Only Once by Animagus-Steph

Rating: PG13
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 28/01/2006
Last Updated: 27/11/2007
Status: In Progress

There are some questions you should ask only once.




1. Chapter One
--------------



Title: Only Once

Pairing: Harry/Hermione, Ron/Luna

Rating: PG

Multi-Chaptered short-fic

Summary: There are some questions you should ask only once… and when you do, you should make
them count.

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended with this work. No profit is being made from
this work. The characters involved in this fiction are the property of Jo Rowling. What she does
with them is her own business. What I do with them is mine.

A/N: Many thanks to Mollywobbles. Your enthusiasm and general good sense have really made a real
impact on this fic. Thank you for your gentle reminders to keep me writing. And to Sierra, your
candor, grammatical prowess and overall thoroughness help me maintain the devotion I have to my
work. Ducks and daisies, ladies.

To my readers, I hope that you enjoy! And so, I present:

Only Once: Chapter One

Hermione put the finishing touches on that day's stack of reports. She'd been there
since seven that morning and she was quite ready to head home.

“Hermione, do you know where the file went on Jarryl Farker?” Sarah, her research assistant,
asked.

“Remind me which one he is?” Hermione replied wearily, as she started rifling through the stacks
of papers on her desk.

“He's the one on the first floor who has a terrible aversion to light, but isn't a
vampire?”

“With or without the memory loss?” Hermione queried, closing in on some papers haphazardly
perched on a filing cabinet.

“Without,” Sarah replied, stooping to replace some papers that had just tipped off the edge of
Hermione's desk.

Hermione looked up and brushed her hair out of her eyes, seemingly unaware that she had just
smeared ink along her cheek and temple. “You know, I don't think he was bitten by anything.”
She sighed. “I sent that to Marcus yesterday afternoon. You'll have to check with him,” she
stretched tiredly and looked to the clock on her wall. “*You should have been home two hours
ago!”* it said in no uncertain terms. “Look, I am going to send those time-loss cases upstairs
and then I am going home.”

“Go home now, Hermione,” Sarah said, worriedly. “If you keep working so hard, you won't be
any good to us. I can take them upstairs,” she offered.

“No, no, don't worry about it. I still have things to clear up a bit, and I need to talk to
Healer Fontane anyway.” Hermione paused, looking Sarah in the eye. “I *will* go home.
Crookshanks won't forgive me if he doesn't get fed tonight. I have to take care of the man
in my life,” she kidded.

“Alright, Hermione,” Sarah chuckled, “just make sure you don't keep him waiting too long. If
I didn't know better, I would think you transfigured your desk into a bed each night and stayed
here.”

Hermione's eyebrow went up in mock-interest. “Now, *that's* an idea.” She rolled
her eyes. “Please, Sarah, I already have a mother *and* Molly Weasley to make sure I take care
of myself. I'll manage.”

“Good night, then,” Sarah said, smiling and calling over her shoulder. Hermione just caught the
flash of arrow-straight hair as her assistant rounded the corner out of Hermione's office.

Fifteen minutes later, Hermione was packing up the work she was going to take back to her flat,
when she heard a soft breath in her doorway. Startled, her head snapped up.

“Harry!” she cried in surprise. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Not too long, though *you've* been here long enough, by the looks of your clock,” he
said reprovingly.

Hermione groaned. “Not you, too. First, my mother, `*You never stop by anymore, your father
and I worry.*' Then it's my assistant, and now you. The clock was a nice gift once upon
a time, but I am thinking about sticking to a wrist-watch.” She turned to look at the clock on the
wall that Mrs. Weasley had given her as an office-warming gift. *“Get home already!”*

Harry gave a slight chortle and shrugged.

Hermione paused from packing her bag and really looked at him for the first time since she'd
realized he'd been standing there. He looked nice in a wooly jumper fit for the fall season.
She smiled.

“I'm sorry, Harry, how are you? I've not seen you in a while, and it seems ages since
you stopped in at St. Mungo's. You look well.”

Harry smiled and the deep-set dimple on his left cheek came out. Hermione felt less stressed
immediately. She loved it when he smiled like that; he looked younger and less marked by the
war.

“I'm pretty good, actually. I had a good day at the academy, and I ran into Lupin on my way
home from the Ministry.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, it looks as though he and Tonks are expecting,” Harry said with a smirk.

At this, Hermione *did* completely stop what she was doing. “Are you serious! This is
*wonderful* news! Werewolves are supposed to be…” she trailed off.

“Sterile, I know.” Harry said, as awed as Hermione seemingly was. He cleared his throat, perhaps
uncomfortable talking about something so close to Lupin, but the next moment, she saw that he was
smiling. “However, he said that if at first you don't succeed…”

“Try, try again? Oh, Harry,” Hermione groaned.

He threw his hands up, “I'm sorry—it's what he said, and you can't expect me to keep
something like that to myself!”

Hermione laughed. “I should hope not! Though I bet he thought you could handle it. Besides, most
fathers-to-be aren't thinking about much else besides the baby.” She grabbed her satchel, wove
her way through the papers and files to Harry, and with a wave of her wand, extinguished the lights
and walked out the door.

As he reached to take her bag from her, she turned her face up to him, smiled brightly and said,
“I guess this means that love *can* conquer all.”

~*^*~

They walked down the nearly deserted corridor to the lifts. “So, Harry, what brings you all the
way downtown? I would have guessed you'd be at dinner at the Burrow by this time.” She glanced
at her watch, which read a quarter to eight.

“Not tonight. Molly and Arthur had another engagement, Ginny is out with Lavender for something
or other, and I learned the hard way you don't drop in on Ron and Luna without an
invitation.”

“You and me both,” she said with something like disgust. “There are some things you just
shouldn't be privy to.” She paused. “So, I see,” Hermione said as she bumped him playfully with
her hip. “Consolation prize again, it seems.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said dejectedly. “I'm going to have to talk to the judges about the
quality of the prizes! This is getting ridiculous!”

She laughed again as they reached the elevators. “So, you want to talk? What's up? I'm
walking home tonight, as it's nice out—well, I think it is, anyway. It was chilly this
morning.”

As they were waiting, Harry tilted his head and smiled. The next thing Hermione knew, Harry had
placed two fingers on her temple, and she felt the tingle of magic along the side of her face.

“Ink,” he said simply.

There were other people in the elevator, so they were quiet as they rode down. As they stepped
out of the hospital and onto a deserted street, Hermione zipped her jacket up and shoved her hands
into her pockets.

They spent the first few blocks catching up. Hermione was doing some fascinating research in her
department. They were seeing a lot of bizarre cases there in Diagnostics, all linking back to the
Great War and ending after Voldemort's final demise about four years ago. She wanted to blanket
the cases as Great War Syndrome, but St. Mungo's was reluctant to, for a number of
reasons—namely, she believed, because they were still afraid of Voldemort, even though she had seen
him die with her own eyes. *Almost saw Harry die, too,* she reminded herself, tucking her hand
into the crook of his arm, as if to reassure herself that he was still there.

Harry was busy tracking down Death Eaters for the Ministry—he had just gone out on assignment
and gotten back the day before. He couldn't tell her a lot of particulars about his job, but
she knew some, as several of her patients on the fourth floor fought with Voldemort rather than
with the Order. They had to get them presentable for trial, and then they were going to Azkaban,
which was now guarded by the Armored Ourusai of the north. Though Harry wasn't sure, he could
feel something big coming down the pike. They weren't anywhere near the end of catching all the
Death Eaters who had sided with Voldemort during the war, but progress was progress and Harry felt
confident.

As they approached Hermione's building—to both Ron and Harry's pleasure, she was
conveniently situated above a pizza parlor—they stopped. Harry handed Hermione her satchel and put
his hands into his pockets. She tilted her head and looked at him questioningly.

“Do you want to come up, Harry? Crookshanks always loves seeing you.”

“No, thanks, Hermione, maybe another time.” He scuffed the toe of his shoe along the pavement.
“Yes, I stopped by St. Mungo's to see you. I missed you, and I thought I'd drop in to
surprise you.”

Hermione furrowed her eyebrows together with slight confusion. “Well, you did, Harry. It's
always nice to see you. I've been so busy lately; sometimes I forget what day it is.”

“It's Wednesday,” he said lightly.

“I suppose it is. What's the real reason you stopped by?” Hermione asked, her heart beating
faster and stopping at the same time. “Is everything alright?”

Harry looked up from the pavement and stared frankly into her eyes. Hermione couldn't read
the expression on his face. Then the look was gone. “Everything's fine,” he said reassuringly.
“It's just—” he shook his head. “What are you doing on Saturday?”

“I was going to sleep in and then head over to St. Mungo's, but I am not scheduled to.
What's going on?”

Harry absorbed this information and then nodded his head. “I think I'm going to ask Ginny to
marry me,” he said matter-of-factly. “I want to surprise her with a ring and everything, and I
thought you were the best person to get advice from on which ring to buy. You guys have talked
about that kind of thing, right?” he rocked back on his feet.

Hermione felt as though she just had the air sucked out of her lungs. She stared at him blankly
for a moment. *I really am going to be alone*, she thought. She shook the ridiculous thought
out of her head. “That's really great, Harry!” she said with happiness that she somehow did not
feel. “We talked about it a long time ago, of course, when we were at Hogwarts, before you started
going out, actually. After that,” she began.

“Life got a little busy, I know.” Harry said. “So, will you go window shopping with me at the
jeweler's in Diagon Alley? Is Saturday ok?”

She had to end this conversation. She had to get upstairs; she had to get to her cat. “Yes,
that's fine, Harry. Saturday, then, is it?”

He smiled brightly. “I'll be here to get you at nine.” He dropped a kiss on her forehead and
started walking away. “Night, `Mione!” he called happily over his shoulder. The next second, she
heard the tell-tale *pop*, and he was gone.

She stood there for a moment staring at the place where he had been and then squared her
shoulders. Crookshanks would be worrying.

~*^*~

After a small dinner, a cup of tea and reviewing a few of the cases she had there on the fourth
floor, Hermione settled into her four-poster bed, Crookshanks curled at her feet. She fluffed her
pillows and turned over. She tucked into a ball. She tried her stomach; she tried her back. Nothing
was working, though she was so tired. All she heard was Harry's voice, over and over again
telling her with his intense eyes, *“I'm going to ask Ginny to marry me.**”*
*Why* this was bothering her, she had no idea. The entire wizarding world expected it shortly
after the fall of Voldemort. Over the course of their Horcrux hunt, there had been a few articles
in the *Prophet* about Harry's flaming romance with Ginny Weasley while at Hogwarts.
Hermione suspected that people had leaked information for money.

Hermione herself had wondered why it had taken them four years to get around to it. Ron and Luna
barely waited six months. And, why did Harry think it was going to be a surprise? After so long,
wouldn't Ginny be expecting it? Hermione certainly thought she was—at least that's what she
had taken from their conversations together. In all honesty, it was the perfect end to a long
fairy-tale. Harry had indeed saved the world from evil and had every right to claim his princess
bride.

She closed her eyes and waited, willing her body to wind down. No good. This was getting
ridiculous. She crept out of bed, so as not to disturb Crookshanks, and padded her way to the
bathroom, flipping on the light. The soft glow accented her wild hair and--by this time, she
thought nearly requisite—dark circles under her eyes. Hermione Granger: aborigine hair, always
tired looking, always brilliant. She laughed in spite of herself. She started to gather her locks
into a braid, in the hope that it wouldn't tangle through the night. Inevitably, it would
happen, but it was worth another shot.

The sleeve of her robe slid down to reveal a long ink smear on her forearm. She finished her
braid, which now rested between her shoulders and began to scrub her arm, wondering when she had
managed to mark herself during the day. *I am doing this a lot lately.* She looked up and
touched her cheek, looking for traces of ink. Her skin tingled, as if Harry had just
*Evanesco*ed! the ink away again. His wandless magic ability was exemplary; when she compared
it with her own, she felt like a third year student, even though she had no trouble with it at all.
She could to wandless magic, but it was more trouble for her than it was worth.

Harry's hadn't always been so good—it had matured out of necessity. She could still
remember the night he finally mastered it. It was a stormy night, which matched his mood in an
eerie way. The three of them had had a close call earlier that day when they stumbled onto a pack
of Death Eaters in Hogsmeade, which was deserted at the time. Harry and Ron had lost their wands in
the following struggle. A lot of curse-dodging and feeble wandless attempts ensued. They would
learn near the end, a few years later, that Voldemort had ordered his minions not to seriously harm
them—that was a pleasure he had reserved for himself. Lupin and Moody showed up almost immediately
after Hermione sent her otter scuttling to find help. Hermione took their direct orders and Accioed
the boys' wands. Ron had been injured—not badly, but they didn't know that at the time. Ron
and Harry Side-Alonged to their safe house and after Ron was looked over, Hermione let loose on
Harry as she never had before. She knew he was angry with himself for the sham of a defense they
put up that day—he was pacing in front of the cold fireplace.

*“Is this* *your idea of* surviving*, Harry Potter? Because it seems to me that
you're not too serious about it!”* *she screamed, completely ignoring the fact that she
had just given Ron a sleeping draught.*

*Harry looked bewildered. “What are you talking about?” He shook his head, as if he wasn't
hearing her correctly. “I think we `survived' just fine, Hermione.”*

*All she could remember was her terror at their helplessness. The three of them had been
working on all kinds of defense tactics when they weren't searching for Horcruxe**s—the
biggest one, Hermione had been* *pushing* *all along**, was wandless magic.*

*“You can't use your wand against Voldemort,* *Harry,” she had constantly reminded
him. “Y**ou have to do* *this!**”*

*“I know quite well that I have to do it, thanks,” he would reply, as frustrated as she that
he couldn't get the hang of it.* *Days* *of practice weren't sufficient.*

*Hermione was shaking with anger—the stresses of this grand adventure were finally getting to
her. “Either you figure this out tonight, Harry, or you call it quits, as far as I am concerned!
This whole thing has been a* *failure* *if you can't master this one thing!”*

Harry had been so angry with her; she'd never seen anything like it, not even when she had
his Firebolt taken away. Part of her had wanted to quail under his gaze, but she was so upset, she
reflected now, that she could have hit him like she hit Malfoy in their third year. At that point,
she had really felt as though they were at a crossroads—either he did it, and could defend himself,
and attack the way he was going to have to, or he threw in the towel. In her mind, he had shown
enough magical aptitude that he could do almost anything—as she had believed of Dumbledore.

*Harry glared at her and ran a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. He shook his
head and turned his back to her. He began to pace once again, but Hermione was not impressed. She
put her hands on her hips and literally tapped her toe in impatience**.*

*He stopped as if he was going to say something, but Hermione could tell he was trying to
check his temper. Finally, he blurted out, “You think I don't want to be able to do this? You
think this is some kind of game to me?! Believe me, Hermione, I am* so *sick of you nagging me
about this day in and day out! As if I don't have enough to worry about!”*

*“Well, then!” she yelled in a great huff, “If you're so* sick *of me harping at you,
why don't you do something about it! If anyone can do it, Harry, it's you! Or, was that
some kind of fluke—like the Half-Blood Prince? Perhaps all the to-do about you is just for*
*nothing**!* *Harry Potter? Big**! B**loody**! De**al!” she
practically screamed at him, now with* *angry* *tears running down her cheeks.*

*“You don't think I can do it!” he shouted back**, the accusation sharp in his
voice**.*

*“I'm starting to have my doubts, Harry! What was that, today? I'll tell you what it
was**;* *it was too bloody close for me!” she pointed accusingly at Ron, who rested
fitfully across the room.* *“Next time* *that* *could be me!” She took a steadying
breath—she could feel her voice start* *to slip from all the shouting.* *“Next time,*
*that* *could be you! And if something could have been done to save your
a**r**s**e**,* *do you think I could deal with that? Now, either you get
it together, or you don't, but I have to know now, Harry! You've got to get serious!”*
*she brushed her tears away violently.*

*Hermione recalled how the room felt charged after that statement, and the next thing she
knew,* *the room had grown dark—the candles had extinguished themselves. Outside, lightning
had clapped down and ignited a dead tree not far from the house. Though startled, she*
*had* *advanced on him, poking him in the chest. “This is not a game!”*

*“I KNOW IT'S NOT A GAME!” he shouted. Hermione was thrown across the room, the effect
of* Expelliarmus. *She landed on her rear and skidded to the wall. Harry was next to her in an
instant.*

*“Hermione? Hermione, I'm* *sorry! Are you alright?” he asked, his eyes glowing with
worry, his face illuminated by the light of the flaming tree outside.*

*Hermione pushed herself up shakily on one arm. “Harry,* *I didn't have my wand on
me, just now,” she said weakly.*

*“I forgot,” he said simply, helping her up.*

*“But you did mean to disarm me?” she said with caution.*

*Harry's eyes focused on hers in thought. “I did.”*

*Hermione threw her arms around him in relief and started to cry uncontrollably. Harry
didn't know what he did or said, besides the obvious**:* *he disarmed an unarmed
witch. He started to apologize, and she just cried harder.*

*“Don't apologize, Harry! You did it!* *You did it! I knew you could!” she started to
laugh.*

*Harry pulled her back and looked at him for a moment. “You think I did? Really?”*

*“You thought about disarming me, and then it happened, right?” she asked, wiping her
eyes.*

*A grin broke across his worried face**, s**omething Hermione had almost forgotten
the sight of, it had been so long.* *“I did. I am sorry, but I did!” He wrapped his arms
around her and gave a loud victory whoop. Hermione started to laugh and soon began to cry out of
relief again.*

*Harry smoothed the tears away from her cheeks. “Don't cry, `Mione! Look!” He waved his
hand, wordlessly Summoning a box of tissues for her use. Hermione laughed, and for the rest of the
night, he tried to cheer her up with wandless magic. She, in turn, cried off and on throughout the
evening, feeling freer than she had since before she* *found out* *Harry was the Chosen
One. He stood a real chance against Voldemort. They stood a real chance of winning. Hermione, for
the first time, felt like she had a right to hope.*

Crookshanks slipped into the bathroom and rubbed his squashed face up against Hermione's
hand, urging her to come back to bed. She had slid down to the floor in remembering that night, as
if exhausted all over again from something that had been in all respects draining. She had slept
well that night, something she wouldn't be able to claim again until after Harry was left
standing alone in the ruin that was Godric's Hollow, and Voldemort was nothing but ashes.

Hermione stood and scooped her cat up. As she walked out of the bathroom, she caught her
reflection again in the mirror and tilted her face, touching her cheek where Harry had proven once
again that he could, indeed, do wandless magic. Her cheek tingled where he touched it. She smiled
in spite of herself, grinned stupidly, really, and she flipped off the light, her reflection
disappearing in an instant.

^^^^

To be continued.

-->



2. Chapter Two
--------------



Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended with this work. No profit is being made from
this work. The characters involved in this fiction are the property of Jo Rowling. What she does
with them is her own business. I'm just borrowing them for a wee bit.

A/N: Again, props go to my betas, Sierra and Molly. Your support has meant a lot to me. Who
could sail away with no wind, ladies?

To my readers: Thank you for your warm response for chapter one! I only hope you enjoy chapter
two as much!! And so, I present:

**Only Once: Chapter Two**

The days at St. Mungo's following Harry's visit turned out to be some of the most
distracting and frustrating for Hermione since she started work there three years ago. For
starters, a patient in her wing died early Thursday morning. She had been in the war against
Voldemort, and though deeply afflicted by a retching curse, she managed to weakly tell the junior
healer on duty that passing through the veil would be a cake-walk compared to all that she'd
suffered. Hermione understood that dying was a part of life, and she'd once heard tell that it
was the next great adventure. However, it was difficult to watch a once-youthful woman die bit by
bit over a stretch of time. From a purely academic standpoint, her inability to undo
Voldemort's damage frustrated her to no end. Most of the patients on the fourth floor these
days would turn up out of the blue, with a time-lapsed curse with no precursor, almost like a
virus. She'd seen enough of dying to last a lifetime, and yet somehow she found it necessary to
stay at St. Mungo's.

Apart from work, Crookshanks got into a fight with the neighbor's pit bull, doing some
damage to his ears and, Hermione thought, spraining his poor bottle-brush tail. She felt so swamped
at work that she couldn't take him to the magi-vet herself. There was no way her mother could
take him to a Muggle vet, and Mrs. Weasley was always busy watching her grandchildren. So, her poor
Kneazle-mix was on a pain-killing kibble until further notice. He was all right, but Hermione
wanted to get him a check-up. He was at least 16 years old, after all.

Personally, Rob Brownbeck, a thirty-something wizard from the board of directors there at St.
Mungo's, was finding more reasons to stop by her office again. They'd tried a few dates a
couple years ago, but at the time Hermione felt uncomfortable dating someone who was in a position
to fire her. She liked him well enough; he was perfectly amiable and intelligent. Part of her
wondered if she ought to take him up on his hinting… The more she thought about it, the better it
sounded, actually. If she were to itemize what she wanted in a wizard, he pretty much fit the bill.
He was intelligent, talented, and had pecan brown eyes that sparkled. It was the first thing she
noticed on a man. Maybe she should take a little break and try having a social life for a
change…

By Friday night, her head was swarming with her life, and she realized she'd not thought of
Harry or ring shopping with him at all. This was another straw on her proverbial camel's back,
and she spent half the night curled in her armchair in front of the fireplace. It was perfectly
normal to assume that Harry and Ginny would marry. He was what she'd wanted since almost the
beginning of time, it seemed. Hermione once heard Harry say that he felt *normal* with Ginny,
and if she knew Harry like she believed she did, that was what he wanted most of all.

