Dream Chasing by romulus lupin

Rating: PG
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 11/06/2003
Last Updated: 14/05/2004
Status: Completed

Chapter 15. The final chapter. Where loose ends are tied up, new friends are introduced, and the
answer to a question often asked of me: ‘Will Harry and Hermione ever snog?’ Read and find out. I
had to upload everything from Chapter 9; thanks to Cronje who posted a review and IM'd me about
problems with the chapter. Finally, Happy birthday Erin -- from myself, Nicole, Sarah and everyone
else at Hogwarts. ;)




1. A Matter of Luck and Fortunate Positioning
---------------------------------------------

Dream Chasing

**Title:** Dream Chasing (01)
**Author name:** Romulus Lupin
**Author email:** galigad@yahoo.com
**Category:** Romance
**Sub Category:**
**Keywords:** Harry Hermione Fantasy Island
**Rating:** PG-13
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF
**Summary:** Harry and Hermione are unconscious in the Hospital Wing after an accident on the
Quidditch field.
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended.

**Author notes:** Dedicated to **Augurey**, whose question on the HMS Pumpkin Pie thread
let loose a vicious, rabid plot bunny that refused to let go until I sat down at my computer and
started working on this. Special mention to my jailers, **Lils** and **Erin**, for the supply
of Pumpkin-Scented Parchments and Quills, **Nicole** and **Sarah** **(bingblot)** for our
frequent chats which helped to keep my feet firmly on the ground.

Glomps and hugs to you all!
Chapter One. A Matter of Luck and Fortunate Positioning
“The Snitch! The Snitch!”

The shrill screams of Lee Jordan cut through the roaring crowd just as the Quaffle passed
through the goal, bringing Ravenclaw’s score to 160 against Gryffindor’s 20 points. It wasn’t
through any failing or lack of valor on the part of the Gryffindors – a generous alumni donation to
the Ravenclaws’ saw their entire Quidditch team entering the field astride brand-new Firebolts.

While they were no longer the latest, top of the line models, they were still far more superior
than the rag-tag collection of broomsticks that the Gryffindors possessed. That the Gryffindors
were at a disadvantage was patently obvious within the first thirty minutes as the Ravenclaw
Chasers quickly scored six goals to Gryffindor’s none; despite the valiant efforts of Ron Weasley
(the new Gryffindor Keeper), blocking nine goals out of fifteen was simply not enough.

Angelina, Katie and Alicia had also done their valiant best – but again, their best was simply
not enough, as Terry Boot, the Ravenclaw Keeper easily blocked their attempts. They’d scored twice
only through perfect timing – both times, the Twins were able to send the Bludgers directly at
Terry; evading the twin cannonballs gave the Chasers the precious seconds they needed to score.

Down in the stands, the Ravenclaws in their blue robes were roaring … this was the closest
they’d had to winning the Quidditch Cup in twenty years, and they were on their feet, cheering.
They knew that there was only one way left for the Gryffindors to win the game – if Harry Potter,
without doubt the best Seeker that anyone had seen in a long time – was able to get the Snitch
before they could score another goal.

The same thought had apparently occurred to the Ravenclaw Beaters – rather than sending Bludgers
at the Gryffindor Chasers, they were deliberately aiming them at Harry, who had to do some fancy
maneuvering to keep out of the way – and keep his eyes peeled for the Snitch.

Fred and George were doing their best to cover Harry; in their turn, they kept sending the
Bludgers back at the Ravenclaw Keeper, or their Chasers … but this was a wearying effort. The
Firebolts were simply too fast, too maneuverable – and given three Chasers on Firebolts against two
Bludgers, the odds were against the Gryffindors.

A palpable sense of doom could be seen among the Gryffindors in the stands … while they found
the game exciting, the lead that the Ravenclaws had established was simply too great. Already, the
minds of many were focusing on other matters – homework, how to pay back on bets made and lost,
detentions, but most of all … having to face the taunts and jeers of the Slytherins.

There was no doubt in the minds of many that the Slytherins would be in ecstasy at this
development; they knew that even if the Ravenclaws were all on Firebolts, the sheer cunning and
sneakiness of the Slytherins would tip the game in their favor – and Gryffindor would be fighting
it out with the Hufflepuffs for the honor of being last.

In the highest row of seats, however, four girls were on their feet, watching the game in morbid
and horrid fascination … Ginny Weasley’s eyes were darting all over the place, concern for her
brothers (including Harry!) at the forefront of her mind … the Terrible Two were hugging each other
tightly, wincing at the near-misses on Harry and Ron – torn between fascination at the game and
consumed with worry for the two older boys who had been their guides and mentors ever since their
first meeting in Diagon Alley the previous summer.

And Hermione was standing as still as a statue – a magical statue, that is, with an extremely
animated face – as she stood with the veins standing out on her tensed arms, fists clenched tight
enough to crush anyone’s fingers if she were holding them (which was why Cindy and Carolyn had
given up on holding on to her), eyes alternately wide open or closed tightly as she watched Harry
gracefully evade the Bludgers, a constant stream of murmured words coming from her lips, even as
she bit on her upper or lower lip in a constantly alternating fashion.

She’d closed her eyes as the two Bludgers headed straight for Harry, opened them in time to see
Harry escape them by going into a steep dive between the Ravenclaw Beaters, stopped herself from
drawing her wand and hexing the two for fear that she may hit Harry instead, closed her eyes
tightly again as she prayed that Harry wouldn’t smash into the ground from that dive … opened her
eyes wide at the sudden cry of “The Snitch! The Snitch!” from Lee Jordan, in time to see Harry pull
out of his dive and accelerate for the stands, headed directly towards her and her cheering squad
of three!

In the end, it was luck and fortunate positioning.

Harry had dived at just the moment the Golden Snitch broke out of its hiding place and zoomed
past him, upward as he was on the way down; he’d been able to break out of his dive and zoomed
after the Snitch while Cho Chang was at the other end of the pitch and looking in the wrong
direction.

There was no contest.

Hermione had opened her eyes to see the Snitch fluttering a mere five feet in front of her face;
before she could even shout to Harry to get it, she could see a red-and-gold blur aimed her way and
she could feel her throat tighten even as she yelled, “Get it, Harry, get it!” as she felt herself
jumping up and down, arms held high …

In a heartbeat, Harry had zoomed past her … in a blink of her eyes, she knew that the Snitch had
disappeared, and she quickly turned, one arm against the glare of the setting sun to see Harry
above her, eyes sparkling and with one of the happiest grins ever to grace his face beaming down at
her … heard Lee’s hoarse voice shouting, “Harry’s got the Snitch! Gryffindor wins, 170 to 160!”

Without thinking, without any thought given to the Gryffindors around her, Hermione blew a kiss
towards Harry … the latter, with an even broader smile if that were possible, made a motion of
grabbing the kiss and pressing it to his lips … in the same second, Hermione saw Harry’s eyes widen
in shock – and he was suddenly in another steep dive aimed towards her …

A Ravenclaw Beater, extremely frustrated at the unexpected loss of the game, had unthinkingly
smashed a Bludger towards the Gryffindor stands. Seeing this, Harry dived after Hermione, fully
intending to grab her and shove her out of the way …

It was a near-miss.

Harry felt the Bludger pass the nape of his neck by mere millimeters, actually grazing the skin
… the momentum of his dive was such, however, that he had rammed, off-balanced, into Hermione who
had thrown her arms around him to cushion his dive … they’d both fallen – Hermione backwards, the
back of her head smashing on a seat; Harry, stumbling forward and crashing the top of his head on
the stand’s wall, and landing on top of the unconscious Hermione, whose arms were limply around
him.

Ginny and the Terrible Two stared in shock at what had happened; none of them could move for
seconds … and were suddenly galvanized into action when the flash of Colin Creevey’s camera blasted
into their eyes.

* * *

A solemn procession, led by a tight-lipped, stern-faced Minerva McGonagall, made its way down
the corridors of Hogwarts, heading towards the hospital wing. On floating stretchers behind her
were Harry and Hermione, still unconscious, the stretchers borne by the combined wands of the four
Weasleys. Following behind the Weasleys were the Terrible Two, worried looks on their faces, quiet
whispers being exchanged between them …

The solemnity of the procession was broken, as to be expected, as Fred or George
stage-whispered, “Did we have to conjure up two stretchers? We could have made do with one …”

“Hush it, you lout!” Ginny whispered back. “What do you mean *one* stretcher? Harry and
Hermione are hurt …”

“Did we have to break them up? They looked so cute together – oww!” the other Twin responded as
Ron tried to cuff him on the head. “Awww … is ickle Ronnie still jealous of Harry?”

“Shut it, you moron!” Before Ron could say anything more, a glare from Professor McGonagall
froze him to his spot. The Deputy Headmistress’ eyes lasered from one to another, easily cutting
off any words – in the case of the Terrible Two, their breathing – before she turned away and
continued walking towards the Hospital Wing, curious paintings pointing and whispering among
themselves.

They walked on in silence for a few more minutes before one or the other Twins again opened his
mouth, “Awww … isn’t that sweet?” – followed by giggles from Cindy, Carolyn and … Ginny? With an
exasperated sigh, McGonagall turned back to the procession behind her, wondering whether the magic
of the two youngest Gryffindors would be enough to help carry her favorite students to the Hospital
Wing while she Transfigured the two older rascals into pumpkins …

And stopped, mouth hanging open, at the sight before her.

Magically-conjured and levitated stretchers are not immune from jostling and shaking; it takes
experience, concentration and a great deal of magic to ensure a smooth stretcher ride. While
Minerva had experience and magic on her side, her concentration was shot as she stood, shaken, at
the sight of the near-accident that affected her favorite students. At the same time, she could not
refuse the offer of the Weasley siblings to help – they were, after all, the closest thing to
family that Harry, and even Hermione, had in Hogwarts.

As such, she expected a little bit of jostling to happen to her stricken students; she had
judged, however, that these would not be enough to further hurt them – given the cushioning charms
she had placed around their heads and necks.

She was not prepared, however, for the sight that greeted her.

Somehow, the jostling had caused a limp arm to fall outside the blankets that they had wrapped
around the two, and two arms were swaying outside the stretchers they laid in. For some reason – or
was it an automatic body reaction? – their arms were touching each other and (she stepped forward
to peer closely) … were their hands entwined in each others’?

Suspiciously, she looked closely at the faces of the two … and assured herself that they were,
indeed, truly unconscious. There were noticeable bumps on their heads which, oh my!, she thought –
their heads were turned towards each other and, while their faces were slack, one could almost
imagine that they were smiling at each other

With a shake of her head, she looked at the faces of the students with her – Ginny, looking away
with a blush on her face; Ron, also looking away but with a pained expression on his face, the
Twins staring straight ahead but with bodies shaking as they manfully held back their laughter ...
Cindy and Carolyn, eyes sparkling and hands over their mouths, giggling – doubtless wishing that
they had a camera on hand at this moment.

Professor McGonagall contented herself with a glare at the Twins and the Two – a glare which
simply bounced off them; with another exasperated sigh, she turned away and continued walking
towards the hospital wing – thankfully, a very short walk away by now.

As she walked, a small but warm smile broke out on her face.

‘How sweet,’ she thought.



2. "I Am Your Host ..."
-----------------------

Dream Chasing

**Title:** Dream Chasing (02)
**Author name:** Romulus Lupin
**Author email:** galigad@yahoo.com
**Category:** Romance
**Sub Category:**
**Keywords:** Harry Hermione Fantasy Island
**Rating:** PG-13
**Spoilers:** PS/SS, CoS, PoA, GoF
**Summary:** Harry and Hermione are unconscious in the Hospital Wing after an accident on the
Quidditch pitch. But are they? And who is Mr. Roarke?
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended. The same holds true for Fantasy Island and the characters borrowed from
that TV series.

**Author notes:** Dedicated to the shippers of the **HMS Pumpkin Pie**, especially
**Augurey**, **Joyce Cohen**, my jailers **Lils** and **Erin**, as well as
**Nicole** and **Sarah (Bingblot)**, and those who kindly left reviews on the cookies I
posted at the HMS PP Cookie Jar.

A special mention goes to **Clare (Apolla)**, for her wonderful ficlet “*Those Hazy, Lazy,
Crazy Days of Summer*, for reasons that will become obvious.
Chapter Two. “I Am Your Host …”
He could feel the light pressing down on his closed eyelids, as if a weight was bearing down on
them, and he gave a small groan of pain. Instinctively, he went into the mental routine that he
followed whenever he woke up from an accident or incident – carefully but unobtrusively flexing his
legs and arms, from toes to knees to thighs and fingers to elbows to shoulders … making sure that
all limbs were intact and fully functional.

A shadow passed over his face, covering the light -- and he felt relieved. Immediately, his
brain – now assured that he was in working order – tracked back over his memories and recalled what
had happened … catching the Snitch and then catching Hermione’s flying kiss … the Bludger that a
frustrated Ravenclaw had smashed towards them … diving to keep the Bludger from hitting her …
knocking her backwards and falling on top of her …

“Hermione!” Her name came out as a gasp and his eyes flew wide open – and he looked into light
brown eyes fringed by heavy lashes and finely chiseled eyebrows. For a brief, breathless moment, he
felt himself drowning in those eyes before she pulled back slightly, and he could see those
well-remembered, oh-so-lovely features of his best friend’s face.

The sheer joy of seeing her awake and apparently unharmed by his tumble into her overrode any
other conscious or rational thought and he wrapped his arms tightly around her, feeling her own
arms embrace him in a fierce hug as she murmured his name in relief … burying his face into her
mass of brown hair as he felt her face burrow into his chest … smelling her shampoo and suddenly
feeling conscious of the stale sweat that came after every Quidditch game before he could shower …
feeling something soft and powdery but somewhat gritty shift around beneath his legs (‘sand?’ his
brain queried) … and suddenly feeling satin smoothness and warmth at the tips of his fingers and
across his palms … feeling the same thing along the skin of his arms …

His eyes opened in shock and he looked down at the girl who was wrapped in his arms … at the
mass of brown hair down her back, whose tips barely covered a knot of thin purple cloth in the
middle of her back … at the shiny skin below her hair – smooth, shiny with tiny beads of sweat … at
the gentle curve and slight indentations of her spine as they disappeared into the garter of her
…

His head snapped up and his brain shut down as his eyes registered an expanse of beautiful white
beach … palm trees swaying in the distance … blue water lapping at the shore … the warm sun beating
down on them … somehow his mouth started working, and he could hear himself saying, “Hermione? Why
are you wearing a bikini?”

He could feel her suddenly stiffen in shock … in the next moment, they had sprung apart, still
sitting on the beach (‘the beach?’ his brain yammered at him) … eyes wide and staring … Harry
taking in Hermione’s slim yet deliciously curved body in a purple bikini – watching her as a blush
spread all over her body from her hairline to her toes … feeling her eyes on him as he felt a
breeze across his bare back … and he could feel a blush spreading over his body as he realized that
he was bare-chested and wearing only swimming trunks …

Before either one could say a word, they snapped their heads around as they felt the presence of
someone near them. “Professor –“ Harry croaked, hearing Hermione say the same thing at the same
time …

“Ah, good. You are awake … we won’t need the doctor, then.” The voice was warm and friendly … it
sounded almost like Professor Dumbledore but there was the slight trace of an accent beneath it, as
if English was not the man’s first language.

The two teens stood up, self-consciously turning away from each other and shading their eyes
from the sun, to see a tall, fit man wearing a white suit (including tie and shoes) with a broad,
welcoming smile on his face. His face looked familiar, Hermione thought, suddenly wracking her
brains as to where she had seen him – tanned, wrinkled with laugh lines around his mouth and eyes,
a full head of curly white hair and twinkling dark eyes …

He quickly glanced down at someone beside him – a rotund boy around half his height, wearing the
same sort of white suit which fitted him, a gold tooth apparent in his smile … smiling at them
benignly and with a glint of amusement in his eyes.

“Tattoo!,” the taller man said in a voice both friendly and authoritative, admonishing and
amused. “Our guests must be getting sunburned … why don’t you get them some towels from their
bungalow?”

The two teens looked at each other in surprise. ‘Bungalow?’ their eyes said to each other,
vaguely hearing the smaller man say in a raspy, thin voice, “Right away, boss.”

They turned back to the man who had extended a hand to them, and heard him say, “Hello, Harry,
Hermione. I am your host, Mr. Roarke. Welcome to Fantasy Island.”

* * *

Madame Pomfrey straightened up from her examination of Harry and shook her head. She didn’t want
to remember the number of times she’d had Harry under her care, for everything from being knocked
unconscious from a battle with You-Know-Who in the bowels beneath the school – and that was in his
*first* year here – to his stay in this very bed last year after another encounter with the
Dark Lord!

Her eyes wandered to the other bed and she shook her head. It was somehow fitting that these two
would be here in the Hospital Wing together; every time one or the other was confined here, she
could expect the other to be somewhere near. A smile broke out on her face as she remembered a
twelve-year old Harry Potter bringing flowers to the Petrified Hermione during their second year …
and the sight of a worried Harry sitting beside Hermione on the bed, caressing her fossilized hand
…

She stepped back from the bed and turned to face the anxious faces around her. In her normal,
no-nonsense voice, she gave her diagnosis: “They’re all right, but they have to stay here for a
while. They both suffered concussions – Mr. Potter worse than Miss Granger; apparently he’s slammed
into something at full force …?”

The others nodded, sagely; Ginny spoke up and told her about how Harry had smashed into the wall
of the Quidditch stand, the Terrible Two behind her, nodding.

Madame Pomfrey shook her head. “Always the hero, our Mr. Potter.”

“Oh no, ma’am!” Cindy spoke up. “If Harry hadn’t done that, the Bludger would have hit Miss
Hermione instead … I saw the thing coming for her, but couldn’t move …” The younger girl closed her
eyes tightly and shivered, “It was so … so *fast*!”

Ginny and Ron immediately placed their arms around the girl as she nearly collapsed from the
memory. Madame Pomfrey was about to approach, a glint in her eye, when Cindy straightened up with
an apologetic look. Any further discussions were cut off, however, as Professor Dumbledore swept
into the ward, a concerned look on his face.

“They’re quite all right, Albus,” Minerva McGonagall said before he could even say a word.
“Poppy says they both have concussions, but nothing too serious …”

“I see.” The Headmaster stared at the two unconscious students from the foot of their beds for a
brief moment before turning back to the Deputy Headmistress and the Nurse, one eyebrow and a corner
of his lips cocked up at an angle, blue eyes twinkling in a way they had never seen before.
Professor McGonagall rolled her eyes at his inquiring look, and tilted her head towards the nurse,
who took a deep breath as the others broke out giggling.

“Nothing I could do about that, Professor. Every time I tried to place them in separate beds,
they just held on tighter to the other’s hand … I haven’t seen anything like it!” She glared at the
Weasley Twins who had let loose a bark of laughter. “At least not since those two walked in with
their tongues stuck to each other!”

“You two were *snogging* each other?” Ron’s face was a study in pure disgust; Ginny’s face
was screwed up as if she had bit on the sourest lemon ever found on the face of the earth while
their siblings stammered and protested, each one talking over the other as they tried to explain
that an experimental mistletoe backfired on them during a recent Hogsmeade weekend … while the
Terrible Two snickered in the background (and surreptitiously gave each other high fives when the
others weren’t looking).

“I see,” the Headmaster said as he turned back to the two beds which were placed next to each
other, eyes twinkling as he studied the hands that were entwined in the middle of the two beds. His
eyes suddenly narrowed as he looked down at his charges and he turned swiftly to the nurse.

“Poppy … why are they both so red?”

“I don’t know, Albus,” the nurse replied as she shook her head. “There’s nothing that I could
find that’s causing it … if it weren’t for the fact that they’re both unconscious, I would swear
that they’re simply …”

She fell silent as Professor Dumbledore’s eyes locked with hers. She took a deep breath before
finishing her diagnosis, “ … blushing.”



3. "What Sort of Sick Fantasy ..."
----------------------------------

Dream Chasing

**Title:** Dream Chasing (03)
**Author name:** Romulus Lupin
**Author email:** galigad@yahoo.com
**Category:** Romance
**Sub Category:**
**Keywords:** Harry Hermione Fantasy Island
**Rating:** PG-13
**Spoilers:** PS/SS, CoS, PoA, GoF

**Summary:** Harry and Hermione are lying unconscious in the Hospital Wing – or are they?

In this chapter: explanations, Hermione-as-Howler and Harry gets angsty.

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended. The same holds true for Fantasy Island and the characters coming from
that television series.

**Author notes:** As usual, I can only give my warmest thanks and welcome to the lovely
shippers of the unsinkable **HMS Pumpkin Pie**. This time, however, I would like to give a
special mention to **akscully** whose wonderful fics, “Harry Potter and the Pink Elephant” as
well as “An Assault on the Senses” remain, to my mind, the best of the many humorous fics in the
fandom. Glomps to you, sweetie!
Chapter Three. “What Sort of Sick Fantasy …”
Mr. Roarke gazed benignly at the two stupefied teenagers on the beach, and waited patiently for
the questions that he somehow felt these two would be asking. How they’d appeared on the island was
beyond him … that they were there, and his guests – including the tastefully appointed bungalow by
the beach – was something he was prepared to accept. Stranger things had happened ever since he and
his people had popped into existence in this universe …

Now if only Tattoo returns quickly with towels for these two. They were in no danger of sunburn,
he knew – not unless one or the other had in mind to become a bronzed sun-god or goddess – but they
were blushing so furiously that he was afraid they’d pass out from the blood going to their skin
rather than their brains.

He watched as Harry Potter opened his mouth and he braced himself for the question …

“Meep.”

He cocked an eyebrow at that statement – *if* it was a statement, that is. Whatever
thoughts he would have were interrupted by the girl beside the boy:

“You’re Ricardo Montalban, aren’t you?”

Who? His brow furrowed in thought for a moment, and cleared – and he gave Hermione a dazzling
smile of acknowledgement.

“You’re referring to the television show back in the real world.” He noted the shocked look on
her face, and the still-clueless look on the boy’s face and he sighed. “I can give you both a long
lecture on the universal unconsciousness, dream theory and whatnot but” – another dazzling smile –
“I’d rather not. It is rather boring.”

He distinctly heard the boy mutter, “Not to her it won’t” and nearly chuckled in amusement at
the glare the girl gave her companion – if it had been directed at him, he didn’t doubt that he’d
be barbecued right there and then, and Tattoo would be dancing around at the chance to be the one
to greet arriving guests, rather than ringing the bell and shouting “The plane! The plane!”

“Suffice it to say that this” – and he waved his hand at the surroundings – “are a product of
some brilliant people in the real world … but given form and substance through the power of
imagination.”

“This is a dream, isn’t it?”

He bowed her head at her astute observation. “In a sense it is, Miss Granger … but for the
moment, it is your reality. Or shall we say … your fantasy?”

It was impossible, he thought, for both of his guests to become even redder … but that was just
what they did, giving each other surreptitious glances at the same time. Any further remarks were
interrupted as his diminutive assistant ran up, beach towels in hand which he handed over to the
two.

“I would love to chat further with you, but I have other duties to perform at the moment. Please
make yourselves comfortable … everything you would need is at the bungalow over there. There’s also
a telephone in case you need to talk with me …”

He started walking away before the two could make a protest, knowing that they would need time
to sort things out; the girl, in any case, looked ready to explode in righteous anger at her
companion and he wanted to avoid the fallout. But he suddenly paused as something suddenly occurred
to him.

Turning back to his guests, he called out, “Oh by the way … I must tell you that there’s no
magic on the island. It seems to be important that I tell you that, and yes –“ he replied before
either could voice the thought – “it is part of your fantasies.”

With another brilliant smile, he walked away with his pint-sized assistant beside him, thinking
that he’d better talk to wardrobe about those towels. “Scarlet and gold?” he thought, “what were
they thinking of?”

* * *

“Harry James Potter!”

Harry quailed at the tone of that voice, remembering all too clearly the many occasions when his
best friend had spoken his name in that particular tone of voice. Unfortunately, there was no where
to hide on this deserted beach …

“What the *hell* were you thinking of? What sort of sick, hormonal fantasies would you be
having that you would place me here in a *bikini*? A *purple* bikini at that? And what
makes you think that you can shanghai *me* off to this place when we still have to study for
our OWLs? We have a Potions test on Monday, Professor McGonagall will be furious if we miss her
class, we have to submit an essay to Professor Flitwick on Thursday …”

There was only one sure way to shut that mouth, and Harry proceeded to do so – stepping closer
to her, he wrapped an arm around her (effectively locking her arms to her sides), and covered her
mouth with his hand. She immediately shut up, staring at him with wide brown eyes full of shock and
fear, and he leaned his head closer to her so that he could look deeply into her soul.

“If you don’t calm down, Hermione, I … I’ll have to kiss you!”

He thought that he had effectively locked her arms … he suddenly felt her arms on his chest and,
with an almighty push, he felt himself falling backward on the sand, his towel falling off – and
watching as a much more enraged Hermione stood over him, mouth working away like the worst Howler
in existence:

“Kiss me? *Kiss* me? Is that the best you can come up with? Or is that just another of your
sick fantasies? I should have known better … I thought you were my friend! Why are you having this
sick fantasy of having me alone on this island … what were you thinking about? That we are going to
be the next Adam and Eve? Or are you thinking of yourself as Tarzan with me as Jane … you’re sick,
Potter! Sick, sick, *sick*!”

In her blind anger, Hermione didn’t realize that her towel had fallen off and she was standing
over Harry, fists on her hips, and her purple bikini’s straps threatening to fall off her shaking
shoulders as she continued her ranting. Harry, however, couldn’t help but notice this as he pushed
himself away from her …

“Eep?”

“Is that all you’re going to say, Harry? Just ‘eep’? You’re not even going to apologize for
dragging me here into this squicky little fantasy of yours, for probably making me miss a week’s
worth of classes? What do you have to say, Potter?”

“Your bikini’s falling?”

Her eyes widened in shock, and she immediately looked down … noticing for the first time that
the shoulder straps of her bikini top had fallen around her arms and was, indeed, threatening to
fall off. She quickly turned around and tried to fix herself, not noticing that Harry had modestly
turned away from her, and was sitting on his towel, staring off into the distance.

She finally re-arranged the straps of her bikini top to her satisfaction, checked that her
bikini bottom was in place and all right, and turned back to her best friend of four and a half
years, ready to give him a glare that would turn him into toast …

And stood still as she watched him, still as a statue turned away from her, shoulders slumped
and dejected … and she felt all her innate motherliness towards the boy well up within her. For a
long moment, she could feel herself in a major war, as the friendship, trust and affection that had
been built over the years of shared adventures and quiet moments fought valiantly against the
feeling of embarrassment, shock and … mortification? – that had consumed her when she realized that
she was hugging her best friend tightly, marveling in the clean, soapy scent he exuded, feeling her
palms glory in the touch of his skin … moments before realizing that he was bare-chested and in
swimming trunks, while he was running his fingers up and down her bikinied body.

“I’ve never been to the beach before,” he said, softly.

“What?”

“Well … not really, that is. The Dursleys always left me with Mrs. Figg whenever they had an
excursion planned … and after what happened at the zoo when the boa constrictor escaped, they made
sure that I would never join them again. Not until the night when Uncle Vernon rented the
hut-on-the-rock when he was trying to hide from all the school owls trying to deliver my Hogwarts
letters.”

“Oh,” she replied in a small voice. She had heard that story of course, but from Hagrid, not
from Harry. He never really told any of his friends that much about his growing up years; they’d
inferred bits and pieces of it from little things that he’d dropped and their own encounters with
the Dursleys.

She looked around at the postcard perfect beach and reflected, once again, on how much beauty
and fun her best friend had missed. An abnormal childhood, a hateful family and home … the only
real fun times he’d had was at Hogwarts – and even there, life was anything but normal for him. Fun
times interspersed with moments of unbelievable terror; the joy of learning something new mixed
with moments of frustration and insults … life had been unbelievably hard on her friend.

“I’m sorry, Hermione.”

Startled, she stared at him – noting that he had stood up and was facing her, green eyes behind
his trademark glasses boring into her own, face serious and mouth set in a straight line … eyes
locking with hers and refusing to look anywhere else.

“I’m sorry for dragging you here … but I didn’t know this would happen. All that was on my mind
was that the Bludger was heading straight for you … that I had to get to you before it hit … that I
couldn’t stand the thought of you hurt, or in pain …”

“Harry …”

There was nothing more she could say; she stepped closer to him and wrapped her arms around him,
unheeding that she was in a bikini and her best friend was in trunks … but strangely, there was no
sense of embarrassment or shame in that embrace. She felt his arms around her, holding her tightly
and she let herself relax … this was *Harry* after all, her best friend and constant
companion, the one who saved her life when she was eleven years old, who had confided so many
thoughts and nightmares to her and Ron over the years, the boy she’d hugged so tightly in that tiny
chamber beneath Hogwarts before watching him walk off to face his enemy alone … the boy she’d
kissed on the cheek as she said good-bye at the end of their fourth year …

The Boy-Who-Lived who was only, and truly, the Boy-Who-Is-Her-Friend … and who had saved her
from a Bludger only moments? Minutes? Hours before?

She didn’t know … and she didn’t care.

This was her friend, the one she’d shared so many eventful moments with … and strangely, she
felt honored that she was the person he was sharing his fantasy with.

A fantasy island with a postcard-perfect beach where the only adornment was herself in a purple
bikini.

She felt a flush creep up from her toes and loosened her arms from around him, felt him quickly
drop his arms and she smiled to herself, shaking her head slightly at the innate gentleness and
chivalry of her friend … and felt his hands suddenly resting lightly on her shoulders.

She looked up at him and saw his eyes staring down at her … saw him leaning forward and closed
her eyes, drawing in a deep breath of anticipation as she pursed her lips … and felt his lips
brushing against her forehead before he enfolded her again in a hug – not so tightly, but a warm
and caring embrace, nevertheless.

“Let’s get in the shade before you get sunburned, Hermione.”

She opened her eyes to see him turning away, picking up their towels from the beach and walking
away. A few steps, and he turned back to her, a raised eyebrow in a silent question … and she
followed after him docilely, head down, trying to hide a sense of disappointment that was coursing
through her.

She felt his strong fingers in her hand, entwining with her slim ones – and she looked up to see
him smiling at her, the same sort of smile that he had given her at Honeydukes during their third
year when he had sneaked out of the castle … and she gave him a warm, albeit tremulous, smile.

Impulsively, she reached up and gave him a kiss on the cheek … and turned away to walk with him,
hand in hand, towards the small bungalow on the beach.



4. "Are You Coming ... Or Going?"
---------------------------------

Dream Chasing

**Title:** Dream Chasing (04)
**Author name:** Romulus Lupin
**Author email:** galigad@yahoo.com
**Category:** Romance
**Sub Category:**
**Keywords:** Harry Hermione McGonagall Fantasy Island
**Rating:** PG-13
**Spoilers:** PS/SS, CoS, PoA, GoF

**Summary:** Harry and Hermione are lying unconscious in the Hospital Wing – or are they?

In this chapter: explanations, Professor McGonagall pays a visit to the Hospital Wing … but why
should she be trying to snog Madam Pomfrey senseless?

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended. The same holds true for Fantasy Island and the characters coming from
that television series.

**Author notes:** I would like to dedicate this as a belated birthday fic to **Augurey**,
whose question on the HMS Pumpkin Pie thread in FA provided the inspiration for this story,
**Silvestria**, one of my favorite authors and an awesome person besides, and my favorite
jailers, **Erin** and **Lils** who are also part of the Geminis on board the ship. Huge
GLOMPS to the people of the unsinkable HMS Pumpkin Pie – and especially to **blazefury**,
**Nicole**, and **joyce**.
Chapter Four. “Are You Coming … or Going?”
The Hospital Wing was quiet, the darkness broken only by the flickering torches and the few
candles that Madam Pomfrey kept lit. She had just finished checking up on her charges and was
relieved to see that they were no longer as red as before and, glancing at their hands, smiled as
she realized they were no longer entwined.

She sighed at that and quickly shook off her romantic notions; she had to admit, though, that
*that* was a losing proposition whenever she saw these two together. She could still remember
the first time she’d seen Hermione Granger – haunting the hospital wing while Harry lay unconscious
after rescuing the Philosopher’s Stone -- and she stifled her laughter as she recalled the look of
horror and sheer terror on Potter’s face when it looked like Hermione was going to climb into the
bed with him and hug him that first time …

“Clueless boy,” she snickered to herself, and nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt a
presence beside her.

“Any change, Poppy?”

“They’re still out cold, Minerva,” she replied to the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts as she
smoothed down the blankets over her patients.

“And their … blushing?”

Madame Pomfrey shook her head at that, mentally cuffing herself for the remark made earlier
which, she was sure, would have made the rounds of the castle by now. (In fact, she’d had to shoo
out the Grey Lady and the Fat Friar who’d supposedly come in on some business or other but were
inordinately interested in her patients). “Whatever it is, it’s gone down … as you can see, their
colour is back to normal.”

“Yes, I can see that,” McGonagall replied and Poppy Pomfrey could swear that there was the
slightest tinge of amusement in that normally stern, no-nonsense voice. The nurse was surprised,
however, when McGonagall Summoned a chair to Harry’s bedside – Transfigured it into a comfortable
armchair -- and primly sat down. She held her hand up before any protest could be made and said,
“I’ll just sit here with them for a while, Poppy.”

Madame Pomfrey nodded, knowing it would be useless to argue (they were Gryffindors, after all
and she knew the two were McGonagall’s favorite students, even if the latter would rather face
Salazar Slytherin and his basilisk rather than admit to the fact), and was about to offer some tea
or milk when both heard murmuring.

A quick glance around and they both realized that the murmuring was coming from Hermione; before
either could heave a sigh of relief or comment that the two would soon be awake, they heard Harry
also murmuring something incoherent under his breath. For a few minutes, they watched the two
unconscious teens – heads swiveling from one to the other like spectators watching a Quaffle being
passed from Chaser to Chaser, before staring at each other in puzzlement.

“Are they …?”

Whatever they were about to say was interrupted by movement from the two. Turning back, they
both could feel an eyebrow climbing into their hair at the sight of Harry holding Hermione’s hand
to his lips … followed by the same soft, incoherent murmur coming from him.

They both shook their heads at the same time, neither one noticing the other’s gesture.
Silently, Madame Pomfrey turned to walk to her office to prepare some tea, noting out of the corner
of her eye that the Deputy Headmistress was leaning forward, elbows on knees, chin resting on one
fist, suspiciously twinkling eyes behind their lenses undoubtedly focused on the two teens ...

Madame Pomfrey suddenly jerked her arm; for a brief, hysterical moment, she had been about to
cuff her wizarding superior and tell her that it was not polite to eavesdrop. She shook her head
and mentally cuffed herself – and continued to walk towards her office.

She didn’t know that the same thought was dancing around both their minds.

“I wonder what they’re talking about?”

* * *

Hermione stepped out to the bungalow’s veranda as she dried her hair, still wearing a bikini but
with a loose tee shirt over that, shaking her head at the sort of fantasies boys could have. She’d
nearly gone ballistic again when she realized that, while they had separate rooms and baths (‘Thank
Merlin for that!’), the only clothes she had in the entire place were made up of tee shirts – and
bikinis.

Harry was leaning against a post on the veranda, wearing a tee shirt and riotously colored
Hawaiian swimming trunks that went past his knees – seemingly deep in thought as he stared blankly
at his surroundings. The towels that the thoughtful Tattoo had brought were draped over one of the
chairs on the veranda – one of those huge wicker tropical chairs that looked as if you were sitting
on a throne – and she had a sudden vision of Harry Potter, skinny legs and knobby knees stretched
out and contented, a pitcher of iced tea and glasses on a small table beside him. All that was
needed, she thought, was for Dobby and Winky to be standing somewhere near, waving huge feathered
fans … she almost wished for that to happen; at least she would be more comfortable with that sort
of regal, royal fantasy than this, this … *thing*.

Her soft giggle at the idea caught his attention, and she saw her best friend look up at her and
smile shyly … clearly still embarrassed at what had happened to them. Before she could say a word,
he blurted, “You’re beautiful, Hermione,” and they turned away from each other, blushing.

“I mean … err, I mean, it’s beautiful here, Hermione,” he stammered and she smiled to
herself.

‘Clueless boy,’ she thought to herself, but feeling warmed nevertheless at his unsolicited
compliment. She walked over to stand beside him, looking out at the white sands and indigo sea,
breathing deeply of the fresh salty air that had always been a tonic to her during the summers when
her parents took her to the beach.

They stood there in companionable silence, each lost in their own thoughts – Hermione
reminiscing about her childhood and the beaches she had played on, Harry thinking about the things
that he had missed when growing up … neither noticing that they were slowly leaning into each
other.

“It’s so peaceful here, isn’t it?” Hermione remarked, turning to Harry and noticing, with a
start that their shoulders were touching – and their hands were inches away from each other’s.

“Yes, it is,” Harry agreed, as he stepped back a bit from her. “It’s so quiet … and peaceful …
and serene …”

He paused, and continued in a soft, almost whispering voice, “Thank you for being here with
me.”

Their eyes locked and Hermione felt her hand being lifted … felt Harry’s lips brush the fingers,
and felt herself blushing. Casting about desperately for something to say, she blurted the thing
that was foremost in her mind: “Nice outfit, Harry.”

She cursed herself for that most inane of all remarks as she felt him step back as if
electrocuted – and she immediately missed the warmth of his fingers and the heat of his nearby
body. But the words had been said … the moment broken … and she could chalk this up to another
moment when her big mouth had ruined a special moment in her life.

She heard Harry stammering: “Well … uh … there was nothing else to wear?”

She turned to him with an impish smile breaking out on the corners of her mouth and regarded her
best friend with a skeptically raised eyebrow. He blushed under her scrutiny and mumbled, “This was
the most … uhm … *decent* pair of shorts I could find, Hermione … and … uhh …”

Smiling broadly now, she poked him in the ribs. “Another aspect of your hormonally-induced
fantasies, Potter?”

As he blubbered and tried to stammer a response, she kept advancing on him, half-poking and
half-tickling him, saying sweetly, “Did you know, Harry … that the *only* clothes I have now
are all *bikinis*? Not one skirt … not one blouse or pants … not even a *decent* pair of
shorts? At least you were kind enough to have a few tee shirts in there for me …”

Harry nearly stumbled backward but was caught by Hermione who, unfortunately for him, continued
poking him as he stepped back. “And do you know something else, Harry? There’s not one book in the
whole place … *not* one *book*! What were you thinking I would be doing the whole time?
Huh? Answer me, Potter … what were you thinking I should be doing *the whole time*?”

Harry was backed up to the wall by now, and responded in the only way he could: “Meep?”

* * *

Poppy Pomfrey stepped out of her office bearing a tray and tea-things and walked towards her
guest, a faint smile on her normally stern face. ‘Ah, the joys of teaching,’ she thought. You
always had to project a stern and disciplinarian façade if you wanted anything done – but you had
to know when and where to balance it with warmth, concern and affection. While Minerva had to act
the strict, stern and at times sarcastic disciplinarian, even to her own House, she was not above
showing emotion whenever the occasion called for it – like when her team won the Quidditch Cup in
Potter’s third year, or when the Gryffindors won the House Cup for three years running …

And of course, staying in the Hospital Wing with her students whenever they were sick … although
she usually did it late at night when the patients were asleep – and never more than a few minutes
lest they wake up and find their Head of House watching over them!

Poppy could still remember the nights that Minerva McGonagall spent in the Hospital Wing, the
time the basilisk was loose and two out of the three students attacked were Gryffindors. She was
also there when the Mandrake potion was administered, but had left before Hermione and Colin
Creevey came to full consciousness.

‘Typical House mother,’ she thought to herself. And here she is again, watching over her
students … her ‘babbies’ as she sometimes called them …

“Min—“ she suddenly stopped, the tea-tray balanced in her hands, and she shook her head,
although a broad grin had spread over her face. For a moment, she considered shaking the Deputy
Headmistress awake but reconsidered – after all, the poor woman had been through quite a strain
today, what with her team winning in such a spectacular fashion, her favorite students down and
unconscious from an accident, on top of all the daily distractions and activities involved in
running a school …

She quietly set the tea tray on a nearby bed and went back to her office.

‘I’ll give her a few more minutes of rest … it shouldn’t do any harm.’

* * *

“Are you sure you want me here, Harry?”

They were standing together again, holding hands loosely as they stared out at the
picture-perfect beach, sharing another moment of quiet contemplation and silent companionship.

Hermione couldn’t stand the look of panic on Harry’s face when she cornered him, demanding to
know what she was supposed to do with no books and nothing but bikinis to wear – and had broken out
in near-hysterical laughter. It was only then that Harry realized she was teasing him – and a
radiant, boyish smile had broken out on his face.

The smile had been so unaffected and so affectionate that Hermione had stopped laughing – and
felt herself being drawn once again towards her best friend. Before she could throw caution and
everything else to the wind, she abruptly turned around and walked back to the edge of the veranda
and stared out at the sea in front of their bungalow, allowing herself a quiet giggle at having
successfully teased her best friend … feeling him walking beside her and sharing the view …

She gave him a surreptitious glance from behind her mass of bushy hair and continued, in a light
tone of voice, “I mean … the other girls would fit a bikini better than I would … “

“You’ve seen them in a bikini then, I assume.”

She lightly swatted at him, which he’d easily avoided, but continued in the same light tone of
voice: “Come on, Harry … I’ve lived with Lavender and Parvati for four years now … I daresay you
could give me a run-down on the, uhm, *physical* attributes of your dorm-mates if I
asked.”

“Oh? And *why* would you be interested in that, may I ask? Or are you trying to find out if
Ron’s freckles extend to his toes … or if Seamus has a mole on his left hip … or if …”

“Been staring at them in the bathroom, Potter?”

Her saucy grin threatened to split her face at the suddenly flustered look on her friend’s face
and she decided to let him off the hook: “Well then, since there are no books in the place, we can
spend the time exchanging notes on our dorm-mates. You know … you can tell me if Ron has freckles
on his toes, then I’ll tell you if Parvati has a mole on her left cheek …”

“Parvati doesn’t have a mole on her cheek, Hermione.”

“Not *that* cheek, Harry …”

“Oh,” he replied in a small, small voice – and he blushed again as he realized what she was
referring to.

“And that Ginny’s freckles go all the way down her back …”

“I’d rather talk about you, Hermione.”

She gawked at him, becoming conscious that, once again, she had let her rambling mouth entrap
her. She couldn’t very well tell him about *her* own blemishes – not about the tiny mole on
the underside of her left breast, or the reddish discoloration on her skin that was hidden behind
her bikini’s backside, or …

“I don’t know anything about you, Hermione.”

She peered at him closely and realized that he was looking away from her. She was about to
respond to that, but closed her mouth as he continued: “I mean, we’ve been friends for over four
years now, and I know next to *nothing* about you.

“I know your parents are dentists, but that’s *all* I know. I don’t know if you have any
brothers or sisters … who your friends are outside of Hogwarts … where you live outside of the
Hogwarts library … I don’t even know if you *like* me!”

She turned in protest at that last statement – and met his blazing eyes head on … almost
stepping back at their intensity and feeling a single moment of fear as she felt him gripping her
shoulders: “All that I know about you is what *I* know … that there is no one in the world I
would rather have with me at this moment, in this place, at this time.”

The words were said softly, but with great force and steely resolve and she felt her knees
weakening, felt herself breathing rapidly – and heard her big mouth grab the opportunity again:
“Not Ron, Harry?”

“Ron wouldn’t look good in a bikini.”

He blinked – she blinked … they watched each other as identical looks of revulsion swept over
their faces, mouths working at the same time to form the single word, “Ewww!” – and they stepped
away from each other, trying to shake their minds of that singular, horrible image … and Harry got
in the first response: “Wash your mouth out with soap, Hermione!”

“Me?” she protested, “You’re the one who came up with the idea of Ron in a bikini!”

“Merlin’s beard, will you stop it, Hermione? Didn’t you hear what the man said? This is
*Fantasy* Island – what’re you gonna do if Ron suddenly shows up here wearing a purple
bikini?”

“Yuck!” she said, shuddering. “That’s not a thought I’d like to carry around with me … besides,
purple will clash horribly with his hair!”

Harry screwed his face up in pain, throat working as if he wanted to spit out the crude thought
… “I think I’m going to be sick, Hermione,” before he doubled over and tried to sprint for the
bushes planted around the veranda …

The ever-concerned Hermione rushed to his side, intent on helping him – but the moment she
touched him, he spun around and started tickling her ribs. With a shriek of laughter, Hermione
grabbed at his shirt as she nearly stumbled backwards. With his Seeker instincts, Harry grabbed her
wrist and pulled her back – his other hand, however, was busy darting from one side of her to
another … and Hermione was almost dancing a jig as she tried to avoid his tickling fingers …

She suddenly shifted to the offense: placing her small hands on his chest and shoving him back;
Harry, on the other hand, had quickly grabbed her hands and pulled her down with him – and the
battle continued on the smooth, polished wood of the veranda, each intent on tickling the other to
death, hysterical laughter punctuating the seriousness of their efforts … neither aware that
Hermione’s loose shirt was bunched around her waist – or that Harry’s Hawaiian shorts were
ominously close to slipping off his slim hips …

“Mister Potter! Miss Granger!”

The shocked voice cut through their hilarity like a well-honed bayonet passing through flesh –
their sweaty faces froze a few inches from each other and their eyes locked in horror. They both
felt as if they were eleven years old again – quivering in McGonagall’s office after Filch had
caught them after they’d delivered Norbert the Dragon to Charlie’s friends …

Without a word, they both scrambled to their feet – Hermione pulling up her tee shirt and nearly
ripping it off in her haste, Harry pulling up his about-to-fall-off shorts and wondering how the
*hell* he was going to explain this … and both met the shocked face of Minerva McGonagall,
wearing a sunshine yellow sundress and a large, floppy hat -- a serious faced but twinkling-eyed
Mr. Roarke on one side, and a visibly shaking Tattoo, hands clasped over his mouth in stifled
laughter or surprised shock, on the other.

Harry and Hermione glanced at each other quickly, one word forming on their lips and coming out
in a single breath: “Eep!”

* * *

‘What is it about these two,’ Minerva McGonagall wondered as she primly sat on the veranda,
listening to the sound of two teens bustling around in the kitchen as they prepared tea and
biscuits for their guests.

“Perhaps it’s because of what they both went through in the past four years, Professor
McGonagall.”

She peered through her glasses at her companion, noting again the impassive face, the twinkling
eyes and the knowing smile that reminded her so much of her school superior and friend, Albus
Dumbledore. She raised an eyebrow at this comment but waited, her silence aimed at encouraging him
to talk.

“The mind works in mysterious ways, Professor – surely you know that? All these (and Mr. Roarke
waved his hand around the scenery) may just simply be a way for those two to rest … to take a break
from the daily grind and pressures and, in so doing, be ready and willing to face the tasks that
destiny placed on their shoulders.”

“Be that as it may, Mr. Roarke,” she replied in her normally stern voice, “we try to make sure
that they get adequate rest and relaxation while at Hogwarts.”

“Of course, Professor – but sometimes, imposed rest is not enough.” McGonagall didn’t reply to
this; she knew all too well the nightmares that had visited Potter several times over the years –
and even the “vision” (if it can be called that) which visited Harry during his Divination class
last year.

“But Miss Granger …”

“Oftentimes could not sleep herself because of her worrying about Mr. Potter.” Again, McGonagall
fell silent at that. She couldn’t find it in her heart to stop the girl from rushing to the first
aid tent at the conclusion of the first task of the TriWizard Tournament – the sight of Hermione’s
face, fingernail marks all over it showing where she had clutched it in fear, almost made her heart
leap out of her throat … and she could still hear Hermione’s voice calling out to Harry as he
climbed out of the lake after the second task: “Harry, well done! You did it, you found out how all
by yourself!”

She shook her head at that – of course, Miss Granger would also want to spend some time in
relative peace and quiet and, as she remembered Hermione’s muggle upbringing – a trip to an
isolated beach would be just the ticket for her.

She sniffed at that; be that as it may, it still did not excuse the skimpy attire of her
students – or even that mischievous game they were engaged in when she’d walked in on them … but
then – ‘Oh well,’ she thought, ‘boys will be boys.’

She wasn’t aware that she had spoken the thought out loud until Mr. Roarke replied in a calm
voice, “But Professor … there are *two* people sharing this fantasy.”

The train of thought that the enigmatic remark launched was broken with a loud crash – leaping
to her feet, wand out so swiftly in a way that her old Dueling Instructor would have been proud of,
prepared to protect her charges … she scanned around her for the threat.

And saw a red-faced (or red-*bodied*) and flustered Hermione Granger looking down at the
tea tray she had dropped – and a shocked Harry Potter staring at her, both of them doing the famed
impersonation of salmon hauled out of the lake – mouth agape and trying to breath, making every
effort to form coherent words but failing … and then Hermione bolted, running down the veranda and
headed for the beach.

Harry hastily set down the tray of sandwiches he was carrying and, with an apologetic look at
his guests, ran after her.

An unperturbed Mr. Roarke looked after them and, with a sigh, turned to McGonagall: “I assume
that means we will have to make the tea ourselves. Unless I can persuade you to join me in town
until those two decide to return?”

She turned a steely-eyed glare at the white-suited man with his Spanish accent and grandee ways,
biting off her words at a clipped pace: “Are you trying to say that Miss Granger’s a *party*
to this … this …”

“Professor.” Mr. Roarke’s steely voice was a perfect match to her own, “As I’m sure you’re
aware, we were *all* young at one time.”

The scathing retort died on her lips and she looked around her once again … and realized that
the surroundings, and this house on the beach, were somehow familiar to her. As she looked down the
shore where Harry was running after a fleeing Hermione, the memories flooded back: of a young and
carefree Minerva McGonagall and a beach in the Playa de Genoveses … that glorious vacation and the
company of the young Spanish wizard she met and befriended in Madrid … the golden sunsets and
glorious sunrises … those days when she realized that yes, she was beautiful, and lovely, and sexy
and could hold her own against the more striking beauties that Hogwarts in her day had to offer …
the single mad moment when she threw caution and everything else to the wind – and her escort
nearly had a heart attack at her boldness when she went for a swim that way …

“Of course, Mr. Roarke,” she replied with a misty smile. “Shall we see if we still know how to
make tea without magic?”

* * *

“Hermione!” She knew Harry was chasing after her, but she didn’t want to stop … she couldn’t
face him. But she was already breathing heavily … lugging around a bag of books was not the best
exercise in endurance and speed – and she soon felt Harry’s hands on her shoulders, and she slumped
down on the sand … sensing Harry falling to his knees in front of her, and she turned away from
him, using her long hair to hide her blushing face from him.

They were silent for a few moments, as they tried to catch their breaths … and she heard Harry
voice out the question that she had been avoiding ever since she woke up to this beach with Harry
beside her: “Hermione … is this your fantasy, or is it mine?”

Her breath hitched as she tried to frame a response but, in the end, knew that honesty, as
always, would be the best policy. Still behind her bushy hair, she replied, “It isn’t always about
you, Harry.”

She felt his hand on her chin, forcing her to look at him – and she looked at his puzzled face
as he asked, softly, “Why?”

She abruptly stood up and faced away from him, her bare toes digging into the warm sand as she
framed her reply, thinking that half the truth is preferable to lies: “Because I needed this too,
Harry. I wanted some time to myself … and the beach has always been where I felt most comfortable …
and relaxed … where I could rest and clear my head.”

She trailed off and looked up at the blue sky above her, breathing in the fresh, clean, salty
air. “It’s where I can clear my head … where I can stop thinking of books and lessons, stop
thinking of Voldemort and school … where I can just be by myself for a while with nothing to think
about, or worry about, or fuss about …”

“Is that why there are no books …”

“Yes!” She spun around and faced him, eyes blazing in fury. “I know what you and Ron think of
me, Harry: there’s a problem, and Hermione runs to the library. What do you do about a dragon –
I’ll drag you to the library. The Chamber of Secrets has been opened – no problem! I’ll find the
answer in the bloody library!

“I get sick of it sometimes, Harry! All that you, and Ron, and every-bloody-body else thinks of
me as nothing but a darned bookworm who spends all her frigging time in the stupid library! Even
you think of me that way … don’t you remember? You were telling me that you didn’t even know where
I bloody well live outside of the library!’

“That was a joke, Hermione,” he replied, guiltily … although he knew that it was a half-joke at
best – and his own thoughts at worst.

“Then why in bloody Hades did you have to say it, Harry? Couldn’t you just ask me where the hell
I lived, instead of bringing in that stupid library again?”

Harry didn’t respond. He stared down at his toes which were also digging their way into the
sand, wishing that they were a mole’s paws and he could dig his way deep into the sand and cover
himself up rather than face his angry friend. But that was a useless exercise, he knew.

He looked up and saw her standing a few feet away from him, head down but turned away, shoulders
slumped and – thank Merlin!, he thought – she wasn’t crying. He approached her cautiously, and
touched her shoulder – watched as she shrugged away his hand and tried to walk away, but he
followed her and placed his hands on her shoulders.

“I’m sorry, Hermione … sorry for teasing you like that. But don’t you see? That’s why I wanted
to know more about you … to know more about the Hermione Granger who is my friend, who’s been my
friend and companion for five bloody years but who I didn’t know outside of everything that she’s
ever taught me about magic …”

“Books and cleverness … that’s all I ever was to you and Ron, Harry.”

“No.” Gently, he forced her to face him and lifted her chin so he could look in her now
streaming eyes. “There’s also friendship and bravery … and you’ve shown all that and more with me.
You were brave … you were as brave as anyone could be when we went after Ron in the Shrieking
Shack. And you showed me your friendship when you used the Time-Turner against every law and
restriction the Ministry of Magic had, when we used it to save Sirius.

“But that isn’t enough, Hermione. Don’t you see that?” He kept his eyes locked on hers as his
thumbs gently wiped away the tears that had fallen down her cheeks. “I couldn’t have survived last
year without you … all those charms, the Impediment and Reductor Curse, the Four Point Spell …”

His voice dropped to a whisper, “The Summoning Charm.” He fell silent, remembering the moment in
Moody/Crouch’s office when he realized that he could use his Quidditch skills to beat the dragon –
that for the First Task, he needed his Firebolt and that, for his Firebolt, he needed –

“Hermione,” Harry whispered, “I *need* you … can’t you see that? But I need you more than
the books or cleverness that you already have. I need your friendship … I need your courage … there
are times when I can’t be what I am unless you’re there beside me.”

“Oh, Harry …” She couldn’t say anything else because they were again wrapped tightly in each
other, her face buried in his chest and her arms around him, feeling his chin on her head as he
embraced her.

They stood together that way for some time, gently rocking each other as they felt their hearts
beating, Hermione’s tears being dried as she rested her face against Harry’s shirt, feeling the
cold lump in the region of her chest thawing away as he held her …

“And the bikini, Harry?” she asked in a muffled voice. She felt his arms go tighter around her,
and heard his voice through the curtain of her hair: “I don’t care … I told you that it’s you I
want with me here in this place, in this time.”

She felt him gently pushing her and she let go but stopped as she felt his hands resting on her
waist, fingers entwined around her. She could do nothing less than hold him by the waist, although
her hands could not reach around him. She looked up and saw his intensely green eyes staring into
her soul: “I told you that it’s you I want here with me … not Lavender, not Ginny … not Ron in his
bloody purple bikini. You.”

She giggled, and embraced him tightly again, taking in a deep breath of salty sea air combined
with the clean smell of soap and starch, sighed in contentment as she felt Harry’s arms around her
…

“Ahem.”

They didn’t jump apart this time, just gently disengaged themselves (although their hands were
still entwined) and turned around to face Professor McGonagall and Mr. Roarke who were looking at
them with smiles on their faces.

“I’m afraid that Professor McGonagall has to go back, Harry … Hermione,” Mr. Roarke said. “She
needed to find out if you two were all right, and since it looks like everything *is* all
right …”

His twinkling eyes did remind her of Professor Dumbledore, Hermione thought, and she turned to
face her mentor, who also had the same sort of twinkle in her eye. Before she could say a word,
Professor McGonagall held up her hand and she fell silent.

“It’s Thursday night, Miss Granger. I daresay that your Professors could conduct their classes
without you or Mr. Potter for a day or two … although I do believe you have a Potions test on
Monday?”

She chuckled at the identical looks of horror on their faces, and continued. “Do try to make it
back by Tuesday at the latest; I don’t think Severus will take it too much against you if you’re
still unconscious by then, although I think I will try to persuade him to postpone the test till
the week after next.”

The smiles on the two teen’s faces could have easily rivaled the sun had it not been covered at
that moment by a moving cloud. She nodded at them, and held out her hand to Harry: “Mr. Potter,
please take care of Miss Granger.”

Harry had to let go of Hermione’s hand to shake his Professor’s hand, saying, “Of course, ma’am.
I’ll take care of her as if she were my own.”

His choice of words made him blush again, and he turned away as he released her hand. Professor
McGonagall, however, merely smiled and turned towards Hermione, who was also holding out her
hand.

Instead of taking it, however, she gave the girl a warm embrace, using the opportunity to
whisper, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, young lady.”

She broke the embrace and stepped back, giving the younger girl a sly wink that made Hermione
flush as deeply as Harry, and turned to face the smiling Mr. Roarke, who held out his hand to her
in a gallant gesture.

“Minerva?”

Smiling, she tucked her arm in his, and they walked away from the beach, leaving two blushing
teens facing each other, staring down at their feet … fingers entwined with each other.

* * *

She felt herself being gently shaken and slowly woke up … seeing, through unfocused, bleary eyes
a somewhat familiar face under a crown of snow. Unthinking, her hands snaked out around that face
and she brought it closer to her, whispering in a low, rough voice, “Sebastian?”

“*Minerva!*” The urgent, frightened whisper shook her into full consciousness – and she
realized that she was within an inch of snogging Madame Pomfrey senseless. She immediately let go
as if she had grabbed a red-hot cauldron by the ears … and looked wildly around her – her eyes and
senses quickly taking in the scene: Hospital Wing, Harry and Hermione unconscious on their beds,
close to midnight, candles flickering and casting a dim light on her surroundings … Poppy Pomfrey
sitting on another bed, clutching her chest in fright.

She shook her head to clear it of the cobwebs, whispering at the same time, “I’m *sorry*,
Poppy … I was just … uhm, having a dream and uhh, well …”

“Quite a dream, I’d say,” replied Madame Pomfrey as her breathing slowed down. A wicked grin
broke out on her face as she asked, “And just who is *Sebastian*?”

A confused look passed through McGonagall’s face. “Sebastian?” Her somewhat fuzzy mind brought
an image of a tall, stocky, good-looking man with curly white hair wearing a white tropical suit on
a beach … as she tried to focus on the memory, it seemed to be slipping away …

Sebastian? Strange … she spent a memorable summer with Francisco at a beach in the Playa de
Genoveses when she was much younger, so who is Sebastian? She shook her head at the memory that she
thought had faded away with time, and quickly assumed the mantle of authority and discipline that
was her persona as the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts.

She stood up and looked around her, glancing down at the beatifically smiling faces of her
unconscious students and noted, with a sudden smile, that their hands had broken out of their
blankets and they were, again, entwining their fingers around each others.

Turning to Madame Pomfrey, she apologized again for the fright she had given the nurse, “… I
better go to my room, Poppy. It has been a rather strenuous day.”

“You wouldn’t stay for some tea or milk then, Minerva?”

The Deputy Headmistress shook her head regretfully. “Thank you, Poppy … but I think it best that
I turn in.”

“Oh, all right,” a disappointed Madame Pomfrey said. “You do look like you need a good night’s
sleep right about now.” And probably another chance to go chasing after that dream, whatever it
was, she thought to herself.

“Good night, Poppy. And thanks.”

“Good night, Minerva.” A beat. “And … pleasant dreams.”

That earned her a sharp look and a tight smile from the Deputy Headmistress, who turned away and
started walking out of the hospital. She suddenly paused at the door and turned back to the waiting
nurse.

“Oh, Poppy … I expect the children will be up and about by Monday or Tuesday at the latest.
Kindly inform them – especially Potter -- that there’ll be no slacking off and that I expect to see
them in my class by Wednesday.

“Good night.”

As her form disappeared into the darkness of the castle, Madame Pomfrey picked her jaw off the
floor and turned to look at her two charges. Shaking her head, she muttered “Nox” and slowly walked
back to her own room as the darkness descended.



5. Wishes and Lasagna
---------------------

Dream Chasing

**Title:** Dream Chasing (05)
**Author name:** Romulus Lupin
**Author email:** galigad@yahoo.com
**Category:** Romance
**Sub Category:**
**Keywords:** Harry Hermione Ron Crookshanks
**Rating:** PG-13
**Spoilers:**SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF
**Summary:** Harry and Hermione are unconscious in the Hospital Wing after an accident on the
Quidditch field. Ron and Crookshanks pay a visit – some surprises are in store for everyone!

