accents of pink and yellow. There was lace, and there was cloth, but not a lot. The bra cradled her breasts into two perfect mounds and her panties looked so delicate, he wanted to…

Rip them off…

Steady, Potter.

But good GOD, she looks scrumptious in those pretty little knickers…

Better without them, I think.

“They’re French lace,” she said in a light, almost whispered tone.

“Th-They are?” Not like it mattered to him, really, though the way he was looking at them, one would think he was examining the holy bloody grail of under-things.

She nodded. “Very soft, too. Do you want to… touch, Harry?”

Touch. Touch Harry. Oh, dear Merlin… that wordplay was on purpose. I just know it. And bloody hell! Who can say no to that?

“Oh, yes…” he breathed.

Steady, now…

She took his hand and placed it over her breast, coaxing him to squeeze.

A soft moan escaped her lips, her eyes closing languorously, and that was it.

The sudden tightening in his trousers pushed him to begin the tumble and he broke.

He captured her mouth and tongue with his and clamped his hands on her bum, grasping her with building desperation. She responded just as eagerly, the massage of her tongue upon his sending heat right through him. He grew immediately frustrated that his clothes were getting between his skin and hers.

Bad clothes. Bad!

She pulled away slightly, gasping and running her hands up his arms. She pushed his work vest from off his shoulders.

“My thoughts, exactly,” he muttered, whipping them off as she deftly worked on the buttons of his blouse.

He felt her lips on his throat; the flick of her tongue, and he groaned. She was going to kill him with that tongue. He just knew it.

The blouse came open and her hands; her soft, warm hands ran up his chest to trace the line of muscles there.

And as he became aware of the press of her palms, he realized that she had the most delectable neck and shoulders he had ever seen.

He leaned in for a slow taste and she made a maddeningly wonderful sound from her throat. He lived for that sound. He tried the other shoulder, and she was delightfully consistent.

It was a blessing to have two hands. To have one tracing the curves of her back while the other lifted her thigh so he can relish the feel of her leather holster against her silky skin.

She pressed herself against him in a smooth, rocking motion. Once, twice, just where his Harry was aching to be let out, and he thought maybe he’d pass out, what with all the blood leaving his brain and going to places down below, but the will to see the entire thing through to the beautiful… delicious, oh-so-satisfying end… gave him the motivation to continue.

He ran his hands through her hair and let their lips meet again in a penetrating, heat intensifying kiss.

He wrapped his arms around her and apparated them to her room, where the bed was so soft and her sheets smelled so blessedly sweet.

And as much as he had acquired a primal adoration for French lace, it just had to go. Locked in their kiss, he undid the hook of her bra, letting it fall between them to the floor.

He pulled away to catch his breath and he looked at her, wondering where in Merlin’s name he had seen anything more gorgeous.

She blinked slowly, a sultry gleam in her eyes. She was blushing, but she let him look at her. “Like what you see, Harry?”

Like just didn’t cut it. He liked Quidditch. He liked pastrami on rye. One can even say he liked a crisp, clear day with an autumn breeze. But this… this was beyond like. This was a passion; a bloody, freaking obsession.

He shrugged off his blouse and pulled her to him in a fierce kiss, wanting the feel of her breasts against his chest. It was terribly arousing.

He wondered what would happen if he sucked softly on her tongue while he fondled her breasts and was promptly rewarded by a luscious moan.

Trailing his hands down her flat stomach, he slipped his hand beneath her lacy knickers and slid his finger gently against the sensitive bundle of nerves. She was warm, and oh dear, wet.

He must have done something good in a past life, because this life was fast becoming abso-frigging-lutely sensational to him.

“Oh, my!” she gasped after he let his finger slide in deeper. Hooking her leg up his waist as she raked her fingers through his hair, she pressed her hip more firmly against him and his hand.

He would never think of those two words the same way again, or at least not without getting a hard on.

Speaking of which, she desperately wanted to lavish attention on his.

Belt, he thought, sucking his breath through his teeth. She unbuckled it with a deft pull, release and tug. Very efficient.

Oh, just how good ARE those hands?

They slipped beneath his boxers and grasped him with perfect pressure.

She stroked, giving him a sample of just how good she could be, and he thought he was going to die, because really, people died with this kind of anticipation… well, usually they were muggles hitting seventy and had a heart problem, but that was far from his mind right now.

He guided her to the bed, settling her firmly on the edge of it.

He would have to relinquish her touch for just five cursed seconds so he could get his blasted trousers and underpants off.

Combing his fingers through her hair, he took a deep kiss from her before they separated to each other’s moans.

“H-Harry,” she breathed.

He hurriedly kicked his shoes off. “One second, love, j-just…” With great haste, he peeled off his socks and promptly stumbled.

She squeaked softly, avoiding him by unwittingly spreading her legs.

He groaned from his vantage point on the floor, hating and loving those lacy panties that she somehow still had on. The heels and wand holster could stay or go, but by God they were sexy as hell right now.

Pushing himself off the floor, he managed to regain his balance as he shoved off his trousers. His erection was making things a tad difficult.

“Harry?”

“B-Baby, just one more second…”

“I’ve never done this before.”

And that got his attention right soundly.

“Oh, I’ve read up on it, you know,” she continued by way of explanation, because really, let’s not add to the confusion, shall we? “Just so I… well, I would know how to do some things, but… I’m… a virgin…”

It certainly didn’t ruin the mood. If anything, his cock twitched its own, “Whoa!” as she said it, but it did put things in a certain perspective. An interesting perspective. Read up on it, did she?

Whoa, said his Harry again.

His boxers were still on, and she was staring at them with mild interest. He doubted she was interested in the bottles of hyperactive butterbeers printed on it.

She reached out, grasping the sides of his boxers in her tightening fists, but instead of letting her pull them down, he knelt in front of her, between her legs, and glided his hands inside her thighs.

He looked up at her, seeing the glimmer of that last innocence clinging within her intelligent eyes.

“Slowly, then?” he asked, pressing a soft kiss on her lips.

She smiled, sucking gently on his lower lip. She nodded.

He trailed slow kisses on her collarbone until he got to the hollow between them, lavishing attention on it with his tongue, and moving on to the other shoulder.

He ran his hands up and down her arms as his lips traveled lower. He tasted her breasts, teasing his tongue over her nipples and was rewarded by the embrace of her arms; her fingers in his hair, and the intoxicating sound of his whispered name from her lips.

Placing his hands on her hips, he kissed lower, down to her navel. He slipped her knickers off, then her shoes; one by one as he trailed his kiss from her ankle to her thigh.

He could see the fascination in her eyes, like she never knew kisses could go where it just did. She breathed a mesmerized, “Oh,” like she had acquired a new bit of exotic knowledge.

Smart, curious, Hermione. Learning something new everyday.

He flashed her a smile as he kissed the inside of her knee with his lips and tongue, watching for her reaction. She giggled a tiny bit, biting her lower lip as she fidgeted. He watched as her hand slowly stroked the inside of her thigh in an unconscious caress. It was arousing as hell, and his cock begged him to get on with it already.

Wait your turn, you impatient bugger, he told it.

Determined, he tossed away his glasses and finally put his lips and tongue to the very center of her. Her “Oh,” became “Oh!” and his whispered name became Harry, double exclamation point.

The sounds she made, combined with her fingers tangling in his hair as she arched her back, were designed to drive him mad with longing. But more than his need to please himself was the need to please her, and so while that very eager part of him throbbed to be noticed, he sought to express his thanks for this very special birthday present she was giving him.

And thank her, he did, without so many words at present, since his tongue was somewhat occupied in other pursuits.

When she stiffened and made loud sounds of a desperate nature, he reckoned she got his thanks across.

“Good LORD, Harry!” she gasped, collapsing back on the bed, chests heaving, sweat beading; she was glorious to behold.

It looked like they got off to a rather brilliant start, or at least she did.

He felt heady with his success, and if he didn’t want her so desperately, he might have happily fainted right there with a silly smile on his face, but Harry Potter was no Gryffindor for doing things half-way. No, siree! He was committed to this quest and by Merlin, he was going to get it done. Or rather hopefully get both of them done. It was, altogether, a very promising venture.

He rose above her on the bed as he nursed her mouth with his lips. Though still in the throes of recovery, she was exquisitely responsive.

“Move up the bed,” he instructed her softly.

And she did, trailing her hands temptingly down his chest and then his stomach, scraping her nails lightly against his skin. She pulled his boxers off and she clasped him with downward twisting strokes of one hand while the other carefully massaged the rest of the package. He almost rolled over and let her have her way with him, because Merlin’s graces, she had that hand-job down-pat.

He wondered briefly how she learned to do that, and quickly told himself to sod off with the whys, because this was Hermione, and she had probably read more books than he could imagine for this moment.

Books were good.

If he didn’t stop her right now, it was going to be wonderful for him in the next minute but embarrassing for the rest of the night. So he eased her hands away and before she could insist on pleasuring him, he kissed her, laying her head on the pillow.

He felt her arms slide over his shoulders, but those were nothing compared to the frenzied sensation the embrace of her legs wrought on him.

Her foot ran slowly up the back of his leg and he couldn’t remember a time he had found it more difficult to fight his primal urges.

She squirmed, making a whimpering sound as she pressed up against him and let her tongue roll on his shoulders. She hit a hollow on his collar-bone that sent bolts of desire riding through his body.

Trying to drive him insane, was what she was doing.

He considered begging for her to go easy on him, but it would be rather funny, wouldn’t it? If he asked that of her and she was the virgin in this picture.

“Harry…” she breathed, half-whine as she brought her knees up slowly.

He could feel how ready she was, and really, he supposed if she insisted… not like he needed that much convincing, anyway.

Letting his hand trail down her body, he rested his fingers lightly just below her navel and whispered an enchantment in her ear. It was important to him that she knew what he was doing. This wasn’t just a romp in bed; this was him, taking care of the woman he was going to make love to.

Harry raised his head to meet her eyes and she nodded, kissing him softly on the lips. They savored the tenderness of the moment before they let their passions take over them again.

Carefully, he guided himself as he kissed her neck and throat. He thought maybe he should tell her he loved her, never loved anyone else so deeply, that this was the best birthday gift ever, and that if he died doing this, he would have died deliriously happy, but it all seemed like too much talk altogether.

When he entered her she gave a soft cry and he stayed still, burying his face on the crook of her neck and shoulder.

Holy mother of Merlin! he thought desperately. She was warm, and soft and everything he wanted. He just had to stay still for a minute.

He moaned. It was pretty much all he could do not to plunge headlong—pun definitely intended.

“Move, Harry,” she whispered in his ear.

It was like an ethereal moment of liberation. So he did, slowly at first, and the sensations were glorious. A sweet, languid torture. He couldn’t be sure yet if it was pleasurable for her. It was her first time; he felt it. Was she in pain?

He found it so difficult to be overly concerned, though, since she had told him to “move” and she was currently making these wonderful sounds beneath him. But then the quality of her moaning changed, and she said those two words of hers that rocked his world. He knew then she was loving it.

He shifted, quickening his pace; groans escaping his lips. And then she began to cry out commands, that he should go faster, or harder, or both. Who the hell was he to deny her that? She moaned her approval when he complied; she was big on positive reinforcement and he didn’t mind her direction of him one bit.

When she lifted her arms above her head, crossing them by the wrists, he just wanted to hold them there, but he was concerned how that would make her feel. Maybe it was too much for her first time, even if it was just a very mild form of—well—bondage, really.

It was, therefore, insanely arousing when she whispered for him to hold her “down”.

He might have muttered, “Oh, sweet Merlin, yes!” It was difficult to recall, but the important thing was he did as he was told, because Hermione always rewarded do-gooders. She strained wonderfully against the press of their hips and the tightening press of his hands, the arching of her back lovely to behold. He had never kissed anyone who looked quite so hot.

She pleaded for him not to stop because she was—

Well, she stopped speaking then, finishing what she was going to say with moans that were eloquent enough for him. He felt she didn’t have to elaborate, because he knew exactly what it was. Her neck arched upward and she tightened around him, crying out in positively the most sensual moans he had ever heard. Watching and feeling her orgasm was just too much for a hot-blooded bloke who, before this, had desired this woman for the better part of two years.

He came, and it was everything he imagined it would be.

“Good GOD, Hermione!” he cried as he released himself inside her. There were definitely higher beings at work here.

He thought maybe his vision blurred more than usual, with dancing silver spots behind them. But who the hell cared how it looked? It just felt absolutely amazing.

When finally, the waves of pleasure ceased, he set himself gently down on her. He would move—in a bit.

Just a few seconds…

“Hmm, that was wonderful, Harry,” she said lazily, trailing her fingers in his hair and back.

He resisted the urge to smirk and say, “Why, thank you, my love, but I do try.”

Better not ruin the moment with masculine pride.

“Yes,” he murmured. “Yes, it was…”

It wasn’t his most eloquent moment, but he was too happy and drunk with bliss to care.

When finally, he found the strength to move off her, he wrapped them both in her blankets, settling her in his arms.

The wonderful spill of her hair against his shoulder brought quiet memories of days he had stared at the chestnut brown ringlets, wondering how they would feel between his fingers.

He smiled, already beginning to feel sleepy.

“Did you like your present, Harry?” she asked, an impish gleam in her eyes.

“Love it. One day it’s going to kill me, but it’s not a bad way to go, innit?”

She grinned. “I s’pose not. Harry… I think maybe we forgot to charm—“

A primal panic welled in him. “Er—I know I didn’t forget. I know I didn’t.”

Hermione slapped him lightly. “Not that charm. I was talking about insula. I think maybe—well—“

“Oh, shite.”

She was right, of course. They had forgotten the silencing charm.

He hoped the Weasley Death Sleep came through for them that night. They would know in the morning.

“D’you think he’ll be very annoyed?” she asked.

“Annoyed” was the least of their problems when it came to Ron. The “sarcasm”, or worse, the jokes. And with any luck, Ron would confine his griping to the twins and not the rest of the Weasley clan, as if the twins weren’t bad enough.

He looked at Hermione and saw the real worry in her eyes. He didn’t have the heart to be the bearer of bad news. “He’ll—err—manage.”

Thankfully, this seemed to appease her.

His body felt heavy against the pillows and he knew that a few more minutes of this restful bliss and he would be asleep.

Shacklebolt shouldn’t have put him through the hoops that day. The man should have been considerate enough to leave him some strength to at least manage a second round.

“Harry?” she said in a drowsy voice.

Well, at least she didn’t seem up to a second roll so soon.

“Hmm?” he responded.

“That first night I kissed you…”

He smiled at the memory. “Yes?”

“You brought me to bed… why did you stay?”

He chuckled softly, pushing himself deeper in the sheets to find the most comfortable position. “Because you were lovely to watch, asleep. And because I wanted to wake up with you and tell you I love you.”

She looked up from his shoulder, smiling. She kissed him and whispered her own words of affection before she settled back down against him.

Arms around one another, they drifted into blessed sleep.

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A/N: And so I wanted this love scene to be parts love, sex and humor, because they’re on the top of the world right now and they’re defying gravity. ::laughs dorkily at own wordplay::

Next chapter will be more emotional when it comes to that.

Oh, yes. More nookie for Harry-kins… the lucky bastard.

Author’s note: Another NC-17 chapter, but I reckon tamer than the last one.

Thanks so much again to Aurabolt who read this! Beta-reading NC-17 isn’t part of his repertoire but he read this one for me, anyway. ^_^

Standard disclaimers apply.

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Chapter Thirteen – Asking the Right Questions

In which Hermione suddenly finds herself way in over her head.

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He wanted to see how beautiful this Saturday morning was.

Smiling contentedly, he summoned his glasses and put them on to greet the day.

The rays of the sun streamed through the window and cast its gold over them. The sheets and blankets braided through their tangled legs and bounced off the highlights of her hair.

There was a glimmer on her shoulders and arms, like powdered shine. He hadn’t noticed it last night, maybe because his focus was on other parts of her.

He met her eyes and she smiled.

“Good morning,” she said.

He smiled back. It was a blessed day indeed. “Good morning. Been awake long?”

“A few minutes.” She shifted closer so that he could embrace her more intimately.

He didn’t mind keeping her in his arms at all.

He felt her fingers fiddling at his neck and there was a very faint, almost nonexistent clink of chains.

Looking down, he saw that she was playing with his gold chain as she looked at the gold-disc pendant attached to it. He smiled and let her.

“I never asked you about this pendant, Harry.”

He ran his fingers lightly in her hair. “What do you want to know about it?”

She bit her lip in her adorable fashion. “Did you always have it?”

He shook his head a bit. “No.”

“When—“

“Sometime during your—coma.”

It was the first time he even called it that out loud. Maybe he was afraid before, that if he said it, she would be in danger again. She had been so close to death. But having her now, in his arms, most assuredly alive in every possible way, he felt he could speak of it. He would tell her more, later. For now, he was just going to enjoy the closeness they were sharing.

There was another question in her eyes and he felt a mild thrill.

“Someone gave it to me,” he said to egg her on.

She frowned. “A woman?”

It felt nice to see her jealous. His life hadn’t exactly been filled with people wanting him to be theirs, particularly when the Dursleys were saying they wished he didn’t exist. This hint of possessiveness from her delighted his deprived heart.

“Yes,” he replied.

She let the chain drop from her fingers, but she didn’t turn away. In fact, she snuggled against him. “It’s nice.”

He supposed she couldn’t be angry with him, seeing as he did very well by her just a few hours ago. She was, however, at least half-responsible for their amazing romp, and he thought she deserved better than his petty teasing.

He laughed softly. “It was from McGonagall, whom I assume got it from Filius.”

She looked up at him, blinking in confusion.

“It’s a glamour pendant,” he explained, grinning. “It’s charmed to hide—certain imperfections I have.”

Her replying grin was mischievous. “Funny, you’re still hopelessly impulsive and rather too smug for—“

“Oy!” He laughed.

She giggled, feathering his neck with kisses to appease him.

“Not those imperfections!” he said.

“I know. I was just teasing. The glamour masks certain physical imperfections, yes?”

“Ten points for Gryffindor.”

She grinned. “Harry, what could possibly be imperfect about the way you look? You’re—you’re—“

“Handsome Harry?” he said, wiggling his eyebrows.

She laughed, pinching his arm lightly. “I can’t believe you remember me saying that! How do you do that?”

“Easy. I think about you all the time.” He kissed her and she let him. They smiled in the kiss and he couldn’t resist groping her a bit.

She chuckled then looked intently into his eyes. “What are you masking, Harry?”

The question didn’t surprise him. He never told her; never showed her. He didn’t think it was important, anyway. Ron knew. He was the one who put out the fires after all, but they hadn’t talked about it.

“The glamour’s mostly for other people, really,” he said. “So that they don’t feel uncomfortable when they see it. It’s not gross, but it’s weird, and I’m not quite up to wearing my battle scars proudly, you know. I’ve had enough of scars to last me a lifetime.”

She frowned, reaching for the clasp of the chain.

He placed his hand on hers, shaking his head slowly.

“Don’t.” He wasn’t sure he wanted her to see it, not just because it was ugly, but because it was such a grim image of that day.

The day she died.

It was more painful to him than anything he could remember.

“I want to see, Harry,” she whispered. “So you don’t have to bear it alone.”

“I’m not—I’m not bearing it alone. You’re here.”

“Then why haven’t you shown this to me? Why are you keeping it to yourself?”

He closed his eyes, cupping her face in his hands. “You died. It was a sacrifice I didn’t want you to take.”

He felt her hand gently on his cheek and he looked at her as she spoke.

“I left that sacrifice behind when I woke up. I’m alive now, aren’t I? You… you look at your scars everyday and you won’t be allowed to forget. Let me help carry the burden.”

And her lovely eyes were that intense shade of golden honey, almost like amber. Piercing; penetrating. She understood what he was going through, and there was just no point in pushing her away from this. He trusted her then with the knowledge.

He let her undo the clasp of the chain. When she did, the melted flesh on his hands rippled into sight. He closed his eyes. Even he could hardly look at them.

She held his hands, pressing them to her cheek as she let her eyes close slowly. A tear leaked from between her lids and it slid down his fingers. Opening her eyes, he saw a deep understanding; a yearning to make him forget the memory of pain that the scars brought him.

He couldn’t believe how much he loved her at that moment.

She held them to her, placing kisses on the disfigured skin before she rose above him, guiding his scarred hands to hold her by the hips, letting them glide down her body along the way.

He watched her in awestruck fascination, her graceful movements making him instantly ready.

Taking her wand, she whispered the contraception charm over him before carefully setting her wand aside.

She wrapped her hand around him and he groaned as she pleasured him with brilliant strokes of her hands. She listened to his responses, testing a bit and watching his eyes for his reactions. She knew how, but she wanted to learn him. When she combined it with her lips and tongue, he couldn’t believe the sensations.

He didn’t know if it was because she was applying what she learned from How to Give Spectacular Head with astounding skill, or if it was because she was the one giving it, but every shower room brag he ever heard in the boys’ dorms were pure bullcrap compared to the fantastic feelings she was eliciting from him right now.

And she certainly knew what she was doing, because just when he thought he was going to explode, she stopped, eased her ministrations and brought him down. It was pure torture; the pain so sweet that he can’t even remember how many times he had called her name during the entire blessed ordeal.

When finally, he begged her to put him out of his misery, she eased his passion down to a very, very calm patter before she straddled his hips.

She rode him with the luscious circling of her hips. Slow and fascinating. He was completely mesmerized.

He could see everything clearly. With the light of day and his glasses making everything prime for visual stimulation, he wasn’t missing a thing. Her body was even more beautiful alight with sunshine, and the ripple of her soft muscles coursed arousal through him like jets of fire.

And she wanted him to touch her. He, with his imperfect hands, so that the burden of bad memories that went with it could be slowly, and oh-so-erotically be lightened by the good.

He waited it out, prolonging the love making by pulling her body towards him when it became almost too unbearable to hold. He wanting to see her fulfilled before he let himself go, and only after she threw her head back, moaning his name in her wonderfully throaty way—loud enough probably for the neighbors to hear because alas, they forgot the silencing charm again—, did he clamp his hands on her flank to seek his release.

She moved with him to his rhythm now; coaxing him to his climax with the penetrating thrusts of her hips. It didn’t take him long.

When he let go, it was unbelievable ecstasy.

He thought maybe the neighbors heard him, too.

When the gifts were fully given and taken, she fell into his arms and let him hold her.

Harry would never forget this day; the day Hermione Granger made love to him, scars and all.

They napped a bit, sinking into a light doze as he held her close.

When he stirred half an hour later, Harry told her he’d get breakfast ready today.

She blinked sleep out of her eyes and she protested. “Oh, but—“

“Hush now. Someone has to reward you for that performance.”

She smiled, blushing, but she wasn’t going to be out-done. “Reward? Like house points? That’s what I call incentives! I like this system. Yes, this works for Hermione Granger.”

He grinned. “I thought you’d like it. Just make sure all your point-hoarding doesn’t get me killed in the process. A bloke can only stand to have sex for—wait a minute. What the hell am I complaining about? Murder me. I beg of you!”

She giggled, burying herself beneath the blankets, half-embarrassed with herself. He thought this endearing, of course, and he considered jumping back into the sheets to initiate this slow death of his, but he supposed they had to get out of bed some time. So he dug her out from beneath the pillows and let his lips and tongue explore the wonderful planes of her skin. She gasped and shuddered at his touch, and minutes later, she was ready to jump him senseless. He led her to her very fragrant, beautiful bathroom to finish their little adventure.

It was no easy thing; holding back his own release when he had her up against the wall; the water pounding on his back and droplets beading on her skin. She whispered encouragement and soft, sensual praises, which was something new for him. He’d never been praised quite like that before and it was doing wonders to his ego. It was rather mind-blowing, and he was sure she was going to kill him from the effort of resisting his completion. But that was the beauty of it, he supposed. Challenges had always been his thing.

So when she cried out her approval and began to make that familiar sound that he found heart-stoppingly arousing, he happily joined her as she climaxed.

After they eased their tremors away, he swore he had the stupidest smile known to a properly murdered man.

Hermione certainly looked extremely pleased with herself. “I’d say that’s about fifty house points, yes?”

The little assassin knows what she does to me, he thought with affectionate reproach. A bloke can learn to live like this.

But at the rate things were going, he’d be willing to surrender the house cup to her altogether.

“You go on ahead downstairs,” she said, grabbing a bottle of something as he toweled off. “I’ve a few minutes yet before I finish up here.”

Much as he would like to solve the Mystery of Women’s Prolonged Showers, he did promise to make breakfast. So reluctantly, he left the bathroom (and the very wonderfully naked woman in it), dressed and told her he’d have everything ready in half an hour.

“I’ll be down by then,” she promised while she hummed tunelessly from behind the bath curtain.

Smiling, he put his necklace back on and went straight to the kitchen.

0000000000000000

Harry was just about finishing up with the ready made breakfast muffins when Ron lumbered into the kitchen, still in his sloppy night shirt and woolen plaid sleep pants.

He went straight to the coffee pot and watched Harry magically bring out the muffins while he cooked the bacon and eggs.

Ignoring him, Harry levitated the butter and different flavored jams from the pantry.

Harry leaned against the counter, wand unmoving in his hand, as he casually picked up the paper. The kitchen remained alive around him, with him occasionally tossing the food in the cooking pan while cracking eggs over a whipping bowl. It was a chaotic dance of sorts, and he didn’t even have to put his morning paper down.

Ron suddenly scoffed, slurping his coffee. “You’d think a powerful wizard like you would remember a simple insula…”

Harry folded his paper and sighed. “Shite, mate. Really sorry ‘bout that.” He finished up with the eggs by pouring them in a heated skillet and scrambling them to keep them fluffy.

He looked a bit traumatized as he slanted a look at Harry. “Yeah, sorry my arse… like you really mean that!”

Harry tried his best not to look too pleased with himself.

“Honestly, I never imagined Hermione to be the noisy type, but cor… brought the house down, she did!”

Harry frowned. “Oh, imagined her, did you?”

Ron shot him a look of exasperation. “Please spare me your territorial cack. I’m the one who had to listen to my best friends get the shag of their lives. Honestly, how many times is a person supposed to say ‘yes!’ before the other person gets it?”

“Well,” said Harry sheepishly. “You know what Filius says… enunciate!”

“Yeah,” Ron muttered. “Mr. Levi-oh-behave, here.”

Harry hoped Ron would be done with his tirade by the time Hermione showed up for breakfast.

Moments later, a tiny silver stream shot through the window. It was a messenger spell, and it was for Harry.

He sighed. “Can’t believe Shacklebolt wants me to come in today…”

“Death Eaters don’t take weekends off?” Ron asked, grinning.

Harry let him be snarky. He figured he could let Weasley be cheeky after having to put up with the racket he and Hermione had caused.

Hermione walked into the kitchen, glowing in her pretty top and flouncy skirt. She pinched Ron’s cheek. “Good morning, Ron!”

Ron shoved her hand away. “Not in the mood.”

“Grouch.” She went to Harry and gave him a sultry kiss, as if she hadn’t been busy administering them to him all night and all morning.

He grinned, squeezing her bum as he took the kiss.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” said Ron loudly. “I’m just the ostracized housemate who would pretend for dear life that he isn’t seeing, or hearing, anything.”

“Oh, shut it,” she said, pouring herself some coffee. “I never complained about you and that tart doing it in the backseat of my parents’ car, now did I?”

Harry’s eyes widened in surprise and Ron reddened.

“Who told?” Ron yelled.

Her eyes twinkled. “You should know better than to kiss and tell, by now. Or rather to whom you’re telling it to.”

Ron gasped. “It was Fred, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it? I can’t believe it! Does the fact that we have the same blood coursing through our veins mean nothing to him?”

“Oh,” she said, looking elsewhere playfully. “Gred and Forge tell me a lot of things.”

Ron glared at her and Harry’s eyebrow arched.

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” said Ron suspiciously. “Why is that? They talk about you a lot, lately. Hermione this; Hermione that. It’s like they’re bloody besotted.”

Harry’s eyebrow arched even higher. Fred and George? No way… they wouldn’t!

Well, put up a Fan Club, why don’t you! he thought bitterly. Senior members: Fred, George and Lee.

Hermione shrieked with laughter. “Besotted! With plain little me? Oh, dear! Won’t they just love that? No, no. You ought to give your brothers more credit than that, Ron.”

At this, Harry frowned. “Oy… what’s wrong with being besotted with you? And you are not plain. You happen to be a very attractive woman.”

She smiled at him affectionately. “Thank you, Harry. This is why I love you.”

Ron made a retching sound. “Disgusting. The both of you!”

Hermione shot Ron a superior smirk. “I would tell you why I’m in Fred and George’s good graces, you understand, but this is as much their joke as it is mine. I wouldn’t dream of ruining it for them. Have them tell you.”

“I’ll get you to tell me yet, Hermione Jane Granger,” said Harry in a half-dangerous tone.

She wiggled an eyebrow. “Ooh, you’re most welcome to try Harry James Potter.”

“Am I?”

“Oh my, yes…”

Harry wondered if she knew what effect those words had on him. He began to seriously consider the logistics of the nearest bathroom with regard to Hermione being on the sink while he—

Ron scowled, probably seeing the look on his face. “Can you at least wait for me to be out of the room before you engage in foreplay? Thank you.”

Harry exchanged grins with Hermione and decided Ron had suffered enough for one day. He had breakfast ready in the next minute and they finally sat down to a lively meal.

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Harry found himself practically skipping into the Auror Department in spite of the fact that it was Saturday and that Shacklebolt had just told him he would be investigating a hive of Cornish Pixies found near a former Death Eater hideout.

He sat at his desk, unwittingly humming as he sifted through his papers.

Gail, sitting across from him, had her eyebrow arched. “Well, someone looks like he got shagged right properly last night, and possibly this morning, too.”

Harry stopped humming and reddened. He saw the smirk on her face and he had to swallow his embarrassment with a chuckle.

“Well, it was certainly right in all possible ways,” he said off-handedly. “But it was properly improper in others, if you catch what I’m saying.”

She blinked, astonished at his candidness, then she laughed, darting a crumpled sheet of parchment at him. “Alright, then. I’ll keep my opinions to myself from now on. You win!”

He grinned, triumphant.

Remus came up to him, smiling with only a hint of twinkle in his eyes. He briefly exchanged looks with Gail who wiggled her eyebrows and laughed.

Harry had to wonder if he had a sign on his forehead saying: “Properly Shagged and Loving It!”

“Harry, might I talk to you for a second?” Remus asked.

Harry nodded, following Remus to a relatively isolated corner of the room.

“This seems a bit dated,” Remus began. “But how’s that matter with Lysander Athanasius coming along? Have you found out anything new?”

Harry was surprised Remus remembered, and frankly, ever since he and Hermione had admitted their feelings to each other, he hadn’t given Lysander another thought. After all, they spent almost all of their free time together. Now, he felt a bit concerned that Remus felt the need to follow it up.

“Not really, no,” he replied. “I’ve somewhat—well, I’ve taken it for granted…”

Remus’s eyebrow arched.

Harry felt a bit of panic. “Well, I went to the Department of Mysteries last week and asked one of the Unspeakables to help me figure it out, but I haven’t heard from the Unspeakable since. Should I be more concerned, Remus? I mean, Hermione and I—well, we’ve come rather far—“ He blushed.

Remus smiled in understanding. “Yes, I suppose Hermione’s rather safe from him for the meantime, with you and her spending a lot of time with each other…”

Harry didn’t miss the undertones. “What do you mean by that? Have I done something wrong? Have I—“

Remus noticed his alarm and clasped his shoulder in a soothing gesture. “Calm down, son. I mean exactly what I’m saying. By spending a lot of time with her, you’re protecting her from whatever influence this man may have gained on her, if there’s any at all! But given the nature of their—well, their previous interactions, if there’s magic involved, I don’t think it could be interrupted quite that… easily.”

“Merlin, Remus… what are you saying--?”

Remus shook his head. “I certainly didn’t mean to scare you, Harry. I just—I tend to be unreasonably concerned when it comes to yours and Hermione’s well-being… I suggest you—you ask her if there’s anything... I don’t know—amiss?”

“Remus, did you find something out? You have to tell me.”

“It’s rather… it’s rather silly.”

“No, it’s not. Tell me.”

“Well, something about what you said just struck me, that’s all. You said something about him giving her what she wants…”

Harry jogged his memory, squeezing his eyes shut to organize his thoughts. “Y-Yes. He makes a big deal out of it, somewhat…”

“Well, it got me thinking about myths.”

“Myths?”

Remus nodded. “Arabian myths. Genies.”

“Genies?”

“Of the lamp. They tend to give you what you want.”

It clicked in Harry’s mind. “Yes, of course. You rub the lamp, release the genie and he offers you three wishes. Are you saying Lysander’s a genie?”

Remus chuckled. “I wish, but that’s unlikely, unless Hermione found him in a lamp. Even in the Wizarding World, some things don’t exist. But be that as it may, there are hundreds of stories telling us about rogue genies, how they use the wishes of their ‘masters’ to ensnare their victims. It just… sounded vaguely familiar, don’t you think?”

Harry swallowed. Chillingly so.

“I suggest you go back to this Unspeakable of yours,” Remus said. “Tell him to look into other life forms and the magic they use.”

“Other life forms? Like Centaurs and veelas?”

“Yes. Sometimes, by using some form of dark magic, wizards can channel the magic of other species.” Remus made a halting gesture before Harry got too worked up about this new prospect. “It’s unprecedented, Harry. Don’t expect this new lead will get you the answers, but it’s something…”

Harry nodded. “I know. Thanks. But Remus, I hope to Merlin this entire thing is nothing. I can’t let anything happen to her. I just can’t.”

“I understand, Harry. If you need my help in any way, you let me know, alright?”

Again, Harry nodded.

Remus gave him a pat on the back before retiring into Shacklebolt’s office.

Harry went to his desk and quickly scribbled a letter on parchment.

“You alright, Harry?” Gail asked.

“Yeah,” was his absent reply. He finished the letter, signed it, folded it up and wrote out: “To the Unspeakable Concerned, From Harry James Potter”. He told Gail he’d be back as fast as he could.

He left the Auror offices and went straight to the Department of Mysteries, hoping most fervently that the Unspeakable he met with the last time would get his message after he dropped it off.

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Harry had gone to work on a Saturday and therefore Hermione desperately needed to get out of the house to keep her mind occupied; either that or go she would go spare.

If she spent the rest of the day idle, the thoughts would return. Those blasted thoughts of the one person she shouldn’t be thinking about.

Lysander.

She couldn’t understand why.