The hard part for Hermione was trying to imagine Harry and Ginny being married. Yes, they'd
been together since Hogwarts, everyone just understood that they'd be together forever. And,
yes, it made since. Everyone, it seemed, was married. Ron was married. Luna: married. Neville:
married. Parvati: married. Lavender: married three times! Goodness, even Harry was going to take
that plunge. Hermione knew marriage was a special case, but Merlin! She hated being last in
everything, and yet, there she was. She was single, twenty-seven, living with a temperamental
Kneazle, prematurely gray, and though Rob seemed to be interested, she couldn't imagine being
married to him. She couldn't imagine being married at all, so where was all this
dissatisfaction with being single coming from?

She finished her chamomile tea and ran a hand through her tangles, pulling her hair before her
eyes. In the firelight, her hair did not appear streaked with gray at all, but rather ethereal, if
she thought about it. Her graying literally happened overnight during their Horcrux hunt. Hermione
had the misfortune of touching Hufflepuff's cup without protective charms, and her hair had
streaked right then and there. It was an easy price to pay considering the lesson they learned in
the process. Voldemort's bits of soul were volatile, and precautions were taken after that
point. Her scalp burned for days, large pieces of hair even falling out. Ron was horror-struck for
a while, but Harry, bless his heart, tried to tell her it was still beautiful, even though she knew
much better. It grew back in time, and as far as she could tell, it hadn't gotten much worse,
though this week deserved a few gray hairs.

She scooped Crookshanks up and took him to bed. She needed to get a few hours' sleep before
Harry came to get her to go to Diagon Alley. She couldn't give very good advice if she were
sleeping through the whole ordeal. The chamomile hit the spot; she fell into a deep, dreamless
sleep.

~*^*~

Crookshanks was kneading Hermione's stomach—an absolute demand for attention. Hermione
barely opened one eye in protest of the ray of light that shone through the split in her bed
drapes. She turned that one eye to Crookshanks and interpreted his look as three things. First,
that he was hungry and that she had no excuse sleeping when he was in such a condition. Secondly,
that she had morning breath, judging by the wrinkled nose featured on his squashed face. Third,
that it was a quarter to nine, and that she had, indeed, overslept. How Hermione garnered the time
from the look on her cat's face was beyond her, but he was such a clever thing.

Hermione groaned and threw her legs over the side of her bed, her toes barely touching the floor
in a blind search for her slippers. Upon finding them, she walked equally as blindly to her
bathroom, picking her robe up along the way.

Halfway through brushing her teeth, she heard her door buzzer. Poking her head out of the
bathroom, she checked her alarm clock. It was 8:50. Harry was early. She considered leaving him out
there in the cold chill while she got presentable, but the human part of her told her she
couldn't. She buzzed him up, conjured some tea, and shuffled back to her bathroom, toothbrush
still at work in her mouth.

“Oversleep much?” Harry called from her living room. Hermione heard him help himself to some
tea. She grunted in response.

“Stuff it, Potter. Morning isn't my forte,” Hermione grumbled from her room.

“Oh! And don't I know it!” he laughed, voice now alarmingly close. “Don't think I could
handle Scary Hermione Granger?”

Hermione whirled around, clutching her robe around her throat. Harry looked nonplused at her
bedraggled appearance. *At least I don't have morning breath anymore,* she thought with
some reassurance.

“Why don't you wait in the living room like a good boy while I shower? I promise I won't
be long. You're the one who's early, after all.”

“What, and miss this? You got up five minutes ago, didn't you?” Harry asked, with a
mischievous glint in his eyes.

Hermione started the shower and came back out to grab a towel and retort, “For your
information,” she glanced at her alarm clock, “seven. Go sit down, or go feed Crookshanks; he's
not eaten yet… But be careful of his tail, I think it's bothering him.”

Harry just stood there, eyes twinkling, but at what Hermione had no clue. She put her hands on
her hips and glared at him.

“All right!” Harry cried, throwing his hands up in surrender. “Keep your shirt on.” He laughed
and walked toward the kitchen.

Hermione emerged not ten minutes later, completely scrubbed clean, hair dried and Sleekeazed
into ringlets rather than shocked frizz, and dressed warmly for the weather. She walked into the
living room to find Harry in her favorite chair, petting Crookshanks in his lap and gazing at the
various Muggle and wizard photos on her walls. He smiled when he saw her.

“Ready?” she asked, grabbing her satchel.

“Yeah. Sorry, Crookshanks. Time to go,” Harry said apologetically, slowly standing to give the
cat time to escape.

As Hermione grabbed her keys, Harry held the door open for her. She walked past him onto her
landing, looking at him expectantly to shut the door. Sunlight was reflecting off the lenses of his
glasses, so she had no idea what he was looking at.

“You know, the gray in your hair—it's really cool like that, like you meant for it to be
there,” he said with admiration.

Hermione scoffed. “I most certainly did *not* mean for it to be there. I look like
Dumbledore. Believe me, Gin and I tried everything in the book to get rid of it,” she shook her
head exasperatedly, unknowingly showing her hair off more to her advantage.

Harry laughed and pulled the door to. “Well, I don't think you look like Dumbledore. I mean,
look at this,” he reached for a curl near her cheek.

Hermione stiffened as his fingers brushed her jaw. Her skin felt like it was on fire. He held
the curl out for inspection, and she found she wasn't looking at her hair at all. “See how
it's striped, with brown and almost white? I think that's great. You know, even Tonks would
have trouble changing her hair to look like this.”

Hermione swallowed, forcing her heart to beat slower. She shook her head again and Harry dropped
the curl. “That's probably because my hair is cursed, and she wouldn't want that. Come on,
now,” she said, going down the stairs. “Don't you have an appointment with the jeweler?”

“At 9:45.”

“Then we better get going, Mr. Potter.”

~*^*~

As Hermione was catching her breath from their half-sprint through the passageways of Diagon
Alley, she lost it again when they stepped inside Bandy, Borks and Tuttle. She thought she'd
had some kind of inkling just how up-scale Harry would be shopping--after all, he was an heir of
some consideration. She had thought wrong, however. They were the only people in the shop. She
thought she might go blind from all the glitter, and she felt markedly underdressed for the
occasion in a turtleneck sweater and jeans.

An oily man with a comb-over and out-dated dress robes swooped down upon them. “Ah, yes, Mr.
Potter,” the jeweler said with the requisite glance at Harry's forehead. “Welcome. Please, come
inside. My name is Gerard Mickelwaite,” he said, offering a limp hand to Harry. His goatee did
little to disguise his nearly missing chin. He turned to her and, upon noticing his gold teeth,
Hermione shuddered.

“And, who is this flower? Is this…?” Mickelwaite trailed off, obviously believing Hermione was
his fiancée.

“I'm not—” Hermione began, only to be cut off by Harry.

“This is Hermione Granger.” Harry turned to her and smiled. “She's my best friend.”

“A pleasure to meet you, my dear.” Mickelwaite clapped his hands twice. “Well, now, let us
begin, shall we?” He led them through the display room full of choker necklaces, and up a narrow
staircase, the entire time muttering security incantations. Hermione could feel anti-burglary wards
go up behind them as they passed. At the top of the stair, they were ushered into a showroom, the
likes of which Hermione had never seen, and was likely never to see again. Walls of stones and gems
glittered, making it appear as though the room were composed of pure light. She heard Harry gasp
beside her. She was glad she wasn't the only awe-struck person in the room. Afraid to brush up
against anything, she stuck by Harry's side. She resisted the deep urge to grab his hand, as if
to anchor herself in such a dizzying room.

“A nice effect, isn't it?” Mickelwaite tittered. He snapped his fingers, and the room dimmed
a considerable bit. Now it was filled with merely a million twinkles, something Hermione felt she
could handle.

For the next hour, the man droned on about the qualities of each gem, of each cut, the charms
one could have inlaid in a stone or band, and the kinds of insurance one could purchase. Hermione
knew she should be fascinated, considering gemology and its implications on everyday magic,
especially alchemy and medicine of old… There was so much history to it. Concentration was not with
her that morning, however.

“Miss Granger? Miss Granger?” Mickelwaite was trying to get her attention.

“Hermione,” Harry nudged her softly.

“Oh! I am sorry, there's just so much to look at,” she said sheepishly. She was there to
help Harry, but instead she was collecting wool. She gave him an apologetic look.

“I was just about to suggest to Mr. Potter here that we do an element-to-skin match test, to see
which alloy will compliment both your skin complexions. You want matching sets, I am assuming:
bands and the engagement ring?”

Hermione's eyes got as round as saucers. It was a good thing she was looking into
Mickelwaite's greedy eyes, because she didn't think she could look at Harry. She could feel
a blush burning on her cheeks.

“Mr. Mickelwaite, sir, I believe you misunderstood Harry. I'm not his fiancée. I'm just
his best friend.” She swallowed. “He's going to marry Ginny Weasley.”

Mickelwaite blinked in slow motion, absorbing that piece of information. “Oh! Well, I thought…”
he shook his head. “No matter, no matter,” he said. He cleared his throat and turned his full
attention to Harry. Hermione could tell that the jeweler would not be paying her any mind for the
rest of the appointment.

“Mr. Potter,” he simpered. “We can do the same process with a photograph. Do you carry a picture
of your beloved in your wallet, sir?”

Harry's brow furrowed, as though he didn't know the immediate answer to that question.
He leaned into Hermione to remove his wallet from his back jean pocket. Flipping it open on the
table, Hermione saw the obligatory bank notes and a bank-draft book. On the other side, was a photo
portfolio in the Muggle style. The first photo was of Ron's eldest baby, Molly Jane. She
gurgled from a swath of blankets. Harry flipped that over to reveal one of Ron and Hermione in
fifth year at a DA meeting. Colin must have taken the picture. The two of them were laughing—Ron
had just used *Rictusempra*, sending her into a fit of giggles. The next was a miniature of
his parents on their wedding day. Lily looked radiant with flowers in her hair, and Harry looked so
much like James that Hermione had to do a double take.

*That's what Harry and Ginny will look like on their wedding day, I imagine,* she
realized.

He flipped the next page, and she saw a blotch of red. The members of the Weasley family were
all crammed in front of the fireplace, each with a requisite Weasley sweater, and each looking very
happy. Facing that was picture of Hagrid, his face filling the paper. He was smiling, and his bushy
beard a snarl of knots. Harry turned the last page, and Hermione was surprised to see a snapshot of
herself. It must have been taken at Hogwarts, because she was in a squashy armchair, over-large
book in hand and, she thought with regret, her hair was still all brown. Why Harry carried that
around with him was beyond her. She looked up at him quizzically.

Harry shook his head. “Some boyfriend I make,” he said with humor. He pulled the Weasley family
portrait out and handed it to Mickelwaite. “I don't even have a snap-shot of the witch I'm
going to marry.” He gestured at the picture. “She's the one with red hair,” he said, amused as
though he'd made a clever joke.

Mickelwaite looked confused as he viewed twelve people, two of them blonde—Fleur and Luna, and
one brunette—Penelope. Hermione took pity on him and pointed Ginny out. She was sandwiched between
Fred and George, all of them smiling broadly. The jeweler smiled in acknowledgment. “She's
lovely, Mr. Potter. Unfortunately, this specimen is hardly large enough…” he trailed off.
Realizing, perhaps, that he worked on commission and it was in his best interest to make a sale
that morning, he added, “However, we can do a general coloring for Miss Weasley.”

Harry nodded and replaced his wallet. Hermione was distinctly aware of him as he leaned into her
space. “That's fine. I know I can leave that in your hands.” Harry paused. “I also hope I can
trust that nothing of our meeting will be in the *Daily Prophet*—or any other paper*.*
You see, I mean for the proposal to be a surprise. It will hardly be that if she reads about it in
tomorrow's society pages.”

“Of course, sir. Your privacy is our first interest.” Mickelwaite cleared his throat. Hermione
thought he might choke on his tongue. “Miss Weasley's eyes are green, then?” he asked, peering
at the picture.

“Er…no, they're brown. Dark brown.”

“And, is she very freckled?” he asked, inspecting closely.

Harry looked to Hermione for help. She could tell he had no idea what `very freckled' was
supposed to mean. That kind of thing fluctuated with the seasons. Hermione gave him a non-committal
shrug.

“No, not very. Average, I would say.”

*Typical*, Hermione thought, stifling a chuckle.

The jeweler stood, Hermione and Harry standing with him. “If you would like to look over our
gems and rings while I go and do the analysis… Yes. I think a pale yellow-gold will do nicely for
the two of you, but it's always nice to be sure.” He bowed deeply in Harry's direction and
backed out of the room.

Harry whistled lowly the second the door shut and the odious jeweler was gone. “I had no idea
someone could be that long-winded!” He regarded her carefully. “I didn't like how he ignored
you after he found out you were `just my best friend.'”

Hermione brushed it off. “I wouldn't worry about it, Harry. I'm not the reason
you're here today, and paying homage to me won't give him his commission.” She shrugged.
“Let's get started.”

They walked over to the first display of rings, none of which were in glass, but Hermione knew
they were heavily guarded just the same. Hermione moved a tag on one of them and almost fainted
from the number of zeros she saw following the initial figure.

“These are all base prices, I assume. Each charm after that adds a price,” she whispered, in
wonderment of the gems.

“Yeah,” Harry said, running a hand through his wild hair. “I had no idea this would be so
complicated. Charms, clarity, carats, color… It's enough to drive a man mad! Wouldn't it be
alright if I just got her one of these?” Harry asked, gesturing vaguely at the case of rings.

“Well, you could,” Hermione said, thoughtfully. “However, if you have one made, it will be hers,
and no one will ever have the same design. It will be individual.”

“All our rings are unique, Miss Ranger,” Mickelwaite said, practically sliding his way to
Harry's side. “Mr. Potter, if it's not any inconvenience to you, the analysis will take a
bit longer than expected,” he apologized, casting his eyes down.

Harry looked at him as if he'd never seen anyone quite like him. “No, that's fine,
*Mitchellwhite*. Miss *Granger* and I will browse some more, collect more ideas, if you
will,” he said with more than a touch of sarcasm. Mickelwaite had the good sense to leave them
be.

After he left, the two of them burst out laughing. Harry sat down in a chair, took off his
glasses and wiped his eyes. He looked quite different without his glasses on. Hermione stopped
laughing abruptly and wiped the tears from her eyes as well.

Harry shook his shaggy head, replaced his glasses and stood back up. “Well, let's get this
over with, shall we?”

They kept looking at stones, and Hermione could tell that Harry was getting edgy. She had to
admit, she found it a bit tedious—after you saw one amazing gem, you felt like you'd seen them
all.

Harry sighed and ran his hand through his hair again. By this time, it almost all stood on end.
“Hermione, I have no idea what I should get Ginny—what if she doesn't like it?”

Hermione resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. “Of course she'll like it, Harry,
you'd be the one giving it to her, how could she not?”

He shook his head in exasperation. “It's just—I want to do this right, it's the kind of
question you should ask only once in your life, you know?”

Hermione laughed, and Harry looked menacingly at her. “Oh, Harry. You don't actually think I
am laughing at you, do you?” He gave her a blank look. “Well, I am not. I just don't think you
understand. No unmarried witch in her right mind would turn you *or* your proffered ring down.
You've got nothing to worry about. You could make her a grass ring—Ginny would wear it.”

“So, what do you think she would like?” he asked, ignoring her last statement.

Hermione stuck her thumbs through the belt loops of her jeans, walking past a long display case.
“Well, if I remember correctly, she wanted something sparkly.”

“Check, we certainly have sparkly,” Harry said glumly. “That really narrows it down.”

“And,” Hermione said with irritation at his response, “I think she said something that would
change color, slowly shift, I guess. I think the only reason I remember that is because I had never
seen such a thing, being Muggle-born. Lavender or Parvati had a catalogue that showed it,
though.”

Harry chewed on that thought for a while, wandering over to a case of rings that were indeed
slowly changing colors. “Anything else you remember?”

Hermione thought for a bit. “No, but on a personal note, I don't think Ginny would want a
stone so large that it would be vulgar. However, I don't think she would say no to a
*slightly* vulgar ring,” she teased.

Harry smiled at her comment, looking at the rings in front of them. The smile soon faded,
however, and he appeared to be deep in thought. He turned to her, leaning on the case, regarding
her thoughtfully.

Hermione looked right back at him, until she felt the color creeping up her neck. “Yes? I
*was* teasing, you know.”

“What?” he looked puzzled. “Oh, yes, I knew that. I was just wondering what kind of ring
*you* would want.”

Hermione laughed uncomfortably. “Well, we're not here to shop for me, now are we?” She
turned to the case, looking at the rings but not really seeing them.

He turned back to the case as well, and edged close to her, their shoulders nearly touching.
Hermione felt her skin start to smolder under her thick sweater.

“But, supposing we were,” Harry began in all seriousness. “Suppose,” he paused. “Hey,” he
laughed. “Lighten up. It's a hypothetical situation, after all.”

Hermione laughed, but she didn't feel like joking anymore. Harry continued, his eyes
twinkling with mischief.

“Suppose I wasn't me, but some other bloke wanting to marry you, whom Ron and I did not
scare off, or maim, or chase away, or torture, *then* maim and *then* chase away…”
Hermione laughed in spite of herself. “Suppose this guy was here now, and suppose,” he said, “he
wanted to pick out this fabulous ring just for you…that you that you were going to l-o-v-e,” he
teased, waggling his eyebrows at her.

Hermione wasn't amused. “Harry, this is ridiculous. There's no potential, no
hypothetical anything! This is pointless; we should be looking for something for Ginny, not
me.”

“Hermione, there is no reason to get defensive. I don't mean to make you uncomfortable, and
you know it,” he apologized.

She smiled weakly. *What has gotten into me?*

“But, really. If you were in this situation for *you*, what kind of ring would you
want?”

Her mouth went bone dry. She swallowed and replied, “You know, I haven't really thought
about things like that. It's not like I do a lot of dating, Harry, and the prospects don't
look too good.”

“I can't believe you don't know something.” Hermione swatted him on the arm. “Why
don't you think about it—and that will help me make a better decision, okay?”

Hermione looked skeptical, but she turned toward the display cases with a new eye. She tried to
imagine actually being in this situation… some wizard shopping for a ring… for *her…*

“This one, or something similar,” Hermione said after a bit, calling Harry over to her.

“Which?”

She indicated a white gold ring with a marquise-cut diamond. Harry leaned in to pick it up.

“Don't!” she cried.

“Why not? I have permission, I made an appointment. Try it on.” He handed it to her.

Hermione's jaw dropped. “I don't think so,” she said with unease. “It's bad luck to
wear someone else's ring.”

“Well, it's not anyone else's right now,” Harry said easily.

Hermione couldn't think of any other reason to resist. She slipped it on; it was warm from
Harry's hand. The ring went on and sized itself once it settled on her finger. *That's
clever*, she thought. She looked at it on her hand, and wished that she had filed her nails
before coming. Some clear varnish wouldn't have hurt, either. Harry held her hand in the light
to admire the sparkle of the stone. Her hand went clammy and she resisted pulling out of his grasp
to wipe it on her jeans.

“So, why do you like it?” he asked casually.

“Well,” she cleared her throat. “It's part of a set, the companion ring is right there. No,
don't get it,” she said, as Harry reached for it. “We're talking engagement rings, not
wedding rings. No, please. I already feel uncomfortable, Harry,” she pleaded. He squeezed her hand,
as if to reassure her it was alright.

She took a breath and continued. “My mother wears a set like that, where it makes the look of
one ring. When I was little, I would ask her, why not a band like my dad's? She said an
engagement was a promise, and a wedding or marriage was the fulfilling of that promise, which she
saw as the same thing, so she liked the idea of the one-band look.” She sighed. “Um… I also like
how simple it is, and I like white-gold.” She looked at her hand, brown from the sun, and wondered
if yellow gold would suit better.

“It glows on your skin, `Mione,” Harry said quietly.

“I'm sure that's just the light in here. Everything is supposed to look appealing.
Anyway,” she said, extracting her hand from his and removing the ring to place it back among the
others, “it's simple and non-frilly. When have you ever known me to be frilly? Frizzy, I would
agree with.” Harry laughed.

She adjusted the ring on its velvet stand. “You know, chances of me marrying someone well-off
enough to frequent places like this are really slim. I could never expect something that amazing.
It must be at least two carats, and the cut is exceptionally fine.”

“You never know, Hermione,” Harry said seriously. “I have found that it's good to be
prepared. It's good that you have an idea in mind, for when the time comes,” he said
kindly.

She sighed, starting to wish for the return of the repulsive Mickelwaite. “I don't know,
Harry. My life seems too busy right now, you know? And, I've always thought that when I
married, it would be a marriage of true minds, like how Shakespeare wrote it. I don't want
someone to change me, and I know I wouldn't be able to change him,” she shrugged, staring at
the ring that was just on her finger. “That comes from within. Love takes hurdles and struggles
head-on, and never wavers. If I have to wait my whole life for something like that, I will.”

She could feel Harry looking at her, and she wondered if she had said too much. She knew she had
a problem with letting her mouth get the better of her. As if on cue, Mickelwaite came through the
door.