**Author’s Notes**: Sorry this took so long, but OotP threw a wrench into the works. :D I
thought about changing the story to reflect events in OotP, but decided to leave it as is … the
events in the book have little bearing on this AU, anyway.

Thanks for this chapter go to the people on the Pumpkin Pie chat in the week before OotP was
released, for giving me an idea about Crookshanks’ “ancestry,” as well as to **Yumi**, whose fic
“Kitty Torture” made Crookshanks more than an incidental character in the HP universe.

The songs used are Linda Ronstadt’s remakes of “I Love You For Sentimental Reasons,” “I Don’t
Stand A Ghost of A Chance,” and “I’ve Got A Crush On You.”

Finally, this chapter is dedicated to two lovely, wonderful and truly lovable ladies,
**erin** and **Nicole**, whose friendship, interest and concern have been like guiding lights
in the sometimes dim and foggy world of real life. Hugs, kisses and lots of love to both of
you!

Chapter Five. Wishes and Lasagna

Ron Weasley threw his bag on the floor in front of the fireplace and flung himself into the
large comfortable armchair in front of it, proceeded to plant his elbows on his knees, his chin on
his hands, and fixed his eyes on the blazing, comforting, dancing flames of the fire in the
Gryffindor Common Room.

He was obviously in a funk – and everyone knew enough to give a wide berth.

The Weasley Twins came into the room and saw him; as one, they looked at each other and
shrugged. Nothing they could do about it, they thought, not after what they’d seen when they
brought Harry and Hermione to the hospital wing yesterday. Ron still harbored *those* feelings
for Hermione – but after yesterday, they knew that he was totally out of the running as far as
Hermione was concerned.

With that thought, the two turned and walked to their own private corner. There was still the
matter of the Ravenclaw Beater to deal with; no matter that they knew it was an accident, that it
was unintentional and done without any thought or thinking involved (if one can say that about a
Ravenclaw!), there was *principle* involved here!

Ginny had also walked into the Common Room by then with her year-mates, and saw her brother
sitting alone in what had become known as Hermione’s chair. She shook her head and sighed; she’d
gotten over her crush for Harry some time ago by spending time with other people – not just her
house-mates but also those of other houses.

She didn’t spend the time moping over Harry -- Ron, however, spent almost all his time with
those two and didn’t circulate as much. She sighed to herself … he’d never get over his crush for
Hermione the way he was acting. With that thought in mind, she proceeded to her dorm to change.

Close but no cigar, guys.

That would have been the first thought Ron would tell them if he knew what they were thinking
about. Ginny would have been the closest to hit the mark about his dark mood – but she had just
missed the key point and, in this case, missing by an inch was the same as missing by a mile.

It wasn’t about Hermione.

Nor was it about Harry.

It was about the *Trio* – that indefinable, hard to explain and, to some people, totally
senseless friendship forged between three of the most unlikely people in the wizarding world: the
poor boy with a future who had lived in this world his whole life but still felt inadequate and
insecure when moving through it; the often clueless orphan who should have been a well-known and
loved part of this world had it not been for the circumstances of fate; and their brainy, bossy,
clued-in companion who was, at times, just as clueless as Harry.

There had never been any doubt that his two friends had feelings for each other; hell, he had
feelings for both also, but not in *that* way. Four years of friendship, companionship and
shared adventures – from the night they’d saved Hermione from a mountain troll – would do that to a
person.

And that “saving each other” thing had gone round and round throughout the past four years.
Maybe they weren’t all together at some points – Harry’s destiny always seemed to call for him to
face the final task alone -- but they had always been with each other until the point when Harry
had to walk forward alone.

And *that* made all the difference.

Ron had never felt this *lonely* before – his friends had always been there with him. Their
major arguments in third year over Scabbers and in fourth year when he was playing the role of The
Biggest Prat on the Face of the Earth didn’t compare to this. In third year, he’d had Harry with
him; last year, he’d still maintained his friendship with Hermione even though she spent most of
her time with Harry (he’d sensed that Harry was there with Hermione under his invisibility cloak
during the Hogsmeade weekend before the First Task which was why he didn’t approach her table
…).

This was the first time when *both* his friends were out of his orbit – and he could feel
the loss as if a huge, gaping hole had been dug out of his chest. It felt strange to be rushing to
classes without one or both beside him; weird to sit in the classroom with vacant seats on either
side; peculiar to be sitting at the Gryffindor table with everyone automatically taking seats away
from him as if he had a major case of body odor (he stopped himself from smelling his armpits at
the thought) …

“Meowrrhgh.”

He blinked and saw Crookshanks sitting in front of the fire, staring at him in a demanding
manner.

“Hey, Crookshanks. Missing your mum? C’mere, you.”

The cat – who by now was more of a small tiger than a large cat – simply stared and, he would
later swear to Hermione, actually raised an eyebrow at him.

“He’s been acting that way the whole day, Ron.” He turned to look inquiringly at Carolyn, who
had walked up quietly with Cindy in tow. “He keeps walking round and round … as if he were waiting
for someone.”

“He misses his mummy, of course,” Ron replied with a smile. He glanced at Crookshanks, and he
could swear that the eyebrow had gone a bit higher, and the cat was staring at him as if he were
the biggest, most clueless git in the entire galaxy.

“I don’t think so,” Cindy said. “We’ve been trying to get him to go with us to the Hospital Wing
to see Miss Hermione, but he refuses to budge.”

He looked back at the cat on the floor, an inquiring eyebrow of his own directed at Crookshanks.
And this time, it seemed to him that Crookshanks was actually looking at him and saying, “Well? You
gonna sit there moping like a big lunk, or are you joining me?”

He sighed and stood up, not surprised that the cat also stood up and started brushing against
his legs. “Oh, no,” he said to Crookshanks. “I’m not going to break my back carrying you around!
You’ve got four legs to my two, you better use them.”

“Mhrow.” Was that a note of disdain he heard in the cat’s tone? He shook his head, mentally
bapping himself on the head for acting as if Crookshanks could understand him, and turned to the
Terrible Two. “Join me, girls?”

Before either could respond, they heard the Twins calling out, “Oi, you two! Come here, we need
to discuss something with you.”

He sent his older brothers a glare to which they responded with innocent faces. He turned to
Cindy and Ca with a raised eyebrow, noted the smiles that had broken out on their faces and
shuddered. The greatest pranksters since the days of the legendary Marauders joining up with two
people with the brains of Hermione Granger and the hearts of Gred and Forge was a frightening
prospect …

“Just take care, you two. Don’t go blowing up a toilet or something …” he said, going into his
big brother act, but smiling at the same time.

“Yes, Mummy,” Cindy said with a cheeky smile.

“We promise to be good while you go see Aunt Hermione,” Ca replied with the same impish tone as
her best friend.

“*Aunt* Hermione?” Ron’s laughter brayed out, shocking the people who had avoided him, as
he felt his foul mood dissipate. “She’ll kill you when she hears that …”

“She won’t,” Ca said, the mischievous smile still in place.

“Kill us, I mean,” Cindy seconded her friend. “She knows we love her …”

“And respect her …”

“Adore her …”

“Worship her ...”

“Revere her …”

“Enough, you two,” Ron said, chuckling. He’d been witness to that sort of exchange from his
older twin brothers all his life; seeing another pair doing the same routine brought a wave of
nostalgia for the good old days … and made him appreciate his brothers and their quirky sense of
humor more.

He turned back to the waiting Crookshanks. “Come on, you,” he said. “Let’s go see mummy.”

* * *

It was a spectacular sunset -- one that would normally have unleashed the Muses into an
extravagant panoply of song, dance, music, poetry … a sight that would have set hearts to beating
rapidly, to draw breath and smile … to allow the reddish glow of the descending sun to paint pastel
shades around a lover’s face …

But they ignored it, wrapped as they were in each other’s arms, slowly swaying to the music and
sultry voice coming from the CD player inside the house:

I love you for sentimental reasons

I hope you do believe me

I'll give you my heart

Hermione sighed deeply as she rested her bushy head of hair on Harry’s chest, utterly contented
with the feel of Harry’s arms around her, his warm hands lightly tracing lines up and down her
back, felt his heart beating strongly against her head – and she continued to sway in his arms.

She felt him taking in a deep breath and she moved her head slightly to plant a small kiss on
his jaw – and was startled to see tears welling up in his eyes.

Before she could ask what was wrong, she heard him whisper, “I wish Mum and Dad were here.”

I love you

And you alone were meant for me

Please give your loving heart to me

And say we'll never part

She didn’t respond, merely embraced him as tightly as she could as she felt him heave – felt him
taking in huge gulps of air as he fought the emotions let loose by the song, feeling his arms flex
convulsively around her -- unable to do anything but hold him, and try to let her warmth flow into
the coldness that she knew was gripping his chest.

I think of you every morning

Dream of you every night

Darling I'm never lonely

Whenever you're in sight

It was inevitable, she realized.

They’d spent the day quietly: swimming (with Hermione laughing at Harry’s comic attempts to
dog-paddle) … walking on the beach, while she darted here and there to look at a tiny crab, grab a
sea shell, tossing pebbles on the water … sitting in the shade of palm trees or the veranda,
holding hands or hugging each other as the mood struck them …

And talking.

Or rather, *she* talked while he listened.

She never realized that every memory she shared – from the first day her parents brought her to
the beach, to the sandwiches her mum prepared for her in the morning, to that night when they were
watching Star Wars and she made the popcorn bowl levitate to her parents’ shock, to their summer
trips to France and where ever – would be red-hot needles lancing into her best friend’s soul.

He had nothing like that to share with her.

He’d kept his silence as she prattled on and on about her home … her mum and dad … the fun times
she had when growing up … her room with its stuffed toys and Star Wars action figures … the sights
she had seen in France and Europe with her parents …

What would Harry have shared with her?

I love you for sentimental reasons

I hope you do believe me

I've given you my heart

As the instrumental component of the song floated in the air, the dribs and drabs of the lonely
and painful childhood that he’d let slip over the years came back to her, and she convulsively
hugged him tighter … and again, allowed her mouth to run off: “I wish Ron were here.”

She felt her friend stiffen in her arms and she was again cursing herself eloquently – or as
eloquently as a prim and proper English child could be. She braced herself, fully expecting that
Harry would push her away for her truly tactless remark – and was surprised as she felt him hugging
her even closer, saying, “Bored with me already, Hermione?”

The amusement in his voice made her peek up at him from behind the curtain of her hair, and she
nearly fainted as she saw his affectionate Harry grin (the same one he gave her when he joined them
at Honeydukes in their third year) glowing down at her.

I think of you every morning

Dream of you every night

Darling I'm never lonely

Whenever you're in sight

Before she could react, he gave her a kiss on the forehead. “I miss him too, Hermione. He’d have
the perfect response to what I just said …”

She moved away from him and held him at arm’s length, an eyebrow cocked in surprise – and she
met his grin head-on, before turning away to look out over the now-darkening sea. “I wonder what he
would have said, if he were here.”

“What’s for dinner?”

She blinked at him – and snickered. Oh yes, she thought – that would be Ron all right. He’d
never forget the important things and, she thought as she shook her head, he would be quite right,
too. There *were* other, more important things to life …

“Well then, Miss Books and Cleverness, what *will* we have for dinner?”

“You,” she replied absently. She frowned as she felt him stiffen … and his question – and her
response – slammed into her. She felt a grin breaking out on her face, fighting for dominance with
the blush that was creeping up from her toes.

“I meant that *you* get to choose what we’ll have for dinner, you dumb prat!” she said as
she playfully swatted at him. “Honestly! Can’t you get your mind out of the gutter for even a
moment, Potter?”

“Me?” he replied in an injured tone. “You’re the one who keeps spouting all those weird
questions, Miss Granger! *You* better get your mind out of the gutter!”

“What?” she sputtered. Without so much as another word, she suddenly jumped on him and started
tickling him; caught off-balance, he nearly fell back … and a friendly wrestling match was about to
take place when Harry suddenly stopped, green eyes blazing into her amber-flecked eyes, and she
caught her breath at the intensity of that look, her ears registering the lyrics:

I love you for sentimental reasons

I hope you do believe me

I've given you my heart

She felt herself lick her lips in anticipation as a quiver ran down her spine, felt her palms
heating up as she rested them on Harry’s warm back, closed her eyes as she felt Harry’s warm breath
on her lips as he leaned into her …

And jumped back in sheer terror as they heard a high pitched scream, followed by a loud crash as
if someone had fallen into the bushes surrounding their bungalow. She felt Harry’s arm as he shoved
her behind him, felt his body tense as he took a defensive stance in front of her, and she opened
her mouth to scream …

“Crookshanks!”

* * *

“*What*, in Merlin’s name, is this place?”

“Mhrow.” Ron glanced down at the cat beside him and would have sworn that Crookshanks had given
him a shrug.

“You’re a great help,” he said – and this time, *knew* that Crookshanks had stuck out his
tongue out at him. For a second, he was tempted to stick out *his* tongue at the cat but
decided against it – he didn’t think he could stand another one of Crookshank’s sardonic, sarcastic
looks.

He sighed to himself. After four and a half years at Hogwarts, as well as nearly sixteen years
living in the Wizarding World, he thought that nothing would surprise him – but this place
certainly did. All he could remember was sitting beside Harry’s bed in the Hospital Wing (wondering
at the same time what a comfortably squashy armchair was doing there), watching Crookshanks leap up
on the bed and make himself comfortable beside the unconscious Hermione, felt his eyes grow heavy
as he sat in that comfortable armchair with his friends near at hand … woke up to find himself on
this deserted beach …

“So where do we go from here?”

Crookshanks gave him a raised eyebrow and he couldn’t help himself: he stuck out his tongue –
and started walking away, but the first step he took made him freeze, blink – and look down at
himself. He would swear that he could feel his lower jaw around the vicinity of his *knees*
when he realized that, instead of the shirt and jeans that he’d been wearing under his school
robes, he was wearing a large, loose Hawaiian shirt with brilliant splotches of color all over that
made him feel like a walking garden.

As he gaped at his shirt, he realized that he was wearing an oversized pair of shorts that hung
down to his knees – and felt something that instantly reminded him of Archie, the elderly wizard
wearing a long flowery nightgown at the World Cup campsite: “I like a healthy breeze ‘round my
privates, thanks.”

“Mhhrrrawhhh.”

“Stop laughing at me, you! If you weren’t Mione’s pet –“ He tried to glare at Crookshanks as he
instinctively ducked, almost expecting the swish of her hand as she swatted at him for using that
hated nickname …

And nearly stumbled as a warm, accented voice rang out, “Ah, Mr. Weasley – just in time for
dinner. Welcome!”

He gaped at the sight of the tall, well-built man in impeccable whites approaching him, hand
stretched out in greeting. Gaping, he shook hands with the stranger, who proceeded to remove that
label from himself: “I am Mr. Roarke – welcome to Fantasy Island.”

Ron continued to gape, but the good manners that Molly Weasley had so industriously trained her
children in quickly reasserted itself: “I’m Ron … Ron Weasley.”

A low growl from beside him made him look down and glance quickly at Mr. Roarke, “And this is
Crookshanks.”

The man in white went down on one knee and extended a hand to the cat, who silently held out a
paw to be shaken, as he remarked, “Of course, Miss Hermione’s cat! She’s missed you …”

As he stood up, brushing himself off, he continued, “Both of you, of course. As does Mr.
Potter.”

He glanced at his watch and, grasping Ron by an elbow, started walking towards a well-lighted
bungalow that Ron hadn’t noticed when he first walked onto the sands of this strange beach. “I
believe Mr. Potter would have dinner ready in a few minutes …”

“Dinner?” A low growl made him look down at Crookshanks, who was staring back at him with a
sardonic look. Before he could say anything, another growl was heard – and Ron realized that it was
coming from the vicinity of his stomach. He contented himself with giving the cat another glare, to
which Crookshanks gave a shrug. With an exasperated sigh, he started walking while silently cursing
bossy, know-it-all masters and their smart-alecky pets – and froze as he heard a lovely, melodious
voice singing an unfamiliar song, backed by a full orchestral arrangement, and felt a wave of
intense emotions flow through his body and seemingly blow away his brain:

I love you for sentimental reasons

I hope you do believe me

I'll give you my heart

Unthinking, he quickened his pace … started to run towards the bungalow to burst in on the
unsuspecting inhabitants that he *knew* were his best friends in the world … suddenly skidded
to a halt behind some bushes …

I love you

And you alone were meant for me

Please give your loving heart to me

And say we'll never part

And watched, mouth agape at the sight before him: his best friends on the veranda, arms around
each other, swaying to the sweet, sentimental song -- Harry’s lips moving to the words of the song,
his mouth close to her ear; Hermione leaning into his chest, her arms also around him in a tight
grip … both of them in a world all their own, defined only by the circle of their arms around each
other, and the lyrics of the song that continued to flow through his ears:

I think of you every morning

Dream of you every night

Darling I'm never lonely

Whenever you're in sight

He turned away from the sight, tears forming, the image of his friends dancing searing into his
brain, the lyrics of the song slashing their way into his memory:

I love you for sentimental reasons

I hope you do believe me

I've given you my heart

He wanted to run away … leave this bloody place as he felt the earlier wave of loneliness sweep
through his body again – this time, not because of the absence of his friends, but because of the
realization that, even with his friends around, he was truly *alone*.

Because he had no one with whom to share the emotions that his two friends were so openly
showing to each other.

They didn’t need him, he realized. They hadn’t needed him since late in their third year, when
they had used Hermione’s Time-Turner to rescue Sirius and Buckbeak while he was out cold in the
Hospital Wing … they hadn’t needed him when they’d practiced the Summoning Charm until 1:00 in the
morning before the first task … and they were so happy now, dancing to that sentimental song …

He should just get up and leave, he thought … leave them and try to get on with his life.

But *what* life, he thought? He’d never had a *real* life until he met Harry and
Hermione – he was simply “just another Weasley,” until the moment when they’d rescued Hermione from
the troll in first year, and the Trio was formed.

His friends had formed an intrinsic part of his life – from the summers spent at The Burrow or
in Diagon Alley, the meals they ate together, the hours they studied together – the walks and talks
they’d had in the Common Room, under the trees, in classes, his best *friends* in the world …
but at this moment, they didn’t *need* him.

He felt tears forming in his eyes and turned away, brushing them away at the same time. He
wanted to go back to the castle and look for the statue of the humpbacked witch, sneak out to
Hogsmeade and drown himself in a barrel of butterbeer, leave his friends to their private moment of
togetherness …

And stepped right on the tail of a waiting Crookshanks.

What followed would later come to him as a series of unmoving Muggle pictures – Crookshanks’
yowl of surprise; the cat rising on his hind legs, sharp front claws extended; his own yell of
surprise and pain as Crookshanks raked his claws at him, just barely missing the only jewels he had
ever owned; leaping backwards to avoid the enraged cat, and tripping over his own big feet – and
falling into the bushes with a resounding crash …

He quickly stood up, brushing himself off, just as he heard Hermione’s happy cry.
“Crookshanks!”

Ron had only a moment to register the beginnings of a smile on Mr. Roarke’s face before he felt
himself slammed backwards, nearly toppling again as he felt strong arms wrapping around his neck in
a stranglehold – feeling himself step backwards, barely keeping his balance as a slim figure
crashed into them, found himself in the middle of a four-armed hug, struggling to breathe through
the tight embrace of his best friends and wondering vaguely why he had ever doubted being welcomed
in the House of Potter …

* * *

“I need your love so badly,

I love you, oh, so madly,

But I don’t stand a

Ghost of a chance with you!”

Was there no other music in this place, Ron wondered? He was standing alone in the veranda,
feeling the warm but fresh breeze blowing on his face from the darkened beach – Harry was puttering
around in the kitchen, preparing dinner while Mr. Roarke had left, claiming some important business
needing his attention but promising to be back later in time for dinner.

Hermione was nowhere to be seen – probably still taking a shower, or primping herself in that
indefinable way that women all seemed to have, taking far too much time with their appearance – and
all too often, blowing them all away when they made their dramatic entrances.

His mind suddenly flashed back to their fourth year, and the look on Harry’s face when he
realized that the pretty girl that Krum was escorting was their best friend – and his face suddenly
flushed at the memory of his totally boorish and uncouth attitude towards Hermione.

“I thought at last I’d found you,

But other loves surround you,

And I don’t stand a

Ghost of a chance with you.”

He shook his head as the haunting voice of the Muggle singer washed over him. He could
*understand* the sentiments behind the song, but it didn’t really affect him … since he had
never really thought of Hermione in *that* way.

And he sighed to himself, his earlier thoughts and emotions washing over him in waves.

He wondered if there was a character flaw hidden deep within him, remembering the looks on Harry
and Hermione’s faces as they danced – a flaw that made him unable to find someone who would feel
that way about him – and, in the same instant, wondering why *he* hadn’t found someone for
whom he felt that way …

He felt two slim arms wrapping around him, and smiled.

He turned around and embraced her quickly, giving her a brief squeeze – but again, wondering why
he didn’t *feel* anywhere like the hormonally-addled teen that he thought he should feel when
wrapping his arms around a girl. This, he thought to himself, was just like hugging a grown-up
little Ginny – and he knew that Hermione was feeling the same way towards him.

He gently pushed her away from him, and smiled down at her. “Been behaving yourself, I
hope?”

His smile widened as he saw her blush and he couldn’t resist: “Been snogging Harry senseless, I
assume?”

He easily ducked her hand as she lunged at him; laughing, he retreated behind a chair where
Crookshanks was lying down in, licking his fur and watching the proceedings with a raised eyebrow.
Hermione stood there in her caftan-like shirt, glaring at him – and then, suddenly sticking her
tongue out at him.

“Feeling envious are we, ickle Ronnie-kins?”

Something must have shown on his face at her words; the next thing he knew, Hermione was beside
him, a contrite and shamed look on her face and he could hear her soft voice apologizing for her
utterly tactless remark.

He knew where this was going, and quickly placed a finger on her lips to silence her. She looked
up at him, her eyes still remorseful and he tried a smile, painful though it was at this
moment.

If you’d surrender,

Just for a tender kiss or two,

You might discover,

that I’m the lover, meant for you,

And I’d be true,

But what’s the good of scheming,

I Know I must be dreaming,

For I don’t stand a

Ghost of a chance with you!

“It’s all right, Hermione … I guess you’re right, in a way.”

The expression in her eyes changed from one of chagrin to one of concern, remorse and --
wariness, and he quickly tried to ease her sudden fear. “Not that way, Hermione … not that way.
I’ve always known, somehow, that it would always be Harry and you.”

She quickly glanced towards the inside of the house, where they could hear Harry pottering
around in the kitchen. She turned back to him, and he was surprised to see tears welling in her
eyes, and he quickly walked over to give her a firm hug.

“Hey, come on … did you think I was blind or something?” he said to the hair that was leaning
against his chest. “I’ve known there was something between you since last year.”

She stepped away from him in surprise, and he could feel his face splitting open in a wide grin,
amused at her efforts to look like the proverbial beached salmon. “Remember when Harry and I got
out of the lake with Fleur’s sister, Gabrielle? I was looking right at you then – you didn’t even
notice me, didn’t even give me the time of day … Are you all right?”

Hermione felt as if she had swallowed down a goblet of Pepper-Up potion from the way she felt
her face redden – and wondered whether steam was actually pouring out of her ears. She quickly sat
down in the chair with Crookshanks; the cat, after making way for her, settled in her lap quietly,
and she began stroking him as her memories gripped her …

Her growing anxiety as the minutes ticked past the deadline without a sign of either Harry or
Ron, the apprehension on Dumbledore and Percy’s faces as they watched the surface of the lake,
Madam Maxime struggling with a near-hysterical Fleur Delacour, the weight of Madam Pomfrey’s hand
on her shoulder, and Viktor’s on her elbow as both tried to keep her calm and stop her from
throwing off her blanket and running back to the lake, ignoring Viktor’s prattle as he tried to
tell her something … the sudden explosion of held-in air when the surface of the lake broke – and
Harry and Ron came up with Gabrielle Delacour between them, and … and …

“Harry, well done!” she’d cried. “You did it, you found out how all by yourself!”

She’d been grinning like an idiot at him, feeling her heart beating in double or triple
quick-time at her relief that he was safe, that he was alive and beside her – brushing Viktor’s
hand and the water beetle away impatiently as she continued, “You’re well outside the time limit,
though, Harry ... Did it take you ages to find us?”

And belatedly realizing that Ron was right – she hadn’t even thought about Ron the whole time:
all that was on her mind was *Harry*, that Harry was beside her and *safe*, and she
wouldn’t have traded that moment for anything else in the world at the time – Bulgaria, jewelry,
books, grades …

“Why’d you think I was so eager to get noticed by Fleur? Put yourself in my place, Hermione – I
walk out of the lake, fresh from an ordeal that I knew nothing about … and the first thing I see is
*Percy*, of all people, nearly wetting himself all over me!”

She couldn’t help herself, and giggled – and looked up in time to see Ron snickering along with
her. She wanted to stand up and hug him, but the weight of the cat on her lap stopped her – and she
contented herself with listening to Ron:

“So when Fleur steps up, gushing all over Harry and kissing him …”

She tuned herself out as she felt a wave of embarrassment wash over her. She’d been simply
*furious* at the French girl’s antics, even though she knew that cheek kisses were *de
rigueur* among that nationality and its people and didn’t mean a hell of a lot … but simply
angry at her sudden change of heart for her Harry, after all the snide remarks about Hogwarts and
Harry …

And again realized that her anger was towards the French girl’s actions towards *Harry*,
not Ron …

“I’m sorry, Ron,” she whispered.

He wagged a finger at her, smiling. “Come off it, Hermione … at least it made a lot of things
clear for me. I realized that it was you and Harry … nothing and no one would ever come between the
two of you.”

“And now?”

The grin faded from Ron’s face and he quickly turned away, saying in a soft, pained voice, “I
guess I’m envious … because I haven’t found anyone who would look at me in the same way that you
look at Harry.”

She hung her head, ignoring Crookshanks playfully batting at her loose hair and whispered, “I’m
sorry, Ron.”

They both fell silent at that, and quietly listened to the song that was coming out of the sound
system:

I've got a crush on you, sweetie-pie

All the day and nighttime, hear me sigh

I never had the least notion

That I could fall with so much emotion

Could you coo

Could you care

For a cunning cottage

We could share

The world will pardon my mush

Cuz I've got a crush, my baby on you

Their eyes met, and both quickly shook their heads and smiled at each other, a brief moment of
regret for what could have been passing over them.

The moment was broken, however, as they heard a clatter of dishes – and turned to see Harry
Potter walk out on the veranda, pushing a small, wheeled cart on which were piled dishes, utensils
and glasses and – on top – a long, wide Pyrex dish from which wafted a most appetizing and spicy
aroma. Harry, wearing a chef’s toque and an apron with the words, “Kiss the Chef” on it, announced
himself with a flourish: “Get ready for the treat of a lifetime – Potter’s Extra-Special Microwaved
Las—“

Whatever the dish was supposed to be was lost by the sudden cry of pain from Hermione, as she
felt Crookshanks’ claws dig into her bare thighs as the cat launched itself from her lap … at
Harry’s yelp of surprise as the large cat – or small tiger – landed on the cart and, with its
momentum, slid off the top along with the Pyrex dish … the crash as cat and dish landed on the
floor, followed by the cart tipping over …

The three teens gaped at the spectacle before them: Crookshanks on the floor, rapidly gobbling
down lasagna, face covered in cheese and cream, contented murmurs coming from his squashed face
…

“I didn’t know he liked lasagna, Mione,” Harry said, a shocked tone apparent in his voice.

“Neither did I, Harry … well, Mum never made any lasagna before, felt it was too much work …”
Hermione replied, blankly.

And both turned to Ron as his plaintive voice rang out, “That’s our *dinner*!”

Hermione and Harry caught each other’s eyes and quickly suppressed grins and giggles – Ron
*did* have his priorities, and they were often the right ones. Before either one could say
anything, they heard footsteps on the veranda and Mr. Roarke’s cheerful voice: “Are we all set for
… Oh, dear.”

The three turned to look at their host, who was now contemplating the tuned-out cat on the
floor, still busy with the lasagna that Harry had cooked. He cocked at eyebrow at Hermione and
asked, in a voice tinged with deep amusement, “He wouldn’t be related to Garfield, by any
chance?”

Hermione’s blank look apparently amused him further, and he shook his head, “Never mind. I guess
our problem now is what to do for dinner? And I brought some excellent wine …”

He pursed his lips in thought, quietly setting down the bottles of wine on the railing of the
veranda – and suddenly snapped his fingers. “I have an idea … why don’t I treat the three of you to
dinner? There’s a new place in town, although I hope you won’t mind … it is karaoke night
tonight.”

Harry and Hermione glanced at each other and shrugged … and smiled simultaneously as a sudden
thought gripped them: the night they went up the Astronomy Tower to deliver Norbert the Dragon in
their first year … Hermione dancing a sort of jig as she proclaimed, “Malfoy’s got detention! I
could sing!”

“Don’t,” Harry advised her.

They quickly turned to Ron, who was asking Mr. Roarke, “Is karaoke something good to eat?
Because I’m *starving*!”

They couldn’t help themselves – they suddenly broke out in laughter, which they quickly
suppressed when they saw the look of puzzlement and worry on Ron’s face. Hermione was about to tell
Ron what karaoke was when Harry interrupted her – “Don’t spoil the surprise, Hermione … this is
something that I would love to see.”

“What?” Ron asked in a puzzled voice. “Watching me sing for my supper?”

The wide smiles on the three faces made him frown … before he could say anything, Hermione
interrupted him and turned to Mr. Roarke, “Ummm … what should we wear? As you can see, we don’t
have much of a wardrobe …”

Their host waved the concern away. “I wouldn’t worry too much about that. The girls are quite
nice and casual … you’ll find that the Red Queen is quite informal about dress codes and such.”

“The Red Queen?”

Mr. Roarke turned to Ron, “The restaurant-bar that I will be taking you to.”

“There’s a *bar* in this place?” He peered owlishly at his best friends. “How come you guys
didn’t tell me about this?”

Mr. Roarke’s amused voice quickly cut in: “I would guess it’s because they were … shall we say,
‘wrapped up’ in other things?”

A wicked gleam broke out in Ron’s eyes as he watched the blush break out over his friends’
faces. Before he could say anything, Mr. Roarke broke in again, “I would guess you’d need a few
minutes to freshen up? I think we can safely leave the cleaning-up to Crookshanks for the
moment.”

The three teens glanced at Crookshanks, who continued to ignore them. Looking at each other,
they quickly nodded – Hermione going to her room, and the boys to Harry’s room to change and
freshen up.

Mr. Roarke continued to stare at Crookshanks, a contemplative look on his face. “I wonder …” he
said aloud.

Crookshanks looked up at him from the lasagna … and he could have sworn that the cat gave him a
wink before turning back to the dish that he was so industriously devouring.



6. The Red Queen
----------------

Dream Chasing

**Title:** Dream Chasing (06)
**Author name:** Romulus Lupin
**Author email:** galigad@yahoo.com
**Category:** Romance
**Sub Category:**
**Keywords:** Harry Hermione Ron Nicole
**Rating:** PG-13
**Spoilers:**SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF
**Summary:** Harry and Hermione are unconscious in the Hospital Wing after an accident on the
Quidditch field. After Crookshanks ambushes their dinner, Mr. Roarke decides to bring them to a
karaoke bar … will Ron find some peace of mind for his stomach and his heart?

**Author’s Notes**: Although this part of the story had been plotted out before, this quickly
became a birthday ficlet for **Nicole Frederick**, a very dear online friend who has been both
inspiration and cheering squad for many of those who sail the HMS Pumpkin Pie. Special mention must
be made to **Erin**, **Lils**, and **Joyce** – lovely ladies who have helped enriched my
life and work through their friendship and humor.

I must also thank **Calliope** whose lovely fic, “The Last Time” led me to the music and
songs of Loreena McKennit.

The songs in this chapter are: “Bohemian Rhapsody” by Queen, “How Can You Mend A Broken Heart?”
originally by the BeeGees, but recently remade by Michael Buble, “That’s All,” another standard
that was remade by Michael Buble, and “Dante’s Prayer,” by Loreena McKennit.

And finally: “Happy Birthday, Nicole!”

Chapter 6. The Red Queen

“If this is a dream, I want to wake up! And if this is a nightmare – I *never* want to
sleep again!”

She dumped the tray of dirty dishes, empty bottles and food-encrusted utensils on the counter
with a clatter and simply stood there, glaring at the walls of the bustling restaurant, with its
colorful walls made out of decks of cards from all over the world. She felt like going to the bar
and grabbing a bottle of tequila or some other toxic substance and just dumping the place …

“Hey, Nic. Feeling all right?”

She turned, prepared to hex the interfering busybody into a different dimension – and stopped
herself at the sight of the pretty Chinese girl who was looking at her with concern and
apprehension. Nicole forced a smile but wouldn’t have been surprised if the other girl stepped back
as she bared her fangs, “No, I’m not. It’s that time of the month.”

“Oh hun, I’m sorry,” the other girl responded. Nic felt arms wrapping around her in a firm and
tight hug, and felt her anger and frustration seep away.

Slightly.

She hugged her friend back, and tried to lighten her voice. “Thanks, Lils. It’s just that …”

Lils smiled back at her. “I know, sweet. But what can we do? You know what they say, ‘You either
learn to like it …’”

“’Or learn to live with it’.” Nicole sighed and shook her head. Her anger at the situation was
ebbing away, and she rolled her shoulders, wincing slightly at the pain as her sunburned skin
stretched at the movement.

“That’s better, sweetie. Now, why don’t you go to the little girl’s room and freshen up? You’ll
be on in a few minutes.”

“Huh?” She blinked in confusion.

Lils rolled her eyes. “Have you forgotten? You volunteered to help Erin work the crowd tonight …
better that you do the singing than have that crowd of buffoons tear the house down with their
huffing and puffing.”

The noise of the restaurant finally penetrated Nicole’s bothered brain and she shuddered at the
painful, aching sounds of the man trying to work his way through “My Way,” and absolutely losing
his way.

“He sounds like a bull,” Nicole remarked.

Lils blinked at her. “A bull?”

“Yeah – a bull who tried jumping over a barbed wire fence and is moaning over his loss.”

“*Nic!*” Lils slapped her lightly on the arm – and both girls suddenly dissolved into
laughter – and stopped as they felt the intense, heated glare of the dark-haired girl sitting at
the piano, gamely trying to lead the befuddled singer back to the right way.

“Ummm … better get ready. Erin’s looking pissed enough as is.”

Lils ventured a glance at the piano player -- and winced as her eyes met Erin’s. She quickly
turned back to Nicole. “Uh-huh. It’s a good thing Joyce took the guns away … Erin would have
grabbed one and started shooting the place up.”

Nicole looked at her piano-playing friend in surprise. “Erin?”

The other girl shook her head. “You haven’t seen her when she’s in a bad mood. She’d make Arnold
Schwarzenegger look like a pansy in a tutu.”

Nicole giggled at the image that came to mind. She started to walk away but stopped, a puzzled
look on her face. “Why doesn’t Erin just borrow a set of Gil’s earplugs?”

Lils grinned and lifted her hair, revealing a pair of pumpkin earrings and something else
plugged into her ears. “I beat her to it.”

Nicole glanced at the entrance to the restaurant, and caught sight of their six-foot, 200 pound
bouncer curled up in a corner looking as if someone had taken a foot to his groin, holding his
hands to his ears with his face crunched up in pain as another disorientated singer tried to top
the first one’s masterful performance. “Poor Gil. He’s really hurting.”

“So you better get out there and rescue him, sweet,” Lils replied. She glanced at the other
patrons and sighed. “Go … before this crowd decides to make ‘My Way’ the official song of the
night.”

Nicole shuddered and hurried off to the bathroom.

* * *

At a table near the center of the restaurant, a witch and wizard denied access to magic gamely
tried to keep their faces from grimacing as another would-be Sinatra lost his way in “My Way.” They
gritted their teeth as the singer masterfully amputated a few lyrics from the song – and quickly
glanced at their companions, wondering why they were so quiet in the midst of the noise.

Mr. Roarke, elegant as always, seemed most unaffected by the agonizing concert – and for a
moment, Harry was brought back to his first day at Hogwarts, watching the Headmaster as he wiped
his eyes at the conclusion of the Weasley Twins’ rendition of the school song. Ron, on the other
hand, seemed to be slightly less affected than their host – Harry and Hermione’s eyes met in
concern as they noted the emptied bottle clutched fiercely in his fist.

Ron cocked an ear as silence descended for a moment over the place and, with a lopsided grin at
his two friends, remarked, “A Silencing Charm would be useful right about now.”

“No magic in this place, Ron,” Hermione replied automatically, as she fought down a convulsive
shudder, as the singer’s voice finally broke down.

She felt Harry’s warm hand wrapping around hers, and felt his knee brushing against her thigh –
and she smiled at him. They both heaved a sigh of relief when they realized that the pretty pianist
had changed the song – but exchanged horrified looks as a group at the next table began
chanting:

“Is this the real life ?

Is this just fantasy ?

Caught in a landslide

No escape from reality.”

Harry’s look of horror was priceless: “Bohemian Rhapsody?”

Hermione could only nod mutely. As the new group began an impassioned – but totally tone-deaf –
rendition of the song, she turned to their host: “Mr. Roarke … is there some way, *any* way to
stop them?”

Their host looked at her blankly for a moment and then leaned forward, his three guests leaning
towards him to listen. “There is, Hermione …”

As he paused, Harry whispered urgently, “And that is?”

“One of you has to take the microphone away from that group –”

“That’s easy enough,” Hermione said.

“And you have to sing something,” Mr. Roarke said, blandly. “This *is* a karaoke bar, you
know.”

The three teens blinked – and Harry felt the eyes of his best friends on him.

He quickly shrunk back in his chair – “No way, guys! I can’t sing worth a damn! Crookshanks
would do better than me in this place!”

Hermione was about to protest but gritted her teeth as an impassioned voice from the other table
broke out:

“Mama, I just killed a man

Pulled a gun against his head

Put a trigger and now he’s dead …

Mama, life had just begun

But now I've gone and thrown it all away …”

Ron suddenly straightened up in his chair, chugged down the dregs of whatever it was that he was
drinking, and stood up, hissing, “I’ll take care of this.”

Harry and Hermione both tried to grab his arms but he eluded them, easily slipping away from
them and walking, on unsteady legs, towards the pianist. His friends tried to move after him, but
were stopped by a gesture from Mr. Roarke, and his suddenly stern tone of voice: “I think Ronald
has the situation well in hand.”

They sat down, confused. Hermione was the first to speak, “What is he going to do?”

A flash of amusement blinked for a moment in Mr. Roarke’s eyes, but he said in a calm voice, “I
doubt if Erin knows Celestina Warbeck.”

“Then what’s he going to do? Sing the School Song?” Hermione once again tried to stand up, but
was stopped by Mr. Roarke’s reproachful voice: “Miss Granger, you must have more faith in your
friends. Cindy and Carolyn have far more faith in Mr. Weasley’s singing than you have.”

Hermione sank back in her chair at the reprimand, but Harry, who had been looking anxiously
after Ron, whipped his head around to stare at their white-haired host. “How did you know about
Carolyn and Cindy, Mr. Roarke?” he demanded, remembering the bouncy, fun-loving, mischief making
first years who he’d come to regard as his younger sisters.

Mr. Roarke smiled blandly at him, blue eyes twinkling. Before Hermione could add her questions
to those of Harry’s, Erin the piano player had struck a series of chords – and the two cringed,
prepared to dive under the table at the rain of bottles and plates they fully expected to start
sailing once their friend opened his big mouth.

With a broad smile on his face, Mr. Roarke turned to face the piano beside which a weaving
Ronald Weasley stood, waiting for his place in the song …

* * *

Nicole washed her face carefully, trying to ignore the lingering twinges from her cramps – and
wondering, for the nth time, what the *hell* was she doing here? Her earlier thought came
back: What sort of dream world / insane asylum did she get herself into now?

All that she wanted was to have a nice, long, restful *nap* – time to heal her sunburned
skin, time to rest her weary mind still spinning with potions, charms, history, numbers and
predictions … time to get this vicious monthly thing out of the way!

She sighed.

No, she thought, that wasn’t *all* she wanted.

She wanted someone to call her own … someone to hold on to when the worst of the cramps hit …
someone that she could sound off to on anything and everything which passed through her mind …
someone she could hug at odd moments, and feel that someone hugging her back.

*That* was the singular thought in her mind as she laid her head down on her soft and
comfortable pillow …

Only to wake up in *this* place, being pressed by her friends into serving drinks and
dinners to a bunch of uncouth louts (and loutesses?) who wouldn’t know a tune if it bit them on
their behinds.

She looked in the mirror and wondered, what was there *not* to like: shoulder-length brown
hair, green eyes (though she had never felt remotely jealous of anyone before), blue glasses -- a
nice form enclosed in the club’s uniform of a khaki knee-length twill skirt, a orange tank and a
black short-sleeve button-up shirt left unbuttoned …

So why did she feel so *lonely* at this point? It wasn’t that she was alone on the island,
waiting for some Tarzan-like rescuer to come and save her from durance vile … she had her friends
with her, apparently sharing this whatever *non*-fantasy this was …

The noise from outside the bathroom blasted through the thin walls, and she cringed. The music
was appropriate for the place, she thought … the *singers*, however, were not:

I see a little silhouetto of a man

Scaramouch, scaramouch will you do the fandango

Thunderbolt and lightning - very very frightening me

Gallileo, Gallileo,

Gallileo, Gallileo,

Gallileo Figaro - magnifico

Arrgh! At that moment, she was tempted to walk out of the bathroom and look for the guns that
Joyce had hidden away – and blast the darned place – and the singers -- to smithereens herself. She
had a feeling that Erin, Lils and Joyce would be cheering her if she did that –

And shook her head in sudden laughter.

‘Welcome to Fantasy Island,’ Mr. Roarke had said when she first showed up. Right now, she was
thankful that she wasn’t living on Elm Street … she didn’t think comparing this place to “Nightmare
on Elm Street” would earn her points with the management.

She took one more look in the mirror and sighed, remembering Lils earlier statement: “You either
learn to like it, sweet – or learn to live with it.”

If living with that horrendous mating call out there was the only way, she sighed ... “Shut up
and soldier,” she told herself – squared her shoulders, checked herself in the mirror, opened the
door to step out into the raging storm …

Only to step out into an utterly hushed dining room, patrons on the mushroom-shaped chairs with
mouths wide enough to catch flies, mosquitoes, birds, leaping salmon or whatever – all eyes focused
on the red-headed, freckle faced teen standing beside the piano, mike to his face … his voice
seemingly plucking at her heart …

I can think of younger days when living for my life

Was everything a man could want to do

I could never see tomorrow, but I was never told about the sorrow

Unconsciously, Nicole started humming the chorus of the song beneath her breath as she watched
the red-head on his impromptu stage seemingly making a plea for understanding and assistance from
the audience …

And how can you mend a broken heart?

How can you stop the rain from falling down?

How can you stop the sun from shining?

What makes the world go round?

At their table, Harry quietly slipped his arm around Hermione’s waist, and entwined his fingers
with hers. He watched her face as she turned to give him a peck on the cheek – a tear forming in an
eye as she listened to the song from their best friend ...

How can you mend this broken man?

How can a loser ever win?

Please help me mend my broken heart and let me live again

Unconsciously, Nicole took a deep breath – totally unaware that she had stopped breathing a
moment before. She licked at a corner of her lips … not realizing that she had licked off a tear
that had escaped her eye and rolled to her lips …

I can still feel the breeze that rustles through the trees

And misty memories of days gone by

We could never see tomorrow, and no one said a word about the sorrow

As Ron continued his singing, a trio at another table began blending their voices into the song,
their faces close together as they went into the chorus, a hand cupped to their ears as if
listening to – and following closely – the music from Erin’s piano … and Hermione hissed in Harry’s
ears: “Aren’t those guys the BeeGees?”

Harry blinked and looked – turned back to Hermione and whispered back: “Yes, they are – but this
is *their* song, right?”

“Well, Ron’s doing a better job of it …”

And how can you mend a broken heart?

How can you stop the rain from falling down?

How can you stop the sun from shining?

What makes the world go round?

As the voices blended, Hermione suddenly stood up and leaned towards Harry, whispering, “I can’t
take this, Harry … I … I’ve gotta go …”

Harry grabbed her hand, hard, hissing, “Where are you going?”

“The ladies’ room , you nitwit!”

“Oh,” Harry blushed and turned back to the stage where Ron was going into an impassioned finale,
backed up by three professional singers with several decades of experience behind them …

How can you mend this broken man?

How can a loser ever win?

Please help me mend my broken heart and let me live again

Erin scarcely noticed the bushy-haired girl who slipped by her on the way to the bathroom,
enthralled as she was with the song that was reaching an emotional and auditory crescendo, with the
trio leading and Ron’s impassioned voice providing a counterpoint:

How can you mend this broken man?

(How can you mend?)

How can a loser ever win?

(How can you win?)

Please help me mend my broken heart and let me live again.

Silence ruled as the song ended and, with a slight bow to the room, Ron Weasley gave the
microphone over to Erin the pianist and started walking to the table he shared with his
friends.

As he took a step, however, the room suddenly seemed to wake up – and a roar of applause met the
suddenly red-faced teen as he proceeded to his table, as Erin announced a ten-minute break – and
bolted for the washroom.

* * *

Nicole watched as her friend rushed past her, headed for the washroom – and turned to the
bushy-haired girl who was standing beside her, watching the crowd cheer the red-headed guy: “Wow!
That guy’s really got what it takes! I don’t think Erin’s ever cried at a song before …”

Hermione looked with misty eyes at her friend as he made his way to their table. “Yes,” she
said. “I’ve known the git for five years and he’s never shown us he can sing like that …”

Erin looked at her in shock: “*Five --?* Joyce, where’ve you been keeping this guy the
whole time?”

The girl turned to her with a surprised, “Excuse me?” – and it was then that Nicole realized
that the girl *wasn’t* Joyce Cohen -- her friend and the manager / owner of the Red Queen.
While at first glance, the girl was a virtual twin to her friend and boss, a close look would
reveal the subtle differences – not the least of which were the clothes this person wore.

“I’m sorry,” Nicole apologized. “You look almost exactly like …”

“Uh-oh,” the girl responded as she started to push her way through the restaurant. Nicole turned
just in time to see the *real* Joyce Cohen deliver a hell of a wallop to the red-headed
singer.

* * *

Ron was literally bouncing as he made his way to their table, shaking hands with people, feeling
them pounding his back … their cheers and applause washing over him as he walked in a daze.

He couldn’t believe it.

How could he have gone up on that stage, faced all those strangers … he must have been stone
drunk at whatever concoction Mr. Roarke had been feeding him – he didn’t doubt that whatever
Gryffindor courage he possessed would have been *insufficient* for him to walk up to the piano
player and request *that* song from his father’s collection of Muggle music -- and pouring out
all his pain, frustrations and emotions of the day into the song. For a brief moment, he wondered
whether his friends would understand that his choice of song had nothing to do with them … that it
was a song that he’d had in his head for years, ever since he’d chanced upon the set of Muggle
playing music that his dad had kept in the garage of the Burrow …

He saw his friends at their table – Harry up and applauding like mad, Hermione beside Mr.
Roarke, talking with the latter, a tray in her hands – and he hurried to them, eager to celebrate
his victory, as it were. He felt Harry grabbing him and hugging him, pounding his back … broke off
and grabbed his other best friend around her waist and spun her around, and gave her a resounding
kiss on the cheek –

And nearly fell backward on their table as her hand connected with his cheek in a resounding
slap!

“Hermione!” he yelled in shock, as he struggled to keep his balance – felt himself steadied as a
hand grabbed his shirt and he turned to look into the dark eyes and broad, angry face of a man who
was his height but double his bulk, vaguely realizing that the man’s other hand was balled into a
fist and was about to hit him, but stopped from doing so by a girl in blue glasses who was hanging
on for dear life, heard Hermione’s voice yelling his name behind him (‘*Behind* me?’ his brain
yammered) …

“Calm down, everyone!” the commanding voice of Mr. Roarke broke into the pandemonium like a
butcher knife slashing down on a watermelon, and even Ron froze – staring at the Hermione in front
of him while his brain wondered why her voice would be behind him – as their host continued, “I
think there’s a slight misunderstanding.”

“I’ll say,” Hermione said, and he swung his head around, feeling his mouth drop open as he saw
her behind him – swung his head back and saw her in front of him and said, “I must be drunk.”

A giggle came from the girl who was holding on to the bouncer’s arm and his head swiveled around
to look at her – and for a moment, felt his heart stop.

The girl was … no, he thought. Pretty wouldn’t describe her – there was something beyond the
physical features that he could see that made her … different. There was a mischievous glint in the
eyes behind her glasses, but her finely formed lips were pursed in concern; her fingers were white
with the effort of holding on to the bouncer’s arm, and there was an … an *aura* of something
that he could feel even as he stood on the other side of the big bouncer’s bulk.

“Joyce, this is Hermione Granger, who is my guest on the island,” Mr. Roarke was saying to the
Hermione look-alike beside him, the shocked and angry face softening as she finally understood the
honest mistake that Ron had made. Ron felt the grip on his shirt relaxing as Joyce said to
Hermione, “We wouldn’t happen to have been separated at birth, would we?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Hermione replied, an eyebrow raised at their host, who smiled and shook
his head. “You’re American, aren’t you?”

The other girl nodded and smiled, and her eyes glanced to the others around the table, as she
nodded to the man beside Ron, “It’s OK, Gil. Just an honest mistake – and my apologies,” she said
to Ron.

“You’re sure, Joyce?” Gil said, still looking suspiciously at Ron. “I could still throw him out
…”

Joyce shook her head and raised her voice above the hubbub – “It’s all right, people – just a
slight misunderstanding! Please, no need to worry … Lils, you can put down the butcher knife. Erin,
quit looking for the guns – no need to shoot anyone right now.”

She turned back to them and extended her hand to Ron, saying, “Anyone who can sing like that is
welcome here … I just got caught by surprise – I didn’t know my twin sister was in the place.”

Ron smiled at her and shook her hand firmly. “I’m Ron, by the way. Ron Weasley … you’ve met
Hermione, and this is Harry Potter.”

Joyce smiled at the others and shook hands with Harry. For a moment, Ron wondered if he saw a
flash of recognition pass through her face; in the next second, however, he’d forgotten about it as
the introductions were made: “You’ve met Gil, and this is Nicole, or Nic as we call her.”

Ron automatically shook hands with the bodyguard, but his eyes were on the other girl – and he
caught himself wondering if his pea-sized brain had fallen out of his ears as he felt himself
staring into her eyes.

‘He’s got beautiful eyes,’ Nicole thought as she shook his hand. ‘There’s something … pain?
Loss? Something that he’s missing … he seems so lonely, even when he’s with his friends. They must
be very close, else why would he have given Joyce that hug and kiss when he thought she was his
friend …”

She suddenly shivered and jumped, nearly stumbling except for Ron’s arms around her, his warm
hand on her elbow – and she turned to glare at Lils, who had quietly walked up behind her and blew
on her ear. The Chinese girl smiled at her and nodded towards the stage, saying, “Erin’s waiting
for you, hun – unless you want that group over there to start singing ‘We Are The Champions’.”

Nicole shook herself and blushed, realizing that she’d been standing there like a lunk as she
held Ron’s hand, and now seemingly unwilling to step out of the arms that were holding her. She
carefully stepped away from him, avoiding looking at the raised eyebrows of her boss … stepping
away carefully and stopping her leg from kicking Gil in the shins as she heard his soft snicker …
squared her shoulders as she made her way towards the stage – and felt her skin flush even more as
she felt eyes on her, and knew that Ron’s blues were following her every step of the way.

As she grabbed the microphone from the piano, she tried to avoid the knowing look that Erin gave
her and took a deep breath – suddenly panicking as she realized that she didn’t even have a song in
mind, and the panic giving way to shock as Erin took the decision out of her hands – a bouncy,
enervating tune coming out of the electric piano, and Nicole had no choice but to find her place in
the song as the other girl began:

Ahh, crush, ahhh

Nicole could only glare at her friend, who was smiling blandly at her – and she swung into the
song and its mood:

I see ya blowin' me a kiss

It doesn't take a scientist

To understand what's going on baby

If you see something in my eye

Let's not over analyze

Don't go too deep with it baby

She glanced at the table where Ron and his friends sat and almost lost the beat and the lyrics
as she met his suddenly twinkling blue eyes …

So let it be what it'll be

Don't make a fuss and get crazy over you and me

Here's what I'll do

I'll play loose

Run like we have a day with destiny

She could hear Erin backing her up, but felt she could detect just the trace of a snicker and a
smile of amusement beneath the other girl’s voice as they went into the song’s chorus:

It's just a little crush (crush)

Not like I faint every time we touch

It's just some little thing (crush)

Not like everything I do depends on you

Sha-la-la-la, Sha-la-la-la

She could feel her body swaying with the music and felt herself flush, wondering what Ron would
be thinking as he watched her on stage with the strobes flashing (Lils must have turned on the mood
lighting in the darned place), swaying to the beat, singing as if her heart depended on it …

It's raising my adrenaline

You're banging on a harder tin

Please don't make too much of it baby

You say the word "forevermore"

That's not what I'm looking for

All I can commit to is "maybe"

She decided to forget about what he would be thinking, and concentrated on the song –

So let it be what it'll be

Don't make a fuss and get crazy over you and me

Here's what I'll do

I'll play loose

Run like we have a day with destiny ...

* * *

Harry Potter grinned as he watched Ron’s slack face looking towards the stage and the pretty
girl swaying as she sang – and shook his head, wondering if Nicole had some trace of veela in her
past. *That* was the only explanation he could think of, remembering Ron’s voice as he yelled,
“Did I tell you I’ve invented a broomstick that’ll reach Jupiter?” – one of the few funny moments
that marked that horrible night of the Quidditch World Cup, when they’d encountered the veela in
the forest …

He wondered if Hermione would soon be helping him drag their friend away from Nicole and glanced
at her face as she chatted with Joyce, who had joined them at their table – and wondered again how
Ron could have mistaken the latter for Hermione. Sure, the physical resemblance between the two was
striking – as well as the intelligence that sparkled behind their brown eyes … but that was
all.

Or maybe not, he thought, as he caught snatches of their conversation. There was the same drive
and determination in their voices, the same seeming interests and perspectives on things … but even
as he listened and observed, he knew that there was no way that he would mistake one for the
other.

They may have the same looks, intelligence and wit but he knew he could always tell them apart.
Hermione was Hermione … there would be no way in the world that he would ever mistake someone else
for her, even if that someone used Polyjuice Potion and a hair from his Hermione’s bushy head.

He felt a surge of affection for his best friend and companion and was about to lean forward to
give her a kiss when he felt someone beside him. Turning, he looked up at the waitress placing
fresh bottles and snacks on their table – and he felt a slight lurch in the region of his stomach
that he hadn’t felt since his third year at the match with Ravenclaw –

“Cho?” he croaked.

As he said the name, he shook his head as if to clear it, apologizing at the same time to the
pretty Chinese girl who’d said, “Excuse me?” in a puzzled tone. He flushed as he felt Hermione’s
eyes on him – and cursed himself as he felt a blush begin to rise up in his face. Of all the stupid
things to say, he thought, why did he have to mistake this girl for his Quidditch counterpart?

Looking at her, he could see not only subtle but major differences between Cho and this girl –
not the least of which was the humor that sparked in this girl’s eyes. Not that Cho was humorless,
of course; but this girl seemed to be imbued with it – and he wondered who would win out in a clash
of wits with this girl. He didn’t doubt that he’d be locked up in St. Mungo’s if he ever tried
anything with her – she looked to be extremely capable of taking care of herself, even if she did
look frail and …

He heard Joyce say, “Thanks, Lils – would you mind placing this on my tab?” and the girl
assenting before moving away. He risked a glance at Hermione then, and felt a wave of relief wash
through him as he realized that she was not glaring at him – but was standing up and applauding,
and he realized that Nicole’s song (or songs) had ended … and he joined in the riotous cheering
that Ron seemed to be leading, as he clapped and whistled at the girl on the stage.

He felt himself standing up and cheering, more in an effort to distract Hermione from his
earlier faux pas, vowing to himself that he’d make it up to her for his momentary lapse – and
suddenly heard her shouting his name. He glanced at her in surprise, wondering why she did that –
and realized that the people in the restaurant had picked up on the shout, and were all yelling his
name.

Before he could even open his mouth, he heard Nicole on the stage saying, “Harry? Would you mind
coming up here?” – and knew that Hermione had set him up. He glared at her smirking face, and saw
Joyce smiling beside her – a mischievous grin lighting up her face in the same way that he’d seen
Hermione laughing as they walked to the Great Hall after Malfoy had been turned into a bouncing
ferret.

He saw Nicole walking towards him, microphone in hand – and he glared again at Hermione’s
smiling face, and felt his anger dissolving as she blew him a kiss. He started to walk towards the
stage and stopped as Nic met him by their table – suddenly frozen as he wondered what song to sing
that wouldn’t embarrass him or his friends …

He glanced at Erin at the piano, who was looking at him with an eyebrow raised in question. From
somewhere – he didn’t know what or who – something seemed to infuse his mind, and he mouthed two
words at Erin … and smiled when she nodded and turned to the keys.

He felt the microphone in his hands, heard Nic’s whispered, “Good luck,” as she passed by him to
join Ron and the others at their table, and he stood there in the middle of the room, hoping that
Erin had understood his request … and felt a smile break out on his face as she played a few
experimental chords on the piano. He smiled and nodded at her, and she quickly ran a few bars of
the song while he focused himself … and began.

* * *

Hermione’s smirk faded as she watched Harry stand up and walk towards the stage as if he had a
date with the hangman, and berated herself for the swift stab of jealousy she felt when she heard
him whisper Cho’s name. She couldn’t help it, she told herself – this was *her* fantasy, after
all … she wanted to have time to herself with her best friend and … she admitted to herself, the
person she loved best.

It was only natural, she told herself, as she watched Nicole approach Harry with the microphone
… why should the memory of Cho intrude into *her* fantasy world? But even as she thought it,
she felt a moment’s insecurity pass through her as she remembered the lithe, athletic and pretty
Seeker for the Ravenclaws – and remembered Harry’s face as he watched Cho’s tear-streaked face
during the Leaving Feast after the Goblet of Fire fiasco.

She wanted to run after Harry and stop him from embarrassing himself because of her stupidity;
looked up as the first notes of the song started – and felt her heart in her throat as she saw
Harry approaching her, his green eyes on hers as he sang:

I can only give you love that lasts forever,

And a promise to be near each time you call.

And the only heart I own

For you and you alone

That's all,

That's all

She felt the tears spring into her eyes as she watched him come closer; felt a sudden warmth as
everything around her faded away into darkness … saw only Harry’s face as he came closer, her eyes
on him alone as his were on hers alone … felt his fingers on her cheeks as he brushed a tear away
…

I can only give you country walks in springtime

And a hand to hold when leaves begin to fall;

And a love whose burning light

Will warm the winter night

That's all,

That's all.

She felt the solemn mood break as Harry quietly handed the microphone to Ron, who took up the
song as Harry took her hands in his and quietly, carefully pulled her up to stand with him …
neither one hearing Ron’s mellow voice floating into the room as he sang with his eyes locked on
Nicole’s …

There are those I am sure who have told you,

They would give you the world for a toy.

All I have are these arms to enfold you,

And a love time can never destroy.

Ron quietly handed the microphone to Nicole who continued the song, her eyes also locked on
Ron’s as she ignored Harry and Hermione who were slowly dancing, with their arms around each other
… and felt Ron’s hands around her waist as he slowly led her into a dance, as she continued
singing:

If you're wondering what I'm asking in return, dear,

You'll be glad to know that my demands are small.

Say it's me that you'll adore,

For now and evermore

That's all,

That's all.

The two couples looked up as violin music quietly flowed into the room – and smiled as they saw
Lils on the stage beside Erin, providing a beautifully haunting bridge as they slowly danced –
Hermione with her head on Harry’s shoulder, Nic placing hers on Ron’s … and they swung around their
table for a few moments, each hearing the hearts of their partners beating in time with theirs
…

Nic felt a hand on hers, without looking, she relinquished the microphone – and smiled as she
heard Hermione filling the room with her soft, clear voice:

If you're wondering what I'm asking in return, dear,

You'll be glad to know that my demands are small.

Say it's me that you'll adore,

For now and evermore

That's all,

That's all.

* * *

Nic stepped away from Ron as the song ended, and the room erupted in thunderous applause. She
felt herself flushing from the emotions that the song evoked – and wondered what she was doing
there, scarcely a foot away from him, her heart beating away in her ears, staring at his intensely
blue eyes.