Since she and Harry had admitted their feelings for one another, she had realized, beyond reasonable doubt, that what she had felt for Lysander had been a powerful infatuation; and that any attention he might give her in the future would be easily turned away. But while she had been practically intoxicated by her new relationship with Harry, the echo of Lysander’s voice refused to die down completely.

When she was with Harry, she was blissfully caught up in everything that was him, but when she was alone; when her thoughts eased to normalcy and routine, she would hear that echo again. It wasn’t something sentient. It was more a reminder. As if it allowed her escape during the times Harry was there, but returned when her thoughts dropped its guard.

She had desperately tried to fight it, immersing herself in her work when she was at the Ministry and curling up with a good book when she got home, but none of that worked to keep her mind from that disembodied whisper. Harry was the only one that could drive that voice away, and she had discovered, having slept in his arms on the couch and just hours ago, in bed, that Harry’s presence was powerful even in dreams.

In the few times she had taken to bed alone in the past week, it was Lysander’s voice that lulled her. Her dreams of him, though not sexual, had been disturbing. It was always about being with Lysander. Not as his lover, or not even his companion, but she was just there; waiting. He was on a park bench, reading something, and she was beside him in a pretty white dress; feeding the birds mechanically. He was having coffee with his friends, and she sat nearby; watching for him to put the cream in his tea. He was asleep in his bed, and she would be at the window, anticipating his wakefulness.

What in the hell did it all mean?

It worried her, but she didn’t realize how much until she kissed Harry goodbye before she sent him off to work that Saturday. She had clung to him, and he must have felt her need, because he had smiled and said, “I will come back home, you know.”

“Yes, but I’ll miss you dreadfully.” She meant every word.

Now, as she pondered his absence, she dreaded that misplaced voice in her head. She had just made love to Harry, for goodness sake! And really, the experience had been so wonderful, and fulfilling. The kisses they had shared in the last week had been tinged well-enough with heat, and she could admit that they were luscious enough to get her thinking naughty thoughts, but now that she had felt him inside her; knew how it was to be loved and touched by Harry Potter, her state of readiness where he was concerned had been multiplied to Merlin Knew What fold. One look from him now seemed to arouse her to distraction. She never realized he could have such a strong effect on her.

So it was absolutely confusing her that thoughts of Lysander persisted.

She closed her eyes and pushed those thoughts back.

A headache began to blossom, again.

I think maybe I should see a healer about it, she thought glumly. They came and went, never lasting very long, but they were bothersome, and in one or two occasions, rather intense.

Right now the ache was ebbing, and she supposed she’d rather suffer while she was out doing something rather than nurse it at home, doing nothing.

Naturally, Ron had to ‘volunteer’ for the job of keeping her company. She dragged him to go grocery shopping with her.

It had been a difficult task, getting Ron to cooperate. He complained loudly that he had lost sleep the previous night.

“And it wasn’t because I was getting laid, either!” cried Ron.

But she shot him the perfect petulant look, telling him that he never spent time with her anymore and that she hadn’t made him foot the cleaning bill for the backseat of the BMW.

Ron relented after that.

She took him in the car, for a treat, and she teased that he could sit in the back if he liked.

“Ha-ha,” muttered Ron, buckling himself down on the passenger’s side.

She made the ride worth Ron’s while and got a traffic violation for it. Ron was ecstatic, especially when he took advantage of the opportunity to dramatically whine at the police officer who pulled them over. He had seen it done on the telly and had been eager to try outsmarting a muggle law enforcer.

Unfortunately for Ron, he was no jedi, so his attempt at, “You won’t issue Ms. Granger a ticket,” with an accompanying, cheesy wave of his hand didn’t exactly overwhelm the officer with “the force”. The only thing it got Ron was a dubious look and the officer telling Hermione, “Ma’am, are you quite sure you’re safe being alone with this—er—gentleman?”

Grocery shopping had been leisurely paced and so long as she bought Ron something to eat every now and then, his complaints were at a minimum.

Thank goodness for Almond Rocha, she thought as she watched Ron take another foiled piece from the can.

They only argued seriously once, which was an unsurpassed feat as of yet after having spent almost all day together, and by the time tea-time came around, he was more than happy to treat her to pastries.

They were just about settling themselves in a nice little coffee shop when Ron looked up and saw something, or someone, he liked.

“Hold on, I think that’s Selena Bridgewater!”

Hermione frowned. “Ron, if you leave this table to flirt with that woman—“

“No need to be jealous. I’ll only be a minute! You won’t even notice I’m gone,” he said, his eyes still on the model-like, raven-haired beauty several tables away. He rose from his seat. “Be back in a flash.”

He left and she sighed.

She stirred her coffee, muttering about what a stupid git Ron was and how she ought to set canaries on him.

Hermione almost spilled her tea when someone took Ron’s place across from her.

She coughed, gasping as the tea went down the wrong way. “Ly-Lysander!”

He smiled, glancing briefly at Ron. He waved his wand. “Transeo.”

Hermione felt the magic settle and she rolled her eyes. “Is that necessary?”

Lysander shrugged. “Maybe. I’m not too keen on interruptions while we talk. How was your week, Hermione? Been thinking about me?”

For a moment, his question caught her slightly off guard and her fingers twitched around her wand, but she regained her composure and she lifted her nose at his audacity. “No. No I have not. However did you get that idea?”

“Just an expression. I thought maybe I’d… distance myself for a while; let you get used to the idea that you’ve been… bound, somewhat.” He smiled.

She didn’t know why something in her stomach twisted. It was ridiculous what he was saying. Bound? No. Not seriously. He was just being arrogant. He was presuming too much. He was being a flirt again, and he was using words that he knew would fluster her. He did that a lot.

“I’m sorry, Lysander, but I’m with Harry now,” she said in a steady tone. “Whatever… flirting we may have done then will amount to nothing. I’m sorry. I know that I shouldn’t have led you on if I wasn’t sure about my feelings for you, but now I’m sure, and I only want to be with Harry.”

He was silent for a moment, but his smile never wavered. “You know what I mean, don’t you?”

Her temples throbbed painfully and her heart began to hammer in her ribcage. She forced the lie out of her. “I don’t. I haven’t the slightest clue.”

“Your proposal…”

“You can keep the proposal. What you ask from me in exchange is too much.”

“How do you know what I want?”

She swallowed, reddening. “I just know.”

His smile widened and he chuckled. He leaned over the table, looking intently into her eyes. “The proposal’s already been given. You can’t take it back.”

Her breath caught at the line of magic that she was feeling from him. What it was, she couldn’t be sure. It felt like a pull, and a push; it was the strangest thing. And then it was gone, like she had imagined it. She thought maybe she had felt it before. In the Library of Ancient Runes, he might have done the same thing to her. But then, she wasn’t even certain there was something being done at all.

“The proposal portends an agreement, Lysander. We haven’t come to any agreement.”

“Oh yes, we have.”

And she was suddenly so terrified.

She didn’t know why. She didn’t know why now. There was nothing remotely threatening about Lysander before; nothing for her to think that he would ever harm her, but now it was palpable; her fear of him.

What had she done? What had he done? Or maybe she was just being paranoid.

Harry knew.

Harry knew.

No, he didn’t know, but he felt it, and maybe…

Maybe I should’ve listened!

She shook her head, clearing her thoughts. “Lysander, stop that. You’re being an arse!”

He laughed softly. “We exchanged gifts of value. Didn’t you realize that? It initialized the bonding sequence.”

“Wh-What bonding sequence? What gifts? Lysander—“

“You took the key to the library, and you used it. You gave me your proposal, and I accepted.”

Her headache flared and she blinked it back before she spoke. “The proposal means nothing!”

“The proposal means that for one, blessed moment, you trusted me unconditionally. And that, my dear, is a gift of pure value for me.”

“No.” Yes… you did trust him, and you told him so at the library. She frowned. “Trust is the one gift that can be taken back!”

“Indeed. But the moment you gave it… you were caught. Didn’t you feel it, Hermione?”

“What are you—what are you saying?”

“Tell me… when exactly did you begin hearing the echoes?”

The blood drained from her face.

He grinned smugly. “The moon will be waxing in a week’s time. You’d want to prepare yourself until then. It would be easier for you, that way, the transition. If you don’t, it would only hurt you.”

He stood to leave.

“Lysander…” she whispered through her teeth as she got to her feet. “Lysander, you tell me what’s going on!”

“Read the book,” was all he said.

“What book?”

He smirked and didn’t reply as he walked out of the coffee shop doors.

“Bloody hell, Hermione!” came Ron’s voice from behind her.

She whirled around to look at him.

“Was that Athanasius?” Ron asked in a worried tone. “You should’ve called me! I would’ve thrown him out for you!”

The beating of her heart slowed, and Ron’s concerned look calmed her more than anything. “I-It’s fine. I-I managed.”

“Blimey, you’re all pale! Sit down!” He eased her back down on her seat. “Now I’m really sorry I left you. What’d that bastard say to you?”

“Nothing. He didn’t say anything. He just—nothing.”

“Well, Harry’s going to hit the roof when he hears about this.”

“Don’t say anything to him!”

The vehemence in her voice surprised even her, and Ron stared at her like she had grown a second head.

She realized then how awful it must have sounded; to shut Harry out like that. She would never! Why, of course she would tell him about what happened, right? Right?!

Why trouble him? It would only worry him unnecessarily. You know you don’t want that…

“Are you mad?” said Ron, cutting through her thoughts. “Harry’ll kill me if he finds out—“

“I just… he’ll worry. I just don’t want him to worry, is all…”

“Right,” said Ron, looking at her funny. “And I don’t like to see you so upset. I ought to beat the crapper out of that git Athanasius.”

She smiled a bit at Ron’s protectiveness.

They had tea, and as much as Hermione wanted to forget what happened, she kept thinking about it.

Book? What book?

And then she remembered, and suddenly, she desperately needed to get home.

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“Blimey, Hermione!” cried Ron as they walked up from the driveway to the house. “That had to be your most reckless driving ever! And from someone who crashed a flying car, that’s saying something!”

“Thanks, Ron,” she said automatically, not bothering to figure out if he was really giving her a compliment.

She left Ron in the kitchen to unload their groceries and rushed up to her bedroom. Frantically, she grabbed her work bag and rummaged beneath the thick pile of folders that she had magically stuffed in it to fit.

Frenzied, she turned the bag over on the floor and shook out its contents.

It fell to her floor with a messy splat and getting down on her knees, she rummaged through the pile.

She found what she was looking for.

Nauta Oira.

“Bound Eternal…” she whispered, trembling at the shocking reality that she was reading it. Understanding it.

She wrenched the book open to the first page and the words jumped at her from the leaves.

“I am ashamed that the color of your skin fills me with fear. I am mortified that my fear of change keeps my eyes closed… no,” she whispered, flipping further into the book. She realized that she could only comprehend some words, but that was disturbing enough.

“’There is beauty in this golden cage,” she read out loud. “What the—what the hell does that mean….?”

She flipped to the back, hoping there was an index. Hoping she could read that particular passage in the book. The words formed. She could read it and she paled: Blood weave. Bone bound. Spirit immortal.

“What have I done?” she whispered, turning page after page of comprehensible and incomprehensible text. She could read some of the words as if she had been doing so all her life, yet a lot of the words were beyond her understanding.

But she needed to know. She desperately needed to know. She suddenly felt like her life depended on it, and if she didn’t understand it soon, everything she worked for; everything she lived for, would be gone.

Ultimately, she couldn’t explain what was happening. It was terrifying her. It was like that hollow in the pit of her stomach she got when she discovered that she had made a grave mistake, except this pit went on and on and on.

How did this happen? Why? Why was this happening?

Lysander, who are you? WHAT are you?

She could feel her muscles knotting from the strain of her climbing fear and panic. She couldn’t deal with this all-encompassing dread if she didn’t understand any of it. She needed to find out what it was and she needed to find out now, but she had no idea where to start. Absolutely no idea! And that was the worst part, wasn’t it? That never happened to her; when she was completely devoid of an opportunity. Her brilliant mind had always been prepared to seek out an opening to any problem. There was nothing in this world absolutely closed to a way out. But right now, it was just miles and miles of dark blankness.

If she was ever prone, she would have had a nervous breakdown right there.

Something in her chest tightened, and she could feel her lungs begin to constrict.

Was she having a heart attack? Were her lungs failing?

That can’t be right. She was only twenty years old!

She dug frantically through her pile.

Lysander’s background information.

She had them here somewhere. She had to start somewhere!

Where the FUCK was it?

“Hermione?”

She screamed, whirling to look at her door.

Harry looked shocked, then alarmed. “Hermione! Are you alright?”

“Oh, God, Harry!” she yelled, breathing and swallowing laboriously. She clasped her hands, willing herself to calm down. “You scared the shite out of me!”

Harry was beside her on the floor, the worried look on his face intense. He put his arm around her shoulders and held her tight. “You’re shaking… Hermione, what’s wrong?”

“N-Nothing! You just—you just startled me, is all,” she stammered, gathering her things from the floor. His presence was already calming her; making her feel like everything was going to be alright. “I guess I was a little wound up…”

He frowned. “Ron told me about what happened in the coffee shop.”

Her jaw dropped. She was going to kill Ron. She breathed, her annoyance overtaking more of the already ebbing fear. “I told him to let it go.”

She stuffed her things in her bag, trying to reorganize her thoughts and emotions the way she was reorganizing her briefcase. She decided right then that if she was going to approach this matter with her usual determination, she had to calm down. And yes, she wasn’t going to tell Harry for the meantime. She wasn’t going to tell anybody. It was bad enough that her complete lack of knowledge had dragged her into something she didn’t understand, so she was afraid that any further carelessness on her part might put Harry and Ron in danger. She had to find out more before she told them; before she asked for their help.

Tell him, urged a distant voice within her. Why are you keeping this a secret?

You don’t know if you’re putting him in danger, said another. It was her mind’s voice. Not an echo of someone else, but strange, nonetheless. Poor Harry has enough on his mind these days…

She shook her head, blinking.

“He’s worried about you, too, you know,” Harry said. “Ron said you were upset. What did Athanasius say to you?”

Hermione tried to steel her thoughts. “He asked about the proposal I gave him and I said I don’t think we can push through with it. He…” She cleared her throat. “He’s asking for too much.”

Harry stared at her, like he was searching her eyes for something she wasn’t telling him. “What was he asking for?”

She was almost sure Harry knew exactly what was going on, but she kept her composure. “Well, he didn’t actually say it, but… well, you know… after everything he’s done for me, it was quite clear what he was expecting from me, don’t you think?”

Harry scowled. “That dirty bastard. I ought to—“

“Just please, drop it, Harry. I absolutely don’t want to have anything to do with him anymore. I don’t care if he bloody hands me the Elf Law right this very moment, passed and formulated by Higher Legislation. I just don’t want to associate with him again; not in any way; not even through you. Do you hear me?” She was earnest, now. She was desperate for Harry to listen to her, and while she was completely aware of how much she had omitted, she had this nagging feeling inside her to keep it to herself.

She needed to do research. She was at her element, that way. If only she knew what she was dealing with, then she could alleviate this gaping chasm in her thoughts.

She let out a breath and smiled, pressing her hand tenderly on Harry’s cheek. She couldn’t help but feel so loved; so protected. She can do this.

“You’re always looking out for me,” she said softly, trying to convey all her appreciation through her eyes. “You always make me feel safe.”

He pulled her in a tighter embrace and she closed her eyes.

“I always want to keep you safe,” he said in her hair. “But you have to—you have to tell me if you know things, Hermione. I can’t protect you if you keep things from me.”

She sighed. “Harry, I’m not—I just have to work a few things out, that’s all. Don’t worry about it, alright? You know me. I won’t take unnecessary risks. I’m Ms. Prefect and Head Girl, remember?”

He chuckled. “Ms. Killed or Worse Expelled.”

She looked up at him questioningly. She didn’t get it. “What?”

He laughed. “You don’t remember?”

She shook her head.

He threw back his head and laughed harder. “First year. We just barely survived an encounter with Fluffy, and we went back up to the tower, you said something like, ‘I hope you’re happy… we could’ve been killed—or worse, expelled!’”

Blinking, she had a lapse in memory. She couldn’t remember saying that, and she couldn’t imagine! Were her priorities that screwed up? Absolutely not! “I did not say that! You’re exaggerating!”

He shook his head. “Not at all! They were your exact words. Even Ron remembers it! Hell, we’ve been using that line of yours between the two of us in the last eight years!”

“Good God, was I ever that uptight?” Her voice was pitched. She couldn’t believe she was ever like that.

“Well, you know… Wind-GAR-dium Levi-OH-sa!”

“Oh, dear,” she gasped, realizing finally that it was true. She blinked, shaking her head at this epiphany. “I always thought I was horrible back then, but I didn’t ever comprehend how bad.”

He grinned, leaning over to kiss her forehead. “Oh, it wasn’t that bad. We loved you anyway, and like I told you, I desperately wanted you to be my friend. Anyway, you’ve mellowed over the years, but I like that you maintained still quite a bit of it.”

She frowned. It was difficult to believe him.

He smirked. “Honest. And you know… I get so very turned on when you’re being rather bossy…”

She blushed at that, and she felt that all too familiar sensation of wanting him desperately. She looked at her door; which was open.

He must have read the look in her eyes because he made a slow backward wave with his hand and the door closed; clicked and locked.

Grinning, she brought out her wand. “Should I do the insula, or should you?”

His lips were upon the crook of her neck and shoulders and his hands were already pushing down the straps of her blouse.

“By all means,” he whispered. “Please do the honors.”

She pleased indeed, and Ron didn’t hear a thing.

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The following day Hermione went to Hogwarts.

Determined to find answers, she brought Nauta Oira with her and planned to do as much research as she could after she spoke to Headmistress McGonagall.

She had looked at the book again the previous evening, and while she had managed to go through every readable word, the text was nowhere near making sense.

The echoes of Lysander would seep into her mind as often as she had expected them, and while it annoyed her, she could at least take comfort in the strong possibility that it wasn’t some kind of telepathic connection. It certainly didn’t feel like it. The echoes never really responded to what she was thinking. It was more like random memories that insisted on being played. She was, however, concerned at the direction her thoughts were taking on certain matters pertaining to this… secret, of late.

She didn’t think she was being controlled in the imperius sense, but it was like she was being… swayed not to tell.

She would have sought release from this if she wasn’t so sure that it was her own reasoning persuading her one way or the other. It was her, but a very secretive her.

It was odd, but she wasn’t completely adverse to it. She was, after all, only looking out for Harry and Ron. She just wanted to make absolutely sure that she wasn’t inadvertently putting them in harm’s way by telling them.

As Hermione walked up the front steps to meet McGonagall at the top, she was glad the Headmistress was comfortable enough of her not to mind her coming in on a Sunday.

“That was quite the party you and Weasley threw Potter,” she said, receiving Hermione in her office. “I have to admit that I enjoyed myself rather well. And I was impressed by Harry’s gentility… at least during his birthday speech.”

Hermione laughed. “You sound as if you were expecting him to belch and scratch his crotch all night.”

McGonagall had the grace to blush. “Well, of course I expected better behavior than that from Potter, but that speech… well, he was quite eloquent, don’t you think?”

“Oh, yes. I made sure to tell him I approved.”

McGonagall arched an eyebrow and it was Hermione’s turn to blush. She wondered if she should explain she meant absolutely nothing by it, but doing so would only enforce the fact that she unwittingly did.

“So, what can I help you with, Hermione?” she asked.

It was time to get down to business. “I’ve been wondering about what you said that time I came over. You know, when we were having dinner with Filius and Poppy?”

McGonagall’s brows furrowed, as if she was rewinding her thoughts, before she smoothed them out. “We were talking about Danaides.”

“Yes. Danaides Athanasius. You said you didn’t know he had a son, much less a grandson.”

The Headmistress nodded. “That’s correct. I found that a bit odd. I should have known if he had children, you understand. As Deputy Headmistress then, one of my duties was to send out admission letters.”

Hermione nodded, confirming that she and McGonagall had thought the same thing. “I should think that’s more than a bit odd, yes? Why didn’t you know?”

“I admit it gave me pause, but it’s not unprecedented that an alumnus’s grandchild doesn’t get a letter from Hogwarts.”

That surprised Hermione somewhat. “When does this happen, then?”

“Well, in this case for instance, I didn’t become Deputy Headmistress until 1991. Between 1958 and 1991, Danaides could have had any number of children and I wouldn’t have known about them at all if the Deputy Headmaster at the time sent letters to all of them and was declined. In this instance, Danaides’s children could have opted to go to Durmstrang, or Beauxbatons, therefore Danaides’s grandchildren would not appear in Hogwarts’s records anymore and instead appear in Durmstrang’s or Beauxbatons’s lists. It’s even possible that they were educated in another part of the world. Not all Wizarding is confined to Europe.”

Hermione thought about it. There wasn’t any information stating that Danaides’s children had gone to either Durmstrang or Beauxbatons, but then her information may be inaccurate. She was however certain that the Athanasius children did not leave Europe in the last thirty years, at least not long enough for anyone to report that they had moved out of the country.

“Minerva, is there any way that we can look into the other schools’ records pertaining to admission letters? I just want to know if Danaides’s children had letters sent to them.”

“That’s classified information, you understand, between Headmasters and such,” said McGonagall with an arch of her eyebrow.

Hermione pleaded her with her eyes. This wasn’t the first time she asked McGonagall to bend rules as far as they could go.

“I won’t let you see the lists,” said McGonagall. “But I will gladly let you know if Danaides’s children were in their admissions rosters.”

Hermione was relieved. “Thank you. Umm, is it possible that… well, that they don’t get sent admission letters at all? Whether or not they’re in Europe?”

“Only if they’re squibs.”

“Are there squib records then?”

McGonagall cleared her throat, as if she thought something distasteful. “Essentially, yes.”

Hermione nodded. “Will finding out take long, you think? Or can I go by the library for the meantime?”

“You may take your time in the library,” said McGonagall.

Hermione was just about to excuse herself when McGonagall spoke.

“Dear, can you tell me at least why this seems so important to you?”

Hermione thought about it. “I-I’m not sure why it’s important, Minerva. I just—I have this hunch… it’s nagging me. I—I want to find out…” She reddened. Faced with the prospect of verbalizing her suspicions, it sounded silly to her now. “I just want to find out more about the grandson, and I trust school records more than I trust Ministry ones. School records are less likely to lie; even the ones in Durmstrang. The Athanasius line isn’t the type, anyway, to have their names stricken from the records for one dodgy reason or another. They have a respectable line going back five hundred years…”

McGonagall sighed and nodded.

Hermione left the Headmistress to her search while she went to the library.

After her initial melt down the previous day, she had managed to reorganize her thoughts and rake her mind for a lead. It was impossible, at the beginning, but somewhere between the afternoon and that morning, she was struck by another thing McGonagall had said the night she visited Hogwarts.

“Always thought there was an otherworldly wisdom in his eyes,” the Headmistress had said.

That got Hermione thinking about other life forms; sentient ones, like Centaurs and Mermaids and Leprechauns.

She had compiled several key words that might help her, among which she obtained from Lysander himself, from their last meeting in the coffee shop. With any luck, she would be able to find a common thread and get some answers.

Hermione looked at her watch. It was still quite early. It wasn’t even lunch time, but she promised Harry she’d be home that night; or else he would come on over and fetch her himself. It was terribly sweet of him, of course, but if she let him fetch her, that meant he’d take her riding on his Firebolt over the lake, and she didn’t know if she could handle that.

She would floo Harry a bit later. He could get unreasonably worried about her sometimes.

When she got to the library, she didn’t tarry. She went to the shelves and began to pull out books.

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Roughly three hours later, somewhat frustrated by her poor results, McGonagall approached her looking rather grim.

“Hermione?”

She looked up miserably and tried to put on an accommodating face for the Headmistress. She managed a small smile.

“I’ve finished looking through the records,” said McGonagall.

Hermione pulled up a chair for her. McGonagall sat. “And?”

“There have been no records of admission letters sent out for Danaides’s children in the last thirty years. In fact, I was so perplexed that I looked back on the records as far as I could go. I assume their clan came to Europe five hundred years ago, because the earliest record of their children was from that time, but… well, in the last five hundred years, they were only sent admissions letters—“ She paused, looking flustered. “How do I explain this… The first-generation batch, four of them, were sent when they first came to Ireland. Among the four, only one was a son. Isidore, actually, so he was the only one to carry the Athanasius name. He attended Hogwarts, but his sisters declined Hogwarts for Beauxbatons. The next Athanasius Hogwarts letter… wasn’t sent out until Danaides.”

Hermione stared at her, rather shocked. But she steadied her reeling thoughts and tried to come up with the most plausible explanation. “Well, they could’ve moved their children out of Europe for a spell, during their formative years… so maybe they got letters from the schools in—well—wherever they were!”

McGonagall cleared her throat. “I checked those schools, which is why I took so long… there are no records… unless they managed to erase their existence between then and now… there were no other Athanasius children in the school records, Hermione.”

It was amazing. It was terrible! What the hell was Lysander?

She pulled a magazine from her briefcase. It was Business of Magic, and it was a back-issue. She showed it to McGonagall. “This is Lysander Athanasius.”

McGonagall looked at it. “Well… he looks uncannily like his grandfather.”

“Oh? Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.”

McGonagall stared at her intently. “What are you saying, Hermione?”

“What you’re already thinking.”

“This can’t be Danaides. He’d have to be at least in his late fifties. Nobody could look that good at that age, even in the Wizarding World.”

“Glamour? Polyjuice? Switching? Muggle surgery?”

“You know a glamour can’t, Hermione. No magic you’ve learned can. You speak of youth. If any of those worked, wizards and witches would be applying them to their dying days. The only thing that might work with the kind of effectiveness Danaides is exhibiting is Nicholas Flammel’s Elixir of Life, and we know what happened to that.”

Hermione nodded. Muggle surgery was out of the question, too. Lysander—or Danaides, looked like he was—well, not a day over twenty-five. That’s what Hermione told Harry that first time Harry questioned his age. If she didn’t know Harry so well, she would think his instincts a tad creepy.

McGonagall stared at Lysander’s picture. “I would say he might be a vampire, but—“

“I’ve seen him walk in daylight, and pale as he is, he isn’t undead. Minerva, what other life form can live older than three hundred years?”

McGonagall thought about it. After a moment of silence, she looked to the Restricted Section of the library. “There are… histories that the Wizarding World would prefer not to tell, Hermione.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Wh-What histories?”

“There is a tale, told even in Muggle campfires. It is old; ancient actually, and it supposedly became the very basis of the first Government Sanctioned Genocide…”

It made Hermione’s skin crawl. “Genocide? Like the destruction of a people for being something?”

“Racial cleansing,” said McGonagall. “Worst than anything Muggles have ever documented.”

“You said the Wizarding World would prefer not to tell it.”

“There’s no written history of it ever occurring,” McGonagall explained. “There are debates on whether or not it happened at all. It’s mostly speculation, but the more… eccentric free thinkers have postulated that there is evidence to be found in stories passed along as fiction. The stories, of course, have been twisted to ‘misdirect’, so to speak. But the old, ancient tale that supposedly propagated the idea of genocide is relatively unchanged through the ages. There is a restricted book; a thesis of this tale and theories the author formed from it. Look for the book Dark Is the Legend, and maybe we can shed some light into this.”

Nodding, Hermione stood to get the book.

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Hermione stayed late in Hogwarts; late enough for Harry to come get her. He flew across the lake on his Firebolt and walked across the field to the castle.

McGonagall joined Hermione to meet him.

“Well, Mr. Potter,” said McGonagall, looking rather pleased. “I am glad to see that glamour is holding quite well within the walls of Hogwarts. Perhaps this means you won’t be so adverse to teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts some time soon.”

Harry smiled, draping an arm around Hermione who was looking at him in astonishment.

“You were offered a teaching job here?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Only in passing. I didn’t think the Headmistress was serious. I wasn’t exactly a model student.”

“I’m not prone to making jokes, Potter,” said McGonagall. “And while I partly offered you the job hoping you would accept and convince Hermione to take the Transfigurations position, you’re easily one of the best candidates for the D.A.D.A. office.”

Harry chuckled meekly and Hermione looked scandalized by McGonagall’s irreverence.

“Now,” said McGonagall. “Are you going to step inside like a proper gentleman or are you going to just whisk Hermione away as fast as you can?”

“Umm, I think I’d rather opt for being a gentleman, Headmistress.”

“A wise decision, Potter.”

McGonagall turned to lead them and Hermione exchanged amused looks with Harry.

They had dinner in the Great Hall that evening, with Flitwick and Madame Pomfrey. And after pudding, McGonagall offered them a place in the Gryffindor Tower.

This time, Hermione declined.

“Madam Pince will be coming over tomorrow morning. Perhaps she can help you better with your research,” said McGonagall.

Hermione was tempted, but she had work tomorrow. She didn’t want to shame McGonagall with Heartcomb and Archibald. “I think maybe I’ll pass on Madam Pince for the moment. I can’t skip work.”

McGonagall seemed to approve. She knew all about responsibility. “Well then, I’ll consult with her for you, and I will owl you on significant findings. Will that do?”

Hermione was ecstatic. “Oh, yes! Any kind of help would be most appreciated. Thank you, Minerva.”

The Headmistress gave a nod. “You’re welcome. Now, I believe you and Potter have to be going, as Rosmerta doesn’t take kindly to late flooers.”

Harry smiled. “She’s in a right state tonight, actually. Barely got away with my life.”

“Then run along. Goodnight to the both of you.”

“Goodnight, Minerva,” Hermione said, clasping the Headmistress’s hand in a warm shake.

Harry gave his own goodbyes and they were off to the edge of the lake.

He cast locomotor on his broom, leaving his hands free.

“Care for a ride, love?” he asked, gesturing to the broom that was hovering only a few feet off the ground.

Hermione looked at it doubtfully.

He chuckled. “It won’t take off; not if you don’t want it to. Besides, I’ll control the altitude.”

Sometimes, it was embarrassing to be so obviously dunce at flying a broom, but she still preferred to walk.

“I’d rather walk beside you,” she said, grinning up at him as she hooked her arm around his waist.

He smiled, draping his arm over her shoulders as they strolled.

“Did you find what you were looking for in Hogwarts?” Harry asked, idly kicking at a stray stone.

“Only part of it. Some of my questions were answered, but nearly not enough for me to stop looking.”

“What exactly are you looking for?”

“I can’t tell you yet.”

“Is it a surprise?” He tried to keep his tone light, but he failed. He was worried about her. He couldn’t mask it.

She smiled for him anyway, if only to try to alleviate some of his anxiety. “I suppose you can say that, but it’s not as pleasant a surprise as your birthday.”

“Or my presents.”

“Or your presents.”

He grinned. “You know, it might have been nice to stay the night in Gryffindor Tower. Sort of… do the things we weren’t allowed to do when we were students.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

Hermione laughed. “Next thing you’ll be telling me, Potter, is that you want to shag me in the broom closet.”

“Now there’s an idear!”

“Oh, shut it. I don’t know if I’d have the gumption. I always felt Filch had some sort of peephole in there and he was seeing everything that went on.”

Harry laughed. “Did you really make checking the broom closet part of your Head Girl routine?”

She scowled. “Of course, not. I only checked it when I heard sounds from inside. I never checked it hoping to find a couple going at it. But I have to admit that after catching quite a few of them, it got old. I wasn’t embarrassed anymore.”

“Well, that’s rather tragic, isn’t it? That the excitement of it was lost on you?”

Hermione grinned, seeing the sparkle in his eyes. “Hardly. I think I was more disappointed that everyone was having enough of it to settle for quickies while I haven’t even had my special first time. It was embarrassing to be the oldest virgin I knew, and I was only seventeen then! With the war happening everyone was scurrying to get laid because no one wanted to die a virgin, but perfect little me was too bloody good for the damn broom closet!”

Harry frowned. “Who wanted to do it with you in the broom closet?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to answer that question. Important thing is I got my special first time.”

He smiled and kissed her tenderly. “Was it as wonderful for you too, then?”

“Oh dear, yes.”

“I was afraid you’d given in to Ernie. He didn’t look like he would have been much fun for you. Lee might have been better—“

She scowled. “Harry!”

He looked at her rather sheepishly.

They got to the edge of the lake and they settled on the broom together.

Hermione, not looking forward to it one bit, straddled the broom and held onto it for dear life. Harry encased her in his arms, just so she wouldn’t be so afraid. The warmth of him was instantaneous and her tense muscles began to loosen instantly.

He placed a kiss on the crook of her neck and shoulder. “Relax, love,” he said. “I won’t ever let you fall.”

She let his words run through her mind and found that it would see her through anything. Harry would never let her fall.

Smiling, she craned her neck to look at him. “I know you won’t.”

He smiled and kissed her as they shot out across the lake.

I’m almost sure a lot of you have already figured things out. Read the AN at the bottom when you’re done, please. Just a bit of info. Not essential to the story, of course, but I’m obsessive… sorry. ^_^

Standard disclaimers apply.

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Chapter Fourteen – Speaking the Language

In which Hermione learns how to read.

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Hermione learned how to read while she was at work.

She was sitting in her work station puzzling over certain judicial precedents when she heard Lysander’s echo in her head once more.

Read the book.

Frowning, she had tried to ignore it, but it persisted, and finally, frustrated that no amount of work was shutting the voice up, she dipped into her work bag and opened the Nauta Oira.

The pages came alive with words and she could understand everything.

That same sense of fear that first took her when she discovered the power came over her again, but this time, she was better prepared. Not by much, but by enough to keep herself together.

It wasn’t a very thick book; almost like a hard-bound pamphlet, but it was a thesis about a decimated race, persecuted because they were feared; hunted because of exaggerated tales told.

Hermione remembered another thesis that made theories about those exaggerated tales.

The legend was about a race of sentient beings that were so beautiful, so majestic, that muggle and wizard alike deferred to them for leadership and guidance. They were angel-like in their appearance. They were benevolent, and they were the ideal muggles and wizards aspired to become, but as the centuries wore on and the wizards that once admired them learned envy and fear. Tales—no better than lies—were told about them, about wizard and muggle babies taken from their cradles, and children taken from their rooms, eaten as sacrifices to prolong lives and preserve youth. The tales were spun, grown more horrible at each telling, until the fear became palpable and the genocide began. Their angels were angels no more; they had been named demons and creatures of evil. They were run out of their homes, grown-up and children alike, to die as miscreants. They were executed and tortured through dark magical means; destroyed for the color of their skin, hair and eyes. None must be left alive, and it was written than none survived.

But some did survive, and what little was left of the dying race strived to live through the centuries undetected, because the “demon-taint” their race was faulted with remained.