“Ah, Mr. Potter, we have the results. I *was* correct when I said the light yellow would go
admirably with both of you. Have you chosen a stone, a cut? We can have it ready for you in two
weeks, sir.”

He looked at Hermione for a moment longer before giving Mickelwaite his attention. “Yes, I
believe I have,” he said, walking over to the color-changing stones. Hermione stayed where she was,
hopelessly staring at nothing at all.

~*^*~

They stepped back out into the noon sunshine. Hermione smiled at the change in atmosphere—glad
to be out of the shop which ended up being very confining. Harry had signed all the paperwork and
would return in about two weeks' time to pick up the ring.

Harry took a deep breath of the crisp autumn air. “Remind me never to talk with that guy again.
When I signed the bank draft for the ring, I thought he was going to pass out in ecstasy. You'd
think he'd be used to working with people with a couple of galleons to throw around.”

“Well, if it's any consolation, Harry, you don't carry yourself like you're worth
half of Gringotts,” Hermione said reassuringly, threading her arm through his.

“I suppose not,” he said, kicking a stone across the alley. Diagon Alley, which had once been
very prosperous—Hermione could still remember Florean Fortesque's flourishing business, how
Eyelops Owl Emporium squawked from shops away, how street vendors used to peddle their questionable
goods… was still picking up from the ruin it had endured throughout Voldemort's terror
campaign. It seemed that everywhere she went, she was inevitably reminded to what Voldemort had
done. Fred and George's shop, she noted happily, was as ostentatious as ever.

They walked along, watching the October shoppers as they bustled along with packages. They
reached the Leaky Cauldron, and it looked fairly humming with business.

“Would you like to have a bite?” Harry asked. “I owe you, after you skipped breakfast and sat
through all that with me.”

Hermione thought the idea of lunch was very tempting and something she wanted to avoid all at
the same time. Her stomach betrayed how hungry she really was. Harry's eyebrow shot up.

“That sounds really nice, Harry, but I think I'll pass on this one. I've been putting
off taking Crookshanks to the vet—you might have noticed his ears and tail. Since I've got the
afternoon to do it, I should go. Thank you anyway,” she said, trying not to look guilty.

“A rain check, then? Maybe I can pull you away for lunch sometime next week?”

She smiled, “That sounds good.”

They walked through the Leaky Cauldron on to the busy London street. Parting ways, Harry leaned
down and gave her a kiss on the forehead. “See you later, then. Thanks for your help today.”

On impulse, she hugged him. It had been so long since she'd really spent any time with him,
and she was looking forward to their lunch next week. “You're welcome, Harry.”

She turned and walked down the street, not feeling much like Apparating at all.

-->



3. Chapter Three
----------------



**Disclaimer:** *Only Once* is a story created by me, Animagus-Steph [not my real name…
Stephanie, yes, Animagus, no. ], inspired by real-life events (minus all the magic parts—All my
friends are Muggles, you know…), and formulated using characters created by Jo Rowling. No profit
is being made from this fic, but donations to the “Let's pay off Stephanie's VISA bill”
fund are always welcome.

**A/N:** Mega props to the betas, Sierra and Molly. Sierra adds her technical and realistic
talent to this fic. Molly is the everlasting cheerleader: always encouraging and pushing me
onward.

**A/N****2****:** To the readers—thank you for your amazing praise. Please
believe me when I say thank you. Your comments are my tacklin' fuel. Et donc, je vous
présente:

**Only Once : Chapter Three**

“Well, I think that's it for this week, folks. Remember, we're not meeting next week—I
have to go to a conference in Brussels. So, two weeks from today,” Chief Healer Garrison said.

Hermione screwed the top back on her inkwell and placed it in her bag along with her quill and
parchment. She had been stealing glances at Robin Brownbeck off and on during the meeting. He had
caught her a few times, at which point she pretended to just be glancing on that side of the
conference table… even though Garrison was speaking at the other end. *To be caught looking!
Hermione Granger!* Though she couldn't really blame herself; he was looking exceptionally…
ooooh, did she *have* a word for it? Exceptionally and remarkably *well* in his business
robes that morning. She veritably hummed on the inside. Sometimes there were perks to working at
St. Mungo's.

“Hi, Hermione,” Rob said good-naturedly as he leaned against the door jam.

*Oh, my**.* Her heart was skipping double time.

“Hello, Robin,” she flashed a smile and continued on, trying avoid being stampeded in the exodus
of the conference room. A medi-witch who was talking with a supervisor blocked the way.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” he asked charmingly.

Hermione tried to think of something clever, but was foundering. She was bumped from behind and
she stumbled forward, which bought her a little time. Her Inner Gryffindor stepped forward.

“Why, Robin,” she began, tilting her head to the side and at the same time flipping her curls,
*oh, yes, Hermione, you remember how to play this game.* “I'm surprised you asked. You
see, I'm off to my office, to work, because that's what you pay me for here,” she said with
a cheeky smile, and started back for her office.

“Well, maybe I should just catch you when you're not at work,” Robin called after her.

Hermione stopped as she was turning the corner to her office and turned toward him. She shrugged
her shoulders non-committally and gave him a mysterious smile. “Maybe you should,” she called
easily.

He leaned against the wall again; his hands easy in his pockets and smiled back at her.

Hermione was still smiling when she reached her office. She was surprised to see three different
owls waiting on her window ledge. Well, rather, *two* owls waiting, and Pigwidgeon zooming
around both Hedwig and what seemed to be one of Luna's many short-eared owls. Hedwig snapped
disapprovingly at the tiny bird and the short-eared gave a low hoot.

“Pig, wait your turn,” Hermione laughed. “Ladies first,” she said as she untied the envelope
from Hedwig's leg and broke the wax seal.

*Hermione,*

*Sorry this is so short, but I have to cancel our lunch that we were supposed to have. I'm
out on assignment for a while, can't give details.*

*Don't worry, I'll be okay.*

*Harry.*

*P.S. I guess this means I'll have to take you to dinner, too, to make up for it. Curse my
bad luck. -H.*

Hermione felt that familiar sudden sinking feeling of dread she often got when she linked Harry
and probable danger. It was at moments like these that she questioned not going into the Academy as
well, just to keep an eye on him. She smiled, however, reminding herself that *those* days
were over and Harry was a very qualified Auror; there was nothing to worry about. She placed the
hastily-written note aside. Hermione was sure to hear all the non-classified details when he got
back, censored, of course, from all the risky parts. She sighed. Pig was getting dangerously close
to getting caught in her curls, so she grabbed him mid-swoop and wrestled the scroll from his tiny
leg. He didn't calm down until Luna's owl hooted again. Pig landed on the sill and puffed
his tiny chest out with pride.

She recognized Ron's loopy scrawl:

*Hermione,*

*You've not been around in a while. Molly J**a**ne wants her Mimi,* *Louie
wants what* *Janie* *wants, Luna wants some `intelligent conversation,' she says
(something I guess I can't give her), and I've not been nagged in a long time. So, come
over tonight. She's making some meat thing, I'm sure it's good. I've not complained
yet.*

*And, you work too hard. Come over, we eat at 6:30.*

*Ron.*

Hermione laughed. A few years ago, she would have been quite put out by Ron's nagging
comment, but she recognized it as his way of saying he missed her. She missed him, too. He was busy
with the Ministry and coordinating their security. It was a knack he discovered while on their
`great adventure,' and he managed to put it to good use. While Professor McGonagall had given
her a recommendation to be a researcher for St. Mungo's, Ron had gotten to where he was all on
his own, without the help of his father or brothers.

She hadn't seen the little ones in more than two months, and she felt that lack exceedingly.
She was Louie's godmother, after all. Every time she saw him, he was saying something new and
showering her with affection. He was as fascinated with her hair as she was with his. Louie had a
bit of a pink tinge to his head. When he was born, he was completely bald, but Luna insisted that
he'd be pink-haired. *I've always thought pink**-**headed boys should be called
Louie*, she said. Hermione still didn't understand what she meant by that, but it hardly
mattered.

Molly Jane, called Janie from time to time to avoid confusion with her grandmother, was
Luna's practical clone, but covered with freckles. She had Ron's big laugh and Luna's
mystical look, and all the imperiousness that defined a big sister. The day Molly was born, a big
piece of Hermione that was so hurt from the war was soothed and mended. Seeing her boys hold Molly
as though she were made of spun sugar, hearing them coo, and both admonishing the other for
speaking too loudly lest they wake her—to Hermione, it was as though she had begun to finally heal
after all that time.

Yes, she would go see them tonight, even if it meant she had to go in early tomorrow to catch
up. Besides, Luna really *was* a great cook. She reached for Luna's owl.

*Hello, Hermione.*

*I c**ouldn**'t be certain that Ron's `owl' would deliver your
invitation, so I thought I'd issue one myself. (Did you ever wonder if Pig were actually a
pygmy-winged notnopuff? They're very hard to distinguish from owls like Ron's supposedly
is. They're pretty worthless animals, so it's possible.)*

*We're having a roast and* *tatties* *tonight. Someday, we'll have to have
you over for* *ootrebin steak. It's really rare, but worth it.*

*So rare, I've never heard of it,* Hermione thought with a grin. Then the cocky part of
her thought, *and, if I've never heard of it, it probably doesn't exist.* She
continued Luna's note.

*Just because you've never heard of it doesn't mean it can't exist, Hermione. Come
visit and we can talk about it, perhaps.*

*LLW.*

She folded that back up, gave the owls treats and tucked into her work. If she wanted to get to
their house in time for dinner, she needed to get started.

~^*^~

Arriving at the Warren reminded Hermione of the Tolkien stories she read as a little girl. Ron
and Luna lived in an earth-home near a village in Somerset, near where they both grew up. It was
nestled into a hill, with little portholes to the inside. There were trees everywhere, so it was
hard to distinguish from its surroundings. What gave it away, however, was the purple smoke that
was puffing out of a suspicious-looking oak tree. Hermione wondered if perhaps Muggles couldn't
see it at all.

As she approached, Janie flew out from the front door and down the flagstone path to where
Hermione had Apparated. Hermione swung her up in the air and then carried her by her ankles up into
the house. Janie giggled with delight, “Mimi, put me down!” but she didn't sound like she meant
it. When the girl's face was red, Hermione put her down and Janie ran off, presumably to get
her brother.

Louie's greeting was much the same. Though a year younger than his sister, he was already
her height. He giggled as Hermione tickled and kissed him, and he squealed as Hermione presented a
bag of sugar-free Bertie's for him to share with Molly Jane.

“Only after dinner, Louie!” she called as he ran off to show the spoils to his sister.

Hermione stood and dusted her robes off and saw Ron leaning against the door frame.

“You're going to spoil them rotten, you know,” he said as if he cared.

“Why, Ron,” Hermione said with false indignation. “I just brought them sugar-free candy! It
won't spoil their teeth, and if I know Louie, it won't spoil his dinner. He'll wait
till after, like I told him.”

Ron thought this over for a moment. “You're right, but you've got more in that satchel,
if I know anything.”

Hermione arched one eyebrow and laughed as Ron wrapped her up in a bear hug. He pulled her away
to arm's length and Hermione stumbled to keep her balance. He looked at her critically. “You
work too hard, and you don't eat enough.”

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but Ron cut her off. “Good thing I have just the remedy.
Luna's been cooking all afternoon, and you're not going to want to go to work tomorrow,
it'll be that good. You'll be comatose on our couch.”

“Ronald!” Hermione heard Luna call from the kitchen. “My cooking will *not* put Hermione in
a coma!” Ron shook his head and mouthed *It's that good* to Hermione. They walked towards
the sound of her voice, and she saw now what was giving off the purple smoke. It was the fire,
above which was a pewter cauldron. Hermione could smell the potatoes and beef and vegetables. Her
knees went weak, and she sat down at the table. Luna walked in, brushing her hands off on her
apron, which was smeared with some yellow substance Hermione couldn't name and the tell-tale
ink blots that were as familiar to Hermione as anything. Luna had just stepped out of her office,
obviously just answering an owl.

“Hello, Hermione,” she said, giving Hermione a one-armed hug and continuing on to the counter.
“I'm sorry I didn't greet you. There's always something I have to edit or approve
before the late edition comes out.”

“That's fine, Luna,” said Hermione, trying to figure out what vegetables—or whatever they
were—that Luna was putting into the cauldron. She didn't chop them up or anything. They were
square and orange and the size of her hand, and she'd never seen anything like them before in
her life. She shook her head and decided she didn't want to know. “Thank you for inviting me.
You know I always love coming over here.”

“Any time,” said Ron, as he flicked his wand to start slicing a loaf of crusty bread.

“Well, not *any* time, Hermione,” said Luna, as if this was obvious. “Really, you
shouldn't come over if we're not here, or if Ron and I are—” Ron coughed loudly.

“Busy, Hermione, if we're busy,” he said with a blush.

“Not if you're busy, Luna, of course,” said Hermione slowly. Hermione certainly knew the
wisdom of that advice. Ron had the decency to look embarrassed, while Luna hummed away at the sink.
The last time she had dropped by while they were “busy,” Hermione got more than an eyeful of her
best friend, and she didn't want to repeat it.

“So, how's work, Ron?” Hermione asked to break the silence, and the three of them settled
into conversation until the children were called for dinner.

As they sat down, Hermione helped Louie to settle into his booster seat. (He had shyly taken to
mimicking every move she was making.) Ron cleared his throat. “How's the love life, Mimi?” Ron
asked with a grin. He knew Hermione tolerated the nickname from his children, but she couldn't
very well tell him not to use it in front of Molly Jane or Louie; they'd get confused.

“Oh, you know,” she said, passing a dish to Luna, “It's not bad. Picking up, I think.”

“Yeah?” asked Ron, genuinely interested.

Hermione pushed her hair behind her ears and cleared her throat. “Yeah, there are prospects,”
she said, searching the table for the peppermill.

“Like who?” Ron asked with a touch of suspicion.

“Roah! Rowr!” Louie yelled, banging his hands on the table and laughing.

“That's right, Louie, it's none of Papa's business,” Luna said, passing Hermione the
bread.

Hermione shot her a grateful look and buttered the slice.

“You know,” said Luna quietly, “I think it's good you're getting out there. Some women
in Eastern Europe and North Africa who wait too long to have babies have infestation problems with
llerups in their ovaries and become sterile. There are a few cases in Great Britain, and I would
hate to have it happen to you. You've got Ravenclaw genes, and Merlin knows we need more of
that.”

Hermione didn't quite know what to make of Luna's declaration. “You know I'm
Muggle-born, Luna. I can't have any of Ravenclaw's genes in me.”

Luna sighed. “Obviously, Hermione, it was more a figure of speech than anything. I *know*
you're Muggle-born. You really have to stop taking me seriously all the time.” Ron gave
Hermione a look that said *I certainly don't*.

Hermione gave Luna an apologetic smile and tucked in. Luna asked Ron about Ministry gossip, and
that carried conversation for a while. Ron was trying to wipe Louie's face, and Louie was
trying to worm out of his chair while continuing to *roah, rowr!* like a lion.

“I don't get it, Lune,” Ron said. “He only does this roaring thing when Hermione's
here.” Ron stopped trying to clean his son's face and turned to Hermione. “What have you done
to my boy?” he teased. Louie, who had been smacking his hands on the table, switched mediums and
began to smack Ron's face with his pudgy hands.

Hermione just shrugged. She wasn't complaining; she thought it was charming. She was just
about to start clearing the plates when the back door in the kitchen swung open.

“Hello!” a voice called into the house.

“Annini!” Molly Jane cried happily, climbing down from her chair and running to Ginny. “Fly me,
fly me, Annini!”

“She just ate, be careful, Gin,” Ron said.

“You spoil all the fun, Ron,” Ginny said as she swung her back into her seat and found her own
next to Luna.

“Just in time for dessert, Ginny, good timing!” Luna said admirably.

She smiled and said, “I know! It's this great watch that Fred and George gave me for my
birthday this year. I was just trying it out today because I wasn't sure if I trusted it. Now I
never have to miss dessert in this family again!” She showed off a wrist watch which had various
Weasley family members in place of numbers, and there was a hand marked “dessert,” and a hand
marked “dinner.”

“What if Mum and Dad are having dessert, and so are we?” Ron asked, thinking of the
possibilities.

“It points to the best one… So, always Mum's. Sorry, Luna.”

Ron looked doubtful. “I dunno… I think Luna always puts something special in her desserts. I
don't know what, but it's like I can't get enough.” Ron turned to his wife and waggled
his eyebrows. Luna looked back at him quite seriously.

“That's because I *do* put something in it, Ronald. That's half the secret.”

Ginny, who had grown to really like Luna over the years, was still skeptical of her. “What's
the other half?”

Luna calmly dished out the dessert. “If I told you the other half, it wouldn't be a secret
anymore, now would it?”

Hermione, who politely ignored Ron's waggling eyebrows, was not concerned in the least about
what Luna's secret was. All she knew was that the pie almost seemed to be calling her name, and
that getting a watch that told her when Luna was serving dessert sounded like a very good idea.
Maybe she'd ask Fred and George the next time she saw them… She'd had Luna's desserts
before, and she was never disappointed.

Luna passed her a slice that was thick with caramelized apples and topped with flaky crust.
Hermione's mouth started to water. Upon the first bite, she was sold. She had to get a watch
like that.

As they progressed through dessert, Hermione mused, on some level, that Luna and Ron really
*were* a good match; Ron loved good food and he loved a good laugh. He got both of those from
Luna, and, from Hermione's shrewd observations, he got a lot else besides.

Dessert had ended, which was good. Janie was getting restless, trying to pull Ginny from her
seat to play, and Louie had recommenced his animal noises. Ron got up and tapped his son on both
shoulders with his wand, and Louie went from being smeared with sugary apple and stew bits to being
a properly cleaned, rosy-cheeked English boy. Janie was less easy to corral.

“But I wanna baff! I wanna baff! I wanna play in the water!” she cried. “Annini, gimme a
baff!”

“Some other time, love. Your papa says not tonight.”

Janie started to cry, which made Louie suspicious. He looked like he was going to start the
waterworks, too. Though she loved Janie and her godson, she hated it when they cried.

“Now, now, let's not cry! I can't have crying babies when there are *Liger* stories
to read!” Hermione said slyly. Janie stopped crying immediately and tried to pull Hermione from the
table. Louie started banging his hands to be let down.

“Here,” Hermione said, gently tapping Janie on her shoulders and again on her forehead.
Janie's hair plaited itself down both sides. “Now, go and get into your pajamas, and you and me
and Louie will read, okay?” Janie nodded solemnly and bolted down the hall. Luna picked Louie up
and followed her daughter to the nursery.

“Looks like you two have the dishes covered, there's no reason for me to intervene,” said
Ron with a quick exit.

Ginny tutted. “Figures.”

They settled into a pattern of wand waving, Hermione washing, Ginny drying and putting away.
Hermione got to hear the latest at the Gaming Commission, where Ginny worked in the Quidditch
department. She got to travel all over the world scouting and reporting and the like. Her job,
added with Harry's, meant that the two of them didn't see each other on a regular basis.
Sometimes they had a week in each other's company, others, they'd have a few hours before
one had to Apparate off to work. Hermione thought that it made for an equally unstable
relationship, but that wasn't her business at all.

Hermione heard Janie squeal off in the direction of the nursery, and Ron's hearty laugh.
Ginny *Leviosa*-ed the last of the silverware into a drawer and the two of them walked to the
living room, where the fire was low and warm and cozy—the perfect atmosphere for getting the little
ones to bed.

Louie toddled in, followed by Luna, who looked as excited to hear about Liger adventures as her
children, and Ron, who was carrying his girl caveman style over his shoulder. Her dirty blonde
braids were swaying in the air and her face was flushed. Ron plopped her down on the couch next to
Hermione and sat down on the loveseat with his wife, pulling her close to his side. Ginny tried
holding Louie in the rocking chair, but he kept squirming and reaching for Hermione. “Pitchers!”
Ginny let him go and he climbed into Hermione's lap.

*Liger, Liger!* was the third book in a series of seven for children; this one, Hermione
knew, was modeled after William Blake's poetry. Most wizarding folk didn't know that, so
she felt as though she was giving them culture and educating them. The series took magical animals
and explained their properties and dangers through stories. The next book in the series was modeled
after Rudyard Kipling's *The Jungle Book*.

Before long, Louie was heavy with sleep in her lap, Janie drooling and leaning on Hermione's
arm, Ron and Luna were cozy on the couch, watching the fire, and Ginny was sitting with her eyes
closed, though Hermione knew she wasn't asleep. She placed a page marker in the book and closed
it. Luna separated herself from Ron and picked up Louie, while Ron folded little Janie up in his
arms and followed his wife. Hermione was feeling warm from the babies, so she set the book aside
and walked through the kitchen to the back yard to wake up. She was looking at the sky, reciting
the constellations in her head when she heard Ginny come outside.

“Hey,” Ginny said, bumping Hermione in a friendly hello. Hermione smiled at her in return.

“That was a good children's story, Hermione. I feel like I've heard it before, but I
can't place it. I was trying to figure it out.”

Hermione laughed. “Did you take Muggle Studies at Hogwarts?”

“Not after my O.W.L.s, but yes,” Ginny said, looking puzzled.