She had barely exchanged more than greetings and introductions with him, had not even had a
decent conversation with him – and yet …

It felt as if the songs sung that night were all the conversation needed – as if the music and
lyrics were all they needed to understand each other. There was something intriguing about this,
Nic thought – something that needed to be explored further …

She turned her head at a soft cough from Mr. Roarke – and felt her heart sinking to her shoes at
the apologetic note in the cough. Somehow she knew …

“I’m sorry, but it is getting rather late … and I am afraid that Ronald has to be going on home
soon.”

She watched as their host held up his hands at the vociferous protests from the three friends,
and felt her heart leap as she watched Ron arguing most heatedly with him, his freckled face
growing redder by the second …

She felt a tug somewhere in her mind, and knew that even she would soon have to wake up from
this dream, or fantasy, or whatever it was … doubtless Joyce would be able to explain this to her
when she woke up – and wondered whether the memories of this time would be retained.

She felt Ron’s pained eyes on her and she smiled tremulously at him, and turned to Mr. Roarke,
who was repeating himself for the fourth or fifth time – and asked, “There is time for one more
song, isn’t there, Mr. Roarke?”

Their eyes locked for a long moment before Mr. Roarke nodded, giving a silent assent to her
request. Teary-eyed, she turned towards the stage where Erin and Lils were watching them, pained
and understanding looks on their faces. For a brief second, their eyes locked – and silently, the
two nodded, knowing what song Nicole wanted – no, *needed* – to sing.

Nic picked up the microphone and turned to Ron, saying in a soft and low voice, “This is for
you, Ron,” as the mellow sounds of cello and piano drifted into the room:

When the dark wood fell before me

And all the paths were overgrown,

When the priests of pride say there is no other way,

I tilled the sorrows of stone.

Ron slowly took her hand, quietly rubbing his thumb along the back of her hand, his blue eyes
seeming to bore into her soul.

I did not believe because I could not see

Though you came to me in the night.

When the dawn seemed forever lost

You showed me your love in the light of the stars.

Cast your eyes on the ocean,

Cast your soul to the sea,

When my dark night seems endless,

Please remember me.

She watched as tears formed in his eyes, and felt his fingers entwining themselves around her
fingers. She gripped his warm hand tightly, and her voice suddenly dropped slightly as she
continued singing,

Then the mountain rose before me

By the deep well of desire

From the fountain of forgiveness

Beyond the ice and the fire.

Cast your eyes on the ocean,

Cast your soul to the sea,

When the dark night seems endless,

Please remember me.

She felt the tears streaking down her face, felt Ron’s soft but callused fingers gently wiping
them away …

Though we share this humble path alone,

How fragile is the heart.

Oh give these clay feet wings to fly

To touch the face of the stars.

Breathe life into this feeble heart

Lift this mortal veil of fear.

Take these crumbled hopes, etched with tears

We’ll rise above these earthly cares.

She felt Ron leaning towards her, and felt her heart slowing down as his arms went around her
waist … closed her eyes as she came to the final stanza of the song, felt herself being drawn
closer to him, his warm and minty breath touching her lips …

Cast your eyes on the ocean,

Cast your soul to the sea,

When my dark night seems endless,

Please remember me.

Please remember me …

Please remember me …

Please remember me …

* * *

Her lips were soft … sweet … yielding and oh, so warm. He pressed his lips to hers, feeling a
warmth flow into him, filling up the empty place in his chest that had been aching since the moment
he and his brothers and Ginny brought his friends to the Hospital Wing – and he realized that,
while their friendship as a Trio was intact, his best friends had a connection and a life together
that he was not part of.

As his lips pressed on Nicole’s, he could feel that aching, lonely pain dissipate – to be
replaced by a feeling of warmth and completion … and he knew that his life from this point on would
be different. He would still be a part of Harry and Hermione’s lives – five years together would
never change that. But now, there would be someone of his own …

As she would have someone of her own.

As the kiss deepened, he felt her hands on his chest and he pulled her ever closer to him,
wanting nothing more than to feel her warm body as close as he could possibly make it … and felt
hurt suddenly leaping into his heart as he felt her hands pushing him away. He tried to hold her
closer but with an unimagined strength, she managed to push him back and away from her.

Hurt, feeling betrayed, he opened his eyes – and felt them widen to the size of dinner plates as
he saw Madam Pomfrey stumbling back, away from him – hair disheveled and in wild disarray, wearing
her nightdress with a flannel robe over it, a candle floating beside her … mouth a round ‘O’ as she
drew breath in – to scream, to curse, to hex him, he didn’t know …

And didn’t care.

With a move that would have made Harry, Hermione and his brothers and only sister proud, he
whipped out his wand and pointed it at Madam Pomfrey, murmuring “Obliviate!” – and hoping in the
same instant that he hadn’t overdone the Memory Charm that he’d read about but never seen done
properly before.

He watched with bated breath as the nurse stood before him with glazed eyes … shook her head and
looked at him keenly and said, “Oh, good – you’re awake, Mr. Weasley.”

He heaved a sigh of relief and felt his body deflating. Before he could say anything else, Madam
Pomfrey was patting the pockets of her robe and he tensed, afraid that she was reaching for her
wand … and again breathed in relief as she pulled out a small parchment from a pocket.

“Professor McGonagall was here earlier,” the nurse continued. “She said to let you sleep … and
to give you this note if you have to go to your dorm after curfew. This should get Mr. Filch off
your back … if you decide to drop by the kitchens, that is,” she added with a grin.

“Thank you, Madam Pomfrey,” he said, as he reached for the note, at the same time unobtrusively
tucking his wand out of sight. He was about to stand up when he heard a low growl from his friends’
beds – and turned to see Crookshanks stretching his body on Hermione’s bed, bottle-brush tail
standing straight up.

“Hey, Crookshanks,” he said to the cat. “Seems like you fell asleep with me … ready for some
supper?”

“Mhrowh,” the cat replied as it lithely jumped to the floor and began rubbing himself against
Ron’s legs. He looked down at the cat and smiled; turning to Madam Pomfrey, he bid her good night
and turned for a look at his friends.

He gave a wistful smile as he saw that they had rolled to their sides, facing the same direction
– but with Harry’s hand resting lightly on top of Hermione’s elbow … wide smiles still on their
faces, and he wondered for a fleeting moment what dreams they may be having right now – and hoping
that, for at least some of those dreams, he was still their friend, still a member of their
unbeatable trio.

He frowned as he thought he saw a shadow move in the flickering candlelight – forehead creased
as he thought he saw a girl with shoulder-length hair blowing him a kiss before turning away, a
glint of light reflecting off blue-rimmed glasses and he felt his insides warmed for a brief moment
…

“Meowhrr!” He glanced down at Crookshanks just as he heard a growl from the region of his
stomach, and his mind turned to more important – and urgent – matters. And yet, he felt a slight
tinge of pain in his mind as his mind tried to focus on food … and he somehow knew that his mind
would not be at rest in the coming nights.

Not until he found that girl with shoulder-length hair and blue glasses somewhere as he chased a
dream.

He shook himself from his funk, and looked at Crookshanks. “Let’s go, Crookshanks … let’s see if
Dobby knows how to cook lasagna.”

He frowned for a moment, wondering where *that* thought came from … with a shrug of his
shoulders, he said good night to Madam Pomfrey and his friends, and walked into the darkened castle
with the cat leading.

He didn’t see Madam Pomfrey looking at him, a slight frown on her face, touching her lips as her
mind struggled with the thread of a memory that was seemingly slipping from her grasp. With a sigh,
she walked back to her rooms and, with a quiet, “Nox!” extinguished the light in the Hospital Wing
– leaving two teens asleep in their joined beds, still chasing a dream.



7. Awakenings
-------------

Dream Chasing

**Title:** Dream Chasing (07)
**Author name:** Romulus Lupin
**Author email:** galigad@yahoo.com
**Category:** Romance
**Sub Category:**
**Keywords:** Harry Hermione Fantasy Island
**Rating:** PG-13
**Spoilers:**SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF
**Summary:** Harry and Hermione are unconscious in the Hospital Wing after an accident on the
Quidditch field.

It’s the morning after the night at the Red Queen, and Hermione wakes up with a hangover. Only
to realize that there’s someone in bed with her … and a tire iron had somehow made its way into her
bed!
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended.

**Author notes:****Dedicated to the Corruptors of Innocence, may the mods not thwap us for
what we've been doing...** you know who you are! ;-)

Chapter 7. Awakenings

Hermione’s eyes shot open, her brain immediately wondering what had caused her to wake up – and
she caught sight of the window of her bedroom in their fantasy bungalow, where a sudden gust of
wind had momentarily parted the curtains and allowed a single ray of brilliant sunlight to
penetrate the darkened room and slam into her closed eyes.

Sensing that there was no immediate danger, her brain started running an internal checklist on
her current situation – she was lying on her side, facing the window (through which she could see
the clear blue sky and glimpses of a sun-drenched beach), her head pillowed on her elbow – arms and
legs embracing a huge pillow.

But there was something different … there was a feeling of some heavy object immediately behind
her eyes causing a slight headache; an arid mouth, as if she had stuffed it with cotton in
preparation for a dental operation; a lethargic feeling in her limbs as if she were still exhausted
from some strenuous activity the night before.

The first coherent thought came to mind – ‘you have a hangover, dear,’ her brain informed her
with a small snicker of its own.

The memories of the previous night broke through her befuddled brain: consoling a heart-broken
Nicole after saying good-bye to Ron; Joyce and Erin at their table; a subdued Lils bringing a tray
of drinks and quietly laying them out; the whole room thoughtful and quiet after Nicole’s
heart-rending song.

She wasn’t a drinker in the first place; even the supposedly non-alcoholic butterbeer in
Hogsmeade was enough to give her a slight buzz. Whatever they were drinking at the Red Queen was
smoother than butterbeer but had double or triple the wallop – and she smiled as she remembered
weaving back to the bungalow with Harry’s arm around her, his other arm still clutching a bottle of
whatever it was they had been drinking, giggling as he sang – chanted? – in a loud voice, “*Ah
lahve you bhey-bee, hend hif hits kwayte ollrahyt, Ah need you BHEY-BEE!*”

She’d tried to shut him up but couldn’t – she’d been giggling and laughing too much, enjoying
his performance and feeling her heart swell in sheer joy at seeing her best friend so carefree, so
relaxed and untroubled by anything and everything in the world – and she found herself joining him:
“*Oh pretty BHEY-BEE, dohn’t bhreeng me dahwn Ah fray –*“

Smiling, she started to stretch – and froze. Her heart stopped beating as she felt it leap to
her throat – and started beating again as she tried to swallow it down and force it back to its
accustomed place in her chest.

How can her head be resting on her elbow when *both* her arms were wrapped around the
pillow she was hugging?

As she lay frozen, stiff with shock, her senses finally broke through her addled brain and
started feeding sensations she had been ignoring since she woke up:

… a soft breeze gently ruffling the crown of her head, and she realized that *someone* was
breathing, nose and lips apparently buried in her hair.

… an arm draped around her torso, resting on her bare – her *bare* stomach (and her heart
was in her throat again as she remembered waking up all wet and sweaty in the warm night -- tearing
off her shirt and bikini so she could sleep unencumbered and loose).

… a warm, oh, so *warm* body snuggled into her back, and she could feel the even, rhythmic
rise and fall of a chiseled chest along the skin of her back, sending goose-bumps all over her body
and she shivered as she felt the arm around her move slightly, brushing the skin of her bare
stomach and finally resting on the skin just below her rib cage.

… and … and … dear Merlin’s ghost and ancestors … what was a *tire iron* doing in the bed
with them? But no, her rational brain argued – that was no tire iron! It was … it was …

Her eyes bugged out as a final sensation blasted through her mind: *why*, in the name of
all that’s holy in the wizarding, magical, and Muggle worlds, *was her bed* **wet**?

* * *

Madam Pomfrey pushed back her chair with a contented sigh, having had her fill of the delicious
lunch that those two wonderful girls had brought in for her. She shook her head in wonder,
surprised that Hermione Granger could have found two young witches who shared her enthusiasm for
elf-rights and S.P.E.W. – but then, she thought, that’s children for you.

You never really know what to expect from them.

She stretched luxuriously and glanced out the window of her office. It was another beautiful day
at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – a brilliant noon sun in a clear blue sky, a brisk
but cooling breeze ruffling through the trees, students out on the grounds lounging, playing or
simply sitting under the shade of trees: happy that it was a Sunday once again.

Except for the Terrible Two, she thought.

She was surprised when the doors to her domain opened to reveal them: Cindy, carrying a tray of
food; Carolyn, her slim companion with long, thick black hair in a ponytail, following closely, a
pitcher of pumpkin juice in hand while, over her shoulder, a bag full of books was slung.

Before she could say anything, Cindy was asking where to place the tray. Madam Pomfrey silently
gestured and followed the two into her office, where Cindy set down the tray on her desk with a
sigh.

“What –“ she began, but was quickly interrupted by Carolyn.

“We met Dobby as we were coming up here and told him we’ll bring the tray in for him,” the girl
responded to her unfinished question. She could feel an eyebrow climbing up as Carolyn continued,
“Miss Hermione would have wanted it that way.”

Madam Pomfrey’s eyebrow stopped its upward climb, and she shook her head. She was aware of
Hermione’s obsession with S.P.E.W. and elf-rights – but it was surprising to learn that she’d found
two willing converts to her cause.

Before she could remark on this, Cindy spoke up: “Would it be all right if we stayed here for a
while, Madam Pomfrey? We’ll be quiet … we have some studying to catch up on.”

“Uhm –“

“It’s just that … well, Miss Hermione and Sir Harry would always help us when we were studying,”
Carolyn said. She glanced out at the door towards their mentors and said, in a low voice, “We miss
them,” as her friend nodded vigorously.

Madam Pomfrey glanced from one to the other, wondering why Minerva McGonagall called these
beautiful, enchanting and *loyal* angels “The Terrible Two.” That they would be great friends
with Potter and Granger was a surprise; that they would willingly give up a day in the bright
sunshine, to spend the time studying in the Hospital Wing just so they could be with Harry and
Hermione –

She’d granted permission, of course; breaking the rule about visiting hours, given the earnest
and concerned looks of the two young girls, and smiled as she watched them sit down next to each
other in the large, comfortable arm-chair that Minerva McGonagall conjured up the night she was
here.

She watched in amusement as they opened up their books and started reading, remembering the
hours when Harry Potter could be found in the Hospital Wing bringing books and homework to the
stricken Hermione Granger and, with another shake of her head, went into her office for a peaceful
lunch.

She stood up and walked out of her office to check on her patients – and stopped, smiling, when
she realized that the two young girls had fallen asleep in their chair. Her smile widened as she
glanced at her patients – and realized that they were spooned together: Hermione’s back to Harry’s
front, Harry’s arm around Hermione’s waist, snuggling close to each other as if they needed each
other’s warmth, a single blanket covering them kicked off …

‘Thank Merlin,’ she thought to herself, ‘no one except the girls decided to drop by today --
especially not Miss Brown or Miss Patil.’

Or Colin Creevey with his ever-present camera.

It would be a major embarrassment for the two if people saw them spooned together so
comfortably, as if they were a long-married couple rather than two children who did not even know
of the existence of the other until they met on the Hogwarts Express five years ago. She noted that
they were *still* holding hands even now … whatever it was that had happened to them three
days ago, their hands – and bodies – never seemed to be more than an inch or two away from each
other.

With that, she turned away and headed back to her offices. Why should she deny herself some rest
and relaxation when everyone else was indulging in the same thing?

If she had lingered a moment or two longer, she would have seen two unconscious teens struggling
on the joined beds, faces red from the effort of a major tug-of-war over a pillow – and two
first-year Gryffindors asleep in their chair, giggling, their hands covering their eyes.

* * *

He was not going to give up without a struggle.

The thought – and its accompanying resolve – pulsed through his disorientated mind as his
internal body clock kept sending signals that it was time to wake up, that it was time to leave the
comfort of his warm and restful bed and face the day.

He didn’t *want* to wake up.

Not for a few more minutes, at least.

All because of the warm, smooth, soft but slim pillow that he was holding – no, *embracing*
so tightly.

And the wonderful, sweet, spicy but somehow *different* smell that was emanating from the
pillow in his arms.

He’d never had a pillow in his life.

At least, not until he came to Hogwarts and saw his four-poster with its heavy draperies, the
thick and warm blankets, the crisply starched sheets and that wonderful smell of clean laundry that
he had sunk into that first night in the castle.

And the *pillows* – so large that it seemed he would be unable to wrap his 11-year old arms
around them, so firm yet soft that wrapping his arms and legs around them gave him a sense of
security and warmth that started to heal the wounds of his childhood.

He’d never had a pillow in his life until he came to Hogwarts.

And he would enjoy *this* pillow to the fullest – reveling in its smoothness and warmth,
that wonderfully tingling sensation on his skin as he wiggled in an effort to find a more
comfortable position … burying his face and nose in that oh so wonderful smell of apples and
cinnamon, strands of stuffing tickling his nose –

He froze.

That wasn’t pillow stuffing clogging his nose and mouth … it felt like hair.

Hair?

His eyes sprung open, wide as saucers, realizing in the same instant that he didn’t have his
glasses on but there was no need for glasses to recognize the long, curly strands of brown hair
that he’d watched for so long – the hair that he knew would be silky-soft, something wonderful to
run his fingers through ….

And his senses and memories finally kicked in:

… the wonderful smell of cinnamon and apples touched with the barest hint of sweat: the smell of
Hermione’s hair as she walked to the Great Hall beside him for dinner after a full day of walking
around the castle.

… the smooth, soothing sensation that he could feel all along his chest as he hugged his
“pillow:” Hermione’s *back* as she snuggled close, the skin with their own warmth or heat as
blood coursed through her veins (‘what was the difference between heat and warmth?’ his befuddled
brain asked).

… the subtle dents and indentations of her rib cage that he could discern through the
now-sensitized skin of the arm which he had flung over her in a warm embrace – as well as the
tingly sensation he could feel from his feet, entwined as they were with the small, well-formed
feet of his sleeping companion.

… the rhythmic, tingling sensation on a wrist – coming from the soft, slow exhalations from her
mouth and nose, breathing on the exposed skin of his wrist and the back of his hand.

And he realized, with a growing horror, that the bed he was lying on was *wet* – wet with
what, he didn’t know and didn’t want to find out ... but an errant memory came crashing with all
the force and power of a runaway train: of suddenly waking up in the darkened room, that
uncomfortable feeling of dampness all over his waist and below, of the clammy sensation of sweat
breaking out from the unaccustomed alcohol or whatever potions made up the contents of the bottles
that Lils had handed out ....

Of tearing off his shirt and trunks and flinging them away before rolling back into sleep, arms
and legs automatically wrapping themselves around that warm and slim pillow …

He screwed his eyes tightly in pain as a soft and cooling breeze blew through the room, and he
wanted to *bury* himself, realizing in the same instant that he was hiding his face in the
soft, bushy crown of hair of his best friend in the world –

And realized with a sudden jolt of electricity running through him that his skin could feel
**nothing** but his best friend’s *skin*.

Which meant that …

He felt his skin prickling and felt Hermione stiffening in his arms -- which meant that she was
awake.

Which meant that she was beginning to realize that she had fallen asleep in the arms of her
sweaty, wet below the waist *male* friend who had somehow -- unwittingly, unthinkingly, or
cluelessly -- thrown away his clothes as he sought for a more comfortable sleeping position …

His mind started a frantic search for something to say … something to do … some thing to
*explain* what he was doing in her bed, her *wet* bed – but his frenetic mind suddenly
froze as he heard a squeak coming from his companion: “Harry?”

* * *

She could feel the sudden tension in the body that was pressing along her back, and she knew
that Harry was awake.

What should she do?

Jump up and run for her bathroom? Yeah, right … she’d be putting on quite a show for Harry –
showing her backside and her birthmark to him as she ran.

Nope.

Pretend that she was still asleep and let him slink out of her bed and bring the tire iron with
him?

Why not?

And then a horrifying thought struck her: How could she be sure that that was *Harry*
behind her, in her bed?

Merlin.

Before her logical mind could kick in, her frightened brain sent a signal to her parched throat
and dry mouth and she heard herself squeaking, “Harry?”

A tidal wave of relief passed through her body, starting from the crown of her head to the tips
of her tingly toes as she heard a squeak in a voice she would always recognize and never forget:
“Hermione?”

She felt him moving, rolling away from her and she breathed a sigh of relief … lifted her head
slightly to let him pull his arm from under her head … shivered as his other hand was lifted from
her stomach … felt the mattress roll as he tried to sit up … froze again as she felt him falling
back into the bed with a groan: “My head!”

‘*Which* head?’ popped into her mind for a brief moment – and she could feel her rational
mind grab that thought and throw it into the gutter where it belonged. In the same moment, her
innate caring and anxiety for the welfare of her best friend asserted itself and she started to
roll over to face him (still hugging the pillow to her front) – and froze.

She could *still* feel the tire iron pressing on her back.

But that couldn’t be, her mind raved. Harry had moved away from her … she distinctly felt the
mattress *move* as he shifted his body away … she could feel the breeze on her back when he’d
moved away from her …

Unless …

She closed her eyes tightly against that thought and blindly started groping around behind her
back. Her questing fingers touched smooth, hard flesh for a moment (‘his chest? His stomach?’) and
quickly skittered away as she heard a squeak of surprise (“*Hermione!*”) but she continued
groping behind her back …

And her fingers touched something smooth … hard … warm … and her fingers clenched into a tight
fist around it, whatever it was – and froze as she felt Harry’s long fingers enfolding her
hand.

For a long moment she lay still as a statue and her mind flashed to second year and the moment
she was Petrified: remembering only the page that she had torn from a book clutched in her hand and
hoping against hope that Harry would find it and read it – suddenly reverting back to the present
and wondering what she would do with the … the *thing* in her hand, with Harry’s fingers
around her hand …

“Hermione?” She bit down on her lip to keep from screaming, this was *embarrassing*, why
did she have to reach out and start groping around the bed when she knew, she *knew* that
Harry was in bed with her and probably having his icky little hormonal fantasies as he slept with
his body wrapped around her, and …

“What’s a bottle doing in your bed?”

The bemused question blasted through her brain.

She spun around so fast that she could feel her neck bones snap, felt the tips of her hair flick
around and swipe momentarily across Harry’s face, and she got a glimpse of his startled green eyes
for a brief moment before her eyes focused on the *thing* she was holding in her hand.

A bottle.

It was a slim, dark green bottle and her mind suddenly clicked as she recognized the bottle that
he’d been holding as they made their drunken way back to their bungalow, singing “*Ah lahve hiyou
BEHY-BEE*” at the top of their lungs--

Harry must have helped her into bed last night, she realized. She’d nearly fallen flat on her
face as he opened the door to her room, except for Harry catching her around the waist and holding
her up – but she’d fallen into bed, and he’d probably crashed into the same bed with the bottle
still in his hand …

Which was why the bed was wet, she thought with relief, as she saw a small amount of liquid
swirling around at the bottom of the bottle.

So *nothing* had happened in the night – except that they had both fallen asleep in the
same bed. She was so relieved at the thought that she felt a giggle, a snicker, and finally – a
laugh break out of her now-functioning mind and she let go with a whoop that made her ears ring –
and Harry to groan beside her.

She quickly sat up and turned to him with a smile – and her face fell as she realized that his
eyes were shut tightly in pain at her whoop of joy, and she reached out to touch his shoulder,
saying in a small, concerned voice, “Harry?”

She saw his emerald eyes open wide and stare at her for a moment before he opened his mouth:
“What happened?”

“I think we had a little too much to drink,” she responded. He nodded at that and tried to sit
up to face her, bleary eyes locked on her face and unheeding of the blanket around his thighs. He’d
somehow found his glasses and put them on, she realized, and he stared at her through bleary eyes
as he asked in a raspy voice, “But what were you laughing about?”

She could feel herself burning under his gaze but the relief and the release of tension were
such that she couldn’t help herself. She started blubbering an explanation as she choked down the
hilarity and joy that was bubbling in her chest: “I thought (*gasp!*) that you …
(*hiccup!*) that was (*huff!*) … it was …”

“Hermione!” She felt his warm hands on her shoulders shaking her and she quickly drew in a
hiccupping breath and she leaned back against the headboard, clutching the pillow to her front and,
in a strangled voice, said: “*Ithoughtitwasyour* thing *thawasspressingagainst my
backbutnowIrealize it’sjusta bottle …I’msorry,* Harry, *it’s just that ..*.”

His befuddled mind tried to make sense of it … tried to process the rambling, incoherent words
of which “bottle” was the only thing which made sense to him … and then his brain kicked in, and
everything started falling into place like tumblers in a lock – and his eyes widened as he finally
understood what she was saying.

“Hermione!” His shocked whisper made her stop and she stared back at him with her brown eyes
filled with mischief and mirth. “Do you really *think* I would do something like that?”

“Yes I do, Harry.” Her smile widened at the look of shock, surprise and hurt on her best
friend’s face. “What else am I to think, given the way you sleep?”

She would have paid a fortune for a picture of his face as he realized that she *knew* he
had slept beside her without a stitch on and, with an evil grin, she suddenly grabbed the blanket
around his hips and threw it into a corner as she laughed at him.

What she hadn’t counted on was his lightning-quick reflexes: before she could even think of
retreating and barricading herself in the bathroom, Harry had leaped after her and tried to grab
the pillow she was holding in front of her.

In the blink of an eye, they were engaged in a struggle to the death: pulling and tugging on the
pillow that Hermione had been hugging in her sleep, each determined to succeed in claiming the only
thing left that could ensure their modesty and decorum, unthinking of anything else but to be the
victor in this battle …

With a powerful tug, Harry succeeded in pulling the pillow away from Hermione – but he’d exerted
a little too much force and fell back on the bed, with Hermione on top of him and the pillow
following the blanket into the corner.

They froze at the contact of skin on skin, staring into each other’s eyes – shocked at the turn
of events that they had found themselves in. They could have jumped away from each other, they
could have rolled away in blushing embarrassment, they could have simply stood up and walked away
but they didn’t.

They couldn’t.

For a moment, the world was vivid greens and warm browns – and a sense of sudden heat emanating
from rapidly beating chests, pressed tightly against each other. If they could think, they would
have been surprised and amazed that the tempo of their hearts matched -- but this was not a time
for rational thought.

At the same time, there was a sense of recognition in the joined rhythm of their hearts: it was
a beat that first took form when the world was young and magic had no words.

But *this* had no need of words or incantations.

All it needed was consent … agreement … the grant of approval from one to the other.

They could only stare at each other, knowing that something had changed … that this may be a
dream or a fantasy but recognizing that something was happening….

Who made the first move, they would never be able to say -- perhaps there was no conscious
“first” move. It could have been Harry who’d lifted his head that few vital inches … or perhaps
Hermione had dipped her head that few needed inches …

Either way, the next sensation they would remember was the soft, gentle brushing of lips on
lips.

It was strange, Hermione would later think, that of the dozens or hundreds of things that her
sensitized skin should remember … it was that soft, gentle brushing of lips that would stick to her
mind. There should have been something more: heat from her chest as she pressed her body onto him,
the slight goosebumps on her skin as Harry ran fingers callused from gripping wand and broomstick
over her body as he explored her back and sides, the sensation of running her fingers and palms
over his shoulders and up to his hair—

She would never know that Harry was having the same sensations and feelings running through him:
that it would always be that soft, gentle brushing of her lips on his own that he would always
remember first – and would always remember best.

There would only be vague sensations of his back rubbing against once-starched but now rumpled
and slightly damp sheets, of the warmth along his chest and his stomach as Hermione settled herself
more comfortably on his front – of the feel of her hair and the back of her head as his fingers
cupped themselves around her …

There would be nothing – and everything – in that first brush of their lips.

They could have murmured something – names, an endearment, a promise – but no words were ever
needed.

Words would have been superfluous and would not have been understood as their lips fused
together … as tongues silently explored lips, quietly ran along teeth and eventually met the
other’s tongue in a silent ballet danced to a tune that was timeless – a music with no words but a
roaring in their ears, a beat with no real rhythm but the pounding of their hearts felt through
chests with no distance or fabric between them.

There was nothing in their world but each other, for their world was now defined only by the
circumference of their arms and the reach of their skins … not even the vague sound of a girl
calling out, “Helloooo! Anybody home?” could penetrate their fevered, singularly focused minds
…

It was the sound of a door slamming open, the happy call of a very familiar voice crying, “There
you a–“ followed by a loud “EEEEK!” and a quickly mumbled apology that broke the trance they found
themselves in …

They fell off the bed in the scramble to find someplace to hide from the sudden intrusion and
snapped their heads around in time to see the back of a slim young girl in a one-piece swimsuit
with a ponytail of black-as-midnight hair and a bag slung over her back being dragged out of the
bungalow by another girl wearing an identical swimsuit but whose back showed once fair skin now as
red as a lobster who’d dived into a pot of boiling water …

For a moment, they sat on the floor by the side of the bed, unwilling to move, all thought and
sensation frozen …

And Harry found his voice from whichever corner of the room it had fled: “Was that Cindy and
Carolyn?”

He didn’t need to turn to see Hermione’s vigorous nod … he could only turn to meet her worried
brown eyes and proclaim, in a hushed and solemn voice: “We are in deep ca-ca.”

And Hermione could only nod.



8. Reunions ...
---------------

**Dream Chasing**

**Title:** Dream Chasing (08)
**Author name:** Romulus Lupin
**Author email:** galigad@yahoo.com
**Category:** Romance
**Sub Category:**
**Keywords:** Harry Hermione Fantasy Island
**Rating:** PG-13
**Spoilers:**SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF
**Summary:** There is one dream or fantasy that Harry Potter has been having ever since they
arrived on Fantasy Island. Will he get his wish -- and see that dream come true?
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended.
**Author Notes:** Like the Eveready (Plot) Bunny, this story keeps on going and going, and …
going. I hope you are enjoy reading this as much as I have been enjoying writing it.

**Chapter 8: Reunions …**

A brilliant sun blazed down on the picture-perfect beach in a fantasy island, watching two young
girls walking swiftly, unheeding of the heat emanating from the powdery sand. One of the girls,
somewhat stocky, round-faced and rosy-cheeked but with an instantly arresting face, was muttering
and mumbling continuously under her breath – regrets, remorse and recriminations pouring out a mile
a minute, while her slim, oval-faced companion walked quietly beside her, shifting the bag of books
she carried from shoulder to shoulder, wondering whether to let her long, black hair hang loose or
keep it in the ponytail she was wearing when they woke up in this place – wherever it was.

"I *don’t* believe it! Me and my big mouth … why, oh *why* did I have to barge in
like that? I was so happy to see the place … I just *knew* that they’d be there. It’s
embarrassing! Why, why … I can’t *stand* it! They’ll *kill* me … they’ll throw me into a
pit so deep only the worms will know where I am … what were they *thinking*? What were they
*doing?*"

"They were making love," Carolyn replied in a straightforward, no nonsense voice – and
Cindy stopped to glare at her best friend, classmate and fellow Gryffindor. Before a sound could
escape Cindy’s throat, Carolyn continued in the same tone: "And they’re doing it very
*badly*."

"*Ca!*" Cindy’s jaw didn’t just drop at the quietly positive observation coming
from her eleven-year old friend – it positively waggled. Her eyes were round as she stared at her
Muggle-born friend and wondered whether the statement was a judgment call – or coming from hard-won
experience. She could remember Carolyn and the other Muggle-borns in her year snickering about
something they called "sex education" – and wondered whether *that* subject included
live demonstrations.

A musical sound broke through her bewildered mind and she blinked at a bent over and laughing
Carolyn, ponytail undone and her long, thick hair swinging in the breeze, pointing at her and
gasping, "That was a *joke*, you ninny! You don’t honestly think— "

Cindy blinked again, and remembered Carolyn’s lapses into Muggle humor -- telling them about the
three French brothers who’d happened on the farm boy and a village wench in a barn … and her glare
was back in place as she stuttered, "You … you … Arrrgggh!"

She lunged at her laughing friend, who easily evaded her and stepped back a few paces – and
quickly stuck out her tongue. Before she could say anything, Carolyn was on the run, moving as
gracefully as a gazelle towards a grove of coconut trees down the beach – and Cindy finally
understood what Carolyn meant about running track.

But that didn’t mean that she could get away, she thought – and she was after her friend in a
flash. She can run all she wants, the young girl thought, but I *will* have my revenge for
that joke!

She quickly overcame the gap, a few more seconds and she’d be at Ca’s heels. She was about to
lunge and tackle her friend when the latter suddenly skidded to a halt with a loud
"Eeeek!" – and Cindy slammed into her back, causing the two of them to fall face down
into the soft sand of the beach.

Cindy felt the wind knocked out of her, and quickly rolled off her best friend – and caught
sight of two adults jumping apart from whatever they had been doing (and Ca’s cry of surprise told
her *what* it was that they had nearly barged into) – and the thought blew through her mind:
"What *is* it about this place?"

She struggled to sit and felt herself being helped up by a thin man in glasses and rather untidy
hair, wearing a floral patterned shirt, shorts and beach sandals. As she shakily stood up, she saw
Carolyn being assisted by a very pretty woman with dark red hair, in a red and gold swimsuit, a
*sarong* wrapped around her slim waist and, for a moment, wondered what a Weasley relative was
doing here of all places.

"Are you all right?" the man helping her up said. "I’m sorry, we didn’t mean to
frighten your friend.…"

Cindy didn’t respond immediately as she noticed the red-haired lady staring at Carolyn with
something approaching recognition, but the moment faded when the lady turned to look at her – and
Cindy felt herself staring into startlingly green eyes that somehow seemed familiar….

Carolyn, however, must have seen the same thing: she was looking at the lady who was holding her
up with a puzzled frown – turned to look at Cindy and saw the man staring at her with the same
seeming recognition on his face and her frown deepened.

Cindy gave a small cough as she stepped closer to Carolyn and the seeming trance of the two
strangers was broken. The man and the woman looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders,
shaking their heads at the same time, and the latter said, "I’m sorry … it’s just that you
reminded me of someone I – we -- knew a long time ago."

"Your mother wouldn’t happen to be a Hogwarts alum, would she?" the black-haired man
asked with a winning smile.

Carolyn shook her head and replied in her soft voice, "No, sir … she’s a Muggle." She
glanced up at the two adults, biting her lip at the same time, an action which the lady noticed,
and she quickly reassured the young girl: "Oh, don’t worry about that, my dear. There’s no
shame in being Muggle-born; after all, it’s the choices we make, rather than our abilities, that
make us what we are."

The two girls smiled at the adults, as the lady continued, "As my husband said, our
apologies for frightening you. We, uhm, just didn’t expect anyone on the island …"

"Yeah," the man said with a wide grin, "and the palm trees were simply
irresistible as a snog—"

The lady’s glare was a sight to behold – and the two young girls giggled as they wondered
whether the lady was related to either Minerva McGonagall or Hermione Granger (or probably both --
a thought that sent shivers down their spines). Her husband apparently thought the same thing: with
a visible shudder, he said in a plaintive voice, "Will you *quit* that? I’ve had seven
*years* of Minerva giving me THAT look …"

The pretty woman broke off and gave a surreptitious wink at Cindy and Carolyn, to which the two
responded with a smile that only women could ever understand. The three turned to the black-haired
man as he asked, "I wonder if you could help us …"

The two girls were about to explain that they were also strangers in the place but were
interrupted by the woman’s eager voice, "We were wondering if you would know if Harry Potter
is around here somewhere?"

The look of shock and surprise must have been obvious, because her husband quickly cut in,
"Is something wrong?"

Cindy started to answer, "Oh, no sir, nothing’s wrong. It’s just that … ah, they’re
uhm–"

"*Cindy!*" The girl quickly clamped a hand to her mouth in dismay, but the adults
had quickly picked up on what she was about to say.

"*They*?" the red-haired woman said, a wide smile breaking out on her face – a
smile matched only by the gleeful expression on her husband’s face, and repeated her question,
"They?"

The two girls looked at each other and shrugged; the *faux pas* had been made, and there
was no way they could take back the words – they could only hope that their mentors were decent by
now. With a small sigh at Cindy’s big mouth, Carolyn replied, "Miss Hermione’s with Sir Harry,
ma’am. They’re at the bungalow down there …" waving her hand in the direction they had come
from.

The gleeful expression on the man’s face seemed to double or even triple, if that were possible
– and was matched only by the wide, wide smile on his wife’s face. With a sudden grab of her arm,
the man was hurrying her down the beach, leaving the two young girls gaping in surprise.

His wife seemed reluctant to follow and she glanced back at the two girls, apparently intent on
waving a good-bye or to say ‘thanks,’ but was stopped by her husband’s eager, laughing voice,
"Let’s *go* … I want to see if Harry needs any instructions in snog–"

"Oh, you!" she said, slapping her husband on the arm – but Cindy and Carolyn couldn’t
help but notice that she seemed to be as eager as the other in hurrying down the beach – looking
for all the world like teens out for a major prank on their unsuspecting mentors. They glanced at
each other and shrugged resignedly.

With a sigh, Carolyn set down her bag on a sandy spot beneath a coconut tree and leaned back on
the tree, staring out at the vista of blue water and sky that surrounded her. Cindy quietly walked
up beside her and asked in a bemused voice – "What is it about this place?"

"Huh?"

"Everyone we’ve encountered so far seems to be snogging …" Cindy’s smile suddenly
turned into an evil grin at Carolyn’s confused look. "And since you’re the only one
*left* …"

Laughter pealed out on the deserted beach as the long-haired girl jumped back, stumbled – and
fell on her behind, a look of pure horror on her face as she stared at her friend. Cindy’s laughter
stopped for a second as she stuck out her tongue at her friend and said, "Gotcha!" before
diving after Carolyn, intent on tickling her friend to death for having gotten one over on her
earlier.

* * *

The bungalow was quiet except for the insistent tapping of slim knuckles on a door – and the
sound of a shower running.

"Harry? Harry – are you all right?" A rising tide of panic was engulfing Hermione and
she fought back the urge to rattle the door knob, to see if the door to Harry’s bathroom would open
and she could check with her own eyes that her best friend was all right.

She’d been standing on the veranda for what seemed like hours, fighting down the embarrassment
and fright that threatened to erupt from her throat every time she remembered what had almost taken
place in her bedroom. She didn’t know exactly what to do … but she knew that they had to talk.

They had to clear the air between them.

They had to reach an understanding of whatever it was that had driven them to that point –
whether hormones, the stimulating breeze of this island, the alcohol they had consumed the night
before …

Or whether their bodies were telling them something that their minds refused to admit.

She’d glanced at her watch and gasped – Harry had been in his room with the water running for
far too long, and a rising tide of panic started coursing through her.

‘What is he trying to do? Drown himself?’ At that thought, she ran for his bathroom door and
started knocking … and now, with only the sound of the shower within, she started pounding on the
door in a panic, rattling the door knob in her fear and fright … and stopped when she heard Harry’s
voice through the door.

"Hermione?" She expelled a sigh at the sound of his voice and leaned her head on the
door as relief passed through her – and nearly fell on her face as the door opened and she felt
strong arms wrapping around her, stopping her fall. Impulsively, she wrapped her arms around her
friend to stop herself falling … feeling him stagger back but quickly regaining his balance and
holding her tightly.

For a long moment they stood there – arms around each other; Harry feeling the loud thumping of
her heart as she kept her arms tight around him; felt her squeezing him as her head with its bushy
mop of still-wet hair rested on his chest, murmuring softly to her, "It’s all right, Hermione
… it’s all right."

She could feel herself rambling, mumbling as she held her best friend tight, chastising him for
taking so long in the shower that she thought that something had happened to him, seeking comfort
in the arms around her, unheeding that her shirt was getting wet from the water on his chest and
the arms around her back … all that was on her mind was that Harry was safe, that nothing had
happened to him, that he wasn’t trying to drown himself—

She felt his hands on her shoulders, pushing her back and she let go of him … trying to turn
away from him in sudden embarrassment at her rampaging emotions and churning fears, but she felt
his hands cupping her face, gently forcing her to look up – and her eyes met his, concerned,
fearful … frightened even, at the sudden surge of emotions that she had displayed.

"What’s wrong, Hermione?"

The soft and gentle words brought another surge of emotion welling up in her and she simply
flung her arms around him again, leaning her face into his chest and mumbling, "Nothing …
nothing. I’m such a girl."

"I know you are, Hermione."

The words were innocuous – but they froze, hidden meanings and deeper thoughts suddenly rising
to the surface as they held each other – and the shadows of what had happened earlier in her room
fell over them.

"I think we should talk," she mumbled, her face still pressed against his chest.

"I think so," he agreed, through lips pressing on her hair.

But they didn’t make a move – they continued holding each other quietly, tightly, unwilling to
break the circle of their arms, reluctant to break the quiet moment of companionship … both
unwilling to discuss the dimensions of something that they both knew they were more than willing to
fall into—

And Hermione knew that she didn’t need to "fall into" whatever it was that had almost
happened. In that mad, insane instant before his lips touched hers, she knew that she was more than
willing to leap into the flames … more than ready to immolate herself in the fire of her emotions
for her best friend.

How and why, she would never understand.

And she knew as she stood there with her arms around him, that she would never care or even ask
– all that she knew was that there was no place on earth that she would rather be, than to be here
in the arms of her best friend.

She felt him moving away again, murmuring "Let me dry off and get dressed, Hermione" –
and realized that he must have jumped out of the shower at her insistent – panicked – pounding.

And, with a sudden flush, she also realized that she had been embracing her wet-from-the-shower
friend – who was wearing nothing but a towel around his waist.

Merlin.

From the blush that she could see covering his chest, she knew that he knew – had just realized,
as she had – that he’d been standing, hugging, embracing, and talking with his best friend (his
best *female* friend, at that!) wearing nothing more than a towel … which was threatening to
fall off after all the hugging and close contact with Hermione.

Meep.

What the hell was happening here? He knew that he was flushing but somehow, somewhere in the
reaches of what he thought of as his logical mind, something was telling him that he was *not*
blushing at what was happening, that he was flushed from …

Let’s not go there, he thought, slamming down the hatch on the part of his mind that led to the
gutter. This is *Hermione* we’re talking about here … Hermione Granger, best friend, constant
companion, classmate and Housemate through all of his five years at Hogwarts, the person he looked
forward to seeing first thing in the morning – and the last person he wanted to look at before he
or she went up to their respective dormitories … the one I would want to wake up to in the morning,
and the one I would want to fall asleep with in the night …

And where the hell did *that* come from?

But as soon as the thought popped into his mind, he realized the bare – or *naked* -- truth
behind those words.

There was no one in the world he would rather have at his side than this bushy-haired, bossy,
know-it-all companion of his five years at Hogwarts. When she had become so important to him, he
didn’t know – was it in first year when she was wheedling him to have even a bit of toast as he
quivered with nerves before his first Quidditch game?

Or was it in second year in the Hospital Wing when Dobby was trying to convince him to go home
-- and he had reacted in fury, because one of his best friends was Muggle-born and that she would
be first in line if the Chamber of Secrets had been opened and he couldn’t leave her behind?

Maybe it was in third year when they met up in Diagon Alley and she was scolding him for blowing
up his aunt, telling him that he would have gotten in trouble for that – and he realized that she
was really concerned for him and was not angry about rules being broken?

Or could it be fourth year when the Dark Mark bloomed in the sky and she grabbed his arm and was
literally dragging him away from the site they were resting in, moaning in fear but again with his
welfare uppermost in her mind?

There were a hundred, maybe a thousand, incidents like that throughout his life at Hogwarts --
and in all of them, Hermione was a constant feature. She was with him in all his major adventures –
but what always came to mind whenever he remembered her were all the small incidents of their daily
lives at Hogwarts: the small episodes and occasions that wove together into a tapestry of mutual
support and understanding, of something deeper than friendship working its magic between them.

All that he knew was that this was where he belonged, this was where he would have wanted to be
– safe in the circle of Hermione’s arms. And he couldn’t care less if he was clothed and she was
unclothed: at this point and at this moment, there was nothing more that he wanted to be, but to
feel her arms around him while he comforted her, soothed her fears, and held her warm body in his
arms.

His swirling thoughts and emotions were suddenly cut as if a guillotine had crashed down on his
mind – and his eyes suddenly focused on those oh-so-familiar brown eyes of his best friend, and a
tiny spark of worry and concern lit up in the depths of his mind as he saw a sudden twinkle or a
glint of laughter in her eyes and he knew, he *knew* that there was something suddenly naughty
and mischievous that had gotten hold of her … and his hands were already on the way to the towel
around his waist but he was late …

He was too late.

With a sudden move, she grabbed the towel from around his waist and, before he could even react,
she was already on the run out of his room, her musical laughter filling his senses and his mind,
leaving him for just a split second with his mouth open before he leaped after her with a
mock-scream of outrage, pausing only momentarily to grab a pair of trunks from his bed where he’d
laid it out – and rushing out the door of his room without a thought to his condition when he heard
a cry of surprise from his best friend.

He ran out the door in a rush, only to slam into Hermione’s back as she stood there frozen and
shocked; it was sheer luck, however, that his momentum had not built up to the point that they
would have gone sprawling on the floor like a couple of ten pins – as it was, he’d almost toppled
himself and Hermione over but his Seeker’s instincts and physical coordination stopped him from
doing so.

He flung his arms around Hermione to stop her from falling – and looked into the shocked faces
and gaping mouths of the two adults who were standing in the living room – two people whose faces
and features were so familiar to him, after hours and hours of looking at their photographs and
staring for nights on end in front of the mirror of Erised, etching their faces into his memory
…

"Mum?" he croaked. "Dad?"

* * *

The sun was well on its way to its zenith and continued to stare down impassively on the
picture-perfect beach below, where a solitary figure in a bikini and a large T-shirt worn as a
caftan was striding purposefully towards a grove of coconut trees.

Her mind was in turmoil, roiling between sheer joy at the reunion she had witnessed and utter
and complete *embarrassment* at running into Harry’s parents inside the bungalow, his towel in
her hands, hearing him running up behind her and knowing, *knowing* that the stupid git would
have rushed out at her cry of surprise without even thinking of pulling up his knickers –

She didn’t know, the moment she felt him slam into her back, whether to throw the towel over her
face, or use it to cover the shocked faces of Lily and James Potter as they stared at the tableau
before them: Hermione Granger in her bikini and wet T-shirt, with their one and only Harry James
Potter in his wet, *wet* birthday suit with his arms around her – for all the world looking as
if she’d just come from the shower where she’d been scrubbing his back!

A wave of mortification coursed through her body and she almost fell on her knees … wanting to
do nothing more but to burrow into the powdery sand of the beach and bury herself where no one
would find her for a hundred years, by which time the absolute shame she was going through should
have dissipated, and James and Lily would be able to hear the name Hermione without malice …

On the other hand, she thought, they didn’t know Hermione Granger from Eve … and she wondered
whether she could get away with calling herself Ginny Weasley, maybe Cho Chang or even Pansy
Parkinson for that matter.

But even as the thought came to her mind, she threw it away – what was there to be embarrassed
about? Why should she be ashamed of her love for her best friend? That he happened to be famous
Harry Potter was incidental – she’d been with him through almost everything that life and Voldemort
had thrown at him ever since he’d stepped into the magical world. So why should she be ashamed of
being caught with him on this picture-perfect fantasy island where all they had done was dance, and
swim, and hug, and kiss …

She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she didn’t hear someone squealing her name in delight,
didn’t see two young girls running towards her, didn’t realize until they had slammed into her in a
many-armed hug – one of them chattering away questions and apologies like a rapid-firing machine
gun – and the thought passed through her mind as she hugged and embraced the two young girls that
she and Harry often thought of as their younger siblings that at least, someone on the beach loved
her.

* * *

"Dad."

There was a hint of steel and the edge of a warning barely controlled in his voice – a tone that
made James Potter step back from his son in surprise, and made Lily Potter raise an eyebrow in
inquiry.

It had been a joyous reunion for the sundered Potter family. Harry had taken full advantage of
his parents’ momentary shock and surprise to unobtrusively slip on the swimming trunks that he’d
fortuitously grabbed on his way out of his bedroom, hoping that they wouldn’t notice that he’d been
holding it in his hands just a moment before. The moment he’d slipped it on, he’d jumped on his
parents with arms outstretched in a hug that had been denied him for years …

The only other time he’d seen them like this – whole and seemingly unharmed – was in a graveyard
in Little Hangleron, surrounded by a dome of golden light and with the song of the phoenix
reverberating in his ears as he was locked in a deadly duel with Voldemort.

The memories of that night assailed him – Cedric Diggory’s body on the grass, eyes wide open and
staring up at the sky, the golden beam of light connecting his wand and Voldemort’s, the tiny bead
of light that he had forced back into Voldemort’s wand through sheer willpower … the screams of
pain emanating from the wand and, soon after, they had appeared: Cedric, an old man that he had
seen only in a dream, the shade of Bertha Jorkins that he had seen in Dumbledore’s Pensieve,
followed by his mother and lastly, by his father …

He knew that they were remembering that night as well as he did as he felt their trembling arms
around him, as he heard his mother’s softly murmured "Harry, oh Harry!" and his father’s
barely suppressed sniffles—

And perhaps even more as his mind replayed again the voices of his mum and dad that fateful
night in Godric’s Hollow – the voices and the green light that he would remember every time a
Dementor got near.

He didn’t know or even notice that Hermione had quietly slipped away from that many-armed
embrace, but it was the thought of her and his wish to introduce her properly to his parents that
made him break away from them and look around frantically for her.

"So who’s the little crumpet, Harry?" James Potter said in a light, teasing voice –
but it was that very tone that had suddenly set Harry's teeth on edge and he’d reacted, saying
"Dad" in a voice so venomous and deadly, his green eyes taking on a such dangerous glint
that his own father stepped back in surprise and sudden fear.

It was his mother’s warm hand on his shoulder and her soft voice saying his name that made him
break off his glare – but he didn’t get a chance to apologize because his father suddenly wrapped
his arms around him in a ferocious hug that rivaled Molly Weasley’s rib-breaking embraces or Sirius
Black’s bear hugs.

"I’m sorry, son," James Potter said in a voice full of apology and shame. "Lord
knows, I should have learned when to keep my big mouth shut after all this years!"

He felt his mother’s hand on his shoulder and heard her soft but amused voice saying,
"That’s your father for you, Harry; you’d think that after seven years of Minerva McGonagall
staring him down that he’d learned his lesson! But no, oh no! Trust a Potter not to learn something
as common as manners!"

His father broke off his hug to step back and stick his tongue out at his mother: "That’s
why you love me so much, Lily."

Harry glanced at his mother in time to see her rolling her eyes, "Some things never change
– still as egotistical as ever."

"Notice something, son? She *doesn't* refute my statement; in fact, she's
trying to divert attention away from it."

"Which means?" Lily Potter said, eyebrows rising towards the ceiling.

"That you still love me, in spite of everything," her husband said, a devil-may-care
smile on his face.

"Sometimes I wonder why," Lily countered. A decidedly evil glint sparked in her eyes,
"Are you sure you didn't whip up a batch of Love Potions during your detentions with
Severus?"

"*Love* potions? What would that slimy git know of *love*?"

"Oh, I don't know, James … The way he was making moony eyes at you all the time
…"

"Ewww!" Lily smiled at her husband and son, reflecting for a brief moment how much
they sounded alike. Her smile faltered, however, as she looked at Harry and caught a palpable sense
of gloom emanating from him -- and she quietly cursed, once again, the dice that Fate had rolled
their way …

Harry had been watching his bantering parents with a smile, enjoying their interaction and the
thrust and parry of their wit, and wondering whether Hermione and himself acted that way -- and his
smile faded.

Have we ever acted that way, he wondered? His mind raced back over the years and he sighed to
himself. It seemed that there had been precious little in the way of laughter over the years -- and
he felt his face suddenly burn in mortification as he remembered his thoughts back in fourth year:
'There was much less laughter, and more fun in the library when Hermione was your friend
…"

Which was true, he reflected. Although there were moments of hilarity that stood out --
especially the time when Moody/Crouch turned Malfoy into the Amazing Bouncing Ferret -- those often
seemed to be few and far between. At the moment, it seemed that there had been far more moments of
laughter packed into the few days they'd spent on this fantasy beach than all the time
they'd spent together in the real world .…

And he once again thanked whatever fortuitous bit of luck, magic or love that had sent him and
his best friend here.

"Harry? Is there something wrong?" He blinked and stared, for a moment wondering when
Hermione's eyes had turned green -- and he blinked again, realizing that the eyes which had
been looking at him with that on-so-familiar look of love and concern were the eyes of his mother,
not those of his best friend.

He shook his head and smiled at her, willing himself into a jovial mood, but cursed himself as
he heard his mouth running away from him: "It's nothing, Mum … I was just wondering where
Hermione went."

"She's probably hiding her head in the sand."

"Dad!" But this time, Harry's glare simply bounced off his irrepressible father,
who continued in a teasing, bantering tone, "Well, what else would you expect, Harry? You
probably embarrassed the poor girl to death, running out here in your birthday suit …"

"*Dad!*" He couldn't stop his face from turning the shade of his mother's
hair and tried to say something, but could only open and close his mouth like a fresh-caught fish
on the beach. It didn't help that his mother started giggling and he couldn't stop himself
feeling as if he wanted to rush out and join Hermione wherever she was, burying her head in the
sand of this picture perfect beach.

"Is there anything we should know about her, Harry?" Lily Potter asked, her eyebrows
wiggling suggestively, a broad grin now breaking out on her beautiful face.

Green eyes met green in a silent conversation … and from somewhere deep within him, he heard his
voice answering her in a soft, confiding tone: "I love her, Mum."



9. An Unexpected Song
---------------------

Dream Chasing

**Title:** Dream Chasing (09)
**Author name:** Romulus Lupin
**Author email:** galigad@yahoo.com
**Category:** Romance
**Sub Category:**
**Keywords:** Harry Hermione Fantasy Island
**Rating:** PG-13
**Spoilers:**SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF
**Summary:**It’s a family reunion – sort of – on Fantasy Island … but why are James and Lily
Potter there? And why did the Terrible Two show up in the Hospital Wing in the first place? Are
they there for some private tutoring from Harry and Hermione – or is there a lesson to be learned
somewhere?

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended.

**Author notes:** My apologies to everyone for the long wait; unfortunately, RL, an A.W.O.L.
muse, plus a massive dose of writer’s block, conspired to keep me from giving this story the
attention it deserved.

My deepest gratitude to everyone who has reviewed (there are, unfortunately, too many to name),
and to everyone who has been waiting for this update – most especially to **Dee Jones**, who
gave me a gentle reminder to update this.

Chapter 9. An Unexpected Song

“What the --?”

A great many things, magical and otherwise, had passed through the doors of the hospital wing in
the years that Madam Pomfrey had been the school nurse: the usual run of broken noses and bones
during Quidditch season (and that unforgettable day when Harry Potter came in with missing arm
bones!), knocked-out students from Quidditch accidents or other things (and again, Harry held the
record – coming in unconscious from an encounter with You-Know-Who in first year and then knocked
unconscious – twice -- by Dementors in third year as well as this most recent occurrence) …

There were the accidents caused by misused magic: Eloise Midgen with her cursed-off nose …
Hermione Granger’s furry face and tail … the Weasley Twins with their tongues stuck to each other
(the result, they claimed, of a backfiring trick mistletoe!)…

She had seen all these and more – and felt that there was nothing new under the sun or moon that
would surprise her.

She should have known better.

The slamming of the doors to the Hospital Wing rudely interrupted her nap on this quiet Sunday
afternoon – and she’d rushed out to see a stern-faced Minerva McGonagall leading a parade of
students carrying pumpkins into her domain, a worried-looking Professor Flitwick in their wake.

Her first irrelevant thought was that they were in the wrong place – they should have been
carrying these pumpkins to the greenhouses or the kitchens. That thought was quickly dislodged as
she watched the students gently lay the pumpkins down on the beds in the Hospital Wing, and the
Deputy Headmistress’ tightly controlled voice answering her unasked question: “It’s the Ravenclaws,
Poppy.”

“Actually, it’s our Quidditch team and a few others,” Professor Flitwick added in his trademark
squeak: “We were just finishing lunch when they started popping into pumpkins right at their table
…”

“How?” She must sound like a dunce, Madam Pomfrey thought, but that was the only response that
she could make: “How?”

“Someone must have slipped something into their food,” the stern-lipped McGonagall responded.
Poppy Pomfrey glanced at her and pressed her own lips together in surprise – while Minerva
*looked* angry, there was just the hint of a grim amusement lurking in her eyes. “There were
no charms, spells or curses cast in the hall … We would have noticed something.”

“A potion is the only explanation, Poppy,” the diminutive Charms professor affirmed. “Although I
don’t see how anyone could have slipped something into their food in the Great Hall …”

“Except if that someone – or some *ones* – did the deed in the kitchens.”

Heads – both students and teachers -- turned at that pronouncement, and eyes focused on the
sallow-faced Potions professor who had made a quiet entrance into the Hospital Wing.

“I could find nothing in the food left behind, Minerva,” he replied to her unasked question.
“Which leads me to believe that it may have been a charm cast in the kitchens … or, if it were a
potion, the perpetrators intended it to dissolve within a specific timeframe – or as soon as the
potion takes effect.”

For a brief, frightening moment, the students in the Hospital Wing thought they saw a smile flit
through the usually sour-faced countenance of the Terror of Hogwarts as he continued in a whispered
aside, as if talking to himself alone, “Quite a good bit of magic, if I do say so myself.”

He suddenly glared around him and the students who’d helped bring in the pumpkins immediately
bent to their tasks – whatever that may be, since there was nothing else to do but mill around and
try to eavesdrop on their teachers’ conversations … an activity that was too easily seen and
remedied.

“Thank you for helping us, but I think it would be best if you proceed to your dormitories.” The
icy tones from the Deputy Headmistress chilled the spines of the students who, without a word,
started walking out of the Hospital Wing – reluctantly, as they wanted to hear whatever conclusions
their teachers had about whoever did the deed.

On the other hand, their collective looks told each other – there was no real need to look
*too* far to find the mischief makers–

“The Weasleys,” Minerva McGonagall said in a resigned voice. A smirk from Snape and a sigh from
Flitwick indicated they were of the same mind. There was no need to voice the thoughts that led to
*that* conclusion: the game between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor was still fresh in their minds,
as well as the unthinking action of the Ravenclaw Beater who’d sent the Bludger flying towards the
Gryffindor stands …

Neither was there any need to glance across the Hospital Wing at the joined beds where the
Gryffindor Seeker and his best friend were still ensconced. *That* would be the only
explanation for what happened today … they may all be friends in classes or around the grounds, but
inter-House rivalries were something that all of them understood … and what had happened to Harry
and Hermione was not something that any Gryffindor worthy of the name would allow to pass
unanswered.

Even if it was *not* intentional.

Besides, the three professors thought, it could only be Fred and George Weasley who would have
the sheer audacity, the cunning capability, and the practiced expertise (to say nothing of access
to the kitchens) to do something like this.

“Agreed,” another voice resonated in the wing and they turned to see the Headmaster enter, eyes
twinkling as he regarded the pumpkins around them. “Except for one thing – *how* could they
have done it, when they’ve been in detention with Professor Sprout the whole time?”

“Are you serious, Albus?” There was no hiding McGonagall’s surprise, and the three professors
stared at the Headmaster as if he’d finally gone off his rocker. The old man nodded. “I saw them
enter the Hall all hot and bothered just after you’d left with the Ravenclaws … they were coming in
for a late lunch. Actually starving, both of them.”

“But they could have been coming from the kitchens, Headmaster,” the Potions master commented in
a silky voice – the one which warned everyone of danger ahead.

“Indeed, Severus,” the Headmaster replied with a smile. “Except that I had a talk with the house
elves. They assured me that no Weasleys had been in the kitchens since this morning.”

The potion master’s drawn-out “I see” was interrupted by a strained whisper from the head of
Gryffindor House: “Cindy and Carolyn! I didn’t see them at luncheon!”

At the puzzled look on Snape’s and Flitwick’s faces, she quickly elaborated: “Miss Galloway and
Miss Wright ...”

Professor Snape shook his head. “This is beyond first-year Potions, Minerva, even for students
as brilliant as those two. Which,” he added, looking as if he’d run into something extremely foul
in the room, “is something I never thought I would say about any Gryffindor – much less *two*
of them.”

The head of Gryffindor House bristled at the implied put-down: “And what about Miss Granger,
*Professor* Snape? You have said on numerous occasions …”

“That she is an exception to the rule, Professor McGonagall. It stands to reason that at least
*one* Gryffindor in a millennia would be bright enough …”

“Severus is right, Minerva,” diminutive Professor Flitwick piped up, trying to divert an
impending argument. “This *is* beyond first-year Potions. Or even first-year Charms … it’s
N.E.W.T.-level, at best.”

A suddenly manic gleam flared in the Potion master’s eyes: “Unless someone *taught* them
how … or *gave* them the potion to infuse into the Ravenclaw’s food.”

“They couldn’t have, Professors.”