There were rumors of their continued existence, of course. In the last five hundred or so years, there were sightings of them, and by then, wizards had better learned the virtue of life, if not benevolence. But in spite of the changed attitudes of wizards, the race remained in hiding. It was not difficult, anyway. These “demons” were magical folks in themselves. Though they needed no wands to manipulate it, it was easy to pretend they needed a stick of wood to make magic work.

Hermione kept this legend in mind as she read through the Nauta Oira: To try and regenerate the race, or at least to keep it alive, the race took on rationing its magic through familiars. This was a common enough theory. Witches and Wizards kept familiars in any form of animal their magic required. Familiars were magical vessels which their owners could tap into as a spare source. Kind of like keeping a spare tire in the trunk of one’s car in case the car blew one of the four it was running on.

The decimated race valued familiars in particular because the amount of magic they could contain in their familiar dictated the length of their lives. Their familiars acted not just as vessels but as generators that can actually reproduce power from what it was initially given, like a tree that produced fruits season after season.

Because of this peculiar trait, the dying race had prolonged life spans, but some remained longer than others. The dark legends surrounding their violent past was not without basis. While familiars were expected to be animals, some preferred more powerful sources: people.

While the keeping of human familiars in itself was not forbidden, the very idea of it, especially within the more modern ideals of man, was dark and disturbing.

The dynamics of familiarism were set within certain limits. Muggles couldn’t be kept as familiars. They lacked the inherent magic to be useful as familiars to Lysander’s kind. Only demons, real demons, had use for muggles as familiars, but Lysander’s people could not utilize muggles the way demons could.

These angel-like creatures could make their own kind their familiars. Ideally, they married, fell in love and agreed to be each other’s familiars. It made sense; it was romantic; it was practically the only way to go, but they cannot force each other after the fact. They could only be bound of their own free will; no tricks; no deceit; no power in the world could force them to become familiars of each other if they didn’t desire it. They can even revoke their familiarship as easy as they can take anything back. There was no conflict pertaining to familiarship within the same race.

Wizards could be made into familiars. Wizards were prime familiars, and the “shinier” they were, the more power they had to offer. By shinier, it meant that the wizard was more accomplished, perhaps beautiful; of a special renown; intellectual, or maybe excelling in sports.

Hermione’s frown deepened at what she read next.

Wizards could be compelled to be familiars under certain circumstances. The keeping of a Wizard familiar was tolerated, so long as the wizard was willing. It was expressly forbidden to force a wizard outright, but it didn’t mean it couldn’t be done. There was a process that involved trickery; the trapping of a wizard or witch’s aura. When the trap was sprung, the binding process would begin, and forced or not, it was next to impossible to escape the clutches of the spell.

And here, Hermione felt her stomach drop.

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Hermione shut herself in the ministry bathroom stall and retched. It was all she could do not to go mad.

As she emptied the contents of her stomach in the toilet bowl, all she could think of was: “What have I done? What’s going to happen to me? What will I do? Oh, bugger!”

She felt sick to the core of her. And the worse part of it was she had brought it all upon herself.

The flush of the toilet was like a death-knell to her existence.

Hermione cursed the day she met Lysander Athanasius.

She retched some more, disgusted with herself, the entire situation and the thought that Lysander can keep her alive for half-a-millenia so that he could use her like a battery that would make him coffee, or tie his shoelaces, or walk his dogs…

Bugger all to hell!

More retching. She had nothing more to barf. It hurt to turn her stomach inside out and it wasn’t helping the ache in her head, either.

Flush.

With nothing left to heave, she leaned back on the stall door and pounded her head against it, punishing herself for her stupidity; her vanity; her spectacularly bad luck.

She survived Voldemort just so some schmuck in an expensive suit can keep her as a magical slave for the next five hundred years; because really, that’s how long one can stretch the warranty on a Witch Familiar.

Harry was not going to be pleased.

Hermione weighed her options.

She could either resist the Final Binding and feel excruciating, mind crippling pain, or she could dutifully prepare herself; participate in the ritual and let the transition be comfortably lovely. Either way, she was screwed. Lysander would have her and she could—well—continue to be screwed in the next five hundred years.

Great options.

I can kill him, I suppose.

She groaned. Again, great options.

The ritual of the Final Binding was best undertaken during a Waxing Moon. Hermione thought about it. That would be a week from now.

She pounded her head back again. “Bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger!”

There was a knock on her stall door and the voice of a woman came through. “Oy, you there. Are you alright?”

Hermione sighed. “Yes, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? I can get a Medi-witch here in a flash if you need one.”

“It’s fine. I just ate something bad, is all.”

“Umm… is that you Hermione?”

Wonderful, she sighed. I’ve been recognized.

Reluctantly, she got up and opened the door.

Can it get any worse?

It was Gail.

Hermione groaned and went to the sink, splashing her face with cold water. “You will not tell Harry you found me like this.”

Gail frowned. “I won’t… were you just sick in there?”

“Sort of.” She wondered if there was such a thing as “sort of retching your intestines.”

“Oh dear, are you pregnant?”

Hermione frowned. “Of course not. That was stress and I just needed to get it out of my system. It’s out, so now I’d really appreciate it if you kept this between us.”

“Good God, are they working you that hard at the WizCOF?”

“Yes.”

“You know, if you’re feeling under the weather, you might want to tell your bosses to let you off early, just this once.”

Hermione would have done just that, but if it meant going home and doing nothing, she’d rather stay at work and puke her guts out. At least in the Ministry, she would have more things to occupy herself with, like staving off nosy auror partners.

She sighed, taking a paper towel and wiping her face with it. “I’m going back to the office. I think maybe the crisis has passed, anyway.” Not by a long shot. “I’ll see you around, Gail.”

Gail nodded and Hermione could feel the woman’s eyes on her as she left.

Hermione walked back to the hole in the wall and found Heartcomb waving to a pile of owls.

“They’re yours,” he said, and looking up, he frowned. “You look peaky. Have you been letting vampires bite you again?”

“Among other things,” Hermione muttered, taking her pile of owls.

She took them to her work station and flipped through them. They were mostly work related and she sorted them into organized folders. But then there was one from Hogwarts.

Hermione felt her heart thump. Maybe McGonagall had found something out.

After reading the letter, some of her optimism waned as it contained information she already knew. That the Waxing moon was prime for certain rituals; that the “gift exchange” was usually undertaken to begin binding enchantments, etc., etc.

There was a note at the bottom. McGonagall pointed out that the theory of Lysander’s species was reinforced by the fact that he came from a clan of weapons smiths and warriors, as it was the primary means of income for those of his kind back then. The owning of land was characteristic to his kind as well, though not always in such a grand scale as that of the Athanasius clan.

She was about to toss the letter aside, out of sheer frustration, when something farther down the scroll caught her eye.

It was a list of references; places where she might find more information regarding ancient rituals pertaining to waxing moons and gift-exchanges. There was one in the Norse lands, where Lysander’s species were rumored to originate. There was one in Ireland, where Lysadner’s kind were known to have flocked, but there was one right in London, and she had a key to it.

The Library of Ancient Runes.

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Hermione asked Heartcomb if she could leave for the day because it seemed the vampire that bit her took more than she had been prepared to give.

Heartcomb let her go, recommending blood-replenishing potions.

Hermione hurried out of the ministry and apparated outside the Library of Ancient Runes. She hoped to Merlin Lysander wouldn’t show up unexpected, like he did the last time and she wondered if the key she was using had anything to do with it.

Finding a secluded spot in a nearby park, Hermione examined the key with every magical tester she could think of.

She smiled triumphant when she discovered the trigger spell for the summons. Now she only needed to remove it. She needed a spell breaker and she vaguely recalled one from her many books, she just needed to know the exact type and parameters. She made sure that the removal of the trigger wouldn’t inadvertently trigger the summons anyway and was glad to discover that the spells on the key weren’t all that complex. This might be easier than she though.

She brought out her wand.

“Reconligo,” she said, thinking of the accompanying password that would recover the spell-breaker book she put in magical storage.

The book appeared and fell on her lap. She flipped through the pages, cross referenced and found the spell she needed to break the trigger spell in the key.

“Dearmare arcessitu!” she whispered, waving her wand and tapping the key. The key trembled for a bit before settling.

She could only hope the breaker worked, and there was only one way to find out.

After returning her reference book to magical storage with a “Repositum!” she went to the library and tried the key. The library opened itself to her.

As she walked in, she was met once more by Lord Mac a’Bhaird and she happily told him she would like to see the books in the upper floors.

“Ready to take on the challenge of deciphering the strange runes, my lady?” asked Lord Mac a’Bhaird.

She smiled and nodded. If her suspicions were correct, she would be able to read what was up there.

Hermione apparated to the upper floors and Lord Mac a’Bhaird met her there.

“I’d like to familiarize myself with very old rituals. Binding rituals, actually,” she said.

Lord Mac a’Bhaird nodded. “I’d suggest you go to aisle four, then. But be warned. The books have been catalogued based on academic theory, not certainty. A lot of the runes in these books are unreadable, and while we’ve had the best scholars catalogue and classify them, we have little way of knowing if they’ve done so correctly.”

That, Hermione thought, made things a bit daunting. It meant what she was looking for could actually be anywhere in the upper levels.

Well, you have a week left yet to prepare, Granger.

It wasn’t enough, but it would have to do.

“Thank you Lord Mac a’Bhaird. You have been a great help. I can manage from here.”

The ghost bowed and left her to her work.

Hermione began to scan the shelves and she found that the books were relatively organized. It was quite possible that some literate had actually ventured to arrange the books.

Probably another reluctant familiar trying to find a loophole, she thought bitterly.

She sifted through the books, finding a lot of binding rituals pertaining to waxing moons and gift-exchanges.

Minutes turned to hours, and by the time the clock struck eight in the evening, she had learned a lot, but hadn’t exactly found what she needed.

She found a rather interesting Familiar spell when the familiar was an animal. While the wizarding world had several basic spells for binding an animal as your familiar, this was curious in that she could be connected to her familiar’s thoughts when she wanted to.

Hermione seriously thought about performing it on Crookshanks, and hopefully, she would gain insight into the ritual Lysander wanted her to do for him. She might be able to use that insight to find a way to break the binding.

The more she thought about the idea, the more plausible the idea seemed. She noticed that all of the binding rituals had similar characteristics, and sometimes, it was only the incantation that changed. If she gained first-hand insight on any of the binding rituals, she could very well suppose that the binding ritual Lysander would use on her followed similar patterns.

Knowledge was power, after all.

After a few moments of thought, she sighed and closed the book in front of her. She knew she had to go home. Harry didn’t know where she was, and Gail could have let slip their episode in the bathroom, which meant Harry might be having kittens now.

Hermione made a copy of the binding ritual for animal familiars and resolved to do her ritual the following day. If it meant she had to take the day off getting the materials ready, then so be it.

Now, she just needed a spell to make her seem sick enough to stay in. If she was going to do this, she didn’t want anyone knowing about it just yet.

Yes, not yet.

I don’t want to worry Harry.

Oh, but won’t he want to know?

Of course he will! But what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right?

Right…

She frowned a bit. She still had reservations about all this secret keeping. She had always trusted Harry, but now… there was just that nudge that made her need to keep it…

An idea suddenly hit her and she knew exactly what she had to do to stay home the next day.

I know just the thing! It’s perfect: consistent with the bathroom episode if Gail told, or ever tells, on me. Hooray for Fred and George!

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“Ron, you are so dead!” Harry growled, holding up Hermione’s hair as she heaved into the toilet. It was midnight, and she had woken up the whole house.

Well, all for the sake of drama, she thought as her stomach recoiled.

She groaned miserably for effect.

Ron looked terribly guilty, and anxious, but he was never too quick with his apologies. “It was Chinese! I bought it from our favorite Chinese place! We’ve been eating the stuff forever!”

“Well, it was bad!” Harry cried. “And now Hermione’s sick like anything! We’re never going to order Chinese from that place again!”

She retched. Her moans became less for show and more real than she would’ve liked. Fred and George’s Puking Pastilles from the Skiving Snackbox were lethal in upped doses; but it promised that the effects would be nullified if you took the exact same dose of the accompanying antidote. In the meantime, it was dead uncomfortable and exhausting.

“Oh, Merlin, please kill me now…” she groaned, meaning it. The things she would do to be left alone in the house for an entire day…

She doubled over again and felt Harry rubbing her back as he held her hair off her face.

“I don’t know why she was the only one affected,” said Ron, as if it was her fault. “We both ate the dumpling.”

“It’s because you’ve got the constitution of a steam-roller, Ron,” Harry said, reaching for a towel and running it under cold water. He gave the wet towel to her. “Here, love, try this.”

“Th-Thanks, Harry,” she muttered, taking the towel and using it to wipe her face with. Her stomach spasmed again, but she managed to hold it in a bit. “Cor, this is almost as bad as getting cursed by Dolohov…”

The look of horror blossoming on Harry’s face alerted her to the fact that she might have gone a bit overboard with her descriptions.

“It’s an exaggeration, Harry,” she muttered. “Nothing to be alarmed about.”

Harry did look awfully relieved. “Ron, fetch some tea for her, will you?”

Sighing and rolling his eyes, Ron left to do it, muttering something about being a replacement House Elf.

It turned out Gail hadn’t told Harry about the bathroom incident, which Hermione thought was decent of her, but all things considered, so long as Harry didn’t do something silly like stay home to take care of her, she would have the house all to herself the next day; or at least long enough for her to gather certain ritual materials.

She could perform the ritual while they were out, too. This particular ritual wasn’t time specific, which was fortunate. She’d hate to have to formulate a load of bullcrap just to get Harry and Ron out of the house at night.

That aside, she was feeling rather wasted right now. I think I can stop retching in a while…

She hugged her middle. It was really beginning to hurt. “I think I’ll be able to go to work tomorrow, anyway…”

Predictably, Harry objected. “No, you’re staying home to recuperate. I don’t care what your bosses say. You’re really sick right now.”

She shot him a petulant look but he remained stern.

One more obligatory protest on her part was required and she gave it, telling him she was feeling better now, but as if rehearsed, she retched again. The timing was excellent.

“Like you were saying?” he muttered.

“Alright,” she spat out. “Maybe I can’t, tomorrow, but I’ll not have you fussing over me the entire day, Potter. If you so much as check up on me, I’ll go to work even if it means I’ll be barfing all over the ministry. Deal?”

He smirked, pleased enough with his success. “Deal.”

Perfect. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go pull out my intestines.”

Hermione bent over the toilet again to empty her gut.

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The following morning had Harry tucking her into bed with way too many pillows and healing potions. He had a list telling her when to take the potions and at what time. It was all very endearing, and given the true nature of her health, she felt a bit like jumping him and telling him she was well enough to shag. But of course, she had to pretend that she hardly had the pep to pick up a book.

She may have overdone it a bit, as Harry seemed to hover before leaving for work. Ron had already left, having no patience for Harry’s fussing.

Harry looked worriedly at her from the foot of her bed. “Maybe I should skive work…”

“No!” she yelled too abruptly for someone who was supposed to be too sick to react to anything at all. She hastily covered-up her lapse. “You can’t skive auror duties! It’s not like skiving history class at Hogwarts. Auror duties are important, and your being there may spell the difference between a Death Eater being caught or getting away!”

Harry sighed. “You’re right, of course, but you look so ill, Hermione… I just don’t want to leave you alone…”

She waved his concerns away. “I’ll be just fine. See here, I’m eating this kidney pie, and yum! It’s delicious! Now, I wouldn’t have an appetite if I was very sick, now would I?”

He smiled slightly. “Alright then, I’ll go. But I’ll be back as early as I can.”

She nodded.

He gave her a kiss and he was gone.

The moment she heard Harry apparate, she jumped out of bed and grabbed the list of things she would need.

Among the more basic materials were spell chalk, candles, an Athame or ritual knife, and a cauldron. She had those in storage. The more exotic materials she would have to get from a few muggle markets and Knockturn Alley.

She went out to the muggle markets first gathering fresh herbs for the ritual. When she ventured to Knockturn Alley for the various dragon ingredients and stolen hair of unicorn, she had to wear a robe to cover her face with. There were too many people there who might recognize her.

She had to get a scrying mirror too, which was something they should have had at Grimmauld Place, but since nobody in the house put much stock on divination (or perhaps they’d had quite enough of prophesies), none of them had ever bothered to buy one.

By the time she was done with shopping, it was lunch time, and she had to hurry home to prepare her ingredients.

There were potions to be made with the stolen hair of unicorn and other ingredients, and until she had the potion made, she couldn’t be entirely sure that the hair was indeed, stolen. She took comfort in the fact that no self-respecting unicorn would let anyone take hair from them willingly for commercial use.

It took her at least two hours to complete the silver-mercury potion, and she was confident it would work, as the description of a successfully mixed Binding Elixir matched that of the one she had in her pot.

The instructions explained that when she had her familiar handy and it was time for them both to ingest the potion, her dose would smell like her animal’s favorite scents while the animal’s dose would smell like hers. This part of the process served a double purpose, as a properly chosen animal wouldn’t mind any scent pertaining to the human, mainly because it was the kind of presence-sense an animal relied on to recognize a human they trusted, and a human they didn’t. The instructions didn’t say anything about the human’s reaction to the animal’s favorite scents, which could only mean two things: One, it was assumed that a human has the maturity (or the willpower) to ingest the potion whatever its smell, and two, the animal did the choosing in the binding, because according to the instructions, the animal couldn’t be forced to take the potion.

This was a very interesting insight to Hermione. It could mean that while she could be forced to be Lysander’s familiar, there was an aspect pertaining to her own choice. How she can exploit this, she didn’t know yet. She hoped she could find the answers.

The other materials for the ritual weren’t as complicated, as dragon parts in the raw were powerful enough to act as catalysts. She merely had to cut the dry pieces and make them manageable for the ritual.

The instructions for the dragon mix had a portion pertaining to astral vision, which Hermione had read about in theory, but hadn’t quite ventured to practice. Until now, she never considered it as more than the taking of Wizard hallucinogens, which was exactly what she thought it was: drugs. And while she was still a bit iffy about taking anything of the sort, she knew it was essential for her to try. It would involve the prepared dragon parts: She would mix dry ingredients of dragon in a boiling cup of dragon bile, add some of her own blood and reduce the mixture while she inhaled the fumes. After which she would have to consume some of the flakes of dragon hide. It was definitely dodgy potion-making, but she was determined to see the entire thing through. She only hoped that by the time Harry got home, the effects of the “dragon drug” would be gone.

Considering the hour, she felt that she didn’t have much time left to complete the ritual. Harry said he would try to be home early. Knowing Harry, that could mean between four to six. She couldn’t risk it. It was already two after noon. She still had to make sure she could read the incantations for the ritual.

She figured the perfect place to perform the ritual would be on the roof. The trouble, she realized, with spell chalk, was that it couldn’t be scourgified. It could, however, be removed by a good dose of soap and water. If she had to scrub anything, better the roof where she wouldn’t have to worry about wiping up the flood.

With a peg and a string, she drew two perfect, overlapping circles. Carefully, she wrote the runes around them. When she was satisfied with the results, she went to look for Crookshanks.

She went straight to Crookshank’s usual haunts, calling on him gently, as her finicky pet didn’t like to be summoned like a common dog.

Crookshanks padded into the receiving room from the viewing chamber with a soft mew.

“There you are,” said Hermione, crouching down on her knees.

Like a proper human, Crookshanks sat in front of his mistress, stretching his front and hind quarters fitfully before he set his orange fluffy tail winding around his feet. He looked up, waiting for what she had to say.

“Crookshanks,” she said. “I’m in trouble, and I really, really need your help to figure out how to get out of it.”

He stared for a moment, unresponsive, before turning his head to look at the side table holding pictures of her, Harry and Ron. He gave a loud meow.

While Hermione didn’t exactly speak cat, she knew Crookshanks to be unusually intelligent, and she could only assume Crookshanks was telling her what she thought he was telling her.

“I can’t let Harry or Ron know about it yet,” she said. “Not until I’m sure it won’t put them in danger. I got into this situation because I didn’t know what I was doing. Until I can be certain, I don’t want to unwittingly drag them into this. I’ll tell them when I have it all figured out. In the meantime, it’s just you and me.”

Crookshanks hissed at her.

Hermione wasn’t sure what that meant. Was Crookshanks insisting? “You have to trust me on this.”

He hissed again.

She frowned. “I made a mistake, you see, so this time, I want to be more careful. You’re the only one I can rely on right now.”

Crookshanks pranced towards her and began rubbing himself around her hips. Hermione smiled and petted him. He really was the dearest pet ever.

“I need you to be my familiar, Crookshanks,” she said. “It’s mostly just so I can experience this binding ritual and learn things from it, but of course, the effects of it will be permanent on us both. But really, it won’t be so bad. According to the book, we’ll be able to communicate somehow when we’re bound, and we’ll have certain new powers because of it. I don’t think there’s really anything wrong with that, as I think I have a lot to offer you on that respect and you have a lot to offer me. Also, it will extend your life span. D’you fancy living to a hundred years, poppet?”

Crookshanks didn’t stop lavishing her with affection, meowing and purring.

Hermione’s smile widened. “You’re the best, Crookshanks. Come on. I have to perform the ritual up in the roof.”

She got to her feet, walking to the stairs. She wanted to see if Crookshanks would follow. He did without hesitation. When they got to the stairs, she picked Crookshanks up and carried him the rest of the way.

At the roof, she let Crookshanks down and he immediately began prancing around the circles she drew on the floor.

Hermione got her things prepared. She set up a second cauldron (Harry’s) in her circle and poured in the entire contents of a small covered cup. It was the dragon’s bile. She put the cup in her handy garbage bin. Next, she placed the scrying mirror over the interlacing arcs of the two circles and set the athame beside her cauldron. She took the cauldron of mixed binding potion, ladling some in a potion cup and a milk saucer. She put the milk saucer in Crookshank’s circle and the potion cup in hers. Carefully, she placed the candles in the proper directional points.

She stepped into her circle and instructed Crookshanks to step into his.

Like a behaved participant, Crookshanks settled in his spot and watched her with avid curiosity.

“This is going to take a while, so you have to be patient, alright?” she said.

Crookshanks made no move to complain.

She opened her parchment and set it down where she could read it. She breathed in and out, focusing herself, before she lit the candles with a wave of her wand.

They came to life.

She put down her wand and tried not to let the uncertainty of its loss overcome her focused determination. The spell expressly said that her hands must not be burdened, so it meant she wasn’t allowed to hold a wand. She wasn’t sure if it would work at all without the wand, but she had to put her faith in the magic.

She began the incantation in the ancient language of Lysander’s kind:

“Im man tri rinde ilya athan

Ne suule fanyare ar talan

Wilya, uur, linque ar kemi nauta

Sirima lindele en fea anna.”

She let the words settle in the embrace of the circle, absorbing the meaning of uttered syllables:

I cleanse through circles all around

By spirits of the sky and ground

Air, fire, water and bound earth

Flowing song of spirit’s worth

And then she felt it; the stirring of magic she so often felt when she let loose a spell from her wand, only this time it felt enhanced, like it actually had density. It pressed on her then settled all around her in the circle. There was heat, wind, and a slight condensation.

Crookshanks flicked his tail, turned in a circle then settled back down, embracing himself with his tail.

Hermione felt somewhat elated. It seemed to have worked!

Following instructions, she lit the fires under Harry’s cauldron and put in the dried dragon ingredients to cook with the bile. Taking the athame, she pricked her finger and massaged the wound to let the few drops of blood fall into the mixture. Soon enough the bile was boiling and Hermione leaned over to take a whiff of the fumes. The instructions said she had to take as much as the fumes as she could.

It didn’t smell bad, though she could feel the fumes traveling up her nostrils. She could see Crookshanks sniffing some, but he turned away after a while.

Hermione began to feel a slight headiness overcoming her.

Oh, goodness, here we go: Hallucinogenic effects.

It didn’t take long for the bile to evaporate, and using her wand, she levitated a flake of dragon skin from the reduced mixture. It was a bit difficult to target since her vision was seriously swimming.

She blinked several times before she took the flake and ate it. It tasted like dried mint, but that hadn’t exactly occurred to her as her vision suddenly took on a very eerie turn. Everything turned black and gray; dark and dull, but her surroundings were not entirely devoid of color. Tendrils and ribbons of all shades were wriggling out of Crookshanks. It didn’t seem to bother the cat-kneazle at all. She could only suppose it was the visualization of his aura. It made sense. As a few birds flew by, she could make out colors from them, though not as strong as Crookshank’s.

She looked at herself and she saw that her aura was gold and green, and that there was something very odd about her tendrils. Her tendrils were extended at a certain point, reaching out to another line of aura from an unknown source. The alien aura came from some distant being beyond Grimmauld Place. It was purple, and while her aura and the other weren’t permanently connected, they were reaching out to one another; feeding a bit on each other.

It bothered her that she could see Lysander’s aura, because that was all it could be, really. They weren’t bound yet, as he said, but they were already connecting.

She scowled but decided she couldn’t let her irritation detract her from her goals.

“Are you ready, Crookshanks?” she asked.

Crookshanks sat motionless.

She nodded and spoke the next enchantment, touching her fingers to her cup of potion. Amazingly, Crookshanks padded his paw lightly on his saucer. She read the ancient language, speaking it carefully to make no mistakes. The translation of it came easily enough, to her.

“Shade to you and shadow me

Bound by soul through magic’s key

Dark made safe, tied souls made twain

Nature’s laws spun true by reign

Give thy oath, carrier of worth

Chained until the Earth’s reversed.”

The words swam in her head, flowed to her shoulders, down her arms and through her fingers. As she let her mind comprehend the words, the potion began to glow.

Just as the instructions said, she began to smell a hint of cooked chicken liver and baking cookies. It was the strangest thing; that Crookshank’s favorite smells were cooked food. Then again, it would have been horrible if the potion began to smell like rats, or doxies, for that matter.

She took the cup and drank the potion down while Crookshanks lapped his potion up. She wondered what her scents smelled like to Crookshanks and hoped hers was as pleasing to him.

The milk saucer was emptied and Crookshanks rose, licking his lips.

Hermione watched as their auras began to drift to one another towards the scrying mirror. It was a little freaky, and Hermione saw her aura drawing back in response to her feelings. But after a while, she let it go.

She happened to notice her aura taking bits of Lysander’s, but it didn’t seem like Lysander’s aura was responding much else to the ritual.

Her aura and Crookshank’s met over the mirror and Hermione realized she can manipulate both auras while it was held within the mirror. The auras were being drawn to one another, but she could push hers in one direction and push Crookshank’s in another. Some of their tendrils would meet and bind, but Hermione found she could separate them again even after those tendrils seemed to fuse.

She stored this information away for later processing and let the auras join completely. The tendrils became one big ribbon, adhering to one another. She could still see the difference between her aura and Crookshanks, and she could see where they were joined, but she assumed that as time wore on, the lines would be less apparent.

It was then she realized that a flood of strange, oddly patterned thoughts began to peter into her mind about food and hunting and cold comfort and relaxing warmth. She saw tiny places and soft surfaces, familiar laps and lots of different ankles. She felt like she needed to preen, and then she felt the need to share a rat with Hedwig and Pig. And finally, she felt unadulterated hate for Tonks because she once stepped on her tail.

Tail?

And then it dawned on Hermione. She was sharing Crookshank’s initial flood of thoughts.

The binding ritual had worked.

It occurred to Hermione that the reason Tonks couldn’t apparate into Grimmauld Place had been Crookshanks’s hatred of her all along.

And Harry thought it was me! Honestly, how awful does he think I am? Humph. She would have to tell Harry about Crookshanks one of these days, just so he didn’t think she was so uptight. She was still reeling from the “killed or worse expelled” factoid Harry had shared with her last Saturday.

Refocusing her thoughts, she read the instructions to the spell. It merely said that once the binding ritual was complete, all she had to do was thank the magic and close the spell.

Hermione blinked and the color in the world returned while the auras faded to invisibility.

She looked at Crookshanks, wondering. “How do you feel Crookshanks?”

Hungry.

Hermione chuckled. She resolved to feed Crookshanks some after she cleaned the circles off the roof floor. But first…

“Let’s try some of this, shall we?” she said, reading the annotations on the instructions. “Let’s see now… it says here I might be able to acquire some of your senses, through you. I must focus my mind’s aura into yours. You should feel my presence but I can’t control you, only tell you what to do. It’s still up to you to follow me or not.”

Hungry.

Hermione chuckled. Some compromise was required. “I promise I’ll feed you after this.”

Good.

Hermione concentrated, letting her aura flow. She felt that part of her that was in Crookshanks and she closed her eyes, seeing herself from Crookshank’s eyes. It was almost as good as seeing from her own eyes, with colors and everything, except that objects farther behind her were somewhat blurry. Everything from within running range, however, were clear as day, and Crookshank’s eyes darted from one magnified sound to another.

Crookshanks, said Hermione. Fancy a bit of a walk-around?”

More food.

Yes, Crookshanks. I’ll feed you a cookie. She knew Crookshanks wouldn’t be able to resist those, now that Hermione knew it was one of his favorite scents.

Crookshanks padded around the roof, checking into corners and pouncing on a few bugs that caught his attention. Hermione knew this was all for her benefit; to help her experience how it was to be a cat.

Once around the roof was enough. Hermione thanked Crookshanks and retreated back into herself.

Hermione stood, figuring that she’d have to do clean-up after she fed Crookshanks.

“Come on, then. The cookies are waiting,” she said, opening the door to the house. Crookshanks darted through it and Hermione followed.

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Hermione scrubbed the roof chalk-free before cleaning up her materials to put them back in their proper places. She made sure to hide the excess potion ingredients properly, as she didn’t want to explain to Harry and Ron what she was doing with Knockturn Alley merchandise.

She looked up at the clock and saw that it was almost four.

Hurriedly, she went back to her room, picked out the medical potions she should have already taken and reduced them accordingly by flushing them down the toilet. Harry would surely check if she had taken her medicines.

She cleaned up, changed into house clothes and analyzed her experiment as she scribbled her findings on parchment.

It was interesting, the auras. She could see them and manipulate them to a certain extent, even after they were bound. Of course, it occurred to her that she had to be seeing the auras to manipulate them, and it was entirely possible that after a certain period, she couldn’t separate them whether she could see it or not. She would have to look around for information regarding that.

Her willingness to be bound did make the transition smooth, and it did imply that her will would be playing some role. Maybe she could find a way to bar the binding between her and Lysander, or maybe even sever the ties once they’re bound.

She had consumed quite a bit of parchment when she heard the crack of Harry’s apparating.

It was just about to hit five in the afternoon and she chuckled. Exciting as Harry was, he could be predictable in certain matters.

Harry found her sprawled, stomach down on her bed, writing with books all around her.

“You must be joking,” he said, sitting beside her on the bed.

He caressed her head a bit and she noticed his eyes trailing to the potions on her bedside table. She stifled a laugh.

She looked up at him. “I got bored.”

“At least it means you’re well enough to work tomorrow.”

“Yes, I am.”

“What’s that you’re writing?”

For a moment, Hermione considered lying, but she supposed she’d done enough cover-up for a day. She smiled. “Stuff that has to do with what I researched in Hogwarts the other day. It’s not ready for me to tell you about it.”

He chuckled. “It’s not ready or you’re not ready?”

Tell…

Oh, but poor Harry will worry…

“Both.” She began to fix her papers and put her writing materials aside. She rolled over on her back and smiled up at him, striking a slightly sexy pose. “I missed you.”

She hoped to distract him and perhaps distract herself, too.

He grinned, his green eyes taking on an affectionate glow. “What else are you well enough for?”

She smiled, feeling that spark of naughtiness charging her nerves. “You tell me, doctor.”

He leaned over, slipping his hand beneath her shirt and over her stomach. He kissed her slowly before speaking in an intimate voice. “Well, you are plenty hot.”

“Mm-hmm. Is that bad?”

“Yes, but in a very, very good way…”

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Harry pushed back the drowsiness he felt from having just made love to Hermione. It was a difficult thing; far more difficult for him as a man than it was for her as a woman, yet she was deep in her nap and he was managing to stay awake.

He pushed back some hair from her face, watching her in her sleep. He could watch her until he dozed off on his own and resolved to do that in a bit just as soon as he got a look at the papers she had been writing on earlier.

It wasn’t as if he had planned on have mind-numbing sex just so he could exhaust her enough to put her to sleep. The sex had been spontaneous, however much he had thought about it while he was away from her, but seeing her asleep, peaceful and sated, he had one of his unrelenting urges to protect her.

She hadn’t actually said it, but her upset last Saturday had triggered something in her to do research in Hogwarts, and then she had these books all pulled out from the shelves. She was looking for answers, and he couldn’t help but be worried about why.

At least, he thought, she wasn’t lying outright. She was being elusive, yes, and he just knew she was hiding something, but knowing the dynamic of her thought processes, she was keeping the truth from him, and from Ron, to protect them. He knew, because he would do exactly the same thing.

He pulled the blankets closer around her to make sure she didn’t catch a chill and she shifted a bit, burying herself under the sheets.

Carefully reaching over her shoulder to her bedside table, he picked up the parchments and summoned his glasses. There was a soft, barely discernable shuffle as the scrolled parchment zipped into his hand. His glasses clicked as they snapped into his palm.

Slipping his glasses on, he read Hermione’s pages and frowned. He couldn’t understand a thing. She had written in some strange language he had never seen before, and while he was no master linguist, he at least had a store of general knowledge to know that this was not of any known ancient rune.

The script was slanted, and cursive, with very little spaces in between. While it didn’t surprise Harry that Hermione was fluent in some ancient dead language, it surprised him that she would use it like this, as if writing in it was easier than writing in English.

Unless she knew you would do this. He sighed, shaking his head. There were drawbacks to the two of them knowing each other too well.

“Mankoi naa lle sinome…” she muttered in her sleep.

He froze and listened, but she didn’t say anything more. Instead, she shifted into his embrace, nestling against his chest. She was cold.

He put his arms around her, tucking the blankets more securely as he rubbed her back. Holding her, he felt the drowsiness begin to set upon him.

“Amin ve laa er lle hanya,” she breathed in the silence.

He had absolutely no idea what it meant.

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Why are you here? she wanted to ask, instead, it came out in his language. “Mankoi naa lle sinome?”

Lysander stood at the edge of her unconscious mind, present, but barred from coming any closer. She knew it was because of Harry. She knew it was because Harry was near. She burrowed deeper into Harry’s presence and Lysander seemed to get pushed back farther, but his presence remained, and it irritated her.

He smirked.

Hermione frowned.

“You are speaking the language already,” he said. “You have read from the book.”

A growl escaped her. “Kela!”

She cursed, hating that he could compel her to speak the words.

This wretched language of his was going to drive her spare.