“Tyger! Tyger! burning bright in the forests of the night, what immortal hand or eye could frame
thy fearful symmetry?” Hermione recited, reaching back to when believing in magic was just blind
faith for her.

Vague recognition dawned on Ginny's face and she laughed. “Well, Molly Jane and Louie seemed
to like it, so I'm all for it.”

Hermione nodded and paused before replying. It wasn't always that Ginny rubbed her the wrong
way, but she felt like tonight had the potential to be bad for them. It wasn't *what* she
said just now, but *how* she said it that made the difference… Almost like she was surprised
that Hermione could be entertaining to a couple of little kids.

“I think it was the roaring pages as much as the story or my ability, Gin,” Hermione said. The
moon was new tonight, and so she could just see the lights of the closest town in the distant
valley.

Ginny smiled at her and twined her arm through Hermione's, steering her back into the house.
“Let's put some tea on—if I know anything, Ron and Luna will be a while. They love putting
their kids to bed. And then Ron sets all those security spells… They'll be a while.”

Hermione let herself be led back into the glowing house, where the kitchen was warm, the worn
cutting block gleamed and embers gave off their cindery perfume on the hearth. Hermione liked her
apartment very much—it was cozy and just the right size for her and Crookshanks—however, Ron's
house was a *home*, and she was jealous of him for the first time in a very long while. She
very much wished she could stay the night and help Luna with the babies tomorrow and not deal with
the rush-rush stress that was her life.

Ginny flicked her wand at the fireplace and the flames regained their purple vibrancy. She swung
the kettle over the fire and settled herself in a chair close to the fire. Her hair seemed to blaze
in the firelight. Hermione self-consciously touched her own hair. She knew the red wouldn't
suit her, but ever since she could remember, she'd felt plain with her brown eyes and ordinary
hair. Part of her wondered if she had tried to compensate for that with books and cleverness.

Hermione shook those thoughts out of her head; Ginny was saying something.

“…wondering if a baby girl would look like me or Harry, like how Molly Jane looks like Luna…
I'd like our girl to look like me, though Harry is so handsome. If she could have his green
eyes and my red hair—maybe she'd look like his mother. I think that'd be wonderful!” she
sighed.

Hermione tried to hide the look of surprise she was sure was on her face. She must have done a
good job of it because Ginny was staring into the fire thoughtfully. The kettle started to whistle,
so Ginny got some cups, giving Hermione the time to collect a suitable answer.

As Ginny set the tea service down on the table, Hermione replied, “I didn't know you were
talking about kids, Gin.”

Ginny laughed lightly as she poured Hermione a cup. “Well, not a lot lately, but we have before.
I think a little girl would be really nice, and Harry agrees,” she paused.

“And?” Hermione asked, thinking she knew where this was going.

“Well, he wants so many children! He won't even put a number on it! I think two would be
pushing it,” she said matter-of-factly.

“You do see where he's coming from, right, Ginny?” Hermione said, blowing on her tea.

“Well, yes, the more the merrier, I guess he's thinking—but it's not up to us to make
another Weasley family! I think that Ron and Luna might have that covered eventually!”

If Ginny meant for that to be funny, Hermione didn't see it. “I think you're missing the
point, Ginny. You don't know what it was like to grow up all alone. Harry didn't have a
soul to experience anything with until he met Ron—”

“There was Dudley—sometimes I think he and Percy fell from the same tree—always getting people
in trouble and tattling,” she said.

“Dudley spent his time making Harry's life hell. Harry was virtually ignored by that entire
house except to yell at him. He's always longed for what Ron had. It's only natural to
guess that he'd want a large family, too. Harry's spent all his life thinking he was
alone,” Hermione explained.

“Well, he's not anymore,” Ginny sighed. “He's got me, and Ron and you. Harry
shouldn't want to compensate for his past by repeating mine.”

Hermione was thoroughly confused. “What do you mean by that? Repeating yours?”

Ginny raised her eyebrow, as if this were painfully obvious. “Well, he may have `grown up
alone' but has no idea what it's like to be the Weasley Girl—like it was such an anomaly or
something. The seventh in a string of sons… And, I guess maybe it was, but just the same. I was
Number Seven, the Weasley Girl, the butt of jokes. `Mum and Dad kept having kids until they got
what they wanted. Mum'd still be having kids if it weren't for you, Gin,'” she said,
imitating George's voice. “I still get teased like that.”

Hermione simply did not see what the big deal was. “Well, that was just irresponsible of him,
Ginny. Each and every one of you is here for a reason. You're telling me you'd trade
*six* of your siblings to be the center of it all? An only child risks these three things:
growing up spoiled, growing up ignored, and growing up alone,” Hermione said sadly. “I'd give
anything for a sibling. I watched my parents' disappointment for years as they tried to
conceive after me. There's nothing sadder in this world than people who want children but
can't, and people who don't but have so many. You're wanted, Ginny. My parents and I
had such a disconnect after years of trying and failing… As if one child couldn't make up for
what they wanted. So, I strove to be the best example of an only child that I could be—-to try to
make them not regret only having me.” Hermione felt tired all of the sudden. She hadn't thought
about that in such a long time.

Hermione could tell that Ginny was struggling with how to respond to that. She looked apologetic
and then shook her head. “Harry and I wouldn't be like that. His only concern, he jokes, is
that he doesn't know how he could love them all. I think he needs to worry about loving me,
quite frankly.”

Hermione sputtered hot tea back into her cup as Ron and Luna reentered the room. Luna had her
head buried in the evening edition of the *Daily Prophet*. Ron whacked Hermione on the back
and Ginny shot her a concerned look.

“What'd you say to shock her this time, Ginny?” Ron scolded as only brothers could.

Ginny wrapped a lock of hair around her finger. “Hermione and I were just talking about the
benefits of being an only child versus being one of many,” she said casually, as always a smooth
liar. Hermione could tell from her tone that she didn't want Ron to know the details of their
discussion.

“Oh, well, it'd be right boring all alone, what do you think, Lune?” Ron asked, reaching for
the left-over pie. Hermione's stomach growled—she couldn't possibly eat more pie, but her
body obviously thought differently. She instead focused on Luna.

Luna pulled the paper down in front of her face, to where her big eyes were just visible. She
focused on Ginny and didn't blink. “I was very lonely after my mother died. I didn't have
anyone besides my father. Having siblings might have been nice.” Luna paused. “Or it might not have
been.” She slowly pulled the paper back up to its original position. Ron, who was satisfied with
that answer, popped a piece of crust into his mouth.

“See, Ginny? It's like I said,” he began, and suddenly Luna folded up the paper and passed
it to him.

“I'm done, Ronald. There was nothing noteworthy in there tonight.” Ron flipped it
immediately to the sports page. Hermione was of the same opinion about the *Prophet* being not
noteworthy everyday, though she was certain that Luna's definition and her own of the term
`noteworthy' were completely different.

“Cannons lost again. I can't read any more,” Ron said dejectedly around a mouth of pie. Ron
shot a look at Luna. He swallowed before continuing. *It seems Luna's having some influence
on him! Amazing!*

“Ginny, why can't you do something about it?” he asked, as if the fate of his team rested in
his sister's hands.

Ginny rolled her eyes and picked up the rejected paper in question. “Ron, I only scout. I
can't force the Cannons to take on better players. Until they have an opening on their abysmal
roster, they're pretty much doomed.” She flipped past the front page, which featured a picture
of Fudge, who was trying to get back in the public's good graces. Too bad he didn't have a
clue how much of a joke people thought he was.

Ron grunted noncommittally.

“Oh, Hermione, there's a fall sale at Madam Malkin's. We should go and get fitted for
holiday robes,” Ginny commented, flipping the page.

Hermione nodded as she swallowed her tea.

“The National Quidditch League's gone up 25 points today. I think that's because of the
new Chaser that signed to the Holyhead Harpies yesterday. She's showing a lot of promise.”

“Twenty-five what?” Ron asked, looking confused.

“In stock, Ron. It's called part of my retirement plan,” Ginny said with irritation, as she
turned to the society pages. There was a pause as Ginny read an article; Hermione was thinking
about gathering her stuff to go home. She had a feeling Ginny was just itching to pick a fight with
someone. Better it wasn't her. She was about to carry her tea cup to the sink when Ginny
stopped her.

“Hermione?”

Upon hearing the pitch in her voice, Hermione braced herself. “Ginny?” she replied, trying to
play down whatever was coming.

Ginny closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She folded the paper and placed it on the table in
front of her cup with deliberation.

“Just what was it that you were doing with Harry this weekend?”

*What?* “Excuse me? That's not your business.”

“What are you talking about, Ginny?” Ron asked, pie forgotten. He grabbed the paper and opened
it up to where his sister was.

“I didn't even know he was back! Why were *you* with him at that *place?*”

Hermione wasn't going to take the bait. “I don't know what you're talking about,
Ginny.”

“Don't play coy with me, Hermione! You're always sneaking around! It's in the bloody
paper this time! You can't hide it!”

Ron laughed out loud. “Oh, Ginny! You can't be serious! You think this is what you should be
upset about! Oh, this is funny! Listen to this!” Ron tried to start reading twice but couldn't
manage. Ginny was fuming. Luna pulled the paper away and read in a conspiratorial voice:

*“Spotted yet again, The One Who Conquered and his Amazing Heroine, Hermione Granger, were
seen stepping out of the inconspicuous* Bandy, Borks & Tuttle*.* *A beaming Miss
Granger certainly looks pleased as she clings to her Chosen One's arm. The only thing we have
to say is, `Get on with it, already!'*

*“Yet again, Harry Potter has led us into a Feint for the Golden Snitch. Just four weeks
ago,* *he was* *spotted with his supposed flame, Ginny Weasley, Quidditch* *scout
and all-**around* *hot pepper. Things supposedly got too hot, however, at* Chez
Colza*, famous for fine dining, if not a tad on the trendy side.* *Though* the Prophet
*was unable to discern the nature of their argument, it is clear that The* *Boy* *Who
Lived would rather* *have been* *living somewhere else at the moment.* *As you see
below, Miss Weasley, sister to the Master Tactician, must have checked her tact at the
door.*

*“With a circulation of more than ten million, we're sure Miss Weasley will catch a gander
at this picture**, and perhaps we'll get our answer to Britain's most burning
question**s**: When* *will Europe's Most Eligible Bachelor catch the Snitch? And
which one will she be?”*

By this time, Ron had tears rolling down his cheeks. “Harry is not going to like this!” Ron
sniggered. At Ginny's glare, he switched tracks and tried to comfort his sister, “Ginny, you
have to be mad to take this seriously! I mean really! You remember the love triangle story they
tried after Louie was born! It wasn't until after we pressed charges that they left us
alone!”

“Ron! This is completely different!” Ginny said with a shrill in her voice.

“I think it just bothers you that Hermione's picture is so much nicer than yours, Ginny,”
Luna said kindly. “It's okay to be jealous.”

Ginny glared at her, but Luna looked back placidly. Ginny turned her ire to Hermione, who raised
an eyebrow in challenge.

“What were you doing there with Harry?” she asked again.

“That is not your business, and I don't see why it ever would be.”

“Harry is *my* business,” Ginny challenged, pointing a finger at her chest.

“But I am not!” Hermione replied, shaking her head. “I don't report to you, and before you
even think it, I am not about to give a report on Harry!”

“There are pictures like this in the paper at least once a month, Hermione! I am sick of it!
What were you doing there?”

Hermione was about to retort when Ron jumped in. “You're going to have to ask Harry that,
and good bloody luck, little sister. He hasn't taken kindly to having his actions challenged in
the past, and he's not likely to start,” Ron said, shaking his head.

“You don't know him like I do, Ron,” Ginny replied with confidence that Hermione thought was
misplaced. She turned to Hermione again. “Couldn't you just manage not to hang out with Harry
for a while until the gossip dies down? Things like this hurt my relationship with him,” she said
with frustration.

Hermione was indignant. “No. I am not going to quit seeing my best friend just because
you're insecure.”

“I am *not* insecure, Hermione!” Ginny shrieked. Ron snorted.

It was going to take a lot more to convince Hermione, but she wasn't quite done with Ginny
yet. She'd put up with these accusations a little too long. “Don't you get it? *This*
is the reason why I moved out of Number 12. I couldn't have a private conversation with Harry
without being served a bloody guilt trip on a silver platter from you!”

“I did no such thing!” she replied resentfully. “You are always looking to be offended!”

It was Hermione's turn to snort. She knew she shouldn't bring Ron into it, but he was a
first-hand character witness. He lived there with them, after all. “Ron, do you remember Michaelmas
the year we defeated Voldemort?” she asked with a gleam in her eye.

“I sure do, Hermione,” Ron said, nodding his head enthusiastically.

Hermione smiled; she knew she could count on him, even if his only motive was to take the mickey
out of his sister.

“If I recall correctly, Gin, you ended up being Petrified by Harry because you almost cursed
Hermione.” Ron smirked and rubbed his chin in fake thought. “But, Mimi,” he started, turning to
Hermione with twinkling eyes. She let this one slide considering the situation. The worst part was,
Ron knew he was going to get away with it. “Mimi, I don't recall what you had done
*wrong*…”

Hermione was *not* going to use this to tease Ginny—she was going to let her have it. She
was going to get it through to her once and for all. “I, Ronald, had made the grave mistake of
calling Harry into the library for his opinion on something and taking too long, which, of course,
aroused suspicion in your sister! When I walked into the kitchen before Harry, she was ready to … I
don't even know what!”

“That's ridiculous, Hermione! I did not almost curse you!” Ginny exclaimed, her voice
dangerously shrill for a house with sleeping babies.

“Did you get Obliviated, then? Why would Harry have Petrified you, Ginny?” Hermione retorted.
Ginny struggled for an answer. Hermione continued. “That sort of thing happened all the time! You
didn't even live there! He was my *housemate*! My best friend! We didn't have some
illicit affair to hide from you! We don't now! *Your* insecurity hurts *this*
relationship, Ginny.” Ginny's jaw dropped. “You're trying to make me choose, and I
won't have it. What I do is not your business.” Hermione sat in quiet triumph at her outburst,
but Ginny seemed not to notice, finally finding a response.

“I am not insecure!” she screeched.

Ron decided to change tracks, now seemingly interested in calming her down. Hermione felt
ashamed at thinking how she spoke out of turn. This certainly wasn't going to make Harry's
relationship, or Ron's, any better with Ginny. Ron decided to calm his sister. Hermione could
see that he had a careful ear trained down the hall, listening for his babies. “It's just a
picture, Ginny. They've done this with me and Hermione at least a dozen times, and Luna never
gets upset. Luna knows I love her. Don't you know that Harry loves you?” Ginny looked stricken.
“Hermione is my best friend, and yet Luna hasn't asked me to stop seeing her. The same should
be true for Harry and Hermione.”

Ginny took a deep breath, her chest rising. “Don't you even try to lecture me on
relationships, Ron! It's not like you and Luna are especially average!” She took another deep
breath. “And, of course you're going to take *her* side! I should expect no less!”

“Gin, you're being ridiculous.”

“I am NOT being *ridiculous!!*”

Luna stood, blue eyes suddenly clear and flashing like waves of water, “Ginny, you are going to
have to leave. You will not be welcomed back if you raise your voice again. I cannot have you
waking my babies.” She sat back down in her seat, eyes once again with a far-away look. “As a
matter of opinion, I think you *are* being ridiculous. Just look at the source. I never
believe anything I read in the *Prophet.* If it were in the *Quibbler*, it would be a
different story. Good night.”

Ginny sat there, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. She glared at Hermione; she
glared at Ron, gathered her things and stalked out the door. A few moments later, a loud
*BANG!* like a backfiring lorry sounded through the house and yard. Hermione heard Louie's
tell-tale cry. Ginny had done that on purpose.

Luna smiled serenely, as if nothing were amiss. She kissed Ron on the head and walked to the
nursery. Hermione felt too embarrassed to stay and started to gather her things. She didn't
want to have a conversation with Ron, and she knew one was coming.

“This was just Saturday?”

Hermione looked up from her satchel. “Yeah. I don't know why they waited to print the story.
It's been a few days.”

“The Wednesday *Prophet* has the Society section. It was an ideal time to print.” Ron
turned his attention back to the pie, which was now almost gone. He was quiet for a few moments.
Hermione let him eat in silence.

“Yeah,” he muffled around a bite of pie. He swallowed. “You know she's only like that with
you. She regrets letting him go face Voldemort alone—staying behind, you know? I think she thinks
you could have stayed behind instead.”

Hermione shook her head vehemently. “I could have no more done that than cut off my right
arm.”

“I know,” Ron said simply. He sighed. “She knows there're things he'll never talk about,
never discuss. They're not for her ears—well you know what I mean, `Mione.”

Hermione nodded, her mind flashing a million bad dreams in an instant. “She's jealous
because, though Harry might never mention them again, he could tell you. It doesn't matter that
he could tell me—Gin's okay with that. You can offer him that kind of release that she will
never be able to. She can't accept that.”

“Ron, I don't know what I am supposed to do. It's not my intention to make her
suspicious. It's not my intention to do anything!” She sighed, suddenly very tired. “I
didn't mean to get into a fight, Ron. I'm sorry.”

“There's no reason to be sorry. *You* didn't do anything wrong,” Ron said
seriously. “This is a conversation my sister needs to have with Harry, but she'd hardly admit
to being jealous of you.” There was a pause as Ron took the plate to the sink. Hermione picked up
her satchel. She needed to get home. Ron made his way back across the kitchen, stopping to drop a
kiss on Hermione's head. He stopped at the door. “Goodnight, Hermione. Thanks for stopping
by.”

Hermione smiled. She could almost hear the `I miss you' at the end of Ron's statement.
“Thanks for dinner, Ron. Goodnight.” She had her hand on the door out of the kitchen when she
heard:

“'Mione?”

She turned back to Ron expectantly.

“You were helping Harry pick out an engagement ring, weren't you?”

Hermione felt her stomach drop. “Yeah. Did he talk to you?”

“Yeah, he did. Came by the afternoon he asked you to help him with the ring. Asked my permission
and everything.”

Hermione swallowed, her grip tightening on the doorknob. “Oh?”

“Yeah. So, you guys found one?”

“Uh huh. He picks it up in a couple of weeks,” she replied, resisting the urge to bolt out the
door. Ron said nothing, but stared at Hermione for a few moments, lost in serious thought from the
look on his face. Hermione doubted he saw her at all. She was about to say goodnight again, when he
gave her a half-smile, his blue eyes clear.

“The poor dumb bastard,” Ron said with sympathy. For what, Hermione had no idea. He shook his
head, as if to clear it of some idea. “G'night, Hermione.”

She smiled, though confused. “'Night, Ron,” she said, taking her cue to open the door. The
crisp air did nothing to clear her head. She walked about a quarter mile down the path before she
Apparated home. She hoped that Luna got Louie back to sleep alright…

-->



4. Chapter Four
---------------



**Disclaimer:** I don't own it, however, this is inspired by real-life events (even the
beginning anecdote). Since I don't own it, I am not making any money. Believe me, I wish I
were. Also, I upped the rating to PG-13 for this chapter and the next, which I am working on. I
just want to be careful.

**A/N:** I would like to send my thanks out to Mollywobbles, my beta and friend who helped me
line for line, and to Sierra, general Jack of All Trades. And, to my readers, I am so sorry this
has taken so long. I hope you still find interest in the story. With DH coming, I am motivated to
finish, so let's keep our fingers crossed and hope my laptop stays for the journey! A star to
the person who gets the Scrubs reference!

**Special Note of Thanks:** To Plumgirl. She wrote this amazing story called “Must Be
Approved by Crookshanks,” and without it, I would not have such an inspiration for Mione's
Crookshanks in this story. You all really must read it and give it the praise it deserves.
-Steph

**Only Once, Chapter Four:**

Hermione laughed and put her wine glass down on the linen table cloth. “I thought I was the only
one who had ever done anything like that,” she laughed again. “Though mine's a little more tame
than yours… I was so embarrassed—I just wanted to fade into the woodwork.” Hermione folded her
hands in front of her mouth, smiling a little to herself, remembering. “My parents are Anglican,
and they raised me as such. Father Edmund, a retired priest in our parish, ate with us from time to
time. He was widowed, so it was good for him to get out—my mum was especially fond of him, so she
made his favourite of hers, shepherd's pie.” Hermione paused, taking a sip of her wine.

“It's one of my favourites, too, actually.”

Hermione smiled at her dinner partner. “It's great, one of her best.” Hermione caught
herself before she said: *You should come over and try it sometime.* She continued, “My dad
likes it with a real good stout—so I split a bottle between my dad and Father Edmund for dinner and
a bottle of water between me and my mum. Well, who gives beer to a priest? I set it down in front
of him and took my seat, and we said Grace. Father Edmund picked up his stout and I realised in
that moment what I had done, and poof! It was gone!”

“You made it disappear!”

“Well, my dad spotted it just as Father Edmund did, and he said something like, *Hermione must
have forgotten* *yours;* *let me get you something to drink.* And he brought back
another bottle, and all my worries were for nothing, because I suppose that clergy *can*
drink, but my dad was smirking all night at me. He kept my secret, but he teased me about it for
days. It's a good thing that Muggles only see what they want to.”

“Indeed,” Robin laughed. “Well, it would have been *more* impressive if you'd turned
your mum's water into wine.”