Four pairs of eyes were suddenly trained on the school nurse and she stammered a bit as she
explained, gesturing towards an armchair where they saw the two suspects, obviously sleeping
peacefully right beside the joined beds of the still-unconscious Harry and Hermione. “They’ve been
here since this morning – actually, since after breakfast, Professors.”

At their raised eyebrows, she continued: “They wanted to spend some time with Mr. Potter and
Miss Granger – apparently they have been getting some tutoring from them?”

“Indeed,” Snape responded. He mulled the thought for a moment and said, “I do hope that Miss
Granger is the one tutoring them in Potions. I can only imagine the disaster if *Potter’s*
tutoring them.”

“Maybe that’s why they’ve been doing inordinately well in Charms, then,” Professor Flitwick put
in before Minerva McGonagall could interrupt. “They’re far above the rest of their year in Charms
…”

“As well as in Transfiguration,” sighed Professor McGonagall. “Why shouldn’t they? They have the
brains of Miss Granger …”

“And the heart of Harry Potter?” They looked in surprise at the venomous sneer in Severus
Snape’s voice. “I hope not … I have been praying to whatever Divinity there may be in this world to
spare me from the prospect of having to teach the children of those two.”

“They are not Harry and Hermione’s *children*, Severus,” the head of Gryffindor House said,
severely. “As far as I know, they didn’t even know The Terrible Two until they met in Diagon Alley
during the summer …”

“Some difference,” the Potions master huffed in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “The close
*association* with Potter alone – or Potter *and* the Weasleys …”

“Severus.” The calm but commanding voice of the Headmaster quieted them, and he continued,
gesturing to the pumpkins around them, “The question is, how long will this … *effect*
last?”

The professors of Charms, Potions and Transfiguration glanced at each other and at Madam Pomfrey
before simultaneously shrugging in resignation. “Without an idea of the potion or charm used,
Albus,” Professor McGonagall replied, “the best we can do is make them comfortable and wait for the
… the *thing* to wear off.”

“I see.” The old man looked around the hospital wing and seemed to reach a decision. “Then there
is nothing more to do. I would assume that we all have much better things to do than sit around
exchanging speculations about who did this …”

The three professors took that as their cue and moved towards the doors of the wing, leaving
behind a bemused school nurse and a seemingly amused Headmaster standing in the middle of the
Hospital Wing, looking at the pumpkins around them.

Before Madam Pomfrey could make a move towards examining the pumpkins, the serene voice of Albus
Dumbledore broke the silence: “Poppy … you said that Carolyn and Cindy have been here since
*after* breakfast -- but you didn’t say what time they were here *before* lunch?”

“Headmaster …”

Dumbledore’s upraised hand stopped any protest or comment she would have made and she fell
silent as he continued in a contemplative voice, “On the other hand, I did forget to ask the
house-elves if someone *other than* a Weasley had been in the kitchens before lunch.”

Their eyes locked briefly and a small smile appeared on their faces. Before either one could say
a word, they heard a small giggle coming from the armchair where the two young girls were asleep.
They turned in time to hear another giggle coming from one or the other, and smiled.

Their smiles stopped, however, when they realized that Harry Potter was lying on his side,
turned away from the three (Hermione was lying on her side facing the two young Gryffindors in
their chair) … and his sleeping face held an expression of utmost gravity about it – in contrast to
the furiously blushing face of his best friend.

More surprisingly, for perhaps the first time since the two entered the Hospital Wing, they were
not holding hands in their sleep.

Nor were their unconscious forms anywhere as close to each other as they had been before.

The Headmaster and the nurse glanced at each other, the same thought entering their minds:
“What’s going on?”

* * *

“I love her, mum.”

The words floated in the air between them and Harry felt doubt suddenly assail him.

What did *he* know of love?

It was certainly not something that he’d learned from living with the Dursleys – if anything,
living with that dysfunctional family would have made him run away screaming at the mere thought of
the word.

But then …

If there was no love between Vernon and Petunia – why were they together in the first place?
How, in the name of all that’s holy, were they able to produce the incomparable Dudley Dursley?
And, while it often seemed that ‘love’ meant giving in to every whim and tantrum of their precious
Duddikins (which resulted in a pig of a cousin whose manners and attitude were only slightly higher
than a porker in a sty) … who was he to say that that was not ‘love’?

Certainly, love was not something he learned at Hogwarts. It was not part of the curriculum –
unless you counted Gilderoy Lockhart’s disastrous Valentine’s Day effort to cheer the school up in
the midst of the terror wrought by the opening of the Chamber of Secrets.

Was it love that drove Ginny to send him that unsurpassed Valentine’s Day greetings – and he had
to fight down the laughter that bubbled up in him at the memory of the dwarf dressed as Cupid
tackling him so that he could deliver that bloody poem right in front of the whole school!

Or was his declaration simply an effort to protect his best friend’s name and character from the
teasing of his father? That he’d been protective of her could never be doubted – that he and Ron
had always done their best to protect her ever since first year was a fact of his life.

But was that … love?

Or just an outgrowth of the raging hormones that he, like any other normal fifteen year old boy
was supposed to have?

His thoughts were interrupted as he felt warm arms around him; vaguely, he could hear his mother
sniffling as she said, “Oh Harry” over and over … by the pounding on his back that as his father
chortled, “That’s my boy!”

He felt himself hugging his mother back but the doubts continued to assail him … and he felt his
mother holding him by the shoulders, a look of worry in her green eyes. “Is something wrong,
Harry?”

He tried to cover it up, but in that elusive, indefinable way that mothers have, he felt himself
being probed by Lily Potter’s clear eyes. He flushed and turned away, mumbling, “I better look for
Hermione, Mum. She easily gets sun-burned and she forgot to bring the suntan lotion …”

And he mentally started cursing himself as he saw the smirking face of his father. Of all the
things that he could have said … why did he have to say one of the many things that he’d learned
about his best friend in their few days on this idyllic beach?

Did he have to say out loud the one thing that would have reminded his parents of the rather
embarrassing situation that they had walked in to?

“Oh? Planning to rub suntan lotion on her back, son?”

“James.” For some reason, the way she said his father’s name sent a shiver down his spine and he
stared at his beautiful mother in surprise.

Lily’s emerald orbs held his own, and she saw the pleading in his eyes, asking her to let him go
so he could look for his friend and avoid the teasing of his father … and a wave of sadness passed
through her.

Her son.

And yet … not her son.

He’d gone through fifteen years of life without them … nothing but vague and horrible voices
whenever a Dementor came near; of images captured in wizarding pictures and the Mirror of Erised …
the horrific moments in that graveyard in Little Hangleron as Harry battled for his life …

Who does he talk with, she wondered? He was fifteen years old now – fifteen going on fifty,
given everything that he must have gone through. And she shuddered as she remembered coming out of
Voldemort’s wand – to see her son locked in battle with the Dark Lord, where only his will and
strength could save him ...

Who does Harry talk to? She glanced at her husband and sighed to herself, remembering the
selfish, self-centered and egocentric git known as James Potter at age fifteen, with his merry band
of Marauders – the brilliant but egocentric Sirius; Remus, the gentle lamb in werewolf’s clothing;
flawed, weak Peter Pettigrew …

Who does Harry have?

Growing up without love, family or even friends, until he came to Hogwarts … does he know and
understand what loving someone really meant?

She broke her gaze from her son and glanced at her husband … and for a silent moment, they
communicated without words. She smiled as her husband wrapped an arm around their son: “Tell you
what, Harry. Why don’t you and I prepare something for the girls … your Mum can go look for your
Hermione while you and I have a little male-bonding time?”

“Dad …”

“Just point me to the kitchen, son and I’ll give you a taste of Potter’s Famous Pancakes – a few
flicks of the old wand …”

He blinked at that confident statement. “Uh, Dad …”

“James,” Lily chided him as she rolled her eyes. “Did you forget what the man said when we came
here?”

“No magic on the island, Dad,” Harry clarified.

“Oh.” James Potter looked crestfallen as Lily Potter asked in slightly sarcastic tone, “And how,
may I ask, can you do magic here when you don’t even have a wand?”

“Hey! I *always* have a wand!”

“Fat lot of good it’ll do us here …”

“So? I daresay I can give Harry here some lessons in using *his* wand …” James said with a
leer at his wife.

“*James!*”

“Oh yeah … the kid doesn’t need lessons, unless I’m sadly mistaken …”

The teasing, however, had the opposite effect on Harry, bringing to the fore once again his
doubts – most especially whether he was capable of truly loving someone as special as Hermione.

Or whether *she* was in love with him.

Was it truly love, he asked himself again … or just something that they had fallen into, the
night he’d gone after her in the girl’s bathroom? Was everything that had happened between them
over the years since truly love … or just the natural consequence of a friendship grown deep
because of every little thing that had happened to them?

He mentally shook himself, realizing that his parents had fallen silent and were staring at him
with a concern that he’d only seen before in his best friend’s eyes. And, for a fleeting moment, he
wondered whether it was that concern that she felt for him which was the true, defining
*thing* that characterized their relationship.

It couldn’t be.

It shouldn’t be.

It mustn’t be.

“Harry?”

He blinked and his eyes locked with the now-familiar eyes of his mum. Before he could say
anything, she gave him a tight but brief hug and, with a quick kiss for his father and a wave of
her hand, slipped away from them.

As she went out the door, James Potter looked at his son and asked, in a low voice, “What’s
wrong, son?”

Harry tried a tremulous smile, and shook his head. “Nothing, Dad … nothing.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, and James Potter broke off his gaze. “Let’s get to
the kitchen, son. Tell me, were you able to make it to the Quidditch World Cup last year …”

* * *

“When did you fall in love with Sir Harry, Miss Hermione?”

The hands that were braiding the younger girl’s long, straight hair froze – and Hermione
wondered whether she would be able to finish the braid and use it to strangle the suddenly
still-as-a-stone Carolyn.

Cindy, who’d been sitting quietly to one side, looked up from the book she was reading, keen
interest in her eyes. Hermione caught her expression and forced her hands to relax, to continue
braiding Ca’s hair as she tried to order her mind … her thoughts quickly turning to burying these
two with the Mandrakes … of hanging them by their knickers outside Gryffindor Tower … of asking
Professor McGonagall to make them write “I want to rock Professor Snape’s socks” a million times
without magic …

A sudden yelp from Carolyn made her realize that she’d been twisting the hair a bit too
enthusiastically -- and she dropped her hands to see the younger girl’s teary eyes turning to
her.

“Was it the wrong thing to ask, Miss Hermione?”

The appeal in the younger girl’s eyes softened her expression, and stopped her imagination from
visualizing these two being burned at the stake – scratch that. Wizards and witches cannot be
burned, as she remembered from her summer assignment in third year –

“What makes you think I’m *in love* with Harry Potter, Carolyn?” She replied with every bit
of nonchalance she could muster although she could feel the beginnings of a blush creeping up her
face – and felt her jaw drop as Ca responded with an air of impatience: “Everyone knows.”

Her expression must have been priceless, she thought, as the two girls giggled and she tried to
pull her jaw from out of the sand where it had fallen. Before she could get her mouth in working
order, Cindy added, “Ron knows.”

“Ginny knows.”

“Fred and George know – so Lee knows.”

“Which means *everyone* in Gryffindor knows.”

“The Hufflepuffs know.”

“As do the Ravenclaws.”

“Professor McGonagall knows.”

“So do Dobby and the House-Elves.”

“As does Rita Skeeter.”

“Are you all right, Miss Hermione?”

The last question caught her unaware as her mind felt groggy from the assault of words. She
blinked and her eyes focused on the oh-so-serious look in the eyes of the two – both looking at her
with earnest eyes … and she lowered her blushing face in the presence of such sincerity and
concern.

It was something she missed when she was growing up – a single child of well-to-do dentists who
had, early on, earned a reputation for bossiness and a know-it-all manner when she was in
kindergarten and primary school – a reputation and *attitude* that, she knew, she’d carried
with her when she started at Hogwarts.

For the nth time, she pushed back on her memories of the early days at Hogwarts – and the
unmistakable, well-remembered look of scorn on Harry’s face when he thought of her as the most
interfering busybody he had ever seen, back in first year when she’d tried to stop him from the
midnight duel with Malfoy …

She couldn’t help herself then, she knew. Those were the days when her life was defined by books
and cleverness -- the two things that always loomed large in her life to that point …

Ron’s voice echoed in her mind -- “It’s no wonder no one can stand her -- she’s a nightmare,
honestly.”

She could feel her blush warring with the tears that had suddenly sprung to her eyes as her
memory brought back the picture of Harry’s face as he nodded, apparently in total agreement with
Ron – it was that look, and her realization that no one accepted her; that she had, once again, no
real friends in school that caused the tears to break out and made her run for the girl’s bathroom
…

“So, when did you fall in love with Harry, Hermione?”

Startled, she started to scramble to her feet – only to be held to her seat by a slim, yet warm
hand on her shoulder. She looked up into startlingly green eyes that, for a second, held no mystery
for her – she’d looked into those same green eyes for years, watching a procession of emotions
ranging from pain and sadness, joy and hilarity, care and concern, reading each and every one and
feeling her insides shift with every mood swing … but this time, feeling her heart beating in her
throat, threatening to choke her as she tried to swallow and find her voice …

Lily Potter’s eyes held her and she knew that there was only one response she could give. She
could lie to her teachers, avoid her parents’ questions, fib to her roommates, classmates and
everyone else – but she could never be anything other than be honest to her best friend – or his
mother.

“I really don’t know.”

* * *

It had been an idyllic time – Harry bustling around the kitchen getting breakfast together while
James perched on the counter, pointing out that while he could make breakfast with magic,
*this* was something beyond his talents.

They’d talked about Quidditch – with Harry recounting the day they’d beaten the Slytherins and
won the Quidditch Cup (with profuse gestures of hands diagramming his every move) … they’d talked
about Hogsmeade, with Harry snickering as James described an unforgettable day when Sirius Black
decided to put the moves on Rosmerta because they’d both forgotten to bring money for the trip –
and Remus and Peter combined did not have enough to cover their tab … back to Quidditch and the
World Cup and James laughing at Harry’s description of Hassan Mostafa and his actuations when the
veela started their dance …

They’d talked about teachers, with James expressing surprise at Snape teaching Potions and
showing keen interest in Remus Lupin’s stint as Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, and
recalling their own days in Hogwarts when Lily and he were competing for the honor of topping the
class …

And Harry found the opportunity he’d been wanting to ask: “When did you fall in love with Mum,
Dad?”

Silence.

Harry was about to repeat his question, when James Potter answered in a soft, contemplative
voice: “I really don’t know, son.”

Surprised, Harry looked up from the bacon he’d been stirring and marveled at the fact that his
lower jaw hadn’t shattered when it fell to the ground. James Potter wasn’t looking at him but was
staring out the window at the beach … and for a moment, Harry wondered if he saw something like
pain passing through his father’s face – and felt a flash of fear course through his veins.

They’d been so happy in their wedding photos! But was there something he didn’t know, something
that had been kept from him … something connected to the reason why Voldemort wanted them all dead?
Was it possible that …

“It wasn’t one of those ‘one look at you and I knew we were destined to be together’ kind of
things, Harry.” A crooked smile broke out on the elder Potter’s face and he slowly shook his head.
“Fact is … I thought that your mother was one of the most aggravating, bossy,
never-break-the-rules, know-it-alls that ever walked the face of the earth.”

Harry *knew* that his jaw had broken on the counter, and he swallowed the lump in his
throat as his father continued. “She was also one of the most stubborn, opinionated, mule-headed
and contrary *females* I had ever had the pleasure of meeting.”

“Sounds familiar, Dad,” he finally croaked.

Father and son stared at each other for a long moment – and James Potter’s eyes widened as he
finally understood what Harry was saying. He opened his mouth to reply – and closed it, turning to
look out the window of the kitchen, Seeker’s eyes finding, and then focusing, on two heads – one, a
brilliant shade of red in the sunshine, the other, a bushy-haired head of brown – that were, at the
moment, all he could see of the women they loved.

* * *

“You were very lucky.”

“I know, ma’am.” There was nothing more she could say. She was indeed lucky that Harry and Ron
decided to go looking for her that night, and that they had escaped that first adventure with
nothing more than jangled nerves and a few cuts – and Harry’s wand covered with troll boogies.

Lily Potter reached out to hug the shaking Hermione, who’d had to relieve one of the most
terrifying moments of her life – frightening enough that even the two young Gryffindors were
staring at her, slack-jawed – feeling a mingled sense of pride and fear running through her.

She was proud of her son, there was no denying that … but at the same time, she felt a fugitive
fear course through her. Harry was so much like James, she thought, always ready for an adventure,
always too eager for the next escapade or the next prank -- but beneath it all throbbed the heart
of a person who could never turn away from danger, especially if it meant that someone close to him
was in peril.

It was one thing they both shared – that overriding concern for their friends, for the people
they loved …

“But why *did* Sir Harry go after you, Miss Hermione?” She looked up to see Cindy’s
frowning face as she pointed out, “You said that you and Sir Harry weren’t even friends then …”

Lily Evans Potter blinked.

* * *

“That was stupid, Harry.”

“I know, Dad,” he replied, the remorse and recrimination evident on his face. “I should have
talked to a Prefect, Percy was right there and he could have told someone–“

“I meant jumping on the troll, son.” Harry blinked at his father’s shaking head as the latter
continued, “Good thing that your friend Ron was there and could do the Levitation Charm … else you
would both have been mincemeat right there and then.”

“Hermione would have thought of something, Dad … she was just caught by surprise.” He caught
himself and turned away from his father to concentrate on the bacon he was cooking, trying to hide
a suddenly blushing face from James Potter’s sardonic smile at his quick-to-defend-Hermione
reaction.

“But why *did* you do it, Harry? I mean … you’re right, you could have gone to a Prefect or
someone …”

“I don’t know, Dad.” A mirthless smile broke out on Harry’s face as he repeated, “I don’t
know.”

His father kept quiet, watching the play of confused emotions on Harry’s face … and found
himself wondering whether he would have done the same thing if it were Lily in the other girl’s
place.

Probably not.

Especially if he thought, like Harry did, that the girl was an interfering busybody whom he
hadn’t even been talking with at the time.

He would just as likely have made some cutting remark about crybabies best being left to the
troll – a sentiment that Sirius would no doubt have echoed (with a far more cutting remark of his
own), while Remus would be torn between going to a teacher or Prefect, and Peter would have waited
to see which way the wind blew before making up his mind – and all four would have gone up to
Gryffindor Tower, anxiously waiting for the food to be sent up so they could finish the feast
...

And if that had happened …

“Divination is an imprecise branch of magic, Mr. Potter.” The voice of Minerva McGonagall
suddenly rang in his ears, and he almost jumped out the window, fully expecting to see the old bat
in the room, telling him off for even *thinking* about Divination, knowing (as he did) that he
was thinking of the course as something – or some *place* – where he could sit and plan the
next outrage with his band of merry men.

“There are some things that are best left alone; thinking about the ‘what ifs’ in our lives is
one of them.” Truer words had never been said, coming from his old Transfiguration teacher … but he
couldn’t stop his mind from poking around that question: “What if Harry hadn’t gone after
Hermione?”

He shook himself of the suddenly morbid mood that had grabbed him by the throat, unwilling to
think of consequences, unintended or otherwise, and strove for the jovial, happy-go-lucky tone of
the head Marauder: “Merlin’s ghost, Harry! That was only first year Halloween and you’d already
rescued the girl …”

Harry bit his lip as he interrupted him: “She also saved my life, Dad …”

And James Potter wondered why the oil hadn’t splattered when his jaw fell into the pan of
sizzling bacon.

* * *

“You didn’t!”

There was a startling combination of whispered shock and suppressed laughter in Lily Potter’s
response – in extremely sharp contrast to the total awe on Cindy and Carolyn’s faces, both unable
to believe that Hermione Granger, Gryffindor Prefect, teacher’s pet and Miss Goody-Two-Shoes had
set fire to a *teacher’s* robes – and Mean Old Snape’s robes at that!

“Wouldn’t you have done the same thing, Mrs. Potter?” Hermione appealed to the older woman, a
plea for understanding and affirmation flaming in her brown eyes – and she sighed as Lily Potter
smiled and hugged her.

“Of course,” Lily responded as she placed a comforting arm around the younger girl’s shoulders.
“I would have done the same thing.”

Which, she thought to herself, was an outright *lie*. In truth, if she had seen James in
such a predicament during his first Quidditch match, she would have thought that the prat was doing
so on purpose – showing off his acrobatic and aerodynamic skills to the yokels and his fan club in
the stands.

Even if someone said that the broomstick was being hexed, she wouldn’t have believed it … it was
more likely that *James* would be doing the hexing than the other way around!

“Miss Hermione.” Lily Potter looked at Carolyn, who was staring into the distance, apparently
trying to visualize the game in Harry’s first year, “Wouldn’t it have been easier to go to
Professor McGonagall? I mean, the Professor is usually in our stands … while the Slytherins are
across from us …”

Lily blinked at that, and mentally awarded the girl twenty points for being so observant. It was
true, she knew – Snape would have been in the Slytherins’ part of the stadium which meant that
Hermione would have had to climb down from their stands, run across the pitch, climb up again to
where Snape was …

She glanced at Hermione, who was staring at the horizon, eyes glazed and de-focused as she
replied, “I … I wasn’t thinking, Carolyn …”

Neither was Harry when he went after you and the troll, Lily Potter thought to herself.

* * *

James Potter’s laughter should have been infectious, as he danced around the kitchen, trying to
emulate his image of Severus Snape, robes aflame, dancing in the stands, knocking people left and
right while far above him, Harry climbed onto his broom and went into a steep dive after the Snitch
…

But Harry wasn’t laughing.

A series of images had started flitting through Harry’s mind: of Hermione sneaking into Snape’s
storeroom to steal some boomslang skin for the Polyjuice potion … Hermione hexing Snape in the
Shrieking Shack … Hermione’s voice as she called out, “Trust me!” as they struggled against the
Devil’s Snare …

He barely grabbed his glasses as his father’s strong hand slapped his back, and turned to see
James’ laughing face as he said, “Merlin’s beard, Harry! You’ve been through a lot with the girl …
what were you going to do for an encore?”

He could only stare blankly at his father as Dumbledore’s voice suddenly echoed in his tumbling
mind: “... for the use of cool logic in the face of fire, I award Gryffindor house fifty
points.”

* * *

“Books! And cleverness! There are more important things - friendship and bravery and –“

“Love.”

Brown eyes met green and locked. That wasn’t what she said, Hermione thought – and felt herself
flushing as green eyes interrogated her … and she nodded. It wasn’t what she said, but it was what
she meant, and felt herself curiously warmed as the hands holding her gave a soft squeeze of
understanding. She felt the tears prickling in her eyes as she felt Lily Potter’s acceptance and
understanding of her feelings for Harry … and finally admitted to herself that, while their
friendship may have grown deeper through the years, everything began because of the adventures of a
single year at Hogwarts.

She’d started off feeling a debt to Harry Potter but as the months and years had passed … when
everyone thought Harry was the Heir of Slytherin … when everyone thought Sirius Black was out to
kill him … when he was named as a Tri-Wizard Champion …

Where did debts end -- and something else took its place? When were dues paid for, obligations
settled … and care, concern and something indefinable takes its place?

They broke their gaze at the sound of a long, loud sigh, and glared at the two young girls
beside them, theatrically swooning on the sand of this picture-perfect beach.

“How totally romantic!”

“How absolutely wonderful!”

“Oh, how lovely it must be!”

“Yes, absolutely bee-*you*-tee-*full*!”

“Hey! That’s *my* line!”

“It is? I thought that was for next week?”

“Girls …” Hermione’s admonition stopped as she heard Lily snickering beside her. She shook her
head at the two and thanked them in her mind for breaking the suddenly somber mood that she and
Harry’s mother had found themselves in.

“Time for a swim, girls?” The two smiled at Lily Potter’s tone and, with a short bow to the two
older ladies, they were running for the water, splashing each other at the same time – leaving
Hermione smiling while Lily softly laughed at the antics of the two.

“It must be difficult being Harry’s friend, Hermione.”

For a long moment, there was silence. And Hermione replied in a soft voice, gazing out at the
sea where two young girls were frolicking, “No, ma’am … it is an honor to be his friend.”

Green eyes met brown, and Lily Potter whispered, “That, my dear, is more than can be said of his
father when he was your age.”

* * *

“Harry?”

The worried voice was coming from a distance and he couldn’t respond – his mind was roiling in
fear, not sure whether they could pull this off and rescue Sirius, wondering whether they had the
*time* to pull it off and get back to the Hospital Wing, doubtful that Buckbeak would be able
to carry three of them … and suddenly feeling arms around him, a warm body tight against his back,
and a head with bushy hair resting on his shoulder.

Calmness, confidence and exhilaration coursed through him as Buckbeak leaped into the air; he
could feel himself smiling at Hermione’s constant muttering behind him, telling him, “The bacon’s
burning.”

He nearly jumped out of his skin as the words penetrated his muddled brain, and he glared at his
laughing father as he shut off the flame under the pan. “You never can resist a joke, can you,
Dad?”

“Once a Marauder, always a Marauder, Harry,” James replied with a grin. Harry snorted and turned
back to the stove, and felt James slapping his shoulder lightly. “C’mon Harry … lighten up! You’re
entirely too serious – you’re getting to be like your Mum at that age!”

He didn’t respond as he focused on the pan he was holding, his mind locking on that statement –
and remembering his Dad’s revelation about Lily Evans and how she sounded very much like Hermione
as he knew her.

Was it true, he wondered, as he carefully broke eggs into the pan. Was he being entirely too
serious … unable to recognize a joke or even to acknowledge laughter when it came – and his mind
skittered once again to that thought he’d had in fourth year: ‘there was much less laughter and
more hanging around in the library when Hermione was your best friend.’

“But there’s also friendship and bravery, Harry.” He blinked and stared at his father, who was
leaning back on the counter watching him – and Harry realized that he’d spoken his thoughts out
loud. He braced himself for his father’s inevitable teasing but, for the first time that day, there
was no hint of laughter or humor in James Potter as he continued: “And you’ve seen all that and
more with Hermione.”

“Dad,” Harry started to say, but closed his mouth as his father held his hand up.

“That was my biggest mistake with your mother, Harry.” James turned away and looked out the
window, eyes locking on his wife’s hair as the sunlight caught it, turning it into a shade of
dancing flame as the wind caressed it. “At the start, I never did look beyond the serious,
red-haired bookworm known as Lily Evans. I thought her too bossy, too solemn and too formal to even
bother with …”

He sighed, and turned back to his son. “I guess I was having too much fun with Sirius, and Remus
and … (with a sudden grimace) Peter. We were young, we were wizards and … we had *fun!* Why
should we let someone who spent most of her time in the library, who probably wouldn’t know a joke
if it bit her, hold us back?”

In a pained whisper, he added, “And we thought we were so *cool*.”

* * *

“James always had this habit of messing up his hair, trying to make it look as if he’d just
stepped off his broomstick, trying to make himself look … *with it*. But oh, the girls would
lap it up! They’d all be ogling him, hoping that he would ask them out for the Hogsmeade visit
…”

An image of a traumatized Harry Potter in fourth year intruded into Hermione’s vision –
especially when he told her about the fifth year who’d asked him to take her to the Yule Ball – and
Harry’s look of fear that the girl was going to knock him out when he refused! She bit hard on her
tongue to stop the laughter from erupting, as she focused on Lily Potter’s voice …

“-- And he’d always be pulling out this Snitch that he got from practice … Everyone thought it
was so *cool*, but I told him that he looked like Captain Queeg playing with his balls –“

Lily Potter broke off at the sudden snort coming from Hermione, and laughed when the latter told
her that it reminded her of a patient that her parents had been laughing about. They both laughed
when Lily mimed James Potter’s clueless face at the obscure Muggle reference –

And Hermione suddenly sobered when Lily asked, “Was Harry ever like that?”

“Harry was never like that,” Hermione said softly, shaking her head at the memories of her best
friend – especially the first time she laid eyes on him: swimming in the huge, cast-off clothes of
an enormous Dudley, taped together glasses that she had repaired to show them how much she had
learned, even before they got to Hogwarts … and she told Lily about the time she’d seen Harry and
Ron in their Common Room, looking like a pair of shell-shocked penguins after they had been turned
down by their prospective dates …

“Good for him,” responded Lily, “at least he doesn’t have James’ ego or arrogance.”

For a long while, they sat in companionable silence, thinking about the men in their lives, and
then Lily turned to Hermione. “So, did Harry ask you to go to the Ball with him?”

Hermione didn’t answer and Lily bit her lip as she watched different expressions chase each
other across the younger girl’s face. “Hermione?” she asked, softly – and continued as the other
girl turned to her. “Harry didn’t ask you to the Ball, did he?”

Hermione blushed and looked away. “Umm … no, ma’am. Actually, even if he did … I had already
said that I would be going with someone else.”

“I see.” Lily Potter looked at the girl for a long moment and said, in a softer voice, “He
didn’t think you were pretty enough to ask to the Ball? Or was there someone else?”

Hermione opened and then closed her mouth, wide eyes looking at Lily as if she were a deer
transfixed by headlights.

“No, ma’am,” she whispered. “Harry never thought of me as pretty … and there was also someone
else.”

* * *

… Cedric and Cho were close to Harry too; he looked away from them so he wouldn’t have to talk
to them. His eyes fell instead on the girl next to Krum.

His jaw dropped.

It was Hermione.

But she didn’t look like Hermione at all. She had done something with her hair; it was no longer
bushy but sleek and shiny, and twisted up into an elegant knot at the back of her head. She was
wearing robes made of a floaty, periwinkle-blue material, and she was holding herself differently,
somehow - or maybe it was merely the absence of the twenty or so books she usually had slung over
her back. She was also smiling - rather nervously, it was true - but the reduction in the size of
her front teeth was more noticeable than ever; Harry couldn’t understand how he hadn’t spotted it
before.

“Hi, Harry,” she’d said, and he blinked at the laughing, yet strained face of his father as they
laid out cutlery and plates in the veranda of the bungalow he was sharing with Hermione in this
Fantasy Island of his dreams.

James Potter shook his head and smiled: “Rest assured, Harry … you *are* a guy.”

“Dad?”

“We never really see what’s right in front of us, most of the time. We always seem to be looking
for something, some *one*, somewhere … never really knowing that what we are looking for is
right under our noses.”

His eyes were on the beach where Lily’s flaming hair could be seen, watching as she talked with
Hermione – and smiled as he saw two other girls join them, dark hair wet from their swim, both of
them trying to dry their hair as they approached.

“So how do we know that we’re in love, Dad?”

He turned back to Harry, a small smile on his face, and met the troubled eyes of his son
head-on: “We know, son. We just know.”

* * *

“I see.” Lily Potter sat silently for a while, mulling over everything that Hermione had said –
or hadn’t said -- and asked, “Do you still keep in touch with Viktor?”

Hermione’s answer was interrupted as Cindy and Carolyn sat beside them, the two girls streaming
water from their swim, and Hermione breathed a sigh of relief – only to gape at Carolyn’s remark as
she dried her hair: “Ron said that you keep writing long, *long* letters to Viktor Krum, Miss
Hermione.”

She glared at the younger girl’s disingenuous tone and said, in a voice laden with steel: “I
lied.”

She felt Lily Potter’s hand on her shoulder and blinked, turning away from the two young girls
who were seemingly intent on drying their hair with their fingers, and faced Lily’s green eyes.
“Hermione?”

She blushed and turned away. “No, ma’am … I was actually writing in my journal … Ron and I were
waiting for Harry one night and he asked me what I was doing, and tried to grab the parchment …I
told him that I was writing a letter to Viktor to shut him up.”

“Oh.”

She turned back and looked into Lily’s eyes: “I told Viktor that I wouldn’t be joining him in
Bulgaria when he said good bye, at the end of fourth year. I told him that I felt it would be
unfair to him if I wrote or kept in touch … when I knew that there was nothing that could happen
between us ...”

“Yes!”

Startled, Lily and Hermione turned to stare at two dancing young girls, who were hugging each
other and chanting, “We have a Galleon … We have a Galleon …”

“Girls,” Hermione said – and the two stood still, though grins were still on their faces. “What
was that all about?”

“Oh, nothing, Miss Hermione … nothing.” Lily snickered to herself as she saw Hermione’s eyes and
lips narrow in an expression so much like Minerva McGonagall that she didn’t give the two girls a
chance of escaping this inquisition.

“Uh … well, we have a bet going with Ron, Miss Hermione,” Cindy started, looking down at her
toes.

“We told him that we didn’t believe you were writing to anyone except your parents … he wouldn’t
believe us, kept telling us that you were writing to Viktor Krum,” Ca continued as she looked
towards the horizon.

“We told him that you were probably keeping a journal, the same as we do,” Cindy said, as
Carolyn nodded. “He said that he didn’t believe us … that if we were correct, he’d buy us a
Galleon’s worth of candy from Honeydukes ...”

“And if you were writing to Mr. Krum, we’d buy *him* a Galleon’s worth of stink bombs from
Zonko’s.” Carolyn beamed at Hermione’s flabbergasted expression, adding, “Since you said that you
were writing your journal and not writing to Viktor Krum, that means we’ve got a Galleon’s worth of
candies!”

“Are you two *spying* on me?”

The suddenly crestfallen look on the youngest Gryffindors on the island tugged at her heart, but
this has got to stop, she thought. She couldn’t have these two sulking around her, stalking her and
her every move … just because they were her friends, and she often thought of them as her younger
sisters!

“We’re not *spying* on you, Miss Hermione,” Carolyn whispered, as she looked down at her
feet.

“We were just betting on a sure thing,” Cindy added, looking all over the beach but not at
Hermione.

“And what, may I ask, is that *sure* thing?” Hermione glared. The two looked at her, a
suddenly defiant gleam in their eyes.

“That Sir Harry owns your heart.” Hermione stepped back in surprise at Cindy’s confident
statement; whatever response she could have made to that was interrupted by Lily Potter’s quiet,
yet teasing, voice, “Wisdom from the mouth of babes, Hermione.”

“What would they know of love, Lily?” she replied as she glared at the two.

Cindy and Carolyn’s look of defiance suddenly softened, and wistful smiles appeared on their
faces. Carolyn responded, in a tone of utter conviction and complete seriousness, “We know, Miss
Hermione … we know.”

* * *

“That’s not an answer, Dad.”

James Potter smiled at his son – a faint, sad and wistful smile with deeply hidden shades of
meaning behind it, and Harry frowned. “That’s all the answer I can give you, Harry … because that’s
all the answer that I can really give.”

“Dad …”

“What is love, Harry?”

The silence stretched as Harry stared blankly at his father, unable to answer the simple but
complicated question that had been posed to him – the question which, he realized, was where it all
began – from the moment that unthinking Beater had slammed the Bludger towards Hermione, and he
went into a dive to get to her before the Bludger could hit her … and he woke up on this
island.

Was that what it was all about, he wondered?

Was the answer to that question the reason why they were here together like this – Hermione in
her purple bikini and he in swimming trunks that he had never even owned in his life … not to live
the life of whatever hormonal or hormone-induced fantasy they may be having, but so that they can
answer that question without distraction or interruption?

Could that be the reason for everything that had happened on this island – from McGonagall’s
catching them tickling each other on the floor, to Ron’s visit and the songs they had sung at the
Red Moon with Nicole … to Cindy and Carolyn interrupting them at a most inappropriate time … and
his Mum and Dad suddenly showing up in this place?

He’d wanted, more than anything in the world, to have had his parents with him, even for a brief
moment of time … but more importantly, he’d wanted to properly introduce Hermione to them – but as
what? His best friend? His girl friend? Or, as he had declared in that singular moment of seeming
weakness, when nothing but truth was demanded of him: “I love her, Mum.”

That was the truth … but why did he say it?

And his mind poked again at the question his father had asked, “What is love, Harry?”

His eyes focused on his father’s eyes and he whispered, “I don’t know, Dad.”

* * *

“Why do you say that, girls?” Lily Potter asked, interrupting Hermione before she could go into
a rant about the sheer impudence and gall of the two young girls. Cindy and Carolyn looked at her,
at each other, and then at Hermione before Cindy replied: “It’s because of everything that we’ve
seen, ma’am …”

“Everything that we’ve seen Miss Hermione and Sir Harry do,” Carolyn affirmed.

Hermione opened her mouth, but quickly closed it as the two girls continued in a soft,
reflective and somehow, *longing*, tone of voice:

“It’s the way Sir Harry waits for you in the morning before going down to breakfast or classes …
and the way you wait for him to come back at night, from Quidditch practice or a detention …”

“It’s how you bring him a stack of toast when he doesn’t go down for breakfast – and how he
brings you your lessons and books when you’re in the Hospital Wing …”

“You ladle out beef stew on his plate even before you do the same for Ron or yourself …”

“I watched you prepare murtlap potion for him when he was in detention -- and how he watches you
as you knit socks and caps …”

“It’s how you grab his hand when you’re going somewhere – and how he seems to know what you’re
thinking even before you can say it …”

“He always listens to you, even when he is angry at you.”

Hermione looked from Cindy to Carolyn, unsure of how to respond to the barrage of observations
from the two young girls. Yes, she admitted to herself, she had done all those things and more for
her friend … but was that love? Did Harry feel the same way about all those things, in the same way
that these two saw them?

She felt a hand on her shoulder, and looked up into Lily Potter’s green eyes.

“Love is not something you talk about, Hermione,” Lily told her. “Neither is it something you
think about, or even *feel* about.”

Hermione stared at Lily through eyes heavy with tears, and Lily smiled at her. “Love is
something that you do, in small and large ways, in every day of your lives …”

“Mrs. Potter …” she croaked, but Lily continued, her green eyes boring into the younger girl’s
own. “Love is a little boy going after a little girl to save her from a mountain troll, even if she
isn’t even his friend at the time.”

Carolyn spoke up, “It’s setting fire to a mean old teacher’s robe because you weren’t thinking
of anything else but that your friend was in danger.”

“It’s Sir Harry not wanting to leave Hogwarts because a mean old snake might go after you …”
Cindy added.

“It’s staying with your friend against every bit of logic and common sense that you have,
because you know that he needs you,” Lily pointed out. “It’s believing in him when everyone else –
even his best friend – does not believe in him …”

“Fine!” Hermione shouted, feeling weakened and drained from the barrage of words and memories
from the three people around her, feeling her eyes heavy with suddenly unshed tears. “I’ll admit it
… I love Harry Potter! But --” and her voice suddenly dropped to a whisper – “how do I know that
he’s in love with me?”

“He knows, Hermione.”

She spun around and her eyes locked -- on green eyes filled with understanding and concern, and
she nearly fell as her knees buckled at the sight, and at the confession that seemed to have been
torn from her very soul. She felt slim arms around her, catching her as she fell and she could only
whimper, “Harry …”

“He knows, Hermione …” She felt lips touching her hair, arms around her, heard Harry whispering
in her ear, “I love you.”

**Author’s End Notes**: The title of this chapter “**An Unexpected Song**” comes from
Andrew Lloyd-Webber’s wonderful song of the same title. It was originally a part of the story, but
got lost somewhere between the fifth and eighth re-write of the chapter, but I couldn’t remove it
since the song, by itself, has been a continuing inspiration as I was writing this.

For those who may be wondering about The Terrible Two, Cindy and Carolyn are characters who keep
popping up in my fics for reasons I could only guess at. The story of how they met Harry and
Hermione are in my fic “*Epiphanies*;” they’ve also “guest-starred” in “*Serendipity*,”
“*It’s the Great Pumpkin, Harry Potter*” (which is where they got tagged with the name ‘The
Terrible Two’, for reasons Professors McGonagall and Snape know about ;) ) and “*Change
Partners*.”

Thank you for reading, and posting a review. :D



10. Love Me Tonight
-------------------

Dream Chasing

**Title:** Dream Chasing (10)
**Author name:** Romulus Lupin
**Author email:** galigad@yahoo.com
**Category:** Romance
**Sub Category:**
**Keywords:** Harry Hermione Fantasy Island
**Rating:** PG-13
**Spoilers:**SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF
**Summary:**The Potter family have lunch together on Fantasy Island. Stories are told, secrets
are revealed: How did Carolyn and Cindy become known as the “Terrible Two?” And how did Lily and
James become a couple – and why is that something that James Potter would rather forget? And what
does Carolyn know about this?

And someone else stumbles into the idyllic place.

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended.

**Author Notes**: The usual apologies for the delay in this chapter – RL has been far more of
a “beach” ;) this time around – to the point that I was unable to finish this chapter in time for
**Sarah’s (bingblot)** birthday.

This chapter is for **Sarah**, a gifted writer and a dear friend, for her understanding when
I missed a deadline set months back.

Special thanks also to **Victor (muddgutts)** whose challenge in portkey.org provided an
added inspiration which brought this story somewhere I never expected it to go to, and to **Dee
Jones** and **Dreamstar470**, whose words of encouragement (and subtle follow-ups) forced me
to keep my nose to the grindstone.

Chapter 10. Love Me Tonight

“Why do they call you the ‘Terrible Two’?”

The cheerful clatter of silverware on plates stopped as if a guillotine had fallen on the
veranda where the Potter family were dining together.

“James.” Lily Potter’s reproachful voice broke the silence, and she frowned as her husband stuck
his tongue at her, at the same time rolling his eyes and inclining his head to one side. Her eyes
followed the direction he was leaning towards – and she lowered her head to hide her smile at the
sight that greeted her: the interested looks on the faces of Harry and Hermione … both of them
looking as if eager to jump in and tell the tale of the Terrible Two.

She realized what James was getting at – and felt a tiny wave of envy washing over her.

Breakfast – or lunch, considering the hour -- had been a fun, interesting time, given the
chatter, laughter and smiles as they told stories and exchanged reminiscences: she and James, Cindy
and Carolyn.

And silence from Harry and Hermione.

Well, not silence, really … Harry and Hermione had been part of the conversations that rolled
around the table but it seemed that, most of the time, they were simply sitting there silently,
watching the others as they laughed and talked … but all the time, there was that *sense* that
the two were talking, discussing something in a private language all their own.

It was a language of gestures and looks … a mere touch of the hand or arm … an upraised eyebrow
or a meeting of the eyes.

She’d seen Hermione glancing around the table – and Harry would place some toast that he’d been
buttering on her plate, to which she responded with a smile. A look of inquiry on Harry’s face, and
Hermione was pouring pumpkin juice into his glass – to which Harry replied with a smile and a quick
puckering of his lips, and Hermione blushing in her turn.

It was … *unnerving*, was the only word Lily could come up with as she reflected on the
interaction of her son and Hermione. She snickered softly to herself at the thought, and felt a
sigh pass her lips as she watched Harry and Hermione exchanging amused glances at a shared
memory.

Why should she be surprised at her son and … daughter-in-law? If Harry’s first year at Hogwarts
with Hermione was any indication – and the girls had told enough to make it clear that the two were
near-legendary to those who knew them well – she shouldn’t wonder that they had developed a
language of their own.

There are some things you can’t share without ending up liking each other, and knocking out a
twelve-foot mountain troll is one of them, she reflected.

The thing is, she thought to herself, it hadn’t even ended there …

She sighed to herself, a slight feeling of envy and understanding washing over her as she
watched her son and Hermione glance at each other and share a smile, and turned back to her own
husband as he badgered Cindy and Carolyn: “C’mon girls. Tell your Uncle James the story …”

For a fleeting moment, she caught a somehow different smile on Carolyn’s face and she wondered
at it, remembering her and James’ feeling that there was something familiar about the young witch –
but dismissing the thought as she heard a snort of suppressed laughter from her son.

“I somehow find it hard to think of you as being ‘Uncle James’ to anyone, Dad,” Harry said, a
wide grin on his face.

“Quiet, son … this is important.” There was a strained tone in James’ voice which Hermione and
Lily picked up on – and the eyes of a mother and her daughter-in-law met, a sudden understanding
passing between them at the oft-expressed clueless-ness of the men in their lives.

They had never been given a chance to be ‘Uncle James’ or ‘Aunt Lily’ to anyone. Harry was the
first child born to the Marauders – not unless there was a litter of now-old dogs cantering around
that Sirius knew nothing about – what happened soon after Harry’s first birthday destroyed any
chances for them to be such.

She watched Hermione give Harry’s hand a slight squeeze, and saw a look of horror and
comprehension pass through her son’s face – and heard the apology in his voice as he whispered,
“Dad …”

James gave his son a small smile of understanding, but then turned back to the Terrible Two, who
had been fidgeting in their seats, unaware of the interaction between their mentors and their
elders. James gave them a wide, warm smile as he said, in a now-wheedling, little-boy’s voice,
“Please, girls?”

“It was in Transfiguration,” Hermione spoke up and they all turned to her. “At least, that’s
what *I* was told …”

“Actually, it was *after* Transfiguration, Miss Hermione,” Cindy broke in, a wicked smile
breaking out on her face – and the others suddenly realized that Ca’s face had turned an
interesting shade of red that easily rivaled Cindy on her best days.

“Cindy!” Carolyn protested in a soft, almost whimpering, voice, her embarrassment at the
incident all too obvious on her face. The little girl seemed to be shrinking in her chair as
Cindy’s voice brought her memories back to the drafty corridor outside the Transfiguration
classroom as they were walking with their classmates after a particularly grueling lesson with the
Deputy Headmistress …

It was the last class for the day, and the only thing that the tired First Years could think of
was dinner in the Great Hall, the walk to their dormitories … and their warm beds.

It was all they could think about, it seemed – until a small, quiet voice spoke up: “I think
Professor McGonagall’s a virgin. You know, ‘Never Been Kissed, Never Been Touched’?”

None of them had noticed the tall, greasy-haired figure in a billowing black robe, who was
walking swiftly, and silently, behind them. As he passed the students, however, they heard him say,
“That’s what you think!”

The group had been so shocked that they froze in their places. Severus Snape, his robes still
billowing about him as he passed, had also paused – and looking straight at the two young
Gryffindors, gave them a wink before moving on.

The story had flown around the castle within minutes … no one, not even the Slytherins, wanted
to believe it. None had the courage to approach Professor Snape to ask if the story were true …
although the Weasley Twins had tried to gather enough money to bribe the Terrible Two (as they were
now being called) to ask Professor McGonagall to settle the “issue” of her virginity ...

Carolyn’s mind broke out of her reverie at a sudden bark of laughter – and blinked as she saw
James Potter rolling on the floor looking for all the world like a dog on its back, hands and feet
in the air as tears rolled down his eyes, gasping through his laughter, “Snape and
*McGonagall!* That’s precious … that’s truly *brilliant!*”

Carolyn was in shock as she heard a bang on the table – and saw Lily Potter with her head on the
table as snorts and giggles kept escaping her mouth. She looked up in concern at Harry and
Hermione, who were smiling in enjoyment at the laughter of their parents, and turned to the
grinning Cindy with a shrug and a frown.

“You know, what *really* bothers me …” The laughter and giggles suddenly stopped as the
adults looked at her in anticipation while Harry, Hermione and Cindy held their breath in
apprehension as she continued, “Is Professor Dumbledore a virgin, too?”

* * *

He blinked.

It was the only action that would have prevented a pigeon - or more likely, a seagull -- from
landing on his shoulder, thinking that a statue had suddenly appeared on this picture-perfect
beach.

For a long moment, he stood -- blue eyes behind their half-moon glasses taking in the
surroundings, noting a bungalow a short distance away, a grove of palm trees nearby; ears taking in
the profound silence of a beach where the only sound was the crashing of waves on the shore and the
rustle of a soft wind among the leaves of the trees.

There was no look of surprise or apprehension on his face - he’d lived too long, seen and
experienced too much, to be easily taken by surprise.

He took a deep breath, lungs filling with the salty tang of the air, and felt the burdens
weighing his mind shifting -- not away from him, for his responsibilities and obligations could
never be far from his mind -- but adjusting, adapting into something approximating a more
comfortable weight around his shoulders.

And suddenly opened his eyes in real surprise, realizing that his robes were somehow ...
*different*. Glancing down, he noted that there was nothing outwardly different in what he was
wearing - the same pattern of stars and planets dancing around a background of deep blue - but the
robes seemed ... lighter, of a thinner material than the heavy cloth he was accustomed to
wearing.

A perfect robe for the summer, he realized, and shook his head, grateful that he wasn’t standing
here in beach trunks or some other such apparel. He didn’t think that the inhabitants of this place
- and he had a fairly good idea of who he’d find here! - would appreciate the idea of their aged
Headmaster with his ancient knees prancing around the beach.

Although he could remember doing just *that* ... a long time ago, in a land far away ...
and a moment he’d locked away in his memories.

The old man on the beach shook his head and smiled, realizing yet again that, no matter his
years of learning and the accumulated wisdom of his friends and fellow teachers ... there was
always something new to learn.

Or to discover.

Or perhaps, if one were to be precise ... to stumble upon.

It was just that ... he felt so *tired*.

No, not really.

In truth ... he blinked away a sudden tear that formed in his eye -- a grain of sand had,
without a doubt, been blow into his eye. There was no reason to question the fact that it was the
errant grain of windblown sand -- this was a beach, after all! -- which was causing tears to form
in his eyes. This had nothing to do with the fact that he’d been standing over Harry and Hermione’s
hospital bed, watching them sleeping peacefully together: Harry’s arm around Hermione, Hermione’s
fingers entwined in Harry’s ... Cindy and Carolyn asleep in their comfortable armchair beside the
sleeping teens.

All four of them with beatific smiles on their faces.

He couldn’t turn away from the sight ... couldn’t make himself turn away and start the walk back
to his circular room with its collection of musical instruments and the portraits of Headmasters
past, most ostensibly asleep or snoring peacefully away, but all of whom were always more than
willing to listen to him, should he ever feel the need to talk to any of them ....

And, tucked away in a corner of his cluttered desk where only he could see it was the one
picture that he would have given a lot to hear talking to him but … alas!, it was a Muggle
photograph and, while it had captured the very essence of the person photographed, it remained cold
and lifeless - a picture in dark sepias and light browns, kept that way by preserving spells, but
inanimate and inarticulate nevertheless.

He shook himself from the morbid thoughts suddenly assailing him and took a step towards the
bungalow on the beach.

And froze, feeling a presence beside him, standing quietly as she had done on that quiet beach
in a land far away, in a time long buried in his memories. He knew who it would be ... there was no
need to turn and look to see once again the dark, shoulder-length hair, those finely shaped
eyebrows and delicate lashes covering almond-shaped eyes behind her glasses, that gently-turned up
nose and the soft, generous lips ..

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes ... it couldn’t be, he thought.

It shouldn’t be: no one knew about this, no one knew about her ... no one living except for
himself, and one other person, would know or have the memories of those days which he’d buried for
so long, those memories that he’d so deeply overlaid with the terrible memories of battles won and
people lost ... all done in an effort to justify and rationalize the moment when he made a decision
that he would forever regret ...

He felt warm arms wrapping around him in a tight hug, felt her glasses pressing on his chest a
split second before he could feel the wetness from her tears soaking his robe, felt his fingers
running through her soft hair - noting, in the same instant, that the black mass that he’d so loved
was past her shoulder now ...

And realized with a sudden lancing of pain that this was not the person he thought it was, but
someone related to that memory … someone he had come to know and love as he had the original …

He leaned his head forward until his lips were touching the soft crown of her hair, knew he’d
dropped his hands so that he, too, was embracing her in a way he had thought he’d forgotten, heard
himself whisper hoarsely into her hair ...

“Hello, Sarah.”

* * *

The silence stretched into an uncomfortable length, and Carolyn refused to look up from her
plate, hot tears forming in her eyes as she realized that her big mouth had finally gotten her in
trouble with people she respected, and desperately tried to think of a way to take back her
words.

She felt a warm arm around her shoulder and she looked up into green eyes that held a look of
warmth, concern and amusement, and heard her squeaky voice whimper, “Aunt Lily …”

“Hush, child,” Lily Potter said, a warm smile on her face. “I guess it still remains one of the
greatest mysteries at Hogwarts … besides, I can see that Cindy has been a bad influence on
you.”

“Me?” the surprised Cindy responded. “Why *me*?”

“Well, *someone* has to be the bad influence around here,” Lily replied in a disingenuous
tone of voice. She laughed at the outraged look of indignation on the other girl’s face and said,
“Oh, come on! Can’t you take a joke?”

A smile broke out on Cindy’s face and she found herself laughing as her best friend stuck out
her tongue at her. “Oh, all right! I guess people often make that mistake … just because Ca looks
so sweet and gentle, they never will accept the fact that she’s even worse than me!”

“Speak for yourself, Cindy,” Hermione butted in with a smile. “I’ll wager everything in Harry’s
vault that *you* caused quite a lot of Professor McGonagall’s white hair all by yourself.”

“Not as much as what Ca caused to Professor Dumbledore!” The reminder of Carolyn’s innocent
question caused laughter to well up once again in the room, as the elder and younger Potters’ minds
focused once again on their respected Headmaster … until Lily said, through her snorts of laughter,
“Enough! What would Albus do to us if he suddenly pops up …”

“Probably turn us all into rats for our trouble!” The statement was met with a suddenly dread
and dead silence, and James said a quiet curse under his breath for opening his big mouth at
bringing the specter of a traitorous friend and former Marauder into the room.

Cindy stared at the people around her in puzzlement – and her eyes met the infinitely sad eyes
of a somber Carolyn who mouthed, “Later” to her inquiring look.

* * *

“Grandmother’s gone on,” Sarah said, softly as she stared at the blue waters in front of her.
She turned away as she felt the shoulders of the old man beside her slump in dejection. “I know you
would have wanted to have her here with you …”

“But she would much rather stay away.”

Sarah Chon leaned her head on his arm as she whispered, “She always said that there were some
things best left to memory. That some things are best left as they were – pristine, clear … sweet.
To keep bringing back those memories, she said, would only hurt both of you more each time you
parted … because …”

“We could not help being the people we are – or were,” Dumbledore whispered. “We would still
have gone our separate ways … simply because I could never turn my back on what I am, or had
become.”

He closed his eyes tight as he continued in a pained voice, “As she would.”

There was nothing to say. The old man and the young woman stood quietly together, arms around
each other as their memories went back to an extraordinary woman they had both known so briefly,
and whom neither would easily forget.

After a few moments, Dumbledore felt Sarah’s soft lips on his cheek and he shook his head – and
smiled as he heard her say, “So, now that we’re here … can you tell me *precisely* what we are
doing here?”

“I don’t know, Sarah.” He turned to face her surprised look and smiled. “All that I know is that
I tripped in the Hospital Wing while watching over some students … and here I am.”

He reached out with a gentle finger to smoothen out her frown and continued, “And *that* is
the truth, my dear. It wasn’t like what happened six years ago when I asked you to join me for a
picnic …”

“Uh-huh,” Sarah replied, glancing around her. “This isn’t a park in Merrie Olde England, for one
thing …”

“And it isn’t Harry’s birthday today …”

Sarah glanced at him, face suddenly aglow with laughter and happy memories – “How *is*
Harry? And that girl … Hermione? Did they ever meet up again? Was Harry able to get away …”

Before Dumbledore could respond to her rapid questions, they nearly jumped at the opening
fanfare of a song that sounded familiar – Sarah’s memories suddenly locking on something she’d
found so wonderful and intriguing six years in her past, Dumbledore’s mind going back even further
to another forgotten memory – and he wondered.

“Is that …?” He shook his head and saw Sarah’s gleeful face as the lyrics of the song suddenly
boomed out from the bungalow on the beach, and he was nodding before he realized that the memory
she had was quite different from what he was thinking … Sarah would be remembering a nine year old
boy dancing and aping away in front of a laughing nine-year old girl with bushy brown hair, while
he …

He felt Sarah tugging on his arm and he looked down at her smiling face as she said, “Let’s go
see the children, Albus…”

He gave her a suddenly puzzled – and very much pained – smile. Unwittingly, she had voiced out
the singular regret of his life – the time he’d spent with Sarah’s grandmother was, to him, the
only vision of paradise that he would ever need in the long days and even lonelier nights that
followed her departure …

She gave him a wistful smile of understanding.

“They’re *all* your children, Albus,” she said softly, gesturing towards the bungalow where
the music still sang out – and for a brief moment, he wondered if it was Sarah or her grandmother
who was standing beside him. “Even the ones who lost their way … or walked the paths that you never
would. You feel all their pain … and you understand all their actions.”

“And all the mistakes I made.”

She nodded, sadly. “But your mistakes are never because of selfishness. If there is any mistake
you ever made, it has always been because you have loved too deeply … letting your heart rule over
logic.”

He turned away, mumbling to himself, “And that is where I have failed.”

“Love never fails, Grandfather.”

* * *

“How did you and Aunt Lily become a couple?”

Harry Potter blinked at the question and felt a grin breaking out on his face at the question
asked by an earnest Cindy – the grin broadening into an ear-splitting smile as he heard a titter
from his mother … and watched the sudden blush and look of dismay on his irrepressible father’s
face.

He felt a warm hand squeezing his own, and he turned to smile at Hermione – his look expressing
his gratitude to the younger Gryffindor’s question which had immediately lightened the somber mood
on the veranda … and he blinked again at the frown that he saw on her face. Following her eyes, he
felt his mouth hanging open as he saw a wide, wide smile on Carolyn’s face … as if the young girl
was laughing at a memory of something that only she was privy to.

His thoughts were interrupted as his mother’s musical laughter broke over them – and he gaped at
seeing, for the first time, his uncontainable father doing the famous imitation of the beached
salmon: mouth opening and closing as he gasped for breath, his face alternating between flushing
and blushing, his hands turning white as he gripped spoon and fork so tightly that it seemed they
would bend in his fingers …

“Go on, James – tell the story,” Lily’s smirking voice came. “To tell you girls – and Harry –
the truth … I didn’t think he’d have the stones to do what he did.”

“Lily!”

Lily Evans Potter’s teeth sparkled as she stuck out her tongue at her husband, and Harry forced
down his own laughter at seeing James Potter totally speechless for the first time on this eventful
day.

“Why? How did it happen, mum?” Hermione suddenly felt herself blushing at the way she had
addressed Lily – but smiled as the older woman gave her a smile of acceptance and squeezed her hand
… and she lowered her eyes when Lily mouthed a silent “Thank you” to her.

“Uncle James?” Cindy’s wheedling, little-girl voice broke into the room – but James remained
silent as he covered his face with his hands, unwilling to look anyone in the face.

“Mum?”

“It was just before Valentine’s in our sixth year, Harry,” Lily Potter began, her smile growing
to epic proportions. “You dad had been pestering me for years for a date … but I always refused. I
did not want to have anything to do with the self-centered, arrogant, bigheaded git that was your
father then …”

“Do you have to remind me of that, Lily?” James Potter said in a mournful voice, behind the
hands that were still covering his face. Lily smiled fondly at him for a moment, before turning
back to the three children who were hanging on to her every word (none of the others noting the sly
smile on Carolyn’s face), before continuing.

“By then the whole school knew what was happening … there was even a betting pool then on
whether James and I would be going on a date that Valentine’s Day… everyone was in on it: the
Gryffindors, the ‘Puffs and Ravenclaws …”

“Even Snape was in on the pool … that git would have been set for life if he’d won it.” James
Potter said, finally dropping his hands from his face, smiling for the first time since this
particular topic started. “I later learned that even Albus and Minerva had placed their bets on
Lily going out with me …”

“They did?” Lily’s look of surprise was precious. “I didn’t know that!”

“Filius told me about it,” James said. “He won quite a bit out of them …”

“But how did it happen, mum?” Harry smiled at Hermione’s use of the word and lifted her hand to
his lips, and was rewarded with a smile from her, and turned back to his mother’s story.

“I learned about the betting from young Erin – you remember her, don’t you, James?”

“Erin Lupin – Remus’s younger sister,” James explained. He didn’t see Carolyn’s eyes widen at
the mention of the name as he continued, “she was a second-year Ravenclaw at the time, but she was
close to your mum for some reason I could never understand.”

“Oh hush, you,” Lily said. “She was no different than Cindy or Carolyn then, and she was closer
to Bill Weasley anyway, but she told me about the bet and I told her …”

“That you would *consider* going out with me only if I did a Tom Jones in front of the
Great Hall during dinner,” James continued, and Lily’s laugh pealed out in the room – quickly
followed by the laughter of Harry, Hermione and Carolyn – but just as quickly overridden by Cindy’s
confused voice: “Who?”

“He was a famous Muggle singer, Cindy,” Lily explained, and she turned in surprise to Harry who
told her, “Still is, mum. Aunt Petunia’s a charter member of the Little Whinging chapter of the Tom
Jones Fan’s Club.”

“She is?” James Potter’s asked in surprise. Before he could say anything, however, Hermione
butted in: “So what happened, mum? Did Dad …” she suddenly stopped, suddenly blushing
self-consciously at the unaccustomed word that had sprung unthinkingly to her lips.