“WHAT are you, Lysander, exactly? Your kind—your true kind—wouldn’t do this.” she managed through grit teeth. “You’re a monster.”

“Mani amin naa uuminda,” he said smoothly.

What I am matters not.

“Mani minda,” he continued, “naa tanya amin naa sinome an lle faare.”

What matters is that I am here because you wanted all that is.

“Lle wethrine amin.”

You deceived me, she whispered. “Lle nuema amin!”

You trapped me!

“Lle faare an na wethrine,” was his ready reply. “Lle faare an na nuema.”

You wanted to be deceived… trapped.

The truth speared through her, and she hung on to Harry for dear life.

She brought this upon herself. She got herself into this.

She wanted out. She NEEDED out.

He chuckled. “Lle naa nuema.” You are trapped.

She shook her head. “Not yet. I still have my will. My will is the key.”

“Your will is weak.”

“It was. Now I know, and I won’t let it be weak again.”

He merely smiled, her words amusing him. “You will give in. They all do.”

She shook her head. “Amin ve laa er lle hanya.”

I am like no one you’ve met.

“Neither, avarier, am I.”

Unwilling one, he had called her.

She said nothing else, and with everything she had, she pushed him out of her dreams.

She succeeded, but his laughter rang in her head long before he was gone.

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A/N: The Language I used here exists in fiction. I didn’t create it. I repeat, I didn’t create it. I wasn’t really being lazy, as I have a bunch of made-up fantasy languages ready in my hard-drive, but I wanted to use this because I’d like to “make-believe it exists”. So instead of coming up with my own language, I stuck to one that’s pretty well-known to all fantasy fiction fans out there. Makes it seem more… realistic.

For those of you wondering why Hermione’s… being so secretive, I agree it’s not normal. In fact, it’s wrong. So wrong. Why do you think she’s doing that? I wonder. ::winks geekily::

Also, I cut out a lot of the ancient language incantations spoken. I had them rhyming and everything, but it just… well, it all looked too much like gobbledygook (even if I really did have them in actual poems), so I just left the English translations on. I kept the language in this last exchange, though. Just so readers get the feel of Hermione being able to speak it fluently.

Author’s note: This chapter might be a bit of info overload, so I put a little lemon-drop treat at the end of it. Read this chapter well, now, dear Harmonians.

Many thanks once more to my beta reader, Aurabolt who, even now, continues to contribute greatly for the improvement of this story. This story would have been NOTHING without him. ^_^

Aurabolt: …. I love this story, and helped in all the aspects I could…. Thank you for all the reviews so far, I'm sure DeliverMeFromEve loves them, and don't worry, there's still more to come.

Me: And now that my beta reader has exposed me for the review whore that I am (lol!) on with the story!! ::hugs Aurabolt::

Standard disclaimers apply.

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Chapter Fifteen – Know Thy Spells

In which Hermione finds herself in a bit of a bind.

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Remus asked Harry about Hermione again, and after having stewed on his anxieties all morning Harry found himself pouring his worries out all in one go.

“She told me she was looking for something, but she wouldn’t tell me what,” he said miserably. “She said she wasn’t ready to tell me yet, and while I do appreciate that she’s being honest with me on that aspect, I just know she’s keeping something big from me. Remus, she’s writing entire manuscripts in a strange, ancient language and I think she’s speaking it in her sleep! Even for Hermione, it’s not natural. It’s like—it’s like—“

“Like you speaking Parseltongue?” asked Remus.

Harry hadn’t thought of it exactly like that, but Remus seemed to have hit the nail head-on, and it was disturbingly accurate.

“Yes.”

“Do you remember the phonetics of what she was saying? I might be able to identify it for you.”

That would be difficult, but he was sure it had been imprinted in his mind. “Come with me.”

It was early afternoon, and Shacklebolt expected him to be in the office the whole day, working on his reports, but this was far more important.

Remus followed Harry out of the department and to the fireplaces.

“Where are we going?”

“To Grimmauld Place. You don’t mind, do you, Remus?”

Remus smiled. “It’s fine, Harry.”

They left the Ministry and apparated from outside. Soon, Harry was leading Remus up the stairs to his private study.

There, sitting atop a polished Chinese cabinet, was his pensieve. It wasn’t quite filled with memories yet, but the ethereal glow, “like light made liquid or wind made solid” already lit the surface of the bowl.

“Why, it’s a pensieve!” said Remus in surprise.

Harry nodded. “Hermione gave it to me. She thought it would be useful to me as an auror, and really, I’ve found a world of uses for it already.”

Remus chuckled. “Pensieves like this cost a small fortune, Harry. I didn’t realize the WizCOF paid so well.”

Harry was surprised by this. “I didn’t know they were that expensive.”

“You must have done something good to be rewarded by something like this.”

Harry felt the blush climbing from his neck to his cheeks.

Perhaps seeing it, Remus waved away any kind of response Harry might think up. “No matter. It was very thoughtful of her.”

It was, and it was also typical of Hermione to be so lavish with her presents. He could only value the pensieve more.

“I can put my memories of what I heard from her here, as well as what I read from her manuscripts, then you can view them,” said Harry. “But…”

Remus’s eyebrow arched. “But?”

Harry felt himself redden, his old awkwardness returning as he shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “We were—erm—that’s to say… we had just finished… umm, being intimate…”

Even Remus looked rather uncomfortable after that. He fidgeted on one foot and then another. “Harry, I don’t have to have first hand information—“

“Please?” interrupted Harry in a rather miserable tone. “I have to figure this out, Remus. I’m not—I’m not good at this research and planning stuff; at least not alone.”

Remus sighed. “Well, at least tell me if there’s something that might shock me…”

“No, definitely none,” said Harry hastily. “I wouldn’t have suggested it at all if there was. She’s covered well enough under blankets, so you won’t—you know—have a gander at—“ He bit his tongue before he could say it. It was embarrassing enough for him; so it must be worse for Remus, who saw all of them as his children. Harry could acknowledge how traumatic it could be Remus if he unwittingly saw Hermione naked. “It’ll be fine.”

“Very well. Let’s get on with it.”

Harry nodded. He took out his wand and touched the tip of it to his temple before delicately withdrawing it. A thin sliver of memory trailed like a thread from a spool, snapping as it left his head. He set the memory in the pensieve with a tap of his wand and gestured for Remus to look in.

“I’d—er—rather we go together, Harry.”

Sheepishly, Harry agreed. Carefully, they bent over the pensieve.

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Hermione got her work done quickly hoping Heartcomb would let her off early. In spite of her problems, she managed to stay focused, and her efforts paid off.

Heartcomb declared her work excellent and told her she was free to leave. It was five thirty, and she was eager to use the spare time she had been given.

She rushed to the Auror department, hoping she could tell Harry that she had somewhere to go, but that she would try to be home before nine.

He wasn’t there. Gail told her that Harry had gone off somewhere, yet again, without telling her where. Apparently, Harry had been coming and going all day while being secretive about his whereabouts.

Gail didn’t sound happy at all. “He always leaves me. I’m his partner, dammit!”

Hermione couldn’t help but grin. “He, umm, does that, and all I can say is if you want to watch his back, you’re going to have to be insistent, to the point of not listening to him when he tells you to stay back. Just make sure you don’t get in his way when you do go with him.”

Gail cocked a smile. “I’ll remember that. I’ll tell him you came by, and I’ll pass your message on.”

“Thank you.”

“Hermione?”

“Yes?”

“Are you alright?”

Hermione wasn’t sure why Gail was asking. “Quite…”

“I’m sorry if I sound nosy, but Harry’s so worried about you. I can’t help but pick it up. Being an empath does that.”

She didn’t realize Gail had that kind of extraordinary power, but she supposed she should have expected it. Gail had been partnered with Harry, after all.

Hermione managed a warm smile. “And I appreciate your concern. But you and your partner can stop worrying. I’ve got it covered.”

Gail eyed her askance but didn’t say anything else.

Hermione left for the library after that, and half an hour later, she was surrounded by towers of books, scribbling furiously on parchment.

She hadn’t found the exact binding ritual that would finally make her Lysander’s familiar, and while she absolutely wasn’t going to be the one to draw the circles and runes needed for the rite, she wasn’t going to wait for him to come get her without her knowing how, either.

Hermione made notes to organize her thoughts, and so far, she had come to quite a few useful conclusions.

One; she could very well resist being bound, though according to the texts, this could be very painful. She could remain unbound while the will to be independent remained, but unless she found a more permanent means of putting a stop to Lysander, he would most assuredly inflict pain on her until he broke her will.

Two; if she managed to break him during this struggle, he would—quite logically—be unable to continue the ritual. The down side of this was, if she happened to break him after they were bonded, she’d go right down with him.

Harry would be monstrously displeased, I reckon.

It meant she had to break him before they were bonded, which was difficult, considering she needed a fair amount of his power to perform any of the ancient spells at all.

Which brought her to the third point: Wizards and Witches were not built to perform the magic of Lysander’s kind, but the fact that she did with Crookshanks, and the fact that she was speaking his language very well suggested that the entire binding process did give her enough of his kind’s magic to perform those rituals.

Four; his kind, while they may fall victim to Wizard spells, hexes and curses, had ancient ways of protecting themselves from it. They can certainly be outsmarted, since they were after all systematically annihilated in the past, but the ones that had survived were most assuredly the fittest, and it was no small thing to survive the hatred and fear of the entire Wizarding World. She couldn’t underestimate Lysander, even if she had the likes of Harry on her side.

She needed to find out what kinds of weapons she could use to rid her of Lysander, and hopefully not off herself in the process. And by “off”, she meant in the magical and the legal sense.

If she did managed to get rid of the great Lysander Athanasius, she had to explain to the Wizengamot why she magically did away with him, because really, he wasn’t exactly the type who could disappear and nobody would care. The man had a one-third influence in the Enactment Committee alone. Not to mention the thousands of employees in his companies relying on his Royal Arseness to dish out their salaries... Somehow, she had a feeling she would have a difficult time explaining the circumstances surrounding his demise, as nobody but her and those of Lysander’s kind could read the evidence she could credibly present.

And the irony…

The IRONY!

Because she, Hermione Granger, defender of Elf Rights; the woman who bore ridicule and fought to save Elves from slavery has found herself trapped by an elf endeavoring to enslave her.

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Lysander Athanasius, a man at least approaching sixty years old but could very well be any age by the hundreds, was born of the most ancient race of Nordic Elves. Unlike their tiny, shriveled cousins, the House Elves, Lysander’s species were once revered by muggle and wizard alike. It wasn’t clear whether the current plight of the House Elves could be attributed to the bad reputation that historically befell their Nordic cousins, but it seemed logical to suppose that House Elves bore the brunt of slavery because the Nordic Elves were accused of enslaving wizards so long ago.

Nordic Elves were superior in magic, appearance and benevolence. They were considered Angels in many cultures, and it was they who taught wizards how to harness their inherent magic with wands.

Nordic Elves did not need wands to weave their spells. Magic flowed from their eyes, and their hands, and the very pores of their skins. They were powerful and uncorrupted by greed. They were golden beings, fascinating and magnetic; creatures of light and lovers of beauty. Yet they were warriors, and they can bend steel to their will. Metal sung at their touch, their righteous glory accompanying them even in battle. Yet, for all their skill in combat, they were protectors of peace; guardians of the human soul, lovers of the Earth, nature and land.

When their species were exterminated because of false rumors and ignorant fear, their numbers decreased. They went into hiding and hoped to the divinities that the senseless slaying of their kind would cease.

It was only later they began to assimilate themselves back into society as wizards, and out of necessity, they mixed their blood with that of humans. The rare occurrence of Elf-human off-spring mixed the characteristics of both kinds: Elf-magic with human-aspirations. Most remained true to the benevolence of their forefathers, while others used what power they had for slightly more egocentric interests.

Lysander was not of the benevolent kind. He had learned, too early on, that his powers were superior, and that he could get exactly what he wanted from wizards and muggles if he applied them. And now she had to find a way to defend herself against that power.

This felt vaguely familiar, except the last time, she wasn’t the only one on the hitlist, and she wasn’t number one on that list, either.

She labored on in the Library of Ancient Runes, and in the course of the next three days nearing the waxing moon, Hermione found something of a binding spell that just might save her arse, and if by some miracle the courts found her self-defense plea credible, she just might live a normal, Azkaban-free life.

It wasn’t going to be an easy ritual. She needed as much of Lysander’s magic as he could possibly shove down her throat, but for her not to fall into the binding trap, she had to genuinely resist the intrusion of his aura into hers. The only thing that could defeat him now was his own magic, and that was exactly what she was going to use. It promised quite a bit of pain. Alright, a lot of pain, and she hadn’t a clue if she could bear the agony while staying true to her will. But she had to try. It was the only way.

Telling Harry and Ron presented… complications.

The texts did say that fellow-wizards were allowed to lend her power to enhance whatever ritual she was performing. Unfortunately, such a connection would inadvertently make them suffer with her. So apart from the excruciating pain of a forced binding, her failure to resist Lysander would mean he could have three familiars rather than just one. Like she would ever let that happen.

She absolutely would not risk it. She was not going to let Harry and Ron put themselves in such an awful situation because she had blundered into this horrible arrangement with Lysander.

So, she decided she wasn’t going to tell them they could offer her their power.

No way.

They’d want to know…

Oh, but you’ll be putting them in GRAVE danger if you tell. Surely, you know that?

She sighed.

Another complication attached to having Harry and Ron present during the binding ritual was having Lysander use them to force her will. She would rather subject herself to five hundred years of slavery than see Harry and Ron in pain because of her, but seeing as being a slave was at the very stinky bottom of her Wish List, she couldn’t put them and herself in that situation, either.

There was a high-level Elven protection spell that she could cast on them. It was powerful enough to protect them from the threat of Lysander while he performed the binding ritual on her. Naturally, this also meant they couldn’t make her use whatever magic they wanted to offer her in support because if she took their magic, that would put them in danger all over again.

Ron and Harry would never agree to the protection spell if they knew it would leave her to fend for herself, so it meant she couldn’t tell them about the protection spell either.

Considering all the facts and the need for secrecy, it seemed altogether better not to tell them anything at all.

Besides, the final and most compelling complication nailed it:

She hadn’t realized it when she first began to put things together, but lately, it became clearer that he had already bespelled her somehow with another spell; low-level, but effective enough. While Lysander couldn’t completely take her loyalty for Harry away, Lysander had managed to erect some kind of triggered enchantment on her, so that every time Harry or Ron questioned her relationship with Lysander, subsequently interfering with the binding process, she would get angry, or resistant, or just plain stubborn. She wasn’t sure when he managed to put the enchantment on her, but she was willing to admit that he wove it the moment he met her. He had been preparing for her, after all. Bumping into her like he did in the Ministry, her emotions high, his advantage on her vast, he could’ve done any number of Elven binding spells on her without her knowing, but he chose the most subtle one, and it gained strength every moment she had spent with him. And while the enchantment had its limitations, it managed to keep her from telling anyone about her troubles in any significant detail.

Thinking about all this as she sat between the shelves of the Library of Ancient Runes, Hermione found herself crying bitterly at the sorry state of things.

She wondered if this was how Harry felt when the inevitability of facing Voldemort became certain, and she realized that yes, this was exactly how he must have felt.

In spite of the support he had known everyone was willing to give him, he must have felt dreadfully alone.

The need to protect everyone was so strong that to some extent, it overcame fear, but the fear was present, nonetheless. Fear for your loved ones and fear for yourself. Nothing could alleviate it; not preparedness, not anything. It was just there, and until you knew how it would end, it hung off your back like a leaden weight.

As she wiped her tears away, she mustered her second wind.

I can’t fail, she thought. I simply can’t let Lysander win. He won’t have Harry and Ron, and I won’t let him harm them. I can do this, and I will.

Copying whatever text she needed to study, she bid Lord Mac a’Bhaird goodbye at the door.

As she stepped out on the London streets, she looked up at the sky, gauging the state of the moon.

The moon was going to wax the following night, and she had plans to make that would ensure Harry and Ron’s safety.

She smiled wanly at how worried Harry had been about her in the last three days. He didn’t say much about it. He just asked, “Are you ready to tell me yet?”

Her answer would always be No, coupled with an embrace or a kiss, telling him everything was going to be alright, because it had to be alright. His eyes; his beautiful green eyes, were enough to communicate every ounce of worry he was feeling for her. She wished she could look back at him and assuage his fears, but apparently, he could see her own anxiety; could detect her own fears.

Tonight, he would ask her again, and she wondered if she could break Lysander’s enchantment the slightest bit just so she could tell him some; not make her feel like she was being disloyal to Harry. She knew her efforts would be futile. The spell touched so lightly that sometimes, she didn’t even realize it was affecting her.

She couldn’t help but wonder, though, if Lysander’s spell wouldn’t have worked so well if she wasn’t nursing her own fears for the people she loved. She supposed that was the very essence of the enchantment. It fed off her own reasoning; her own insecurities, and somehow, even if she knew that was what made the spell so effective, she still couldn’t help but give into it. The spell was just that subtle; rippling beneath the surface; giving her a gentle nudge here and there with her own arguments; her own mind’s voice. Lysander didn’t even have to be there. It was a spell that fed off itself, and Hermione thought that until she broke Lysander, that spell was going to stay there.

When she got home it was almost ten. Ron was snoring in the viewing room and Harry was bent over some papers on the living room table. He looked up from his work when she apparated and she greeted him with a sedate smile.

“Hullo, stranger,” she said, joining him on the couch.

His own smile was marred by the worry showing through his eyes. His arm was around her instantly, placing a kiss on her lips then her forehead.

She closed her eyes, savoring the security his presence gave her. She wished she could weather this storm in his arms. She wished she didn’t have to do this alone.

“Have you had dinner yet?” he asked. It wasn’t a casual question. It formed part of his worrying, this dinner question. When someone was too preoccupied to eat meals, it was never a good sign.

She slapped her hand to her forehead with an exaggerated gasp. “I knew I forgot something!”

He frowned a bit and she tried to smile for the both of them.

“I’ll make myself a sandwich. It’s easy, Harry.”

He rose from the couch and took her by the hand, leading her to the kitchen. “I’ll make you a sandwich. You sit here—“ he pulled a seat for her “—and tell me why you’ve been spending so much time doing research.”

She sighed as she sat, watching him grab things from the chill box to make her sandwich. “Oh… I’m just—you know—looking for a spell.”

He slowed a bit at this piece of information. It was the most she’d told him all week. He returned to his usual briskness a few seconds later, perhaps thinking he had to proceed carefully and in an unassuming manner. “Oh? What spell?”

She shrugged. “Binding spell. It’s a bit complicated.”

“Complicated, eh?” He began to slice some tomatoes. “So this complicated binding spell… what’s it for?”

Hermione bit her lower lip in brief thought and the enchantment worked its magic.

You’ll end up telling him, and then what? His saving people thing will have him jumping to save your arse for something that’s completely your fault.

That’s the truth of it…

“Harry, did you… did you have any regrets about letting Ron and I fight Voldemort with you?”

He looked at her a moment before he returned to assembling the sandwich. He put the tomatoes aside and began to spread some butter on some bread. “What do you mean?”

She wasn’t sure if Harry really didn’t know, or if he was just trying to get her to talk the entire thing out. Harry had gone oddly blank in the face and she couldn’t read his eyes because they were focused on his busy hands. He put a skillet over the stove and lit the fire.

“You know,” she said softly. “Did you… wish, for whatever reason, that Ron and I weren’t there?”

His brows furrowed in thought. “How can I, Hermione? You’re both alive. I’m alive… there’s very little point in regretting anything.”

“But you’ve somehow wished you did things a bit differently?”

He set the bread butter-side down on the skillet. “When you were in your coma, I wished so badly I had tried a bit harder to keep you away from the fight. I was thinking I should have stunned you before we left for the Forbidden Forest, or something, just so you wouldn’t have been able to follow us.” He looked up at her, smiling apologetically. “But I suppose that was when the healers kept telling us you were barely making it through the days, as if at any given time, you could just suddenly die in your sleep and they wouldn’t be the least bit surprised about it.”

Hermione thought that must have been horrible. If she was the one who had been awake and it was Harry in that state, she would go positively spare with worry and regret.

“You would have sacrificed yourself for either of us,” she said. “You’d die just so Ron and I could live.”

He looked her in the eyes and nodded, before pulling his gaze away to continue with his task. “And you understand that. Because that’s what you chose, didn’t you? You chose to die for me, and for Ron. You took that Avada Kedavra thinking that Ron and I can’t throw a protection spell strong enough to deflect it.”

His voice sounded somewhat choked as he said it. He was quiet for a few heartbeats, as if to recover, before he sighed and spoke again. “That wasn’t your sacrifice to make.”

“That wasn’t my concern,” she said gently in reply to his quiet reproach. “I love you. That’s all I knew at that very moment, and I couldn’t let you die, even if it meant I had to die for you. We understand this part, yes?”

Harry didn’t look at her, assembling the sandwich as he withdrew into himself for a few seconds. When he was done, he sliced the entire sandwich in half, put both pieces on a plate and sat beside her on the kitchen table. He set the sandwich in front of her.

“I want you to promise me you’ll never do that again,” he said in a serious tone.

She pressed her palm gently on his cheek. He turned to kiss it, capturing it in his hand and pressing it to his heart.

“Promise me.”

She could only be honest with him with regard to what she was willing to promise him, and this was not a promise she could make. She was never one to sit by and watch the ones she loved do it all alone. Her capacity to love was greater than that; her courage was more compelling that that. She wouldn’t have been made a Gryffindor otherwise.

“I can’t promise you that, Harry,” she whispered. “Make me promise anything but that.”

His brows knotted and she could feel his heart picking up against her hand. She knew then that there was some kind of fear lacing the atmosphere tonight. Maybe he knew, to some extent, what she was planning to do.

“I know there’s something you’re not telling me,” he said.

She didn’t respond. She won’t deny it, but she can’t say anything more about it, either.

“Whatever it is,” he continued. “I wish I can make you trust me enough to share it with me.”

“Harry, I do trust you; unconditionally. Believe me when I say that! This isn’t—this isn’t about you!”

He paled. “Oh, God, Hermione… please tell me what it is. Please. Ron and I can help. You don’t have to do this alone.”

“I love you both too much to ask your help, anyway, but I do promise that I’ll do everything I can to get through this.” She smiled as brightly as she could, hoping to alleviate some of his fear. “It’ll be alright.”

She pecked an affectionate kiss on his lips. She convinced herself this was a white lie; to keep him from worrying, but it had hurt her to say the words.

She didn’t feel much like eating her sandwich, but for Harry’s peace of mind, she did. It was a great sandwich. It would’ve been better if she didn’t have some power-tripping elf bent on enslaving her, but what’s a witch to do?

“This is delicious,” she said after she swallowed her first mouthful. “And I’m hungrier than I thought.”

“Hermione, should I be this worried?”

“Harry, you always are.”

He sighed. It sounded exasperated. She was sure he was aware that she wasn’t exactly answering his question.

Crookshanks walked into the kitchen.

“Hi Crookshanks,” she said without thinking. “What’ve you been up to all week? I barely saw you!”

Doxies are breeding, he said, hopping on Harry’s lap.

Harry scratched Crookshanks behind the ear and the cat-kneazle’s eyes fluttered close as he curled up against Harry contentedly.

Purrrr. Harry’s hands.

“I like them too,” she said impishly.

“What?” Harry asked.

Hermione cocked a somewhat embarrassed smile. “Sorry. I was talking to Crookshanks.”

Harry’s eyebrow arched. “Since when?”

Hermione paused for a moment, realizing that these were the kinds of conversations that marked the difference between muggles and wizards. Where a muggle would tell her she was crazy and that she must be joking, a wizard would ask her when it happened. She loved being a witch.

“Since the other day… oh, and I know why Tonks can’t apparate in here. Crookshanks doesn’t like her.”

“Crooksh—“

“I told you it wasn’t me.”

Harry looked at Crookshanks, first at surprise, and then with a gleam of pure amusement. “Well, I suppose twelve Grimmauld Place really does know who rightfully lives in it! Crookshanks, you spiteful beast! Let me guess. She stepped on your tail.”

Hate Tonks. Klutz. Tail Killer.

Hermione frowned. “Crookshanks just called Tonks a Tail Killer.”

Harry laughed.

As much as Hermione wanted to scold Crookshanks for his petty tantrums, his arrival had managed to lighten the mood around her and Harry.

Hermione hoped that their interlude with Crookshanks would put Harry’s concerns to rest.

Harry, though still smiling slightly, kept his gaze on her, rubbing her leg affectionately.

“Purrr…” she teased, batting her eyelashes at him languorously.

He chuckled. “Wouldn’t it be funny if you communicated with him the way I communicate with snakes?”

She winced. “It’s not very funny that you can communicate with snakes, Harry.”

This amused him. “Only because it had to do with Voldemort, but I wasn’t saying Parseltongue was funny. I was saying kneazle-speak might have been. How many ways can you say ‘meow’ anyway?”

She finally got the joke and she did laugh.

“It’s strange, though,” he said aside. “How many languages can you learn in a week’s time, anyway?”

That stopped her, jolted by the undercurrents of it. She stared at him, blinking. All trace of her smile gone from her lips.

He knows more than he lets on.

She wasn’t sure if it had been her or Crookshanks speaking in her head.

Crookshanks stood and leaped off Harry’s lap, probably feeling that he shouldn’t be part of this conversation.

“What are you saying, Harry?”

His eyes did not waver from hers. “You talk in your sleep.”

Hermione felt herself paling. Talk in my sleep? She wasn’t quite sure what he meant, exactly, but that one time she spoke to Lysander in her dreams, in Elvish, stood out in her memory, and it was the only time she could figure that Harry may have heard her.

Then again, he may be bluffing. He could have seen her notes, noticed that it was in an unrecognizable language and built his suspicions on that.

“And what exactly did you hear, Harry?”

“Amin ve laa er lle hanya,” he said, shocking her that he remembered the exact words. Perhaps seeing her astonishment, he cocked a wan smile. “I put the memory in the pensieve. I studied it from there. What does it mean?”

How ironic that he had managed to stun her with the very present she gave him.

She stiffened. “It means, ‘I am like no one you’ve met.’”

A flicker of surprise lit his eyes. “That’s—“

“Cocky?”

“Cryptic,” he corrected. “But I’d like to know why you consider it cocky.”

She bristled at her own carelessness; the defenses of the enchantment rose. “It was a dream. A weird one, at that.”

“Oh, I know weird dreams. Tell me about it.”

Hermione tried to contain her irritation. “Why don’t you just bring me in for questioning at the Auror Department, Harry?”

He sighed, leaning over his seat to close the widening gap between them.

“I’m not interrogating you,” he said softly. “I just want to know what’s been going on with you, that’s all. You’ve been out late all week doing research, you were sick the other day, you’re communicating with Crookshanks and you’re speaking and writing in a language I’ve never heard or seen… how many more clues am I supposed to pick up on before I go spare with concern?”

Her brows knotted, feeling her ire rise, and she wanted to hit herself over the head for it. She knew these negative feelings she was having for Harry was not normal. She believed in her love for Harry. She had faith that it would get her through, but she was also helpless to reach out to him. As of this very moment, the enchantment was running full-throttle. It was finally going to work its true muscle, because Harry was getting dangerously close to the truth, and the enchantment would not have it getting in the way of the Familiar Binding Spell’s completion.

“This is not about you,” she repeated softly.

“Stop saying that!” he hissed.

She looked up at him, trying to convey the pain she felt through her eyes. “Harry, during the war, you blamed yourself for whatever misfortune that befell anyone. It didn’t matter if the person was actually acquainted with you or not; you took it upon yourself, anyway. Well, now the war is over, so I beg you to start letting yourself believe that people are responsible for their own fates; that the misfortune that will befall them may even be their fault. This situation that I’m in… this is my fault. I have to fix it. Alone.”

He shook his head. “No, not alone.”

“Yes, alone! I have no choice!”

He glared at her. “Yes, you do!”

My will is the key, she thought with bitter irony.

“Amin nauva i noole,” she whispered.

His glare turned to deep worry. “What?”

She rose from her seat, struggling to contain the magic roiling inside her. She managed to fight back her tears as she looked at him. “I can’t—I can’t deal with this right now, Harry. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry…” She turned to go.

“Hermione…”

She didn’t listen, and miserably, she left him to retire to her room.

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Harry looked up from his work and saw Hermione standing at the library door. His worry washed over him in waves, seeing her there looking so vulnerable and alone. She was dressed for sleep, but he could tell she’d been crying.

“Harry?” she began softly.

She looked repentant, and he couldn’t understand what she was so sorry for. It was confusing him, but it was also softening his frustration of her. Maybe he should be angry at her, but he couldn’t bring himself to get like that. Whatever her reasons for saying nothing, it almost seemed as if she felt she had no choice.

“Hermione, what are you doing standing there?” he said gently. “Come here.”

He held out his hand and without even hesitating, she went to him. She curled atop his pajama clad lap and wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face into the crook of his neck and shoulder. He held her, closing his eyes as he idly ran his fingers down her hair.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, toying with the fabric of his sleep shirt.

There she went again. Apologizing.

He sighed softly. “Hush now. We won’t talk about it anymore tonight if you don’t want to.”

She snuggled closer. “I can’t tonight.”

He wished she had said differently, but he wasn’t going to force her. “Tomorrow, then.”

She nodded. “Tomorrow.”

Tomorrow was Saturday but lately, Shacklebolt always had him in for the weekend. “I’ll skive auror training.”

“No, don’t. Dinner time is fine. Be at the Leaky Cauldron.”

He frowned. “I’m not sure what time Shacklebolt will let me go…”

“It’s alright. Just try to get to the Leaky Cauldron around that time. Give me a call on the mobile when you do.”

Harry was silent then he nodded. It wasn’t exactly what he wanted, but it was something. At this point, he would take anything.

She looked up from his shoulder and met his gaze. “I love you, Harry. You know that, don’t you?”

It coaxed a smile from his lips, the quiet quality of the room with her softly spoken words easing some of his anxiety.

No matter how many times she said it to him, he never grew tired of hearing it; never grew tired of seeing the look in her eyes when the words left her lips. It was everything he ever wanted; everything he ever longed to have.

Her hand was upon his cheek. “Don’t you?” she asked, her brows knotting, as if she needed his reassurances that yes, he did know what she felt for him.

He nodded, grasping the same hand and pressing his lips to the heel of it.

She smiled wanly. “Back then, when Voldemort was alive, I used to say that I’d fight by your side. I had no doubts. I knew I would be there in the final moment and I would fight with you to the end. You inspired that courage in me, because you looked so unafraid; like nothing can harm you. And I suppose you can say I went barreling into that battle with my eyes wide-open, only to realize that I was completely unprepared to deal with how truly horrible Voldemort was. Now I know how Voldemort was, and I don’t know if I can face him as bravely, if for some reason—God forbid, he came back from the dead. But you’ve faced him five times before that last encounter, so you knew how bad it was going to be, yet there you were… brave as ever. How did you do it, Harry?”

His eyebrow arched in mild surprise before he gave her question some thought. “I was scared. Shitless, even. But I knew it had to be done, so I just—I suppose I faked it. Nobody can tell the difference between someone faking bravery and another who’s really unafraid.”

She laughed softly. “I don’t think you can fake it, Harry. Courage is a gift, but for a lot of us, including you, it’s honed in fear. When you’re frightened, when you know how terrifying something is, when you’re aware of the danger and it makes you sick to your stomach, but still you go out there and face the menace, that’s true bravery.”

He grinned. “Says you?” he asked teasingly, nuzzling the skin just beneath her ear.

She giggled a bit. “Yes.”

“Opinion’s a bit biased, I’m afraid.” He nipped her earlobe.

“Hmm, maybe. I’m your number one fan, after all.”

“We’re each other’s number one fan.” He kissed her, caressing her lips and tongue with his own. When he broke the lingering kiss, he sighed most happily. “You know I’m a fan of that.”

“You and me, both,” she whispered. She turned on his lap, straddling him and sending him to instant readiness with a single rock of her hips.

Life is good, he thought dazedly, automatically pushing back.

She smirked. “I’d say that about makes me a groupie.”

He adored these little innuendos. Holding her by her thighs, he lifted her to the table and kissed her. “I’ve never really partied like a rockstar before.”

Giggling, she began to undo the ties of his pajamas. “Well, I know one party where that rockstar of yours has an exclusive invitation.”

Oh, but Lord her wit was a major turn on. “That’s it. You’re going down!”

He magically reduced her tank top and pajamas to nothing and she gave a small, delighted shriek. She laughed blithely in her panties as he took a moment to admire his work.

“No fair,” she said. “I can’t do wandless magic!”

“That’s why I’m the rockstar and you’re only a groupie.” He enfolded her in his arms and kissed her, trailing his palms down the planes of her back then sliding them to her breasts. He loved the feel of her under his hands; the fluidity of the slight bumps, dips and curves.

Leaving her lips, he trailed his kissed down her neck and shoulder. He heard her sigh contentedly. He lived for that sound.

He lowered his grasp, and holding her by the hips, he pressed his erection against her. She rocked back and he couldn’t help but give a guttural moan. Leaning back, he pulled off his shirt while she pushed off his pajamas and boxers with her feet. He could feel her knees knocking his ribs and he thought that her knickers most definitely had to go. Not that they weren’t cute. Her white little panties with strawberry-shaped dots were beyond adorable, but they’d served their purpose: to drive him mad with longing.

He bid the knickers disappear and they did.

Magic is THE BEST.

His fingers sought her and she gave a delightful moan.

He thought wickedly that he could just go on and on with the rockstar inuendos; about strumming her like a guitar and what not, but he supposed maintaining that talk would require a certain degree of brainpower, and since blood was rushing away from his brain right now to maintain the concert down below, all talk would have to be put off for the music.

“Good gracious, Harry,” she gasped. “Play me. Now.”

That’s Hermione: Sex, Brains, and Rock and Roll.

She didn’t have to request twice, and boy did he rock her.

He thrust himself inside her and the sounds she made were positively the sweetest notes he had ever heard. He kept pushing for that melody through varying rhythms. His own voice got lost in hers because it drove him mad when she moaned in his kiss.

He moved fluidly, and each taut chord of desire that she summoned from him had him whispering praises and endearments of her in her ear. This was, after all, one of his fantasies come true. To have her in the library where she seemed so attuned to; to have her on a desk… it was exhilarating. Arousing. Mind blowing!

Eloquence was not one of his natural talents, but he realized that telling her how beautiful she was and how hot her body felt when he touched her this way had the most wonderful effect on her.

He felt her push back, hips lifting to meet his and he was pleasantly surprised when she tightened around him deliciously. She cried out in that way, head thrown back and her eyes closed in ecstasy.