“I know,” Hermione said, shaking with laughter. “But I think Someone's already got the
corner on that market.” She sat back and regarded her dinner partner. “You know, Robin, if someone
had asked me where I'd be at 8 o'clock tonight, I would have said my office. This has been
nice.” She forced herself to be more open than she would normally let on. “Really nice. Thank
you.”

Robin took a sip of his wine and regarded her with what Hermione could only describe as
sparkling eyes. “It really is my pleasure, Hermione,” he paused. “Though, if you had asked
*me* about my chances of success, I wouldn't have guessed that my `Granger, how about
dinner?' would actually have worked. I am glad it did, however. Very glad.” He smiled.

Hermione blushed and toyed with her napkin. She couldn't remember when she'd had such a
nice date—because that's what she'd have to call it. A date, and no one set her up, no one
bullied her into it. Actually, yes, she could. It was a few years ago, and she was at dinner with
the exact man sitting across from her. Why did they stop? Oh, yes, he was her boss then. *Not*
*your boss now.*

“I guess it's a good thing I don't supervise your department anymore. Very lucky for me
and all,” he winked. A young witch came with their check. Robin signed for it and she walked
away.

Hermione cleared her throat and looked at her watch. “I should get going,” she smiled
apologetically.

Robin stood and helped her with her cloak and they walked in companionable silence to the
Apparition point. When the queue dwindled to just them, Hermione turned to thank him again for the
dinner; he ducked down and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. Just a touch of pressure, a touch of
warmth and Hermione was dazed. She blinked slowly.

“Thank you for dinner, Hermione. I hope that we can do this again before another three years go
by.” Robin smiled genuinely, shoved his hands in his pockets, and took two steps back. A soft
*pop* and he was gone, and it was Hermione's turn to grin. She brought her fingers to her
lips and pressed them there. She fought the urge to giggle as she Apparated to her flat.

~~~~~

The next week flew by for Hermione, and while she heard from Ron just once—a perfunctory apology
for his sister's antics at dinner, she hadn't heard from Harry. She expected something
soon, even if it was just his mail. Hedwig was an efficient post-owl, in that she brought Hermione
Harry's mail if he was gone for too long. Harry had all his fan-mail sent to his solicitor, but
all personal mail went straight to Number Twelve. She supposed she could just *go over there*
and pick it up, visit with Dobby and all, but it wouldn't do to be caught by You-Know-Who.

*Since when did Ginny Weasley become Lord Voldemort, Granger?* She obviously had some
things she needed to work out with her old housemate. Sighing, and imagining another confrontation
like the one at the Warren, she put that notion to the back of her mind.

In the meantime, she had some errands to run, and she figured it wouldn't hurt to go
shopping in Diagon Alley for some robes and supplies, and to pick up some treats for Crookshanks at
Eeylops… She longed to spoil him, but he was getting a little portly.

After a bit of a splurge at Madam Malkins, she decided she'd tuck in for just a moment at
Quality Quidditch Supplies, thinking about how scandalous this would look to Ron and Harry if they
caught her… But it was a good idea to stay apprised of the market when you had two fanatics to shop
for! She was browsing the twig dehumidifiers and trying to remember which species tree was used for
Harry's broom end. She knew it was a tree that grows in cold climates, but it wasn't a
conifer…

“Wych elm for me, linden for Ron.”

Hermione's heart leapt in her throat, and almost instantly her wand was in-hand. She took a
calming breath, knowing who it was as she felt his hand remove her wand and turn her around. She
closed her eyes in relief and rested her head against Harry's chest. “Merlin, Harry, make some
noise!” she half-laughed, still a little shaken. Harry hugged her, and Hermione knew he had a smile
on his face. She pulled back to look at him.

“I did, I even stood next to you for a whole minute looking at the same display. You were in a
completely different world.” Harry laughed.

Hermione nodded, her heart finally back to its normal rhythm. “I forgive you, Harry,” she
teased, and picked up the box she had dropped in surprise. She took a good look at him and was
about to ask about fifty questions when Harry interjected.

“Why, thank you for your forgiveness, `Mione,” he grinned. “To answer your questions, because I
know you have them, I am back for the day, and no, I am not done with my assignment; I leave again
in the morning. Yes, I would appreciate it if you went to Number Twelve and picked up my mail, if
that's no trouble. I had to send Hedwig out, so she can't bring it, and I think there's
a lot. I'm here to pick up a few supplies for my broom,” he said, holding up a package, “which
I *am* using, very much, thank you *again* for that commission to have it made. Also,
I'm glad I ran into you, can you sign this?” He produced a paper from between his fingers.

Hermione smiled at his ability to read her thoughts, took the parchment and pulled him over to a
bench in front of a selection of trainers. She read the document carefully; it was the contract
details to Bandy, Borks & Tuttle, the jeweller Harry had commission Ginny's engagement
ring.

“You look really well, Hermione.” Harry said, matter-of-factly.

Hermione looked up in surprise from her reading, raising an eyebrow. “Thanks, Harry. You, on the
other hand, look like hell.” He did. Harry's hair was messier than usual, and Hermione
questioned the date of its last washing. He had some circles under his eyes, a five o'clock
shadow, which actually looked quite nice, and he looked like he could use a good long nap.

“Oh, Hermione, you must win all the boys with your sweet words,” Harry said with good humour,
but Hermione had already turned back to the parchment in front of her.

She read the rest of the details quickly and looked at Harry with questioning eyes, and he
explained. “I don't know how long I'm going to be up north—and,” he looked around, and
suddenly there was a privacy ward surrounding them. *Good thinking, Harry.* “There were some
snags with Gin's ring, so I might not be here to inspect it, and then pick it up. I might need
you to witness the charm-setting, which I didn't know they needed me to do, and then to pick it
up when it's all finalized, and then to go to Gringotts and put it in my family vault until I
get back.” Harry took a breath. “I have to run and get the jeweller and then we go to Gringotts and
get it notarized… So, what do you say, Hermione Jane?”

Hermione took Harry's proffered quill and deftly wrote *Hermione Jane Granger* in her
neat script and dated it. She tapped it with her wand, giving it her personal seal, and handed it
back to Harry. He took it in his hand and it disappeared. “I really have to run; I'm meeting
Ginny for dinner at six. I've not seen her in an age.” Hermione thought he looked a little
tired and wished he could at least take a day to rest up before he “went back north,” which she
understood to mean Azkaban. She again fought down the feeling that she should have gone to the
Academy rather than work at St. Mungo's. She smiled with what she hoped was a bright,
not-worried-best-friend smile, and was rewarded with “Don't worry,” which she knew he'd
say. Hermione rolled her eyes and stood up.

“If you're up north, Harry, use this,” she said, using her wand to demonstrate her bluebell
charm.

“Works every time. Thanks, `Mione,” he said, rising to his feet. Harry dropped a perfunctory
kiss on her forehead, his slight stubble grazing her skin. Hermione's skin tingled from the
sensation.

He looked at his watch and did a slight wave with his right hand; the privacy ward disappeared.
“I've got to go. Thanks again, Hermione.” He looked like he wanted to say more, but shook his
head. “I don't know when I'll be back, but I'll try to floo you.” And he was gone out
the front door, leaving behind him the jingle of the bells on the door.

She gathered her purchases and left the store; she had to stop by her apartment and then to
Number Twelve to get Harry's mail. She wondered if Dobby'd let her fix him dinner…

~~~~~

Hermione shivered as she stepped out of the lecture hall at St. George's. It was overcast,
and she felt as though snow might start falling at any moment. She hated the first snow in the
city, as everything was dirty and grey, but the event itself was so exciting.

“Did you like it, Hermione? I thought the lecturer had a lot to bring to the table.” Robin
asked, falling in step beside her.

“Oh, yes, I did! I mean, I was familiar, very familiar, with Hippocrates already, seeing it is
some of what I do and all, but I *love* learning about things from a Muggle perspective,” she
veritably gushed.

“I thought you were going to fall out of your chair in excitement when they opened the floor to
questions.” Robin teased Hermione, nudging her with his elbow as they began their way back toward
Kingston and the local Apparition point.

Hermione blushed slightly, her face warming in the cold, and cleared her throat. “Well, what an
opportunity, to pick Dr. Beaumont's brain on Hippocrates' perspective and practice. How
many times am I going to get that chance? He's the expert at the university and all.” She
sighed happily. “It was absolutely fascinating!”

Robin smiled. “I really thought so, too—the way he brought the old mythology of Asclepius in and
steered some of the lecture that way, I thought—”

“That he was going to bring magic into the discussion, too!” Hermione finished for him
enthusiastically.

“Exactly!” he replied in earnest. He opened the door to a telephone kiosk that was marked “Out
of Order” and ushered Hermione inside. She shut the door, and a moment later, she was stepping out
of the shadows of the market place when she heard a soft *pop* behind her.

Robin took a deep breath and looked around to make sure no one saw them, and then looked to
Hermione with raised eyebrows, as if to say *what next?*

Hermione smiled at him; she didn't want the evening to end—there were still so many things
to discuss about the lecture. She put her gloved hand into his and led him to the “Doctors Orders”
café, which was in the Doc Martens store.

“You're joking, right?” Robin laughed. Hermione laughed, too, and hung a right down the
road, pulling him after her. It had started to snow, and the yellow of the street lamps mixed with
the falling flakes gave him a children's story look, with his coat and scarf and snow dusting
his dark locks. She opened the door to a little bistro that she knew for a fact had great coffee
this time of night and took a seat near the far wall.

A waitress brought their order quickly, and the two delved into the minutiae of the history of
Ancient Greek medicine and resolved the conversation with a promise to attend the Archimedes
lecture the following week. Hermione was most pleased.

Robin took a drink of his Americano and leaned back in the booth, a tired smile playing on his
lips. Hermione was slowly enjoying her chamomile, which she was keeping warm with an old-remembered
charm. “What has you smiling?” Hermione asked, admonishing herself for hoping it was her.

“I was just thinking about when I first made your acquaintance, is all. Somehow, I figured you
were just this way.”

*Just what way?* her heart screamed at her lips to ask. Instead, “What, at the new staff
meeting when I started?” She laughed self-depreciatingly. “I was one of a hundred. How could you
point me out then?” she asked, forgetting that who she was always preceded her.

Robin shook his head. “You must have forgotten, Hermione. I was a resident Healer in Spell
Damage back about eight years ago. You were a patient in my ward; however, I believed you belonged
on the ground floor, in Artefact Incidents. The chief of medicine was pretty certain you belonged
where you were, so I treated you.”

*I* should *have been, yes.* Hermione's eyes widened in surprise—so few people
*knew* anything about her, Harry and Ron's whereabouts during that time. She picked up her
teacup, hoping the steam would hide her expression. If Robin noticed Hermione's discomfort, he
hid it well.

“You were an amazing patient, Hermione. You never complained, though I knew you were in a lot of
pain, and you were quite the diagnostician even then… I remember Healer Barron trying to get more
information out of you about what happened, but you were cool as anything. I figured then that you
didn't want to get in trouble for doing something illegal, but my guess now is that you just
*couldn't* say anything. I'm glad we got you straightened out before you snuck out of
there,” he teased.

Hermione relaxed; he wasn't going to pry, even after all these years. She shook her head
softly, not believing that he would remember one case eight years ago. She wasn't there but
three days! “You must have taken quite an interest, I imagine, seeing as I snuck out of there as
soon as I could,” she smirked.

“Yes,” Robin laughed without humour. “Practically as soon as you could stand up on your own, if
I remember correctly. One moment, I was walking out of your room to get you some more salve for
your scalp and hands, and when I returned, the window was opened, and you were gone, as were your
friends.” He laughed again, but this time his eyes twinkled. “We searched the hospital all
afternoon, but we all knew you were gone… Which I have to say surprised me; they were beside
themselves that you were seriously hurt.”

“They were worried, really worried,” Hermione agreed, remembering how horrified Ron was at her
very appearance. He kept murmuring “your hair, your hair” as if he were mourning it, and Harry wore
a look like part of him was dying until the Healer told them she was going to recover.
Hufflepuff's Cup was an important lesson learned the hard way. She shook those thoughts from
her head, and remembering how they had escaped the hospital, she blushed appropriately and gingerly
touched her curls. Madam Pomfrey would have hunted her down! “I guess I should apologise.”

“Not at all!” he exclaimed. “I am pleased to see you recovered well. Takes a mighty strong curse
to do to you what it did,” he said, indicating her hair with a piece of biscotti. He dunked it in
his coffee. “Or should I say cursed object?”

Hermione made a point of looking everywhere but Robin and tucked her hair behind her ears. “You
*should* say you did a good job, regardless of the cause of the problem, which I would agree
with,” she said, finally looking at him.

“Well, I say *object* because of the clue you left behind,” he winked. “With a clue, you
can figure out almost anything.”

Hermione was intrigued. She remembered almost nothing about her brief stay at St. Mungo's.
“Oh? I left a clue, did I?”

“Yes, a blank book titled *Vessels*. It looked fairly old, so my guess was you touched the
wrong one on accident, much like Donovan did in drinking from the wrong chalice in Indiana
Jones.”

Hermione laughed at the reference. “I won't say, one way or another, but that was an
*excellent* trilogy!” *That's where that book went!*

“Indeed it was,” Robin said with reverence. Hermione had a feeling that he had seen his fair
share of Muggle films over the years. He had mentioned that his grandmother was a Muggle.

Robin looked at his watch, and noting it was close to midnight, put a few quid on the table and
helped Hermione with her cloak. When they stepped outside, there was a slushy layer of grey snow on
the ground, and the six-year-old inside Hermione was disappointed that it wasn't beautiful.

“The next snow will be better,” Robin commented. Hermione nodded, knowing it would be so. “Can I
walk you home? You live close by, right?”

Hermione smiled and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led him the few blocks to the
pizza parlour that was under her apartment.

“Here we are!” Hermione pointed to the three windows above Angelo's. The picture window in
the middle held a lone candle burning, courtesy of a self-crafted non-combustible charm. She
thought it gave the apartment a welcoming look.

“This is a great set-up, Hermione!” Robin said, enthusiastically. He took a deep breath of
garlic and sauce goodness.

“I am the envy of all who know me,” she acknowledged, looking up at the picture window again and
noticing Crookshanks. He was waiting up for her, the darling.

“I better go, someone's waiting up for me,” Hermione said, pointing out Crookshanks.

Robin nodded sagely. “I should let you go, then,” he said, turning his attention to her.
Hermione's heart started to pound in expectation.

“I know that once I sleep on what we heard tonight at the lecture, that I'll want to discuss
it more, Hermione.” Robin said, leading her.

She smiled, heart fluttering. “Mmm. I agree.”

“Have lunch with me on Tuesday,” he breathed, his eyes suddenly becoming all Hermione could
focus on.

“Mmm. I agree,” she repeated randomly, incapable of proper thought.

Robin laughed and brought his lips to hers. His nose was cold, but the rest of him was so warm,
and after a moment, she opened up to his ministrations and she could taste the bitterness of the
coffee he drank, smell the musk in his aftershave, and feel the heady pressure of his lips. She
really had no coherent thought of how long they stood there like that, but when a car drove by and
someone cat-called out the window at them, they pulled apart. One leather-gloved hand was on her
cheek, while the other was holding her to him at her waist. Hermione was surprised to find her
hands affixed to the lapels of his coat.

He sighed, content, and pecked her quickly on the lips. “Have a good night, Hermione.”

Hermione realised it was her turn to say something, but for the life of her, she couldn't
think of what, except that people driving by in cars at midnight were too nosy. And that Tuesday
couldn't get here fast enough. That second thought sounded more appropriate.

“Tuesday, then,” she said, fumbling for her keys.

Robin blushed and smiled goofily. “Yeah, Tuesday.” He indicated the front door of her flat.
“I'll wait until you're in.”

Hermione had completely forgotten she was supposed to be leaving. She numbly walked the two
steps to her door and slid the key in the lock. She turned to look back at her date, at Robin, to
see him standing with his hands in his pockets under the street lights, with slush about his feet
and a small smile on his lips. She turned the key and cracked the door.

“Goodnight, Robin,” she said, stepping through the door, turning in time to see him Disapparate.
She locked the door behind her and pulled her wand out to set a few security charms. As she climbed
the stairs, Hermione Granger could not stop smiling.

~~~~

Hermione had had a wonderful week, absolutely wonderful. Her work, while still fairly depressing
at times, was as fulfilling as ever. She was working her way, every day, to finding more solutions
for those that suffered at Voldemort's hand. She not only found it rewarding, but it gave her
hope that someday his vile name would just be a shadow on the history of the world. The
contributions she was making to subject of wizarding medicine would, she hoped, make up for some of
what Voldemort stole in innocence from everyone. She knew she'd never be the same—Harry's
sneaking up on her and her almost blasting his head off was indication enough—but perhaps their
children would grow to know a better world.

She smiled contentedly at her reflection in her hall mirror, adjusting the silver pendant her
mother gave her around her neck. She realized she was being philosophical, but she was just really
happy. She even managed to get out of the office by five-thirty, which almost never happened. She
put on her scarf, pulled on her cloak and stepped to the door. A tiny scops owl appeared at her
window. Hermione let the poor thing in from the cold, got an owl treat and as soon as she'd
untied the letter, the little owl flew off. Unrolling it, she scanned it quickly.

*Dear Miss Granger,*

*Recognizing the absence of Mr. Harry Potter, your P**resence is* *requested*
*to* *further the* *Ri**ng* *B**anding and* *C**harming
process at nine o'clock on the morning of December fourth. Please bring yourself to the upper
chamber.*

*G. Mickelwaite*

*BB&T*

“Not that obnoxious man again,” Hermione groaned. She stuck the note in her pocketbook and
headed out the door, locking it behind her. She wasn't about to let tomorrow morning ruin her
night.

~~~~

Hermione stood in the foyer of Mangosteen Thai waiting for Robin. They were going to grab some
dinner before popping over to the Archimedes lecture in Grosvenor Street. She'd been there
about five minutes when Robin appeared at her side.

“Sorry, Hermione. I got caught up in the office a little longer than I would have liked.” He
dropped a quick kiss on her lips. “I hope you weren't waiting long?”

“Not at all, I just got here myself,” Hermione said, as a waitress led them to their table.

Robin pulled her chair out for her and she sat. As they both knew exactly what they wanted, the
waitress went away with their orders. There was the requisite discussing of the hospital and their
days, and once their drinks were refilled, Robin sat back in the booth and eyed Hermione, like he
was about to get really personal.

“The other day, you got to ask me all about growing up on four continents and about my brothers,
so I was hoping I'd get to hear about your family,” he smiled.

“There really isn't a lot to tell. I'm an only child and my parents are dentists. We
travelled a lot for the holidays, mainly in France to visit my grand-mère and to go skiing,”
Hermione shrugged. “That's about it.”

“That's it?” Robin asked sceptically.

“Pretty much,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “They're my family in the traditional sense, but
I've not really lived with them since I was eleven.”

“So, your family in the non-traditional sense would be… Ron Weasley and Harry Potter?” Robin
suggested.

Hermione smiled. “You could say that.”

Robin eyed her carefully. “I don't want this to sound flippant, I'm not trying to imply
anything, but—”

“You want to know if Ron, Harry and I are really friends or if it's a charade?” Hermione
teased, enjoying the flush of colour that stained his cheeks. She patted his arm to reassure him
and then settled back into the seat. “It's okay, really, to be suspicious. Especially, I would
think, since I've made an effort to not talk about them all the time—it's something
I've had to work on,” she smiled. “It got me into trouble before with an old boyfriend of mine
back at Hogwarts.” Now it was her turn to blush as she realized she likened Robin to Viktor. They
hadn't talked about that yet, titles—anxiously comfortable where they were for the moment.
“It's only natural to wonder if we pose for the cameras and never talk afterwards.”

“Well? Since you brought that up, what's the story? I was going to ask you about your trips
to France, but if you want to talk about them, that's okay with me,” he grinned.

“Nice save, Brownbeck,” Hermione smiled. “But about Harry and Ron…”

“Yes, Harry and Ron,” he urged.

“Well, Ron's an open-book. Just about everything he's feeling is apparent the moment he
feels it. He's so funny and he's so genuine. He taught me how to laugh at myself, which was
a talent I was severely lacking. Ron's the most faithful person I know, as well as the best
eater. He could win contests, that one. I think you'd really like him. I actually can't
believe you've not met him, outside of that one time,” Hermione said, referring to when she was
hospitalized.

“I *did* meet him then, but I think he gave a pseudonym,” Robin said.

“Roonil Wazlib?” Hermione asked, laughing.

“Yes, what a strange person, I thought, especially since the whole world knows he's a
Weasley. There's no hiding that hair.” Robin thought for a moment. “But yes, I have met him,
when the Minister of Magic was hospitalized last year for drinking an expired potion. He discussed
St. Mungo's security, or lack thereof, I should say, with myself and a few other directors.
He's quite dedicated.”

Hermione nodded in agreement. “He really is.”

“And Harry?” Robin asked. “I don't think I've met him, though I've seen him around
St. Mungo's… Visiting you, I presume.”

“He does, sometimes,” Hermione acknowledged.

“Hermione?” Robin asked, peering at her. “You alright?”

She shook her head to clear her thoughts. “Yeah,” she took a sip of her water.

“So, what about Harry?” he asked, not convinced that she was, indeed, alright.