Before the suddenly awkward moment could be resolved, however, they were startled as music
boomed out from within the house – and a chorus started singing the opening bars of a song – and
James Potter nearly fell off his chair as Carolyn ran out to the veranda and thrust a wireless
microphone into his hands …

* * *

The sounds of clattering silverware and noisy dinner conversation fell eerily silent as hundreds
of eyes warily watched Sirius and Remus (followed by Peter) carry a largish box to the space in
front of the teacher’s table and quietly placed it on a small table that Sirius had Summoned.

Albus Dumbledore placed a restraining hand on the Deputy Headmistress, stopping her from
interrupting the pair in front of them. With a wave of his wand and a quiet incantation, Sirius
Black made over half the candles in the Hall darken, keeping a few dozen lit candles floating over
his head, casting a spotlight-like halo around him.

With a murmured *Sonorus*, Sirius’s voice boomed out over the Great Hall: “Ladies and
Gentlemen … tonight’s the night! As many of you know, Miss Lily Evans has said that she will, uh …
*consider* going out a date with my esteemed friend and dorm-mate, James Potter, Esquire, if
he will do a Tom Jones in front of the Great Hall …

“Lily?” Lily Evans glared at the smirking Sirius as he continued, “before we continue with the
night’s entertainment, I wanna ask you: *will* you go on a date with James *if* he does
what you ask?”

Cheers and catcalls suddenly rang all over the Hall as people shouted encouragement or derision
at the announcement … only to shut up at a shouted “Silence!” from Sirius Black. In the sudden
quiet that followed, Sirius continued, “Well, Lily? What’s your answer?”

Lily Evans’ eyes narrowed at the challenge in Black’s tone – with a seemingly grim smile, she
said, “All right … *if* he’s got the balls to do what I asked, I guess I can find the stomach
to go on a date with him!”

“That’s all we wanted to hear,” Sirius Black said, satisfaction evident in his voice.
“Remus?”

At that, Remus Lupin touched his wand to the box they’d placed on the table. The sides of the
cardboard box fell open to reveal a portable record player with speakers, and a scratchy sound
filled the room before the music started and the chorus (composed of Sirius, Remus and Peter
Pettigrew) opened up … as the room suddenly blinked into momentary darkness.

And then several dozen candles blinked into light, shining down like a spotlight on James Potter
who was wearing a white, long-sleeved shirt with buttons opened to his waist, the shirt tucked into
a tight-fitting pair of white pants which flared out to a full 14 inches before spilling over his
white platform shoes, the candlelight bouncing off what seemed to be a million glittering jewels
sewn into his costume, his unruly hair fighting a courageous battle to return to its normal state
against slicked-back hair which had been liberally doused with Sleakeazy’s …

Lily couldn’t help herself and a bellow of laughter escaped from her – only to be stopped as
James found his place in the song and began, with the Marauders behind him doing the backup:

I know that it's late and I really must leave you alone


But you're good to hold and I feel such a long way from home


Yes, I know that our love is still new


But I promise it's gonna be true


Please let me stay don't you send me away oh no no

As James went into the song’s refrain, he started bumping and grinding to the swelling cheers
and laughter of the Great Hall – and Lily’s stupefied expression.

Ah tell me baby that you need me


Say you'll never leave me,


Love me tonight


Hold me now my heart is aching


And until the dawn is breaking


Love me tonight


Something is burning inside


Something that can’t be denied


I can't let you out of my sight, darling


Love me tonight

The Great Hall resounded with laughter, applause and cheers – even the Slytherins were on their
feet and cheering -- as the Marauders broke into the backup: Sirius, Remus and Peter swaying with
the beat as they sang: “*Let me love you baby, let me love you baby, let me love you tonight
…*”

James continued with the song as he approached Lily, dancing and grinding all the while, as the
Marauders continued with the background singing:

I've waited so long for the girl of my dreams to appear


And now I can't hardly believe that you really are here

James dropped to his knees in front of Lily, arms held out wide:

Here in my arms you belong


How can this feeling be wrong


Darling be kind for


I'm out of my mind over you

He suddenly stood up and jumped on the table in front of Lily, and their eyes locked as he
continued singing in front of her …

Ah tell me baby that you need me


Say you'll never leave me,


Oh love me tonight


Baby now the pain is stronger


I can't wait a moment longer,


Love me tonight

James dropped to his knees in front of Lily as his voice went into a passionate plea for the
girl who’d haunted his dreams for years … his body arching backward as he sent his entreaty
seemingly to the room at large, but in reality, to the only person there who truly mattered:

Something is burning inside


Something that can’t be denied


I can't let you out of my sight darling


Love me tonight


Let me love you baby


Let me love you baby


Let me love you tonight


Love me tonight

As the final, drawn out note resounded, James Potter dropped his make-shift mike and stared into
Lily Evans’ teary eyes … and whispered in a totally drained voice, “Will you let me, Lily? Will you
let me love you …”

“James …”

* * *

“Awwww!” James Potter blinked and stared around him, his befuddled mind grasping the fact that
he was on his knees on top of the table, staring into the green eyes of his wife as tears stained
her cheeks, his son and Hermione watching him with mouths agape – and the Terrible Two to one side
doing fan-girl imitations, theatrically swooning as they squealed in delight.

“Lily?”

She smiled at him through her tears, and she reached out to hug him … a hug he returned with
considerable enthusiasm, as she whispered, “Oh, honey …”

“Awwww!” The elder Potters broke their clinch to smile at the theatrically swooning Carolyn and
Cindy, and turned to the murmured “Dad …” from Harry, who was standing there with his arms around a
teary-eyed Hermione.

“That … was simply …beautiful,” Cindy said, quietly, as she wiped at her teary eyes. “So how did
your date go?”

“It didn’t.”

* * *

James Potter stared, mesmerized, into Lily Evans’ green eyes. He’d done it, he thought, he’d
actually done it! All the hard work and preparation – including finding photos of Tom Jones that he
could model his costume on – all the favors he’d pulled in … the threats he’d made to his best
friends if they didn’t back him up in this … the sheer *humiliation* he’d endured to do this
in front of the entire school …

And now for his reward.

“Lily? Will you go with me to Hogsmeade on Valentine’s Day?”

“James,” Lily started – and he took a deep breath, prepared to scream out his jubilation to the
world and the still-silent Great Hall. “That was lovely … but …”

His triumphant look suddenly turned to one of abject fear as he heard her whispering – no, no,
*no!*, his mind raged …

“But what, Lily? Isn’t it enough that I made myself look like an even bigger prat than what
you’ve always said? Isn’t it *enough* that I humiliated myself in front of the whole school
for *you*?” He wasn’t aware that his consternation was reaching epic proportions – and the
whole school was hearing him and Lily …

“James …” Lily’s gentle voice broke through his befuddled brain, “that was a lovely song you did
and, yes, it *is* a song by Tom Jones but … but …”

“But *what?*”

“You look like Elvis Presley.”

The shocked silence that met this statement was broken as titters rang out from different parts
of the Great Hall … the Muggle-borns among the wizards finally realizing what had happened, and
laughter started breaking out as the explanation went like wildfire from wizard to witch to ghost
and back to wizard …

A great roar like a wounded lion’s suddenly erupted from the throat of James Potter as he
screamed, “*Remus! I’ll get you for thisssss!*”

* * *

James Potter rubbed his hands over his flushed face as the remembered ignominy of that day
washed over him – and sighed as he heard the laughter of his extended family. He peeked through his
fingers to see Harry rolling on the floor, consumed by laughter …. Hermione sitting beside him,
trying to hold her stomach as her tinkling laughs bubbled out … Cindy and Carolyn hugging each
other as the tears coursed down their cheeks …

He felt warm arms around him and looked into the sparkling eyes of his wife, and he smiled as
she gave him a soft kiss on the cheek, whispering, “I love you James Potter.”

“I love you Lily Evans,” he replied as he gave her hand a squeeze. With a physical effort, he
shook off his feeling of melancholy and glared at their extended family, who had finally settled
down from their laughter – although occasional giggles still broke out from them. “Oh, shut it,
Harry! Let’s see if you’ve got the stones to do *that* in front of a live audience!”

“He already did, James,” a voice said from the entrance to the veranda and six heads swiveled to
the sound of that familiar voice.

“Professor Dumbledore!” squeaked the youngest Gryffindors, as “Albus!” came from the elder
Potters … none of the four noticing that Harry and Hermione were silent as they stared at the young
woman beside their Headmaster, who was looking back at them apprehensively.

Dumbledore walked onto the veranda carefully, saying, “James, Lily … Harry, Hermione … Cindy,
Carolyn … I’d like you to meet my granddaughter –”

“Sarah?” A warm smile broke out on her face and she nodded – and felt herself pushed backward as
two fifteen year-olds suddenly leaped on her and hugged her tightly … as Albus Dumbledore
smiled.

**Author End Notes**: There are times, in a writer’s life, when characters and story seem to
take over – and the writer is well advised to follow, rather than lead. This story started as an
interesting question posed by **Augurey** on the HMS Pumpkin Pie thread at SCUSA – and it has
been going in directions that I never thought of when I started it.

Thank you for reading it, reviewing it … and joining me for the ride.

P.S. The song is, of course, “Love Me Tonight”, sung by Tom Jones … although I’m not sure if
Elvis ever did a version of it. ;)



11. A Burning Love
------------------

Dream Chasing

**Title:** Dream Chasing (11)
**Author name:** Romulus Lupin
**Author email:** galigad@yahoo.com
**Category:** Romance
**Sub Category:**
**Keywords:** Harry Hermione Fantasy Island
**Rating:** PG-13
**Spoilers:**SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF
**Summary:** How exactly did Harry and Hermione meet Sarah? And what did Dumbledore mean by
Harry having done the “same thing” that James did (in Chapter 10?) And … does James ever understand
who Elvis was?

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended.

**Author Notes**: For **Sarah’s (bingblot)**, **Victor (muddgutts)**, whose challenge
to write a pre-Hogwarts fic provided the inspiration for this chapter – and seems to be bringing
the story somewhere I never anticipated.

But most especially, for everyone who has posted a review. Every time I see a notification of a
review being posted, I have to slap myself to make sure that I am *not* seeing things :D … I would
like all of you to know that your words are deeply treasured and your comments noted – they are, to
a large extent, parts of each chapter that I write.

Thank you … and much love to you all.

Chapter 11. A Burning Love

“So, now that we’re here … can you tell me *precisely* what we are doing here?”

The old man blinked, his thoughts suddenly pulled back to the here and now, to meet the laughing
eyes of the pretty young woman reclining on a picnic blanket beside him, head propped up on one
hand, glasses pushed up to her hair with a smile that made him momentarily freeze, such that he had
to remind himself to start breathing again.

“Careful! I wouldn’t know how to explain to the authorities how a lecherous old man suddenly
dropped dead on *my* picnic blanket in the middle of a park in summer England!”

He shook his head at the seeming irreverence of today’s young people, and asked, “Am I a
lecherous old man, Sarah?”

The young woman laughed and sat up to give him a kiss on the cheek. “All right, let me rephrase
that. You’re *not* a lecherous old man … you are simply …” She paused as she gave him a
contemplative look – “lecherous.”

Albus Dumbledore, Order of Merlin (First Class), Grand Sorcerer, Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump
of the International Confederation of Wizards and currently Headmaster of Hogwarts School of
Witchcraft and Wizardry (on leave) picked up his jaw from the grass and gave the laughing young
woman a wan smile, the infectious laughter of his companion warring with the regrets and
recriminations that he’d felt engulf him in the moment he’d spotted his quarry and set about
staking their place on this grassy knoll.

His companion frowned at this, and gave him a soft squeeze on the arm.

“You, my dear, are entirely too serious,” she heard herself saying, as she watched a parade of
emotions pass over the old man’s face. The blue eyes behind their rimless glasses focused on her
again and she smiled, resisting an urge to stick out her tongue and make faces as he tried to frame
a response. “It’s no wonder …”

She stopped herself in time, cutting her traitorous mouth from voicing out the thought that had
popped into her head. But it was too late.

“That I drove your grandmother away,” the old man said in a soft, introspective voice, as he
turned away from her to look at something that had drawn his attention – leaving Sarah to stare at
him in silence, amazed at how swiftly a smile could turn … no, not dark, for there was nothing even
remotely dark about this man – but dismal, gloomy, poignant, heart-rending–

Trust an English major spending a year in Oxford to start spouting off like a dictionary or
thesaurus at the drop of a blanket, she thought … but then, that was what sometimes happened to
her: whipping out a pen and notebook to take down notes, running off to her typewriter to dash out
another story that popped into her head....

Her eyes fell on a park bench occupied by a young girl whose long brown hair shone with health
and frequent combing (done, Sarah was sure, to try and tame that bushy head of not-quite curly
hair), a book on her lap, forehead creased in concentration … she shook her head at the memories
the sight brought back to her.

It was much the same way she had been at that age, she thought: a world full of books and fairy
tales (although in truth, the books on academics fascinated her more than the fairy tales) – and
she stifled an urge to walk over, grab the book and say, “There’s more to life than *books*,
little girl … there are such things as friendship and bravery, trust and love.”

She stared at her hands, a wistful smile playing across her face as she heard the voice of her
grandmother in her head, intoning those same words to her when *she* was nine years old … and
stole a glance at the old man beside her as he heaved a sigh.

Unthinking, she reached out and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. As he turned, she ventured a
tremulous smile and an apology: “I’m sorry. That was rather uncalled for.”

The old man smiled at her and shook his head, a wistful smile on his face. “No need to
apologize, Sarah … I should be the one to apologize to you.”

“Oh?” Her look of confusion stayed for only a brief moment as her mind brought back the question
that had started it all. She opened her mouth to ask, but stopped at the look of pain and sadness
in the old man’s eyes. She followed his eyes and, for a moment, wondered what it was about the
small girl with the book on her lap that her grandfather found so saddening … and realized, with a
start, that the girl was not frowning down at her book, but was looking at a forlorn boy in baggy
clothes a short distance away from her, sitting quietly on a rusty swing as he watched a group of
smaller children gamboling around him under the watchful eyes of their nannies or mothers (many of
whom were eyeing him warily).

She opened her mouth to ask him what it was about the boy that was so distressing to him when
…

* * *

“Owww!”

Sarah blinked, looking up at the two who had literally thrown her to one side, gaping at each
other as they both realized that they were embracing her tightly – at the same moment when their
brains were telling them that the other – literally – had no *right* to be doing so.

Harry and Hermione stared at each other, for all the world as if someone had slammed a mallet
between their eyes even as Harry whispered, “How do you know …”

“A park,” Hermione responded in a voice laced with surprise. “Mum and Dad had to meet someone at
the mall … I said I would be happier staying at the park, reading.”

“I was nine years old,” Harry said softly, as if he hadn’t heard her, as if he was speaking of
something that was only now surfacing in his mind. “I remember meeting Sarah …”

“And her grandfather,” she responded. A confused expression passed over Hermione’s face, and she
whirled around to where Professor Dumbledore stood, his normally twinkling eyes going through what
seemed to be a cascade of conflicting emotions …

Dumbledore’s eyes broke away from Hermione’s stare – or glare – and lowered his eyes as he
nodded, slowly.

“You never told them, did you?” All eyes in the room snapped around at that accusing voice,
focusing on Sarah – still on the floor, looking up from Harry to Hermione to Dumbledore. “All these
years, and you never told them?”

James Potter’s voice broke into the room, a mixture of anger, confusion, frustration, and
concern evident in his tone: “Told them *what*, Albus?”

The silence in the room was so profound that it was easy so easy to hear the slight *crack*
of bones and muscles snapping, as heads twisted towards the sound of a thin, reedy voice laced with
seemingly unbearable pain singing softly, “Happy birthday to me … Happy birthday to me …”

* * *

Harry Potter knew his knuckles were turning white as he gripped the seat of the rusty swing … he
loosened his hands and wiped them on his trousers before swiping the tears he could feel on his
face as he watched the children playing around him.

He was nine years old today … a day no different from the other birthdays he could remember:
waking up in that dark cupboard under the stairs with only the spiders to greet him … tracing out a
birthday cake with candles on the dusty floor … and blowing it away as he softly sang “Happy
Birthday to me,” wishing again that someone – or something – would take him away from his miserable
life with his relatives.

Soon enough, the day started off in the same way as everyday started off in the Dursley
household: the house stirring as its occupants awoke, Aunt Petunia knocking on his door to tell him
to prepare breakfast, rolling out of his cot before Dudley could start jumping up and down on the
stairs to stir the dust of his cupboard …

There had been a break in the routine this day, however.

Aunt Petunia told him to get dressed and clean up as he was going out with them. For a brief
moment, he thought they were finally going to acknowledge the fact that it was his birthday … the
momentary euphoria quickly dashed as Uncle Vernon grumbled something about Dudley outgrowing his
clothes so fast that it seemed they were clothing *him* and not his cousin.

So.

It was to be another shopping day for the Dursleys … but that was all right. At least he could
get to see some place other than the house and the garden – or Mrs. Figg’s house with her pictures
of Tibbles, Snowy, Mr. Paws, and Tufty.

But even that was dashed the moment Uncle Vernon stopped the car and told him brusquely to get
out. He had reluctantly complied and listened as Vernon pointed to a park bench and told him to
*stay* there while they went out shopping.

“We’ll be back for you this afternoon. Make sure you’re where we can easily find you, or else!”
he’d barked.

Vernon seemed prepared to continue but was stopped as he felt Petunia’s hand on his arm and,
with a final glare at his nephew, put the car into gear and drove off, leaving Harry staring at
them in shock, the broad, pink face of Dudley sticking his tongue out at him the last he would see
of them for some time.

“Happy Birthday to me,” he whispered softly as he kicked the ground at his feet, setting the
rusty swing into motion – and jumped off the swing in shock when he felt his back hitting someone
behind him, hearing at the same time a soft “oomph!” of surprise, and he spun around, an apology on
his lips – and saw a girl about his age on the ground behind the swing, rubbing her chest where he
had hit her, a large book and a brown paper bag on either side of her, a look of surprise on her
face.

“I’m sorry,” he said, as he quickly walked over to her and held out his hand to help her up. “I
wasn’t looking and thought …”

Whatever he was thinking was suddenly lost, as the girl looked up at him and his eyes locked
with a pair of brown eyes flecked with gold, framed by bushy brown hair in a face that was neither
pretty or ugly ….

Her eyes flicked briefly to his forehead and he knew that she had seen his scar; for a brief
moment, he felt the hand he was holding out to her falter as he felt muscles tense in an automatic
reaction to brush his unruly hair to cover it … but felt his hand tingling and he realized she had
grasped his hand and he was pulling her to her feet, their eyes once again locked on each other but
now with a sense of shock and surprise evident in their expressions.

“I’m sorry …” they both said at the same time.

“I wasn’t looking …” Harry said as he tried to explain, but was cut off as the girl said at the
same time, “I wasn’t thinking …”

“I didn’t realize you were behind me …” he tried to continue, and then simply stared at the girl
as she continued talking, “I saw you sitting there all alone, and you looked so lonely and lost and
I was feeling sorry for you and thought that you might want to share a sandwich with me, my mother
made them for me so I wouldn’t have to buy anything at the park, you never know what they make
these things out of … and oh!”

She suddenly paused, blushing, and Harry thought he had an opportunity to say something, but was
stopped when she continued, “I’m Hermione Granger, by the way.”

“Harry Potter,” he responded as he held out his hand, only to look down in shock as he realized
that there was no need for that – he hadn’t let go of the hand that he’d held when he helped her
stand up. He glanced at her again and noticed that she was looking around her as if she was
realizing something for the first time.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, puzzled.

She turned to look at him and whispered, in a bewildered voice, “How did I get *here*?”

* * *

Hermione blinked and looked down at her hands in embarrassment. She was no different at nine
than she was at fifteen – still wont to mumble and ramble as she tried to explain things that were
so hard to explain. She felt Harry gently squeezing her hands, and glanced up to see his green eyes
on her as he whispered in a gentle voice, “It’s all right, Hermione.”

There was something about his eyes, she reflected to herself as the memories of that day broke
through whatever it was that had held them back -- some thing that always seemed to comfort her, to
imbue her with confidence …

She felt a smile break out on her face, remembering the shock and fear of that day dissipating
in the warm sunlight as Harry told her that there was nothing wrong or surprising in what she
thought she did … that he had found himself on the roof of the school’s kitchens one time, when all
that he’d done was to leap on top of a trash can to avoid Dudley’s gang.

She could remember smiling, and then laughing as Harry mimed his expression at what had
happened; and now, she leaned forward to give him a kiss on the cheek in gratitude at the memory –
when Cindy’s awed voice broke into her consciousness: “You *Apparated*? But … but … you were
only *nine*—“

“Nothing surprising in that, Cindy,” Lily Potter’s calm voice broke into the room for the first
time since Dumbledore and his granddaughter showed up. “It’s a good thing, though, that the
Ministry didn’t get on their case –“

“They did, Lily,” Sarah said.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore blinked, the thoughts swirling around his head jarred from their frenzied dance
as he realized that a girl had suddenly materialized behind Harry Potter. He had taken a step in an
effort to protect the boy but was stopped by Sarah’s hand on his arm and her whispered voice asking
in shock, “Did she just *Apparate* behind him?”

He turned to his companion in surprise, asking, “What did you just say?”

“That girl!” Sarah responded. “I was just watching her a moment ago on that bench” – pointing to
where she’d seen Hermione a moment before – “she was staring at the boy on the swing and then,
poof! She’s standing behind him and …”

Whatever else she was about to say was lost for the moment as both heard a slight ‘Pop!’ behind
them and turned in time to see a young woman with violent tangerine hair tripping and falling, face
down, on the picnic blanket.

Dumbledore closed his eyes tightly and shook his head as a smile broke out: “Good morning,
Nymphadora.”

“Professor Dumbledore?” The young woman looked up from the blanket, showing a heart-shaped face
framed by the tangerine hair. “What’re you doing here? And it’s *Tonks*, begging your
pardon.”

“Of course.” He helped the young witch to her feet and his smile grew wider as he contemplated
her attire: leather jacket worn over a blood-red T-shirt tucked into tight leather pants which
were, in turn, tucked into knee-high motorcycle boots that looked as if they’d been scuffed over
years and never replaced. He heard Sarah snicker beside him and could sympathize with the
whispered, “She looks like a biker babe” – as he contemplated his former student.

“Hey, don’t knock what’s comfy for you, mate,” Tonks replied. She peered at Sarah in surprise
but any further remark she would have made was interrupted as Dumbledore stepped between them.

“Nymphadora Tonks,” he said as the younger woman bristled, “Sarah Chon … the granddaughter of an
… old friend of mine. Sarah – meet Tonks, a former student of mine now working – I think – with the
Ministry of Magic.”

The two women shook hands as Tonks said, “Wotcher, Sarah … I don’t remember seeing you around
Hogwarts before.”

“Ummm … actually, you wouldn’t have,” Sarah replied, slowly.

“You’re American?” Tonks responded with a smile. “No wonder I haven’t seen you. What school?
Salem? New Orleans?”

“Actually … Smith.” Tonks’ frown at the unfamiliar name was interrupted by Dumbledore who asked,
“May I inquire what you are doing here, Nymphadora?”

“I’m doing an internship with the Improper Use of Magic Office,” Tonks replied as she rolled her
eyes. “Waitin’ till a slot opens up with the MLES. Anyway, we got a report that an Underage Witch
apparated somewhere in this area, so I was sent to investigate.”

Sarah and Dumbledore exchanged quick glances at this, and without a word, turned to look towards
the swing where the boy and girl were talking. A puzzled Tonks followed their gazes and squinted to
see better –

“Blimey!” she whispered. “Is *that* Harry–“

“Yes, it is,” Dumbledore interrupted her. “But I can assure you, Nymphadora, that it wasn’t
Harry Potter who did that bit of magic.”

A puzzled frown met Dumbledore’s sharp eyes, and Tonks looked back at the two children and
realization hit her. “You don’t mean …”

“That would be the logical conclusion, I think,” the Headmaster (on leave) responded. “Sarah” –
and he nodded at his companion – “thought she saw the girl Apparate, but couldn’t be sure. It would
seem, however, that …”

He shrugged, the conclusion evident to the three of them.

“Blimey!” Tonks said in a whisper. “She must be some powerful witch if she can Apparate at that
age …”

“Maybe,” Dumbledore replied. “Although I understand that Harry did something similar a few years
back …”

Tonks’ eyebrows were almost to her hairline at that statement and Sarah waited for the “Blimey!”
to escape her lips, and heaved a sigh of relief when Tonks closed her mouth. She stole a glance at
the two children they’d been discussing, and felt the corners of her mouth tugging up in a smile as
she realized they were still talking and – her smile threatened to crack her face – were still
holding hands as they talked.

She gave a small sigh of disappointment when she realized that they’d suddenly dropped their
hands to their sides, and mentally thwapped herself for having romantic notions about them – as
Tonks said, they were *still* underage and, apparently, were not even in Hogwarts!

She turned back to her companions, suddenly aware that Dumbledore was trying to persuade Tonks
about something: “… no harm done, Nymphadora. Sarah and I have been here for some time and, as you
can see, it appears that no one down there is the wiser.”

“True, Headmaster. They couldn’t be considered in violation of the Decree for the Reasonable
Restriction of Underage Sorcery since they both don’t know what they did …”

“And the same holds for the Statute of Secrecy, since the Muggles apparently noticed nothing
amiss.”

“Still,” Tonks argued, “I better watch them, just the same. They’re performing uncontrolled
magic and if something else happens …”

“Sarah and I will watch them, Nymphadora.” The statement was delivered with only a slight hint
of Dumbledore’s considerable personality behind it, but it was sufficient for Tonks to take a step
back – and even had Sarah nodding in agreement.

“All right, Headmaster,” Tonks agreed. “I’ll head back to the office and tell Mafalda that
things are under control …”

“Thank you.”

“On *one* condition.” Dumbledore frowned at the suddenly commanding tone in his former
student’s voice. “Will you *please* stop calling me that? I feel like I’m eleven years old
again with the Sorting Hat telling me, ‘so where should I put you, Nymphadora?’ I almost threw that
darned hat into the fire when it started calling me names!”

A warm smile creased Dumbledore’s face, and he held out his hand to her. “Of course. You must
forgive your old Headmaster, Nym—*Tonks*.”

“All right then,” Tonks replied as she shook hands with him. “I’ll be setting off now and …”

“Harry and his friend will be in good hands, Tonks. Rest assured of that,” Dumbledore said,
correctly interpreting the look she gave around her.

“All right. I’ll be off, then – and nice meeting you, Sarah,” Tonks said. She hesitated for a
moment longer … and then gave Dumbledore a quick wink before she Disapparated.

Dumbledore looked at the spot where she was a moment before and asked, as if speaking to
himself, “I wonder what that was all about.”

“I think,” Sarah said slowly, “that she’s saying that Harry isn’t just in good hands.”

Albus Dumbledore turned to her with a puzzled look on his face, and she smiled at him. “He,” she
continued as she nodded towards where the two children were, “is in *better* hands at the
moment.”

He glanced at where she was nodding and had to smile at the sight of two children sitting side
by side on swings, sharing what seemed to be an enormous sandwich between them.

* * *

Harry shook himself as he felt his mouth watering … that first, glorious bite of the BLT
sandwich somehow seemed to have stayed with him all these years.

It was a taste that he remembered craving at odd moments – and he blinked in surprise and a
dawning comprehension as he remembered Ron introducing him to Bertie Botts’ Every Flavor Beans on
the Hogwarts Express …

They’d gone through a whole lot of those beans, he remembered; but now, as he looked back at
that first experience, he realized that it wasn’t the novelty of the wizarding candy that had
enthralled him … it wasn’t his amazement as his mouth registered the taste of toast, coconut, baked
bean, strawberry, curry, grass, coffee, sardine – even a funny gray one Ron wouldn’t touch, which
turned out to be pepper.

He’d been looking for a bean that would have the combined tastes of bacon, lettuce and tomato …
slathered with mayonnaise between slices of white bread … the taste of the sandwiches that Hermione
had shared with him --

And felt a sudden wave of melancholy wash over him, gripping him in its dark power, infusing his
soul with a feeling of embarrassment, humiliation … *shame* for his miserable existence with
the Dursleys …

He could feel Hermione squeezing his hand in sympathy, but he didn’t respond to her assurance
and support. He forced his eyes to look up at Sarah – and met her twinkling eyes as he whispered
hoarsely, “Thank you, Sarah …”

* * *

He had never tasted anything so wonderful in his life – and he had to force himself to savor
that first bite, rather than wolf it down as his growling stomach and watering mouth demanded. He
carefully chewed that first, wonderful bite of the sandwich and turned grateful eyes on his
companion – and felt himself frowning as he saw that she hadn’t taken a bite yet, but was busy
groping inside the paper bag she’d brought with her – her eyes scanning the ground around them,
behind them and towards the bench where she’d been sitting at before she showed up behind him.

He was about to swallow the food when he heard her whispering – and it suddenly felt as if he
had ashes in his mouth: “Oh no! Mum forgot to include the soda! And I don’t have any money with me
…”

Neither did he.

He’d thought that being with the Dursleys meant that he’d be having lunch with them at the mall;
as such, he hadn’t thought to bring anything from his carefully hoarded (though pitiful) stack of
coins painstakingly collected from his meager allowance over the years. And the abrupt booting he’d
received when they arrived at the park had left him so surprised that he hadn’t even thought of
asking for some money from Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia when they left him.

And now he had nothing to give to the wonderful girl who’d saved him from starvation. He tried
to swallow the food down his suddenly dry throat, his brain running feverishly over various
scenarios to get him out of this situation: look for a water fountain … approach one of the nannies
or mothers nearby and ask for a drink of water … perhaps go down on his knees and *beg* for
something …

And nearly jumped out of his skin – and felt the food pushed down his throat as he swallowed
reflexively in surprise – when an American-accented voice spoke up behind them: “Excuse me? Would
either of you children want some soda?”

He swung around to look up into the face of a smiling young woman of sixteen, her pretty face
with smiling eyes behind her glasses, her long, black hair waving gently in the breeze and, in her
hands -- two sweating cans of Coke. He smiled back at her, relieved at having an answer to his
dilemma, and was about to reach out and grab the Cokes when he felt Hermione’s hand on his arm
–

“Mummy told me never to accept anything from strangers,” she said in a firm and bossy tone of
voice. He could feel his throat working up a protest at Hermione’s statement, suddenly afraid that
his salvation would disappear, but stopped as he saw the young woman’s smile widen even more.

“Sound advice, my dear,” the young lady said. She carefully shifted a can to her left hand and
held her right hand out to them. “I’m Sarah Chon. I’m twenty years old – turning twenty-one in
December. I’m American, currently a student at Oxford University … and I’m here with my grandfather
over there (and she waved a hand at Dumbledore, who was approaching them, picnic basket in hand).
He’s a teacher at Oxford, also …”

“Harry Potter,” Harry spoke up before Hermione could get another word in. “And this is Hermione
Granger, my … uhm, my friend, who I just met here today.”

“Pleasure,” Sarah said as she shook his hand, and Hermione’s. “Now that we’re no longer
strangers, would you like a can of Coke?”

Harry smiled back gratefully, and was about to reach out for the cans when Hermione butted in
with a puzzled tone, “How did you get here? I could have sworn that I didn’t see you coming up here
…”

For a second, Harry thought that Sarah’s smile faltered and he was struck with a momentary
panic, but breathed easily at Sarah’s amused response, “Oh? Probably because you were so engrossed
in looking for something …”

Harry had to laugh at that, drawing an irritated look from Hermione, who seemed determined to
avoid receiving anything from this near-stranger, and who turned back to Sarah with another
question: “Is that sugar-free? Mum and Dad always told me that too much Coke is bad for the teeth –
they’re dentists, and—“

“Hermione!” Harry whispered fiercely, “Can’t you just smile and say ‘thank you’ to the nice
lady?”

The little girl glared back at him and he almost stepped back at that look, but was stopped by
Sarah’s voice, “Isn’t it? I could have sworn that Granddad packed diet soda … yup, it is.”

Harry looked at her and blinked – he could have sworn on a stack of Bibles that Sarah had been
holding a pair of regular Cokes in her hand, but what she was holding up now were undoubtedly diet
Cokes. He shook his head, thinking, ‘I must be imagining things,’ as she continued, “Well?”

“Thank you, we accept,” he quickly responded, trying to ignore Hermione’s agitated “Harry!”
beside him.

“Cool,” Sarah said, “C’mon – I’ll introduce you to my grandfather.”

She started walking towards the approaching Dumbledore, seemingly unaware that behind her, the
two children were in a slightly heated argument.

“Harry!” Hermione whispered, sternly. “How can you do this … we don’t even know them …”

“Hermione,” he answered as he stood in front of her and looked into her eyes. “Look … we don’t
have any money between us, there’s no water fountain that I can see close by … Sarah and her
grandfather look like nice people …”

He suddenly gave her a wide, goofy grin that had her mouth hanging open in surprise, “And
besides, I promise you – nothing’s going to happen to us.”

“Oh, all right,” she huffed as she gave in. “But I promise you, Harry Potter – if something
happens to us …”

* * *

“…I’ll never rest until I’ve learned that Curse of the Bogies Quirrell told us about, and use it
on you.”

Hermione shook her head, the memory of Ron’s words as they crept around the castle for that
aborted midnight duel with Malfoy ringing in her ears – and she smiled. *That*, she thought to
herself as she relieved the memory of how she’d met Sarah and Professor Dumbledore, was probably
the first time that she had given in to Harry’s schemes and plans … and she wondered again
*why*, for the I-don’t-know-how-many-times-I’ve-done-this time, she allowed herself to give in
to Harry.

‘What is it about him,’ she thought to herself as she peeked at him from behind the fringes of
her lashes, ‘that made me try to stop him from that stupid midnight duel? Why did I have to stay up
all night just to catch them as they were going out – and follow after them out the portrait
hole?’

She felt Harry squeezing her hand and she looked up to see his smiling eyes on her, and she felt
her questions dissolving away in the warmth of his smile … that same caring, devil-may-care smile
that he’d given her at Honeydukes in third year and – she remembered now -- on that day in the park
so long ago … and she felt her insides melting again at the memory.

Before she could say anything, Harry gave her a quick kiss on her cheek and she blushed as he
whispered, “Thank you for going along with me, Hermione.”

There was no response that she could give, and she squeezed his hand back – and nearly jumped as
a sudden “Pop!” sounded on the quiet veranda. She realized, with some surprise, that James had
opened a can of diet soda … that Cindy had trays of the stuff brought out from the house … and she
began to wonder.

If there was no magic on the island, she thought, why did it seem that they always found what
the needed, when they needed it? She remembered McGonagall’s earlier visit – and her surprise at
finding a tea service, complete with tea and biscuits in the kitchen, to serve to her and Mr.
Roarke … she hadn’t asked Harry how he’d found the ingredients to make the lasagna that Crookshanks
had devoured … and how had Harry and her father-in-law – James! she admonished herself – been able
to make that delicious lunch which included (she glanced at the table with a smile) a stack of BLT
sandwiches earlier …

She looked up in sudden surprise as music boomed out from within the bungalow, and felt a smile
breaking out on her face as the well-remembered song broke out:

I know that it's late and I really must leave you alone


But you're good to hold and I feel such a long way from home …

She nearly broke out in laughter at the look of shock on James Potter’s face, but stopped
herself as she watched Lily holding on to her husband, who looked as if he was going to strangle
the surprised Ca with her own long black hair.

For a fleeting moment, she wondered how Carolyn knew enough to have picked out the Tom Jones
song that James had danced and sang to earlier – but quickly stopped thinking about that as the
young girl cowered behind Harry and herself, saying, “Don’t look at me … Sarah did it!”

She turned in surprise to the smirking Sarah – and it was that beaming face that triggered
another memory from that day six years in the past … and Hermione could feel laughter suddenly
boiling up at the sight of Harry’s horrified face as Sarah handed the wireless microphone to him,
and she knew, she *knew* that the same memory had been triggered in his mind …

* * *

“Why should anyone allow himself to look like a total prat, for what? Ten pounds?” She sniffed
in disdain as she watched a young boy who looked no older than herself or Harry doing a passable
impersonation of Tom Jones to the music blasting from the karaoke machine that some company had set
up at a corner of the park.

“Ten pounds may seem like a lot of money to some people, Miss Granger,” the calm voice of
Professor Dumbledore responded. “Although I must admit that this Mug—I mean, this
*contraption* fascinates me.”

“You’ve always been fascinated with anything to do with music, Grandfather,” Sarah said from
beside him, a small snicker apparent in her voice. “As it does to Harry, here.”

Harry looked up at her with a start, and smiled sheepishly at Sarah and Hermione, embarrassed
that he’d been caught with his mouth open at the spectacle of the young boy as he emoted to the
lyrics (“*I've waited so long for the girl of my dreams to appear …*”), but his thoughts
quickly returned to what the company representative had said as they set up the machine …

‘Ten pounds,’ he thought to himself. ‘Ten pounds … enough to pay Sarah back for the soda … more
than enough to buy Hermione an ice cream and a balloon from the vendors around – and that includes
buying something for me, and Sarah and Professor Dumbledore, who’d been so nice to me, a total
stranger, on my birthday …’

“Still,” Hermione was saying in her high and mighty tone, disapproval evident in her voice, “I
don’t see why *anyone* would willingly act like a git in front of a crowd for a measly ten
pounds!”

“It isn’t always about money, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore responded – and Harry looked up,
surprised at the wistful tone in the old man’s voice – and felt a shock pass through him as he
realized that Professor Dumbledore was looking at him. He was totally unaware that the old
Headmaster was not seeing the young Harry Potter in front of him … but was remembering a
once-insufferable, full-of-himself, young James Potter who’d swallowed his pride, his embarrassment
and his fear in order to make a clear-cut statement to the person who’d captured his heart.
Dumbledore continued, in a soft, ruminative tone, “For some people, doing that -- standing up in
front of a crowd to sing, that is -- is a way of proving the depth of their feelings for someone
who means more than the world to them …”

He smiled as the young boy finished the number with a flourish, and surreptitiously wiped a tear
from his eye – remembering the fanfare with which James had ended that very same song in the Great
Hall of Hogwarts, and his painful roar of rage at Remus Lupin for the outrageous costume that he’d
worn, a costume that Lily Evans said was *not* the one worn by Tom Jones (whoever he was) but
by someone else …

“I wonder who Elvis is,” he murmured softly to himself as he watched the barker taunting the
gathered crowd about who would be the next contestant – and vaguely heard the bossy, know-it-all
voice of the young girl beside him as she said, “Well, *I* certainly wouldn’t be caught dead
doing something like that! It’s just so … too *public*, don’t you think so, Harry?”

A beat – and then her panicked voice broke Dumbledore’s thoughts about Elvis Presley and James
Potter: “Harry? Where … he was just beside me … Ha—“

The welling panic in their minds was stilled as the an upbeat, somewhat rowdy guitar and piano
started from the machine, and a voice, cheery, exultant, cheeky and totally *impressive*,
burst into their ears:

Lord almighty,

I feel my temperature rising


Higher, higher


It’s burning through to my soul


Girl, girl, girl


You gonna set me on fire


My brain is flaming


I don’t know which way to go

Hermione could feel her eyes popping as she felt her jaw dropping to the grass, as Harry Potter,
glasses, baggy clothes and all, sang with all the body language that the real Elvis ‘the Pelvis’
Presley had brought to the song:

Your kisses lift me higher
Like the sweet song of a choir
You light my morning sky
With burning love

Her shocked eyes locked with the smiling, burning green eyes of the person that she’d felt so
sorry for earlier that day – and she felt something within her melting as she saw him smiling at
her … and she could feel a broad, *broad* grin break out on her face as she watched Harry
swing and sway to the beat, his eyes pleading with her for understanding … approval … *acceptance
…*

Ooh, ooh, ooh,


I feel my temperature rising


Help me, I’m flaming


I must be a hundred and nine


Burning, burning, burning


And nothing can cool me


I just might turn into smoke


But I feel fine

She couldn’t stop herself … she found herself swaying to the beat along with Harry (and Sarah
and Dumbledore as well as everyone else in the crowd) … felt herself clapping along with the
rhythmic beat of the strumming guitar and Harry’s excited, exultant voice …

Cause your kisses lift me higher


Like a sweet song of a choir


And you light my morning sky


With burning love

As the machine swung into an instrumental bridge, she had to stop herself from running up to
Harry like a crazed fan-girl and start dancing with him in front of the gathered, cheering crowd …
but she couldn’t stop herself from blowing him a kiss as she laughed and clapped with the crowd –
and her smile grew past her ears as she saw Harry grabbing in the air for that flying kiss …

It’s coming closer


The flames are now lickin’ my body


Won’t you help me


I feel like I’m slipping away


It’s hard to breath


And my chest is a-heaving


Lord have mercy,


I’m burning a hole where I lay

She could feel her throat burning and realized that she was shouting, screaming her approval of
Harry’s performance … cheering along with Sarah and Professor Dumbledore as Harry went into an
impassioned, swaying finale:

Cause your kisses lift me higher


Like the sweet song of a choir


You light my morning sky


With burning love


With burning love


I’m just a hunk, a hunk of burning love


Just a hunk, a hunk of burning love


Just a hunk, a hunk of burning love


Just a hunk, a hunk of burning love


Just a hunk, a hunk of burning love


Just a hunk, a hunk of burning love

* * *

His ears were burning and he wondered whether his hair was as red as the Weasleys from all the
blushing he was doing as he lowered the microphone and glanced around him – and felt the blood
dropping to his feet at the shocked and awed looks he saw: his father, trying to pick up his
shattered jaw from the floor, Lily Potter wiping her eyes as she blew him a kiss, Cindy and Ca,
their hands red from clapping and whistling, and Hermione – sweet, lovely Hermione, finally giving
in to the urge she had six years before, laughing and hugging him and he felt his hands
automatically going around her waist to draw her to him …

“More! More!” the shouts and cheers were coming from Cindy and Ca … and Sarah and Professor
Dumbledore, both with fingers in their mouths, producing almost ear-deafening whistles … and he
heard the music from inside the house, and Harry stepped back from Hermione, the microphone going
up again to his lips in the same way it had six years before …

Tell me when will you be mine
Tell me quando, quando, quando
We can share a love divine
Please don’t make me wait again

* * *

Hermione watched her friend in awe as he started a song that was achingly familiar to her, and
she felt tears springing to her eyes … and nearly jumped out of her skin as she felt a hand on her
shoulder. She looked up into the puzzled brown eyes of her mother, and quickly hugged her as she
heard her father asking, “What’s going on, princess?”

When will you say yes to me?
Tell me quando, quando, quando
You mean happiness to me
Oh, my love, please tell me when

“It’s my friend Harry Potter, Dad! Isn’t he great?”

The elder Granger looked at the boy emoting in front of the crowd and couldn’t help but smile at
his daughter’s enthusiastic voice – and he caught his wife’s smiling eyes and gave her a soft,
secretive smile of his own …

Every moment’s a day
Every day seems a lifetime
Let me show you the way
To a joy beyond compare

Harry felt his eyes widen as he saw an older couple who could only be Hermione’s parents smiling
at each other over their daughter’s head, and almost faltered in his song … but he broke out into a
smile as he watched Mr. Granger swing Hermione into a dance

I can’t wait a moment more
Tell me quando, quando, quando
Say its me that you adore
And then, darlin’, tell me when

Mr. Granger let go of a laughing Hermione as the music went into its instrumental bridge … and
grabbed his wife by the hand, quickly swinging her into a dance as the crowd cheered. Harry smiled
at Hermione, who was smiling back at him and he could feel his chest expanding with pride and joy
at making her smile …

Every moment’s a day
Every day seems a lifetime
Let me show you the way
To a joy beyond compare

I can’t wait a moment more
Tell me quando, quando, quando
Say its me that you adore
And then, darlin, tell me when

Oh, my darlin, tell me when
Mmm, my darlin, tell me when …

As the music stopped and the crowd applauded the smiling couple, Harry’s eyes locked with
Hermione for a brief instant before he gave the final lyric of the song in a soft, caressing
whisper:

When?

* * *

Lily dropped her hands from James’ shoulders as Harry ended the song, and turned to her son with
laughter brimming in her eyes – and smiled as she saw a teary-eyed Hermione in a tight hug with her
son while the others gave them a resounding cheer … and she could almost imagine the people at the
park cheering the two young children as their parents bowed to the crowd.

“Wow, Harry!” she heard James saying beside her, “at least you got *paid* for what you
did!”

Lily’s laughing agreement stopped, however, as Harry’s pained whisper responded, “I didn’t get
it, Dad.”

“What?” The shocked voice of James was drowned out by the surprised voices of Lily, Carolyn and
Cindy … and Hermione hugged Harry tightly as he lowered his face to her shoulder, seemingly in an
attempt to hide his embarrassed, angry, or crying face from them.

“Harry,” she whispered as she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, “what happened?”

Harry turned a tear-streaked face to her, his throat working hard to frame a response … but it
was Sarah’s pained, apologetic voice which gave the answer: “The Dursleys happened.”

**Additional Author’s Notes**: The songs are, of course, “*A Burning Love*” by the one
and only Elvis Presley (which was also featured in “Lilo and Stitch”), and “*Quando, Quando,
Quando*” a song made popular by Engelbert Humperdinck in the 1970s and which, I believe, was
used as a theme song for a Heiniken commercial.

Next chapter … I’m working on it. I promise!



12. Revelation
--------------

Dream Chasing

**Title:** Dream Chasing (12)
**Author name:** Romulus Lupin
**Author email:** galigad@yahoo.com
**Category:** Romance
**Sub Category:**
**Keywords:** Harry Hermione Fantasy Island
**Rating:** PG-13
**Spoilers:**SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, OotP
**Summary:** Chapter 12 up (finally!) What did Vernon and Dudley do to Harry and Hermione six
years before? Why don’t they remember what happened then? Did Dumbledore and Sarah have something
to do with it? Why?

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended.

**AUTHOR’S NOTES:** My deepest apologies to everyone for not having updated sooner! It wasn’t
just a case of RL taking its revenge on me; I had to go through a major writer’s block that was the
size of the Grand Canyon (and maybe a little bit more).

For [b]anne[/b], and all the other wonderful writers whose stories kept me company all through
the weeks of major writers block, but most especially for [b]vicarious leigh[/b] whose wonderful
stories, “[i]The Power He Knows Not[/i]” and “[i]The Triumvirate of Resolve[/i]” gave me both the
key and inspiration to break out of the rut.

And as always, for [b]Augurey[/b] who came up with the original idea for this story, for
[b]Victor (mudgutts)[/b] whose challenge became a key ingredient in this story, and my dear friends
[b]sarah (bingblot), erin, nicole and lils[/b] for being always there.

Chapter 12. Revelation …

“What the hell do you think you’re doin’ you ungrateful wretch?” Harry’s nine-year old body
shivered at the roaring voice of his Uncle and he turned, wide-eyed and fearful, as an enormous
Vernon Dursley, with Dudley in tow, plowed through the crowd like a pair of rampaging rhinoceros.
“I *told* you to stay at the friggin’ *bench,* boy! Not go gallivanting around and making
a stupid ass of yourself …”

Harry dropped the microphone, and felt himself shriveling into a small lump of inanimate flesh,
the happy events of the day falling into some dark and dreary hole in his mind, unable to say a
word, shamed into embarrassment at again being made a spectacle of in front of Hermione and her
parents by his unthinking, unfeeling relatives …

An enormous hand gripped his shirt, and he felt himself collapsing, allowing himself to be
dragged off – and looked up in shock at Hermione’s shrill, “No! Stop that!” mingling with Mr.
Granger’s shocked, “I say what…” – saw Hermione jumping on the meaty arm and ham-like fist that was
clutching him …

He felt himself screaming “*NO!*” as Vernon dropped him and swung the arm that Hermione was
holding onto in an arc, throwing the young girl into the arms of Dudley, who threw the young girl
aside like a piece of putrid garbage flung on his chest … felt a surge of energy coming from deep
within his body –

And gaped as Vernon was hurled almost ten feet from him, landing on his back as enormous boils
and pustules erupted on his face … heard the crowd screaming in fright, and turned to see a
wide-eyed Hermione on the grass, staring at a squealing Dudley who was on all fours changing into a
pig …

Harry caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and saw Professor Dumbledore standing tall,
hand raised and holding some sort of stick … realized that Sarah was beside him, also holding a
stick … heard them chanting something just before a huge bolt of blinding light erupted from the
upraised wands and the world turned blank–

* * *

Harry’s eyes were screwed tightly closed, his ears ringing again with the painful, hurtful voice
of his uncle berating him, felt the world closing around him as it had a thousand times before when
the smallest infraction meant a sentence to the dark cupboard under the stairs, where his only
companions were the spiders and the dust … where his world became vague dreams of escape, of riding
a motorcycle while feeling warm and protected …

He felt something wet on his constricted chest – and realized that Hermione was embracing him …
that it was her tears soaking through his shirt, and there was nothing he could do but wrap his
arms around his weeping friend even as he buried his tear-streaked face in her hair.

He heard a vague scuffling and looked up to see his father’s enraged face as he tried to break
away from his mother’s hold, cursing loudly and profanely as he laid plans to come back and
*haunt* the Dursleys into an early grave; heard Lily’s shocked voice asking, “But why should
Vernon be so mad? He can be petty and vicious, but to do that to Harry?”

“He thought Harry was making fun of him and his Elvis impersonation … or perhaps Harry was doing
it better than he ever could.” Heads turned as Mr. Roarke, with his diminutive assistant beside
him, stepped calmly onto the veranda with a serious smile on his face. “He’s been trying to get on
the island for some time to live out his fantasy of doing his Elvis impersonation in front of an
appreciative audience …”

“Trying to, Mr. Roarke?” Their host turned to Cindy with a smile like a tiger baring its fangs
(which caused the young girl to take a step back) as he replied, “Trying, Miss Galloway … but,
alas! The idea of the island being populated by a horde of people impersonating Elvis is a bit too
…”

“Disturbing,” Tattoo cut in with a smirk. “Too many people in white suits, to say nothing of the
competition –“

“Tattoo!” Mr. Roarke said in a reproachful voice, but his smile froze as Carolyn asked in an
innocent voice, “Are you *also* an Elvis fan, Mr. Roarke?”

“Not really, Miss Wright,” he replied with a stiff smile and a glare as he heard Cindy mutter,
“Yeah, right,” followed by giggles or snickers from the others on the veranda. He pulled his
dignity around him and smiled at the others, saying, “I’m sorry for the interruption, but it is
getting late.”

He glanced at Dumbledore and said, “I’m afraid a certain school nurse is in a bit of a tizzy
right about now and also,” (giving a broad smile at the Terrible Two) “some people may miss out on
their dinner.”

Mr. Roarke’s smile grew even wider as he regarded Cindy and Carolyn’s horrified looks (and this
time he *did* look like a tiger licking its chops), “Missing out on lunch is one thing,
especially if it was in a *good* cause … but dinner is another thing all together.”

“Of course, Mr. Roarke,” Dumbledore said as he stood up and shook himself of the memories. “And
you’re right … Poppy would be in a bit of a tizzy by now—“

“Is that why I don’t remember anything of that day, Professor?”

It was as if a guillotine had dropped in the room at the pained voice, and heads turned to watch
a stony-faced and tense Harry Potter glaring at his mentor.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” a stricken Sarah stepped in, forcing Harry to break his heated gaze from
Dumbledore, who was looking out on the beach. “There was nothing else that we could do … surely you
know that?”

“Why?” It wasn’t so much a question as an anguished whisper, and everyone in the bungalow turned
away, none of them willing to look at a shaken Harry Potter. “I can understand that you had to do
it to the Muggles … even to Uncle Vernon and Dudley … but did you have to do it to *me? Did you
have to do it to us?*”

“Harry,” Hermione whispered as she tried to calm Harry down, but winced as she felt his hand
squeezing her so tightly that her fingers felt as if they were caught in an unrelenting vise. She
said his name again, trying to break through the pain of the memory but twisted around in surprise
at Dumbledore’s soft voice and calm response:

“I thought it was for the best.”

The very calmness of the response from the old man was a spark to the seething, tightly-held
emotions of Harry Potter. If the first ‘Why?’ was a whisper of anguish, this time it was a scream
of rage – Cindy and Carolyn gaped in shock at a Harry Potter they had never seen before: angry,
disgusted, his normally warm and friendly voice now a cold and deadly whisper, “The *best*?
The best for *who*? That was the only wonderful memory that I ever had … that was the only
time I felt loved … did you have to take it away? *Was that the best you could do for
me?*”

But the angry words were like a storm breaking its teeth on an impenetrable wall – while a look
of compassion and pain could be seen in Dumbledore’s eyes, his very stance and demeanor proclaimed
that he did not believe he had made a mistake … that he had, as he said, done what he thought was
best for all concerned.

It was Lily’s quiet voice – a quiver in its tone the only indication of an anger held rigorously
– that provided a momentary break in the extremely tense atmosphere of the bungalow: “Why, Albus?
You must have a reason.”

For a long moment, the blue eyes of their Headmaster locked with the sparkling green eyes of a
student long gone … and he blinked and turned away, his strong, straight stance buckling. He felt
Sarah placing an arm around him as if to support him and he looked at her with a pained smile
before turning to face the angry eyes of Harry Potter … shifted his gaze to the confused, teary
eyes of Hermione Granger … saw the same anger, pain and bewilderment mirrored in the faces of Lily
and James … and turned away to look out on the sun-drenched beach and the sparkling blue waters of
the sea ….

“Five years ago you arrived at Hogwarts, Harry … safe and whole, as I had planned and intended,”
he sighed even as his shoulders slumped down even lower. “Well -- not quite whole. You had
suffered. I knew you would when I left you on your aunt and uncle’s doorstep. I knew I was
condemning you to ten dark and difficult years.”

He paused, his mind recalling McGonagall’s protests at his decision to leave the baby Harry with
what she called ‘the worst sort of Muggles they could find.’ Harry said nothing, and Dumbledore
continued without looking at him – or perhaps, even seeing him: “You might ask -- and with good
reason -- why it had to be so. Why could some wizarding family not have taken you in? Many would
have done so more than gladly, would have been honoured and delighted to raise you as a son.”

He turned to lock his eyes with Harry, shoulders suddenly straight and firm, every inch the
Headmaster of the premier wizarding school in Britain, as well as a man honed and tempered by
numerous battles with the Dark Side: “My answer is that my priority was to keep you alive. You were
in more danger than perhaps anyone but I realised. Voldemort had been vanquished hours before, but
his supporters -- and many of them are almost as terrible as he -- were still at large: angry,
desperate, violent. And I had to make my decision too, with regard to the years ahead. Did I
believe that Voldemort was gone forever? No. I knew not whether it would be ten, twenty or fifty
years before he returned, but I was sure he would do so, and I was sure, too, knowing him as I have
done, that he would not rest until he killed you.

“I knew that Voldemort’s knowledge of magic is perhaps more extensive than any wizard alive. I
knew that even my most complex and powerful protective spells and charms were unlikely to be
invincible if he ever returned to full power.”

He broke off to glance at Lily, and they saw a flash of pain pass through his face before he
continued: “But I knew, too, where Voldemort was weak. And so I made my decision. You would be
protected by an ancient magic of which he knows, which he despises, and which he has always,
therefore, underestimated -- to his cost. I am speaking, of course, of the fact that your mother
died to save you. She gave you a lingering protection he never expected, a protection that flows in
your veins to this day. I put my trust, therefore, in your mother’s blood. I delivered you to her
sister, her only remaining relative.”

“She doesn’t love me,” said Harry at once, glancing at his mother in apology. “Aunt Petunia
doesn’t give a damn –“

“But she took you,” Dumbledore cut across him, eyes locking with his. “She may have taken you
grudgingly, furiously, unwillingly, bitterly, yet still she took you, and in doing so, she sealed
the charm I placed upon you. Your mother’s sacrifice made the bond of blood the strongest shield I
could give you.”

“I still don’t –“

“While you can still call home the place where your mother’s blood dwells, there you cannot be
touched or harmed by Voldemort. He shed her blood, but it lives on in you and her sister. Her blood
became your refuge. You need return there only once a year, but as long as you can still call it
home, whilst you are there he cannot hurt you. Your aunt knows this. I explained what I had done in
the letter I left, with you, on her doorstep. She knows that allowing you houseroom may well have
kept you alive for the past fifteen years.”

The old man closed his eyes as he sighed and shook his head. “What do you think would have
happened, Harry? If I had let those memories stay, what would you have done when you realized that
there was someone like you … someone with the same powers and abilities as you … someone who showed
that she could care for you even though you were a virtual stranger, and can care for you in a way
that your relatives did not, even in the short span of time that you were with her?”

Harry felt fingers entwining with his own; he knew that it was Hermione, and he squeezed her
hand briefly, feeling a small warmth spreading from her fingers into his aching chest, and knew
there was only one response he could give: “I would have gone looking for her. I would have let
nothing stand in my way to keep in touch with her …”

Dumbledore nodded, sadly. “And in so doing, you would have broken the protection I placed around
you. You would have run away … tried to find a way not only to keep in touch with Miss Granger, but
perhaps even tried to go with her – and in doing so, you would have placed yourself in danger.

“I couldn’t take the risk, and so I made my decision. I Memory-Charmed both of you so that the
incident would be forgotten, knowing that I would be condemning you to another two years of
darkness …” He turned away to look out again on a beach slowly turning red from the rays of a
setting sun, but not swiftly enough to keep from their view a hint of tears in his eyes.

Silence reigned in the bungalow, all of them trying to find something to say, something to do,
something to break the suddenly oppressive atmosphere that permeated the idyllic world they’d found
themselves in.

Harry’s mind went numb, as it ran from scenario to possibility, trying to find a chink in the
armor of Dumbledore’s logic. He felt Hermione’s arms around him, saw her brown eyes fringed with
tears before she buried her face in his chest and he knew that she, like him, had gone through the
same mental exercise … and could find no real flaw in the old man’s thinking.

And he could do nothing about it except to hug Hermione even tighter, even as she did the same
to him.

“Was there no other way, Albus?”

Dumbledore turned to Lily Potter, and slowly shook his head. “There was no other way, Lily …
Harry had been deprived of love and affection for so long that he would have sought it out,
unheeding of the danger to himself even if I had explained it to him. He has,” and he gave a small,
ironic smile, “a tendency towards rash action, much like his father before him.”

There was no response that anyone could give, and once again, an oppressive silence fell,
thoughts now turned inwards at the vagaries of fate. How different would the world have been,
wondered Lily, if they hadn’t died … if Fate and whatever Divinity existed allowed them to raise
Harry in the way he should have been raised: lovingly, attentively, with a whole host of friends
including, if that were possible, the children of the Marauders? Harry would have grown up with
friends like himself – Alice Longbottom had a son who was born the same day as Harry … she
remembered hearing from Bill Weasley that he had another brother while she was carrying Harry … the
Browns had a daughter, as had the Bones, who would all be about Harry’s age by now …

But even as these thoughts went through her mind, she caught sight of a weeping Hermione in
Harry’s arms … and wondered if the two would have found each other, if circumstances were
different? Would Harry be comforting the muggle-born witch by now or would he, like James, look
askance at the brilliant but stuck-up bookworm who should have been in Ravenclaw but was in
Gryffindor …

“But why didn’t you *tell* us, Professor?” Lily felt her heart going out to the young girl
in Harry’s arms as Hermione’s question floated in the air. “We’ve been at Hogwarts for five years
and in all that time, not one word … not even one hint …”

“Would it have mattered if I told you, Miss Granger?” The calm voice and kindly eyes cut her
off; and Lily couldn’t help but smile as she saw her son and his best friend staring at each other,
their minds undoubtedly rushing through a flood of memories from the moment a bushy-haired girl
burst into a compartment looking for a toad … to the days of wandering the corridors of Hogwarts or
taking walks around the lake … to the nights spent practicing Charms and defensive spells …

“Although I must confess,” Dumbledore continued in a soft voice that seemed to carry an infinite
burden of pain, “that I had hoped the two of you had not come together as you did.”

The oppressive silence in the room changed into stunned silence as everyone, including Mr.
Roarke and Tattoo, stared in shock at the old man’s words. Even Sarah was looking at her
grandfather in complete disbelief – unwilling to admit to herself the words that she’d heard him
pronounce.

Dumbledore’s eyes locked with Harry’s, and the room held its collective breath as he continued:
“I took away your memories of each other six years ago for your protection … because there was no
better way to keep you from harm, except through the protective spell that I cast and which Petunia
sealed when she accepted you into her home.

“That protection has been in place since the day you were placed with the Dursleys; that
protection is in place every summer when you leave Hogwarts and is in place until you can return.”
He broke off his gaze and looked around him at the bungalow that Harry and Hermione shared and
glanced at Mr. Roarke, who met his eyes and slowly nodded in understanding. “I’m afraid … that the
protection I imbued you with has either been weakened, or is gone … because you no longer think of
the Dursley’s as home.”