There was no feeling that quite compared to seeing his witch losing herself to him.

When she collapsed against his chest, gasping to recover, he hitched her in his arms and apparated them to the couch at the other end of the huge room.

He laid her back against the cushions as he placed wet kisses down her throat.

When she whispered for him not to stop, he smiled lazily to himself. She certainly knew how to make a man feel wanted.

Still inside her, he moved, and the sweet embrace of her legs gave her the leverage to push back.

There was absolutely no recourse but to groan and tell her he was loving every stroke.

She said oh, yes, so did she. Coming to an accord with her was always a wonderful thing.

When that steady rhythm began to build between them, he swore he’d never had to concentrate so hard to hold back, so when at last she came that second time, he thanked whatever deity of music there was and joined her.

He thought that quite possibly, he was the luckiest bloke alive, to be loved and be able to make love to this incredible woman. And if this was his blessing for all those years he spent curled up in that cupboard at Privet Drive, then he could stalwartly declare that ten years of Dudley stomping up and down the stairs was worth this moment.

Panting for breath, they stayed still for a while before Harry adjusted to lie by her side, half draped over her.

“You are an extraordinary man, Harry Potter,” she murmured a brief, comfortable silence.

“Thank you, baby, but you do know it takes two to make a band rock, so you’re not so bad yourself.”

She giggled. “Actually it takes at least three to make a band.”

“Well, maybe we could do with a female drummer…”

Laughing, she pinched his shoulder and kissed him tenderly. Her laugh dwindled into a smile. “I don’t just mean sex, you know. Everything about you… well, no wonder I’m so taken, eh?”

“Funny you should say that,” he said softly. “I was just thinking how lucky I am to be loved by you.”

She trailed her finger along his jaw. “Two and a half years ago, you would have told me my feelings for you would put me in danger.”

“That’s changed. Now I couldn’t get enough, hearing you say it, and all I want to do is love you back.”

“I know,” she whispered.

He detected her anxiety in spite of the wonderful intimacy they just shared.

It would be a shame to break that sense of completion now, so he decided not to ask her again to tell him what was wrong. She promised tomorrow, so he’d go by that promise, but he saw no harm in giving her reassurances.

He cupped her face so he could hold her gaze. “No matter what, Hermione, you know I’ll keep you safe. This isn’t my ‘saving people thing’. It’s my ‘loving you like nothing else in this world thing’. Do you understand?”

She nodded, lowering her gaze.

He stifled a sigh. What wasn’t she telling him?

She closed her eyes and snuggled into his embrace.

Summoning his discarded shirt from the floor, he transfigured it into a blanket, placing it over them to shelter them from the chill of the library, but it was the warmth of their bodies pressed against each other that lulled them both to sleep.

Now, I know you’re all nervous, and I suppose there’s a reason for you to be, but we’ll get through this, yes? You know we will.

Again, Aurabolt deserves lots of thanks. Dear readers and reviewers, the encouragement I get from all of you is appreciated. There are three more chapters after this, but don’t worry… something will be resolved in this chapter, alright? Alright! On with the story!

Standard disclaimers apply. Harry Potter naa n’amin. Harry Potter nae onta ne JKR.

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Chapter Sixteen – Protect the Ones You Love

In which Hermione understands the powers surrounding sacrifice and love.

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Harry got bumped, yet another time, by some stranger trying to get a drink from the bar. It was getting annoying, but less because he had been getting shoved repeatedly by various patrons of the Leaky Cauldron in the last thirty minutes, and more because Hermione was late. Plus, it was becoming increasingly clear that the Leaky Cauldron that night was not the ideal place to be having serious conversation. It was too loud and too crowded. He just wanted Hermione to arrive so he could bring her over to their favorite Spanish restaurant.

He had called her earlier that evening from field-work, telling her that Shacklebolt would let him out of the office by seven thirty. She agreed to meet with him at the Leaky Cauldron around that time. She still hadn’t shown up.

The fact was he had been craving to get back to her since he left her at home that morning. Their conversation the previous night hadn’t exactly been reassuring, and his feelings about it hadn’t been assuaged by their love making later that night, either.

It was bad enough he had to leave her on the couch alone when he got up for work, but his worry nagged him all day, especially when a couple of rogue Dementors broke loose of the charms controlling them in Azkaban. He had barely mustered a fawn when he was struck by the barrage of bad memories and cold fear.

Ron had left the house early, too, grumbling about how he had been summoned by his boss to apparate to France because one of their most promising Chaser recruits had managed to get himself imprisoned in a muggle detention facility. Harry had frankly hoped Hermione wouldn’t be left alone at home. He wasn’t sure yet why he wanted her to have company. She was a big girl. She’d certainly manage by herself for a day.

“Sorry ‘bout the crowd tonight, Harry,” said Tom with a grin. He actually looked like he was enjoying the business he was generating, but he did really manage to convey the sincerity behind his apology. “How about a shot of whiskey on the house?”

Harry cracked a smile, appreciating Tom’s way of saying, “You’re a regular here and I like your business. Let me buy you a drink so these newbies don’t tick you off.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass on the alcoholic drinks for now. I’m waiting for Hermione and we’ve got some place else to go after we meet.”

Tom shrugged, unaffected. “I’ll buy you both a drink some other time, then.” He was called over by a customer before Harry could give a reply.

Five minutes later, Harry decided he would go pester Hermione. He excused himself from the bar, aware that he would lose his place the moment he left it. He didn’t care. He wasn’t planning on sticking around anyway.

Pushing his way out of the Leaky Cauldron and out to Muggle London, he paced around the sidewalk as he dialed Hermione’s mobile.

She answered almost immediately. She didn’t even say hello. “Oh, Harry, I’m so sorry I’m late! I’ve been trying to call you—“

“It’s alright. I was just a bit worried. Are you heading here anytime soon?” He didn’t mean to sound impatient, but he was worried, and the sooner she got to him, the sooner he could be certain of her safety.

“Yes. Fifteen minutes.”

He sighed. “Fine. I’ll go sit inside… “

“I’m so sorry, darling. I love you.”

Well, he was always rather easy when she brought out the tender persuasions. His impatience waned. “I love you, too. Get here soon. I miss you already. I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

“I—I’ve been thinking about you all day, too, and I desperately want to see you… in a while, alright?”

“Alright.”

They disconnected. Harry was just about to step back into the Leaky Cauldron when his phone rang the second time around.

He smiled, thinking it was Hermione again. He was really beginning to like this mobile, but when he looked at the caller I.D., it was Ron. That was rather amusing, as he had never had Ron call him before. He picked it up. “Hey, mate. Milestone, this one. You actually used the telly-phonie!”

“Shut it. I’m in a fix. I just got back from France and—well, I think something’s wrong with me.”

“What? Are you alright?”

Ron sighed exasperatedly. “Oh, I’m fine, but… where are you?”

“The Leaky Cauldron. Muggle side. Ron, what’s—“

“Okay, great.” Ron cut off the line.

There was a loud crack nearby, and Ron appeared from the shadows looking extremely agitated.

“I don’t get it!” he hissed to no one in particular.

Harry arched an eyebrow. “Err—you alright, mate?”

“Harry, I think I’m going stupid… well, stupider than usual. I’ve been trying to apparate to Grimmauld Place for the past half hour but I can’t seem to manage it! I keep getting transported all over the place!”

Harry frowned. “But you got here fine.”

“That’s just it! I can apparate wherever I want except there. I’m beginning to think you and Hermione secretly want me out of the house since you started shagging each other.”

“Don’t be a prat, Ron!” he hissed. “You live in that house same as we do, so only you and the house get to decide whether you want to live in it or not. Hermione and I have no say in that.”

“Well, why can’t I apparate there?”

“You must be doing something wrong.”

“Bloody hell, I honestly don’t care right now. I just want to get home and sleep!”

Harry sighed. “I’ll side-along you, then. We’ll figure it out in the morning. Hermione’ll be here in fifteen minutes, so I have other things to worry about.”

Ron didn’t argue. He took hold of Harry’s sleeve.

Harry apparated them to Grimmauld Place…

And found themselves in Paddington.

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Hermione felt the ripple in the wards as she sat in the center of her ritual circle. The wards were holding, but that hadn’t been the first time she felt someone trying to get through it. It mean either Ron or Harry had been trying to apparate to Grimmauld Place and was finding it impossible. It would only be a matter of time before they found out something was very wrong and try another means of getting home.

That was fine. By that time, she’d have the protection spell in place for them, and they wouldn’t be able to throw themselves between her and danger, even if they wanted to.

She had to expect that Lysander would employ measures to stop them from interfering, but at least he wouldn’t be able to hurt them.

Placed in front of her were two items of material and sentimental value to Harry and Ron: Harry’s Firebolt and Ron’s battered, but autographed, figurine of Krum.

She smiled fondly. The two most important men in her life would forever be bound by Quidditch when it came down to it.

She looked up at the moon, barely visible in this stage of its life. The roof of Grimmauld Place had always been excellent for stargazing. Tonight, she was hard-pressed to enjoy it.

Nearby, the things she would need to prepare for Lysander’s arrival were ready. To be able to see the auras, she needed to drug herself with dragon-potion. It was necessary, or else she wouldn’t be able to manipulate her aura and Lysander’s at all over the scrying mirror.

The other materials for her counter spells were around her, and tucked in the small of her back underneath her jeans was the Nauta Oira. It would be the most essential tool in her ritual. She couldn’t afford to lose it.

She had studied up on a few more Elven spells that might be useful, though she desperately hoped she didn’t have to use them.

Hermione swept her arm over Harry and Ron’s things, muttering the Elven incantations to complete the spell. “Yala onna en’ vilya, kemen, naur, i alu.”

A slight wind blew through her from all directions. The runes around her, drawn on the floor with her chalk, glowed bright, warm pink...

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Harry apparated both of them back to the Leaky Cauldron with Ron screeching, “You see!” as they went.

Harry had stopped speaking all together, grabbing Ron by the collar of his shirt as he dragged him inside the pub. He went to the fireplace, using his magic to push people out of the way. There were surprised yells as they went, but Harry didn’t care. The worry he had been harboring for Hermione all day was coagulating into chilling fear at the pit of his stomach.

Perhaps seeing the look on his face, many of the patrons moved out of his way of their own accord, wondering who the hell Harry Potter was going to murder and why.

He grabbed a handful of floo powder from the corner of the hearth.

“Grimmauld Place!” he enunciated, throwing the powder in.

The green flames erupted for a second, but died almost as quickly. Harry tried it again and the same thing happened.

“Blimey!” cried Ron. “Not even the floo! The house has gone batty!”

“It’s not the house,” Harry hissed, his voice hoarse. “We have to get back there.” He stalked to the bar in big strides. “Tom!”

Tom turned to him instantly.

“Have you a flying broom handy?”

Tom looked apologetic. “Well, I have a really old Cleansweep…”

Harry shook his head. Way too slow, and not worth the trouble of violating the Statute of Secrecy. A taxi would be more sensible. “Thanks anyway.” He made for the doors and Ron followed.

“Harry, why are you acting so weird? Is there something you know that you’re not telling me?”

Harry nodded, pushing out of the pub doors. “I think Hermione’s in trouble.”

“In trouble! What kind of—“

“I don’t know, but it’s really bad trouble. I can feel it.”

Harry raised an arm to flag a taxi and one immediately pulled up the curb. He swung the door open. “Get in, Ron.”

Ron did and Harry was about to follow when he heard his name being called from behind. He didn’t want to be bothered, so he got into the taxi anyway, but when he looked up, he saw that it was Luna Lovegood. Her blonde hair was tied up in a strange, messy bun and her wand was, of course, tucked behind her ear. Her bottle cap necklace didn’t completely show, but it was evident that she had it tucked beneath her shirt.

“I’d like to talk to you, Harry Potter,” she said in her odd, spacey way.

“Sorry, Luna, but I really can’t right now.” He was just about to slam the cab door shut when Luna spoke again.

“Don’t you want to know what you’re up against when you get there?”

Harry froze. He didn’t know why he was even giving Luna the time of day. Every second he wasted may mean something terrible was happening to Hermione.

Fortunately, Luna didn’t want him wasting time either. She hurried into the cab after him, pressing the boys more tightly into the backseat so she could accommodate herself.

“Oy!” Ron cried, whose impossibly long legs were making things difficult enough as it was.

Luna paid him no heed as she pulled the door of the taxi shut. “Tufnell Park, please. Grimmauld Place,” she told the cabbie. “And make it quick. It’s an emergency.”

The driver nodded, taking off.

Harry just then recovered. “I hate to be rude, Luna, but what the hell are you doing?”

“Harry Potter, you have not changed a bit,” she said dreamily. “You are still so foolishly brave.”

“Hey, now, don’t you be calling Harry foolish!” cried Ron.

Luna smiled. “Hello, Your Majesty! You haven’t changed either. You’re still following the brave fool.”

“What!”

Harry was getting tired of being disparaged. He scowled, ready to stop the taxi and have her step out of it. “Look here, Luna—“

“My, my, you were certainly more polite to me when you were speaking to me the other day.”

Harry’s scowl deepened. “I haven’t spoken to you in ages Luna, what are you on about?”

“She’s gone more mental than usual,” Ron muttered.

Luna’s eyebrow arched as she smiled. “I get that a lot. As for you, Harry… been to the Department of Mysteries lately?”

Harry gave a start. “How did you—“ He paused to stare at her a moment before the significance of her words hit him. “No…” He couldn’t believe it, yet it actually made perfect sense. She was his Unspeakable!

“Yes,” she said. “I must say, I’m quite glad you came to me with your concerns. Your information has proven to be a challenging study in research, but it was that last bit of information you and Remus brought me the other day that really got my work rolling.”

“What is going on?” Ron asked irritably.

Harry was in no mood for niceties. He had no choice but to take Luna’s word for it. “Later, Ron! Luna, what have you found out?”

Luna did not dally further. “Quite simply, Harry, Mr. Athanasius is a Nordic Elf.”

Harry was not processing this. He shook his head vigorously. “A what elf? You mean there are kinds?”

“Wait, you mean Athanasius isn’t human?” Ron cried. “What—“

Luna rolled her eyes.

“Well, of course there are kinds,” she said, ignoring Ron. “We wouldn’t be calling House Elves House Elves if there wasn’t any other kind of elf. We’d just be calling them elves, period.”

Harry gritted his teeth. “I’ve only ever known of one kind.”

“Yes, well, so has the rest of the Wizarding World today… well, most wizards, at least, but apparently, there’s more than one kind of elf. As you probably figured, Nordic Elves are different from your average House Elf. Nordic Elves are prettier, taller, more seductive, more powerful—“

Harry made a circling gesture with his hand to hurry things along. “Yes, yes… what is he doing to Hermione?”

“He’s using ancient Elven magic, which is why we couldn’t pinpoint what it was he was doing. Their magic is different. Subtler, but it’s a purer form of magic wizards use today, therefore it’s inherently more powerful. Any text on Elven magic is transcribed in Elvish, so a very, very select few have the ability to read it at all. Everything I know about Elves at this point came from very obscure, banned literature written by dead wizards in English, so I’m not even certain of my information’s accuracy. One thing I can tell you for certain is that only Nordic Elves and their human familiars can speak and read Elvish.”

“But Hermione’s not a Nordic Elf.”

“Your powers of deduction are great, Harry,” Luna breathed as her eyes glazed over.

Harry simmered. He wanted to tell her that this was no time to be snarky, but he supposed that would be a waste of time in itself. He moved the conversation along. “Are you telling me Hermione’s—“

“It’s possible she isn’t a familiar yet, but potential familiars begin to share the base magic of their masters when the binding process is begun and this includes the knowledge of reading Elven text,” she said. “It doesn’t mean Hermione got into it voluntarily, mind you. She could have been tricked, but be that as it may, tonight… with the waxing moon, she’s going to become his familiar if she doesn’t put a stop to it…”

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She checked the time as she finished the first few steps of the protection process. It has been more than fifteen minutes since she first began feeling the disturbance in the wards. Harry would likely be coming around soon. She had to enact the final step to put the protection spell in place.

Hermione grasped the athame, enclosed it in the grip of her left hand and swiped it out with her right.

She hissed at the sting but let the blood drip through her fingers. The trails of red fell upon Harry’s broom and Ron’s Krum figurine. The items pulsed. She knew then the spell would work.

“Amin serke o sina amin mahta,

Varya o yaara tuure turma.”

Blood of mine, with this I wield,

Protect with ancient power’s shield.

The runes flashed a blinding pink, exploding upwards and around her as she sat in the middle of the magical upheaval.

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Harry saw the flash of pink light coming from the roof of Grimmauld Place. “Shit,” he hissed.

Ron’s eyes widened like saucers at the sight. “Harry! What in Merlin’s name—“

They passed the house. The driver didn’t seem to notice anything.

“Stop the cab!” Harry cried.

The cabbie stepped on the breaks and the vehicle came to a halt with a screech. All three passengers lunged forward before falling back on their seats.

Harry plucked two galleons from his pocket and tossed it at the cabbie.

“Oy!” the cabbie protested.

“That’s real gold, mate,” said Harry. “Keep the change.”

The cabbie’s eyes widened. If his concern for his cab fare was any indication, he wasn’t seeing what the wizards were seeing. He bit into the galleon, checking the metal.

No. 12 Grimmauld Place was bathed in a coalescing pink light, shimmering under the waxing moon.

Harry was still processing everything Luna had told him along the way, but he still felt ill prepared for whatever it was he had to face.

He stopped in his tracks as he felt a thrum of power pulse through him, like he had walked through a wall and it vibrated the very core of his bones. A comforting warmth settled upon him for a heartbeat, then it was gone.

“What the hell was that magic?” cried Ron frantically as the taxi sped off.

Harry looked at him. “You felt it too? Like a wall?”

“Yes!”

“I didn’t feel it,” said Luna, her brows knotting. “Did it feel warm afterwards? Comforting?”

Harry nodded. “What do you know about it?”

“It’s probably an Elven protection spell,” said Luna with wide-eyed expression. “Hermione likely cast it for you and Ron. I don’t think I can go with you now. If I do, I can be putting Hermione in more danger.”

“But—“ Harry sought words desperately. “But you’re the only one who knows what we’re up against!” He can’t have Luna backing out now. Without Hermione, Luna was the only one who had the brains to match!

An expression of despair came over Luna’s face and Harry felt his stomach drop. He didn’t like it when she lost the dreamy look in her eyes.

“Where you go, I can do no good,” she said. “I’ll explain… later.”

If we get out of this alive, thought Harry grimly.

“Lysander can be harmed by wizard magic,” said Luna. “But you’ll find it difficult, especially if he has complete control of the situation. I doubt he’d be able to harm you. The protection spell Hermione cast on you, I’d expect, is a high-level Elven charm. If she used blood, it can only be broken if she wills it. Just remember that a lot of Elven magic is based on binding. She binds you to be protected. Lysander has bound her to answer his summons. He’s trying to bind her to become his familiar. So it’s only logical if you break the binding—“

“We can break him,” said Harry. “How do we do that?”

“I don’t know if there is anything you can do. The difference of magic presents a problem. It’s like he’s using fire when all you have is earth,” she said, her dreamy eyes turning apologetic. “But it bears mentioning that at this point in time, he shares very similar traits to very dark creatures.”

“Explain that to me as briefly as you can, Luna.”

“Dark creatures: Vampires, Lamias… they all live off a host of sorts.”

Harry nodded, absorbing this information. “Understood. What other information do you have?”

“The problem with Hermione’s protection spell is that while you might be able to attack Lysander, you won’t be able to lend your power to her, like she and Ron did for you with Voldemort.”

Harry didn’t even bother to ask Luna how she knew about that. He let her go on.

“She’s the only one right now who can really harm him because unlike you, she has access to Elven magic, so the fact of the matter is, you’d be very helpful to her if you can give her your aura and strengthen her magic, but the protection spell will prevent you from connecting with her, because if she breaks and gives in to Lysander, any connection with you would bring you down with her. The protection spell therefore forbids you to put yourselves in that situation.”

Harry felt the blood draining from his face.

Oh, sweet Merlin, Hermione… why?

But Hermione already answered that question last night, didn’t she? He knew why, and he could even understand, but it didn’t change the fact that he might be absolutely helpless to save her.

“I’m so confused,” Ron groaned. “But if hexing Lysander Athanasius is involved, I’m all for it. Let’s go then, Harry.”

“I’ll summon the proper reinforcements,” said Luna. “But it’s going to take a while. Hermione’s wards around number 12 are strong. If I manage to get the calls out on time, the aurors would have to travel the muggle way.”

Harry understood. “Just do it.”

She nodded. “Merlin speed.”

With that, she apparated away.

Harry and Ron didn’t need to speak. They rushed on along the block to reach number 12, breaking off into a run. The front lawn had never seemed so vast, and Hermione’s wards were making it difficult to get across.

“Bloody hell, Harry! Why has she done this?” cried Ron.

“I don’t know, Ron. Right now, I don’t care. We just need to get to her.”

Ron looked up and his jaw dropped. “Fuck!”

Harry followed his gaze, and above them, in a traveling mist, apparated Lysander.

He was too far up to hex, even for Harry, but it was clear that he was going straight for the roof.

Harry grabbed Ron by the collar and fought against the wards to drag them to the porch. Harry didn’t bother with keys. He blew the knob off the door and kicked it in, stumbling across the threshold with Ron.

They rushed as one up the stairs, both of them afraid to apparate lest the house expel them to Merlin Knew Where.

Reaching the top floor, they bounded through the hallway and flung the door to the roof open.

What Harry saw made him pause for an instant.

Hermione knelt at the center of the roof in the middle of a glowing pink circle. Harry recognized his Firebolt and what looked like a mangled toy figurine. Both were smeared with something dark and red.

Blood, he realized.

As the tendrils of pink rose from her circle and the runes written around it, Harry could make out various other materials placed around her.

She moved her hands over a pot that caught fire instantly, and the fumes rose up in a rush. She inhaled them before taking something from the pot and ingesting it. Then she closed her eyes.

At the edge of the roof, Lysander hovered, watching her with barely veiled glee.

Rage overcame Harry, and he raised his wand with the determination to hurt Lysander very badly.

“Sectumsempra!”

Ron’s own wand whipped through the air. “Stupefy!”

Lysander didn’t even spare them a glance.

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Hermione gasped as she heard the fire of hexes. She turned, seeing Harry and Ron at the door, and for an instant, she felt a crippling fear; that her protection spell hadn’t worked.

Lysander grinned, calmly raising his hand, palm out. “’Kshonna wanya.”

The play of auras around her were explosive and she stifled the wave of nausea that was beginning to creep up on her. She didn’t know if it was because she had rushed the process with the dragon-potion or if it was because she was scared out of her mind; either way, she wouldn’t be surprised if she threw up all over herself.

The hexes dissipated before they could reach Lysander, and before Harry and Ron could recover from the shock of it, Lysander muttered another spell in his tongue. “Bragollach tel’llach.”

Hermione shrieked as a ball of fire hurtled towards Harry and Ron.

She heard their combined cries of protego but she knew the charm would be useless.

Lysander’s curse passed right through their shield. Harry and Ron raised their arms in a futile gesture to protect themselves, acting more on instinct than logic, but the fireball passed, dissipating into cool air as it hit them. There was smoke, but they were unharmed.

“H-Holy mother of Merlin!” Ron cried.

Hermione almost fainted with relief as she found her breath once again. It worked!

Lysander scowled, throwing a spell out from his hand. “N’tess gothamin!” A blue light shot out from his fingertips and encased Harry and Ron in a pale blue box.

“Shit!” Harry hissed, banging his fist against the surface of it. “Athanasius, you freak! I’ll kill you with my bare hands!”

Ron frowned grimly. “I think killing him quickly would be too kind, Harry.”

Lysander wasn’t pleased, but Hermione doubted it was because of their less than affectionate words.

“Hermione Jane Granger,” said Lysander, eyebrow arching in her direction. “You’ve cast a protection spell on them. How very… impressive of you.”

“I invoked dominion, too,” she said to gather her courage as she got to her feet. “You crossed the threshold of the house without my express permission. You can’t harm them, and now you can’t harm their kin, either.”

More surprise rippled through his handsome features. “My, my, my, poppet… you have been reading your Elven spells!”

“Don’t call me poppet, parasite!” she spat.

He seemed amused. “Then what do you want me to call you, Familiar?”

“I’m not your familiar yet, so you can forget coming up with pet names.”

“Hermione,” said Harry desperately. “Love… sweetheart… lift the spell from us. Let us help you. Please, just…”

She looked at him, her eyes filled with apology. He was such a dear. “No. The spell holds unless I expressly recant it, and it won’t break even if—even if he manages to kill me—“

“Kill you?” Ron squeaked. “Oy, you bloody skirt, you can’t die! We defeated Voldemort, you ninny! You can’t let this twat do you in!”

Hermione gave him a plaintive smile.

Lysander choked on a laugh. “Is he comparing me to Voldemort? I can’t say I’m flattered, really. That man was a little batty, if you ask me.”

Hermione glared at him. “Look who’s talking!”

Lysander scoffed. “I’m perfectly sane, ma petite. World domination was so last season and really, who wants the trouble of ruling the world, anyway?”

The magical wind rippling through the roof blew a bit of Lysander’s collar open and Hermione saw a hint of a deep scar. Remembering Flitwick telling her about the injury Danaides sustained while at Hogwarts, it confirmed what she had already long suspected. “I’m ending this tonight, Danaides,” she hissed. “No matter what happens, I’m not going to let myself be enslaved for five hundred years.”

He winced. “Five hundred seems like such an awful long time. My father, Isidore, couldn’t stand to keep them for longer than two hundred, but you, ma petite, look to be good for three hundred, at least. You will after all, be my first.”

She growled. “Stop calling me ma petite!”

His eyes darkened, and he glared at her. “Yalla onna en’ vilya!”

A burst of wind shot past her, blowing all of her ritual materials away. The scrying mirror flipped and shattered at her feet, sending shards everywhere.

“Shit!” she hissed, bracing herself against the blast and squeezing her eyes shut. She felt her stomach clench in dismay. The drums of owls toppled over, making a thunder-like racket as envelopes scattered all around. She felt panic come over her in waves.

“Hyandea en’ luhta,” said Lysander, his tone menacing.

She felt the surface of her skin sting abominably and she gave a shrill shriek. She opened her eyes and was horrified to see cuts all over her arms, blossoming with blood. Her jeans were tattered in countless places, staining her denims red. The pain was nothing to her terror, an ocean of doubt swallowing her whole.

“I can call you whatever I want,” he said. “The choice is mine to make. I am your master and you are the familiar!”

God, can I do this? I can’t defeat him! What the hell was I thinking?

But she had to believe. She had to force her will or else Lysander would win, and she simply couldn’t let him.

She looked at Harry and Ron who stood helpless within their magical prison. Harry was begging her with his eyes and Ron was yelling for her to lift the spell off them.

She would do no such thing, and she found her resolve gaining strength again. She would do this for them. She chose to fight because of them.

Lysander’s aura began to prod hers. She could see it with her dragon-drugged eyes. He settled his feet to the floor and a circle of blue, wrought with runes, began to glow around his feet. He didn’t need any chalk. His powers of conjuration were great, after all.

She heaved against his aura and magic, pushing him back.

He sneered. “Bitch.”

She sneered back, arching her eyebrow. “Wanker.”

That probably wasn’t a good idea.

He forced himself through her power and the pain caught her instantly. It was agonizing, like hell had opened up inside her and poured molten rock out of her wounds.

She screamed, crumpling to the floor as the waves of his aura forced itself into her. She pushed and refused. She would not let their auras combine.

There were explosions. She didn’t know where it was coming from, but there were pieces of roof tile flying; wood chips; eroded metal. Emotions of anger sent debris flying. It wasn’t Lysander, and it certainly wasn’t her. She hadn’t the strength to be angry right now. And then there was someone—no, two voices, were calling her name. Her vision, blurred by pain, began to clear, and she remembered where she was; who was hurting her.

“Fighting it will only bring you pain, Hermione,” said Lysander. “Give in and I’ll make it easy for you in the next three hundred years.”

She opened her mouth and she found her voice amidst her gasps. She pushed herself off the floor.

“That’s it, Hermione!” cried Harry from the side. “Don’t give in!”

Ron gave a whoop. “Yeah, show that nasty piece of shit who’s boss!”

Their encouragement helped her summon the courage to speak out, her eyes boring through Lysander’s. “I’d rather feel that pain the next three hundred years than give in to you, you son of a bitch!”

And the agony of his touch was upon her again. Claws down her body as she burned from the inside-out. The pain was so intense that she wanted to die; to end it. She wanted to leave the prison of herself to unattainable relief. Tears fell. She couldn’t stop them if she wanted to.

The world was suddenly unimportant. There was only her and the pain. She couldn’t take it.

But if she gave in, he would take her, and she would be his until he tired of her. For all his promises of love and affection, familiars were just slaves in Wizard’s clothing.

When the pain went away, she slumped to the floor, cheek pressed to the rough surface of the roof. She couldn’t even look up. She was breathing, and she was alive, but she didn’t want to be alive.

She felt herself being lifted from the ground by invisible hands. He pulled her to him, her feet hovering above the floor.

Relief washed over her. Warmth and happiness and comfort. Nothing felt better. Nothing could be better.

“Feel that?” asked Lysander in a whisper. He held her near enough to touch. “It can be like that always if you just give in.”

Weakly, she lifted a hand to touch his face.

Maybe it wasn’t so bad.

Then she heard voices, begging her not to listen to him, shouting for her to stay with them.

“Hermione!” It was a voice she knew so very well; loved so deeply. It was Harry’s. “Amin ve laa er lle hanya! Hermione, you remember that, don’t you?”

I am like no one you’ve met.

And she understood. She had said those same words to Lysander in a dream, because she had believed in herself. She had believed she can get through this. That belief would get her through.

“Amin nauva i noole,” she whispered. My will is the key.

The hand she had lifted to touch him turned, and she brushed her knuckle against Lysander’s cheek before she raised her middle finger right to his face. She flashed him a malicious smile. “Screw you.”

His rage pierced through her, making her double over in mid-air. It was like a great hand had taken her into its grip and crumpled her. She felt crushed, like she was being forced into a ball. Then he threw her back, sending her crashing to the old perimeter wall. The impact knocked the wind out of her as chips of old wood and paint burst through the air, sprinkling her with age-old debris.

Her vision blurred. Her back and head hurt from hitting the wall and she felt rather weak with all the pain she had had to endure. Her vision spiraled for a second before settling to a dull hum.

She thought maybe she would retch, her stomach roiling violently.

She blinked.

She saw, several feet away, Lysander, tilting his head at her in amusement.

He tutted. “Nwalmaer, lle lava?”

Tormented one, do you yield?

She could see his aura prodding hers. She resisted, but she couldn’t put up a fierce fight at the moment.

“Detholamin,” she whispered feebly.

My choice.

“Detholamin an n’degina lle.”

My choice to destroy you.

He smirked.

She closed her eyes and summoned the only Ace she had. Her “Ace” had already rushed up the stairs, padding quickly through the roof door and leaping over boxes to set himself on the ledge of the roof. His tail swished as the back of Lysander’s blonde head came in view.

Hermione opened her eyes.

Now, Crookshanks!

Crookshanks leapt from behind, his own familiar magic glowing from his claws. He jumped Lysander and sank his magic-enhanced claws right on Lysander’s cheeks.

Lysander screamed as Crookshank’s nails dug into his flawless skin.

Hermione caught hold of his tendrils of aura just when the caging charm around Harry and Ron disintegrated.

“Sectumsempra!” Harry cried.

The hex caught Lysander from shoulder to chest, slashing upward in a red trail. Lysander’s blood poured from the wound just as Ron executed a stunning hex.

Lysander screamed, but he did not go down, flinging a protection charm outward as he healed the cuts Harry dealt him and protected himself against the rain of curses.

Hermione watched as Harry and Ron fired spells at Lysander. He deflected every single one, and that with a cat clawing at him, too, but it was time bought for what Hermione needed to do.

She struggled to push herself up from the ground, but it was difficult. The pain all over her body felt too sharp to bear. She had counted on the pain, but she hadn’t counted on it physically impairing her. She had always thought that there were certain aches that could be overcome by will. This was not that kind of ache.

Now her arms shook. Will, she possessed, but she was drained of power. Even with her contingency plan, she might not have enough to carry herself through. She would lose.

And then she felt it, the quiet strength of wizarding magic coaxing her to accept. She looked up and saw Harry casting her a glance. He was offering magic and she took a moment to be awed by him. Lending magic, without a proper ritual, was no easy thing. Harry wasn’t her familiar, and they weren’t connected in any magical way, yet Harry was giving her his power.

He was using some kind of complicated spell, or else he just knew how to do it without knowing how to explain it. It was familiar, anyway, even if it wasn’t a controlled gesture, but rather an instinctual one. She remembered this spell signature from the night they combined to defeat Voldemort…

Either way, he had to be using serious wizarding powers to manage it at all. But then this was the extraordinary, the amazing Harry Potter, after all.

Only one question remained. Would she take it or not? If she did, she would break the protection spell on him and she would be risking the freedom of his soul. If she didn’t…

If I don’t take it and I fail; if Lysander manages to overcome me, Harry will never forgive himself…

She remembered everything he had done for her, and everything she had done for him. It was then she understood the full extent of what love could accomplish. It wasn’t just about suffering for your loved ones or shielding them from danger. It was also about loving them enough to give them strength; holding them in times of weakness; empowering them to have a choice, whether it’s to leave or let them stay.

At that moment, the spell that had bound her to keep it all a secret—to refuse their help; to make her feel alone—finally shattered under the power of their combined emotions of love and the need to protect.

Harry’s offered magic poured into her, she felt warmth and comfort, giving her the strength to rise to her feet. She knew then she couldn’t fail. His power boosted hers and it would be enough to get her through.

She bled her hand and let her blood drip to the ground. “Elea i’dolen!”

A circle surrounded by runes glowed from the floor where once it wasn’t there, creating her ritual space in an instant. It was a back-up circle, prepared in case her initial plan crumbled. Her foresight was always a handy thing.

“Tyela nuema!” She called to untrap the gestalt magic she had stored inside Crookshanks hours before. The magic contained within him erupted and flowed back to her, combining with Harry’s borrowed power. It gave her the strength she would need to perform the final rite.

The wind blew in her hair and her eyes glowed silver.

She pulled the Nauta Oira from behind her and held it out. “Bela ed’ templa.”

The book levitated just beneath her down-turned palm.

Raising her wand, she used the biggest mirror shard she could find and enlarged it while she summoned the shard to settle in front of her.

Crookshanks, let him go.