“Oh! Right, sorry. I was thinking.” She tried to find the right words. “Harry's… well, this
is going to sound stupid, but Harry's… just Harry. He's just your normal, average guy.”

“You have to give me a little more than that, Hermione. You've known him for, what, fifteen,
sixteen years now? Certainly he's more than `average.' You sounded like you could go on
about Ron for ages.”

Hermione did laugh at that. “I think I could, actually. Ron's a pretty interesting guy.” She
paused. “And, Harry is more interesting than `average' indicates, don't get me wrong.
It's hard to describe, though… I don't want you to think he's larger than life, because
he's really down to earth,” Hermione said earnestly.

“I suppose that's hard when you're called “The One Who Conquered,” everywhere you go,
isn't it?” Robin asked, a new respect for Average Harry evident in his voice.

“Yes, it really is,” Hermione agreed. “Imagine using the same broom for years, and suddenly the
manufacturer finds out you fly an old version of the Firebolt. Suddenly, they want to slap your
face on their product. Now, imagine the same thing with the type of trainers you wear, your
optometrist, your grocer, and the toothpaste you buy. That's what Harry's life was like for
a while, and he works very hard at staying out of the public eye, and Ron and I protect what
privacy he has with everything we've got.” Hermione paused and took another sip of her water
and continued.

“What's Harry like? His favourite candy is Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans; he likes
treacle tart for dessert, and can't eat breakfast before playing a Quidditch match because he
gets too nervous. Harry's not a hero. Not like everyone thinks. He didn't sign up for that
prophesy or to be Voldemort's whipping boy, but he didn't back down from it, either. Harry
always does what's right; he always has, and he could have chosen not to.”

“Lucky for the rest of us, eh?” Robin asked.

“You have no idea.” Hermione took another sip of water. “Well, I take that back. You were at St.
Mungo's during the Occupation, and you worked in Spell Damage. You know exactly what I am
talking about.”

“Unfortunately, yes, I do,” Robin said sadly. He motioned to the waitress for the check. “I
think we need to get going if we're going to make it on time.”

“Oh, yes,” Hermione declared, grateful for the change in subject; she was really looking forward
to tonight's lecture.

~~~

“I can't believe we ran into Professor Vector!” Hermione exclaimed. “I figured she'd be
at Hogwarts, but I forget that not all Hogwarts professors actually *live* at Hogwarts.”
Hermione took a few steps out of the crowd. “How lucky that you'd read her book!”

“Well, Septima Vector is a leader in the modern thinking of Arithmancy. My tutor had me reading
more than anything, and her theorems were on my booklists. Sometimes I wonder that I got to use my
wand at all.” Robin said good-naturedly.

“She was impressed, I could tell,” Hermione reassured. “I got the feeling she'd wished
you'd been in her classes.”

“After meeting her, I kind of wish I had been,” he agreed. “Going to a school like Hogwarts
would have been great—but getting to travel with my parents, doing research with my dad, I
don't know if I would have changed that.”

Hermione couldn't imagine what she would have been like if she'd not gone to Hogwarts…
At eleven, before she'd gotten her letter, she wouldn't have, in her wildest dreams,
guessed she'd go for the ride of a lifetime with two unlikely boys, that's for sure. But
she wouldn't trade her time at Hogwarts for anything.

“Hogwarts, for a girl like me, became the closest thing I could have imagined to Heaven on
Earth. There, I made friends, and I had all the books I could ever want to read,” Hermione paused
while Robin laughed, “and I had the most amazing time. I wouldn't change a thing, either.”

“Even though you didn't finish?” Robin asked, alluding to the well-known fact that Hermione
was the only official non-graduate on the staff. Even the gift shop girl had a diploma from
Hogwarts.

“Oh, yes. That doesn't mean much anyway. I could take my N.E.W.T.s today and probably get
Outstandings in all of them,” Hermione said, “without studying,” she smirked. Tucking her hand into
the crook of his arm, Sthey began the walk back to Hermione's apartment.

“I imagine you wouldn't need to study.”

“Well, I think you're right, to a point. There came a time when I realised that my studying
not only benefited me, but probably every person I have come into contact with on a professional
level, as well as in my personal life. So, I worked even harder. It's saved my arse any number
of times.”

“And Harry Potter's, too, I gather,” Robin said softly.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Hermione murmured. “But, I can't take much credit.”

“I don't know, Hermione…you're pretty bright, so I hear,” he teased.

Hermione shook her head. “I know what everyone says, that I'm `His Amazing Heroine,'
which I guess the press think is some clever synonym for my name. Do you know that there are scores
of little witches running around named Hermione now? How awful! No one knows how to say it without
being told.” She sighed. “But in all seriousness, Robin… Everything Harry did, when it came down to
it, was on his own. Perhaps a few times at Hogwarts, I got him out of tight spots. There are enough
legends about us at that school to fill a library of books, and probably over half of them are
true, but books and cleverness only go so far. After that, bravery has to take over. If there's
anything Harry Potter has, it's bravery. Fortune favours the brave.” *Thank God.*

Robin thought it all over for a minute. “You mean that hippogriff story is true?”

Hermione tossed her head back and laughed heartily. “It depends on what you heard, but yes,
it's true. What else?”

“You tricked that Ministry woman and taught your own classes?” Rob asked, quite impressed.

“I didn't teach them, Harry did, but over twenty of us took Defence Against the Dark Arts
behind her back. An awful, horrid year, that was.”

“I bet it was. I was well into my training to be a Healer at that point, but I can't imagine
the Ministry interfering like that. That was a dark time for everyone.”

Hermione heartily agreed. She was afraid when Harry's name had been put into the Goblet of
Fire that they weren't going to get through the year, but they did. After that, however, they
were presented with a bureaucratic monster—Umbridge represented everything in the Ministry and she
brought it to Hogwarts.

“I suppose it must be really strange to hear about my time at Hogwarts like this—the three of us
rarely give interviews, and never apart. I remember telling Harry when I'd met him that I'd
read all about him, and now, there's almost nothing written about us and the Lost Years,”
Hermione paused reflectively. “What a strange turn of events that is.”

“I guess you could call it strange, but it's part of who you are, Hermione, and I very much
like that person. You can talk about how you came to be who you are as much or as little as you
want.”

“I'll take you up on that and stop talking about it. There's a lot I'd rather just
not think about,” she said gratefully.

“Fair enough… Just one more thing, though…” Robin asked, his eyes smiling.

“Oh?”

“Were you really Petrified for a whole term? By a basilisk?”

“Quite a number of weeks, and yes, by a basilisk.” She stole a look at Robin's expression.
“Don't look that way!” she laughed. “It's not like it hurt, and we had mandrakes on-hand,
so I was fine.” She let go of Robin's arm and stepped behind the dumpster Apparition point. She
Apparated back to her neighbourhood, and a moment later, Robin was right at her side. She led him
to her apartment and invited him up for a spot of tea, the idea of which both frightened and
excited her.

She opened the door to her flat, and Crookshanks, true to his nature, slunk off the window seat
and came up to inspect Robin. Hermione waited as her half-kneazle sniffed and scrutinized their
guest. She didn't realise she was holding her breath until Crookshanks turned his squashed face
up to her and gave her a look that seemed to say *He'll do, but you need to feed me now.*
She picked him up, stroking his beautiful coat. She smiled at Robin, “Crookshanks says you can come
in.” She flipped a switch and two lamps came on in her front room. “Make yourself at home while I
feed him and ready the tea. I'll only be a minute.” She made a mental note to thank Dobby for
straightening her flat in exchange for dinner, because she noticed he'd been by to tidy up
again.

Hermione readied Crookshanks' dinner, which she should have given him before she left; she
was such a bad owner! Once that was done, and he was happily eating on the counter, she looked for
her kettle and a two tea cups and saucers that actually *matched*, which was proving to be a
problem. She found Harry's favourite, and Ron's favourite, and her mum's favourite, but
none of them matched. Finally, she transfigured two of them to a classic red-toile pattern, filled
the kettle with water, tapped it with her wand and grabbed some biscuits.

Crookshanks stopped enjoying his Felix Feasties Skinny Kitty Chicken & Tuna to hiss and wave
his bottlebrush tail at Hermione to get her attention.

“What is it, Crooksie?” Hermione crooned. “Don't you like your dinner?”

*Don't be daft, Mownie. It's diet food, I'm not supposed to like it*, his
little upturned expression said.

“Well, I'm worried about your weight, Crookshanks. I know you sneak snacks when I'm not
here.”

*Should you expect less? How am I to live* *on this stuff**?*

“What is it, Crookshanks?” Hermione was wondering if there was a point.

Crookshanks hopped off the counter and stuck his face around the doorjamb, and turned and looked
at Hermione as if she were indeed stupid.

“Ooooh. You're worried about me.”

Crookshanks wasn't even going to dignify that with an answer.

“Crooksie, you don't have to worry about me. I didn't shave my legs on purpose, and
he's not about to find out,” Hermione explained, pointing to her stocking-clad legs.

*Well, go bohemian all you* *want**, Mownie, if that's your thing.* *I know
how you witches work,* his expression told all. *I tore up your bedroom after the house-elf
left to make double sure.*

Hermione didn't know whether to be pleased or angry with how he chose to protect her. She
smiled. “I have to hand it to you, Crookshanks; you know how to get your way.” She scratched him
behind his ear and walked out of the kitchen.

Robin was in front of the fireplace, admiring the photos she had displayed on her mantle. He had
started a cheery fire while she was debating virtue-keeping in the kitchen, which she appreciated.
Her apartment was well-situated, but it was old and chilly. She admired the silhouette his tall
form made in contrast to the fire for a moment before she put the tray down on the table. She heard
sheets ripping in her bedroom and the scratch of claws on her four-poster. Crookshanks must have
been finishing the job. She shot a *silencio* back in the general direction of her bedroom,
hoping that Robin didn't notice. She slipped her shoes off, out of habit, and tucked her
stockinged feet under her on the sofa. She watched Robin take in all the personal details of her
apartment.

“This is a nice one, Hermione,” he said, indicating a photo at Bill's wedding reception,
where she, Harry and Ron were trying to dance some slow dance together. Her hair, which had looked
nice for a total of fifteen minutes, was falling down in the back. Both Ron and Harry looked great
in their dress robes, and if she remembered correctly, she had charmed her shoes to protect her
toes.

Hermione smiled, “That was a great day. Ron's brother, Bill, married Fleur Delacour, and it
was the biggest party I'd ever been to.”

Robin admired the photo for a moment longer, and moved on to examine her bookcase, stopping to
thumb through a pharmaceutical manual she had on the sofa table. He put it back and in doing so,
knocked over the nice six-inch stack of mail Dobby had brought over that afternoon.

He fixed it with a flick of his wand, and noticed that the envelopes were addressed to
variations of *Harry James Potter.* He looked up at her curiously. “There's no address on
these. No one knows where Harry Potter lives, so…either he lives here, and that's why you
*silencioed* the back of the flat, or I need to report you to the Owl Post Authority,” he
winked.

“Not quite,” Hermione laughed. “I take his mail when he's out of town, and you're right,
only about twenty people know where he lives, and I couldn't tell you if I wanted to—it's
protected by the Fidelius Charm, and the Secret Keeper for that died a long time ago,” she said,
thinking of Dumbledore. “I couldn't even lead you there by accident, you'd never see it.”
Hermione motioned for him to have a seat on the sofa, and she handed him a cup of tea.

“That's strange that the Charm is still in place, if the Secret Keeper is dead…”

Hermione smiled bittersweetly. “A charm cast by Albus Dumbledore is not easily broken.” Robin
nodded in understanding, and they were quiet for a moment. Hermione found it comforting that
wizards still took a moment of silence at the mention of that great man's name.

Robin cleared his throat, “But that's got to be really convenient for Harry, the privacy and
all.”

Hermione nodded. “It is and it isn't. Since so “many” people know, any of us can walk in
whenever we want, but most of us owl first. Back in the days of the Order of the Phoenix, people
were used to coming and going. Now that Harry's got a private life and no Lord Voldemort on his
tail, it's good. It could be better, though.”

“Were you in the Order of the Phoenix?” Robin asked, his voice taking on an awed quality.

“Merlin, no! I was considered `too young' when it was reinstated, and never bothered to
officially join when I quit being too young.” She tsked. “You don't want to hear about that.”
*And, that's not exactly cheery conversation, is it, Granger?*

Robin raised his eyebrow. “What do *you* want to talk about, then?”

Hermione fought the desire to blush, and summoned all her courage to ask him something that had
been on her mind for a while. “Why now?” When he responded with a confused look, she expanded. “I
guess I'm just curious to know why you asked me to dinner again, after…well, after—”

“After a couple of half-dates and then three years of nothing?” Robin summed up.

“Yes,” Hermione said, hiding behind her teacup. “There wasn't anything saying we
couldn't date at work, and things were going along well, I thought… I mean, I'm not
complaining *now*…but for curiosity's sake…” she trailed off.

Robin put his teacup down on the coffee table and looked at Hermione full-on. She got nervous
and pulled her teacup down.

“That's a fair question.” He took a breath. “The truth is, it was so soon after the Fall of
Voldemort,” Hermione noted that the name sounded thick in his mouth—as if he'd not had a lot of
practice saying it. He continued, “and with all the press and reporters, even months after you
started working at St. Mungo's, and no one knowing where you'd even *been* for about
six years, what'd you'd been doing… I worried, after a while, that you figured I was after
the same information as everyone else, and I didn't want that.”

Hermione put her teacup on the table and grabbed his hand. She was about to say… something—she
wasn't sure what—when he went on.

“I'd worried that I'd mucked it all up,” he gave her a lopsided grin. “And I didn't
want to do that twice. Eventually,” he squeezed her hand, “I couldn't hold it in, and I
suggested I see you outside of work. After that, I realized I *would* muck it up for good if I
didn't… And I am so glad I did, Hermione. You're the most amazing witch I've ever met—I
thought that when I met you when you were nineteen. You'd already known what was wrong, how to
treat it… I could tell you were only there because your friends were so concerned … In fact, I
think what did it for me was that you asked how I was, even though you were in so much pain. Who
does that? Just you, Hermione.”

The room closed in around Hermione and suddenly she was not close enough to him. She raised
herself up on her knees, placed her hands on his cheeks and kissed him soundly, tugging at his
bottom lip as she pulled away to look at him. Robin's gaze went from amazed to resolute as he
leaned in to kiss her back, one hand going to the small of her waist to anchor her, and the other
underneath her long hair. Hermione was pleased to discover his soft hair and strong neck and she
could swear she felt rather than heard a deep rumble of pleasure reverberate through his chest. She
moved off her knees to sit more comfortably on the sofa, Robin shifting in complement. She relaxed
more fully when she realised she could get used to this, and Robin pushed her gently back until she
was completely underneath him, his broad form over her.

“Is this okay?” he asked, breathless, his eyes shifting their gaze from hers to her lips and
back up again.

Hermione didn't even have to think about it; she smiled and so did he. She reached up to
pull him down, and before long, he'd moved from her lips to behind her ear, and from there down
the column of her throat. He had switched to her other side when she realised she let out a sound
between a sigh and a moan when he captured the dip between where her clavicles met.

“I think I've found your sweet spot,” he murmured against her skin.

“One of them,” she gasped, pulling his face back up to hers. Her skirt had long ridden up past
the point of school-girl propriety, and she knew for *certain* that Robin'd noticed.

He smiled against her lips as his hand travelled from her waist to meet the edge of her skirt.
He massaged the bit of skin above the lace top of her stocking, when Hermione started to shuffle
through charms in the back of her mind for depilatation, and wondered if she could manage a
non-verbal, wandless charm while Robin performed such wonderful—oh!

“Is this alright?” he asked again as he sucked at her collarbone.

“Better than alright,” she breathed, her hands under his sweater, tugging the hem up to his
shoulders, where he took the liberty of divesting himself of the rest of it. Hermione was slightly
disappointed that he wore an undershirt, *all well-dressed men wear undershirts, Hermione*,
her mother's voice said, suddenly floating through her head. She didn't want to be thinking
of her mother at a time like this, so she tugged that shirt out, too, and her fingers splayed over
his stomach, fingering the thatch of hair there. Robin had taken his opportunity to unbutton the
top of Hermione's scoop-necked sweater as she sucked at the base of his neck.

He stopped for a moment to look at her, her chest heaving, and she looked up at him expectantly,
taking in his mussed hair, swollen lips and general admiring expression.

“What is it,” she half-laughed, both pleased at his look, and impatient to continue.

“Stunning, Hermione,” he rumbled, getting back to the business at-hand, which Hermione would
agree was the best use of his time.

He slipped one strap down her shoulder and was kissing his way down, down… when Hermione heard a
dull thud, followed by “Shite! Where'd they go?” Hermione froze. Robin froze, looking up from
where he was currently situated at the front clasp of her bra, toffee eyes locking onto hers in an
instant, looking, of all things, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“The Floo!” Hermione cried in a desperate whisper, and pushed Robin off of her as nicely as she
could manage.

She could hear someone shuffle around and she hoped to God it wasn't her mother. She took
her chance to save face. She stood with her back facing the fire and started buttoning her sweater.
Robin tugged her skirt back down, bringing her presentability up dramatically. Hermione found
Robin's sweater under the coffee table and handed it to him with a quick kiss on the lips. “Do
I look okay?” she asked.

Robin took in her crooked skirt, rumpled shirt and mussed up hair and grinned. “You've never
looked better,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.

Hermione swatted his shoulder and he caught her hand, pulling her down again to steal a kiss. As
she straightened up, she whispered, “Sorry.” He shrugged as if to say it was okay.

“There they are! Damned glasses! `Mione, you there?”

Hermione's eyes widened in shock as she realised who it was.

“Yes, Harry, I'm here,” she said, rushing to the fireplace to see if he was hurt. She got
there in time to see him putting his glasses on. She suspected he was using an unfamiliar fireplace
and knocked them off when he stuck his head in the flames.

“Are you alright?” she asked, noticing for the first time that he looked quite stressed.

“Yes, I'm fine, but I could use your help right quick. What do you know about bimorphs?” he
asked, distracted.

“With lycanthropy?”

“I believe so, yes, but at this point, I'm stumped. I think this fellow's a werewolf,
there're several, actually, but not anthropomorphic, like—” Harry sneezed, and in the green
flames, Hermione could see ashes billowing.

“Bless you. Lupin. What have you tried? Are you being safe? What's the other metamorphosis?”
Hermione asked hurriedly. She reached her left hand toward the bookcase on the far wall and three
dusty tomes *Accio**ed* their way into her hand one by one. She opened them and spread
them out upon the hearth in front of her. She reached behind her with her right hand and summoned
her wand, placing her non-combustible charm on the old pages.

“Thank you, yes, like Lupin. This one's mad, Hermione. I swear he's a vampire, too,
though never at the same time.”

“In some cultures, it's believed that werewolves become vampires after death—but that's
just folklore,” she said, quickly flipping pages. She stopped what she was doing and looked up.
“Tell me what's happening. No one's been bit, have they?” her heart stopped in fear.

“I'm *fine,* Hermione. None of the other Aurors are hurt, yet, but I have the darkest
feeling we're about to get picked off like gazelles by hyenas.”

“There's something you're not telling me, Harry,” Hermione said, eyeing him
carefully.

“Are you alone, `Mione?” Harry asked, suddenly taking in her appearance and trying to peek
around her into her living room. There was a slight strain to his tone.

Hermione could feel the flush creeping up her neck. She started to respond when she heard Robin
near the door. “Hold on, Harry. Don't go anywhere, or you'll regret it.”

Harry nodded, heeding the glare she gave him.

Hermione almost tripped in her rush to the front door. She didn't know what to say, but
stood helplessly as Robin picked up his scarf and put it around his neck. “Robin, I…”

“Don't worry about it, Hermione,” Robin said as he tugged on his gloves.

“But—”

“Walk me out?” he asked hopefully.

“Yeah,” she replied, distracted. “Let me get my shoes and scarf.” She *Accioed* her shoes
from the living room, pulled her scarf out of the closet, wrapped it around her neck a few times
and allowed him to usher her out of her apartment and down to the street. He pulled the door shut
behind him and stood with his hands in his pockets.

“Robin, I'm *really* sorry. That's got to be the first time that's happened to
me. I—”

“Hermione, I said not to worry about it,” he smiled down at her and laughed. “I'm just glad
it wasn't your mum…I'd like to meet her under nicer circumstances, actually.”

Hermione couldn't help but laugh. “As would I,” she blushed. “Listen, about up there,” she
tried again, gesturing up the stairs.

“We'll pick up where we left off later, okay?” he said with a wicked grin. “Besides, I
don't think you'd enjoy yourself as much if you had something on your mind.”

Hermione smiled. “You're probably right,” she said, rubbing her arms in the cold. She looked
back towards her door; she hoped Harry was still waiting.

Robin noticed her glance. “I'd better go. I'll see you at work, alright?”

Hermione nodded, but her mind was upstairs in front of her hearth, already puzzling away at
Harry's problem.

Robin dropped a kiss on her forehead and stepped back. “Go back upstairs; you'll freeze to
death out here.”

Hermione backed up to give him space to Apparate. “Good night, Robin.”

“Good night, Hermione,” he replied, and in a moment he was gone.

Hermione wasted no time in getting back upstairs to her apartment. Harry had better be there.
She ripped off her scarf, stamped the snow off her shoes and kicked them off. She slid on the
hardwood floor in her stockinged feet to her fireplace.

“Harry?”

-->



5. Chapter Five
---------------



A/N: A few things: I've not finished Book 7. I'm not going to finish Book 7. Canon for
me ends at Book 6, because, well, even though HBP was hard to read, it was *somewhat*
plausible. That makes this story completely AU, which I've decided is more fun anyway. I'm
sorry this has taken me so long, but after the carpet book, JKR's inane interviews, & that
stupid epilogue… I lost heart for a long time. If you're still with me, thank you so much. H/Hr
is worth it, guys. Our evidence was there, on every single page and nothing can change that. Not
Victoire, not Hugo (Victor Hugo, I mean, *lame.*) not Draco's baldness, and
*especially* not some absurd “Nineteen Years Later.” JKR doesn't know what she's
missin'.

Thanks, Molly, for the beta, & everything else. =)

Disclaimer: Not mine. No profit. Blah. Blah.

++++++++++

Only Once, Chapter Five:

*Hermione wasted no time in getting back upstairs to her apartment. Harry had better be there.
She ripped off her scarf, stamped the snow off her shoes and kicked them off. She slid on the
hardwood floor in her stockinged feet to her fireplace.*

*“Harry?”*

~~~

“Hermione, is everything all right? Who was that?” Harry asked, suddenly more curious than
he'd seemed a few minutes before.