“They never were my *home*!” Harry roared, causing the Terrible Two to cower in a corner,
whimpering in fear at the explosion of rage that they never saw Harry display before -- “They never
treated me like a member of the family … I was always the freak, I was always the odd one out – the
one they always tried to pretend was not there …”

“But there was no place else for you, Harry … and for as long as you consider it your home in
the absence of anything else, the protection is in place and neither Voldemort or anyone else
intending to do you harm can touch you there.”

“It is *not* my home!” Harry gritted out. “Hogwarts is far more of a home to me than that
place has ever been!”

“Is it, Harry?” Dumbledore said softly, and their eyes locked for a long moment, until Harry
turned his eyes away from the cold logic and steely resolve that made his Headmaster one of the
most powerful wizards in the world.

“No,” he mumbled, as he shook his head. While there were times when he thought of Hogwarts as
home, deep in his heart he knew it wasn’t true. Unbidden, his mind ran over the hundreds of
incidents that kept Hogwarts as a special – and not so special – place in his heart: his classes in
Charms, Transfiguration and Creatures where he’d often watched Hermione performing magic
flawlessly, envious of her skills and contrasting these with his Potions classes and the derogatory
comments of Snape; the almost daily encounters with Malfoy and his cronies mixed with the laughter
of Hermione; Filch and Mrs. Norris on their daily rounds around the castle, and the joys of
Quidditch …

But then, neither was the Burrow “home” to him … much as he loved the mothering that Molly gave
him, much as he enjoyed the companionship of Ron and the Twins (except for the sometimes
uncomfortable moments when Ginny was around) -- the Burrow never really felt like *home* to
him. A place to stay, yes … a break in the constant tension and unhappiness of No. 4 Privet Drive,
definitely … but it was merely a *house* -- a place to look forward to visiting before
returning to Hogwarts and …

He felt his neck bones crack as his head spun quickly to look at Hermione, even as he felt her
pushing away from him, and he goggled at her as she stared back at him – her eyes wide as saucers,
sparkling with new tears overlaying the dried streaks down her cheeks, her bikini-clad body with
his shirt as a caftan shivering as if a cold wind had passed through her –

His eyes sought out and locked with the brown eyes of … no, not just his best friend, for
Hermione was all that and much, much more … not his lover, for they hadn’t yet reached that level
in their relationship – interrupted as they were by the sudden visits of people who were close to
them –

Partner, confidant, companion, equal … Hermione was all that and more to him. They may not have
shared physical intimacy in the real world beyond hugs and kisses on the cheek, or the occasional
moments when Hermione’s fingers dug into his arm in her moments of fear or elation … but they had
shared so much more – and it was in times like those that Harry felt that physical intimacy with
Hermione was not needed.

For a brief moment, his mind bolted in that direction – wondering whether it was the deep
emotional and mental connection that he had with Hermione which was the reason why he always seemed
to overlook her physical attributes. That she was pretty, he’d never had any doubts – seeing her in
Krum’s arms during the Yule Ball had simply driven that point home to him. That she was a girl,
he’d never ever questioned … until her scathing retort to Ron in the days preceding the Yule Ball
had driven a painful stake through his heart – because he realized that he had been taking her for
granted for too long.

That she was more than a pretty girl to him was never ever in doubt, not since the moment when
he realized that she was not at their table and didn’t know of the troll loose in the castle … or
even, he reflected now, from the moment she had Apparated behind him to share a sandwich with a
lonely boy in a park in summer England …

He turned to look at Dumbledore as his mouth tried to work up a protest, an objection to the
words that the old man said – knowing at the same time that Hermione was trying to frame the same
response, but both fell silent as Mr. Roarke spoke up in a soft, commanding tone that could not be
denied: “Home is where your heart is, Harry, Hermione. It may sound like a cliché … no, it
*is* a cliché, but it holds more than a grain of truth.”

The words washed over him and he couldn’t respond, couldn’t even make a protest as the truth of
those words crashed into his benumbed mind …

If home were comfort, anywhere would be a comfortable place for him – for as long as Hermione
was with him; if a home denoted safety, any place would mean safety for him, as long as he knew
that Hermione was there … and if home was somewhere that he would always anticipate returning to …
it was to Hermione’s welcoming smile that he always looked forward to.

Without a thought, without even a sensation of his body moving, he felt his arms enfolding her,
half-listening to her sobs and shaky voice as she said, “I’m sorry, Harry … I didn’t know … if I
had known that you would lose your protection because of me …”

And he heard himself whispering fiercely to her, repeating the words he’d said to her soon after
arriving in this place: “Hermione … I *need* you … can’t you see that? But I need you more
than the books or cleverness that you already have. I need your friendship … I need your courage …
there are times when I can’t be what I am unless you’re there beside me.”

He felt his hands moving up and down her back as he comforted her, trying to shush her even as
he whispered fiercely in her ear, “I don’t care, Hermione … I’m home now … I’m with you here, and
I’m home.”

Neither one noticed the others acting as if dust specks had lodged in their eyes; everyone had
turned away from everyone else, surreptitiously wiping or rubbing at the tears in their eyes … even
the Terrible Two, young as they were, couldn’t help but look away from each other at this most
intimate of moments between their mentors.

Albus Dumbledore looked out at the night sky now dotted with stars and a pale, silvery moon,
wondering what the stars held for his charges. He’d done what he thought was right … he did what he
thought was the best for all concerned – not just for Harry but for the whole wizarding world – and
now, he could only look up at the stars and the mysteries they held … wondering why his best-laid
and long-thought out plans had failed.

Unbidden, Sarah’s words to him earlier coursed through his mind, “…your mistakes are never
because of selfishness. If there is any mistake you ever made, it has always been because you have
loved too deeply … letting your heart rule over logic.”

He’d let logic rule him that day in the park, six years before, when he’d memory-charmed Harry
and Hermione to remove any possibility of Harry running away from home and breaking the protection
that he’d cast over him. But he’d let his heart rule him in the years that Harry was at Hogwarts …
and for some unfathomable reason, had found his way to the girl with whom he’d shared that
singularly happy day in the past.

Or rather, he thought with a wry smile, perhaps it was *Hermione* who’d found her way to
the lonely boy on the swing – but then again, why had Harry gone after her that Halloween night
…?

He glanced at his former students and saw them looking back at him with pained compassion in
their eyes, and he could do nothing now but apologize for the mess that he’d created. “I’m sorry,
Lily … James. I have tried to protect Harry … done what I thought was best for him … but it seems I
have failed.”

He closed his eyes briefly before continuing, “I had hoped that Harry would have found in
Hogwarts the friendship and affection that he’d so missed growing up. I was happy when he came into
the Great Hall for the first time in the company of Ron Weasley; at least, I thought, he had found
a friend …”

And he stopped as the memory of the Sorting Ceremony came to mind – and the moment he realized
that, even through Harry’s fear and nervousness at this new and strange world that he’d walked into
unprepared, even though he was in the company of what he’d thought was his first ever friend in the
wizarding world (aside from Hagrid) … that Harry’s eyes were following the actions of the small,
enthusiastic girl who had literally been hopping towards the Gryffindor table after the Hat
delivered its verdict – the girl that Dumbledore had met that summer two years before …

“Professor.” He shook his head at the little girl’s voice, and looked up to see Carolyn’s
worried face looking earnestly at him. “Why does this have to happen to Sir Harry and Miss
Hermione? Uncle Remus never told me why –“

“*Uncle* Remus?” The explosive shout from a bug-eyed James Potter shattered the silence of
the room – and all eyes were turned on the suddenly-uncomfortable girl. “But, but you said—“

“Your mother’s a Muggle,” Lily continued, as she stared wide-eyed at the young girl. “You can’t
be Erin’s daughter …”

“Nicole,” James’s whispered voice suddenly cut in, as he continued staring at the suddenly
flustered young girl. “Remus’ youngest sister is a Squib.”

He looked at Lily’s surprised face and explained, “It was Remus who said he could find the
pictures and music of Tom Jones for your … umm, bet. He told us that he knew someone in the Muggle
world who could help us … he finally admitted when we were drinking in Hogsmeade that his youngest
sister was a Squib …”

“She is, Aunt Lily,” Carolyn said to her. “Which is why she never went to Hogwarts and, with
Uncle Remus the way he is … and Aunt Erin leaving for America soon after I was born …”

Her voice trailed off for a moment as she bowed her head. “Mum never told me about the magical
world … neither did Uncle Remus when he visited us occasionally … not until I got my Hogwarts
letter and went with Mum to Diagon Alley where I met Cindy – and Miss Hermione, Sir Harry and Ron
and the Weasleys …”

She looked up with a tremulous smile as Cindy placed an arm around her shoulder and suddenly
giggled. “Uncle Remus was at home the day before I went to Hogwarts. They were laughing their heads
off at that story … Mum said that she was surprised when Uncle Remus sent her an owl asking for Tom
Jones’ records. She had one album of Tom Jones, but had mixed up the record jackets … what she’d
sent was a Tom Jones record in an Elvis Presley album …”

James Potter stared at the young girl, his face slowly reddening as the memories of that
humiliating night coursed through his body, Lily’s giggles at her own memories not helping his
countenance one bit. With a roar, James leaped at the shocked Carolyn and enfolded the girl in a
bear hug so tight that she literally squeaked in terror – and gave her a resounding kiss on the
cheek.

“So *that’s* why you knew what song to play, you little minx! I should have known you
looked like someone I knew … I should paddle you for what Remus did to me!” He suddenly lifted the
struggling young girl on his shoulder, waving his hand as if actually planning to spank her for the
misdeeds of her Uncle some twenty years before –

“Dad.” The quiet voice of his son shut off the building hilarity in the room as if someone had
taken a wrench to a running faucet, and he turned to face the set, stone-hard face of Harry.
“Carolyn’s right, Dad … why is all this happening to me? Why me, Dad? Why me?”

Slowly, James Potter placed Carolyn on her feet – doing so deliberately, as if avoiding Harry’s
pained eyes. James glanced at Lily, who was looking down at the floor – and turned to look at his
former Headmaster, who also seemed to be avoiding his gaze.

He started rubbing the bridge of his nose as he kept trying to catch the eye of Dumbledore and
his wife, until finally, with a prolonged sigh – “Albus?”

The old man finally looked at him and they locked eyes for a long moment; the old man turned to
stare at Lily for a moment and lowered his eyes, knowing that there could only be one answer to
Harry’s question.

“On a cold, wet night sixteen years ago, in a room above the bar at the Hog’s Head inn …”
Dumbledore paused for a moment and sighed, shaking his head. “I had gone there to see an applicant
for the post of Divination teacher, though it was against my inclination to allow the subject of
Divination to continue at all. The applicant, however, was the great-great-granddaughter of a very
famous, very gifted Seer and I thought it common politeness to meet her. I was disappointed. It
seemed to me that she had not a trace of the gift herself. I told her, courteously I hope, that I
did not think she would be suitable for the post. I turned to leave.”

Dumbledore closed his eyes briefly and pulled his wand from within the folds of his robe. The
others looked on in surprise, but he merely raised an eyebrow at Mr. Roarke, who gave him a small
nod which he returned with a small bow. A cone of shimmering light came out of the wand’s end and a
small, three-dimensional image materialized on the table; for a moment, Hermione thought of R2D2
casting a holographic projection of Princess Leia in Obi Wan Kenobi’s cave – and tried to shake the
thought from her mind.

A figure draped in shawls stood before them, her eyes magnified to enormous size behind her
glasses, and she stood straight, arms at her side – much like Princess Leia as she made her appeal
to the old Jedi Knight. But when Sybill Trelawney spoke, it was not in her usual ethereal, mystic
voice – or the controlled voice of the Star Wars heroine -- but in harsh, hoarse tones she had
never heard, but which Harry had heard her use once before:

*“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... born to those who have
thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal,
but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not ... and either must die at the hand of the other for
neither can live while the other survives ... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will
be born as the seventh month dies ...”*

A flick of his wand, and the image disappeared … replaced by an absolute silence within the
veranda. For a long moment, it seemed as if the sea itself had fallen silent for no one could
remember even hearing the crashing of waves on the shore.

“Professor Dumbledore?” Harry said very quietly, for Dumbledore, still staring at the table
where the image of Trelawney had dissipated, seemed completely lost in thought. “It … did that mean
... what did that mean?”

“It meant,” said Dumbledore in a soft voice, “that the person who has the only chance of
conquering Lord Voldemort for good was born at the end of July, nearly sixteen years ago. This boy
would be born to parents who had already defied Voldemort three times.”

Harry felt as though something was closing in on him. His breathing seemed difficult, and his
eyes – wide, desperate, sought out his parents, who were looking at the floor, pain etching their
faces as their hands gripped each others’ tightly.

“It means – me?”

Dumbledore surveyed him for a moment through his glasses, glanced at James and Lily for a second
before turning back to him.

“The odd thing, Harry,” he said softly, “is that it may not have meant you at all. Sybill’s
prophecy could have applied to two wizard boys, both born at the end of July that year, both of
whom had parents in the Order of the Phoenix, both sets of parents having narrowly escaped
Voldemort three times. One, of course, was you. The other was Neville Longbottom.”

“Then – it might not be me?” said Harry

“I am afraid,” said Dumbledore slowly, looking as though every word cost him a great effort,
“that there is no doubt that it is you.”

“But you said,” Hermione’s voice squeaked in protest as she joined the discussion, “— Neville
was born at the end of July, too – and his mum and dad – “

“You are forgetting the next part of the prophecy, the final identifying feature of the boy who
could vanquish Voldemort.” Once again, the old man’s eyes locked with Harry’s: “Voldemort himself
would mark him as his equal. And so he did. He chose you, Harry – not Neville. He gave you the scar
that has proved both blessing and curse.”

“But he might have chosen wrong!” said Harry. “He might have marked the wrong person!”

“He chose the boy he thought most likely to be a danger to him,” Dumbledore replied. “And notice
this, Harry: he chose, not the pureblood (which, according to his creed, is the only kind of wizard
worth being or knowing) but the half-blood, like himself. He saw himself in you before he had ever
seen you, and in marking you with that scar, he did not kill you, as he intended, but gave you
powers, and a future, which have fitted you to escape him not once, but four times so far -
something that neither your parents, nor Neville’s parents, ever achieved.”

“Why did he do it, then?” said Harry, who felt numb and cold. “Why did he try and kill me as a
baby? He should have waited to see whether Neville or I looked more dangerous when we were older
and tried to kill whoever it was then –“

“That might, indeed, have been the more practical course,” said Dumbledore, “except that
Voldemort’s information about the prophecy was incomplete. The Hog’s Head inn, which Sybill chose
for its cheapness, has long attracted, shall we say, a more interesting clientele than the Three
Broomsticks. As I found to my cost, it is a place where it is never safe to assume you are not
being overheard. Of course, I had not dreamed, when I set out to meet Sybill Trelawney, that I
would hear anything worth overhearing. My – our – one stroke of good fortune was that the
eavesdropper was detected only a short way into the prophecy and thrown from the building.”

“So he only heard -?”

“He heard only the beginning, the part foretelling the birth of a boy in July to parents who had
thrice defied Voldemort. Consequently, he could not warn his master that to attack you would be to
risk transferring power to you, and marking you as his equal. So Voldemort never knew that there
might be danger in attacking you, that it might be wise to wait, to learn more. He did not know
that you would have power the Dark Lord knows not –“

“But I don’t!” said Harry, in a strangled voice. “I haven’t any powers he hasn’t got, I’m not
even that good at magic … Hermione is better at all this than I am – ”

“‘He will have a power the Dark Lord knows not’,” Lily Potter quoted softly, and Harry turned
his tear-filled eyes to her. “Haven’t you been listening, Harry? Voldemort may be the most powerful
or learned wizard in this century, but there is one thing that he despises, one thing that he
always underestimates … *one thing that he knows nothing about*.”

She glanced at Hermione, who was looking as shell-shocked and clueless as Harry, and smiled
wistfully. “It was that which made you go after a little girl whom you didn’t even think of as a
friend when she was in danger … even if the only memory of your friendship with her had been wiped
from your memory.”

“It is the same power that helped you find this place, Harry,” Mr. Roarke’s quiet voice cut in.
A corner of his mouth turned up in a crooked smile at Harry’s shocked expression. “You’ve said it
before … this is not *your* fantasy – it’s Hermione’s. But you found your way here, not by
accident or even by design … but you’re here because you wanted the assurance that Hermione was
safe and unharmed.”

The crooked smile turned into a warm smile as he continued, “You could have left when you knew
she was safe, but you decided to stay on. You *wanted* to stay here so that you could know her
better, so that you could have some time with her by yourself without the pressures of life or
school or other people” – he broke off for a moment – “although it would seem that the last hasn’t
really happened.”

“It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities,” Sarah
added. “I would think that your being here, with Hermione, shows what you truly feel and are … more
than anything that you could say.”

Harry didn’t answer, his mind now totally numb from the revelation of the prophecy that had
guided his life. He didn’t know how he was able to remain standing; it felt as if his blood and the
warmth of his body were slowly draining away … after a while, he could feel his feet growing
heavier as if everything that was in him was slowly pooling into his lower limbs. Unwillingly, he
could feel his knees suddenly buckling … groping blindly, he felt a chair behind him and slowly
sank into it, elbows on his knees, hands covering his face.

A pall of gloom hung over the veranda and the oppressive silence wrapped itself once again
around everyone there. Dumbledore and Sarah stood to one side, the old man once again looking up at
the stars as if trying to divine their meaning; his granddaughter beside him, staring blindly at
the now-darkened beach. James and Lily had also sunk into chairs away from Harry, Lily’s face
buried in James’ chest as they sought comfort from each other and the cruel fate that Destiny had
rolled their way.

Hermione stood alone, staring at her more than best friend in wonder, feeling a fugitive fear
flitting through her veins, the weight of the prophecy bearing down on her as she watched Harry’s
face as he fought with the knowledge that, she was sure, he would have much rather done without.
She fought down the urge to approach him and hug him, knowing that, for the moment, Harry would
want to struggle with this on his own … but steeling herself to do what she must for the moment she
knew would soon arrive …

“This is another fine mess you brought us into, Cindy.” Heads snapped around to look at the
young girl’s sad and worried face – and soft smiles broke out on the faces of everyone there
(except Harry) at Carolyn’s weak attempt at flippancy – and Lily smiled at the young girl and her
friend, silently thanking the stars that a seemingly uncaring Divinity had seen fit to place the
two young girls in Harry and Hermione’s path. They needed the two young girls, she thought …
someone to remind them of what was important, someone to remind them that there was a far larger
world and people out there who mattered …

“…*either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other
survives*.” The words, spoken softly, made them turn their eyes back to Harry, still sitting on
the chair with his head in his hands. “Does that mean what I think it means … that I must either
kill him or be killed by him?”

He lifted his face from his hands and glared at Dumbledore. “Is that why you rescued me from the
house … is that why you brought me to Aunt Petunia and sentenced me to that horrible place? Is that
*why* you felt it was so important to *protect me* … not because I was a baby who’d lost
his parents … but because I am the *tool* you needed to destroy Voldemort?”

The last words were a scream and everyone in the place felt as if white-hot knives were tearing
into their souls as the indictment lingered in the air. Dumbledore flushed at the accusation and
opened his mouth to reply, but Harry’s angry words overrode him: “That was all I ever was to you!
You told me just enough to help me beat him in first year … you gave me my Dad’s Invisibility Cloak
so I could get around the castle and find the Mirror of Erised … you wiped my memory of Hermione
because you didn’t want anything to happen to the *weapon* you needed …”

Dumbledore’s eyes were staring at him in shock, and his mouth opened and closed soundlessly …
for there was no real answer that the old man could give at that moment. In truth, and he had to
admit it to himself … there was more than a grain of truth to Harry’s words.

And yet, he asked himself as Harry’s words washed over him, what is truth?

That he’d protected Harry in his infancy, even if it meant that he’d had to condemn him to a
decade’s worth of abuse because he’d needed to keep Harry safe and protected against a day that
he’d hoped would never come was true. That he’d interfered and wiped the boy’s memory of a special
friend and a special day in his past to ensure that the protection wouldn’t break was also true
…

But against that he had to weigh everything that Harry had done during his years at Hogwarts –
and all the moments when Harry had triumphed without his help or guidance ... that, also, was the
truth. That he hadn’t done anything to encourage or discourage Harry’s friendship and deepening
relationship with Hermione – even if it would have wrecked his plans and hopes – that was also the
truth.

But at this moment he knew there was nothing he could say which would make Harry understand
what, to him, was the singular truth: beyond everything that Harry was, and could be, to the
wizarding world and the fight with Voldemort … there was simply Harry himself – the boy that he’d
come to know and understand as he grew into his abilities … the boy who’d often reminded him of
James and Lily during their years under him at Hogwarts … the boy who embodied all that was good
and true …

“You should have left me there with my mum and dad …” Dumbledore flinched at the savage words
and painful accusations from the young man, his whole body now shaking in fury at the revelations
of the day. “You should have let me die with them!”

“No.”

The single word was spoken softly but with a clear undercurrent of steel in its tone, and Harry
looked up to see Hermione standing in front of him – eyes glinting with their own inherent pain and
determination. He opened his mouth to answer her, but she quickly cut him off: “If you had died …
if something had happened to you before you came to Hogwarts … or if, God forbid, you never made it
to Hogwarts … then I would have been dead, too.”

“Hermione …”

“Shut it, Harry.” It was the face and tone of an angry Hermione … one that he had seen only once
before – and Malfoy had been at the receiving end of that anger – and Harry fell silent, her eyes
boring into his.

“Don’t you see that, Harry? If you weren’t around in first year … I would have been killed by
the troll that Quirrell brought into the castle. If it weren’t for you, Ginny Weasley or some other
witch or wizard would still be in the Chamber of Secrets, buried, forgotten … perhaps even Hogwarts
itself would be closed because no one but Tom Riddle could get in or out of the Chamber. If you
weren’t there, then Sirius would still be in Azkaban, dying a little each day – Animagus or not. He
broke out of Azkaban only because he knew you were alive …”

“But if it weren’t for me, then Wormtail wouldn’t have escaped, Hermione! Aren’t you forgetting
that? If it weren’t for me and my oh-so-holy attitude, then Cedric Diggory would still be alive –
and Voldemort would still be in Albania, living among the rats and snakes, unable to come
back.”

“But you don’t know that, Harry … who could really know? Who could really say what could have
been with Wormtail … with Cedric? Voldemort might have found another way … someone else might have
found him and brought him back …” Hermione stopped and knelt in front of Harry, her hands grabbing
his and holding him tightly as her eyes remained locked with his. “Who can really say what could
have been with them, Harry? But there’s one thing that I do know … if you weren’t there, then I
wouldn’t be here with you now … Ginny would still be buried in the Chamber of Secrets while Hagrid
would be accompanying Sirius in Azkaban.”

She placed a soft and gentle hand over his mouth before he could say anything, and continued
with utter conviction, trying to reach through his bothered mind and soul: “Don’t measure your life
by your losses, Harry … measure them by your victories … measure them by the people you’ve touched,
and helped … the people you’ve saved.”

“I wasn’t able to save Cedric, Hermione …”

“There was nothing you could do, Harry! Can’t you see that? You were both caught unaware … who
would have expected that the Cup was a portkey and that Voldemort and Wormtail were waiting at the
other end? But that isn’t important … you were able to beat Voldemort, bring Cedric’s body back …
warn the world about Voldemort’s return – that must count for something!”

The two teens were so engrossed in each other that Harry nearly jumped when he felt a soft hand
resting on his shoulder – and he looked up to see Lily’s green eyes on his.

“She’s right, you know,” Lily said softly to her son. “Don’t count your life by your losses,
Harry … measure them by your victories and the people you’ve helped. You may have been unable to
save Cedric but who knows? It may well have been his time to go…” a tear fell from her eyes as she
looked at her son and glanced at James, “as it was my time – our time.”

For a moment, she paused as she stared into her son’s eyes before continuing, “I didn’t want
this to happen, Harry … none of us did. But it happened … don’t count me or your father among your
losses because we did what we had to do. We died to protect you … not because of what you were to
be, but because you are our son. I would have done the same thing to protect you, even if it were
Neville or someone else who was prophesied to defeat Voldemort.

“Because you’re my son … and we love you.”

With a heart-wrenching wail, Harry suddenly stood up and hugged his mother … finally allowing
all his pain, all his frustration and disappointments pour out of him in a tidal wave of release
that he’d denied himself for too long. Lily Potter held her son tightly, his head on her shoulder,
her eyes closed as tears leaked out and she could feel her heart wrenching in her shared pain with
her son.

After a moment, she opened her eyes – and saw the teary-eyed Hermione smiling tremulously at
her. Without a word, she held out a hand to the person who owned her son’s heart … and enfolded the
young girl and her son in her arms, allowing her shoulders to become wet with their tears … felt
someone behind her and knew it was James and she allowed herself to lean back into his warm embrace
… felt Harry and Hermione stepping aside to allow James to join them …

None of them noticed Mr. Roarke and Tattoo quietly ushering the others out of the veranda … that
Sarah, Cindy and Ca were walking away with heads bowed to hide the tears in their eyes, but all
three unsuccessful in doing so as their tears fell on the sand … or that Dumbledore had paused for
a moment to look at the family hugging each other before turning away with a sigh …

***

“He’s just sleeping, Carolyn.”

“Well, he looks like he’s in a Vulcan healing trance …”

“Huh?”

“It’s a Muggle thing, Cindy … I’ll explain later. But you heard Madam Pomfrey – she’s not sure
what’s happened to Professor Dumbledore.”

“Neither do we, Ca.” There was a moment’s pause and he heard Cindy whispering, “Is the potion
supposed to last this long? It’s almost dinner time …”

“Fred and George did say that they weren’t sure how long the effects would last.”

Again, silence from the two young girls … and Dumbledore remained silent and still, his nimble
mind working behind his closed eyes, recalling what had happened that day, wondering whether he’d
just been dreaming or--

“We’ve got to do *something*, Cindy!”

A part of his mind had been considering the young girl’s words – and suddenly locked on the
memories of the summer he’d spent with Sarah – part of the time they’d spent as Muggles as they
toured England -- and he remembered what the ‘Vulcan Healing Trance’ was and how one was supposed
to be awakened from it –

He opened his eyes just as Carolyn was raising her hand, and he said in a firm voice that had
the two young girls leaping back in shock, “I don’t think that’s necessary, Miss Wright.”

He slowly sat up and glanced around him, realizing that he had been lying down on a bed next to
Harry and Hermione’s, and raised an eyebrow at the two young Gryffindors, both of whom were holding
their hands to chests where hearts were undoubtedly beating away in triple-time.

“May I request that, next time, you allow Madam Pomfrey or a Healer to do their work? They are,
after all, trained for it.” The young Muggle-born witch looked down at her feet as he said this,
mumbling both apology and agreement … and the old Headmaster smiled, remembering an earnest young
wizard who he’d appointed as Prefect in the hope of controlling his best friends (an appointment,
he sighed to himself, that did not work out as expected!) …

He leveled his eyes on the young witch and said, with a twinkle in his eyes, “Apology accepted,
Miss Wright. Now, if you would help me sit up …?”

With the help of the two young witches, he was soon sitting up on the bed and fumbling with his
glasses – and saw the pumpkins still scattered around the Hospital Wing, and sighed. For a moment,
he thought about retiring and letting Minerva McGonagall run the show … and shook the thought off.
He could only hope that he would have the strength to see these two witches graduate … rather than
have them bring him to an early grave.

“Professor Dumbledore! You’re awake!” He smiled as a flustered Madam Pomfrey bustled up to him,
a tray of medications in her hands. He tried to refuse as she continued to bustle around him,
half-listening to her train of mumbled charms and spells as she ran a diagnostic check over him –
and realized, with some surprise, that the windows of the Hospital Wing was dark – and, from the
faint rumbling of his stomach, knew that it was dinner time or close to it.

Soon enough, the nurse was declaring him all right – if rather rested from the imposed nap – and
was trying to usher him from the place, along with the two children, when he suddenly stopped to
look at Harry and Hermione, still in their joined beds. Madam Pomfrey looked at him at just that
moment and wondered whether it was a manifestation of Higher Magic – she could not fathom how
Dumbledore could smile so warmly while at the same time projecting the feeling of an infinitely
deep chasm of worry, and pain … and, and – *heartache* – as he stared at the couple on the
bed, spooned together in their sleep – Harry’s fist in Hermione’s hands as she held it to her
heart, Harry’s head resting on her hair, but lines of worry apparent in their faces.

He looked at her and she turned her eyes away from him, wondering why she should be bothered by
that look.

“Why don’t you join us for dinner, Poppy? I’m sure that nothing would happen while we’re gone …
we could have one of the house elves here to inform us if anything changes. You do deserve a break
from all the excitement.”

Protests died on Madam Pomfrey’s as her eyes met those of her superior. With a silent nod, she
made a quick check of her patients while the two young girls, with a last look at their sleeping
mentors, shouldered their bags and books and started to quietly walk out ahead of them, but they
were stopped in their tracks by the Headmaster’s voice.

“Miss Galloway! Miss Wright!” He beckoned them closer (including Madam Pomfrey) so that his
words did not have to carry over the room. “I would be much obliged if you turn over whatever …
ummm, *formula* the Weasleys may have concocted to Madam Pomfrey, in case the Ravenclaws are
not back to normal by tomorrow morning.”

His smile went even broader as he saw the two young girls with their mouths open in shock, and
felt a warmth in his heart as he realized that they were not about to protest or lie about his
statement.

“Please tell Masters Fred and George Weasley that if another such incident happens,” and he
waved his hand around him, “I will have the pair of them trimming the Quidditch pitch with a pair
of scissors.”

The two girls mumbled their understanding – and looked at him wide-eyed as he continued, “And as
for the two of you … you will spend the next two weeks in detention with Madam Pomfrey. At the very
least,” and he smiled at Carolyn, “she can teach you the difference between a magical Healing Charm
and the Vulcan Healing Trance.”

The old man had to struggle to keep a straight face as he watched Cindy mumble, “You and your
big mouth!” at her friend, the latter sticking out her tongue at her friend while Madam Pomfrey
looked on in puzzlement.

“With power comes responsibility, Carolyn,” he said. “As your Uncle Remus well knows.”

“Uncle Remus!” was the shocked response from Cindy and Madam Pomfrey, who were both staring at
the other girl in surprise.

“Is that why …” Cindy’s question abruptly stopped, as a frown formed on her forehead and she
stared at Carolyn in some confusion.

“What?” The other girl asked, puzzled.

“Nothing …” Cindy shook her head quickly, and turned away as she mumbled, “Nothing … it was just
a dream, I think.”

Dumbledore watched the two young girls walk out of the room ahead of him with Madam Pomfrey, and
smiled as he saw them quietly pulling out small vials with an orangey-colored powder within, which
they handed to the nurse who just as quietly pocketed them before they walked out the door.

With a sigh, he stopped to take a look at Harry and Hermione, still asleep in their joined beds
and surrounded by pumpkins … held the image in his mind’s eye for a second before quietly closing
the door where two young people were still chasing a dream.



13. Reaching Out
----------------

Dream Chasing

**Title:** Dream Chasing (13)
**Author name:** Romulus Lupin
**Author email:** galigad@yahoo.com
**Category:** Romance
**Sub Category:**
**Keywords:** Harry Hermione Fantasy Island
**Rating:** PG-13
**Spoilers:**SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, OotP
**Summary:** Chapter 13 up (at last!) How will Harry and Hermione deal with the surprising
revelations of Dumbledore? Will James and Lily be able to help them deal with the situation? Will
they ever go back to Hogwarts? And more importantly … will they ever find a chance to snog?

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended.

**AUTHOR’S NOTES:** The usual thousand apologies to everyone for not having been able to
update sooner. I thought that I had surmounted my writer’s block with Chapter 12 – this one was
much worse and kept me spinning my wheels for weeks.

Thank you to everyone who has stuck it out with me through this insane period of my life, but
especially **Nicole** whose constant reminders and gentle advice has helped me keep my sanity.
The same appreciation for all the wonderful writers on **portkey.org** for keeping me company
through the hard days and sleepless nights.

I would also like to express my deepest appreciation to **Sandra (Façade)** for reasons which
will become obvious, and to a few other people who will be mentioned in my end notes. ;)

I hope you enjoy this.

Chapter 13. Reaching Out …

“Any sausages in this place?”

The question, so totally incongruous and bizarre, had the effect of breaking up the
highly-charged, tear-stained group hug of the Potter family. They stepped apart from each other,
Harry and Hermione surreptitiously wiping their cheeks and eyes – Lily gaping at James, who was
looking back at them with an innocent look on his own tear-stained face.

“Well?” he asked his son, who was looking back at him as if he’d gone mad. “Are there?”

“Sausages?”

Impatiently, James replied: “Yes, Harry … sausages, the spicier the better?”

“James?” He glanced at Lily’s puzzled face and gave a theatrical sigh, shaking his head in
mock-frustration at the clueless look on their faces. “You know *why*, Lily … after all that
crying and carrying on, Harry and I have to eat spicy sausages, drink lots of ale and do quite a
bit of belching so that we can reassert ourselves as men!”

They gawked at him and then Hermione giggled … Lily snickered … and finally, the one he’d been
waiting for – a smile from Harry.

“That’s better,” he told them. “Things were getting a bit too … *tense* around here.”

He ducked as Lily aimed a light slap at him, and grinned back at the now-smiling faces of Harry
and Hermione. “Join me, Lily?” he asked, the slightly manic, always irreverent grin firmly in place
as he waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “There’s a nice counter in the kitchen …”

“JAMES POTTER!” Lily’s shocked voice was met by a burst of laughter from Harry and Hermione, and
she glanced at them with a smile before reaching out to grab her husband by the collar and drag him
to the kitchen – seeing, but not commenting, as she saw him give the children a wink out of the
corner of her eye.

They smiled back at her and turned away; with a quiet sigh, Harry collapsed into one of the
chairs they’d brought out earlier – sat there with elbows on knees, head on his hands, staring down
at his feet while Hermione stood there, watching him.

Unconsciously, Hermione began a mental countdown. ‘Ten … nine … eight …’ She’d known her friend
for too long … had watched him both openly and surreptitiously ever since their first day at
Hogwarts … had fretted, worried, fussed over him both in school and out … ‘Seven … six … five
…’

“Why me, Hermione?”

She stopped herself from a snicker or a sigh and knelt in front of him, waiting quietly until
he’d lifted his face from his hands, and his tortured eyes met her compassionate browns. For a long
moment, they merely stared at each other in that silent communication that seemed to have always
been there but became more pronounced in their third year at Hogwarts.

How much pain can a person hold, she wondered? His life had been nothing but a surfeit of misery
… ten years with the Dursleys and the only good memory of those years wiped away so that he would
continue to endure the deprivation of that sterile household … the years at Hogwarts where every
sliver of fun and entertainment had to have its moments of terror and fear: Sirius’ offer to take
him away from the Dursleys snatched away by Wormtail’s escape … the exhilaration of winning the
Triwizard Tournament turned into the twin horror of watching Cedric killed and of Voldemort’s
resurrection …this idyllic vacation spoiled by the revelations of Sarah and Dumbledore ...

Dumbledore.

The prophecy.

Voldemort’s incomplete information on what Sybil Trelawney said … which led to the deaths of
Harry’s parents.

Meeting Harry in that park in summer England – and the reasons why Dumbledore Memory-Charmed
them …

Why did it all have to happen to Harry?

From deep within her mind, body and soul came the answer: “Because you can, Harry.”

Their eyes locked for a long, silent moment before he mumbled, “That’s not an answer,
Hermione.”

“It’s the only answer I can give you.”

She blinked in surprise as she realized that she had been leaning forward – and that Harry’s
eyes were only inches from her as he leaned forward ...

“I didn’t know you believed in destiny, Hermione.”

“I don’t,” she whispered, as she locked her eyes with him. “I believe in you.”

For a long moment, there was nothing in the world but their eyes … the soft sense of their
breathing intermingling … with a soft sigh, he murmured a quiet “Thank you, Hermione,” as he
planted a soft kiss on her forehead.

She gave him a small, tremulous smile and stood up, startling him and making him lean back in
the chair – and she sat on his lap and placed her arms around his neck, placing her head on his
shoulder as his arms automatically went around her waist to steady her. He felt her smiling from
beneath the mass of brown hair on his chest as she murmured a soft, “You’re welcome, Harry.”

He planted another soft kiss on her hair and held her, closing his eyes to the world around him,
his fears and uncertainties washing away for the moment in the warmth and comfort of her embrace …
neither one noticing that James Potter had been watching from behind a curtained window – and had
let loose a sigh of utter frustration at what had just transpired.

“I knew it! I should give Harry some tips on snog — Ow!” He turned around to see an angry Lily
Potter glowering at him with her hands on her hips – and he cringed in fear at the spectacle of a
red-haired, green-eyed goddess with a glare piercing enough to turn him into burnt toast.

He opened his mouth to say something – but could only manage a quiet “Meep!” as he stared,
goggle-eyed at his angry wife.

“Is snogging the only thing you can think about, you irrepressible *teenager*?” He felt
himself quivering like a bowl of jelly at the icy tones of his wife, feeling that old familiar
sensation of shifting from one foot to the other in front of McGonagall’s desk, trying to come up
with an excuse for another Marauder misdeed as Lily continued, “Have you absolutely no
*shame*? Sneaking and peeking at what your son is doing while I slave away at the kitchen
looking for your bloody *sausages* while I’m waiting for you to–“

There was only one sure way to shut that mouth, he thought – and grabbed her around the waist
and covered her mouth with his own – muffling her sudden shriek of surprise, and smiling to himself
as he felt her arms snaking around his neck, thinking, in that single brief moment before his
senses were overwhelmed, that he needed to schedule some alone time with his son to discuss the
birds and the bees …

***

In a large townhouse outside of London, a middle-aged man went through the routine of closing
down the house for the night, moving from room to room, checking windows and doors and shutting off
the lights … pausing for a moment in the living room to look at a picture of his small family
before turning away with a sigh.

He slowly climbed the stairs to the room he shared with his wife and paused in the hallway,
realizing that a light was on in his daughter’s bedroom and knowing, without thinking, that he
would find his wife of two decades there … with a wan smile, he walked to the room and looked in,
and saw his wife sitting on his daughter’s bed, a photo album open on her lap as she stared at a
picture on the bedside table.

Quietly, he sat down beside her; silently, she laid her head on his shoulder and gave a soft
sigh – their hands instinctively finding each other and entwining on the album.

“No owls today, I take it?” he said in a soft voice. He sighed as he felt his wife shake her
head and placed an arm around her, his eyes roaming around the room full of books and toys – and
the Star Wars action figures and other mementoes that he and his wife had collected in their
younger years and bequeathed to their only child.

He heard his wife sniffling beside him, and forced his mind back to the woman in his arms as she
murmured in a low, worried voice, “She’s never missed out on sending us an owl before, David.”

He opened his mouth to protest but quickly shut it; he knew, as well as she did, that Hermione
*had* missed out on sending them her weekly letters back in second year when she had been
Petrified by a basilisk. They hadn’t made much of a fuss then but only because Minerva McGonagall
and Albus Dumbledore visited them soon after the attack; the elder witch and wizard assuring them
that Hermione was safe – albeit unable to move – and that steps were already in place to cure her
of her unfortunate condition as well as to keep her – and the other students -- safe.

Their trust in the Headmaster and his Deputy was fully repaid when Hermione was finally able to
write them – and they had been able to hug her and hold her when they met up at Kings’ Cross
station at the end of that school year. They had gone on a vacation to France that year, he
remembered … and smiled as he recalled Hermione so deftly guiding them around the magical places of
France in her search for what she called ‘the perfect gift’ for her friend, the one who’d killed
the monster that had Petrified her … the person she’d chattered on and on about to her mother and
himself … the person who’d been a prominent feature in her letters before they were cut off … the
boy for whom she’d spent an inordinate amount of money on (but then, they couldn’t begrudge her the
cost – the boy had, after all, nearly lost his life during the battle with the basilisk and she
only wanted to show her appreciation for the deed!)

He could remember the chagrin on Hermione’s face when he’d asked in all seriousness how she was
going to get the Broomstick Servicing Kit back to England without Customs asking about the magical
package – and his utter surprise to be awakened the next morning by Hermione’s glee as she shouted,
“Mum! Dad! Hedwig’s here! She can take the package to Harry in time for his birthday!”

He’d blinked his eyes open and sat up to stare into the inscrutable eyes of a haughty-looking
snowy owl perched on their bed, and he’d been so surprised that he’d mumbled “Good morning” to it
before realizing that he’d spoken as if it could understand – and he’d fallen back on the bed,
shaking his head, when the owl hooted softly back at him, for all the world as if responding to his
greeting.

He realized that he’d been rubbing his wife’s back as he sought to comfort her, and tried to
imbue his voice with amusement and confidence, “Oh really now, Abby … I’m sure if something has
happened to Hermione, we’d have gotten word.”

“I know, David … still, one can’t help worrying. I hope nothing bad has happened to them.”

‘Them?’ he thought. He was about to ask her to elaborate when his eyes fell on the picture on
Hermione’s bedside table, and the words died in his throat as he stared at the picture that he’d
looked at for years … and wondered why he had never seen it before.

It was a photograph held between the action figures of Princess Leia and Luke Skywalker, and he
felt himself smile as he remembered a young girl with bushy brown hair declaring in a loud and
bossy voice that her parents’ favorite movie of all time was a monumental cop-out – she had then
stomped to her room and placed the action figures of Leia and Luke together, hands close to each
other as if touching – with Han Solo some distance away, the sardonic look on the space smuggler’s
face seemingly amazed at the temerity of the young girl who was defying the storyline that had been
in place even before she was born …

He felt his smile stiffen as he stared at the picture held between Leia and Luke – a picture
that he’d looked at so many times in the past four years … and now, he wondered how he’d never
really seen it before.

It was a wizarding photograph, taken when Hermione was in first year … and he could remember his
sigh of relief and contentment on seeing that she had found the friendship that had been denied her
when her intelligence and personality (to say nothing of the magic she had but didn’t know about)
had thrown other children her age (and older) askance. He’d been bothered for a moment when he
realized that her best friends were boys, but then again they were all of eleven years old! He was
simply overjoyed that she was so happy … standing in a line with Harry between her and Ron, all
three smiling at the camera. Ron was constantly nudging Harry, who was showing a lop-sided grin
every now and then. The Hermione in the picture was touching Harry’s arm and glancing at him every
so often when Harry turned and beamed back at her.

David Granger blinked and found himself wondering if there was something he’d missed when he saw
it the first time – or if wizarding photographs changed as the people in it grew older, matured …
changed.

Because there was something different …

There were still the three beaming, contented faces, but two had eyes alight only for each
other, while the third looked on in amazement at the love that was radiating outward, eclipsing
everything around them ….

He tightened his embrace around his wife, and squeezed her hand tightly for a second as the
fugitive fear in his gut coalesced and spread into his chest.

He could remember their trip to Diagon Alley the summer of Hermione’s second year, smiling as
his once isolated daughter greeted various young witches and wizards, but he couldn’t help but
wonder why she seemed preoccupied and constantly searching the crowds for something ... or some
*one*.

They were standing at the top step of Gringotts when he heard the answer – “Harry! Harry! Over
here!” He’d exchanged a glance with his wife, realizing that they both had an eyebrow arching up as
they watched their daughter running down the white marble steps of the wizarding bank and heard her
saying to the boy with broken glasses clad in sooty, too-large clothes accompanied by a huge,
bearded man, “What happened to your glasses? Hello, Hagrid - Oh, it’s wonderful to see you two
again - Are you coming into Gringotts, Harry?”

Four sentences – and only one of them directed at Hagrid – and he caught his wife’s eyes in a
silent question, and they both shrugged. Without a word, they entered the bank to change their
money, knowing that Hermione would be with them in due time. He’d wanted to take a closer look at
the boy, perhaps get a chance to talk with him a bit, but all that was dashed when Hermione came in
with a horde of redheads and he found himself talking to Arthur Weasley …

Looking at the picture now, he wondered … did he see Hermione holding hands with Harry when they
walked into the bank?

He shook his head of the memory, but it was quickly replaced by another recollection from the
summer just past when they had met Hermione on Platform 9 and ¾ at the end of the school year.
They’d been caught in traffic on the way to King’s Cross and were, therefore, a bit late in getting
there – but not too late to see Hermione giving Harry a kiss on the cheek before he turned away,
and they found themselves enfolding their daughter in a warm embrace.

And while she had hugged them back with the same warmth, there was a certain reserve in that
embrace … and David Granger could feel her looking over his shoulder and he knew that she kept
glancing at the young man who was walking away from her, back straight and face set, towards an
angry-looking couple that he knew would be the Dursleys … Harry’s uncle and aunt.

“What will come will come, and we’ll meet it when it does.”

“What was that, princess?” He wasn’t sure if it was Hermione who’d said those words, and he’d
pulled away from her embrace to hold her at arm’s length … studying the face of the baby he’d once
held in his arms and realizing, with a pang in his heart, that the little girl he’d loved was now a
young woman with her own hopes and dreams.

Their trip home that day was somber, as Hermione told them of the death of a student during the
Tri-Wizard tournament … and they had stared at her in horror as she told them that Harry had been
there, and witnessed not only the murder of Cedric Diggory but also the resurrection of an evil
wizard known only as “You-Know-Who.”

He shook himself as he felt his wife take a deep breath and closed the album on her lap – but
stopped her, a picture in the album having caught his eye. He frowned, wracking his brains as to
where, and when, and *how* this particular photograph came to be …

It was a picture of a tiny Hermione, asleep in a cradle that he could not remember ever having
owned, beside another baby who looked a few months older than her … the other baby in the picture
seemed to have a possessive arm around Hermione’s tiny stomach, while Hermione had her miniature
hand over the other’s heart.

He looked at Abigail with a frown; after looking at the picture, she smiled at him. “That was in
1980 – you remember? Dad wanted to buy Hermione a present … you were with them looking for toys
while I took Hermione to the toddler section.”

She smiled down at the photograph as fond memories coursed through her. “Some lady bumped her
cart into mine and then we fell to talking … next thing we knew, her husband had come up to us,
asking if my daughter was the one snuggling up to their son!”

David frowned; he couldn’t remember that incident – and Abigail laughed at him. “You weren’t
there, David … by the time you’d caught up with us, they’d already left. Some store clerk was
showing off his Polaroid camera and he snapped the picture and gave it to me …”

“Oh,” he replied as he looked at the picture of his sleeping child, snuggled close to some
strange boy who had his tiny arm around her. “Do you remember their names?”

Abigail frowned and shook her head. “No … no, I don’t. All I could remember now was that the
mother had the most wonderful red hair ….”

“It wouldn’t happen to be the Weasleys, would it?”

His wife shook her head ruefully, “I don’t think so, David. I would have recognized Molly or
Arthur when we met them … besides, their children all have red hair too, don’t they? Her husband
had messy black hair, I remember, and glasses--”

Abigail Granger stopped, eyes glazing and David stared at her in surprise. After a moment’s
silence, he poked her gently and she blinked before shaking her head at the question in his eyes.
“Nothing, hun … I just thought her husband looked familiar, but I must be mistaken…”

She firmly closed the album shut and stood up to walk towards the door, the rather thick folio
under her arm. He frowned for a moment and stood up to follow her. They paused at the door of
Hermione’s bedroom and looked at the neat room, momentarily feeling a sense of loss, knowing that
their daughter no longer truly occupied this room in their house – and hadn’t done so in some
time.

Quietly, they closed the door and walked hand-in-hand to their own bedroom, setting their minds
firmly on going to bed and sleeping, mentally preparing themselves for the day ahead.

Soon enough, the Grangers were in bed and sinking into the welcoming arms of Morpheus … neither
aware that small worry lines had sprung out on their foreheads – wondering again at the letter from
Hermione that they both missed and wishing that there was a way to find out if their daughter was
safe and all right.

Just before they could surrender to complete sleep, an errant thought intruded into their minds:
Abigail again trying to remember the name of the red-headed lady with the startling green eyes that
she’d met over fourteen years ago; David worrying once again at the absence of the weekly owl from
Hermione – and if there was something that she wasn’t telling them …

***

They sat together in silence: Hermione on Harry’s lap, arms around each other, her head on his
shoulder, his head on her hair, both of them listening to the other’s quiet breathing and the
steady beat of their hearts … a comfortable moment, they both thought – something that they had
come to cherish in the course of their stay on this magical island of their dreams.

It was something they’d seldom had in their waking hours, they both knew … they’d never had any
real ‘alone’ time in Hogwarts – unless one counted the months when Ron had taken himself out of
their orbit, in the time after the Goblet of Fire announced Harry as a champion until their
reconciliation after the First Task. And even then they hadn’t had much time to themselves, with
the whole school’s eyes constantly on them because of Skeeter’s article …

But then again, did they really need “alone” time with each other?

They weren’t a couple or anything like that … and while they often seemed to have different
priorities in school – Hermione totally focused on school work, Harry on avoiding as much of it as
he could – they always seemed to find each other: to talk, to have meals together, to study or
simply to have a walk. But their time on this island had broken an unspoken barrier – and they’d
finally admitted to that which they had been hiding from each other for so long.

So engrossed was he in his thoughts that he hadn’t realized that Hermione was humming something
softly –

When you go through a day


And the things that people say


They make you feel so small


They make you feel that


Your heart will just never stop aching


And when you just can't accept the abuse you are taking


Darlin’ reach out for me


Don't you worry,


I'll see you through


You just have to


Reach out for me


I'll be there and I'll comfort you


Oh yes I will


Comfort you and love you


How I'm gonna love you

The words “comfort you and love you” swam around his mind … and he felt himself cringing as the
memories of the past ran through him. It had always been one way, he reflected – *Hermione*
had, too often, been the one who’d comforted and – yes, *loved* him without question. She had
always been looking out for him and, while there may have been times that he had done the same for
her, it always seemed to have been from her to him –

“Why me, Hermione?”

He heard her sigh and he tightened his embrace, stopping her from reacting to the question that
he knew she’d misinterpreted, and he ran gentle fingers through her hair, carefully untangling any
knots in that bushy head as he continued in a soft, contemplative voice: “You’ve been through so
much with me, Hermione … You’ve been with me almost from the beginning … the Potions challenge in
first year … the basilisk in second … you almost got kissed by a Dementor in third, almost drowned
in the lake. And don’t tell me it is because I saved you from the troll … *you* saved me from
being jinxed in first year, so whatever debt you owed me has been repaid –”

Hermione closed her eyes in frustration as she listened to him; in the back of her mind, she
started cursing the Dursleys for the umpteenth time for the emotional wreck that they had made of
her friend … making him feel so unloved and unworthy that he hadn’t known what to do with his fame
when he rejoined the wizarding world -- and she froze as a thought blasted through her mind:

Would he be the Harry Potter she knew now, if things had been different?

As Harry’s voice rambled on, she found herself considering that thought – if James and Lily had
lived, or if Dumbledore had taken Harry to live with a wizarding family … if he had grown up in an
atmosphere surrounded by love and affection rather than the sterile, barren, *desolate*
environment of the Dursleys–

She would have been flattened flatter than a pancake by now … probably keeping Moaning Myrtle
company as they commiserated about their miserable lives … she’d probably be haunting the girl’s
toilet or conspiring with Peeves … watching and waiting for an opportunity to *haunt* Ronald
Weasley, whose tactless remark back in their First Year Charms class drove her, crying, to that
toilet … where the troll would have found her … bashed her to the ground …

Hermione shivered at the awful thought – and felt Harry’s warm and caring arms tighten around
her, and she looked up to see those green eyes that she knew better than she knew her own, looking
down at her in concern … and she smiled back, reassuringly.

And thought … maybe not.

If there was one thing that she could be sure of … if there was one thing that she could be sure
of – Harry would still be the Harry she knew: brave and compassionate, caring and reckless, daring
and loving. He would have charged into that bathroom without thinking if it were Susan Bones or
Millicent Bulstrode who were there, gone down into the Chamber of Secrets alone if he had to if it
were Hannah Abbot or Lisa Turpin instead of Ginny – and he would still have stopped Sirius and
Remus from killing Wormtail, no matter how he despised that worthless rat!

She heard her name being called from a distance, and realized that Harry was shaking her
slightly – and without a thought, without a pause for rational thinking, she straddled his legs,
planted her elbows on his chest as she ran her fingers through his messy, ebony hair, her eyes
locking on his, as she tried to convey everything she felt about him into words: “Because you’re
*worth it*, Harry. Don’t ever let *anyone* – not the Dursleys, not the Slytherins, not
Lord Bloody Voldemort – ever make you think otherwise, do you hear me?”

But she broke her gaze even as she spoke with every iota of conviction in her being, a small
niggling insecurity rising from deep within her:

If things had been different … would Harry be like his father now: irrepressible, irreverent,
happy-go-lucky … and would he even have cared for her? Although Lily hadn’t talked that much about
her husband, there had been enough hints for Hermione to realize that Harry may well have thought
of her in the same way that James once did about the Muggle-born Lily Evans: a bossy, interfering
know-it-all who wouldn’t know what to do with a joke if it bit her on her behind, and she heard
herself mumbling, “I can only hope that *I* am worth it …”

She felt his hands on her face, gently forcing her to look at him … and her eyes met eyes
burning with an intensity that she had never seen before, and she could feel her breath stopping in
her throat, shivered as she remembered Sybil Trelawney’s hoarse voice intoning the Prophecy: “…
*he will have a power the Dark Lord knows not …*”

“You’re *worth* it, Hermione,” he whispered, fiercely. “I *need* you …”

For a long moment, their eyes were locked once again as a thousand memories flashed through
their minds … at times, it seemed as if one memory seen in the other’s eyes triggered off another
memory in the other … and they felt their lips brushing each other, felt fingers tightening around
each other’s hair or neck or head, heard each other’s hearts beating through the roaring in their
ears …

Felt their souls merging and entwining as tongue touched tongue and mouths fused … felt the
world growing darker as lungs suddenly sent a clamor for air to their brains – but the desperate
message was ignored as their separate brains became drunk on their sensations –

“Hello!” A warmly cheerful voice broke into their consciousness –“Anybody home?”

She broke away, vaguely wondering if she’d heard a ‘Pop!’ as their lips separated and she tried
to scramble to her flustered feet – not realizing that Harry had also tried to leap up to face
whatever or whoever it was who’d interrupted them … but they’d been so entwined in that moment of
silent understanding and hormonal need that they’d tried to stand up without realizing their
entangled feet – and they fell to the tiled floor, arms and legs in each other –

Harry was able to sit up first, an arm around Hermione in a protective gesture – and looked up
into the shocked face of David Granger – and understood what it meant to be looking into the barrel
of a shotgun. For a brief moment, he wondered whether he would see his life flashing before his
eyes, even as he felt Hermione scrambling to her feet, trying to block his body from her father’s
shocked eyes …

How he was able to do it, David could never explain.

Somehow, he had known that this would happen … he’d steeled his mind to an acceptance of the
possibility of what he’d find as Abigail and himself walked up to the single bungalow on this
deserted beach – but the sight of his prim and proper Hermione entangled on the chair with Harry
had, for the moment, been too much of a surprise to his expectant brain.

Still, he was able to force his lower jaw to close, felt his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he
swallowed and drew in a breath … and stopped himself from charging a stunned Harry Potter who was
looking at him as if he – David Granger -- were the Grim Reaper himself come to a party on this
lovely beach …

It was Abigail’s hand on his arm that held him back as she stepped forward, her shocked voice
exclaiming, “HERMIONE JANE—“

“HARRY JAMES—”

His head snapped around at the sound of the other woman’s voice and he blinked as he saw a
spitting image of Harry (down to the round glasses and messy black hair) standing in the doorway of
the bungalow, a woman with flaming red hair and startling green eyes beside him …

He winced as he realized that his arm was being squeezed in the tightening vise of Abigail’s
hand, and he opened his mouth to protest, to ask – but was cut off by his wife’s shocked whisper,
as she stared at the red-haired lady in front of them: “Lily?”

***

It was only the death-grip she had on her husband’s arm that stopped her from fainting – even
then, she could feel her knees buckling at the sight of the red-headed, green-eyed Lily Potter,
looking almost exactly as she did so many years before: the young woman who’d bumped into her cart
that December evening, waking up her sleeping daughter … and the little baby with the unusual green
eyes that she had gushed over and jokingly said would be a trouble-maker before long …

How was she to know that within a few minutes of their first meeting, Harry would be snuggling
in a crib with Hermione, all warm and fuzzy even asleep – and she suddenly remembered James’
laughing comment then: “It seems like Harry doesn’t miss a beat, does he? Looks like he has himself
a new girlfriend.”

The memory made her glance at her daughter, and she fought down a near-hysterical giggle that
threatened to erupt from her throat, even as she felt a fugitive wave of regret course through her
when she realized that Hermione had not approached her, but was standing protectively beside a
frightened Harry Potter – and why not, she thought?

Prim and proper Hermione Granger – dancing classes and library books, table manners and
straight-As. There were times when she worried, visualizing her daughter as a spinsterish librarian
in glasses and hair in a bun, with no friends but her books and a cat; like her husband, she’d been
so happy to learn that Hermione had found friends at Hogwarts.

Even if her closest friends were boys.

And one of them was Harry Potter.

She knew about Harry, of course – Hermione’s first letter from Hogwarts contained several
paragraphs about meeting the boy who was already a legend in the wizarding world – and about how
ordinary and totally clueless he was in spite of his fame. Subsequent letters always contained
something about Harry … his selection as Seeker (though she could never make out what the fuss was
all about), defeating a basilisk in second year, disappointment that he was not allowed to visit
Hogsmeade, becoming the youngest Tri-Wizard Champion in a century …

Interspersed with the newsy items were Hermione’s constant stream of worry and concern for her
friend … on how their Potions professor kept picking on him, Harry’s seeming happy-go-lucky
attitude when it came to studying and tests, that he was not preparing himself for the Second Task
of the tournament (rather surprising, since the letters before these were all about Hermione
helping him prepare for the First Task, whatever it was) …

And now, something more.

Intellectually, she expected something like what they had stumbled on … she had also been a
teenager once and seeing Hermione in a bikini doing an apparent lap dance on Harry was not so much
different from the fun she’d had with David when they were still in the courtship stage of their
relationship … and with everything that had happened to Harry and Hermione over the years, it was
something that was bound to happen.

She felt a smile begin to break out on her face as she regarded Harry – and felt the smile
freeze as something else intruded into her mind; something that made her resume her death-grip on
poor David’s arm …

Harry was an orphan.

Which meant that James and Lily were dead …

And for them to be *here* with the Potters meant that …

This time, her knees *did* buckle and she felt David’s arms around her as he held her up,
heard Hermione’s scream of “Mum!” as she finally rushed towards her, watched Harry as he rushed
over to help … saw Hermione giving Harry a glance, and Harry nodding back before leaving them …
only to reappear quickly with a glass of water which he handed to her daughter, who was now rubbing
her hand as she tried to work her voice past her constricted throat –

“Are we *dead*? Is that why we’re here? What happened? Are you dead, too? Is that why Lily
is here …”

“Hem, hem!” The authoritative voice cut off her questions as well as Hermione’s shocked, “Mum!”
– and she turned to see a tall man with curly white hair in an all-white summer outfit approaching
them, and she blurted out the first thing that came to her mind: “You’re Ricardo Montalban!”

She heard her daughter giggle and she gave Hermione a puzzled look, noticing the man’s pained
expression out of the corner of her eye – noting at the same time that David’s mouth had dropped
open as he also recognized the actor approaching them. The man’s words, however, made *her*
drop her jaws in utter surprise.

“My apologies for not having met you when you arrived but it seems that some *ones*” – and
he cocked an eyebrow at a suddenly flustered pair of teens – “are disturbing the orderly running of
this place.”

Before either she or David could make a comment, he continued in his suave, urbane voice, “In
any case, welcome! I am your host, Mr. Roarke – and welcome to Fantasy Island!”

“You’re joking, aren’t you?”

Mr. Roarke cocked an eyebrow at David Granger and smiled at the puzzled, and somewhat
frightened, expression on their faces. “As I told your daughter when she and Harry first arrived
here … I can give you both a long lecture on the universal unconsciousness, dream theory and
whatnot, but I’d rather not.” He gave them a dazzling smile as he continued, “It is rather
boring.”

“But what are we doing *here*? And why are Harry and Hermione –?”

“Hermione?” Mr. Roarke said, and Abigail and David Granger turned to their daughter who gave
them a condensed version of what had happened to them: the Quidditch match, Harry trying to rescue
her from the Bludger but slamming into her instead and both of them knocked out and unconscious in
the real world …

“I see,” David Granger said as Hermione’s explanation ended. “So, this is more of a dream world,
then” – Mr. Roarke smiled approvingly at his comment – “and it may well be that our worries about
Hermione not writing us over the weekend could have pulled us here so that we can see that she is,
indeed, all right?”

“Quite accurate, Mr. Granger,” their host replied. “Although I must admit that the way people
have been popping in is really rather surprising … I could only assume that the magical abilities
of your daughter and Harry are such that they may be affecting this place.”