The cat leapt off Lysander and he gave an enraged howl, blocking Harry’s and Ron’s spells as he cast his eyes on her.

“Avarier!” he roared. “Lle tar finwa!”

Unwilling one! You are beyond your means!

“Lle naa haran e’ nausalle, L’sandre!” she hissed back. You are king only in your imagination, Lysander! “Ar sii… lle naa amin.”

And now… you’re mine.

She called the candles to her, their flames erupting as they settled around her circle. The circle and runes pulsed pink before deepening to red. She was now using the power from his aura, the aura he had forced upon her; it was borne of pain, will and sacrifice, exactly what this final spell required of it. She smirked and the terrified look in his eyes as realization hit him just strengthened her resolve. She spoke the incantation over the Nauta Oira in whispered reverence.

“Lle yeeta an mauya fea, mirima nauva ar onna vanima,” she began, throwing the magic of the words to him.

“Ermiad-na!” he cried in her Elven name. “Mani na lle umien?”

Hermione, what are you doing?

She ignored him, knowing that he was trying to distract her. The beginnings of the spell was restraining him; already starting to bind him. If she let him break her concentration, he might be able to break through the restraints.

He began an incantation in Elvish and Hermione’s concentration broke momentarily. Panic suffused her. She needed to regain her momentum and she had to regain it fast.

He was trying to force his aura in her again and she couldn’t force him back and finish the spell at the same time. If she didn’t find a way to buy herself some time in the next second, he would have her bound, and all the pain she endured would be all for naught.

“Lle naa amin, Ermyad-na,” Lysander drawled.

You’re mine, Hermione.

Her eyes widened just as a blinding white light flashed all around them.

A silver shimmering stag materialized, throwing his mighty head back to show off its spectacular antlers. It charged at Lysander, bucking its hooves in a righteous rampage as it passed right through his shields.

Lysander tried to fight it back, but this was the same patronus that drove away a dozen dementors all at the same time.

Pride replaced Hermione’s feelings of fear. She found the strength, and knowing she could continue the spell unimpeded, she recited the final verses with powerful focus.

“Hanay naikelea nauta temma, lle suule harya lye nuquerna,” she breathed. “Mi unque lle kara; an atsa lle mi lle ingole. Fainu lle uutuuva, tenna lle tuuva moota mane!”

You who sought to force the spirits, Free by will and nature’s right

Will know the pain of binding limits, your spirit owned we now indict

Within a prison of your make; to trap you with your magic’s own.

Never will you find escape, until in goodness you atone!

The book beneath her hand shuffled open, pages flipping in the whirling wind.

Lysander screamed and threw a curse at her.

Badgered by the patronus, his weak hex bounced harmlessly off her protego.

She raised her palm, the book moving in sync.

“You can’t!” cried Lysander as his aura began to get sucked into the book. “You haven’t the power!”

Hermione fought to pull him in and she narrowed her eyes at him. “Oh… yes… I… DO!” She jerked her hand into a fist.

She heaved him in and his skin began to tear from his very bones. The book, one he claimed to have kept by him since he was a child, was a prison of his own making, and it ate at him piece by gruesome piece. His screaming never ceased and he fought with tremendous strength. She poured what magic she had to pulling him in, but if he fought long enough, he’d simply outlast her, and she wasn’t about to let him get away from her when she’d come this far.

She had to make sure she could end this now.

“Harry!” she cried, hoping that the desperation in her tone would be enough.

Lysander turned disembodied eyes at him, the dark light in them shining with menacing hate. “Human, don’t you dare!”

Harry didn’t need an explanation. He glared back, eyes flashing with equal intensity. “Dare this, you degenerate fuck!” He raised his wand and cried out the incantation. “Effligo pravus!”

Harry’s aura burst far and wide as ruby red magic shot out of his wand. His aura extended before crouching into a massive wave-like entity.

The spell that destroyed Voldemort engulfed Lysander in its power and the elf’s roar resounded through the night as he fought off the effects of the enchantment. He didn’t melt the way Voldemort did, but it shattered what strength he had fighting Hermione’s binding magic.

Lysander stumbled into the book, his screams following him.

And just when Hermione thought they had him, Lysander’s hand shot out of the pages, grabbing for the book’s hard cover. Harry hissed, aiming his wand.

“No, allow me,” said Ron. He flicked his wand delicately, holding it by his thumb and forefinger like a teacup. “Reducto!” he chimed.

The hand was reduced to powder and its specks were sucked into the pages.

Hermione felt her aura being pulled, and just when the book began to consume it, she screamed the incantation to close the gates.

The book banged shut, slamming against her chest and sending her flying backwards on impact while the piece of scrying mirror exploded into tiny shards.

Hermione felt like Hagrid had punched her right on the chest, but she held the book tight against her even as she gasped to get air back into her lungs.

“Hermione!”

She wasn’t sure who had said it. Probably both boys, because seconds later, they were staring down at her, both of them looking like they were just about to have a stroke.

The effects of the dragon potion were gone, dispersed by her closing of the ritual.

It’s over, she thought with wearying relief. It’s really over.

And she was alive.

Barely.

“Fuck…” she breathed, unable to find a more appropriate swear word. She winced at the twisting pain all over her body. “I never thought he’d be so fucking hard on me! Bastard!” There had to be something broken. All the pain had to account for something.

“Ron, call St. Mungo’s, now,” Harry said.

Ron nodded, getting to his feet.

Cracks began sounding from below and Ron jogged to the side of the roof.

“The cavalry’s arrived!” he said. “I’ll get a medi-wizard. Hang on, Hermione.”

Ron apparated, probably to the front lawn.

“Harry,” she gasped. “You have to seal the book. Seal it now.”

“Please, Hermione, you have to relax.”

“Seal it!”

He sighed, placing the tip of his wand lightly on the Nauta Oira’s cover. “Obexicis.”

A swath of light wrapped around the book once and then another across it. Nobody but Harry can open it now.

Hermione nodded. “Harry, whatever you do, don’t let anyone try to open this book or read from it. Alright? Not until I can explain everything. They’ll likely sedate me, and frankly, I’m feeling a little woozy right now.”

Harry sighed again. “Hermione, you’re going to tax yourself into a coma. Please don’t make me go through that again! I’d simply roll over and go mad. It’s bad enough I had to watch you do all that by yourself! Please!”

“Just promise me you’ll let no one touch this!” Of course, it wasn’t that easy to release Lysander from the book. It would take a lot of complicated spells, bloodshed and rituals to get him out without the book deeming him reformed, but she wasn’t going to take any chances.

“I promise, now stay calm. The medi-wizard will be here soon.”

She hissed as another pain jabbed at her side. “Cor, Harry… I think he broke everything…”

Harry looked terribly worried. “The medi-wizard will give you something for the pain.”

She watched him, deciphering the look in his eyes. It was a deep pain laced with what was his personality: The compulsion to protect and save the ones he loved.

He’s probably worried sick and angry at the same time, she thought, trying not to chuckle, as it would hurt a bit too much to do that right now.

“I would have told you if I could, Harry,” she said, cringing at the resonating throb of pain. “I would have, but I was bespelled, and I couldn’t give you details.”

He seemed surprised by this, but instantly, the anger began to dissipate.

Then rethinking her own words, she frowned. “I would have told you, but I wouldn’t have asked you to help. Too dangerous for you.”

This time he did scowl, but he gently took her hand and squeezed it. “We’ll talk about everything later. Right now we just have to get you better.” He looked up as two medi-wizards arrived. Behind them were Ron, Remus and Gail.

Hermione shoved the book in his hands and he took it, tucking it into the pockets of his robes to assure her. She managed a smile.

The medi-wizards fell upon her, and the moment Harry left, the medi-wizard put her in stasis.

And her world turned incomprehensible.

0000000000000000000

Harry let the medi-wizards work, watching them put her in stasis. It wasn’t sleep, but she wasn’t exactly conscious, either. It removed the risk of putting her in a coma but relieved her of anymore pain for the time being. They would remove stasis when they had her completely stable.

He looked up from her and found Ron, Remus and Gail.

“Good lord, Harry,” said Gail, eyes wide at the evident destruction around them and Hermione’s bruised, bleeding and battered appearance. “What the hell happened here?”

“A lot of things are still fuzzy,” he said wearily.

“It was terrifying,” said Ron, eyes still somewhat wide with disbelief. “There was all this magic, like the entire house was going to explode with it. I thought—I thought Hermione—I thought something really bad was going to happen!”

Harry massaged the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. It might as well be said. “We thought she was going to die.”

There was a brief silence after he said it.

“Did you catch Lysander then?” asked Remus a moment later.

Harry nodded, taking the book from his robes and waving it a bit. “He’s in here.”

Ron stepped away from him, his eyes watching the book closely.

Gail and Remus exchanged questioning looks.

“Like Tom Riddle’s diary?” asked Remus.

Harry shook his head. “No. That was a horcrux. This is… containment. He’s inside this book. Hermione put him in it.”

Gail looked nonplussed. “Well, that sounds like a really wicked spell.”

“It’s Elven magic,” said Harry. “It’s not something they teach at Hogwarts.”

Remus frowned. “Elven?”

Harry didn’t think they were going to get anywhere with him explaining all of it. He hardly knew anything about it himself. The only person who knew exactly what had happened was Hermione, and he just wanted her to get better first.

He looked around. “Do you happen to know where Luna Lovegood is?”

“Left her downstairs,” muttered Ron. “Driving Tonks batty.”

“Battier,” said Gail.

Remus scolded her mildly with a slanted look and Gail rolled her eyes.

“Luna knows more than any of us do,” said Harry. “She’s the one who told us what Lysander is.”

“Well, what is he, then?” asked Remus.

Harry saw that he would have to answer some questions. “An Elf.”

Remus and Gail’s eyebrows arched at the same time.

“A Nordic Elf,” added Harry.

“There are kinds?” asked Gail.

“Well, of course there are,” said Ron. “If there was just one kind then we wouldn’t call House Elves House Elves. We’d just call them plain Elves.”

Harry couldn’t believe Ron remembered that from their conversation in the taxi with Luna.

Ron scowled. “Well, she’s right, ain’t she? Makes perfect sense!”

“Anyway,” said Harry. “He’s been trying all this time to turn Hermione into his human familiar. Luna told us some details and I can’t recall most of it, but that’s the gist. Hermione fought Lysander back and she had to put him in this book. I promised her I wouldn’t let anyone get their hands on it until she can tell us all about it.”

“Uncanny,” said Remus, almost in a whisper.

Harry couldn’t agree more. “We can let Luna explain some or we can wait for Hermione to wake up and have her explain it all herself.”

Remus’s eyebrows furrowed. “Where does Luna fall in all this?”

It took a while for Harry to realize that Remus should have known, and that Luna had performed a memory spell on him too.

“She was our Unspeakable,” said Harry, watching for Remus’s reaction.

Predictably enough, Remus’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“Hang on,” said Gail. “What do you mean she was your Unspeakable? How come you and Remus get one while I don’t?”

Remus gestured placatingly at her. “It’s not exactly Standard Issue, Gail. I’m surprised Luna didn’t dedisco the memory of her off Harry and Ron already. Unspeakables like her have a strict code of secrecy.”

Ron frowned. “Will she get in trouble?”

Harry arched his eyebrow at Ron but said nothing, wanting to know the answer, himself.

“I’m not very sure,” said Remus. “The Unspeakables like to keep mum about their departmental policies, if you’ll pardon the pun. They don’t make it a habit announcing who they are to the world, either. I don’t know how this will affect Luna.”

Luna emerged from the door with Tonks behind her. Luna made straight for Ron while Tonks looked around at the carnage; broken glass, envelopes everywhere, unintelligible runes, sprays of blood, scattered materials and Hermione lying in stasis in the background.

“Good gracious!” Tonks cried. “Tell me Hermione is going to be alright!”

The surprising part was, Harry was pretty sure Hermione would be. She certainly had a lot enough to say before the medi-wizards took her. She sounded disgruntled that Lysander had hurt her at all.

“… and they were talking in this really weird language, you know?” Ron was telling Luna.

“Elvish,” said Luna. “Likely Elvish. It sounds like a song, doesn’t it? Very breathy. Very sensual.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “It didn’t feel particularly sensual at that moment, you understand. There was blood and magic everywhere.”

Luna looked to the waning moon. “Typical Elven ritual: Blood, magic and lots of talk!”

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A/N: Of course that’s not the last of it. There are three more chapters to come to wrap this mess up! But it’s done, isn’t it? It’s Ron and Hermione. ::sick, twisted laugh:: Just kidding! Harmony all the way. ^_^

Author’s note: Well, wasn’t that tiring! Some even found it tedious. So sorry about that, but life is such! Time to tie up loose ends now!

Thanks again, Aurabolt. You know you kick ass, right? You know you do!

Standard disclaimers apply.

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Chapter Seventeen – Coalescing in Convalescence

In which I bet you can’t say the title of the chapter quickly and several times without tripping your tongue.

Or

In which a parade of people pay Hermione a visit.

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Harry leaned over the bed, taking Hermione’s hand as she slept peacefully on the hospital bed. She had not been allowed to wake since her ordeal the previous night and while Harry knew she was merely sedated, he couldn’t help but feel a bit uncomfortable watching her this way. It was too reminiscent of her coma.

On a nearby chair, Ron gave a snort in his sleep. His chin was tucked into his chest, arms crossed over him. His long legs took up half the room outstretched from his chair. How he managed to find sleep in such an uncomfortable position, Harry didn’t know.

That was one thing about Ron. No one could touch him for his resilience.

Harry had found sleep two hours at a time throughout the night. He was tired, but he was worried, too. He simply couldn’t sleep all the way through, and every time he woke up, he had to remind himself that this time, Hermione was asleep; that she was resting; that they had induced sleep on her so that she would recover from her many broken bones and multiple lacerations.

He sighed. He wanted badly to talk to her.

When he was watching it all happen, he was half-stunned at what she was being made to endure and half-angry that she chose to endure it alone. He remembered thinking, Good Lord, he’s hurting her! He’s torturing her! I—I couldn’t even stand to see her get a sunburn! Good GOD, how could he? How could he… I’M GOING TO KILL HIM! And then he was so angry that everything started to blow up around Lysander. It did no good at harming the smarmy elf, though. Whatever the git was using, it was impenetrable, so Harry wasn’t exactly able to do him any harm.

He had never felt so helpless in his life.

The anger, the concern, the love; it was all a mix inside him right now. He thought maybe taking his anger out on someone would be very therapeutic.

He looked surreptitiously at the book on the bedside table and had a barrage of nasty thoughts. Burn it. Shred it. Throw it into a volcano! Or better yet… He had a strong impulse to reach into the damn thing, get his hands on Lysander and physically beat the man to death, but seeing as it had taken the very angry Defeater of Voldemort, the Defeater’s sidekick, a very determined Elven familiar to-be and a cat-kneazle hybrid to contain him with lots of Elven magic, Harry had to admit that he can’t take on Lysander alone right now.

In retrospect, Harry had had seven and a half years to practice defeating Voldemort completely. Lysander might be a tad trickier considering he wasn’t even of the same species.

Harry sighed, pulling off his glasses as he closed his eyes. Lightly, he massaged the bridge of his nose.

Sure, he was angry, but he supposed his relief at having her alive off-set all that. Besides, it was because he loved her like a fool that he wanted to yell at her for putting herself in that much danger.

When some of the ache behind his eyes ebbed, he put his glasses back on and glanced at his watch. It was half past eight in the morning.

Ron gave off a mighty snore and Harry frowned.

Bloke’s going to wake up the dead.

Harry was just about to cast a silencio on him when he felt a light pressure from Hermione’s hand. He looked and saw her blinking languorously. She seemed somewhat annoyed, but he’d be too if he woke up and most of his body was immobilized by spells.

He gave her a plaintive smile, reaching up to tuck some of her hair behind her ear. “Hullo.”

“Tell me you caught the driver of the lorry that ran me over,” she muttered grumpily.

Harry thought maybe Ron’s snarkiness was catching. She certainly didn’t get it from him… much. “He got away from us. Oh, by the way, you caught a Dark Wizard. But that’s neither here nor there. Thirsty, love?”

Hermione stared at him impassively, probably deciding if he had gone nutters or if he was just being drier than an Englishman in the Sahara Desert. “I can just about do with a stiff Ogden’s right now…”

He didn’t even blink. “We’re fresh out. How about some water?”

“That’ll do.”

He stood to go to her bedside table where there was a pewter of water and a goblet. He poured her some, chilled it very slightly with a spell and conjured a straw from a plastic swizzle stick on the coffee tray. Carefully, he brought up the upper half of the hospital bed to get her to a sitting position before gently sticking the straw into her mouth. She couldn’t move much of anything except her face and fingers; probably her toes.

“This is humiliating,” she muttered through the straw as Harry cast a summoning spell for the healer. “A few hours ago I was putting away a Dark Wizard and now I can’t even drink water without my boyfriend having to shove a straw in my mouth. I’m not even going to ask what I have to do to go pee! And oh, wonderful! I’m in these dreadful hospital robes. Cow-dung brown, too! Really, why didn’t they just go in for the kill and shave all my hair off?”

He arched an eyebrow, more amused than he cared to admit. “My, my, my… haven’t had your morphine fix today, have you?”

She scowled. “I can’t move, I hurt and I feel disgusting!”

“The pain would be from the broken bones. You have a lot of them, which is why they’ve got you completely immobilized. That disgusting feeling would be because of the dried blood in your hair and body. It does tend to feel a bit ripe after a while.”

The healer arrived and scanned Hermione over with his wand. He asked routine questions and summoned a few potions for her to take immediately. He did nothing to improve the state of her mobility and when he left, Hermione had no affection for him.

Ron slept through the entire thing, snorting every once in a while and giggling once. He seemed to be enjoying his sleep.

Harry saw to her medication, lining up the potions and making her drink every single one in all their awful tasting glory.

He gave her more water to wash down the taste. “That’ll teach you to go fighting Dark Wizards all by yourself,” he muttered, earning him a fierce scowl as he held the cup and straw to her mouth.

He did not let his gaze waver, just so she understood how seriously pissed he was.

She moved her gaze from him first. It was all she could do because she couldn’t exactly turn her head away. “I know you’re angry.”

“Somehow, angry doesn’t cover it right now, but be that as it may, I love you too much to yell at you in your fragile state. I’ll yell later. For now, we talk.”

She sighed, and she had the grace to go all red in the face. “Where’s the book?”

Harry lifted his chin towards it. “On the table beside you. It’s safe. D’you want to explain to me everything that happened? Luna can only tell me so much. She isn’t exactly fluent in Elvish unlike some people I know.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Luna? Luna Lovegood?”

“Yes. She works in the ministry, you know. Unspeakable.”

“Naturally,” Hermione grumbled with a roll of her eyes.

Harry frowned. “If it wasn’t for Luna, I wouldn’t have known how to fight him and help you. She may be batty, but she came through when we most needed her.” He had given Luna’s early retreat a lot of thought, too. He realized that Luna hadn’t been running away from danger, she had simply used her foresight. With him and Ron protected, Lysander couldn’t use them to force Hermione to give in to the binding, but if Luna showed up with them, no protection spell around her, Lysander could have used Luna for the same purpose. Knowing Hermione, she wouldn’t let anyone suffer for her; not even old Loony Lovegood.

Hermione sighed again, closing her eyes to collect herself before reopening them. “I’m not disparaging her, Harry… alright, maybe I am, but that’s just a bad habit from school. I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m sure she was helpful to you. Sorry.”

He smiled wanly, mollified. “That’s alright. I wasn’t very polite to her either when she first showed up. And let’s not even talk about Ron’s charming good manners. I’ve been going to the Department of Mysteries in the past few weeks consulting with her about Lysander, but she cast a dedisco on me, so it was only last night I remembered she was the Unspeakable I’ve been—well, speaking to.”

“Did I just hear you right, Potter? You’ve been checking up on Lysander?”

He shot her a superior smirk. “For weeks now. Since he came to the Ministry kissing your arse. I hate to tell you this but…” He grinned, basking in triumph.

She glared at him. “Say it then, and get it over with.”

“Ha! Get it over with? My dear, lovely, beautiful Hermione… this is stellar moment that ought to be cherished and drawn out for everything it’s worth. In fact, I think I’m going to wake up Ron. He has a right to share this moment with me.”

“Harry,” she said in a dangerously calm voice. “I swear to you, if you push me far enough, I’m warding you out of my room in Grimmauld Place until you grovel for a month for me to let you back in.”

Harry suddenly didn’t feel all that triumphant anymore. Nothing—and he meant nothing was worth the punishment of being barred from Hermione’s bedroom… ever.

“Alright fine,” he muttered. “I told you so.”

It was not as satisfying, having been bulldozed into saying it. Officially, Hermione was still the title holder for the best I-told-you-sos in history.

In all fairness, she didn’t look too glad about anything either.

“You were right about him, of course,” she said rather grudgingly. Hermione Granger never liked getting beaten to the punch. “There was something seriously wrong with him. You weren’t sure what but I hadn’t a clue, either. If the binding process hadn’t spelled me to understand Elvish I never would have found out. And if Lysander hadn’t wanted me to find out… well, I don’t think I would’ve realized anything until it was too late.”

Harry began digging the toes of his trainers on the stone floor, his eyebrows knotting. “You mean you only began to ask questions because he wanted you to?”

That was rather hard on his ego. He thought maybe their being together had managed to sever any influence Lysander may have had on her. He truly believed that in spite of what Remus had told him that Saturday he came in for auror duties. Maybe he hadn’t been strong enough.

“Oh, Harry,” she said in a soft voice. “It wasn’t because you fell short on anything. Lysander was using strong Elven binding magic which he had been preparing for me for months. He had his grip on me the moment I ran into him at the Ministry. He used a very subtle spell then. It made me resistant to any objections you or anyone may have about him from the very beginning. Later, the spell progressed into something more defensive. It actively made me evasive of answering your questions pertaining to Lysander…”

“I noticed,” he grumbled.

“And then I fell into his trap,” she continued rather miserably. “It was so stupid! But it was such a clever trap he laid… he got me to exchange gifts of value with him, Harry. It didn’t seal my fate, but it initiated the binding ritual and put me in that awful situation on the roof...”

Harry felt just a bit like she had kicked him in the nuts. “What gifts did you exchange?”

She reddened. “He gave me that key to the library…”

That surprised him. “But you gave him back that key!”

“He sent it over again,” she muttered. “And he made it so that it would be imperative that I use it. I’m still trying to figure out if Cecily Ackwater was a plant in his grand scheme of things. I’m thinking she was in on his plans. Without her, I wouldn’t have thought about presenting a proposal to him and meeting with him about it. The key was convenient to summon him for that meeting, of course, but I… well, I couldn’t resist those books…” She bit her lip, looking at him like she had committed a grave, unforgivable crime and that she was sorry for it.

Harry sighed. There was nothing to forgive. They were books, for goodness sake. It was probably the library of her dreams! And even he didn’t think there could be harm in opening a book full of ancient wisdom. Lysander had lured her brilliantly.

“And what did you give him that was so valuable to him?” he asked, rather afraid of the answer.

She lowered her gaze. “My trust. I gave him my trust. I believed in him, if only for a while. I trusted that he could get my Elf Proposals passed, and I was even willing to believe he would do it out of the goodness of his heart. Cecily… Cecily Ackwater made me think he would do it for the proposal’s own virtue. Now I feel like a complete fool. She probably works for him, now that I think about it. I’ve been a bloody idiot blinded by my ideals…”

It was a sad day when Hermione Granger thought herself an idiot. He couldn’t stand it.

He sat on the bed, trying to catch her lowered gaze so she would lift it back to his. “No, you’re not an idiot. You believe House Elves should be given their basic civil rights. You believe in a worthy cause. It’s not a flaw to want to fight for those who can’t fight for themselves, and I never want you to stop thinking the best of people. You look at someone and you almost always see the goodness in them. The day you become a cynic, Hermione Granger, is the day I lose faith in wizard-kind.”

She managed a meek smile at that.

“And now that we got that out of the way,” he said in a mildly stern tone. “What’s this about you going this showdown alone?”

Her cheeks turned pink. “I told you… his binding spell wouldn’t let me tell you…”

“Yes, but I distinctly remember you saying that you might not have asked our help anyway. Nice job on the protection spell, by the way. It only left you completely vulnerable and alone.”

Hermione’s eyes lit up with a stubborn gleam. “The only way you could have substantially helped me was to bind yourselves to me and lend me your magic, but if I bound you to me and Lysander won, he’d have all three of us for his familiars! I simply couldn’t risk putting you and Ron in that position when I was the one who screwed up. The protection spell was the only alternative I had, and since I knew you would never agree to the protection if you knew it barred you from binding yourselves to me, I had to do it without your knowing. I’m sorry, but I can’t ever bear the thought of anyone harming you, especially because of me.”

He shook his head disapprovingly. “If you had let Ron and I help you in the first place, he wouldn’t have been able to hurt you so badly.”

“I still needed to get hurt, Harry. That was the only way I could have completed the binding spell to imprison him in the book. And if you were bound to me, you would have felt the pain, too. I just won’t let you suffer like that.”

Harry was beginning to get a bit teed off. “You think watching you suffer was any easier for me?”

“It wasn’t my intention to let you watch,” she said with utmost clarity.

“You said so yourself! You weren’t expecting him to hurt you that badly!”

“Yes, well, that’s beside the point!”

“Hermione, if I hadn’t lent you some of my power… if I hadn’t been there—I don’t even want to think about what he would be doing to you right now!”

There was suddenly a look of absolute guilt on her face; like she had thought of something so horrible that it was going to make her sick. It wasn’t loathing of Lysander. Harry had seen what her loathing of the man looked like. This was something completely different.

“What?” he asked sternly, rising to his feet so he could loom over her.

She seemed surprised. “What?”

“That look on your face. What were you thinking?” Suspicion began to sneak up on him. “What were you going to do if he bound you, Hermione?”

She paled for a moment before she regained her poise and became haughty. “Well, I couldn’t let him go on living, can I? In two hundred years he’d just leave me to die and then move on to the next poor, defenseless woman. I had to have a way to get rid of him before he could inflict himself on anyone else!”

“You would destroy him?”

“Naturally!”

He glared at her. “And what would happen to you?”

She pulled her gaze from him.

“What do you think would happen to me?” she said softly, the force in her voice gone. “I’d be bound to him by soul and spirit… if I destroyed him…”

Oh, Merlin… “You would destroy yourself.”

She looked down. “It would be my responsibility.”

He felt a little weak-kneed and he slumped beside her on her bed, shocked at the revelation. “Hermione…”

He didn’t even want to think about it.

“I’m not suicidal,” she said hastily. “But if destroying him meant destroying me in the process… well, I’d still do it. He can’t be allowed to keep stealing free will like that.”

Harry swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. “I don’t know what to say…”

“Say you’ll forgive me for even thinking it?”

He looked at her, dazed. “How can I be angry at you? That’s exactly how I thought it would be for me and Voldemort…”

There was relief in her eyes, but sadness, too, because the complexity of their convictions could only be understood through such frightful experiences.

Ron gave a snort and jerked in his seat. His head lifted and his eyes slowly opened. “Noise…”

Harry frowned. “Oh, sorry. Did we wake you?” he asked in a sardonic tone.

Ron stared at them before the scene registered in his drowsy mind. He jumped from his seat and rushed to Hermione’s side, wide awake. He took her hand, holding it gently. “Alright, Hermione?”

“I’ve been better.”

“Nice robe, gov’na.”

Hermione dealt him a murderous glare.

Harry wondered if Ron would risk the consequences of such impudence if Hermione wasn’t bogged down by immobilization spells.

Ron grinned. “Well, you know I’d be nicer to you since I was so impressed by all that wandless magic you were throwing around, but I gave it some thought—“

“You were thinking?” she interjected.

“It’s an interesting experience. You should try it some time,” said Ron without batting an eyelash.

Hermione’s jaw dropped and Harry feared for Ron’s life.

Ron was unperturbed; brave to the end. “I realized something important Granger. You really screwed this one up!”

“ARE YOU HOPING TO DIE, WEASLEY?” she yelled, digging her nails into his palms as her only means of expressing her ire. She couldn’t very well lift her arms and start throwing things at him, and he probably knew it, too.

He smirked. “Am I wrong, then? Luna explained some of it to me. If I understood her right, Athanasius got you good and you had to wiggle yourself out of the mess! If you had just listened to Harry in the first place, then maybe none of this would’ve happened! How am I doing so far?”

Her eyes flashed. “Llie n’vanima ar’ lle atara lanneina! Lle--!”

“Whoa, nelly! Easy, there!” cried Ron, grinning. “I can’t even understand what you’re saying!”

“You don’t want to know, Ron!” she shrieked.

“Then I must have been right, ey?”

Hermione looked like she was about to have a stroke.

Harry shot him an irritated glare. “Ron, shut it! You’re upsetting her!”

“As per usual,” came a dreamy voice from the door. “Some things just never change.” Luna Lovegood stepped in, a bundle of strange, growling blooms sitting in a hanging basket she carried. Her long blonde hair was decorated with blinking barrettes that were strangely hypnotic.

Hermione shot her gaze at Harry, too angry at Ron to pay Luna much attention. “Harry, get him away from me, now. Or I swear, when I get back my mobility—“

Harry sighed, dealing Ron a deadly glare.

Ron shrugged and let Hermione go, but he settled himself on the foot of her bed, grinning as he watched Luna approach.

“Nice to see you’re alive and nagging, Hermione,” said Luna, her gaze traveling between her, the bed, Harry then Ron. She shot Ron a particularly speculative glance before returning her attention to Hermione.

“And these boys have you to curse for it,” muttered Hermione.

Ron laughed, slapping his knee.

Harry didn’t think it was that funny. “We have you to thank for it, Luna. I think I’d rather have Hermione nag me my whole life than lose her altogether.”

Ron laughed even harder.

“Oh, do you, Harry?” Hermione’s voice a tad pitched.

Harry wondered if he could shove his foot in his mouth any deeper. “Well, of course I don’t want to get nagged my whole life, sweetheart. Just that it’s—“

“The lesser of two evils?” Ron supplemented.

“I take back every good thing I said about you, Ron,” said Harry. “I wash my hands of you.”

“Traitor.”

Hermione stuck her tongue out at Ron. “Harry’s not a traitor. He just knows I can do wonderful things to him that you can’t.”

Ron’s lip curled in disgust.

Harry grinned. “It’s nice to know you understand the depth of our relationship, Hermione.”

“I can do things to you, Ron, that no one else could,” Luna said.

Ron’s lip uncurled and his eyes widened at her in surprise and wonder.

Harry exchanging disbelieving looks with Hermione.

Luna arched an eyebrow. “I can, for instance make the Three-Eyed Brop of the Weisterslands paint a tattoo of a Velrostracker on your coccyx.”

Ron’s jaw dropped. “On my WHAT?”

“Coccyx, Ronald,” said Luna. “It’s the smart term for your tailbone.”

“She said tail,” said Harry with a stupid giggle. This odd conversation was turning out to be immensely enjoyable.

Hermione followed it up with a stupid giggle of her own. “She said bone.”

Harry loved it when Hermione applied her naughty self.

Ron blinked, flustered. “I don’t have a tailbone!”

Luna looked at him dreamily. “You do. You just don’t see it, and you know what? I can teach you how to use it.”

Ron inched away from Luna slowly. “Umm… I—err… don’t know what to say?”

Funny how he phrased that as question.

Luna seemed fairly satisfied by his response. “You won’t have to worry about that until later. For now, I’m here for Hermione. I hope that in spite of the considerable aggravation Ronald has been causing you, you still have complete control of your faculties.”

Harry caught Hermione’s weirded-out look.

“My faculties are fine, Luna,” she said.

“Good! Then you can answer my questions.”

“I might be able to. Ask me.”

Luna then asked her to tell her everything from the very beginning.

Hermione did, leaving out as much of the embarrassing details as possible (if Harry was reading the inopportune blushes right) but adding to what she had told Harry earlier. It took a while to get through the important points because Luna really knew how to ask good questions, but Hermione didn’t seem to mind so much.

When she got to the part about trapping Lysander in the book, Luna was amazed.

“You used the book as a focus,” Luna said.

Hermione nodded. “He said he’s had it his entire life. His father’s wife wrote the book. I don’t know if she was Lysander’s mother, though. Could be just one of the many besotted familiars…”

“It’s in Elvish, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Can you still read it? Speak it?”

Hermione reddened. “Yes.”

“Excellent. And what’s the book about?”

“It’s a thesis,” Hermione explained. “It sugarcoats the servitude and dedication a familiar should have for her master.”

“I assume Lysander wanted you to read the book but didn’t expect you to use your skill to research a way to defeat him.”

“He’s very arrogant,” Hermione muttered. “He also spelled the key to the library so that he’d know whenever I went there to use it; maybe monitor the kinds of books I read there, but I broke the summoning charm on it. It probably never occurred to him that I could. For all his proclamations that he admired my intellect and all that shite, he still underestimated me because he’s half Elven and I’m all human. I don’t think he has a fair opinion of humans at all…”

“L’sandre’s fatal flaw.”

Hermione arched an eyebrow. “How did you know his Elven name?”

“You mentioned it somewhere during our conversation.”

Hermione flushed, shooting Harry an apologetic look. Harry didn’t mind… much.

“And what’s your Elven name, Hermione?” Luna asked.

“Ermyad-na.”

Ron scoffed. “Well, that ought to give Krum a run for his money.”

“Hermione’s a prettier name,” said Harry stubbornly.

Luna smiled. “Of course it is.”

Hermione flashed Harry a smile that made his insides turn to goo.

Luna turned her gaze to the enchanted windows of the room. “The spells you used against him; where did you find them?”

“From the Leabharlann Ársa Runa,” said Hermione.

Luna’s gaze turned glassier than ever. “The Leabharlann Ársa Runa… wow. That library is just… wow…”

Hermione’s eyes widened, her expression conveying her surprise that she and Luna had something in common.

“Would you be willing to help me translate and decipher Elven text?” asked Luna. “It’s not spell protected, I think. It can be spell-transferred, but it doesn’t prevent anyone from teaching and learning it. It was, after all, the generally spoken language way back then, before the—“

“Elven Cleansing,” Hermione finished for her. “And you’re right. I think I can teach it to you. But… will the Unspeakables let me be there on a regular basis?”

“Be where, Hermione?”

“At the Department of Mysteries.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Won’t that be a problem, then?”

Luna thought about it, plucking her wand from inside her robe to scratch at her chin. “Not really. We will be meeting elsewhere.”

Hermione’s brows knotted. “I’d imagine your colleagues won’t like that.”