“Everything's fine, why wouldn't it be?” Hermione responded, perhaps in a pitch higher
than she'd intended. She picked up a pillow off the sofa and placed it in front of her books,
settling down before the green flames.

Harry scanned her face quickly, possibly looking for the lie. Hermione suddenly realised that
she was perhaps *slightly* unkempt, and fought the urge to smooth her hair or re-adjust her
sweater.

Harry was not to be fooled however; he looked around Hermione, probably looking for signs of
struggle. “Hermione, you have a run in your stocking and your sweater is misbuttoned. You looked
really stressed when I asked if someone was there. Are you all right?” His eyes flashed with
suspicious concern.

*The Seeker doesn't miss a thing, does he?* She sighed. “Yes, Harry, I'm fine. Long
night, is all. Don't change the subject,” she said impatiently. “Werewolves. Bimorphs.
Lycanthropy.”

Harry raised an eyebrow and looked as though he was going to question it, but shook his head
slightly and got back on task. “Yes, bimorphs in particular,” he began.

“How many?” Hermione asked.

“Three, so far, as we're counting howls at night. I think there might still be more.”

Hermione nodded, already deep in thought. “How safe is your safe-house? It's still a week to
the full moon.”

“It's fine, but it could be more comfortable. This is the damnedest fireplace I've ever
had the pleasure of using. Fire keeps going out.”

Hermione looked up. “That's strange. Where are you? Not Azkaban?”

Harry shook his head. “Not this time, we're in the Hebrides. Benbecula. Do you know it?”

“Not particularly; however, the region used to be controlled by the Norse. My guess is that the
house you're in has some old magic in the hearth. You should try that charm we picked up in
Lapland.” Hermione twisted a lock of hair as she paged through the book. “Too bad you just
can't Floo your way here. Hold on a second and I'll think of it.” She paused, remembering
the feel of her wand as she used that charm.

“*Tulisau*,” Harry said, suddenly, and Hermione noticed a difference in the quality of the
flames.

“Well done, Harry!”

Harry shrugged. “Must have stuck.” He shook his head again. “You know, that's the thing, the
full moon isn't until next week, and there have been reports of attacks in the area… We've
tracked a few of these things, `Mione, but there's no trace of them when we get close.
Strange.”

“What are you thinking?” Hermione asked, looking up from her text, intrigued.

He looked her straight in the eye, “I don't think these things are just werewolves. I've
never seen anything, heard anything like this. Call me mad, but I *know* they're not. In
fact, I have this feeling that Fenrir Greyback is somehow involved.”

Hermione tried to swallow the fear that took possession of her. Fenrir Greyback was the vilest
of all the Death Eaters, in Hermione's opinion. Bill Weasley was living testimony to how
sinister Greyback was. He represented a cold hate toward humanity that Hermione never
understood.

“And Lupin isn't…” she trailed off, thinking of Tonks' pregnancy.

“No, Remus is consulting from home. They're being extra cautious, seeing as this is their
first,” Harry began, rubbing his jaw.

“And they really don't know what to expect,” Hermione said, eyeing him carefully. “And,” she
paused, “you don't want to bring him in on this.”

Harry exhaled, blowing ashes everywhere. “No, he's got enough to worry about with Tonks,
and, like I said, the full moon's next week, so…” he gestured sort of helplessly. Hermione
didn't need him to finish the thought. She took a deep breath.

“Harry—” she began, fighting the urge to tell him to be careful.

“I'm worried, too, Hermione,” he said kindly. Hermione was grateful he didn't brush her
off. She didn't think she could handle that just now.

Hermione smiled bravely. “Well, tell me more about these half-werewolf-vampires. Let's
figure this out so we can get you home.”

Hermione and Harry worked for the next hour in front of fire until Nils Prescott took over for
Harry so he could stretch. Crookshanks had emerged from Hermione's room and curled up against
her. Nothing Hermione was reading jumped out at her, but she figured it was only a matter of time.
She hoped that Harry was being careful. Her hair could only go so grey, after all.

After Harry returned, Crookshanks brought himself as close to the fire as he could so as to
alert Harry of his presence.

“Hullo, Crookshanks. Late night?” Harry said. Crookshanks purred and then glared at Hermione to
remind her of his disapproval of her behaviour before he settled down again at her side.

“What's with him?” Harry wondered aloud.

“Dunno,” Hermione mumbled, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach and busied
herself with a book.

They worked in silence for another ten minutes, Hermione finally finding something of import to
read, but Harry snapped her from her concentration.

“That's a hickey,” he stated tersely.

“What?” Hermione asked, trying to sound confused, and wishing she'd not put her hair up a
few moments before.

“On your collarbone. A hickey. I thought it was soot, but it's not. There's one on your
neck, too. Who—” Harry stopped and took a breath, making no point to hide his glances at her
misbuttoned sweater and ruined stocking.

Hermione thought quickly and decided to take the high road. “I don't know what you're
talking about,” she said, hating that her voice wavered.

“Who—” he began again, but changed tactics, “You can't go into work looking like that!”

Hermione's temper ticked up a notch. She was tired, cold, frustrated on more than one level,
and did not need Harry getting self-righteous over soot marks that curiously resembled hickeys.

“No, I certainly can't, can I? I definitely can't go to that blasted charming ceremony
for you tomorrow looking like this, either!” she hissed, slamming her book shut and stalking to the
bathroom.

She snapped the light on and looked at her reflection in the mirror. The yellow light did
nothing for her smudged make-up and frazzled hair. She touched her collarbone gingerly where Robin
had so willingly left his mark and sighed. She thought about Harry stuck in a thatched hut
somewhere beyond civilisation, crouched in front of a tiny fireplace and suddenly she felt guilty.
She made quick work of her hair and face and corrected her sweater. She threw her stockings in the
rubbish bin and with one quick look to make sure she was in-order, headed back out to the living
room, hoping Harry was still there. He was.

She settled down in front of the fire ready to make a full apology, but when she opened her
mouth to begin, Harry immediately apologised.

“'Mione, I'm sorry. Here I am, barging in on your evening, asking you to drop
everything, and you're even doing me a favour in the morning. You know how I get sometimes. Why
don't we close up shop and you get some rest?”

“No, no,” Hermione said hastily. “I wouldn't be able to sleep with all of this on my mind.
Let's give it another half hour or so and we can go from there, okay?”

They worked for another forty-five minutes, until the point where Hermione felt as though she
had given him all the advice humanly possible, including another squad of Aurors. If Fenrir
Greyback was indeed involved, Harry would need all the help he could get.

Hermione Banished her books to their case and was about to go salvage what she could of sleep
for the night. Harry had said good night a few moments before, so she was surprised, in her
tidying, to see that he was still there, wild hair flickering in the flames. Hermione folded her
knees under her in front of the fire, and waited for Harry to spit out whatever it was that he
needed to say. If he were half as tired as she felt, he would have been long gone ten minutes ago.
Hermione sighed.

“Harry, I can't sit here all night, as much as I might like to. I have to be at Bandy, Borks
and Tuttle at nine a.m.” she said wearily.

Harry took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly. The green flames
intensified the colour of his eyes.

“Hermione, I don't want you to take this the wrong way—I'm not trying to be
overprotective, or put my nose where it's not wanted, but I do want to give you a word of
caution.”

Hermione opened her mouth to tell Harry there was really no need, but he put his hand up to
silence her.

“Let me finish, all right? As your best friend, I get to look out for you a little, right? Like
you would about Ginny? Or Luna?”

It was a testament to their very friendship that she made no comment to that one way or another.
She was really too tired to deal with this.

Harry gave a worn-out grin when he saw Hermione wasn't going to interrupt.

“All I want is for you to be careful. I don't want to see you getting involved with someone
you can't trust—I don't want to see you hurt like that.”

Hermione closed her eyes and petitioned The Powers That Be for patience. She could not believe
she was having this talk with Harry after all these years. She smiled wistfully.

“If I went on the definition of who *we* can `trust,' Harry, I'll be left with you,
Ron, and Neville. And even though he's married to Hannah, he's—”

“In love with Ginny,” Harry whispered, looking down to the hearth.

Hermione sighed. “I wasn't going to say that, Harry,” she said helplessly. It was no secret
among the lot of them. “I was going say: not exactly my type, or not exactly available, or
something.” Crookshanks pushed his little face into Hermione's hand, and she scooped him up
into her lap, stroking his gorgeous coat, lost in thought.

“You're angry with me,” Harry stated matter-of-factly.

“No,” she shook her head. “I am really too tired to be angry. And I wouldn't be angry with
you, anyway. I know you mean well. I appreciate your concern.”

“I hear a `but' in there somewhere…”

“But,” Hermione said with a rueful smile, “I can't live the rest of my life thinking I
can't trust people, Harry. The war's over, and we survived. I have to live my life.”

Harry gave her a sort of half-nod through the fireplace, and Hermione thought he was going to
say goodnight, but she was wrong. He looked her squarely in the eye—Hermione wasn't used to
looking at him without his glasses; she wondered what else he could possibly have to say.

“I am sorry about Viktor, Hermione,” Harry said quietly.

Hermione looked down, tears stinging the back of her tired eyes, threatening to spill. She
couldn't believe she'd not thought about him in so long. She took a deep breath and looked
at Harry. He didn't need to be beating himself up over something he couldn't have helped,
nor apologised for unnecessarily far too many times.

“If I hadn't insisted we go to Bulgaria on that lead—that damned fake lead!” Harry said with
feeling.

Hermione instinctively reached her hand into the flames to grab his but instead got nothing but
a spinning sensation up to her elbow. She had forgotten he was across the sea and not there in her
living room.

“Harry, you have to quit beating yourself up over something that happened years ago. Viktor Krum
is dead because Voldemort killed him.” She took a deep breath. “*You* did not kill him. We
weren't even there; we were back in England by that time. Viktor made his choice to involve
himself. He knew what he was up against,” Hermione said with patience. Poor Harry carried so much
on his own.

“But he—you were…” he began helplessly.

Hermione shook her head. “No, I wasn't. I wasn't.” she repeated more forcefully. “I
*could* have been, given that I had thought about anything other than Horcruxes for years at
that point, or battles, or potions, or healing, or any number of things not concerning the war. If
I had had more time, maybe it would have happened eventually. Love, I mean. I know he loved me,”
Hermione paused, remembering the timbre of Viktor's accent, her skin tingling, and the feel of
his hand in hers; she remembered a million things. She laughed, but it was without humour. “I
imagine he knew that I knew, and that was enough for him. If I had had more time, perhaps, Harry,
but the thing is, I *didn't* have more time, and it wasn't love, not for me.” She
cuddled Crookshanks and kissed him on the top of his fat orange head, thinking. “So you see, Harry,
it wasn't my time. And Viktor wasn't your fault.”

Harry nodded perfunctorily, but Hermione wasn't convinced that he believed her. He ran his
fingers through his hair in a frustrated fashion and looked at her. Hermione knew exactly what he
was going to ask, and she smiled.

“And now? Is it your time now?”

*Very sly, Potter.* “Good night, Harry,” she said, smiling. As if she was going to give him
any kind of answer to *that.*

~~~~

Hermione lay back on her sofa, hair wild about her and arms above her head. In an instant, she
was divested of her sweater and skirt, pleased she'd picked her black lace knickers to wear for
the evening. Viktor's muscled and Quidditch-toned form blocked out the light of the fireplace.
His fingers spread out on her stomach in worship, tracing familiar paths around her navel and down
to the top of her knickers, setting her skin afire. As he moved adept fingers along the lace,
pulling it down, he laid claim again to her neck. “Perfekt, Hermy-own-ninny. So beautiful,” he
rumbled against her skin. Hermione began to squirm in anticipation, staring at the ceiling as stars
danced in front of her eyes.

He moved from her neck to the edge of her bra, so Hermione looked down to watch his progress as
Robin's teeth grazed the top of her breasts through the fabric. She felt as though every nerve
in her body were alive with sensation, his eyes a vibrant and glowing brown adoring every inch of
her skin. He slowly moved to the front clasp of her bra, obviously picking up where he left off
before. She gasped as her flushed skin came in contact with the cool air. The backs of his fingers
grazed her skin ever-so-slightly, teasing her; it wasn't quite fair.

A crash in her bedroom snapped her from her heady fog. Robin kissed her soundly on the lips.

“I'll take care of it,” he said, grabbing his wand and walking toward the noise. Hermione
rolled over and followed his movement, admiring the trim form he made: shirtless, trousers slung
low on his hips, and barefoot. She settled back onto the couch to wait, trailing her fingernails up
and down her stomach. She sighed, eyes closed and content.

A few moments later, he returned, and it was as if he'd never stopped. Hermione purred in
delight. “What was it?” she asked, too lazy to open her eyes.

A slight stubble grazed her skin and she gasped from the sensation. Pliable lips blessed the
column of her neck unhurriedly and came to a stop before he got to her lips. Giving her teasing
kisses on her eyelids, he replied, “Fenrir Greyback.” He sucked at her earlobe before moving to the
sensitive skin of her neck at her hairline. Hermione clung to his back, as known to her as if it
were her own body, the fevered muscles moving under her touch.

Hermione giggled, thinking the entire idea preposterous. “Do be serious. Fenrir Greyback?” she
asked, tracing his spine.

A kiss on her shoulder and the faintest scrape of stubble made her whole body tremble. Oh,
Merlin, she felt as if every inch of her skin was being venerated. He pulled away, and finally
Hermione opened her eyes. Her heart stopped when she realised that it was not Robin.

“I've never been more serious about anything in my life, `Mione,” Harry said earnestly,
leaning down to kiss her, his green eyes all-consuming.

Hermione woke with a start on the settee in her ruined bedroom, sunlight streaming into the cold
room through shredded curtains. She was freezing; her skirt and sweater vanished, quilt thrown off,
and for the life of her, she couldn't remember how she got where she was. Panting, she swung
her head around to look at her alarm clock. It was a quarter of eight in the morning. Once she
realised she hadn't overslept, she relaxed. Crookshanks was sleeping regally in the centre of
her bed; random springs poking through the mattress. He was quite pleased with the work he'd
done the night before.

She could remember coming in at a little after four, after Harry had left to get some sleep
himself. Upon seeing what Crookshanks had done to her bedroom, Hermione had collapsed on the
settee, pulling an old Gryffindor quilt over her. She hadn't the energy to reconstruct her
mattress, and it wouldn't have that original spring to it once she finished. She would have to
buy a new one.

Crookshanks was going to be on Felix Feasties Skinny Kitty Formula for a long, long time.

Hermione pushed herself up, and deciding she didn't have the time for the shower she really
needed, she pulled out her most severe set of robes. She figured if she wanted people to leave her
alone today, she would have to look like she meant business. Hermione hauled herself in to the
bathroom and examined the damage. She did indeed have a spectacular set of hickeys. Fishing around
in her medicine cabinet, she found the bruise cream that came well-recommended by the Weasley Twins
and dabbed it on her neck and collarbone.

She twisted her hair into a plain bun and liberally applied her concealer. *I look like a
crone*, she thought dismally, noting her overly aged hair, the hint of fine lines and her sober
black robes. Miserable, she sighed at her appearance and flipped out the light.

Crookshanks purred innocently as he waited for her on the counter. Hermione blatantly ignored
him as she prepped her tea and proceeded to lock up every cupboard and cabinet. Crookshanks was
*not* going to find some way to reward himself for his antics the night before. She opened a
can of Felix Feasties and put half of it in his dish, putting the second half in the refrigerator
and locked that as well. Crookshanks did not look fazed in the least. Hermione took that moment to
realise that he probably had a stash of treats somewhere in the flat and made a mental note to look
for them when she got home from work.

~~~

Hermione let herself in to Bandy, Borks and Tuttle, and finding no one in the ante-room, she
proceeded up the stairs, feeling an invisible security barrier dissipate as she passed through. The
first room she entered, however, was different than the last time. Now she found herself in a
workshop filled with fine tools, wax and rubber moulds, vats of what Hermione assumed was plaster,
and she could feel the heat of the small forge on the other side of the vast room. She fought the
urge to touch a series of floating orbs that resembled purple soap bubbles on the table immediately
in front of her. *This* should certainly prove more interesting than when she was here with
Harry.

“You must be Miss Hermione Granger! It's a shame Mr. Potter couldn't come, but I must
say I am most eager to make your acquaintance!” a pleasant, accented voice sounded from across the
room. Hermione turned to see a tall man with skin the color of tiger-eye walk toward her. His short
black hair was set in tiny twists all over his head, and he had the most peculiar eyes—like green
jasper.

Hermione smiled and extended her hand. “I am. I hope I'm not late, Mr.…” she trailed off,
thrilled to not be working with that wisp of a man, Mickeywhatsit.

“It's Okintunde, but please just call me Pierre. I'm Bandy, Borks and Tuttle's chief
Lapidary. You're right on time, actually. I'll be part of the charming ceremony this
morning,” He shook her hand warmly, and Hermione felt as though she already knew him. He seemed
about Professor Lupin's age, though Hermione sensed an air about him that suggested he was
quite a bit older than he appeared. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and guided her to a
door that was hidden behind the forge firewall.

She stepped into a completely white room, which was meticulously spot-free. Pierre gestured to a
tall sort of table indistinguishable from the rest of the room for its brilliancy. Hermione watched
as he placed his wand on top of the table, where it sunk into the surface. The table gave a sort of
shudder and the wand reappeared.

“This is to cleanse your wand of residual magic—in essence, putting your wand back into the
pristine condition it was in when you got it. It's necessary for what's to follow.”

Hermione followed suit, watching in fascination as her wand also disappeared. Whereas
Pierre's wand was a quick process, Hermione felt the floor quake under her feet. The table was
firmly anchored, but she suspected it wouldn't be for long if the shaking kept up. She lost her
balance and almost spilled to the floor, but Pierre supported her at the elbow and she quickly
regained her footing. Her fascination snapped to worry as the room, which originally was almost
dazzling, tinged to a dingy white, and to a tea brown in the corners. After over a minute, the
quaking stopped and her wand reappeared, looking the same as ever. She wondered if it had
worked.

“Splendid!” Pierre said enthusiastically. “If you'll just pick that up, Miss Granger, and
follow me, we can get started.”

“But your room, it's tarnished,” Hermione said, a million questions buzzing in her head at
once.

“Never mind that, miss. It most certainly worked. You've done a fair amount of magic in your
short years, and not all bubbly charms and transfigurations, if I'm not mistaken. Quite a bit
of darker stuff, from the looks of it.”

Hermione wasn't quite convinced, but she smiled. “Think of it as fighting fire with fire.”
Pierre motioned for her to remove her cloak and she did so. “If Harry'd been able to make it, I
imagine you'd be standing there waiting much longer than we were for me. I do hope I've not
ruined your room, sir.”

“Not at all—give it a few days, and it will be as good as new,” he ushered her through a door
that wasn't there a moment before.

Hermione entered another room, and here, she knew, they'd be performing the ceremony. It was
a large room with high, buttressed ceilings, and tall windows filled with clear glass. She stifled
a groan as she spotted the odious man from the last time she was here. His heeled boots clicked on
the flagstones in a pestering manner. Hermione gave a brief smile.

“Miss Granger,” he greeted her, gold teeth flashing in the winter sunlight. Hermione nodded in
greeting and turned to the one person that she did not know.

An elderly witch with a bounce in her step came forward and extended her hand. Her hair was a
bright blonde, and it was styled in springy little curls that gave her a matronly cherubic look. As
she moved forward to shake her hand, Hermione could see that the yellow was really muted tones of
gold mixed with blonde.

“Hermione Granger, I'm so pleased to meet you! I'm Eurys Glorfindel, chief Bander,” she
said with a faint Welsh lilt.

Hermione released her hand and was about to ask about her curious last name, but Eurys (Hermione
could not see her wanting to go by Madam Glorfindel) tapped the side of her nose and smiled in
delight. “Not now, Miss Granger, we can talk after the banding and charming. We must get started
shortly.”