“I see,” David Granger repeated, as he cast a somewhat puzzled look at his daughter and Harry,
and gave James and Lily, who had been sitting quietly near them, a surreptitious glance. “But
…”

Mr. Roarke frowned as he saw the puzzled glance that David Granger gave the Potters. “Excuse me,
but I was under the impression that you’d already met …”

“Uhm – no, not really, I think.”

“David,” Abigail Granger spoke up. “They’re Harry’s parents … James and Lily. We’ve met before …
a long time ago.”

Before David could voice a question, he heard a raspy voice from below his waist saying,
“Perhaps this will help” – and turned to see Mr. Roarke’s diminutive assistant beside him, holding
out the photograph that he’d seen for the first time only minutes – hours? – earlier: of his baby
daughter snuggling close to a strange baby – and it finally struck him.

His shocked eyes met those of his wife, who nodded without speaking … and he turned to see the
pained, haunted eyes of Lily Potter as he felt Hermione taking the photograph from his slack hand …
saw Harry looking over her shoulder and watched identical expressions of shock pass their faces …
and heard them whisper at the same moment, “Mum?”

***

Shock was an understatement – to say that she had been shocked when she stepped out of the house
with James was like comparing a poke to a tsunami. That she’d found Harry and Hermione apparently
wrestling on the floor was something that she expected … that they’d be doing it in front of a live
audience was something she was totally unprepared for.

But what took the cake was the shocked exclamation of the lady who’d stepped on the veranda – a
shout of recognition that told her who the audience was … and she was immediately in maternal mode,
trying to figure out how to defuse the situation before Hermione’s father took it into mind to blow
Harry away for being in a compromising situation with his daughter …

And then she saw who it was who’d spoken –

Everything that had happened since they’d popped into this dream world came crashing into Lily’s
mind: Hermione’s stories of Harry’s adventures and her role in almost all of them … of Dumbledore’s
revelation of Harry and Hermione’s first real meeting at the age of nine at a park in summer
England – and his decision to Obliviate Harry’s memory of the first person who’d shown him
unrestrained friendship and affection …

As she stared at Abigail Granger, she saw once again the two toddlers snuggling in a crib,
Harry’s tiny arm around Hermione’s small stomach, the latter with a hand resting on Harry’s chest …
baby Harry tugging baby Hermione even closer to him, as if he needed her warmth even then …

“Lily?” She heard her name and knew that Abigail was remembering the same scene as she did; for
a long moment, their eyes locked as the memory washed over them … turning away to look at their
children and remembering the years that Harry and Hermione had spent at Hogwarts …

“Oh my God!” she’d whispered, knowing that Abigail had said the same thing … felt her own knees
buckling at almost the same time as Hermione’s mother even as James caught her and led her to a
chair. She watched in mingled amusement and quiet pride as her son and Hermione attended to Abigail
Granger with only a look passing between them … nearly gave in to hysterical laughter at the
Granger’s bewildered expressions at the appearance and explanation of Mr. Roarke … saw Tattoo
handing a photograph to David Granger, which Hermione then grabbed to look at, with Harry over her
shoulder …

“Mum?” She didn’t know whether it was Abigail or herself that Hermione addressed, so used was
she by now to have the young girl address her that way, but she knew the plea for understanding and
explanation that was in that single word …

“You were barely six months old, Harry,” Lily Potter began in a hoarse voice, and she paused for
a moment to clear her suddenly dry throat, “… six months old, and already a prophecy was hanging
over your head … our heads.”

She felt James’ fingers entwining with hers and she gave him a small smile of gratitude. “I was
running scared … jumping at every shadow … afraid that every one who came knocking on the door
would turn out to be Voldemort or one of his people.”

“I finally made her go out with me,” James Potter interrupted her with a somber smile. “It was
Christmas … I told her that it was a shame to let all those toys and things that the Muggles made
for Christmas go to waste.”

“My father felt the same way,” Abigail Granger spoke up and smiled at her husband. “David
apparently thought the same – I kept asking them who it was they were going to buy for, Hermione or
themselves!”

Lily Potter’s laugh broke out then as their husbands looked down at the floor, blushing: “You
should have seen your father, Harry – he dived into that store as if Snape was after his tail
–“

She broke off at the sudden bark of laughter from her husband and the children – and met
Abigail’s puzzled eyes for a brief moment, that single look conveying the message, “Ask Hermione
later” to which the other gave a small nod. “Anyway,” she continued, looking at Hermione, “… I
bumped into your mother’s cart and panicked, thinking that I had hurt you or something …”

“We started talking and showing you off to each other,” Abigail Granger picked up the tale. “You
were fussing and fretting even then,” she said to her daughter, “and I remember telling Lily that
*you* were going to be trouble,” she said with a smile at Harry.

“What?” Harry’s shocked voice resounded on the veranda, and Abigail Granger’s laugh tinkled,
“Girl troubles. I knew you were going to turn into quite a looker even then.”

Harry blushed at the compliment and looked at the floor; Hermione, for her part, smiled broadly
at the comment and nudged him with her elbow. He refused to look up as Lily continued, “Anyway … we
fell to talking, Abigail and I, and looking through the shelves, until James came in.”

“I took one look around the place, and there you were,” James Potter said, the glee and
amusement evident in his voice. “It was so cute – you and Hermione snuggling together in that crib,
although *how* you made it there is beyond me …”

With a smile, Hermione handed over the picture in her hand to Lily, who took one look at it and
smiled broadly before passing it to James, who also glanced at it and smiled, unconsciously echoing
his sentiments of nearly two decades before, “It seems Harry doesn’t miss a beat, does he? Looks
like he has himself a new girlfriend,” as he grinned at the suddenly redder than red faces of his
son and Hermione. “A few more minutes and you’d have been snogging Hermione …”

“JAMES!”

Lily’s shocked voice rang out – but was drowned out by a bellow of appreciative laughter from
Abigail as she regarded the acutely embarrassed Harry and Hermione. Even Lily’s mouth was twitching
as she glared at her irrepressible husband – but the sudden build-up of mirth was interrupted by
the quiet voice of David Granger: “Would you mind telling me what this Prophecy is all about? And
why,” he looked at James and Lily Potter, “would you both be all hot and bothered about it?”

An oppressive silence suddenly fell over the veranda – and David felt a shiver of fear running
up and down his spine at the expressions of the people in the room. He felt Abigail’s fingers
reaching out and entwining with his as if she were trying to draw comfort from him – something that
he didn’t feel able to give at this point as he waited for the shoe to drop …

“Mr. Granger … Mrs. Granger …” They turned to look at Harry, who was looking down at the floor,
Hermione beside him with his hands in hers. They watched as she squeezed his hands and he looked at
her with a pained smile before turning back to them. “The prophecy is simple: it’s either I kill
Voldemort … or I get killed.”

They stared at him for a long moment, and then David Granger cleared his throat. “You’re joking,
aren’t you?”

“I wish I were.”

***

They could only stare at him in shock as he detailed the prophecy that he’d learned about only a
few minutes before – their looks a mixture of fear and horror at what the young boy faced. He
continued to look down at the floor as he spoke, Hermione’s hands in his the only warmth that could
offset the coldness of his soul …

It was a revelation the Grangers would much rather have done without.

That the wizarding world was not much different from the real world was something that they’d
come to expect – Hermione’s stories through the years had made that singular fact clear. It may
have been a magical world, but bigotry and envy, petty cruelties and insults, slavery and darkness,
continued. They could both remember Hermione’s ranting about being called “Mudblood” – and the
reasoning behind that odious word to describe muggle-born wizards and witches. That there were
people in these supposedly enlightened times who still believed in racial superiority and purity –
and for whom pejorative words rolled so easily off the tongue – it continued in the real world even
now …

That Hermione would be involved did not come as a surprise – she had, after all, grown up with
their causes and beliefs. They may not have marched against many of the injustices that plagued the
real world – but they had constantly discussed it at the dinner table, and they were both constant
petition-signers as well as active contributors to many of the groups formed to try and right the
wrongs that plagued their world – Hermione and S.P.E.W. was, for them, as inevitable as the sun
rising in the east.

But to learn that their daughter’s best friend – and, they had to admit to themselves as their
eyes met, something more than a mere friend – was on the front lines … no, they both thought: Harry
wasn’t “on” the front line – he *was* the front line. There was no other way to interpret the
prophecy – it was kill or be killed, and the consequences of defeat were too frightening to
contemplate.

And there lay the problem.

Intellectually, they could understand … emotionally, they were still parents and, like all
parents everywhere, loath to sacrifice their most precious possession even for the most worthy of
causes.

But then, what were they to do? For the first time in their lives, they were aware of forces
moving beyond their control or understanding – was it mere coincidence that the two toddlers who’d
found themselves together in a crib so many years ago would find each other on a magical train to
Scotland? And, if what they had seen when they stepped on the veranda of this fantasy bungalow was
any indication … that chance encounter so many years before was only the prelude – and they could
only shake their heads in wonder at the vagaries of fate – or the sense of humor of whichever
cosmic Being rolled the dice of their separate but interconnected lives …

With a start, they realized that Harry had fallen silent … that his story had ended, and they
now had to face the biggest question of all: what were they to make of all this?

For a long moment, no one spoke, engrossed as they all were with their own thoughts, the only
communication coming from the entwined fingers of Abigail and David, the clasped hands of James and
Lily, the held hands of Harry and Hermione in their separate chairs.

The silence was finally broken by a soft, concerned voice: “What do you want to do about it,
son?”

“I don’t know, Dad.” Harry sighed as he lifted his face to look at his father – and felt his
heart stop as he realized that he was looking at the troubled but compassionate eyes of David
Granger. “I’m sorry –“

The latter waved away Harry’s mumbled apology. “It’s all right, Harry. Abigail and I feel we
have a right to call you that. Hermione’s been talking about you non-stop for four and a half years
now …”

“Dad!” The elder Granger cocked an eyebrow at his daughter, who quickly fell silent at his
amused look, mumbling something about smart-aleck fathers under her breath, to the amused smiles of
James and Lily Potter and her own mother.

“And *after* what I saw earlier,” he continued, his amused eyes turning to the suddenly red
face of Harry who was avoiding his eyes, “… what do you *think* I should call you?”

“Really, David,” his wife said beside him, a smirk evident in her voice. “It’s nothing more than
what you’ve done with *me* … and with my Dad snoring away on the sofa after you tried to drink
him under the table!”

“Well, what did you expect me to do, Abby?” David smirked back, “You’ve been shaking it in my
face from the moment I stepped into your house … it was either get your Dad out of the way fast so
I could snog you, or walk around with a bottle in my pants!”

“Dad! Mum!” The Grangers glanced at their slack-mouthed daughter and broke into laughter at her
stupefied face.

“What’s wrong, Hermione?” Abigail Granger said as she winked at her daughter. “I doubt if James
or Lily would mind … after all, they’ve been there and done that too, if Harry’s any measure!”

“Oh yes,” David Granger put in, “remember, he was already putting the moves on you when he was
barely able to walk!”

“Dad!” The look of utter shock on Hermione’s and Harry’s faces at seeing this side of her
parents was enough to send the other adults into laughter – James and Lily laughing so hard that
tears were actually running down their faces as they hugged each other, the hilarity a welcome
relief from the dark and gloomy atmosphere created by Harry’s explanation of the prophecy.

But Harry’s look of shock and surprise ran deeper – after everything he’d told them, after
everything that he’d learned this day … after everything that fate or Destiny or an uncaring
Divinity had done to him … they were *laughing?*

He tried to fight against his suddenly clenched fists … tried to stop the suddenly painful ache
in his throat from the angry words that were trying to spill out … tried to stop the tears
threatening to burst from his closed, pained eyes as he listened to the laughter around him …

And nearly jumped as he felt a hand on his shoulder – realized that it wasn’t Hermione’s slim
fingers, but a stronger, masculine hand – and opened his eyes to stare, once again, into David
Granger’s sympathetic eyes.

“It’s not that I’m not taking you seriously, son. It’s just that,” the older man paused for a
second, as if ordering his thoughts, “ … one thing I’ve learned a long time ago … people laugh
because it is the only way to keep from crying.”

Harry’s mouth opened – and closed, as the gentle words wrapped around his tired mind, and he saw
the unerring logic and deep thought given to the statement – something he should have expected,
having been exposed to Hermione all these years. His jumbled, muddled mind brought his words to
Fred and George when he’d given them his Tri-Wizard winnings: “If you don’t take it, I’m throwing
it down the drain. I don’t want it and I don’t need it. But I could do with a few laughs. We could
all do with a few laughs. I’ve got a feeling we’re going to need them more than usual before
long.”

And why shouldn’t they, he thought? In the midst of all the darkness surrounding them, there had
to be some light … it wasn’t that they didn’t understand what he was going through – but, as David
said, it was better to try and laugh than sit down and cry.

Or even, to simply sit down and die.

He felt Hermione’s arm around him, and he turned to her with a smile. James – and David – always
tried to look for the bright lining in the dark clouds … something that he and – yes, even Hermione
– often seemed to forget in their constant contemplation of the darkness surrounding their world
…

“Thank you,” he whispered, and felt David give his shoulder a gentle squeeze before letting go
to sit with his smiling wife. Harry felt his heart swelling a little as he thought over the older
man’s words – and felt a smile break out as he remembered the hilarious moments that he’d shared in
this dream world with Hermione.

And felt the smile fade as Abigail Granger repeated the question that David Granger had asked:
“What do you want to do about it, Harry?”

He raised his eyes to hers, reflecting for a brief moment on the number of times that he had
looked into Hermione’s familiar, compassionate brown eyes – the same eyes he saw on her mother –
but he had no answer to give.

He didn’t know … at the end of it all, he simply did not *know*. There did not seem to be
much of a choice – the Prophecy was irrevocable as even Dumbledore had said: kill, or be killed. He
looked up and saw his parents nearby – and felt his heart squeezed in his suddenly tight chest.

They had died because of the Prophecy … Voldemort had gone after them because he’d misunderstood
it, because the dumb bastard thought that *he*, Harry Potter, was the one predicted to kill
him.

But Voldemort hadn’t succeeded. Harry might have been “The-Boy-Who-Lived” but he had done so
only because of his mother’s sacrifice and protection. And Voldemort had not been destroyed –
because it was his *mother* who’d done it.

Not him.

As the thought gripped him, another, far more frightening idea made its insidious way through
his already-tired mind: how many more will die before the Prophecy is fulfilled?

The image of Cedric Diggory in the graveyard, spread-eagled, the surprised look on his face and
the open gray eyes, blank and expressionless as the windows of a deserted house, rose unbidden –
quickly followed by the images of Bertha Jorkins, of an old man that he’d seen in a dream, of the
shades of his parents climbing out of Voldemort’s wand … even of Quirrell and Moaning Myrtle, the
latter the first known victim of the wizard once known as Tom Riddle …

How many more will die before the Prophecy is fulfilled?

“DON’T even *think* about that, Harry Potter!”

He blinked in surprise and looked up into the angry eyes of his father, realizing in that moment
that he had voiced his thoughts out loud – and he was staring at a father that he had never seen
before –

“You cannot blame yourself for what happened, Harry! If there’s anyone to blame, blame
Voldemort! He’s the one who’s causing all the pain … *he* is the one who’s causing all the
misery …”

“He’s right, you know.” Harry’s eyes turned and met the pained, caring eyes of his mother.
“There’s nothing you can do about those who went before you, Harry – Voldemort has been killing and
torturing people even before you were born. Marlene McKinnon, Benjy Fenwick, Edgar Bones, Gideon
and Fabian, Dorcas … so many others we never knew …. And don’t go around blaming yourself for that
bastard going after us … he has done it before and for even less reason than the prophecy.”

“But why, Mum?” He asked in a plaintive voice, “Why did you and Dad have to die? Was there no
other way … no other choice?”

“There’s always a choice, Harry,” James replied, eyes boring in on him for a moment before
continuing, “I could have chosen not to fall in love with Lily Evans the Mudblood.”

A frightening silence fell over the veranda at the use of the hated word – and Harry lifted his
own blazing, angry eyes to his father, but before he could utter a word, James Potter continued,
his voice ringing with suppressed anger: “Isn’t that what Voldemort and his cohorts call your
mother and Hermione? Mudbloods, scum, creatures of dirt? They called me a blood-traitor for falling
in love and marrying Lily …

“But do you know something, Harry? I would have walked through *hell* to have your mother
notice me … it didn’t matter to me to stand up in the middle of the Great Hall, looking like the
biggest fool in the galaxy just so Lily would be willing to even *think* about going out with
me.

“And you know why? Because I love her … loved her then, love her now. Even when she refused to
look at me, I was still in love with her. Even when she thought she hated me for what I was … I was
*still* in love with her. She is the best thing that had ever happened to me and no one – not
Voldemort, not Dumbledore, not even Merlin in whatever tomb he lies hidden – would ever change
that!”

“James.” Lily Potter’s soft voice stopped her husband’s rant and he broke his gaze from his
bewildered son. She quietly placed an arm around his shaking shoulders and he continued in a
softer, calmer voice: “I had a choice, Harry … we always have a choice. I could have chosen to turn
away and look for someone else; I could have chosen to turn my back on your mother and refused to
fight Voldemort – but no! She is everything that Voldemort and his gang hated and feared and wanted
to kill … and for that single fact, I made my choice: to fight them and everything they stood
for.”

The steely eyes that he never knew his father could have locked with his own: “I wasn’t fighting
for Dumbledore, Harry. I wasn’t even fighting for what people thought was ‘right.’ I was fighting
for the most important thing that happened to me … I was fighting for the woman I loved – and the
woman who loved me.

“The choice is yours, Harry … to fight for what you love and believe in, or simply roll over and
die – and let them take away everything that you love.”

“But why does it have to be me?”

“Harry -- you’re a great wizard, you know.”

“I’m not as good as you,” he replied automatically, as he turned to face the first person who’d
ever expressed faith in him, the only one who’d stood beside him through everything – and his jaw
dropped when he realized that it wasn’t Hermione who’d spoken.

“You’re a great wizard, Harry,” Abigail Granger repeated. “And it isn’t because of what your
parents were, or even that Voldemort marked you as his equal. It is because of what you are … what
you have become, what you *will* become.”

“Mrs. Granger,” he tried to interrupt, but the older woman’s voice and implacable gaze stopped
him – and he stared at the mother from whom, he now realized, part of Hermione’s formidable manner
came from.

“David and I may be Muggle dentists, Harry … we may not count for anything at all in your world.
But we are still the parents of a special, magical and wonderful child … and that child has told
us, again and again, of how special and wonderful you are.”

“But I’m not! Don’t any of you know that? Can’t any of you see that? Hermione’s better than me
at all this … everything I’ve learned, everything I am, I learned from her!”

“But not the important things, Harry,” David Granger put in, as he put his arm around his
daughter. “There’s friendship, and bravery … and love. She learned that from you.”

He paused, looking for a long moment at Harry before he continued, “And for that, I thank
you.”

“Mr. Granger,” he began, but stopped as Hermione placed her hands on his shoulders.

“Harry,” she said in a soft, pleading voice as she looked into his eyes. “Can’t you ever stop
doubting yourself? Have you forgotten what Dumbledore and the Prophecy said? You have a Power that
the Dark Lord knows not … and it is that power which has saved you, which has kept you safe …”

“But that’s just it, Hermione! Can’t you see that? If what I have is so powerful … then why
didn’t it stop him from killing Mum and Dad?”

“It stopped him from killing you, Harry.”

“But why *me*? Why did I have to be left alone …why—“

“Maybe because it was meant to be, Harry.” He looked up in surprise at Lily Potter, who was now
standing beside him, her pained eyes on his and he could feel the aching pain as he considered,
once again, what might have been …

“I didn’t want to die, Harry,” Lily said to him in her soft voice tinged with pain and regret,
“… Merlin knows, neither your father nor I wanted to leave you alone. But it happened and there’s
nothing we could do about it.”

“But why, Mum? Why did it have to be you and Dad?”

“Maybe because you no longer needed us.” Lily Potter gave a wistful smile at his shocked face,
and carefully brushed off a stray lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead. He closed his
eyes as his mother bent and gave his lightning-bolt scar a soft kiss before continuing, “Because
there was someone waiting for you … someone who would need you as much as you would need her.”

His eyes flew open at her words, and he saw Lily Potter’s eyes sparkling with tears as she held
out the photograph of two babies snuggling in their crib. “Someone who would love you, and need you
– and who you would love and need in return.”

“Mum!” His mother’s gentle fingers on his mouth stopped his protest. “Harry … I don’t know who
or why or what. But you have to admit, there has to be a *reason* for everything that has
happened. You have to ask what it was that drew you to a baby that was no different from a thousand
other babies in the world, magical or not … what made Hermione notice you and approach you when you
were only nine years old … and how you could have found each other again, and grown together in
friendship and knowledge even though your memories were removed.”

“You’ve never been able to explain why you went after Hermione in the girl’s bathroom,” James
began, only to be interrupted by Abigail: “Or why you have been the most constant feature of
Hermione’s letters to us.”

Harry’s eyes widened in surprise and Abigail smiled at him, “From the very first letter, Harry …
why else do you think David and I feel like we know you so well? Every letter Hermione had ever
written had something about you although,” and she gave her daughter a mock-glare, “it seems that
she’s been keeping some things from me.”

“Mum,” Hermione protested, although a slow blush had started creeping up her face.

“In fact, the only thing we know about Viktor Krum or Ron Weasley is how they compared to you,
Harry,” David said, a sly note in his tone.

“Oh?” James’ face was a study in major curiosity, but he kept quiet as Lily asked, “And how did
*Harry* compare to those two?”

“Much, much better, Lily,” Abigail answered, with a devilish grin at her counterpart. “Although
I must say, Hermione did find him rather dense and clueless … she wrote us one time that she was
*glad* that Viktor invited her to the ball, because Harry did not even realize that she was a
girl!”

“Well Harry, that proves you *are* a guy,” David Granger said in a laughing voice,
unknowingly repeating James Potter’s earlier comment to his son. “You didn’t see what was in front
of you the whole time!”

“Speak for yourself, David Granger,” Abigail said, her eyes lighting up in amusement as she
looked at her husband. She turned to Lily: “What is it about these guys? I thought I would have to
flash my titties at him so that he would realize that I was a girl!”

“Abby!” David’s face was crimson with embarrassment, but he was saved from responding by James’
hoot of laughter: “Well, *I* knew that Lily was a girl the first time I saw her …”

“Yeah, right,” Lily fired back in a sarcastic voice. Turning to the Grangers, she said, “He
literally *dived* into my compartment on the Hogwarts Express in my first year … I thought he
was trying to get a peek up my skirt—“

“Lily! Sirius tripped me!”

Lily ignored him as she continued, “So I did what any self-respecting girl in my position would
do – I tried to kick him in the face!”

“Only problem was,” James said, a manic gleam in his eyes, “I was already standing up and trying
to apologize to her when she did it!”

With a mad grin at the wide-eyed Grangers, he continued, “She – uhm, *connected* with
something else …”

Lily’s smile was a sight to behold as she finished, “I thought it was a girl from the scream he
made …”

“Actually, I *thought* I was gonna be a girl for the rest of my life!” At that, James
suddenly bent over and mimed his first meeting with Lily Potter – a horrible grimace on his face,
knock-kneed and one hand at his crotch with the other extended towards Lily, saying in a high
falsetto voice, “Excuse me, my name is James Potter …”

It was too much for the adults in the place – the resulting roar of laughter was such that it
literally drowned out the sound of crashing waves on the beach … and the rising moon was witness to
the sight of four adults either on their knees or on their backs, rolling around in helpless
merriment, while two teenagers looked bemusedly on – both of them wondering what would have
happened if things had been different, and their parents actually met – and befriended – each other
in the real world.

It was a horrifying thought.

***

Harry watched his and Hermione’s parents rolling around on the floor, helpless with laughter,
and he couldn’t help but smile as he remembered David Granger’s words: “people laugh because it is
the only way to keep from crying.”

It was, he reflected, a far better approach than the one he’d been taking … of keeping his
feelings inside, of wallowing in his misery, of constantly questioning the shitty hand that Fate
had dealt him. Better, he reflected, to face what was coming with a light heart and steadfast
companions by his side rather than succumbing to the darkness—

He felt Hermione’s hand entwining with his and he turned to her bemused face as she watched her
parents clutching their stomachs; impulsively, he leaned down and kissed her cheek, whispering,
“I’m sorry.”

She turned to him, a question in her warm brown eyes: “For what?”

“For the Yule Ball … and I guess … for all the times I’ve taken you for granted.” He paused for
a moment, allowing himself to be drawn into her warm eyes and continued in a hoarse voice, “For
taking you for granted all these years … never really seeing you, never really knowing you. I just
kept accepting you by my side the whole time as if you being there was my right. I kept thinking
that after everything I’ve gone through … it was just *right* that I should have you there
…”

He stopped, not realizing that he’d placed his arms around her waist and had drawn her closer to
him – neither did he realize that she had also placed her arms around him – “I guess I wasn’t
ready,” he continued. “I wasn’t ready for you.”

Her gentle fingers on his lips stopped him, and she spoke in a soft, gentle voice: “It’s all
right, Harry … it has been an honor to have been there with you.”

She paused as she felt herself drowning in the sensation of his arms around her, and continued,
as she felt herself drawn deeply once again into his emerald orbs, “I don’t know how or why or even
what … I just knew that when I saw you on the Hogwarts Express, that there was something about you
…”

“I know, Hermione,” he said as he placed his head on her bushy crown of hair, even as she rested
her face on his chest. “I think I felt it too, but I guess … I was too engrossed with what was
happening to me – being a wizard, doing magic, learning that I was the ‘Boy-Who-Lived’. But looking
back … even then, you were always there with me …”

He heard her murmuring something from beneath the curtain of her hair; listening closely, he
recognized something he remembered reading when he was stuck within his cupboard under the stairs:
“‛Do not ask me to abandon or forsake you! For wherever you go I will go, wherever you lodge I will
lodge, your people shall be my people, your God will be my God. Wherever you die, I will die and
that is where I will be buried…’”

He remembered wondering then if that was the way his mother and father had been, if the words
said by a Moabite woman to her Hebrew mother-in-law applied to them … and his father’s words struck
him. That *was* what his mother did when she married James Potter … it wasn’t so much that she
had left the Muggle world behind, but that she had embraced the danger and peril that it
entailed.

And … it will be the same danger and peril that Hermione will face in loving him.

For a moment, fear and indecision gripped him – and he forced the anxiety away. He knew his more
than best friend and companion too well … if she had stuck by him all this time, even through the
years when they knew nothing about their shared pasts …

He hugged her so tightly that she almost squeaked in pain at his embrace; buried his face in her
fragrant hair and whispered fiercely, “I love you, Hermione Jane Granger.”

“Oi! Get a room, you two – OW!”

Harry turned to his parents with a smile – and blinked when he realized that it was Abigail
Granger who’d swatted his irrepressible father.

“Stop it, you! If you remember, this is *their* room!” She glanced at Lily Potter, who was
giggling from behind the palm over her mouth. “Honestly, Lily! He hasn’t grown up –“

“Maybe that’s why we love them, Abby,” responded Lily with a snicker.

Mrs. Granger turned to look at James – and caught both her husband and James sticking their
tongues at her – and she rolled her eyes to their sudden laughter and high-fives.

Hermione and Harry smiled at the antics of their parents, the same thought in their minds: with
parents like these, they had nothing to fear.

The quiet cough of Mr. Roarke cut off the laughter of the adults – and sober looks quickly
replaced their smiling faces as they looked at him.

“I’m sorry but it is getting rather late,” he said. “Much as I hate to break up this family
gathering … David and Abigail still have lives to lead.”

He paused for a moment, a look of sympathy in his eyes. “And … I’m afraid that James and Lily
have tarried here too long.”

Harry closed his mouth to the protest he was about to utter as he saw the implacable yet
understanding look on Mr. Roarke’s face; realizing, at the same time, that he had been given a gift
beyond measure … and that he should be grateful to whatever alignment of the planets there was that
had allowed him – and Hermione – this magical moment in time with their parents.

“Harry…” Startled, he quickly grasped David Granger’s outstretched hand, as the latter locked
eyes with Harry for a long moment, his suddenly hoarse voice coming out as a close approximation of
Hagrid: “What’s comin’ will come, an we’ll meet it when it does. We’re with you, Harry, whatever
you do.”

David Granger let go of Harry to embrace his daughter, and Harry felt the warm arms of Abigail
Granger enfolding him in a hug to rival Molly Weasley’s rib-crackers. “Don’t be a stranger next
time, Harry,” she whispered. “If it’s possible … plan on staying with us for a while. You’ll always
be welcome,” she winked, “… and Hermione would be more than happy to have you with us.”

She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before turning away to embrace a silent Lily Potter, who
hugged her back tightly. Harry watched as David solemnly shook hands with James, the simple gesture
conveying both sympathy and support and felt tears in his eyes when the handshake quickly turned
into a backslapping hug ...

And then it was his turn.

For a long moment, they stared at each other – Harry and Lily, James and Hermione – none of them
making a move or saying a word. It was Lily who finally broke down, embracing Harry tightly before
kissing him on the forehead and letting go – only to realize that her son was also hugging her
tightly, his tears again flowing down his face.

With a gentle nudge, Harry finally let go – and turned into the warm embrace of his father. As
befits men, this embrace was quick and both quickly let go – and saw Hermione and Lily also
hugging, with tears on their cheeks.

And then they let go – both of them wiping away the tears and trying to summon up a smile,
neither aware that everyone else was doing the same.

“We have to go,” Mr. Roarke said as he turned away. Silently, the adults started following him,
each of them giving Hermione and Harry a warm kiss on the cheek before stepping away.

The two teens watched the darkness slowly engulf their parents before turning back to each other
– neither aware that their parents had been looking at them the whole time …

***

David Granger blinked his eyes open – and saw the outlines of his familiar bedroom in the gray
of the surrendering night, wondering what had awakened him. He felt Abigail stirring beside him and
said the first thing that came to mind: “Was I dreaming or did we just leave Harry and Hermione
without a chaperone somewhere?”

Abigail Granger sat up in bed to stare at him, wondering whether she was going mad – for she had
awakened with that very same thought in mind, although it seemed that she had addressed the
question to someone else … Lily Potter?

Before she could respond to David’s question, they heard a tapping at the window – and she was
on her feet, rushing to open it and let in a beautiful snowy owl which dropped an envelope at her
feet before flying to her dresser and sitting there. She eagerly tore open the heavy, parchment
envelope with the Hogwarts seal – neither one noticing that something had fallen out as she eagerly
scanned the letter.

“It’s from Dumbledore,” she said, disappointment evident in her voice. “He said that Hermione
has been in an accident on the Quidditch field and that she and Harry are sleeping in the hospital
wing – but we *know* that already!”

She suddenly froze as the words she’d uttered sank into her – and she stared at her wide-eyed
husband. “How … what …” she stuttered, as David approached her and took the letter from her
suddenly nerveless fingers.

“I know, honey,” he soothed her as he placed an arm around her to lead her to bed where she sat
down. Her wide eyes met his and he continued, “I think we were having the same dream, although
*how* that can happen is beyond me …”

“Same … dream?”

“Fantasy Island? Hermione and Harry?”

“David …” she began, but cut off as he held a hand up, his eyes quickly scanning down the
parchment filled with Dumbledore’s neat, elegant script. He began reading portions out loud:

“*My apologies for sending this owl rather late … or early, as the case may be. However, I
just woke up with the strangest urge to write you and inform you that Hermione is all right and is
resting comfortably in the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey, our School Nurse, expects that she and Mr.
Potter will be up and about in a few days.*”

He looked at Abigail and said, “Yes, we already know that … Quidditch accident … no harm
intended or done …”

He began reading again: “*Enclosed please find something that has been in my possession for
some time. For some reason, I felt that it was important that I send this to you as soon as
possible …*”

He looked through the envelope and, finding nothing there, glanced around the room and saw –
face up – a photograph lying on the floor where it had fallen. He walked over and picked it up –
and a puzzled look passed over his face for a moment before a smile broke out.

Silently, he handed the picture to Abigail, who took one look at it and gasped, her fist to her
mouth.

It was a wizarding photograph of three people: a young man with messy black hair and glasses,
leaning over a young woman with beautiful red hair and mesmerizing green eyes who held a baby in
her lap. The lady in the picture kept pointing at the camera, and helping the baby wave at whoever
was taking the picture, while her husband was alternately waving at the camera, kissing his wife on
the head – or holding up two fingers in a ‘V’ behind her head.

“James never could resist a joke,” Abigail said, and again looked at her husband, surprise
etched on her face.

“David –“

“I know, Abby. As Hermione would say, ‘Welcome to the wonderful world of magic’. I guess,” he
said, as he took the picture from her hand and smiled at it, before looking at his wife. “… it
wasn’t just a ‘dream’ dream. As the man said, Harry and Hermione’s magic are such that they’re
interfering with the orderly running of the place!”

Abigail shook her head at that and glanced at the snowy owl on her dresser, who seemed to be
looking at her expectantly – and she remembered something from their vacation in France. “Would you
like some water, Hedwig?”

She smiled as the owl hooted happily at her, and stood up to get some water and treats for the
bird. Before she could step out, however, David stopped her: “Wait, Abby … there’s something more
from Dumbledore.”

He began reading again: “*I would be most grateful if you could send me a letter through the
owl as to why I should be sending you this particular photograph. Even though, at my age, I know
that there are some things which will likely remain a mystery, any help you can give me would be
most appreciated.*”

He raised an eyebrow at Abigail, who smiled back at him as she said, “I think I know just what
to send him.”

She turned and left for her errand, leaving behind a middle-aged man with a magical daughter,
vaguely worried but still smiling, wondering what his daughter and her best friend were doing now …
somewhere where they were chasing a dream.

END NOTES:

This chapter would not have happened without Sandra (Façade’s) wonderful story, ‘Remember’ which
she has most kindly allowed me to borrow for this chapter. If you haven’t read it, please do so –
and you will understand why she is a fellow nominee in the latest round of the Portkey Reader’s
Choice Award.

I would also like to thank andie (pottergirl786) whose beautiful fic titled “In Pieces” provided
one of the most touching images of Harry and Hermione that I always retain, ali (granger) whose
continuation to “Come Together” is eagerly anticipated in the fandom. (There are two instances in
this chapter which were inspired by her wonderful story; extra slices of pumpkin pie to those who
could spot them! ;) )

The song is “Reach Out for Me” sung by Dionne Warwick. It’s an old Burt Bacharach- Hal David
composition that I had almost forgotten about, until I was playing an old CD collection.

There are still two chapters left in this story; alternatively, I may find myself ending this
tale one chapter early. Only time will tell … I only hope it won’t take too long! ;)



14. "There
----------

Dream Chasing

**Title:** Dream Chasing (14)
**Author name:** Romulus Lupin
**Author email:** galigad@yahoo.com
**Category:** Romance
**Sub Category:**
**Keywords:** Harry Hermione Fantasy Island
**Rating:** PG-13
**Spoilers:**SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, OotP
**Summary:** Chapter 14. At what point does dream become reality … or is reality merely a
dream?

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended.

**AUTHOR’S NOTES:** Thank you to everyone who has reviewed Chapter 13, and everyone who’s
taken the time to review ever since I started this story almost a year ago. The funny thing is … I
never really expected this story to go this far (14 chapters with 1 or 2 more to go?) … or take
this long to write.

I am dedicating this chapter to a few dear, dear and lovely friends: **Nicole**, of course,
who has been with me since this story started and who continues to provide me with inspiration to
complete it ;), **Sarah** **(bingblot)**, always a supporter and a great writer in her own
right, my favorite jailer, **Lils** and **erin**, even though we seldom see or encounter each
other much, and **golasgil sindar**, for a most inspiring email.

Special mention must be made of **andie (pottergirl 786)** for a most inspiring email to me
(sleep well, sweet – don’t let the nargles bite!), as well as **sienna**, whose extremely
insightful “Hexagram Theory” on the hidden pattern in the HP series was a key reason behind the
delay in this chapter – I spent about two weeks studying and composing a response to her essay.

I hope you enjoy this.

Chapter 14. “There’s Always Time for A Butterbeer …”

Warmth.

The feeling flooded through his brain and cascaded down his body, swirling in silent eddies to
the very tips of his limbs – he blinked his eyes open, realizing that a ray of golden sunlight had
somehow made its way through the curtained window, telling him it was time to face another day.

Or another night.

His now-rested brain quickly ran back over the memories, trying to fix a timeframe for this … it
had been nearly sunrise when Mr. Roarke and Tattoo escorted two sets of parents away from their
dream house on the beach; he remembered watching them walk into the rising sun until his eyes could
no longer stand the strain and he turned into the warm embrace of his more-than-best friend. They’d
held each other tightly, silently … allowing the warmth of their embrace to soften and try to
dissolve the cold ache that had crept into their hearts the moment that they realized that there
was a gap in their memories … a breach created by Dumbledore in an earnest, but perhaps misguided,
effort to protect him from danger.

How long they stood there, simply embracing each other, they would never know. It was the
growling of their stomachs which roused them, and they’d made breakfast … poking around in the
kitchen for eggs and bacon, bread and cheese, butter and marmalade – moving like unthinking
automatons as their minds went back, in a never-ending cycle, over the revelations made in the
space of a day in this fantasy island of their dreams.

There had been no need for words – a glance, a raised eyebrow, a soft smile, a brush of fingers
… it was all the communication they’d needed. At some point, she’d cocked her head to one side and
he nodded; silently, they stood up and went for a walk on the beach … fingers entwined, the only
sound the quiet crashing of waves on the shore.

Their walk had meandered, broken only by moments when one had hugged the other tightly, the
taller Harry pressing his lips on Hermione’s windblown hair even as she burrowed her face in his
chest, both of them feeling the tears of the other on hair or chest, as the emotional strains of
revelations and realizations crashed through mind and body.

Soon enough, feeling their skin tingling from the hot sun (which somehow did not seem to
penetrate their bodies), they had walked back to their bungalow where Harry collapsed on a chair …
Hermione, with only a moment’s hesitation, settled herself on his lap, her head resting once again
on his chest.

How long they sat there, neither could say … all that they knew was that there was nothing to
say, nothing more they’d wanted to do but to remain locked forever in the others’ arms.

Reality, however, finally seeped its way into Harry’s mind.

Much as he loved holding Hermione in his arms, no matter how much he enjoyed having her arms
around him … her weight was cutting off the blood to his legs and he could feel the tingling in his
toes which meant that he either had to dump her on the floor, or ask her to sit beside him rather
than on his lap.

Neither was something he wanted to do.

“Let’s get some sleep, Harry.” Her voice was muffled as her face pressed against him – but there
was no mistaking the sudden yawn that she gave and he watched in silent amusement as she tried to
stifle it with a fist to her mouth.

Silently and carefully, he stood up and placed her on her feet; he had to grit his teeth tightly
for a moment as he felt the blood rush to his feet, the tingling sensation increasing by a fraction
as he wiggled his toes to make sure that they were still connected to his body.

He smiled as she looked up at him with some concern; silently, he’d placed an arm around her
slim waist and gently nudged her towards the door to their fantasy bungalow …

Which meant that it would be later in the afternoon, he thought – the idea confirmed as he
realized that the stray ray of sunlight that had awakened him was quickly followed by a descending
darkness … and that lights had started flickering around their room.

He blinked again for a moment and started to stretch as he normally did on waking up – and
froze, realizing that the warmth he was feeling was not coming from within …

He’d fallen asleep with Hermione in his arms.

The memory flashed across his mind – the moment of indecision when he’d faced their adjoining
bedrooms, the feel of Hermione’s arms around him as she tugged him towards her bed, the brief
second that he’d resisted until he’d given in to her unspoken plea not to leave her alone, the two
of them lying down – automatically grabbing pillows to hug even as they turned to their sides …
that brief sensation of her lips on his forehead and his hand entwining with hers…

His now-awakened brain started a catalog of sensations – matching them with each part of his
body as he went through a mental checklist of parts.

His head … he had his face buried once again in Hermione’s luxuriant head of glorious brown
hair, and he took a deep breath, reveling once more in the intoxicating smell that hinted of
cinnamon and apples – shampoo and soap that she used combining into that wonderful smell that he’d
come to associate with her whenever she walked beside him.

He realized that he had spooned himself behind her – and he wondered for a brief moment where
his pillow had gone – and with nothing between them, realized that this was the only explanation
for the warmth he could feel along his chest and stomach, as she mumbled something in her sleep and
pressed herself a little more into him.

A tickling sensation along an elbow – and he knew that she had been using his arm as a pillow,
and he tried to listen to the sound of her breathing but finally contented himself with the
rhythmic sensation of her body as she inhaled and exhaled…

He tried to move but stopped, as he realized that he had one arm around her – but she had one
arm locking that arm to her, and her fingers were entwined with his, holding his hand to her chest
– their legs tangled beneath the blanket thrown over them …

And he froze for a split-second, his brain suddenly in overdrive from the memory of waking up
entangled with her at some point in this dream … quickly realized that he was in his pajamas as she
was in hers, and he breathed a sigh of relief and felt himself relaxing …

“Is that a wand in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

The sleep-tinged voice startled him and he tried to let go of her hand as she rolled over on her
back – but she wouldn’t let go, and he found himself jerking his hips away from her waist – feeling
himself turn a bright and heated red, mentally berating his unthinking and illogical – he couldn’t
say *unfeeling*, could he? – part of his body ...

He heard her giggling and the sound warmed his heart; he found himself staring down at her, and
felt his breath stop as did everything in his body, from his brain to his heart and down to his
toes …

*She is so beautiful.*

It felt like he was seeing her for the first time … and maybe it was, he reflected. It was the
first time he’d ever seen her this way: long, brown hair spread out on the bed framing her delicate
face … the smooth forehead now free of the wrinkles when she frowned over a problem or an idea …
the seemingly sculpted eyebrows and the long lashes tinged with gold from the flickering lights
that surrounded them … the nose that he’d never really seen but now thought was so cute and
becoming for her … the lips that seemed so full and imminently kissable … the strong chin that he’d
come to admire over the years …

He watched her lips curve into an adorable smile as she stared back at him … watched as her face
seemed to flush and redden under his gaze – and he heard himself echoing his thoughts out loud,
saying in a voice tinged with wonder, “You’re beautiful, Hermione.”

He could feel her groping around and he held his breath … started breathing again when he felt
her thrust something into his hand as she said, “I think you need new glasses, Harry.”

He ignored the glasses in his hand as he continued staring at her, wishing for nothing more than
to be allowed to stay this way forever – comfortable in her warmth, able to do nothing more than to
stare and worship her; realizing at the same time that this was something he could easily do as
soon as he finished his current thought: “No, I don’t. You’re really beautiful.”

That statement out of the way, he dipped his head forward … fully intending to bask once more in
the warm glow of his love for her – and her love for him …

*CRASH!*

They rolled apart and sat up at the same time, eyes wild and roaming around the room … heard the
sound of running footsteps and a brief scuffle before a familiar voice said, “Hey, watch it!”

Instinctively, their hands gripped each other tightly – felt their hearts leaping to throats
trying to block off air as the images around them registered – felt their muscles tense as the urge
to *hide* under the bed or in some deep, dark hole that they hoped would be somewhere near,
came over them …

This was not their dream bungalow on Fantasy Island.

They were back in the Hospital Wing, sitting up and holding hands in adjoining beds – and
staring right into the eyes of a startled Cindy and Carolyn, the wide-eyed Terrible Two staring
back at the speechless Harry and Hermione.

***

“You’re back!”

The whispered words came from a stunned Carolyn but before Harry or Hermione could voice a
response, the two young girls were on them, dropping their bags on the floor, climbing up on the
bed to embrace them in fierce hugs which threatened to strangle them, eyes obscured by the long
hair of the Terrible Two in their faces, ears assaulted with the blubbering, near-incoherent words
of their siblings by friendship and adoption: “You’re back … you’re really, really back … we
thought you wouldn’t want to come back … oh, it’s so good to have you back …”

The fierceness of Carolyn’s hug was threatening to cut off the blood to Harry’s brain – that
same organ sending frantic appeals to him to get the near-hysterical child off his throat so that
he could *breathe*, ignoring the thought that had sprung up at her words – ‘what did she mean
that we were not coming back?’

“What’s going—“ The stentorian roar of Madam Pomfrey as she charged out of her office broke the
grip of the two young girls on their near-choking mentors and, as if it were a well-rehearsed move,
Harry and Hermione shoved the two girls behind them in a protective gesture – neither one realizing
that their other hands had automatically groped for and found each other, fingers quickly entwining
as they prepared to face the wrath of the Dragon of the Hospital Wing …

They watched the nurse’s stern face break into a warm smile at the sight of the awakened teens
and they breathed easily; felt their breathing stop as she turned a fierce glare on the two young
children cowering behind their mentors … and felt themselves relaxing once again when she chuckled
softly.

“Good, you’re awake!” She beamed a smile of welcome at them. “I was beginning to worry … I would
have called a Healer in if you didn’t wake up soon, or tried that Vulcan Healing thing that Carolyn
was telling me about …”

Harry and Hermione blinked and glanced at each other, eyebrows to their hairlines before turning
back to the nurse with a single question: “What time is it?”

“Nearly dinnertime,” Madam Pomfrey responded. She shot a keen gaze at their frowning faces and
her lips quirked, “… it’s *Mon*-day,” laying emphasis on the first syllable of the word – and
smirked as she saw the shocked look on their faces. Before either one could voice their thoughts,
she continued, “You’ve been here since Thursday.”

She turned away from the shocked faces to give them a chance to assimilate the news and glanced
around the wing – noted an empty bed and a shattered goblet on the floor, and turned steely eyes on
the Terrible Two. “Where is Miss Chang?” she said in a decidedly cold voice.

“Cho was here?” Harry said, surprised.

Hermione felt her heart dropping … crashing through the bed and shattering on the floor beneath
as she saw the look on Harry’s face. ‘Welcome to the REAL world,’ she thought, ‘where Harry slops
water all over himself when Cho waves at him and he feels betrayed when he learns that Cedric was
taking Cho to the Ball … he’s probably regretting what he said to me when he woke up--’

She felt the tears prickling and angrily wiped them away, not realizing that she had roughly
pulled her hand away from Harry’s grasp and, even if she did, not caring at all.

Harry felt the hand leaving his and he glanced at her in surprise – saw her set, angry and
determined face and felt his heart breaking apart. ‘Welcome to the REAL world,’ he thought glumly.
‘She’s probably worrying about the classes she’s missed and whether Snape will allow her to take a
special test to catch up with the one that we missed …’

‘It was nothing but a dream,’ he thought as he felt an ache in the empty place where his heart
had been, not even listening to Cindy explain that they’d run into Cho as they were coming in to
visit, Madam Pomfrey tut-tutting at that and telling the two to look for her patient in the Great
Hall and tell her to come back for a proper examination after dinner.

None of these penetrated Hermione’s roiling brain as her mind reviewed everything she could
remember – and the well-developed, well-exercised *logical* part of her brain tried to make
sense of the dreams that she had: of Fantasy Island and Mr. Roarke, of talking with Lily and James,
the teasing she got at the hands of her parents who would, she knew, be wrapping up their last
patient right about now … for a brief moment, she wished that she hadn’t walked out on Divination,
realizing in the same instant that she could always go to the library to look up ‘*Unfogging the
Future*’ or some other book on dream interpretation …

She absently waved at the departing Cindy and Carolyn, her mind still locked on the research
that she would implement once she caught up with her classes …

“Mr. Potter!” She blinked at the sharp tone in Madam Pomfrey’s voice and glanced at Harry in
surprise. “Would you lie down so I could examine you *properly*?”

She watched as he silently laid down on the bed – just as quietly, she stood and made her way to
another bed, away from the place she had spent four days snuggling – ‘no!’ her rational mind
shouted at her – ‘you were *unconscious* the past four days! You were *not* snuggling
with him’ – even as something within her tried to fight back at those reasoned, thoughtful
words.

Harry lay still on the bed as Madam Pomfrey ran her wand over him, ignoring her occasional
murmurs as she ran her tests. He stared at the ceiling over him, noting out of the corner of his
eye that Hermione was sitting at another bed, away from their joined beds … not looking at him, a
far-away look in her eyes (the look he always associated with her before she bolted for the
library) – and he sighed, already missing her presence close to him as he tried to keep his hands
from clenching at the roiling ache in his mind and his soul.

“It’s just a dream,” he repeated to himself. “It’s crazy … a prophecy? Meeting Hermione when I
was nine? Dumbledore Obliviating me because he wanted to *protect* me by keeping Hermione
away? Mum and Dad joining me? They’re *dead* …”

Hermione heard him sigh and forced her face to turn away, maintaining a cold expression on her
face as she fought with the aching emptiness of her chest and the notes being made by her logical
mind. ‘He’s probably embarrassed at what just happened … probably cursing himself for saying that
when he didn’t know Cho was around …”

She looked up as Madam Pomfrey called her name, and obediently laid down, biting down on her
lower lip as the nurse went over her with the lit wand, face turned away from Harry – not realizing
that he was looking at her with a longing expression, not even thinking that he was growing
increasingly concerned and worried at her stoic silence …

‘This is the REAL world,’ she kept repeating to herself. ‘Harry’s my best friend, and I have to
keep a clear head so that I could study and find more charms and hexes so that he can fight
Voldemort … so that he will remain alive and fulfill the Prophecy – SHUT IT!’

“Will you *relax*, Miss Granger?” The exasperated voice of Madam Pomfrey cut through her
agitated brain and she stared, wide-eyed, at the frowning nurse. With a visible effort, she forced
her body to relax … stilled her mind with a continuing incantation: “It’s nothing but a dream …
it’s nothing but a dream …”

“What was that, Miss Granger?”

Surprised, she looked up at Madam Pomfrey and quickly said, “Nothing, Madam Pomfrey … just a
thought …” – not realizing that Harry had heard her, and her words had been like a sword through
his chest, his face quickly assuming the same cold, expressionless look she was struggling to
regain: lips pursed, eyes turning lifeless and blank, even as he felt his mind locked into a
furious battle between two sides: one wanting to believe her words, the other utterly refusing to
do so …

Soon enough, the nurse finished examining her, and she sat up as the nurse put away her
wand.

“Well,” Madam Pomfrey said to their inquiring looks, “you are both in perfect health – no sign
of the concussions that you had when you came in here last week.”

She frowned as she realized that the two were holding themselves stiffly, as if they were mortal
enemies forced to a truce, but she plowed on, her duties as a nurse and Healer primary in her mind:
“Your robes and some clothes are here so that you can change; it wouldn’t do to be wandering the
castle in your pyjamas. Since it’s close to dinner, you are both to go directly to the Great Hall
and have something to eat – not too much, mind!”

“Yes, Madam Pomfrey,” they mumbled. It was apparent that they were both eager to leave, and she
narrowed her eyes at them. “Miss Granger, you are to go *directly* to the Great Hall and have
dinner. You are not to go to your Common Room or the library until after you’ve eaten.

“Mr. Potter.” Harry’s head snapped up at her tone. “Please make sure that Miss Granger has
something to eat. You’ve both been living on nutritional potions for a few days; I daresay some
bulk would do much to improve your dispositions.”

Harry nodded, wondering whether he could actually do that to his stubborn friend without laying
a hand on her. Wordlessly, he grabbed his clothes from the bedside table; quietly, he handed
Hermione’s clothes to her – both nearly jumping as if electrocuted when their fingers brushed when
Hermione reached for her clothes.

Silently, they went to separate ends of the Hospital Wing where they changed behind screens
still set up around several mussed beds; soon enough, they were again in front of Madam Pomfrey,
expressing their gratitude for her efforts but keeping a clear distance between them, neither of
them noticing the frown on her elderly face.

As they were about to leave, however, Madam Pomfrey called Harry back – Hermione stood by the
door, waiting for him and heard the nurse telling Harry to make sure to tell Cho that she was to
return to the Hospital Wing that night.

The words brought another aching slice to her heart, and she walked away without bothering to
wait for Harry … finding a handkerchief in the pocket of her robes, she angrily wiped at her teary
eyes and blindly walked away, unheeding of the hurrying footsteps behind her as Harry tried to
catch up …

They were unaware that Madam Pomfrey was standing at the door to the Hospital Wing, staring
after the two teens, a frown creasing her forehead … wondering what had happened to have elicited
such a change in the two teens who’d been snuggling so closely together while unconscious and under
her care.

She glanced at the empty joined beds and sighed; with waves of her wand and muttered
incantations, the beds separated and went back to their normal places … the bed linens flying out
and folding themselves before dropping into a laundry basket.

In a wink of an eye, the Hospital Wing was back to its normal state – beds in a line, crisp
linens and pillows in place, nothing to even indicate that it had once hosted two teens who had
been chasing a dream.

***

The empty corridors of Hogwarts echoed with dissonant steps as Hermione tried to take three
steps to Harry’s one. She couldn’t understand why her normally logical and singularly-focused brain
was in constant turmoil, one side trying to tell her that she had to talk with Harry while the
other kept insisting that it was nothing but a dream – all she wanted at this point was to get her
dinner over and done with so she could hide in her room and cry her heart out …

She had a head start on him, and he knew it would be difficult to catch up – unless he broke
into a run and she suddenly tripped and fell. He could not understand what had happened … why she
had suddenly turned so cold … unless, as he thought, it had all been a dream as she had said in the
Hospital Wing –

But then, why had she blushed? Why had she made that joke … and it had all been so *real*
…

Enough. This had gone far enough – “Hermione!”

She wouldn’t stop, he realized – and he broke into a run, praying that she, too, wouldn’t start
running … grateful that whatever funk had wrapped itself around her seemed to have made her deaf
…

She nearly tripped when she felt a hand on her shoulder – felt a tingle up her spine when she
felt a hand on her elbow, steadying her and stopping her from falling … looked up and caught her
breath when her eyes locked with green eyes that had been so familiar before, and even more
memorable now – those green eyes that had haunted her dreams with that oh-so-distinctive look of
love and concern –

She tried to pull away from the grip he had on her arm, tried to turn her tear-streaked face
away from his compassionate look, shivered as she felt a gentle hand softly, caressingly, brush
away her hair from her face as he asked, “What’s wrong, Hermione?”

She wanted nothing more in that moment than to throw her arms around him and hug him as tightly
as she did in her dream … wished for nothing more than to slam her head against his so that she
could knock herself out along with him, just so she could try and find that Fantasy Island and the
dream house on the beach where she could feel safe in his arms – no Voldemort, no Death Eaters, and
no Cho Chang to disturb her time with Harry …

She held herself back with an effort, trying desperately not to drown in the green pools that
she loved … totally unaware of Harry’s tense arm and hand on her elbow, tense because of the effort
to keep himself from dragging her into the nearest broom closet where he could snog her senseless,
where he could wrap his arms around her and hold her as he had done over and over again on that
Fantasy Island of his dreams …

“What’s wrong, Hermione?” he asked – or croaked? – as he felt himself drowning in pools of warm,
chocolate waters. He felt her drawing closer to him, felt his face coming down to meet her – and
nearly jumping out of his skin as shouts of “They’re awake! They’re awake!” rebounded around the
once-empty corridor leading to the Great Hall.

Before they could make a move, they were surrounded – Ginny fighting for space with Lavender and
Parvati as they hugged her, chattering away like maddened budgies at the return of their dorm-mate,
Harry nearly thrown to the floor from the enthusiastic hugs of the Gryffindor Quidditch team led by
the Weasley twins even as Seamus, Dean and Neville were trying to pound his back into pieces,
continuous flashes indicating that Colin was, as usual, recording this event for posterity …

“Hey guys! Let them breathe, OK?” The loud, amused voice quickly broke up the enthusiastic
hugging around Harry and Hermione, and the two separate groups broke apart and stood aside –
revealing Ron Weasley in the corridor, the Terrible Two on either side of him, a wide, wide grin on
his face although a haunted, distant look seemed to linger in his eyes.

“Ron!” The assembled Gryffindors smiled, laughed or cheered as they watched Harry and Hermione
leaping on the third half of their unbeatable Trio, embracing him enthusiastically even as he
hugged them back – Cindy and Carolyn on either side of them, smiling at the way their mentors
renewed their friendship even as they felt a fugitive fear in the back of their minds slowly
dissipating away …

Fred and George glanced at each other, smiling – they knew that if they didn’t do something,
there would be no going back to the Great Hall for dinner and they were all – at this moment – an
inviting target for Peeves and his water balloons which, they suspected, the poltergeist had been
filling up in one of the toilets on the floor.

Before they could say anything, however, a sudden silence fell on the group as everyone ran out
of things to say – and the silence was broken by the rumbling of three stomachs – and the laughing
group entered the Great Hall, engaged in a furious debate as to whose stomach – Ron, Harry or
Hermione’s – had rumbled the loudest in the corridor.

Hermione was watching Harry from the corner of her eye as they entered the Great Hall, and felt
the familiar stab in her heart and the prickling of her eyes when she saw him stop, eyes staring
straight ahead from behind his glasses at the Ravenclaws’ table.

She was about to turn away and head for their table when she felt Harry gripping her elbow
tightly; before she could pull away, she heard his shocked voice, “What’s Hedwig doing with
Dumbledore?”

She looked up and realized that Harry hadn’t been looking at the Ravenclaws at all (or a
specific Ravenclaw in particular), but at the teacher’s table. She realized what she had
overlooked: the Headmaster’s chair was, of course, in the center of the teachers’ table, which
would place Dumbledore at just about the middle of the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables …

She saw what Harry had been looking at: Hedwig, indeed, was perched on Dumbledore’s shoulder.
The latter was scribbling something even as the snowy owl seemed to fidget, apparently wanting
nothing more than to take flight and go to her owner but held to her place by a sense of
responsibility …

She pondered the meaning of that as they were propelled to their table and she took her seat,
totally unaware that Harry had taken a seat beside her while Ginny was on her other side, only
half-listening as Harry and Ron (who’d taken a seat opposite from them) talked about Quidditch
(Hufflepuff versus Ravenclaw next week), while Lavender, Parvati and Ginny gossiped to her side
…

She blinked when Harry nudged her and saw her plate already filled with food – looked up to see
Harry smiling at her -- and she smiled back and bent over her plate, thinking, at the same time,
that she would have to ask Dobby for some lasagna for Crookshanks – said thought stopping the fork
going to her mouth.

“Something wrong, Hermione?” She looked up into the worried eyes of Ginny and forced a smile.
“Nothing, Ginny … I was just wondering if Crookshanks would like some lasagna for dinner …”

“Not tonight, Hermione.” Shocked, she stared at Ron’s laughing face. “He’s been gorging himself
on lasagna since Saturday night … I think he needs a break from that.”

A sudden giggle from Ca drew her attention; at her inquiring look, the young girl explained, “I
was wondering if he was related to Garfield; the way he tucks into the lasagna …”

For some reason, she glanced at Harry – and saw his wide eyes looking at her, mirroring her own
surprise at those words. ‘No, it couldn’t be,’ she thought, stopping her head from shaking at the
thought – ‘it’s a dream, a dream, a—.’ She saw Harry looking up and turned her head up – and saw
Hedwig winging her way towards them.

Harry quickly held out his hand, his Seeker’s eyes noticing an envelope held in Hedwig’s beak –
and dropped it in surprise as his owl ignored him and landed, with a soft flutter of wings, on
Hermione’s shoulder. The surprised girl took the offered envelope from the owl; having been
relieved of its burden, Hedwig quickly hopped onto Harry’s shoulder and started nibbling his ear
affectionately; Harry automatically picked up some bacon from a plate and handed it to her, all the
while looking at Hermione as she opened the envelope and started reading.

“It’s from Dumbledore,” she said and she looked up at Harry. “He said that he would like to see
us in his office after dinner to … (she glanced back at the letter in her hand) ‘discuss some
important matters’.”

He shrugged at her worried look and glanced at Ron – and realized, for a fleeting moment, that
there was something wrong with their other best friend. It was something indefinable … something he
couldn’t place a finger on … something connected to what seemed to be a haunted look in his eyes.
For a brief moment, an errant memory slipped into his mind … of comforting a brown-haired,
green-eyed girl in the Red Queen after Ron had left them – he blinked and shook his head, trying to
grab at the memory that seemed to be fading away, and turned as he heard a soft “Ohhh!” of surprise
coming from Hermione.

She was sitting with a shocked look on her face, staring at a picture in her hand; he shifted to
take a look but Ginny snatched the picture away from Hermione’s nerveless fingers before he could
even look.

He was about to ask her what that was all about, but was stopped by Ginny’s delighted squeal,
“How cute! Is this you as a baby, Hermione? … and who’s the other baby with you?”

He tried to reach for the picture but it was already beyond reach; Ginny had handed it over to
Lavender and Parvati, who were both enthusiastically cooing and ahh-ing over the picture even as
the other Gryffindors crowded around, the picture swiftly passing from hand to hand …

“Hermione?” He nudged her softly, and she turned shocked eyes to his – and he felt something
molten erupting in his stomach and he knew … he *knew* what the picture was …

“So who’s the other baby, Hermione?” He looked up at Ron, who was now holding the picture and he
could only stay frozen in his chair as he watched a curious Cindy grabbing the picture.