“It’s none of their business, really. And they’re not my colleagues anymore. I compromised my position as an Unspeakable when I met up with Harry Potter at the Leaky Cauldron. I cannot ever go back to the Department of Mysteries unless I dedisco everyone involved in the case, and that will be a problem for you, Hermione, considering I am the only expert witness you have on the matter of Elven society and culture.”

“Witness?”

Luna smirked. “Do you think they will let you get away with magically imprisoning a billionaire without at least a hearing to establish you did it for self-defense?”

Harry sighed. He knew it had to be brought up sooner or later, and Hermione looked like she wasn’t all that surprised either. Ron, however, was livid.

“Hold on!” cried Ron. “Hermione’s going to trial? But that bastard was the one trying to enslave her!”

“I don’t imagine that this entire affair would cause too many problems for Hermione,” Luna said. “It’s easy to put hers, Harry’s and your memory in a pensieve for the Wizengamot crones to review, but it’s always good to have witnesses, and an expert at that. I am prepared to do just that.”

Harry tried not to be too worried that Luna was about as “expert” as they could get. After all, she was formerly an Unspeakable. Unspeakables, though enigmatic, were held in high esteem in Magical-science circles.

He was, however, grateful for her sacrifice. “I’m sorry you lost your job, Luna. But—well, thank you for coming through for us.”

Luna gave a shrug, the spacey look on her face remaining. “That department was bloody boring, anyway. I’ve seen more fascinating things working in my father’s paper. Hermione, I look forward to what you have to teach me about the Elven Language.”

“And I look forward to teaching you,” said Hermione. “I’ll owl you when I get better. We’ll… do lunch.” It was strange to be doing anything normal with Luna.

Luna seemed to think so too if the smirk she had was any indication. “Yes. Lunch.” She turned to look at Ron. “And you? Would you like to do lunch with me? Or would you like me to do something else?”

Ron’s eyes bugged out again with the same surprise and wonder. “H-Holy… I’ll—umm—floo you?”

She tilted her blonde and blue-eyed head, regarding him with great amusement. “No, Ronald Bilius Weasley. I’ll floo you.”

Luna turned, shot Harry a parting glance and drifted out of the room with three pairs of eyes watching her.

Ron broke the silence with an uneasy chuckle. “Completely barmy, that.”

Hermione’s eyebrow shot up. “Oh, is that what you think? ‘Oh, Luna, I’ll floo you!’” she said, making her tone fluttery.

Harry laughed at the comical expression on Hermione’s face.

Ron scowled. “Well, what was I supposed to say? I didn’t think it would be polite to tell her she’s completely mental!”

Her eyes widened and she smirked. “Oh, dear! Ladies and gents, we have manners!”

“Take the mickey out of me, why don’t you? Or better yet, just rip it out altogether!”

“I’d rather kick your coccyx, Ronald.”

Ron’s eyes widened.

Harry doubled over, laughing. “You should’ve seen the look on your face when she said that! I’ll never forget it! She had you by the balls!”

“You should talk!” scowled Ron. He began to make an effeminate gesture as he pitched his voice. “Hermione’s a prettier name!”

“Well, it is!”

“Oh, stop it, you two!” Hermione said, grinning. “Harry, let’s leave Ron alone with his little crush on Looo-na.”

Ron frowned. “Oy! She came on to me.”

Harry effected gravity. “Oh yes, and you were real smooth about it, too: Err, umm, duhhh…”

Hermione giggled.

Ron crossed his arms over his chest. “You see, this is what happens when your best friends shag! They team up on you!”

“Oy!” Harry and Hermione cried in unison.

There was a knock on the door and they all looked up to find another blonde standing within it.

Ron, who’d probably had enough of such women for one day sauntered over to his chair to sulk.

Harry thought the woman looked familiar and he turned to Hermione to see if there was any recognition.

Hermione was frowning, her gaze filled with suspicion. “Cecily…”

Harry’s smile wilted. His hand twitched at his arm holster, seriously wondering if he was going to need his wand.

Cecily fidgeted at the threshold, her eyes lowering to the floor. She held a box of chocolates. “I heard you got attacked at your home... I came here as fast as I could…”

“That’s nice of you,” said Hermione coldly, her eyes still firmly planted on the woman, as if waiting for her to do something dangerous.

“Here.” Cecily began to advance as she held out the box, but she stopped in her tracks as she saw Harry slowly rounding the bed to get between her and Hermione.

Harry held out his hand for the box. “Thanks. I’ll put them away.”

Cecily breathed, nervous, as she gave the chocolates to him.

Ron, probably noticing the tension in the room, stood up beside Harry, eyeing Cecily warily.

“Cecily, this is Harry Potter and Ron Weasley,” Hermione said, the warmth still absent from her tone. “Harry, Ron, this is Cecily Ackwater.”

Harry looked the woman over quickly. She was fair in every way, like Lysander but less pale. She seemed a tad afraid, and as he extended his hand for a shake, she hesitated a bit before taking the offered courtesy. Her hand was cold. She was nervous.

Ron did the same.

With the niceties done, the room fell utterly silent.

Cecily swallowed, her gaze falling on both men. When she seemed to have gauged their distance from her, she risked her gaze on Hermione. “I didn’t know he would do that to you.”

Harry was stricken with anger. He knew exactly what Cecily was talking about.

Hermione scowled. “So you did set me up to see him at the library!”

He glared at Cecily and she cowered under his gaze.

“No! I didn’t! P-Please, just listen to what I have to say!” she gasped, stepping back. “I didn’t set you up! But he did speak to me at the L.C.O. He implied that he would be willing to help with the proposal but only if you asked him to. He didn’t pay me or anything like that! And honest to Merlin, Hermione, I was just thinking about you and the proposals. You have to believe me!”

“D’you expect me to believe you were doing it all out of the goodness of your own heart?” spat Hermione.

“Yes!” said Cecily desperately. “Benevolence is a dying legacy of my race, Hermione, but I will do what I can to keep that legacy alive. I didn’t know he was binding you as his familiar. If I had known I would have told you not to associate with him!”

Harry’s jaw dropped at the implications of her words. “What do you know about binding?”

“I’m half Elven,” said Cecily. “K’sher tanya L’sandre. Lye uuve ilya ho.”

Harry blinked and he looked to Hermione who seemed speechless.

Then she regained her composure. “Well, I most certainly hope you’re not all like him, Cecily.”

“He’s an exception to the rule, I assure you.” Cecily looked at Harry and Ron again. “Please. I’d just like to talk to her, may I?”

Harry gave the question over to Hermione with a look. She nodded.

He stepped back, taking Ron’s chair to put it by Hermione’s bed. Ron shot him a glare for it but Harry shrugged it off.

Cecily thanked him quietly.

He stayed close, his gaze fixed on them. As far as he was concerned, Nordic Elves were still on his Shit List, and Cecily’s motives were still under suspicion.

“I meant what I said in your office,” said Cecily. “There are those of us who ask nothing in return for doing what’s right, especially those who still live by the Old Values.”

Hermione still looked distrustful, but the knot in her brow eased a bit. “Are there still many of your kind?”

Cecily smiled wanly. “If you’re worried about how many out there are like Lysander, I’d say you mostly have nothing to worry about. I can tell you that within my Elven circle, what he did is considered abhorrent. We have not heard it done in the last five hundred years, and even then, that was just a rumor. The last thing us Elves want to do is propagate the same stories that led to our genocide.”

Harry flinched at the term. “Genocide?”

Cecily nodded. “Two thousand years ago, wizards thought it best to systematically decimate our race because of the rumors that we ate children and enslaved human beings. It wasn’t true, of course, but they killed the lot of us, anyway. We haven’t really recovered since, and I think because of that, we prefer keeping a low profile, hence the illusion that we have become extinct. We necessarily have to keep tabs on each other magically, which is how I knew something happened to him. I asked around the Ministry and… well, here I am…”

Harry regarded her thoughtfully, his mind stuck on the concept of genocide. “Wizards are different these days, you know. There are the evil ones, of course, but generally, we don’t tolerate that kind of atrocity.”

“We have very long lives, Mr. Potter, even us half-breeds. When a generation of half-Elves can live up to three hundred, and pure-breeds up to five hundred years old, fears and perhaps even prejudices don’t die out as quickly. That’s the only down side to long-life. Societal ideologies stay the same for longer periods; development to better ideas comes slow; adaptation is a glamour, not instinct. So it has been for my people. Which brings me back to my point… I don’t think we have to worry about someone like Lysander enslaving damsels, at least in the next three hundred years.”

Ron’s eyebrow arched. “Just because your circle of friends don’t seem to think like Lysander, how do you know they don’t? You certainly didn’t think Lysander would do such a thing.”

Cecily sighed. “Well, obviously, I was wrong about that, but on hindsight, the signs were there, right? I looked up his profile and saw the impressive roster of spouses and his relatively extensive family tree. We Elves don’t procreate quite that eagerly, even with human blood mixed in. We’re not big on making children, mainly because we have a gestation period of five years.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped. “Good lord! Five years?”

Cecily nodded. “A lot of Elven women die carrying or giving birth, too. The human mothers bring babies to term faster, but a lot of them don’t survive the magic. Mothers who carry Elven children have an 85% mortality rate.”

“Goodness,” Hermione breathed. She looked truly distressed.

Harry held her hand. He knew how things like this affected Hermione. She was a being of compassion, after all. It was the reason she broke innocent men out of prison, saved hippogriffs from being executed, rescued cat-kneazles from abandonment and fought for the rights of House Elves.

“So Lysander’s family tree is a lot of codswallop,” said Harry.

Cecily smiled wanly. “It’s not uncommon for Elven clans to come up with fictional children. After all, we can’t let on that we could live up to five hundred years. We’ll get found out if we don’t fill in the generational blanks, but judging from Lysander’s record and the spouses, who existed, by the way, I’d say that most of the Elves on Lysander’s family tree were just actually one or two persons pretending to be several different ones. Their spouses—“

“Were familiars,” said Hermione with a gasp. “Isidore…”

“He would have been at least five hundred years old before he died,” said Cecily, nodding. “And he isn’t even pureblood. He had to have used human familiars to prolong his life like that. Whether he forced them or not, we’ll never know, but junior apparently got a bit too used to getting whatever he wants.”

Ron looked disgusted. “I never thought anyone can be worse than Malfoy. But lo and behold…”

“So Lysander’s admissions letter from Hogwarts wasn’t a sham. He really was just eleven then and he really is just about turning sixty,” said Hermione.

Cecily shrugged. “That’ll explain why he needed a familiar. Most Elves don’t need one until around that time. Did you know if he had other familiars before you?”

“He did say I was his first.”

Harry made a face. Sometimes, his own instincts scared him. It sometimes had the uncanny ability to hit too close to fact. “I told you he was far too old for you. Didn’t I?”

Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes as she grinned. “Yes, Harry. Right you are, again. But if you think it will convince me to take your word for it from now on, you’re dead delusional.”

Ron smirked and Harry scowled at him.

“What are you smirking about, Weasley?”

Ron grinned. “Welcome to my world, Potter.”

Harry was not to be outdone. He got the girl. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Ron scoffed.

Hermione shot them a glare before resuming her conversation with Cecily. “So this binding I broke…”

“I don’t even know how you did it,” admitted Cecily, reddening. “I never knew it could be broken. I only know you did because—well, you’re still here and unbound. I’m assuming you have him detained somewhere…”

Hermione finger twitched as she looked to the book and she sighed. “Can someone please remove these bloody immobilization spells?”

“Not until the doctor says so,” said Harry, picking the book up from the bedside table. He looked at Cecily as he held the book up. “Lysander’s in here.”

Cecily blinked, jaw dropping. “Good gracious! Is that what I think it—“

“What’s wrong with it?” Hermione seemed alarmed.

“N-Nothing. Nothing, really. I thought you had him detained… well, like—in a holding cell… is that a Mirror Prison?”

Hermione looked to Harry and he frowned. How the hell was he supposed to know what it was? She was the one who made it.

Hermione looked nonplussed. “Well, I don’t know. The books didn’t call it that. I just took a focus object of his and turned it into a prison of his own making.”

Cecily nodded. “Trapped by his own magic until he truly atones for the evil he has done… that is a Mirror Prison! Goodness, Hermione. Those things are extremely rare. I mean, I’ve heard it done, way before I was born, but I’ve never seen one. Only a trained Amandil can withstand the pain of casting it! Rumor has it that the agony equals that of a thousand hell hounds gnawing at your soul bit by bit!”

Harry shot Hermione a glare.

“How very poetic of you, Cecily,” Hermione muttered. “But it really wasn’t that bad.”

“Oh,” said Ron. “So when you were screaming your head off, you were just being melodramatic?”

Hermione dealt him a menacing look.

Cecily’s eyes were wide with wonder. “It’s a very old spell. It must have been incredible to watch!”

Harry’s fists clench, and he remembered all too clearly just what happened on the rooftop of Grimmauld Place. “Incredible? There was nothing incredible about it! It was horrific and terrible and a fucking, bloody nightmare!”

Luna’s basket of flowers exploded, sending clumps of soil and pieces of the poor defenseless flowers scattered all over the room.

There was a brief silence.

It was Hermione who broke it. “Cecily, you better go.”

“Right.” Cecily stood up, brushing some loosened soil off her suit. “Get well soon, Hermione. I’m sorry this happened.”

Harry wasn’t sure if she was talking about upsetting him or about the entire thing with Lysander. Whatever it was, he was beginning to feel bad he went off like that.

“I’m sorry about your suit,” he muttered. “You can—umm—send me the cleaning bill. Didn’t mean to snap at you, either.”

Cecily looked at him in surprise then chuckled. “It’s alright, Mr. Potter. I haven’t exactly been the life of this party, have I? Besides, I owe you, just like everyone else in Britain.”

Harry frowned. “Owe me?”

“Yes, for finally getting rid of that pesky Dark Lord.”

Well, it wasn’t everyday he heard Voldemort get called “pesky”. Nordic Elves didn’t seem to think much of him. Then again, Harry didn’t have much respect for the old ghoul either.

Honestly, Harry didn’t care one way or another. But Ron gasped, scandalized.

“Pesky!” Ron cried.

Cecily shrugged. “He was dreadfully annoying. Dangerous, yes. Terribly dangerous, but wasn’t he just so full of himself?”

“You wouldn’t believe how much,” Harry said.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Right.”

Ron scowled, sulking again.

Harry could only assume Ron was more teed-off by the fact that someone didn’t think Voldemort horrible enough to seem properly impressed by the defeat of him, a defeat in which Ron played a part in and formed a story which usually impressed the women he told it to.

Cecily smiled, placing a hand on Hermione’s arm. “Tenna’ ento lye omenta.”

Hermione smiled. “Tenna’ san.”

Cecily left.

“Alright, that’s it!” said Ron. “That Elf Talk unnerves me! What did she say and what did you say to her?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “She said ‘Until next we meet’ and I said ‘Until then.’ And it’s Elvish. Not Elf Talk.”

“I wish you wouldn’t speak it!”

“She spoke it first!”

Harry sighed. “I’m going to get some coffee.” He was just about to head for the door when Hermione’s soft voice reached him.

“Harry, sweetheart… are you alright?”

He saw the worry in her face, and he thought maybe she was asking if he was walking out angry. He smiled to put her anxieties to rest. “I’ll be back as quickly as I can, love.”

She smiled back, the relief in her eyes evident.

So she had been worried he was angry.

He turned his gaze on Ron. “Don’t you be aggravating her while I’m gone, Bilius.”

Ron winced at the name but nodded, waving him away in disgust.

Satisfied, Harry left to get his coffee.

000000000000000000000000

Harry found brewed coffee in the lobby. It wasn’t very good, but it was better than those awful charmed granules in the room.

He needed a bit of time to think by himself, without having Hermione’s smile or witty sense of humor chasing away his deep-seated concerns.

The relief he felt at her relatively peppy recovery was somewhat overwhelming. Most of their hospital vigils for one another had the patient subdued and drugged up enough to be a bit dramatic when they awoke. To hear her so snarky was a good thing.

It was a nice change, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t feeling the old nausea of being in St. Mungo’s in the first place. The last time he was here, he was praying she would make it through the day.

He sat in the waiting room hunched over his cup, elbows to knees.

This relationship he had with Hermione had been built on strong foundations; matured under the most extraordinary of circumstances. He wondered if that meant he shouldn’t expect that they’d live ordinary lives.

In the last eight years, they had sprung through magical booby traps, conquered a basilisk, helped a convict escape from Azkaban, freed a hippogriff, won a tri-wizards tournament, joined the Order of the Phoenix and stood side by side against the most ruthless and evil of enemies. They had saved each other’s lives countless number of times and it was never “I owe you one,” or “I’m calling in your life debt.” It was, “I’ll always be here for you,” and “I’ve got your back.” They never kept tally; never kept count.

Perhaps he should have realized it sooner. Their relationship issues won’t be about commitment or loyalty or selfishness. If anything, they’d likely gotten way past that already. Their issues would be about how far they’d go to protect each other; how much is too much before one or other admitted that they needed help; what were the boundaries of their trust?

Trust.

That had taken on a whole new meaning since the end of the war.

They trusted each other completely when it came to things like catching each other when one or the other fell, but they seemed to have a bit of a problem when it came to trusting each other to catch themselves.

Their issues were a bit more complicated than your average couple in love, but he supposed the beauty of it all was that he didn’t find it the least bit daunting. How could he when the prospect of working them out with Hermione gave him a sense of adventure and nervousness and excitement, all at the same time?

For the first time in his life, he could honestly say that Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan had been right. He was whipped, and he loved it.

Everything was going to be alright.

He smiled and drank his coffee.

About eight hours ago, he had sat in this same seat with Ron beside him as the healer told them, in a matter-of-fact tone, that Hermione was going to make it, possibly even achieve a full-recovery. She would, however, have to spend the week following her hospital stay at home: No stress; no going out; no lifting of heavy objects; no fighting of Dark Wizards.

Yes, healer. We hear you, healer. Tell that to Hermione, healer.

He hadn’t even told her yet of her upcoming non-activity. Hermione was going to have a conniption fit. A whole week of doing nothing? She’d be at their throats for lack of anything better to do.

Harry smiled slightly. He could have a bit of fun driving her insane by treating her like porcelain and slathering her with obsequiousness.

She’ll be so teed off, he thought, delighted. In this respect, he could understand why Ron had been so eager to get her riled up before. The difference between him and Ron was that he could very well smoothen her ruffled feathers with a right good snog. And wasn’t snogging so much better when it was preceded by witty banter?

He was looking forward to it all already.

It ought to keep her preoccupied at any rate, and when she was all better, he could take her shopping in the weekend. He’ll even let her drive the car like a maniac. She loves that.

He mused a bit more before he saw a pair of feet in front of him. The shoes were well worn, like they had been repaired a hundred times. He looked up and saw Remus smiling his usual close lipped smile, gentle and understanding.

“Alright, Harry?”

Harry cocked a grin, gesturing to the seat beside him. “Perfect. Hermione’s awake and she seems alright. Fighting with Ron already.”

Remus sat. “That’s good to hear. That chap Lysander did quite a number on her.”

“Limey bastard cracked practically every bone in her body,” he muttered. “But she should be good as new by tomorrow. They have her completely immobilized and she hates it. Should’ve heard her when she first woke up. Could’ve bitten the head off a Hungarian Horntail.”

Remus nodded, his smile widening. “Sounds like she’ll be making a full recovery, then.”

“You better believe it.”

Remus chuckled.

A comfortable silence fell on them while Harry drank more of his coffee.

It was Remus who broke the silence. “Listen, Harry. I didn’t just come here to visit…”

Harry groaned. “And everything was going so well.”

Remus shrugged apologetically. “We’re having a bit of a conflict between the Auror and Hit Wizard division on this. Our department is treating this as a Dark Wizard assault on a civilian, but the Hit Wizards are crying misuse of magic pertaining to illegal binding.”

“Illegal binding!” Harry cried, half his remaining coffee sloshing to the floor. “Are they mad? He was trapping her soul! What the bloody hell did they expect her to do? They’re a department of idiots! I’ll teach them illegal—“

“Calm down, Harry,” said Remus. “Tonks submitted her application for jurisdiction last night and she’s still working to make sure we get this case into our department, but she’ll need some help if an Evaluation Hearing is called. Do you know of anyone—“

“Luna Lovegood and Cecily Ackwater,” said Harry in the next second. “Tonks’ll surely get jurisdiction over the case if she brings them in for the evaluation proceedings.”

Remus smiled. He sent a messenger spell out.

“It was self-defense,” said Harry. “Please tell me the Auror Department believes this and will push for a summary dismissal. I don’t want Hermione to sit in front of the Wizengamot and have to justify herself.”

“The Auror Department is on Hermione’s side on this, but it can’t be helped that this would have to be brought before the Wizengamot. Since the Ministry’s embarrassment at being found out about Sirius’s undue incarceration, the Ministry demands that no Summary Convictions be allowed under any circumstance, so they’re going to have to evaluate whether Lysander’s imprisonment is justified.”

Harry was silent, seething.

Remus’s brows knotted. “Harry, say something.”

“I can’t. I’m drowning in a pool of irony.”

Remus sighed. “Well, at least you don’t have to worry about Hermione. Her self-defense plea is solid.”

Harry was just about to say that he’d really rather not have a bunch of old crones questioning her like a common criminal, if it was all the same to everyone, but their attention was drawn to the reception area where a couple of elderly looking men were arguing about who was going to get the last jellybean in the box.

“I say, Thane! I paid for the jellybeans in the first place! According to the law, no one shall be unjustly enriched at the expense of another.”

“Winston, if that jellybean unjustly enriches me, I’ll fork over a galleon.”

“I shall refuse that galleon. It’s the principle of the thing, you know.”

“I solemnly swear not to hold your principles to this particular jellybean, especially if it’s snot flavored…”

Their voices faded as they turned the corner.

Harry looked at Remus in alarm as he got up. Remus followed with a puzzled look on his face.

“Harry…?”

“They’re the Wizengamot’s senior interrogators.”

“Hermione’s bosses?”

“Want to bet they’re not here to give her a raise?”

They hurried on after the two men and Harry was surprised they had gotten so far down the hall in so short a time.

When Harry and Remus caught sight of them again, they were tugging the box with the remaining jellybean back and forth between them.

“Give it over!” said Heartcomb.

“Absolutely not!” said Archibald.

They stepped into one of the fireplaces and disappeared after calling out “recovery ward.”

Harry sighed, picking up his pace. “Spry, aren’t they?”

“Quite,” replied Remus.

They reached Hermione’s floor in short time and as her room came into view, Harry could hear the voices of Heartcomb and Archibald telling Hermione that while they had originally gotten her jellybeans, they decided that she would appreciate a compilation of historical rulings instead.

Harry appeared at the door, Remus behind him. He took in the scene and it was just as he imagined it to be: Ron standing in the corner looking nonplussed by the two very odd visitors, Heartcomb and Archibald speaking matter-of-factly to Hermione and Hermione looking at them with equal parts dazzle and cognition.

Archibald arched an eyebrow at Harry. “Why, it’s that batty Planter!”

Heartcomb frowned. “That’s not Planter, that’s Gardener!”

“It’s Potter, actually,” said Harry.

“Oh, yes!” said Heartcomb. “The one who—“

“Slew the chap who doesn’t want to be named, yes.” Harry ignored the scandalized look on Ron’s face and the perplexed one on Remus.

“Actually, I was going to say ‘The one who comes to the office every lunch time to snog Granger into a stupor,’ but who’s keeping track, eh?”

Hermione’s eyes widened briefly before she dissolved into a blush.

Harry felt the heat in his own cheeks. “Right.”

“Suffering smithies, Hermione!” cried Archibald. “Why do you associated with these hooligans? Look at this fellow, Whistle over here.”

“Weasley, Mr. Archibald,” she said. “And what’s wrong with him?”

“He’s too tall, he’s got too much red hair and he never seems to close his mouth!”

Ron’s senses finally kicked in and he complained in the best way he knew how. “Oy!”

“And then there’s this chap,” Archibald continued, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at Harry. “He fights dragons and nutty blokes who don’t want to be called anything, then prances in here with a werewolf in tow, no less! Where do you get these people?”

Harry glanced uneasily at Remus. The man didn’t look like he was offended. He simply looked confused.

“Look,” said Hermione with a roll of her eyes. “If I were so bloody normal, d’you think I’d manage a day in the WizCOF with you two crackpots? You do realize that you’ve spoiled most of the books in the office. They’re completely out of control! If I were you, I’d make them all stand in the corner until they’ve thought about the things they’ve done. And you call yourselves senior Interrogators!”

Harry had seen Hermione in this batty mode, and somehow, he had conditioned himself to expect the unexpected, but Ron and Remus were beginning to look horrified. He knew exactly what was going through their minds: These were the men tasked to put Dark Wizards in Azkaban? We’re doomed!

Archibald and Heartcomb began to argue that they had tried to make the books stand in the corner but they kept spitting out pages as they did so. Hermione told her bosses that threatening the books with conflagration would do the trick, as she had tried it once already. They continued on this nonsensical thread until Heartcomb finally pointed to the book they had brought her.

“I say, Granger,” he said. “Are you going to take this book or not? Thane and I don’t have all day, you know! We’ve to process the trial they’re setting up for you and honestly, how easy do you think it is to send notices to a dozen judges? It’s no party, I’ll tell you that!”

This upset Harry considerably.

Ron looked positively outraged. “What! That’s it, you’re both completely mad!”

“Ron, calm down,” said Hermione loftily. “Mr. Archibald, Mr. Heartcomb, thank you for bringing the book. I appreciate your visit. I shall see you both in court?”

“Naturally,” said Heartcomb in a haughty tone. “It’s such a bother prosecuting you, Granger, but I entreat you not to let us down. I recommend that you get proper representation for your trial. I saw a list of able counselors on your desk this morning.”

“List? I don’t recall—“

“It’s there,” he said crisply. “As soon as the hearing is over, I expect you back in the office bright and early. Clear?”

She paused for a moment before a glint of realization flashed from her eyes. She smiled. “Crystal, Mr. Heartcomb. Mr. Archibald, please place the book on the bedside table, as I am currently immobilized from the neck down.”

Archibald harrumphed as he did as she asked. “A likely excuse to order us around! Get well soon, Granger. And you owe me a dozen quills!”

“And Malfoy’s briefs!” said Heartcomb.

Both men marched out of the room, noses in the air. Harry heard them beginning to argue again as they rounded the corner and disappeared.

Remus cleared his throat. “I sincerely hope he wasn’t talking about Malfoy’s underpants.”

That seemed to break—well—something.

“What the hell was that all about?” Ron cried. “How can you work for these people, Hermione? They’re out of their minds!”

Hermione gave him a sheepish look. “They’re actually quite intelligent… you just have to know them, really. Harry, my love, do you mind looking over that book they left me? I want to know exactly what it is.”

Still reeling from the whirlwind that was Heartcomb and Archibald, he did as Hermione asked without a word.

He took the book, flipped it open and cringed at the very fine print. He moved to the front to look at the title. He read the title out loud. “WART: Wizengamot Annotated Rulings and Trials. Year 12 B.C.” He turned to the next page and there was a hand-drawn portrait of an old Wizengamot judge, distinguished and wrinkled. At the bottom of the picture was his name and title. He was Chief Warlock Laurence Torchkeeper.

The man in the picture coughed and hacked painfully. Harry thought he heard the elder saying something.

“Pardon me?” Harry asked the miniature portrait.

Laurence Torchkeeper went into another fit. Cough! “Page six two—“ Hack! “—four!”

Remus and Ron looked over his shoulder.

“Hey! A WizCOFing wizard!” said Ron.

Laurence glared up at him.

Harry saw Hermione’s finger tapping impatiently so he hastened to page sixty hundred twenty four.

The title page said Lockthorne vs. The Kingdom of Britain. Beneath it were the words: Binding under duress; summary detainment; defense of self; requisites for the application of Elven Codes; unwritten Elemental Forces and Laws; Jurisdiction of the Wizengamot; Mirror Prisons; usury rights on personal property.

There were far too many words for Harry to make a swift assessment, but Remus seemed to catch on much faster.

“It looks like a Case Summary,” he said.

Having no illusions of making quick sense of it, Harry handed the book over to Remus.

Remus scanned the words before his eyebrows began to arch in surprise. “If I’m reading this correctly, this case is about one Ms. Juna Lockthorne. She was a witch drawn into being bound by an Elf named Caranthir Anwarünya. In an effort to escape the bonds, Juna summarily detains Anwarünya in his own brick furnace, hence the usury rights issue… Juna’s counselor invokes Elven Codes pertaining to unwritten Elemental Forces and Laws...” He flipped several more pages to the end of the case. “The charges of illegal detainment and undue use of Brick Furnace against Lockthorne were dismissed on the basis of self-defense and Elven codes pertaining to binding a familiar under duress. The resolution also states that the Wizengamot have jurisdiction of the case so long as they apply the appropriate Elven laws. Elemental Forces and Law support this decision.”

“There’s a precedent to my case,” said Hermione in an awed whisper. “They gave me my case arguments to ensure my dismissal! Goodness, how did they even know—“

“Tonks submitted an application for jurisdiction last night to the Wizengamot,” said Remus. “Which means the WizCOF was furnished a copy already.”

“But Tonks doesn’t have my statement yet!”

“Applications for jurisdiction don’t have to have that many details as of yet,” explained Remus. “A general statement of facts is enough and Tonks gathered enough of that when we arrived at the crime scene and after her brief interview with Harry and Ron. We’ll need more details if the deciding body calls an Evaluation Hearing, but for the written application, the general facts would suffice.”

Hermione beamed. “You see, Ron? Heartcomb and Archibald are brilliant!”

Ron nodded grudgingly.

Harry grinned. “The quills are on me, Hermione. You’re on your own with Malfoy’s underpants, though.”

She made a face, but she laughed a moment later. “He was talking about Case Bri—oh, never mind!” She looked at Remus warmly. “I hadn’t had the chance to give you a proper hello, Remus.”

Remus chuckled. “Hullo, then. How are you feeling?”

“Imprisoned.”

“Taking it rather well, I heard.”

She arched an eyebrow and looked at Harry with an amused grin. “Oh, Potter’s been complaining, it seems!”

Harry mustered his best innocent mug. “Not a peep, love! You’ve been an angel since you woke up, right Ron?”

“Right,” he replied dryly.

She spared them a glance before looking at Remus. “They’re only treating me this way because I’m immobilized, you know. When I’m better I’ll make them sorry.”

“I’m sure you will, dear,” replied Remus. He then launched into a discussion about Nordic Elves, a subject that he seemed to be immensely fascinated in.

The rest of the day went on in a similar fashion. Visitors arrived in a steady stream.

Molly and Arthur came to fuss over her laden with homemade pudding and a cure-all tonic. They raged at the Ministry’s red tape on the matter of her case, of course, and Arthur was firmly expected by his wife to make sure Hermione won’t even hear the word “Azkaban” muttered in her presence when the case was brought in for hearing. Then came Tonks and Gail bearing flowers and half a box of chocolate cauldrons (Tonks had spilled the other half of it). Tonks gave a favorable report on the matter of the case falling into the Auror Department’s jurisdiction thanks to Luna and Cecily while Gail chastised Harry for, yet again, fighting a Dark Wizard without her.

The Weasley twins came some time after lunch bearing the most bizarre joke items such as the Doxie Defanger, the Cursing Kettle and the Spotting Soap.

“Thought you might like some profanity with your proper English Tea,” said George, demonstrating how the Cursing Kettle, instead of whistling when the water inside it percolated, began a string of very rude words, including insults to various male body parts. He then gave her a not-so-well-hidden wink.

Fred grinned, winking with his brother. “Fit to scandalize your muggle queen!”

Hermione stared at the kettle with mixed revulsion and fascination. “Err… splendid!”

The kettle was fit to scandalize a fishmonger’s wife, actually.

The Doxie Defanger demonstration had Harry and Ron completely freaked out when Fred and George released a doxie in the room without spraying it with their concoction first. A wild chase and dodge erupted in the room as the doxie was furious at being incarcerated.

Hermione watched in dread as the doxie went straight for her and she yelled that if someone didn’t stop the damn bugger before it reached her, heads would roll.

Harry came to the rescue, of course. Properly motivated by his angry witch, his aim was true and he was able to immobilize the doxie in mid-air.

The defanger was sprayed and true to its promises, the doxie lost all manner of fangs, claws and poison. Also, the spray offered a potent dose of intoxication, making the doxie stagger around, fly into walls and making weird, rather entertaining sounds. It was actually quite funny, but the adventure preceding it had sapped Ron of patience. He threatened the twins with mum if they didn’t take their jokes and shove it up their arses.

Fred and George then bid Hermione farewell in the most outlandish manner, declaring corny promises of their love for her and how their days would be dark while she remained incapacitated in the sterilized walls of St. Mungo’s, etc., etc. (she had told them that Ron thought they were besotted of her.) They exploded a Helium Haze in the room, causing Harry, Ron and Hermione to speak in comically pinched voices in the next fifteen minutes. When the healer came in to check on the patient and started to speak in the same, diminutive voice, there was no recourse but to laugh it all off.

Get-well gifts were sent as well, from acquaintances and strangers alike, and of course, a parade of flowers were delivered, courtesy of the Bulgarian Quidditch Seeker.

Hermione sneezed on some of the daisy pollen.

“Goodness… Viktor doesn’t do anything in halves, does he?” she said as the room filled up with blooms and bouquets.

Harry frowned, shoving aside a vine that was trying to climb up his arm. “How do you say, ‘Stop sending flowers to my witch’ in Bulgarian?”

“Oh, hush. He’s just being nice.”

“Out of his mind, is more like it,” said Ron, stunning a flower that was trying to gnaw at him. “When he has you trapped in a well and yelling at you to use the lotion he sent or else he’ll hose you, I’d hate to say I told you so.”

Hermione had rented the digital videodisc about an American federal agent who was looking for one serial killer at large by consulting with another who was imprisoned. The serial killer on the loose apparently kept his victims in a well and demanded them to take good care of their skin with lotions and such vanities. The scene in the well had stayed imprinted in Ron’s mind as something Viktor would do to her.

“He’s not psycho, Ron. He just fancies me, is all. Honestly, does someone have to be nutters to fancy me?”

Harry came to her immediate rescue. “Of course not, love. Someone has to be nutters not to fancy you. In fact, I love you excessively and I’m totally sane.”

“Thank you, my darling.”

“Don’t get me wrong, though. I still think Viktor’s either completely yampy or dead from the neck up.”

“Harry!”

“Well, you’ve told him we’re together, right?”

“Of course I have!”

“Then where does he get off sending you flowers and writing you all the time?”