Eurys drew Hermione to the centre of the room, where Pierre and Mickelwaite were standing. Once
she stepped close to them, the stone floor lowered about two feet, putting them in a sort of pit.
Mickelwaite flicked his wand twice and a stone table appeared, bearing what seemed to be several
troy ounces of gold, an ornately carved box, and several empty corked bottles—something that
Hermione associated with Pensieve memories. Pierre opened the box to reveal pristine diamonds of
various sizes that sparkled in the bright sunlight, and rainbow-coloured tourmalines, though
Hermione wasn't certain. They were beautiful; she smiled in spite of herself at Harry's
good taste.

Mickelwaite proceeded to describe what each person's function would be during the whole
ordeal. Much to Hermione's surprise, Mickelwaite was not only an annoying salesman, but he was
a Charmer by main profession. He would be instilling Ginny's rings with such enchantments as
everlasting sparkle, colour-changing, self-sizing, and self-cleaning, but she was alarmed to learn
that the rings would contain a few glamour charms for the wearer as well. She couldn't imagine
Harry signing on to something like that; however, she knew he'd had an appointment with the man
discussing those very things. She was suddenly bothered by the idea that Harry's opinion of
Ginny wasn't what she always thought it was. Eurys must have noticed Hermione's distressed
look, because she patted her on the arm and assured her that they were standard-package charms.
Hermione wasn't reassured.

In addition to Mickelwaite's overall work, Pierre would be infusing the stones with
durability and strength while binding them to the ring, while Eurys would be doing the same on her
end with the gold.

“Your task, Miss Granger, will be to uphold a stabilizing containment incantation for the
duration. Allow me to demonstrate,” Mickelwaite said, obviously enjoying the opportunity to show
off. It wasn't to be, as Hermione raised her wand and held it fast to her left shoulder and
murmured the ancient Greek that was necessary for such a spell. She resisted the urge to smirk at
the man, whose jaw had dropped with astonishment.

Pierre clapped his hands and laughed in amusement. “My stars, Miss Granger, you *are* His
Amazing Heroine! That was brilliant, and for such a young witch!” Hermione fought the urge to
contradict him.

Mickelwaite seemed to have found his tongue. “That's a *bit* more advanced than
necessary—”

“But brilliant, Miss Granger,” Eurys smiled. “Once we start, we really shouldn't quit.
We'll need at least two hours uninterrupted, that's why we—”

“We'll do a test run,” Mickelwaite said, talking over the Bander. Hermione didn't know
how they worked with that man. “And if you have difficulty focusing, we'll need you to remove
the intrusive memories and thoughts for a time. I suppose you know how to do that?”

Hermione raised one careful eyebrow at the man; she did not need his grief after getting three
hours of sleep. To humour him, she grabbed two bottles and proceeded to pull the memory of last
night's couch adventure and her evening in front of the fire with Harry into one bottle.
Procuring Pensieve memories was a tingling, unpleasant process. Hundreds of images flashed before
her eyes as she pulled them from her temporal lobe. She felt strands of her hair come out of her
bun as she pulled the final image of Harry's face in the Floo. The thick silver cord slowly
deposited itself into the bottle, and corking it, Hermione tucked it into her robe. Quickly combing
over her thoughts again, she focused on the orange face of her cat, Crookshanks. She did not want
to deal with that mess when she got home tonight, and the mere thought of it stressed her. She
quickly bottled the memory of his antics, tucked that away and smiled to indicate she was
ready.

Hermione stood across from Eurys, who gave her the signal to start. Hermione again raised her
wand to her left shoulder, relaxed her stance and closed her eyes. She fell into the practiced ease
of the incantation; it was something she and Ron had performed rigorously near the end. They had
decided that when Voldemort realised he was mortal once more, that he would have the Death Eaters
stop at nothing to defeat Harry, so Ron devised a way to protect him from them using old Greek
magic. The two of them had spent that morning removing memories, leaving only significant ones of
the three of them together, and they used those to help push Harry to defeat Voldemort. The Order
was there to protect the two of them, but it took a lot of willpower to continue with the
incantation—especially when Harry could have used their help.

About ten minutes into the practice run, Hermione was vaguely registering the colorful charms
that Eurys and Pierre were rehearsing, keeping her knees relaxed and barely murmuring the words to
keep the containment intact. She didn't know how long they were supposed to do the trial run,
but would rather that they got on with the real thing. It wasn't as though she didn't have
other things she needed to be doing, work to do, errands to run…Merlin, maybe she'd be able to
stop by the mattress warehouse and arrange for a new mattress to be delivered. Though she'd
been thinking that a slightly firmer one would be better for her back, more support… and perhaps
she'd upgrade to a larger size, too. Her double was very cozy, but perhaps *too* cozy, she
thought. Perhaps it would be too small if someone else were to be there with her… Suddenly the
image came to mind of Harry over her *very* naked body, warm candlelight reflecting off the
planes of his strong chest, the scars that marked it from Snape's cruel *Sectumsempra*,
and pure, wild desire so evident in his eyes; she could practically feel his fingertips like brands
on her skin; touching her, searing her, owning her. So close… Hermione felt faint. A flash of heat
swept over her so powerfully that she lost her balance and took a step backward to keep from
falling. The ritual stopped.

“Miss Granger,” Mickelwaite snarled, “we—”

“I—I just need a moment, if you please,” Hermione stammered, completely embarrassed and afraid
that the lot of them could see what she just saw.

“Right through that door, Miss Granger,” Pierre said kindly, pointing to a door on the other
side of the room.

Hermione muttered her thanks and tried not to run. She flung the door open and found herself on
a balcony looking over Muggle London. The sky was grey and quite dirty, her breath coming out in
fast, white puffs. It was freezing outside, which suited her just fine. She unbuttoned the top two
buttons of her robes in an attempt to cool off and put her arms above her head to catch her
breath.

It was just a dream! Harry, like that, Hermione thought numbly, was just a dream—one woven out
of an evening of confusing memories and stimuli *that she had removed from her mind!* She had
completely forgotten it about two seconds after she got up this morning. There was *no* reason
it should be affecting her so—it wasn't a real memory, just vestiges of electrical impulses in
her brain during deep sleep.

She was pacing on the small balcony, trying to regain her composure and dignity so she could
face the three wizards and get this blasted thing over with, when the door opened and Eurys poked
her golden head out.

“I thought you might be needing one of these, love,” she said kindly, handing Hermione another
Pensive bottle. “And take your time. Gerard's a stuffpot, all pomp and no patience. We've
got time yet this morning.” Hermione smiled weakly, taking the bottle from her spindly fingers.
Before closing the door behind her, Eurys winked. “Memory's a powerful thing.”

“I'm sure it is,” Hermione grumbled under her breath, annoyed with herself for not being
able to complete such a simple task as a containment bubble. She was glad that neither Ron nor
Harry were there to quiz her on it. Uncorking the bottle, she brought her wand to her head and
siphoned off the memory. Almost ashamed to have to be doing this, she stood mortified as the images
of Viktor, Robin and Harry floated in front of her vision. Finally, the last image of Harry's
earnest gaze escaped her mind and hung off her wand in a thick silver strand. She deposited the
memory into the bottle, corked it and stored it along with the others in her robes. Taking a deep
breath, she opened the heavy door and went inside to build the ring Harry was going to use to
propose marriage to Ginny Weasley.

~~~~

Two long hours later, and after some thinly veiled complaining from Mickelwaite, Hermione was
stepping out into London's dreary weather. The fog had finally blown in off the Thames and made
the day even more miserable than it had been when she woke up. At least the blasted ring business
was finished, and she wouldn't have to deal with that anymore—unless, of course, Harry still
wasn't back to pick it up, in which case, she'd have to take it to Gringott's. Hermione
had been assured by Eurys that she wouldn't have to meet with Mickelwaite again, but Hermione
still felt as though she should write someone a strongly worded letter about how rude he was to
her.

From Diagon Alley, Hermione was able to Disapparate directly to St. Mungo's. As she was
heading up to the fourth floor and the research offices, she ran into her assistant, Sarah, who
grilled her on all of this time she'd been taking off lately. Was she sick? Were her parents
sick? Was she going to be leaving St. Mungo's? Could she possibly be taking more time for
herself? Did she have a new beau, because she seemed happier lately, but goodness, didn't she
look exhausted, and, oh, didn't I mention that Robin Brownbeck stopped by your office twice
already?

Hermione took the stack of files from Sarah, brushed off her questions, promised to fill her in
sometime (was there ever time?) and sat down behind her desk. All she wanted to do was crawl under
her desk and sleep, but she knew that wasn't an option, so she opened her first file with a
sigh and started reading the overnight reports on her patients.

After two hours of this, Robin tucked his head into Hermione's office, scaring the Moaning
Myrtle right out of her. It had been as quiet as a hospital could possibly get, and Robin's
exuberant “Well, hello there!” had her nearly taking his head off with her wand.

Robin threw his hands up good-naturedly in surrender, entering the room, and making to close the
door. Hermione, slightly annoyed, crossed over to the door and stopped him. “I don't need
rumours, Robin,” Hermione said brusquely, and then softened, upon seeing his face. “Even if they
*are* somewhat true,” she smiled. He smiled back, and Hermione forgot that she was even
minutely annoyed.

“I hope you got to sleep all right last night, Hermione,” Robin said, concern mixed with longing
unmistakable in his bright eyes. She saw how his gaze flitted from her eyes to her lips and
lingered there. She swallowed, uncomfortable and confused. She ducked her head and took a deep
breath.

“Yes, thank you,” she said, fixing a bright smile on her face. “It was late, very much so, but
yes, I did sleep well. Did you?” She moved to the other side of her desk, she motioned for Robin to
have a seat.

He helped himself to the one not-covered-in-books-or-files seat in the room, which happened to
be along the windows this time and sat regarding her. Hermione sat in awkward silence as she waited
for him to answer her. Finally, as if sensing her unease, “Not quite. I had things on my mind,” he
said easily.

“Oh,” Hermione said, unnerved by the lack of flowing conversation between the two of them.

“Nothing to worry about, of course,” Robin said, sensing her unease, “But I was loathe to leave
last night before we had talked.”

A light switched on in Hermione's brain. Of course! “Oh my goodness, you must think I'm
daft. Yes, we need to have a chat, Robin. I'm sorry, my mind's just been in a million
places today.”

Robin smiled, “Is everything all right with Harry? Not that it's my business, but don't
you have to have a clearance to discuss cases with Aurors?” He asked, intrigued. Hermione
couldn't blame him—werewolves weren't exactly in the realm of normal conversation.

Hermione smiled—she'd not thought about this in quite some time. “There's a lot of old
magic surrounding Harry, Ron and I. Basically, whatever Harry tells us in confidence stays that
way, and the Ministry can't dispute that—they tested us with question-specific Veritaserum and
everything. He doesn't do it very often, I suspect he doesn't want me worrying,” she
paused, knitting her eyebrows together. “I *hope* everything's all right. I think we got
it sorted last night, but time will tell.”

Robin nodded in understanding, and stood. “I hope it's all fine, too,” he said sincerely,
and paused, thinking. “I'd really like to have dinner; find out where our thinking is, so to
speak. I should let you get back to your work, and, well, I should be getting back, too,” he ended,
rambling. He put his hands in his robe pockets and rocked on his heels, reminding Hermione of a
teenaged boy.

Hermione nodded. “We will—by the end of the week…” she sighed, looking at the dismal mess on her
desk.

Robin leaned down and kissed Hermione on the cheek and walked out of her office. Hermione
touched her cheek where he'd kissed her. She was feeling emotionally void and confused, she
knew she should be feeling thrilled that Robin definitely wanted to move forward—she'd
certainly felt that way the night before… But today, she felt empty. She was completely thrown by
the events of the morning. Where had that come from?

An old barn owl appeared at her office window, tapping its beak to be let in from the cold.
*Bloody hell, does it ever stop?*

Hauling herself up to open the window, she let the poor bird inside. It was Professor
Lupin's owl. Removing the letter attached, she went back to her chair, and the owl perched
itself perilously on the top of a stack of reports. It was from Tonks. Hermione opened the envelope
to find her bubbly handwriting, complete with neon-colour-changing ink.

*Wochter, Hermione. I hope all is well with you, and that it's not too crazy with the
Christmas season.*

Good Lord, was it Christmas already? Hermione checked her wall calendar, and they were
undeniably already into December. She sighed.

*I feel kind of guilty asking this of you, knowing how busy you get with work and with keeping
tabs on Harry and Ron, but Remus and I were hoping that you could do us a favour. Seeing as the two
of us are unable to brew the Wolfsbane potion now, me because of Baby Wolfie (That's what I am
calling our sprong until we know for sure if he's a boy or girl. Drives Remus right mad, which
of course is the point.)* Hermione couldn't help but smile at this. *And Remus can't
contaminate the ingredients. Next to Snape, who is happily in Azkaban, you're the best potions
mistress we know. We'd forever be indebted to you, of course. We could even name the baby after
you. How does Wolfhemina Hermione sound?* Hermione hoped she was joking.

*I know this is kind of late, seeing as the brewing has to start tomorrow to be done in time,
but I just realised today that I can't do it. We had enough to get him through, before, so I
never had to think about it.*

*Let us know,*

*Tonks*

Hermione closed her eyes, and pressing her lips together, felt herself deflate. There was no
question that she would deny Professor Lupin or Tonks anything, none at all. She couldn't avoid
the feeling of being spread a little too thin, however, and if it weren't for the fact that
she'd just started to make progress in her files, she'd swan off for the rest of the
afternoon for tea and sympathy for one with no one to bother her.

She penned a quick reply to Tonks and sent the owl on its way. She would need to take off the
following afternoon, so she was in for a long evening at the office.

~~

Hermione woke to early sunlight streaming through her office window. She straightened up,
parchment peeling damply away from her cheek. She rubbed her face and bleakly looked at Molly's
clock on the wall. *You should have gone home hours ago.*

Well, that was probably true. She remembered Robin stopping by around eight o'clock, asking
if she was heading out, and she had distractedly told him she'd be leaving soon. Apparently,
that wasn't the case, as she was still at her desk this morning. It was still early enough for
her to Apparate home and get presentable for the day.

While at her flat, Crookshanks had gotten underfoot more times than she could count, he'd
left a dead mouse in the doorway of her bedroom, and wasn't impressed that *she*
wasn't impressed (well, really she *was*, she just didn't have any time to be
impressed). Upon finding it, she saw her still-ruined mattress, and remembered that she needed to
get a new one. Hermione sighed as she stepped under the steaming water of her shower. She had no
time until at least this weekend to go to the furniture store. Quickly running through her routine,
she stepped out of the tub and onto Crookshanks' tail. He hissed and shot away. Was today
Monday? Was that why her day was already so abysmal?

No, it was at least Thursday, her brain reasoned. She resignedly shuffled into her bedroom and
opened her closed, pulling out random robes and tossing them onto her settee. She stood there,
still wet from her shower, staring at how her sweater from her date with Robin was hanging
haphazardly off a lamp, and how her skirt was peeking suspiciously out from under her bed. Just
*how* they got there, she had no idea. Just *where* that dream came from …

Hermione didn't have time to sit there and ponder her subconscious. She quickly got dressed
and tended to her prematurely grey tresses, getting by with the bare minimum for make-up. Catching
sight of her settee again, she knew that wouldn't be the best place to actually rest. When she
got home that evening, after going to the Lupins', she'd just sleep on her couch, and
hopefully hit the furniture store on Saturday.

After feeding her sulking cat, she walked past her living room to pick up her satchel and cloak
and again was barraged with images from two nights ago. Such a strange feeling washed over her, and
she knew she couldn't sleep there, either. Pushing her thoughts out of her mind, she gathered
her things and walked out the door. She'd deal with it all later.

~~~

Hermione walked out of the apothecary's leaden down with bags and bundles containing the
different ingredients she would need for Professor Lupin's Wolfsbane potion. She was pretty
sure that the Lupins had what they needed on-hand, but things like the runespoor eggs and
belladonna needed to be a certain age, and the pomegranate was best when just-picked. As it was
December already (Hermione still couldn't believe that), she suspected that they didn't
have any on the tree in their front garden.

She quickly Apparated to the Lupin bungalow that was just outside of Blackpool. Hermione liked
their little house with its weathered shutters, flagstone walk, and quaint garden. It gave the
couple enough privacy for Lupin's transformations, and was complete with a potions kitchen in
the back. She let herself in the front door to find Lupin sitting at his desk in the study,
lamplight pooling over stacks of parchment and books. He stood, removed his reading glasses and
moved to embrace Hermione.

“Ah, ah, Professor,” she tsked, holding her packages up. “Not until I get started. Is Tonks
here?”

“She's down the road, picking up things for dinner,” he said tiredly. Hermione could see the
effects of the lunar cycle on him, poor man. “We're having shepherd's pie, Tonks'
specialty. Actually,” he chuckled, “it's pretty much her main thing.”

Hermione laughed. “I can deal with that. Let me get this started, and I'll be back.”

Hermione walked through the house to the potions kitchen, which Lupin had had built when they
bought the house. Hermione had used it once before, and had decided that she would want such a
thing in her own house, if she were to ever actually *get* a house.

The Wolfsbane potion consisted of a few separate potions that would be fatal to a normal wizard,
but when taken by a werewolf had a much less severe effect. Because of the nature of the
ingredients, Tonks, in her condition, couldn't handle them without risking her baby's
health. Hermione had no such thing barring her, and as tired as she was, she was looking forward to
the challenge. She set up the three necessary cauldrons and got down to business.

About two hours later, with her sopohorous simmering and her calming drought bubbling, she
joined Lupin and Tonks at the table to eat. Tonks looked absolutely lovely. She was wearing her
hair in a soft lavender shade, and her skin was simply glowing. Pregnancy really became her,
Hermione decided. She was so happy for the two of them. It turned out that they were further along
than what Harry'd led her to believe. She was at least in her fourth month. They'd waited
to share the news, wanting to be cautious, and Hermione couldn't blame them.

Their conversation naturally included the reason why she was there, and Hermione was relieved to
find out that they weren't *really* thinking about Wolfgang or Wolfhemina as names, but
James, John, and Patrick (the name of one of Tonks' Muggle cousins, it seemed), or Adelaide,
Audrey, and Heidi. Not surprisingly, Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin didn't think names like her own
were something worth passing onto an innocent child.

As Lupin poured them all a cuppa after the plates were cleared away, and sitting down, he gave
her what Hermione liked to think of as his “professor look.”

“Have you spoken to Harry, Hermione?”

Hermione slowly placed her cup on its saucer. “Not last night, but the night before. He Flooed
me, and we ended up talking about his case for about three hours. Not that we made any
headway.”

Lupin nodded. “I spoke with him some yesterday, he said he'd already talked to you. I've
been researching, both with my limited contacts in that area of the field, and with about every
book I can get my hands on.”

Hermione smiled, “I saw some of Hogwarts' books in your study.”

“Minerva's been good about letting me take what I need. I was hoping that by contacting you,
something would spark between the two of you, but you had no such luck.”

Hermione wondered a bit at his phrasing, but shook her head. “I've been really worried,
Professor. You don't think they'll send back up? Harry's got a bad feeling about this
one.”

“No, unfortunately it's pretty text book, and Harry's four-Auror squad is all that's
required by the Department. Not that I expect it will stay that way, but for now, it's all
they've got.”

Hermione nodded and looked down to her now-tepid tea. This wasn't the first time she'd
felt helpless where Harry was concerned. He was capable, yes, but they'd always worked better
when it was the three of them together - or two at least. She took a deep breath and braved looking
up at the Lupins again.

“He'll be fine, Hermione,” Tonks reassured, reaching across the table to grab her hand. She
gave it a squeeze and smiled. Hermione was about to return the smile when Tonks gasped and released
her hand.

“Remus! He kicked!”

~~~

It was almost midnight when Hermione finally left the Lupins and Disapparated back into her
neighborhood. She was so tired, she almost asked to use their Floo, though she hated travelling
that way. Hours after dinner, the two of them were still on a high from their child's first
kick that she slipped out the door, her work there done. She made it to Covent Garden in one piece
and walked through the slushy streets to her flat.

As she was fitting the key in the lock, she realised she still hadn't decided where she was
going to stay. She could go to Ron's, though she was likely to have her head taken off for
arriving so late at night, what with his security measures and all. She loathed the thought of
going to her parents' house - not wanting to explain why she couldn't stay at her own
place.

*Gee, mum. Everywhere I turn in my flat, I get bombarded with images of hot sex.*

That would go over *really* well. She could see her dad sputter in his tea and pull the
paper in front of his face, and her mum … well, her mum would pretend like that was the most normal
thing in the world, yet hover over her. She loved her parents, but that wasn't what she
needed.

As she gathered things for an overnight bag, she debated just sleeping on her couch after all,
but one quick stop in the living room for some reading material, perhaps something to do some more
research for Harry, and that was right out. Perhaps she'd stay at a hotel for the night.

Having everything packed, and not seeing Crookshanks, who must have still been cross with her,
she locked her flat and took a deep breath, Apparating.

She arrived with a soft *pop* and took a few short steps up the walk. Convincing herself
that this would be an all right thing to do, she rang the bell, hoping she wasn't making a
mistake.

She heard movement inside, saw a light come on, and heard the lock tumble.

“Hermione! What are you doing here? Is everything all right?”

“Hello, Robin.”

~~~

TBC

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