“I think he thinks that you’ll eventually break my heart and I’ll go running to him for comfort.”

“I’ll show him break when next I see him,” Harry muttered.

Ron nodded. “That’s the spirit, mate! Smash in his teeth!”

Harry shot him an annoyed glance. “Right. Is that before or after you ask for his autograph?”

“Bloke’s a Quidditch star, mate. I can’t help it!”

“Traitor.”

“I promise I’ll still hold ‘im down for you, though.”

It was while Hermione chastised them for their immaturity that Ginny arrived bearing freshly baked muffins.

Harry swore that if it hadn’t been for Ron, it would have been dreadfully awkward at the beginning. It was therefore with great relief that Harry found himself watching Hermione and Ginny locked in animated conversation fifteen minutes later. The two women were catching up because they had been aloof with each other since Hermione’s sixth year, but with the way things had gone and the way things were, it was about time they renewed their friendship.

By the time Ginny begged her leave, she and Hermione had made plans to do lunch and shop before Ginny left for Romania.

When Ginny was gone, Hermione grinned at him.

“You can breathe now.”

Harry reddened. “Who, me? Far be it I’d be silly enough to believe that two beautiful, sensible women would have it out on account of me while I’m sitting right here.”

“I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted by that comment.”

“Better to shut up, mate,” said Ron. “Damage control, you know.”

“Right.”

McGonagall came by later that evening, dragging Filius and Poppy with her. Alastor dropped in, too, and insisted on examining all the presents for hidden hexes.

By the time the last of them left, Harry could tell Hermione was exhausted.

Ron had already left, promising her he’d be back the next day to take the workday shift.

Harry stayed a bit longer, promising the nurse that he wasn’t going to keep Hermione up longer than was good for her.

He sat facing her at her bedside, tucking some locks of hair behind her ear.

“Alright, Hermione?” he asked softly.

She smiled tiredly. “Fine, really.”

It was at that moment he finally remembered the thoughts that filled him while he had coffee in the lobby, how they were both so protective of one another to unreasonable degrees. “We’ll drive each other spare, you know, protecting each other and all that.” He knew she would understand what he was talking about.

She did.

“It’s what we live for,” she said.

He nodded, chuckling softly. That was the ultimate truth of it.

Leaning over, he kissed her forehead. “I’ll always take care of you.”

“And I’ll take care of you. No matter what happens. Even if you dump me for some insipid, Euro-trash bombshell, I’ll still be there to take care of you… and put Green-Grow in her bottle of peroxide.”

He smiled. “I’ll never dump you, you know. Even if another Dark Lord comes around and threatens to kill me over some two-bit prophesy, I won’t ever break up with you and use the Dark Lord as a reason. You can’t get rid of me that easily anymore. I’ll marry you if you ever think I’d get the notion.”

“That’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me, Harry.”

“Poor baby. If you thought that was romantic then we foolish blokes have been sadly insensitive to your needs.”

She giggled softly.

He placed soft kisses on her cheek. “But I mean it. I’m sticking around. I’ll even get you to promise me forever, one of these days.”

She returned his kisses. “Why, Mr. Potter… is that a proposal I hear?”

“It’s a promise, for now. I reckon you won’t fancy telling our children that I proposed to you in St. Mungo’s with a plastic Bertie Bott’s Every Flavored Beans giveaway ring while you were recovering in a dung-brown hospital gown from fighting a Dark Wizard.”

Her eyes twinkled. “I suppose not. Children, eh?”

“Many of them.”

“How many?”

“Many. We’ll put Molly and Arthur to shame.”

“I s’pose it’ll be fun making them.”

“It would be blooming hysterical. I promise you.”

She grinned.

He cupped her face tenderly. “I don’t ever want to let you go. I knew that so clearly when I saw him trying to take you away from me.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He smiled, elated to hear her say it. He tucked her into bed after that, and when he was sure she was comfortable, he gave her one last kiss before wordlessly and wandlessly administering a sleep-inducing charm.

At the sound of her soft, rhythmic breathing, he finally left her to sleep.

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A/N: Not over yet. I figured after I put you all through the gauntlet, you all deserve more H+Hr fluff than you can swallow. I shall deliver! Besides, it’s cathartic for me, too. I want to read them all over each other and what not. ::dives into a pool of schmaltz::

Almost at the end. Standard disclaimers apply.

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Chapter Eighteen – Falling Into Place

In which Harry makes life a little more perfect and Ron finally figures some things out.

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Harry was of a firm belief that when fate screwed with your life, it makes it a point to do better if you’re good. So he was very glad that when Hermione made a full recovery after they discharged her from the hospital, went to trial the following day and got acquitted on that same afternoon. The book containing Lysander Athanasius was shipped off to the Special Detainees section of Azkaban and would be contained there until Lysander was truly and sincerely reformed. Hermione was guessing he’d break free in about five hundred years or so, which was fine by Harry, so long as the arrogant bugger really was reformed enough not to get any notions about binding unwilling witches again.

Strangely enough, the papers were silent about the entire thing, and everyday, Harry expected a bomb to drop, but the bomb never came. He didn’t know if he should be relieved or nervous.

True to form, Hermione was near impossible being stuck at home. Under doctor’s orders, she wasn’t even allowed to do any cleaning in the house. She would have done it anyway if Harry hadn’t been prepared for her. He warned her that he had cursed the cleaning materials and certain dirty spots in the house so that if she did any dusting or sweeping or anything similar, she’d get green face, and that meant he’d have to immobilize her again. Doctor’s orders.

Predictably, that put her in a very bad mood and she raged and stomped and became petulant, but Harry was prepared for that as well. He could very well buy her good mood with sweet things, a book, and a nice gentle shag.

The Weasley brothers were all properly impressed.

The moment Hermione was declared completely healed, she bolted with a vengeance. She ran Harry ragged shopping all day and practically sent him into a coma having wild, indelicate sex with her all night, which Harry had to admit was really the highlight of his life, by far.

She went back to work with renewed vigor, had lunch with him everyday whilst serious snogging (the papers caught that on one occasion) and made dinner arrangements with old girlfriends, among which included Ginny.

Following Hermione’s acquittal and Lysander’s official incarceration, Ms. Samantha Northanger herself came to Grimmauld Place to deliver some legal documents.

Samantha explained that the reason the newspapers have been quiet about the entire affair was because they’d been paid millions of hush galleons, and that they were able to appeal to the Quibbler’s sense of propriety not to reveal that Nordic Elves were back in circulation. It was interesting to note that the one creature the Quibbler could prove existed had so politely asked them not to. Life certainly was funnier than fiction.

The Athanasius estates would go to Lysander’s nearest relative, which was a third cousin of his, twice removed, who lived in Scotland as a bagpiper.

Hermione characteristically worried about what would happen to the employees.

Samantha waved her worries away. “Most of the companies are run by self-sufficient boards, anyway. Mr. Athanasius’s majority shares in the company would be proportionately distributed to board members in trust until his return. The smaller businesses might be dissolved, but young employees will get a one year severance pay and the elder ones will get their retirement packages in full.”

Hermione found her words to be very comforting. “But what does any of this have to do with me?”

“Nothing, really,” said Samantha. “I’m merely here to ask you to sign some papers confirming that the binding had indeed transpired and what you did to prevent it. Insurance matters and such. Of course, you don’t have to sign anything now. It would be most prudent of you to look everything over before you owl the signed papers back to me. I assure you, Ms. Granger, none of these documents are spellbound, so you needn’t worry. You can even have an Elf of your own choosing to look it over for binding traps, as I don’t blame you at all for being wary. In the meantime, you’ve been given compensation for the trouble Mr. Athanasius has caused you.”

Hermione exchanged worried glances with Harry.

“I’d really rather not accept anything from him anymore…”

“Oh, this isn’t from him,” said Samantha. “This is from Isidore Athanasius’s Posthumous Contingency Fund. In accordance with the terms and conditions of the fund, a pro-rated amount shall be released to any witch or wizard subjected to the unfortunate fancies of his dear son. In the event that the witch or wizard was unsuccessful in thwarting the binding process, the monies shall go to the witch or wizard’s next of kin. Mr. Isidore Athanasius was a bit of a seer, Ms. Granger, and he probably knew his son was prone to do this. I’m sure Isidore Athanasius would appreciate it if you keep mum about his son’s indiscretions to the media, but the terms and conditions of the fund don’t really say you should.”

“But—“

“This fund’s terms and conditions are available for examination in Gringotts London. Here is the access pass.” Samantha handed Hermione a scroll. “I believe you have a curse-breaker in acquaintance in Gringotts.”

“Y-Yes. Bill Weasley.”

“Perfect! You may ask him to look the fund over for you, just for your peace of mind. Again, I assure you, it will not bind you in any way, magically or legally. It’s rather clear cut: Just give the money to the poor bloke or bird who had to put up with Lysander’s intolerance. At any rate, the monies are already in your bank account and you are now several million galleons richer. Do not attempt to give it back, as I will only make that difficult for you and not worth your trouble. You may opt to give a portion of the monies to the Elven Mothers’ Research Foundation, a scientific group aiming to discover ways to make the delivery of Elven off-spring easier and safer for Elven mothers everywhere.”

Samantha handed her a brochure.

Hermione took all the documents Samantha handed her in a daze. Business done, Samantha left.

One look at her bank account and Hermione wondered if she’d ever run out of money in her lifetime.

“Shite,” Harry said, glancing over her shoulder. “What are you going to do with all those galleons?”

Hermione’s brows knitted with thought. “Charity?”

Harry shrugged. “Alright.”

“Think I can pass my Elf proposals if I buy the Enactment Committees’ favor?”

“Probably, but I wouldn’t recommend that course of action.”

“I thought you’d say that.”

Hermione then spent the next couple of weeks tying the loose ends pertaining to the matter of Lysander Athanasius and consulting with Bill about giving the money to charity.

It was with great consternation she listened to Bill as he explained to her that while she can give away as much of the money as she wanted, there was a great portion of the money spelled to remain in her account unless she used the money on herself and her future heirs. It was still a lot of money.

Bill said that she could circumvent this spelled clause by simply using the money to buy gifts and giving those gifts away.

“I have no time to do that!” she cried. “Do you realize with the amount of money I have, I can buy lavish gifts everyday, for the next ten years and I’d still have money in my account? I mean, the interest I’ll earn simply won’t let me squander it all!”

Bill had simply shrugged. “Indeed, why go through all that trouble getting rid of it then? Just keep the money, have twelve kids with Potter and live comfortably for the rest of your damn lives.”

“Twelve!”

Harry had smirked. “We can shop at the Cheaper By the Dozen store.”

Bill seemed to find it all very amusing. “Why go discount with all your galleons? Buy the best to be had. Heck, serve caviar everyday. Raise the kids to be cultured.”

“You find this funny, William?” Hermione demanded, sounding suspiciously like Molly Weasley.

“Hilarious!”

“Humph! Harry, we’re leaving!”

Harry shrugged and exchanged handshakes with Bill.

“Poker night on Friday,” said Harry.

“I’ll be there,” said Bill, grinning. “Have a good day, Hermione!”

“Good day!” said Hermione crisply. “Oh, and please tell Fleur her recipe for Floating Frosted Cake was simply divine and that she and I must do lunch soon.”

“I will.”

Hermione stormed out of Gringotts with Harry in tow.

And so the poor little rich girl had to endure her millions.

Several weeks later, Harry had an epiphany. And so excited was he by it that he took Hermione out for an evening of fine dining and the play “Troilus and Cressida” in West End.

He wasn’t much for Shakespeare but she adored it, and she watched the play with rapt attention from their perfect box seats.

It was amazing how intently she watched each and every scene, sometimes mouthing dialogue along with the characters on stage, as if she had memorized lines and lines of the play.

“Are you sure this is the first time you’ve seen this play?” Harry whispered in her ear during a particularly intense scene.

“Oh, yes,” she whispered back, gasping as Troilus demanded Hector to fight for Troy in the name of honor and love. “Oh, dear! Poor Hector!”

Harry put his arm around her, holding her as he nuzzled her neck to place intimate kisses on her skin. “Poor Hector indeed…”

Hermione was beyond lovely that evening, of course. They had dressed up, and Harry found that he quite liked Hermione in revealing evening gowns after all. Apparently, so long as she was dressing up for him, he had absolutely no problem with her showing quite a bit of skin and back.

She looked beautiful in gold silk, and with her hair tied up in a lovely upsweep and glittering barrettes, he had every access to her slender neck and perfect shoulders. He had made it a point to take full advantage of that freedom.

She continued to watch the play, but she wasn’t completely unresponsive to Harry’s attentions. She caressed his thigh affectionately as he kissed her, and while she never removed her eyes from the stage, she did express her appreciation for Harry’s attentive lips.

“Ooh! That felt nice, love! Do it again,” she would whisper while she gasped when Agamemnon delivered his despicable philosophies on stage.

Harry was most glad to oblige her, of course, but he did have a mission of sorts.

He was only too glad that their box seats offered them the privacy he craved, and while Helen of Troy had everyone’s attention on stage, Harry was not everyone. Only one woman in the world had his attention now.

“Hermione,” he whispered as Helen began her aria in a soft, captivating voice.

“Yes, love?” breathed Hermione, entranced by the elegance of Helen’s understated intro.

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Immensely! But my! This actress has a beautiful voice, doesn’t she?”

“Mmm, yes. Would you classify this night as perfect, then?”

“Near perfect. I’m yet to shag you senseless, later. Ooh, Harry, the song is picking up! Lovely!”

Harry thrilled at her promise. “You look breathtaking in that gown, you know. Something you’d be proud to tell our children about.”

At this point she grinned at him, rewarding him with several kisses. “And you’re perfectly handsome in that tux, Harry. I’ll definitely tell our children about it.”

She went back to watching.

He smiled. “And this place, the Olivier Theatre… very nice.”

“Exquisite. These box seats make it more magical,” she said, leaning back against him as he enveloped her in his arms from behind.

“I’m glad you approve.”

Helen of Troy was building up a crescendo now, the impending explosive climax of her song sending electric charges through the air.

“Hermione?” he said softly.

Her eyes magnetized to the stage, Hermione barely managed to whisper a response. “Yes?”

“Will you marry me?” He turned up his hand, a velvet box swirling into it and taking form.

Helen burst out in glorious song, but Hermione wasn’t listening to her anymore. She was staring at the box in his hand, jaw dropping in utter surprise.

She turned on her seat to look at him and he held the box out in front of her, magically flipping the lid open for her to see the ring inside. She stared at it.

The ring was—to put it mildly—divine. There was a huge diamond in the center, like a rock, but around it, like layered rays of the sun, were several gems in alternating yellow and red. The colors rippled and shimmered so subtly that it wasn’t quite distracting, but it certainly deserved attention. Each stone was set in platinum frames. It was, literally, a Sun Ring.

“So, what do you think?” Harry asked when she kept staring at him and the ring for longer than he expected. “About marrying me, I mean. The ring, I’m pretty sure, is a crowd pleaser. I was betting you’d like it when Ron let loose a string of the worse swear words to go along with his compliments. It is quite pretty, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“See, I knew you’d like it!” He grinned, elated.

“Harry,” she said, cupping his face in her hands. “I mean yes, I’ll marry you.”

Hearing her say the words was unlike anything he expected. He had, to an extent, expected her to say she would, but nothing prepared him for the flood of emotion that was overcoming him when she said she would.

“I’ll marry you.”

Merlin… that is positively the most beautiful song I ever did hear in my entire life.

“Sweet angels singing,” he breathed, hardly daring to believe it. “D’you really mean that?”

“Yes,” she said. She paused, pretending to think about it. “Yes, I’m quite positive I mean it.”

He might have choked on a laugh. She did too, and grinning at one another, he slipped the ring on her finger. She stared at it a moment before flinging herself into his arms.

Their seats toppled over as they crashed to the carpeted floor, but Harry didn’t care in the least. She was on top of him, and she was kissing him very, very intensely.

He might have hitched up her golden skirts, just so he can help her get her legs to straddle him, because really, everyone concerned would be happy with this arrangement.

Lights and sounds and explosive drama continued on stage; a perfect backdrop to what was fast become Harry and Hermione’s engagement shag.

“Hermione,” he said raggedly as he kissed and lavished attention on her neck, shoulders and arms. “Not that I’m complaining, but don’t you think we should wait until we can get to the limo—“

“Can’t wait,” she hissed, undoing the buttons of his trousers. “I must have you now, Harry.”

“Oh, well, can’t argue with that, then!” He helped her undo him.

“Harry, I want you to take me on this floor—“

“Love, you know I want to, but you’ll suffer rug burn.”

“Right… well, then I’ll just have to ride you!”

“Oh, heavens, yes! Ride me!”

“Oh, dear! But it would be exquisite to do it in the limo, wouldn’t it?”

Harry was beginning to feel terribly giddy amidst the Greek Tragedy that was unfolding on the stage beyond their little love box. “I solemnly swear I’ll be quite ready to do you again in the limo.”

Hermione was terribly pleased by that solemnly sworn oath because she commanded him to rip what knickers she had on account that they were just getting in the bloody way.

And so off went her knickers and on went the show.

As soon as they came together, Harry knew he was going to give rave reviews. Oh, yes he was!

Spectacular performance! Captivating scenery! Moving dialogue!

(“Move… just… like… that… Harry!”)

He held her by her bum underneath her hiked up gown and let her rock to her own orchestra.

Her honey-gold eyes went amber and he pulled her closer so he could kiss her. The tangling of their tongues awoke something in her and the rhythm of her hips changed dramatically.

It was a gift to know your witch was landing her role perfectly, and he watched her lose herself completely to her performance. He believed he had never seen or heard anything more beautiful in his life.

When he felt her tighten around him, he was more floored than he already was. The pounding soundwaves of the orchestra reverberated through his body and he pushed himself into her, groaning like a vanquished man, their lips clamped together to muffle their screams of combined ecstasy.

It was a breathtaking climax capable of shaking the theater in all its dramatic glory. Harry saw stars.

The sensations merited a standing ovation, but they both weren’t quite ready to stand just yet, as their legs felt blessedly useless.

“Oh, Merlin,” she murmured with her head on his chest. “Wasn’t that the best play ever?”

He ran his hands up her back. “Bra-vo...”

She smiled, leaning her chin on the back of her hands as she looked up at him. “I think maybe I’ll skip this part in the telling with the children.”

“That would be best, yes. No need to scar them for life! Daddy has plenty enough of that.”

Hermione touched his chin delicately. “That would be lovely, wouldn’t it? Hearing the little sprogs calling you daddy…”

He grinned. “A dream come true… how many of them do you want?”

“You mean twelve is negotiable?”

He chuckled. “Yes.”

“Three.”

“Nine,” he bargained.

“Four!”

He shook his head, smiling. “Seven.”

“Six, and that’s it! I’m not spitting out any more than that.”

Harry laughed, flipping her over on her back and staring down at her. “That’ll be negotiable for the rest of our lives.”

She gave him a loving smile. “I reckon it would be. Harry? I love you so very much.”

He smiled, kissing her for saying such wonderful words, and because he felt absolutely the same way.

They exchanged sweet promises and kisses while Hector sang in the background, and they would have stayed entangled on the carpeted floor the rest of the play if they didn’t hear someone climbing the stairs.

“Shite! That’ll be the champagne I arranged for!” said Harry, scrambling to right himself.

Hermione gave a squeak, struggling to regain her composure as she smoothed out her dress and tried her best to put her hair back in its upsweep.

By the time the server arrived, Harry and Hermione were perfectly decent theater patrons, intimately discussing the quality of Hector’s tenor blending with Troilus’s alto.

“Champagne for the lady, sir?” the server said as he set up the bucket and glass stand.

“Ah, perfect timing, my good man!” said Harry with a twinkle in his eyes. “Hermione, dear fiancée, would you care for a refreshing bubbly?”

“Oh, yes, Harry, dear husband-to-be, that would be divine!”

And so they were served the best champagne and Harry tipped the server most generously for his excellent timing, for if that same server had arrived any sooner, there would have been a flop, or sorts, and that would have dampened the reviews considerably.

They enjoyed the rest of the play in blissful silence, with Hermione leaning back against his chest and his hand running up and down her arm. Two glasses of champagne and three acts later, they were snogging again.

Having completely lost track of the play, anyway, Harry decided that his encore performance would have to be done in the limo.

And so hand in hand, they left their box seats and hurried down the stairs, out of the theater and into a life of a million new possibilities.

00000000000000

Ten months later, Mr. and Mrs. Potter sat in the Cocina de la Madre with Ron Weasley and his strangely beautiful—well—something, Luna Lovegood.

It was odd, really, this relationship Ron had with Loony. He was, by all intents and purposes, absolutely bedazzled by this enigma of a woman, but when asked if they were dating, Luna would reply, in her dreamy voice, “I don’t know. By dating, that would mean we were going out and having dinner and dancing and all that, but we seem to be… experiencing each other, is more how I’d like to put it.”

Ron was completely nonplussed. At times he would think they were boyfriend and girlfriend, but just when he began to get comfortable with things, she would—say—refuse to go to some ball with him because she had “other plans”. Clearly, there would be times he wasn’t her first priority when he would fully expect that he would be during those particular occasions.

“D’you think she’s seeing someone else on the side? You know, the way she keeps on seeing me?” Ron asked Hermione in a completely helpless tone.

Hermione had frowned then. Luna had, at that point, told her very little about what she and Ron were, and Hermione never pried. What she did know was that Luna had told Ron they were free to see other people, something Luna may have very well done and something Ron hasn’t.

“I think maybe you’re it as far as ‘the one she keeps seeing’ is concerned,” said Hermione. “But you and she agreed to this arrangement, didn’t you? You’re as free to see other people as she is. It astounds me that you’re… like this.”

Ron wasn’t all that pleased with Hermione’s reply. Maybe he had expected Hermione would come out with some lovely revelation about Luna seeing no one but him. He looked to Harry. Maybe the Old Boy Who Lived can give another boy a break. “What do you reckon, mate?”

“Same as the missus,” said Harry, draping an arm around her and kissing her shoulder. “You should talk to Luna about it.”

Ron hadn’t been happy about that. In fact, he looked seriously annoyed. Did Harry think he hadn’t tried the talking thing? That’s all he’d been trying to do with Luna, and it was driving him nutters. The girl just—she just doesn’t make sense! Not when she decided she didn’t want to, at least. There were times Luna seemed like the most sensible person in the world, but when she went batty on him, it was like getting back on a twisting, dropping and rising rollercoaster. Exhilarating, but when it was over, it left one feeling empty.

“Did Hermione neuter you during your wedding night, or something?” he said spitefully. “I swear, mate, it’s like you lost your bullocks when you married her.”

Hermione had frowned. “That’s not true. Harry has a lot of say in this marriage! And just because he agrees with me, it doesn’t mean he’s lost his bullocks! He does, in fact, have a nice and hefty package, don’t you, love?”

Harry grinned stupidly, sticking his tongue out at Ron.

Ron then decided to excuse himself from Grimmauld Place and apparate back to his newly purchased flat in Marylebone. It was times like these he was glad he had finally gotten a flat of his own. Grimmauld Place was all fine and dandy when they were all just friends crashing together, but now that Harry and Hermione were Mr. and Mrs. Potter, he rather preferred having his own place. It beat explaining why he was living with his married best friends, at any rate.

Now, sitting in the intimate Spanish restaurant with his best friends and his—well, something, Ron wondered what manner of nauseatingly sweet occasion the Potters had concocted again to have this nice little dinner.

They did that a lot; celebrating the littlest victories by eating out; sometimes by themselves, but often with friends and family. They were just the perfect couple, with their perfect occasions.

Ron didn’t mean to be bitter, just that his crazy relationship with Luna was driving him spare. It was like all those women he had played around with were coming back to haunt him in the form of Luna Lovegood. She had him desperately hooked and begging for more but he couldn’t have her dammit!

Oh, they had sex. They shagged like ruddy bunnies! But he was yet to figure out what she was doing to him, and he loved it and hated it in equal parts.

“So,” said Ron, downing another glass of wine to stave off the naughty thoughts Luna’s wandering hands were inciting. “What’s the occasion? Bagged an important Death Eater? Mixed a ground breaking potion?”

Hermione and Harry exchanged the most tender smile ever to cross the face of the Wizarding World.

“Something much better than that, Ron,” Hermione said.

“I know,” said Luna. “You caught sight of the Merulian Acknerthauble, and you were able to take a picture.”

Harry scoffed. “That’s nothing compared to this, Luna.”

Ron chuckled. “Good lord, get on with it, then, you sappy bastards!”

Hermione laughed, falling into Harry’s embrace and leaning her head on his shoulder.

Harry wiggled an eyebrow. “You ready for this, mate?”

“Probably not.”

Hermione’s honey gold eyes sparkled. “Ron… Harry and I are going to have a baby.” And she smiled so beautifully that Luna’s usually dreamy blue orbs went suspiciously liquid at the sight of it.

Ron wasn’t ready for that, but only because he hadn’t expected to feel so much happiness for the two friends dearest to his heart. He looked at Harry and saw utter felicity and devotion in his best friend’s eyes as he peered down at Hermione Potter.

Ron saw and understood the ethereal glow surrounding Hermione that night; the protective way Harry has kept his arm around her all evening, and it gave him weird fluttery sensations in the pit of his stomach.

“R-Really?” asked Ron, overwhelmed for his best friends; his best friends in the whole world.

Hermione nodded as Harry pulled her deeper into his embrace. They laughed softly, kissing as they held each other and catching moments of complete oblivion.

Ron watched them getting lost in each other’s gazes, forgetting about their surroundings for several heartbeats.

“Harry, you limey bastard, come here then!” Ron finally cried, jumping up his seat and thumping Harry on the back as he gave his friend a hearty bear hug.

Harry gasped at the exchange but grinned all the same.

With Harry properly beaten, Ron went to Hermione. Her, he treated with utmost tenderness and deepest affection. Because not only was she carrying something precious inside her, she was precious in herself. Hermione, the eleven year old girl who came to their compartment looking for a frog; the girl who screamed and dodged as a troll attacked her; the girl who fought basilisks, dark wizards, freed elves, prisoners from Azkaban and doomed Hippogriffs; the girl he fancied once upon a time and the girl who fell in love with his best friend was now going to become a mum. That was surreal. That was just amazing.

He took her in an embrace, twirled her off the ground and listened to her giggles.

He kissed her forehead before he let her down and watched as Luna offered Hermione her sincerest and weirdest wishes.

When Ron had properly expressed how happy he was for them, they sat back down to dinner.

“How far along are you?” Luna asked.

“We’re three months along,” said Harry, idly trailing his hands down Hermione’s hair.

Ron grinned. Only six more months to go! It was funny how excited that made him. He was going to be an uncle! That was just crazy! “D’you know what it’s going to be, yet?”

Hermione looked up at Harry. “Well, Harry doesn’t want to know. He wants it to be a surprise.” She reached up and pinched Harry’s chin.

Ron chuckled. “I take it practical and logical Hermione wants to know the gender now so she can have everything planned down to the last baby bottle.”

“You bet,” said Harry, grinning. “But we flipped a galleon for it. I won!”

And that was how you won an argument with Hermione: Stay stubborn and flip a coin!

“It’s much better not to know,” said Luna. “That way, you won’t think you know and buy—say—girl stuff and then find yourself with a boy.”

Hermione smiled. “Well, if that were the case, Harry junior would just have to like pink, now would he?”

Ron made a face. “Is that what you’re going to name it if it’s a boy? Harry junior?”

“Oy! What’s wrong with that?” asked Harry.

“It’ll get called Junior all his life as if he didn’t have a proper name attached to him!”

Harry laughed. “Yes, well, it won’t be named junior. We have names picked out, actually. If it’s a girl, we have Rose, for Hermione’s mum, and we’re thinking of Veronica as a first name…”

“And if it’s a boy,” said Hermione, “I certainly love the sound of James.”

Ron nodded. “Lovely names, that.”

Hermione reached across the table and took his hand. “Ron, you’re our best friend… so it would really mean a lot to us—“

“I’m so going to be its Godfather. No question about it!”

They smiled.

“Of course you’re the Godfather, mate,” said Harry. “What we were going to ask was… well, we really like the sound of James Ronald Potter. And anyway, Veronica Rose Potter is just perfect in itself, since I’d probably be calling my baby girl Ronnie sometimes…”

Harry’s words sunk in and Ron’s eyes widened.

I will not cry.

I WILL NOT cry.

“Excuse me, there’s something in my eye and it really hurts!” Ron yelled, bolting from the table to run for the rest room.

He burst through the bathroom doors and made a desperate run for the sink. He splashed his face with water and tried his best to control himself.

Minutes later, Harry came into the bathroom and stood beside him facing the mirrors.

“Alright, there?” Harry asked.

“Yeah. My eye’s better now.”

Harry nodded, a small smile cocked on his lips. “You’re our best friend, Ron. We want you to understand that you’ll always be part of our lives. Our kids are going to grow up knowing you and thinking that every kid in the world has an uncle who loves them rotten.”

“Shite, mate,” Ron muttered. “Of course I’ll love your sprogs like they were my own, and I know all that stuff about being part of your lives, but do you… do you really want to name it Veronica? Or James Ronald? Because that would be—that would be wicked beyond belief!”

Harry grinned. “Are you sure you want to be godfather, though? If some Dark Wizard comes along and A.K.s me and Hermione, you’re likely to end up betrayed by some sniveling Gryffindor and shipped off to Azkaban for it.”

Ron glared at him. Honestly! Harry could be so macabre sometimes!

Harry laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “So the baby names are settled then, ey?”

“At least!” agreed Ron. “So, do you reckon Hermione’s going to let the sprog on a broom? Major potential for your kiddies to have mucho Quidditch talent, you know! ‘Fraid your kids are doomed to a lifetime of bad-hair days, though. I think Hermione’s do is cute and all, but with your genes in the mix, it’s a disaster waiting to happen!”

Harry rolled his eyes. “C’mon then, you bastard, let’s get you to the table and feed you. And if you value your life, you’d best not say things like that in front of Hermione. She’s very hormonal right now.”

“You know what that means for you, of course,” Ron said, wiggling his eyebrows.

Harry slanted him a warning glance.

As they approached the table, Ron could see the dim candlelight illuminating the faces of the two women seated at the table. Hermione’s eyes were animated with breathless anticipation and Luna’s was dreamier than ever.

Hermione looked up and saw them approaching, her gaze instantly meeting that of her husbands as her lips spread into a radiant smile. There was excitement there, and the promise of eternal affection. He was her hero; her strength and she trusted him implicitly.

Ron watched for Harry’s reaction and found absolute adoration, like he was staring at the most precious, most essential thing in his life. At that moment, they were each other’s reason for living.

Ron Weasley was no sentimental sap, but watching his two best friends, love was beautiful indeed.

They sat back down at the table and Ron momentarily let the happy married couple share a private moment.

He turned to Luna who was staring at him in her usual spacey way.

“How’s the eye, Ronald?” Luna asked.

“Better now,” he said. “Just needed to wash it out.”

She nodded. “Who would have thought that Ronald Bilius Weasley can get something in his eye when his best friends in the world tell him they love him?”

He reddened. “Yes, well…”

Luna leaned over, draping her arm over his shoulders to speak close to his ear. “You can still surprise me, it seems.”

Ron cocked a grin with a superior bobbing of his chin. “That’s me. I’m just full of surprises.”

She narrowed her gaze at him but there was a rather wicked smile on her lips. “Do you know why I don’t tell people we’re dating?”

His eyes widened in shock, wondering what on Earth possessed her to bring this up now. He glanced briefly at Harry and Hermione and saw that they were still preoccupied with one another. That was a bit of a relief. This conversation Luna had broached was embarrassing!

He shook his head.

“Because you care too much about what other people say and that just makes me want to punish you.”

Whenever Luna threw him these whammies, he always found himself completely speechless; utterly defeated and absolutely randy.

“Blimey, witch… you drive me totally spare thinking about you day and night, because half the time I can’t bloody understand whatever it is that motivates you. You’re weird beyond reason and bizarre past explanation, but you have me at the edge of my seat, pulling at my hair and thinking: What next? And bloody hell, I always want to know!”

“Well,” she said softly, rubbing his leg. “I figured someone like you who seems to have the attention span of a six year old need be taunted with the unexpected. Luckily, the unexpected is my natural state, so don’t you think we’re rather perfect for one another?”

“I think so!”

“That look on your face, though. When Harry and Hermione told you they were… breeding…”

Ron laughed at the term. She’s so blooming bizarre!

“… you showed pure, unadulterated happiness for them. You weren’t jealous; you weren’t sarcastic; and as far as being sensitive went, you almost turned into a girlie movie.”

“Jealous, sarcastic or girlie movie… hmm, what to be?”

She grinned, her eyes glazing over. “I think, Ronald, that I’m going to like dating you… exclusively.”

Ron’s jaw dropped in astonishment. “Really?”

“Yes. You have finally caught my full attention.”

His eyes lit and his smile broadened. “Brilliant.”

“Now, after dinner, we will go to my apartment and celebrate this new development in our relationship. Is that fine by you?”

“Oh, most definitely!”

“Good.” Luna turned her gaze back to dinner as the food arrived. “Hermione, you might want to avoid those mussels. They’re bi-products of Borkovian Heggleschnocks and Heggleschnocks are not good for babies in development. Do you know why?”

“No Luna, I do not,” said Hermione, pushing Harry’s spoon away with her own when he started piling food on her plate with unwarranted enthusiasm.

“Because they turn children in to snarky little monsters, is what. You don’t want a snarky baby. They cry all night and refuse to get burped.”

“No, of course not! We’ll have perfectly behaved babies, won’t we, Harry?”

“Angels! Now, maybe you should avoid the mussels…”

“But—“

As they argued about Hermione’s diet, Ron couldn’t help but smile at the perfect turn the evening had taken. At the beginning of it, everything seemed so uncertain: Luna being something that resembled a girlfriend; Hermione and Harry being the duo more than part of the trio; him getting lost in the drama of it all… now Luna was his girlfriend, Harry and Hermione assured him that they would never leave him out and he was—well, he was him, but hopefully better for all these newly opened doors.

He draped an arm on the back of Luna’s chair. “There’s a Charity Ball at the end of the month sponsored by the Chudley Cannons. It’s an important affair, and if you’re available, it would really mean a lot to me for you to come as my date.”

“I’d love to go, Ronald. You know I would.”

He grinned. Truth is, he never knew with Luna, and that was just wicked.

Hermione and Harry pulled their gazes from each other long enough to give him congratulatory smiles.

“I’ll throw you a dinner party,” said Hermione, giving him a wink.

Ron laughed. These Potters. He loved them, and yes, he finally understood it: There was always something to celebrate.