“I … I don’t know, Ron,” Hermione whispered and Harry’s eyes locked with hers, a silent
conversation happening as he expressed agreement with her decision to keep her thoughts to herself.
He started when Cindy squealed in delight, “Look, Miss Hermione – the picture’s moving! I thought
Muggle photographs can’t do that --”

Harry glanced at the picture and felt his eyes widen at the sight of his baby self tugging baby
Hermione closer to him …

He half-listened to Colin Creevey explaining to anyone who would listen that Muggle photographs,
while usually unmoving, could actually move if those photographed were magical – and the photo was
brought into a place with a high concentration of magical energies, like Hogwarts.

Unthinking, his hand reached out and he felt Hermione’s hand in his, squeezing back in quiet
sympathy; their eyes wandering to the teacher’s table and their aged Headmaster at his chair. Both
assumed that, were it not for the flickering light caused by the floating candles in the Great
Hall, they would have seen Dumbledore’s twinkling eyes smiling at them – but they were both
wrong.

Dumbledore’s eyes held a mixture of worry and despair, something that the teachers at the table
missed, consumed as they all were with curiosity at the picture being passed from hand to hand at
the Gryffindor table.

***

“Please sit down, both of you. Some tea, perhaps?”

They were sitting in Dumbledore’s office, befuddled, unsure of how they had gotten there without
guidance, knowing only that they’d stood up from their table when their Headmaster did, and
followed him out without a word being said … totally unaware that the entire Great Hall – from
teachers to students to ghosts – had watched them walking out with their hands entwined.

The moment they’d stepped out, the entire Hall was abuzz with excitement; the Weasley twins
seizing the opportunity to do some business – and becoming terribly disappointed when no one would
bet against them – at 10 to 1 odds – that it was Harry and Hermione in the picture that had quickly
made the rounds of the different tables (for some reason, avoiding the Slytherin table all
together) -- the teachers passing the picture from hand to hand: McGonagall smiling and wiping a
surreptitious finger over her eyes, Snape sneering at the picture before passing it on to Flitwick
as if it were dripping with bubotuber pus. The small Charms teacher glanced at it with a grin
before passing it to Trelawney who’d attempted to do a reading but was stopped by Professor Sprout
who’d grabbed the picture from her.

“Professor …” Harry said, stopping to watch a wide-eyed Hermione as she looked around
Dumbledore’s office. He realized, with a start, that this would be Hermione’s first time in the
Headmaster’s office; star student and Gryffindor Prefect that she was, she’d gone only as far as
McGonagall’s offices –

“That’s a phoenix!” she said in awe as she saw Fawkes on his perch, and fell silent as it gave a
warbling trill which seemed to warm her very soul.

“Hello, Fawkes,” Harry said quietly as the phoenix gave another trill as if it was greeting him
in return. He smiled at Hermione’s stupefied expression: “This is Hermione … I don’t think you’ve
met before?”

The phoenix cocked its head to one side as it regarded the girl beside him and, it seemed to
Hermione, burst into a song of greeting which stopped when Dumbledore spoke.

“I would like to apologize, Harry.” Startled, Harry looked at his headmaster, as the latter
continued, “For borrowing Hedwig without your permission. I woke up very early this morning with a
need to send something to your parents, Miss Granger—“

Hermione’s startled, “My parents, Professor?” was nearly overshadowed by Harry’s blurted,
“Something, Headmaster?” and the old man held up a hand to stop their questions. They settled down
as he continued, “Yes … I felt it was important to tell them that you were all right, Miss Granger.
They have been worried about you--” he paused as he watched the two teens exchange a look, and knew
that Harry had granted permission for Hermione to send a letter to her parents with Hedwig – “and
that, for some reason, I had to send them a picture of you, Harry …”

“A picture? Of *me*?”

“Actually, a picture of you with James and Lily.” The old man paused for a moment before
continuing, “I was actually planning to give you the picture at the end of your first year …
something they sent me soon after you were born.”

He held up his hand again as Harry opened his mouth, “But then Hagrid started collecting
pictures for the album he gave you; that was the only picture I kept of the three of you and
everything else that I had, I turned over to Hagrid.”

“But why did you send a picture of Harry and his parents to Mum and Dad, Professor? They
wouldn’t know each other--” Hermione stopped and turned shocked eyes to Harry, who was looking at
her with the same dazed expression on his face as their dream-memories started crashing through the
logical barriers of their minds. They turned to Dumbledore who had missed their exchange of looks,
engrossed as he was in his gnarled and aged hands, wondering again what would result from this
discussion … a conversation that he knew could end with both teens losing their faith and trust in
him.

“Professor Dumbledore.” He lifted pained and worried eyes to see two pairs of eyes – one green
and overly bright, the other dark brown and in shock – staring at him. Before he could speak, Harry
continued: “What you wanted to talk with us about … It’s about the Prophecy, isn’t it?”

The statement, delivered in a soft, no-nonsense tone, would have been sufficient to cause a
heart attack in a lessen man – but Dumbledore was made of sterner stuff, and been tempered to steel
by his years of fighting the Dark Side. As it was, however, their words caused enough of a shock to
make him sit back in his chair as if he’d been kicked in the guts – and they were treated to a
sight no one had seen in a long time: their esteemed Headmaster acting like a goldfish in a bowl,
mouth opening and closing soundlessly as he tried to work a word or two out of his throat.

“How … How …”

For a moment, Harry was tempted to keep silent; to walk out of that office with Hermione and pay
the old man back for the years of silence and manipulation that he had undergone. And yet, even as
the thought flashed through his mind, fragments of the dream came crashing back: Dumbledore’s
explanations and reasoning which, he remembered now, he could neither refute or contest; the steel
in his father’s voice as he told Harry: “I wasn’t fighting for Dumbledore, Harry. I wasn’t even
fighting for what people thought was right--”

The old man had done what he thought was right, he thought – as Harry had done what *he*
thought was right: including asking Cedric Diggory to claim the Tri-Wizard Cup with him, an action
which had led to the Hufflepuff’s death. And, while he could claim ignorance of the circumstances,
it did not change the fact that his decision to do what he deemed was right and proper had led to
Cedric’s death.

He felt Hermione’s hand in his, squeezing his hand softly, and he remembered her father’s
parting words to him: “What’s comin’ will come, an we’ll meet it when it does. We’re with you,
Harry, whatever you do.”

He turned and locked eyes with his Headmaster and took a deep breath. “I … I woke up on a beach
somewhere, Professor,” he began. “The last thing I remembered before that was diving towards
Hermione because of the Bludger heading her way…”

***

“And then we woke up in the Hospital Wing … and that’s it.”

“I see.” For a long moment, none of the occupants in the room spoke – and Harry realized that
even the portraits of Headmasters and Headmistresses past had stopped snoring at some point as they
listened to the story – in the same way that the musical instruments in the room had fallen quiet,
as if they too were listening. The silence was broken by a soft, warbling sound from Fawkes – with
a sudden flash of fire, he disappeared from his perch, eliciting a squeak of surprise from
Hermione.

Before she could ask what had happened, Dumbledore’s soft voice interrupted her: “Thank
you.”

“Professor?” He smiled gently at the surprised looks on their faces. “For telling me ... even
though I am not deserving of such confidence and trust from the two of you.”

“So it’s true then? The prophecy … Harry’s birthday … meeting Sarah?”

The old man looked away from Hermione’s question and Harry’s miserable face – turning to stare
at a small picture hidden amidst the clutter of parchments and other things on his desk as he
softly replied, “I cared about you too much, Harry. I cared more for your happiness than your
knowing the truth, more for your peace of mind than my plan, more for your life than the lives that
might be lost if the plan failed. In other words, I acted exactly as Voldemort expects we fools who
love to act.”

He turned away from the picture and turned to face them: “I Obliviated your memories of each
other years ago to protect you, Harry … to keep you from breaking the protection I placed around
you and which was bound to the home of your only living relatives.

“And I have kept my silence about the Prophecy even though there was every opportunity to tell
you what it was since your first year here, because I didn’t want to burden you with a task so
terrible that no man – wizard or not – should carry. I thought it best that I carry that burden
alone … bear it in silence until the time came when you had to know … when I felt that it would be
the right time to tell you.

“In other words, I acted in what I thought was your best interest … and for that I can only
apologize and reiterate – I did what I thought was best.”

His words were met by silence and he bowed to the inevitable; he’d known that he was taking this
very risk when he refused to tell Harry the reason for Voldemort’s seeming obsession with killing
him – and when he’d opted to keep silent about Harry and Hermione’s first real meeting at the age
of nine at a park in summer England. As the feelings of remorse coursed through his body, a
fragment of his own dream came back to him – something, he realized, that the two had edited from
their tale: an angry, hurting Harry Potter’s accusing voice: “Is that why you rescued me from the
house … is that why you brought me to Aunt Petunia and sentenced me to that horrible place? Is that
*why* you felt it was so important to *protect me* … not because I was a baby who’d lost
his parents … but because I am the *tool* you needed to destroy Voldemort?”

He remembered wanting to refute that accusation, but holding himself still and accepting the
statement … because he had to admit to the truth of that statement. No matter that his priority was
to keep Harry safe and unharmed, no matter his lingering hope that Voldemort would not be able to
come back, the truth was—

“Divination is an imprecise branch of magic, Professor.” He blinked and looked up – and saw
Hermione staring at Harry as if the latter had suddenly sprung two heads. Harry smiled at her and
turned to Dumbledore: “I understand, Professor. No one could have known what would happen … there’s
no one to blame but Voldemort.”

Harry paused for a moment, thinking, slowly rubbing Hermione’s hand with his thumb before
looking at Dumbledore: “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”

The old man looked at him in surprise; a part of his mind probing the words for any trace of
sarcasm or cynicism. Finding none, he bowed his head in acquiescence and stood up to prepare some
tea for the two teens.

Harry smiled at Hermione and quietly lifted her fingers to his lips. Seeing Hermione’s
questioning look, he murmured ‘Mum’ – and she remembered Lily Potter’s words to her son as he asked
why they had to die: “Maybe because you no longer needed us … there was someone waiting for you …
someone who would need you as much as you would need her.”

She started in surprise as a flash of fire announced the return of Fawkes, with the picture that
her parents had sent her in his beak. Silently, Dumbledore took the picture from the phoenix and
glanced at it before looking at Hermione with a grin: “I assume, Miss Granger, that this is Harry
and yourself?”

She blushed and nodded; looked up in surprise when Harry asked, as he looked at the picture in
Dumbledore’s hand, “It wouldn’t have worked, would it, Professor? If you had known that Hermione’s
Mum and mine had met before … you would still have placed me with the Dursleys, because of the
protection you felt I needed?”

Dumbledore sighed as he nodded in agreement with Harry’s assessment. “I’m sorry, Harry … as I
said, I thought there was no other way.”

“I wonder …” The old man and the girl looked at him strangely, and he smiled. “What would have
happened if we had grown up together?”

For a moment, a nonplussed Dumbledore and Hermione stared at him - and Hermione’s face broke out
in a grin.

“Well for one thing, Ron wouldn’t be our friend.” Hermione’s smile grew wider at his blank look.
“You’d probably have beaten him up in first year for insulting me after our Charms class.”

Harry smiled, remembering Ron’s tactless remark that was, in a way, the start of his adventures
with his bushy-haired, bossy, know-it-all friend. “True,” he grinned back. “But then, *you’d*
probably have challenged Draco Malfoy to a wizard’s duel for trying to get me in trouble over
Neville’s Rememberall!”

She snickered at that comment and said, “At least I wouldn’t have tried punching him in the
nose, as I remember Ron advising *you* to do …”

Harry’s loud bark of laughter at that sally caused a smile to light up Dumbledore’s face, and he
thanked whatever Divinity there was – or Harry and Hermione’s innate magic - to have pulled David
and Abigail Granger into that Fantasy Island of their dreams, and to have given the two teens a
lesson that even he had forgotten: “people laugh because it is the only way to keep from
crying.”

*That*, more than anything else, was the primary reason that he’d allowed – even tolerated
– the shenanigans of the Weasley Twins and their protégés, the Terrible Two. Unknowingly, he echoed
the sentiment of Lily Potter as she regarded the two young girls who had become so much a part of
Harry and Hermione’s lives: they needed the two young girls, someone to remind them of what was
important, someone to remind them that there was a far larger world and people out there who
mattered…

He looked up at a sudden note of pathos in Harry’s voice: “But if we had grown up, then I
wouldn’t be taking you to the Yule Ball …”

Hermione tried to lighten the mood as she interjected, “Excuse me, Mr. Potter – you
*haven’t* yet taken me to the Ball.”

Dumbledore cleared his throat at that, and smiled at the two teens, “There will be other
opportunities for a dance, Miss Granger.”

He tried to stop the twinkle the he knew would be coming out in his eyes as he pondered the
letter that he’d received that very morning from the American Federation of Witchcraft and Wizardry
… as well as the letter he’d received from Sarah the other day which, he now realized, was the
reason she had been on his mind when he’d tripped and found himself on the island with the two
teens.

“Professor?” He shook his head of his thoughts at the serious tone in Hermione’s voice and he
peered at her through his glasses. “Cindy and Carolyn were with us when you revealed the prophecy …
does that mean they know about it?”

“Probably not, Hermione,” Harry said before Dumbledore could speak. “They would have mentioned
something …”

“But remember what they were saying when we woke up, Harry,” Hermione argued. “They were
carrying on about you and I not coming back. Given what we learned … do you think *we* would
have wanted to come back?”

“Maybe that’s why Mr. Roarke didn’t escort us back? I wouldn’t have minded another few days
there …” Harry quickly eluded Hermione’s light slap, and stuck his tongue out at her. Hermione
merely shook her head at him as she huffed, “Boys!” – and smiled as she remembered her father and
James doing exactly the same thing to her mother and Lily.

“You can always find your way back, I think,” Dumbledore interrupted them. He smiled at the
sudden embarrassment that flamed their faces a bright red and quickly centered the discussion. “But
you may have nothing to worry about with those two … to be honest, I think the memory of the dream
fades. After all, most people – even magical ones – can’t remember their dreams on waking up.”

He paused for a moment and continued, turning a sardonic eyebrow at Harry: “Unless they keep a
dream diary – and don’t make one up an hour or so before Divination.”

Harry had the grace to blush at Dumbledore’s comment about his study habits – and saw Hermione
sticking her tongue at him. Before Harry could react, Dumbledore continued in a contemplative
voice, “It may well be that some fragments remain buried in one’s subconscious … which may be why
Miss Galloway and Miss Wright were so afraid that you might not come back. From what *I*
remember, it has been an idyllic vacation for you … my inadvertent revelations aside, of
course.”

The old man fought to keep his smile from breaking out as he regarded the two blushing teens …
and again, felt a wave of remorse and regret coursing through his body as he remembered his
decision to intrude six years before. Would things have been different if he hadn’t intervened?

He glanced at the picture in his hand of two magical babies snuggling in their crib – and smiled
at the memory of two unconscious teens snuggling together in the Hospital Wing …

He sighed heavily at the thought. Maybe things would have been different but, as Harry pointed
out, Divination was an imprecise branch of magic. They had all been acting to the dictates of the
Prophecy that Sybill Trelawney had proclaimed fifteen years before: Voldemort, himself, James and
Lily … Sirius, Remus, and Peter Pettigrew … but how were they, all of them, to know about the girl
who would own Harry’s heart – the baby that he’d met when only a few months old, the little girl
who’d shared her sandwich with a virtual stranger on a swing, the eleven year old that he’d gone
after when he realized that she didn’t know about the troll …

The young woman who had been with him through all his adventures and, in doing so, had shown
Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived and their great hope in the fight against Voldemort, what trust,
loyalty and love was all about?

“Professor?” He shook his head as he looked up at a serious, burdened Harry Potter who sat with
hands entwined with Hermione Granger’s. “Where do we go from here?”

He sighed and looked down at his hands – old and gnarled, callused through years of wielding
wand in defence of right, stained through the years of dabbling in Alchemy with Nicolas Flamel, and
spoke from the heart: “We go on, Harry … taking each day as it comes, doing what we believe is
right rather than taking the path that is easy.”

“That’s going to be difficult, Professor,” Harry replied, looking down at his own hands,
entwined as they were with Hermione’s slim fingers. “There’s so much to do … so much to think about
…”

Dumbledore looked at him for a long moment, pondering what to say … and a small, errant memory
of his time with Sarah’s grandmother came to mind. With quick, economical gestures, he carefully
placed the unused teapot on his desk and transfigured it into a large glass jar. The two teens in
front of him watched, puzzled.

“Tell me, Harry,” he said with a wave of his wand, filling the jar with golden balls the size of
Snitches, “is this jar empty or full?”

“Full,” Harry replied, a puzzled look on his face.

“Is it?” he said softly. With a muttered incantation, a stream of pebbles poured from his wand,
falling into the jar and finding their way in between the golden balls. “So … is it full now?”

Harry smiled, wondering where this was going but willing to play along. “Full.”

Another incantation, and grains of fine sand started pouring into the jar, again filling in the
spaces between rocks and balls, and he smiled at Harry who was looking at him with a raised
eyebrow. Harry responded, “I think it’s full now, Professor.”

“Is it?” With a wave of his wand, he conjured a bottle of butterbeer which he opened and
proceeded to pour into the jar – and the two teens watched as the liquid foamed and settled within.
Silently, they watched as he conjured and poured another two bottles into the jar until he finally
sat back, the jar now truly filled.

“Think of the jar as your life, Harry … Hermione. The golden balls are the important things:
your families, your friends, your favorite passions (‘Like the library?’ Harry asked, only to
receive an elbow in the ribs from Hermione) … eventually, your children and grandchildren -- things
that, if everything in life were gone and only they remain, your life will still be full.

“The pebbles are the other things that matter – your house, your broomstick, Harry, your pets …
down the road, your jobs and other possessions. The sand is everything else … the small
things.”

“Professor …”

“If you put sand in the jar first, there will be no room for the balls or the pebbles. In other
words, there will be no room for the things that truly matter to you.”

The old man locked eyes with Harry and then Hermione before continuing: “If you spend your time
and energy on the small things, you will never have room for the things that are important to
you.

“Take care of the things that really matter. The rest is just sand.”

The two teens pondered his words for a moment, before Harry spoke up: “I hate to think that …
killing Voldemort … is critical to my happiness, Professor.”

“Of course not, Harry … but keep in mind two things: one, dealing with him will ensure your
future and the future of the ones you love. Second – Voldemort, by himself, is hardly the
*only* thing that is critical to your happiness.

“Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. Play Quidditch, spend some
time in the library, have fun with your friends … spend time with each other. You don’t need to go
chasing after dreams when you can have as much time with each other during your waking moments.

“It’s all a matter of proportion – learn to distinguish between the things you have to do on a
day-to-day basis and everything will fall into place. Deal with life a day at a time, doing what is
important and leaving the big things to when you can deal with them.”

“What’s coming will come, and we’ll deal with them when they come?”

“Exactly, Harry! You cannot live your life worrying about the small things and forgetting all
about the big things; neither can you focus only on the big things and let the small things pass
you by. There has to be time for both … it is in keeping a balance that one can get through life
without letting it hurt you.”

For a long moment, silence reigned in the room as the two teens pondered his words. Finally,
with a sigh and a smile, Harry looked up at him and said, “Thank you, Professor.”

He smiled at the two teens (noticing Hermione’s frown as she thought over his Harry prepared to
stand up and take his leave) and waited silently. His smile widened as he saw Hermione stopping
Harry, and turned to him with a question: “And the butterbeer, Professor? What does that mean?”

“The most important lesson of all, Miss Granger. No matter how full your life seems—” With a
wave of his hand, he conjured up six bottles of butterbeer on his desk, “… there is always time for
a butterbeer or two.”

He grinned impishly at their slack-jawed faces and gestured to the bottles on the desk. Another
complicated gesture with his wand, and the bottles were transfigured into loaves of bread placed
within a basket with a cloth covering them – just as a soft chiming sounded from somewhere in the
room.

He glanced at a clock that neither of the teens could see, and turned to them with a smile.

“I would be much obliged if the two of you fetched Miss Galloway and Miss Wright from the
Hospital Wing where they are serving detention. Madam Pomfrey has been escorting them to their
dormitories everyday to make sure they wouldn’t leave any mischief in the halls.” He watched as
they stood up to leave and spoke.

“Harry!” The old man gestured to the basket of bread on the table. “Mr. Filch will have a
conniption if he sees you in the hall with the bottles. Use *Finite Incantetum* when you are
back in your Common Room. I believe that Mr. and Miss Weasley are waiting up for you; you and the
others can have a butterbeer before you go to sleep.”

He paused for a moment, a twinkle now apparent in his eyes, and waved his hand at the basket,
where four cans of soda suddenly popped up -- “And tell Cindy and Carolyn … no butterbeer for them
until they’re older.”

The two teens smiled at him in silent agreement, and he dismissed them with a wave: “Welcome
back … and thank you for your confidence and trust.”

The smile remained on his face as he watched the two make their way out of his office, still
holding hands while Harry carried the basket out, looking for all the world as if they were about
to have a picnic on the beach. He heard Fawkes rustling his feathers and he looked up as the
phoenix trilled a single note which seemed to warm the room – and he glanced down at the photograph
of two snuggling babies on his desk.

“I’ll send this to Miss Granger tomorrow, old friend. And as for me,” he glanced down at his
desk and the small picture frame nestling there among his other concerns and affairs, “I think that
it’s time for me to go chasing after a dream.”



15. I Can Dream, Can
--------------------

Dream Chasing

**Title:** Dream Chasing (15)
**Author name:** Romulus Lupin
**Author email:** galigad@yahoo.com
**Category:** Romance
**Sub Category:**
**Keywords:** Ron Nicole Dream
**Rating:** PG-13
**Spoilers:**SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, OotP
**Summary:** Chapter 15. The final chapter. Where loose ends are tied up, new friends are
introduced, and the answer to a question often asked of me: ‘Will Harry and Hermione ever snog?’
Read and find out.

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended.

**AUTHOR’S NOTES:** **Happy Birthday, Erin.** Consider this as an installment on the gift
I should be giving you – hopefully soon, if my Muse doesn’t go out on a well-deserved binge.

Chapter 15. “I Can Dream, Can’t I?”

*The ocean breeze caught her hair, tossing it lazily across her face. She raised her hand to
brush it from her eyes as she beamed at Harry, who took her hand in his; without saying a word,
they began to meander with no apparent destination in mind. They were walking along the
sun-drenched beach. The waves lapped happily at the white glistening sand. She was carrying a pair
of sandals in her hand and wore a gauzy white sundress that she knew would leave little to Harry’s
imagination. They stopped. She looked into his emerald green eyes and raised her face to meet his.
Before he had the chance to kiss her, they were bowled over by another force; a smaller one.
Hermione looked up from where she’d fallen on the beach.*

*A little boy, no more than five or six years old, with brown hair and striking green eyes was
calling their attention to a seagull chasing after his bologna sandwich. Hermione could feel
Harry’s chest hitching as he laughed at the boy’s indignation. The child stormed off, shouting at
the circling menace, and Harry returned his attention to her.*

*She tried to pull herself up but Harry playfully held her down with his left hand; the same
hand that sparkled with the golden flicker of an irrefutable wedding band. She saw his eyes drawn
to it: shimmering with gold and platinum and inscribed with runes Harry couldn’t read – and she
grasped his hand in her similarly adorned hand. Her wide smile turned to surprised shock as an
unusually large wave, hailing the return of the tide, rolled into them. Again, she tried to leap
off the beach, but was firmly held in place by Harry.*

*He surveyed his wife, now soaked from the unrelenting surf, and took in the sight of her. The
white sundress had been thrown up above her knees. While it still covered all the essential areas,
it was now a translucent sheath, clinging to her every curve. The sunlight seemed to bore directly
through the drenched fabric. He could make out every inch of the lacy bra covering her breasts. He
could see the intricate detail of her knickers. When he returned his stare to her face, she had
stopped smiling; and so had he.*

*Left hands still clasped together, he lowered his head to hers, while letting his right hand
move under the sodden fabric covering her thighs. No longer able to stop the force driving him, he
crushed his lips to hers as her right hand grasped the back of his neck. Unaware of anything else,
they opened their mouths and feasted on the taste of each other. The quiet moan that escaped her
throat warmed them like a phoenix song and their wave of passion was matched only by the rhythmic
crashing of the ocean’s waves ...*

“Dammit!”

Hermione jumped at the softly spoken curse laden with undertones of pain and frustration, and
she glanced around the Common Room guiltily, wondering if anyone had seen her drooling. She shook
herself as she remembered that almost everyone had gone up to bed: the younger ones (with two
notable exceptions) had all retired after dinner, shell-shocked from a grueling Potions exam given
by a vindictive Snape; the upper years all excited but wanting to sleep early in preparation for
Hogsmeade tomorrow – she glanced at her watch – actually, in a few hours.

The sound of tearing parchment disrupted her thoughts; peering over the back of her chair, she
saw a red-headed teen sitting in a corner of the Common Room, staring blankly into space, pieces of
parchment scattered around him.

She sighed, recognizing the sound for what it was and the sight for what it meant.

Another failed effort by Ron Weasley, frustrated artist.

If there was **one** thing that Hermione would never have expected, the idea of Ron sketching
would have rated as ‘You must be mental’ on her list. Helping knit clothes for house-elves would
rate high, of course; going on a diet would rate even higher; asking Pansy or Millicent to be his
date for the Easter Ball would rate very, very high … but *sketching*?

That was outside the atmosphere.

But there it was.

It was a shock to learn that Ron had approached Dean Thomas with a request to tutor him in
drawing and sketching. Dean had been so relieved that Ron wasn’t going to beat him up for daring to
date Ginny that he’d quickly agreed – and the lessons had started even while they were still
unconscious in the Hospital Wing.

The problem was that, while everyone conceded that Ron had the heart to become a good – even a
great – artist, “he just doesn’t have the ‘art’ for it,” as Dean so delicately put it. This candid
assessment, however, did not stop Ron from trying, as the parchments around him proved.

“I can’t do it.” Ron’s soft voice, burdened with disappointment and anger, made Hermione look up
from her own distracted thoughts.

“Ron?” He jumped, surprised; he’d forgotten that he was not alone in the Common Room. For a
brief moment, he stared blankly at Hermione – but his eyes quickly focused as she asked, “Are you
all right?”

He shook his head to clear it and tried a smile: “I’m all right, Hermione … just (a shrug and a
sigh) … I don’t think I’m any good at this.”

“Ron …” She stopped when he glared at her, and he quickly changed the subject: “So … all ready
for the ball, Hermione?”

She blinked, and smiled. “Of course! It’s going to be so exciting … meeting our counterparts
from the United States! I hope they won’t be as snooty as Fleur Delacour and that Beauxbatons group
… well, at least we won’t have a language barrier like what happened during the Tri-Wizard
Tournament … they’ll probably be spread among the different houses …”

“No one asking for a dance from Herm-own-ninny?”

Ron barely ducked the cushion thrown by a red-faced Hermione, and he held up his hands in
surrender before she could throw the book in her hands – *Hogwarts: A History* – at him.
“Can’t take a joke, Hermione?”

She glared at his smirking face, and shot back, “And who, may I ask, is ickle Ronnie-kins taking
to the ball?”

She felt her jaw drop as Ron’s face turned deathly white and then burning red, pain masking his
eyes and, suddenly fearful that she had misspoken, said in a shaking voice, “Ron?”

He blinked and blurted out, “I’m not taking anyone, Hermione.”

“Why not, Ron?” she asked him gently … wondering again why he’d seemed so oblivious to the hints
and batted eyelashes that Lavender and Parvati had been throwing his way ever since Dumbledore
announced the Easter Ball to welcome a delegation of students from various American wizarding
schools. In fact, he’d seemed so … *uninterested* in the ball that—

“There’s someone,” Ron said, eyes looking at her blankly, his mind trying to capture the face of
the person who haunted his dreams, “but I can’t ask her to the ball.”

Hermione gaped as she felt her chest constricting; harsh and painful words said in the heat of
anger over a year before roaring through her mind: “Next time there’s a ball, ask me before someone
else does, and not as a last resort!”

‘Does he – is he – could he -- *still* have a crush on *me*?’ The thought blasted
through her and it was only by sheer willpower that she kept herself still. Her mind was dancing
and whirling at the thought and she wondered whether *this* was the reason he seemed distant
when she and Harry came back from the Hospital Wing; why he’d suddenly taken up an interest in
sketching … why he didn’t seem to be spending as much time with them as he did …

But it couldn’t be, she thought blankly. Ron accepted it – he accepted Harry and herself for
what they were and would be … He’d *told* her so but then a small voice spoke up in her mind:
‘Did he really? Or is it just a dream?’

She could hear him saying something through the roaring in her ears and she snapped her head up,
eyes narrowing as she asked, “*What* was that you said?”

A broad smile had broken out on Ron’s face as he repeated his words: “I *said* that I’m
going alone … the better to keep an eye on The Spawn.”

It was only by falling out of his chair that he avoided getting *Hogwarts: A History*
planted on his forehead; taking advantage of an off-balanced Hermione, he bolted for his dormitory,
laughing at the name that Snape bestowed on the Terrible Two during a memorable Potions class, when
the two were trying to outdo each other (and their Slytherin classmates) in trying to get his
attention: “Stop waving your hands in my *face!* I am not blind … I will not have any
Potter-Granger *spawn* disrupting my classroom!”

Within minutes of the closing bell, the name had made its way around the castle. As usual, Draco
Malfoy grabbed the opportunity to establish himself as the role model for the younger Slytherins:
the moment he saw Cindy and Carolyn in the corridor with the other Gryffindors, he asked in a loud
voice to no one in particular and everyone in general: “I wonder from what *sewer* Galloway
and Wright came from? But then, what can you expect from the spawn of a half-blood and a
Mudblood?”

It had taken Cindy, Carolyn, Hermione, Ginny, their Gryffindor year mates *plus* Fred and
George, to stop Harry and Ron from going after the blond ferret as he sneered at them—

He paused at the top of the stairs to his dormitory, still laughing at Hermione’s outraged
expression as he called out, “G’night, Hermione,” ducking out of sight as she hurled a pillow at
him …

***

Hermione glared at the stairs and stomped off to the chair he’d vacated, fully intending to vent
her rage on it – and suddenly caught herself.

Why should *she* be so mad about the nickname bestowed on Cindy and Carolyn when the two
didn’t mind at all – and even flaunted the name to all and sundry in the castle? Laughter suddenly
erupted in the room as she remembered the way the two had gotten back at Draco Malfoy: the whole
school was at breakfast the next morning when he swaggered into the Great Hall, still sniggering at
having successfully rattled Harry’s cage …

Wearing nothing but a pair of pumpkin-patterned boxers.

The roar of laughter had turned the pale boy with the shocked mouth to the color of boiled
lobster – something captured for posterity by the ever-present camera of Colin Creevey. To add
insult to Draco’s injured pride, Cindy and Carolyn had swaggered around the castle, proudly
flashing pumpkin-shaped and –colored badges with the words “Potter-Granger Spawn” to anyone who
came near as they hawked Draco’s photograph. The only time the two took off their badges was in
Potions; neither one wanted to test Snape’s sense of humour by flashing the badges at
*him*.

“Why should I mind?” she said – and shook herself. It wasn’t the implied insult behind the name
that bothered her – in fact, there were times when she wondered if her and Harry’s children would
be anything like those two - and her thoughts screeched to a halt, thinking back on the dream that
Ron’s untimely frustration had interrupted …

Her eyes fell on the torn parchment that Ron had left behind in his haste to escape her wrath.
She was about to throw a fire charm on it but stopped – a soft ‘*Reparo!*’ caused the
parchment to reform and she stared at the mended parchment, wondering where she had seen that face
before.

It was … no, she thought to herself. There was not enough detail in the rough sketch to say
whether the person was pretty or not … shoulder length hair, glasses, a strong chin, beautifully
shaped lips …

She frowned as her brain filled in details that were not there: brown hair, blue glasses, green
eyes tinged with red from crying … the image in her mind quickly faded as she tried to hold on to
the memory, wondering what she and Cho were doing at the same table, commiserating with the girl
–-

The portrait door opened and she heard the Fat Lady bidding someone good night, and she smiled
at the sight of Harry’s flushed and excited face, grateful that the flying lesson that he’d
promised the girls had given him an opportunity to fly around for a while … but the smile turned
into a frown as a dejected Carolyn slumped on a couch near her, even as Cindy bounced into the
room, Harry’s Firebolt over her shoulder.

Brown eyes met green and, with a soft sigh, Hermione sat beside the unhappy girl.

“Hey,” she said softly. The younger girl refused to look at her as she placed an arm around her
shoulder, although she did lean in to Hermione’s warm hug. “We can’t be everything to everyone,
Carolyn.”

Dark eyes looked up at her, tears sparkling within. “Sir Harry only got up to around thirty feet
… and then I froze …”

Hermione’s eyes glanced up to an amused Harry; her frown deepening for a moment before she
smiled and said: “And you were holding tight to Harry, saying –”

Harry’s amused voice interrupted her, using a tone that still haunted her most embarrassing
memories: “‘Oh, I don’t like this, I don’t like this at all …’.”

The young witch pulled away to glare at a laughing Harry Potter, who gave her a wink and a nod;
the surprised Ca turned to see a red-faced Hermione nodding beside her, apparently lost in memories
that the young girl could only wonder at …

“No wonder they call us your spawn,” an amused Cindy, now astride Harry’s Firebolt, called out.
She was hovering close by, her toes barely touching the floor as she demonstrated her control of
the Firebolt. Before they could react, Cindy continued, “I mean, Ca is obviously very much like
you, Miss Hermione – brilliant, highly magical -- scared to death of flying.

“While *I* …” she said, throwing her chest out so that her ‘Spawn’ badge glinted in the
firelight, “am like Sir Harry – great at flying, above average in subjects …”

“Speak for yourself, Cindy,” Carolyn said with a smile. “You’re absolutely brilliant … you just
don’t exert yourself.”

“Sounds familiar, Ca,” Hermione said with a smile and an affectionate glance at Harry. The
latter stuck out his tongue at her – and ducked as she sent a cushion flying. Within seconds, a
major battle erupted – Ca and Hermione on one side, Harry and Cindy on the other, cushions flying
around the room ….

Soon enough, the four were sprawled out, breathing heavily from their exertion, and laughing at
the small respite from the real world. Harry’s eyes caught Hermione’s, and they smiled, grateful
for whatever kind Divinity had placed the two young girls in their lives.

Harry noticed the parchment that Hermione had been looking at and walked over; he frowned and
turned to her, asking, “Hermione … who’s this?”

“That’s Sir Ron’s dream girl.” Harry and Hermione gaped at an exhausted Cindy, eyebrows climbing
into their hairlines – and were surprised to see that Ca was also nodding. “It’s why Sir Ron keeps
trying to draw, even if he’s not really good at it … he said that he met her in a dream, but can’t
seem to remember too much…”

Harry and Hermione exchanged frowns at that, and Hermione spoke, “How’d you know that,
girls?”

“We heard Sir Ron talking with Dean about it.” Their elders exchanged a quick smile at that –
these two had a gossip network that had Ginny, Lavender and Parvati beat, not so much because they
were wired into every gossip network in Hogwarts, but because – being ickle Firsties – most people
tended to ignore them, not realizing that they were living, breathing people with brains and
ears.

“When did this happen?”

The two girls exchanged a look – Harry and Hermione *knew* what the response would be: “I
think … it started soon after Sir Ron visited you in the Hospital Wing.”

Again, brown eyes met green and locked; a small shake of the head, a shrug of the shoulder, a
responding nod – and they looked up in surprise when Cindy said to Ca, “I hate it when they do
that.”

The other girl sniffed, “Yeah … don’t they know it’s not polite to talk in a different language
when other people are with them?”

Carolyn easily ducked the cushion Hermione threw, and ran to hide behind Cindy, laughing at
having irked her mentor. Her face fell, however, as Hermione said in her bossy,
Hermione-the-Prefect tone: “Time for bed, girls …”

“Do we have to, Miss Hermione?” Ca wailed plaintively.

Cindy, however, was on her feet and dragging her best friend towards the stairs. “Come on, Ca …
you know what they’re gonna *do* when we go up …”

“Oooo … you mean they’ll be snuggling …”

“And canoodling …”

“Maybe some kissing?”

“Probably some snogging …”

Carolyn suddenly planted her feet firmly on the floor, turned to their mouth-agape mentors and
said, in a pleading voice: “Can I watch? Please? Pretty please, with pumpkin pie on top?”

It took only a second for Hermione to react, and the two young witches were running up the
stairs, howling with laughter as cushions chased after them …

The Terrible Spawn stopped at the top of the stairs calling out, “Good night, Mummy! Good night,
Daddy! Pleasant dreams!” before disappearing into their dormitory.

***

With no target left to vent her ire on, Hermione glared at Harry, who was rolling on the floor,
laughing and clutching his stomach – and she was reminded of James … a thought quickly replaced by
the picture of her own laughing father beside James -- and she finally smiled at the antics of the
two young girls.

Harry sat up, still sniggering as he leaned back against an armchair, saying, “They must take
after your side of the family, Hermione.”

“*My* family?” an outraged Hermione shrieked, but then she sighed. “Unfortunately, Mr.
Potter, they will forever more be called our Spawn … what will you do when they start dating?”

“Please!” A horrified Harry Potter blurted. “We’ll be out of Hogwarts before they start dating …
or rather, *I’ll* be out of Hogwarts by the time they start dating.”

His voice dropped as he pulled himself on to the chair mumbling, “One way or another.”

Hermione felt a wave of sadness wrapping around her like an old, familiar robe and she took a
deep breath, wondering how long Harry would be going through these mood swings. Silently, she
settled herself on his lap and wrapped her arms around him and rested her cheek on his chest:
“There is *NO* ‘other’ way, Harry Potter. You *WILL* *DEFEAT* that poor excuse of a
wizard … you will be *HERE* to hex *ANYONE* who looks cross-eyed at the girls …”

She leaned back and looked into his eyes: “You’re a great wizard, Harry … never forget
that.”

She felt him leaning back and she rested her head on his chest, in a pose and position by now so
familiar, weeks after the accident that had landed them in a Fantasy Island of their dreams … a
place where truths had been spoken and revealed, where emotions long kept buried had boiled out –
and where a quiet affirmation of trust, loyalty and love for each other had been made.

Strangely enough, Hermione thought, as her mind drifted in the comfort of his presence, there
had been no real change in the way they’d acted towards each other. They walked the familiar
corridors and grounds of Hogwarts – never holding hands but finding a hundred different ways to
touch hands or elbows or fingers unobtrusively.

Hermione’s chair in the Common Room now had a partner – and they’d spent many a night in those
chairs: reading quietly, studying silently, passing quill, ink or parchment to the other when
needed without a word being said. Or they’d simply sit in those chairs in companionable silence –
neither noticing their hands within inches of the other, sometimes touching, sometimes not.

She felt Harry stirring and smiled … much as she was loath to move away from this most
comfortable of places, she knew that his feet would soon be turning numb from her weight. She
started to slide off his lap but froze when she felt his hands stopping her – and saw Harry’s green
eyes on her.

Her breath hitched, and she felt herself lean forward until their foreheads were touching, eyes
locked, breath mingling …

A whispered “I love you” and they smiled for the briefest of moments before she leaned into him,
her hands running through his hair even as he was bringing his head down to meet her … feeling the
familiar thrill down her spine as she felt his lips brushing her cheek … unaware of a soft moan
from Harry as he felt her hands tightening in his hair—

A flash of flame made them jump apart in surprise – and they saw a golden feather floating in
the air. Hermione’s puzzled look turned into a disappointed ‘Oh’ when Harry groaned, “Fawkes.”

A beat of time later, and the flames in the fireplace burned brighter, the flames reaching
higher … and they stood up chorusing, “Good evening, Headmaster,” as Albus Dumbledore stepped out
of the flames.

“Good evening, Harry … Hermione. I trust I am not interrupting anything?” His eyes twinkled at
their smiles, although in truth, their faces would have made a hungry tiger cower in fear. He
gestured them to their seats even as he saw the golden feather on the floor and understood why
Fawkes had popped out of his office as he walked to his fireplace … and paused to frown at a corner
of the room—

“Is there anything we could do for you, Headmaster?”

He shook himself and smiled: “Indeed there is, which is why I took the chance of seeing if
either of you were still awake.”

He quickly allayed their fears – “No, no … nothing so urgent as that. Actually, it’s about
Sarah—

“Please sit down,” he said in a placating tone as the two teens jumped to their feet. “She’s
fine and she should be in Hogsmeade by now; in fact, she will be joining us for the Easter Ball
tomorrow night.”

He cut off their questions: “She’s in England for a few months to research British wizarding law
and customs; and then she’ll go back to America where she will be reading law.”

He smiled at the delighted looks on their faces, and saw the interest in Hermione’s eyes – no
doubt, she would be pestering Sarah for insights into S.P.E.W. “In any case, I promised her that I
will be taking her around Hogsmeade, but unfortunately, I have been called to a meeting at the
Ministry, so-”

“We’d be delighted to meet her, Professor,” Harry interrupted, as Hermione nodded.

“Thank you,” he said. “Now, may I suggest that you head off to sleep? I’ll owl Sarah to expect
you …”

“Ummm, Professor,” Hermione interrupted him. “Will Sarah remember us? It’s been some time after
all …”

Dumbledore smiled. “She does, Hermione – in fact, she’s excited to meet you again and, yes --
she remembers Harry and his Elvis impersonation.”

Hermione laughed, and gently poked a red-faced Harry in the ribs; the latter, however, asked,
“Professor … do you *have* to tell Sarah that you will not make it tomorrow?”

Dumbledore’s eyebrow moved up an inch and he smiled, “All right, Harry. I’ll let you surprise
her.”

The teacher and the students smiled at each other and suddenly fell silent. For an awkward
moment, they stood there looking at each other as if waiting for someone to make a move until, with
a cheerful “Good night!” Dumbledore turned to the fireplace to Floo back to his office, leaving the
two teens alone in the Common Room.

Harry and Hermione watched as he disappeared and then, as if with a single mind, they smiled and
turned to each other. For a long moment, they stared at each other and then – a kiss on the cheek,
a tight embrace and they were walking up to their separate dormitories. A pause and a quiet, “Good
night, love” – and silence ruled the Common Room.

A minute passed … two … and the disembodied heads of two disappointed children appeared,
followed a moment later by the rest of their bodies – Cindy clutching a wizarding camera in her
hands as Carolyn silently folded the Invisibility Cloak that Harry had lent them, which she had
‘forgotten’ to return.

“I thought we were going to get it,” Cindy said as she slumped on the couch, the camera beside
her. “I thought Dumbledore saw us--”

“This is an *Invisibility* Cloak, Cindy, ” Carolyn responded as she sat across her friend.
“It worked well enough before – no one *saw* us.”

They snickered at the memory of Draco in his pumpkin-patterned shorts: a situation achieved
through the cloak, a Disrobing Spell taught them by Hermione, and the willing assistance of their
year-mates who all adored their elder housemates and had provided the necessary distraction and
cover for them.

Cindy shrugged; it was *Dumbledore* after all … who knows what he could see? In any case,
they hadn’t been caught then or *now* – and she sighed at the missed opportunity to catch
Harry and Hermione snogging and recording the moment for posterity.

It would make for the perfect wedding gift, they both agreed.

Winning the betting pool that Seamus Finnegan had set up for whoever would be the first to prove
conclusively that Harry and Hermione were now a couple would have been icing on the cake.

“C’mon, Cindy – let’s go to bed,” sighed Carolyn. “Remember what Seamus said – another day,
another Galleon.”

Silently, the two stood up and trudged to their dormitory, vowing that they *will* win the
pool.

Someday.

Neither one noticed the laughing face of Dumbledore in the fireplace as he watched them, the
unmistakable twinkle in his eyes now reaching epic proportions. As he watched them leave, he made a
vow to himself: he would do everything in his considerable power to make sure that he *would*
be there beside Harry and Hermione to watch those two leave Hogwarts.

After that, he could consider retirement before the *real* Potter-Granger spawn came to
Hogwarts. ‘Let Severus deal with them,’ he smirked before turning away from the fireplace in his
office, Fawkes’ trill of agreement warming his soul.

***

A worried pair of green eyes watched a pale, haggard-looking wizard stagger into the Great Hall
for breakfast the next morning.

“Ron?”

The bleary-eyed wizard looked up and shook his head, mumbling something about not having a good
night’s sleep and promising to be all put together by the time they had to leave for Hogsmeade. He
looked around – ignoring Dean dropping the hand he’d draped around Ginny’s shoulder – cast a groggy
eye at Neville who was talking with a laughing Luna at the Ravenclaw table – avoiding the stares of
various witches from other houses before turning back to his plate.

Harry was about to say something but stopped when he heard Cindy and Carolyn come in, and
frowned when he saw them shaking their heads at an expectant Seamus Finnegan, who nodded, a
disappointed look on his face. He was about to remark on this but stopped as Professor McGonagall
started tapping a goblet – and the entire Hall quieted down.

“I have a few reminders and an announcement to make,” the Deputy Headmistress said as she stood.
“As you all know, the Easter Ball in honor of our guests from various American wizarding schools
will be tonight, starting at seven o’clock. All students are encouraged to attend, although
partners are not required for the lower years.”

A faint snicker passed through the room, and a small smile flickered across McGonagall’s
face.

“The Headmaster and I expect *everyone* to be on their best behavior.” She paused to glare
around the room, her steely eyes resting for a moment on the Slytherin table, before moving on and
focusing on the Gryffindors, especially the Twins and the Spawn – the *Terrible Two*, she
reminded herself. “Any violation of the rules of behavior and proper decorum will be severely
punished … if *anyone* abuses our trust, they will regret ever hearing my name for the rest of
their lives.”

The Deputy Headmistress’ Scottish brogue thickened at those words, and for some reason, everyone
in the room – including the teachers – felt a shiver run down their spines.

“There has been, however, a small change of plans.”

The silence in the Hall was thick enough to slice with a dull knife as everyone leaned forward.
“The American delegation and some other guests were supposed to arrive today and be assigned
quarters here. The Ministry has informed us, however, that they arrived last night and will be
staying today and part of tomorrow in Hogsmeade before they come over.”

Her eyes roamed the different tables for a moment before she continued. “There was some
discussion about postponing the Hogsmeade visit” – a groan rose up from around the room – “but it
was felt that you would be responsible enough to comport yourselves *properly* outside the
school.

“You will probably meet some of the Americans at Hogsmeade. I expect everyone to show the proper
behavior and correct decorum to our guests. Any incident will be punished severely – if I hear
*anyone* showing less than proper respect for our guests, they can expect to spend
*tonight* in the Forbidden Forest with the Acromantulas.”

A small smile broke out on her face as she felt the shivers running around the Hall. “Thank
you.”

The buzzing started the moment she sat down; and Harry turned to Ron: “Are you sure you can make
it, mate? You look like hell …”

“I’m fine, Harry … just a touch of something.” He caught sight of Cindy and Carolyn’s worried
looks and smiled, “Besides, Uncle Ronald promised to get something from Honeydukes for your Sp-–
ow!”

The Gryffindor table snickered as a roll bounced off Ron’s head, thrown by a glaring Hermione.
Before she could say anything, however, Cindy piped up: “It’s S.P.E.W., Uncle Ron – not SPOW!”

The girl’s sally was met by laughter; even Hermione had to smile as she shook her head at Ron.
Harry caught her eye and raised an eyebrow; Hermione smiled back at him and tilted her head to one
side, to which Harry gave a nod even as he reached for the toast rack. Neither one noticed that the
other Gryffindors – including Neville and Luna at the Ravenclaw table - were rolling their eyes,
snickering, or shaking their heads – until George Weasley’s loud voice broke out, “Will you
*quit* that?”

The Gryffindors all stopped what they were doing – even Harry and Hermione – and turned a
puzzled eye on the smirking Twins. “Yes, you two,” George said, “… don’t you know it’s not polite
to speak in another language when there are *people* around?”

Harry resisted an urge to reach out and shut Hermione’s jaw. Fred and George smirked and turned
back to their plates; with a shake of his head, Harry started buttering some toast for Hermione,
while she gave a small snort before turning back to the rather dusty volume she was holding: “*A
History of British and American Wizarding Jurisprudence*.”

***

“Are you all right, ma’am?”

A bleary-eyed, middle-aged witch looked through her glasses at the worried face of Madam
Rosmerta and tried to smile, consciously forcing her groggy mind to make sure that her ‘smile’
would only touch the corners of her mouth. It wouldn’t do, she thought, to bare her fangs so early
in the morning.

“I’m fine, Miss,” she replied. “Thank you for asking--”

“I really must apologize,” a flustered Madam Rosmerta said. “The Ministry apparently forgot to
inform us of the change in plans, so I wasn’t able to enlarge the place—”

“It’s all right,” the American Assistant Secretary for Magical Education interrupted her. “I
know that It has been a rather busy time for you …”

“That it is, ma’am. Fridays are always the busiest times for inns and pubs …”

“And besides, it isn’t as if I was sharing a room with a total stranger,” Anne Umanski
continued. She smiled at the puzzled look on the innkeeper’s face. “I’ve met Sarah before, and the
girls have been corresponding with your other guest for years.”

“Well, all right,” the relieved innkeeper said. “Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes …
would you be wanting some coffee or tea, dearie? You seem to have had a rough night--”

“Thank you, no,” Anne said, although her raspy voice belied her statement. “I don’t want to be a
bother … it’s just,” she shrugged, “Waking up in a strange place and all that. You know how it
is.”

“Aye,” Madam Rosmerta nodded in understanding. “’Tis always difficult to do so, especially when
you’re used to waking up with a warm body beside you.” She winked at a suddenly-blushing Anne and
walked off, saying, “Don’t you worry now. I’ll have some breakfast ready in a bit … that should
take some of the edge off.”

The bleary-eyed Anne U. contemplated Rosmerta’s words and shook herself, reaching for the
coffeepot the tavern owner had left as her mind went back over the events of the past few days –
and their hosts.

What were these Brits trying to do, she wondered? Show us up? They would have the kids at
Hogwarts for the rest of their school year, and what better way to introduce the children to their
new school than an Easter Ball in Hogwarts? But no – that pompous Fudge and his equally pompous
assistant Beazley had wanted to take them on a fecking *tour* of Magical England!

Including, she shuddered, a visit to *Azkaban*? For what? Did they think that the kids
she’d brought were hoodlums who had to be frightened into complying with rules and regulations
…

Oh well, she sighed. When in Rome, accept what the Romans do … American wizards may have come
from British traditions, but the way these Brits held on to their traditions! She held down a
snicker as she remembered Jim McCormick’s comment as he snapped a picture in the Leaky Cauldron:
“Ah! Magical London! Wizards! Spells! Incredibly out of date clothes!”

She shook her head, reminding herself that she was in England as a guest of *their*
wizarding government, and forcing her mind to other, more pleasant things … like watching
Puddlemere United’s practice yesterday and that oh-so-gorgeous Oliver Wood showing off his paces
and teaching the kids the finer points of the game. Now *there* was a lovely piece of
eye-candy …

And she laughed to herself, feeling the headache slowly dissipating from the combination of
caffeine, humour, and sheer gutter-mindedness. Oliver Wood … not something Mr. U would appreciate
her bringing home, and Maya would be too young to appreciate having an honest-to-goodness Brit
Keeper in their household.

A nice, *cold* shower – that’s the ticket. She missed Mr. U and Maya on these trips, but
there was no way out of it: it was too good an opportunity to miss – and Mr. U had been so
understanding about it. In any case, she thought, they would be catching up with her in a few days
when her responsibilities ended; they could spend a few days touring Magical and Muggle England and
catch up with each other … with luck, they could catch another practice session of Puddlemere
United and she can have Maya pose with Oliver--

“Good morning, Anne.” She shook herself as Sarah Chon took a seat and proceeded to pour herself
some coffee, cocked an eyebrow at her and grinned. “I really wouldn’t mind bringing Oliver Wood
home myself –”

“What?” Sarah danced a jig as she avoided the coffee that Anne spilled, and laughed at the older
woman’s outraged sputter. With an amused smile, Sarah continued, “You were talking in your sleep
last night.”

“I was not!” The blush on her cheeks belied her quick denial and Anne was wondering whether the
table was big enough to hide her – and blinked when Sarah said, in a gleeful voice, “Gotcha!”

She bared her fangs at the laughing girl who merely grinned back, and she couldn’t help but
laugh. “Witch!” she murmured, as she cast a drying spell on the table and smiled at Sarah’s “Thank
you!”

A clatter of plates announced Rosmerta’s return, and Anne could feel her stomach growling – from
the smile on Sarah’s face, she knew the other girl was having the same thought.

As Rosmerta bustled about preparing breakfast, a bushy-haired, sleepy-eyed teen stumbled into
the room, a fist trying to contain her yawning mouth – but her seeming sleepiness disappeared when
Sarah launched herself out of her chair, gleefully shouting, “Hermione!”

“Excuse me?” the bushy-haired girl squeaked as Sarah enfolded her in a tight hug – and Sarah
quickly let go, stepping back in surprise and disappointment, as the girl asked, “I’m sorry – but
do I know you?”

“Hermione--” Sarah began, but stopped at the genuinely puzzled look on the other girl’s face,
and she felt herself flushing with embarrassment. “I’m sorry … you look exactly like someone I know
… at least, as I imagined her to be. I haven’t seen her in some time and …”

She trailed off, but before the girl could speak, a gaping Rosmerta blurted, “You’re early,
Hermione – did the Headmaster allow you out ahead of the others?”

“Huh?” The clueless response made Madam Rosmerta frown, but the entry of a pretty Chinese girl
made her turn, “Cho? Are the students arriving already?”

“Huh?” The other girl responded, as she tried to blink the sleepiness out of her eyes. She
looked from one to the other, a completely puzzled look on her face and said the only thing she
could, “Excuse me?”

“What’s going on here?” They turned to Anne’s puzzled voice but before the adults could respond,
‘Hermione’ extended her hand to Sarah. “Hello – I’m Joyce Cohen, with the American exchange
students? And this,” gesturing to the pretty girl beside her, “is Lils; she’s from Singapore
--”

“Ach! My apologies,” Madam Rosmerta said. “You two look almost exactly like some students I know
that I got confused.”

“That would be my cousin Cho Chang,” the pretty girl said in a soft voice. “She’s in Hogwarts,
Ravenclaw I believe.”

“We’ve been corresponding with Lils for some time,” Joyce added. “The others didn’t see her
since we arrived rather late and Nic’s been feeling down … I think the visit to Azkaban took
something out of her – is something wrong?”

“No, no,” Sarah waved the question off, exchanging a quick grin with an equally amused Rosmerta.
“You sound exactly like Hermione as I knew her – and that was about six years ago …”

“She hasn’t changed,” Rosmerta put in, and turned to Joyce. “Are you sure you don’t have a
cousin here or something?”

“Maybe a twin that was separated at birth?” Sarah added with a smirk.

The teen shook her head at that, and Anne stepped in. “Well, Joyce is one of our brightest
students – and she’s been a great help to me in keeping the others in line. She’s very
responsible--”

“Sounds just like Hermione,” Rosmerta broke in with a smile. “She’s at the top of her year, a
Prefect, everyone says she’ll be Head Girl in a few years – are you *sure* you’re not related,
dear?”

Joyce shook her head, and Anne took the opportunity to usher them all to her table for
breakfast. As she sat down, she asked, “Are the others coming down, Joyce?”

“Well – I heard Gillian huffing and puffing away in her room” – she broke off to explain to
Sarah, “she’s into ballet and says she needs to keep up with her exercises.” Turning back to Anne,
she continued, “Which means Kaze should also be up by now. Pat and Photo, I mean, *Jim*,
should also be up, at least I heard them talking in their room … I saw Erin as she was going to the
bathroom; she said she’s letting Nic sleep, apparently the poor girl didn’t have a good night’s
sleep.”

“Is something wrong with Nic?” a worried Lils asked. “Is she still having those dreams?”

“Dreams?” The others looked at her and she flushed. “She wrote me something about having dreams
… working at a place called ‘The Red Queen’ or something like that.”

Joyce frowned at that, “She did mention something about it, I think … a few weeks back. Maybe
that’s why the Dementors affected her so badly?”

“Probably,” Anne said, with a worried look. She looked up as the other Americans walked into the
room, and she stood up to greet them – neither she or Joyce aware that Sarah was smiling as she
watched the latter.

‘I wonder if Hogwarts can survive *two* Hermione Grangers at the same time,’ she thought to
herself – and stopped as the image of two bouncy, fun-loving but highly intelligent witches walked
through her mind – and she stopped the laughter bubbling inside her as she remembered her
grandfather’s letters. ‘If Joyce is anything like Cindy and Carolyn, Grandfather may well decide to
become Minister of Magic. Dealing with bureaucrats may well seem like a vacation, rather than
dealing with *four* Hermiones.’

With that thought, she stood up as Anne introduced the others to her.

***

Head down, hands in pockets, Ron Weasley opened the door to the Hogsmeade branch of Quality
Quidditch Supplies, once again lost in thought about the changes in his life. The Accident had
thrown things out of whack; there was a sense of asymmetry in their previously balanced lives …

He’d been with them in the carriage on the way to Hogsmeade, but begged off joining them at the
Three Broomsticks – unwilling to be witness and a third wheel to a meeting of old friends.
*How* they knew the Sarah they’d be meeting was something they couldn’t really explain; as he
understood it, they’d met when they were nine years old – nine? – and he’d stopped Hermione’s
rambling attempt to explain the situation.

He didn’t want to hear it.

It was just another sign of how things had changed … another nail in his chest as he realized
that there were things that he never knew about his closest friends, even if they had been together
since the first trip on the Hogwarts Express--

Correction.

*He* had never really been friends with Hermione; well, neither had Harry, but there always
seemed to be *something* unspoken between the two from the moment Hermione had barged into
their compartment in her search for Trevor the Toad … and he wondered whether *that* was the
reason behind his resentful and boorish attitude towards Hermione at the start.

No, he thought. He wasn’t as big a prat as others were – Malfoy was top dog there – just a
typical boy, but then again, he wondered … wondered if there was a character flaw hidden deep
within him – a flaw that made him unable to find someone who would feel *that* way about him –
and, in the same instant, wondering why *he* hadn’t found someone for whom he felt that way
…

He blinked at a flash of red hair in the crowded store – a friendly face! he thought, even if it
was only Ginny. He quickly walked over, one part of his mind wondering why Dean wasn’t around,
another wondering who the dark-haired girl with her was, a third questioning where Ginny would find
the money to buy a Firebolt II and quickly dismissing that – why shouldn’t she drool over it as he
had?

“Hey, Gin—“ He blinked when the girl faced him and he realized that this was *not* Ginny:
where Ginny was lanky, this girl was lithe; where Ginny was often awkward, this girl stood poised
and balanced as if she were a dancer. He flushed and quickly apologized, “I’m sorry – I thought you
were my sister …”

“I’ll say,” the other girl said, and he turned to her with a smile – and froze. The redheaded
girl looked in surprise from one to the other before clearing her throat, breaking the other two
out of their shocked trance.

“Do I know you?” they simultaneously said, and blushed as they turned away, both shaking their
heads.

“I’m Ron Weasley,” he said, extending his hand to the girl, feeling long, slim strong fingers –
pianist’s hands, he thought -- wrapping around his and giving him a firm shake.

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Erin,” the girl said, “and this is Gilly – Gillian.”

The redheaded girl shook hands with Ron, watching the other two with interest and wondering what
the story was. Ron spoke, a puzzled look on his face: “You play the piano, don’t you?”

Erin’s frown was a perfect match to his own as she responded, “Yes, I do … do you sing?”

“Only in the shower,” Ron said, and blushed. Gillian smirked and was about to say something when
a loud, obnoxious voice that Ron knew only too well was heard over the crowd: “Is the Mudblood
buying something to clean Potty’s broomstick with?”

Heads turned, and Ron could feel himself flushing as he saw a shocked Hermione staring at a
smirking Draco Malfoy flanked by a sniggering Crabbe and Goyle. He started to move towards her when
Malfoy’s eyes turned on him, and the smirk turned vicious: “Oh, the Weasel’s here – are you going
to help her clean Potty’s broomstick too?”

Seeing red, Ron started to rush the leering Slytherin but felt himself shoved aside as a tall,
broad-shouldered teen strode up, grabbed Malfoy’s shirt and started lifting him up, asking,
“*What* were you calling the lady, blondie?”

Malfoy’s eyes started bugging out as the air was cut from his lungs; Crabbe, on his left,
started to move but stopped as he felt a wand tickling his ear and an American-accented voice
twanged, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Goyle had succeeded in drawing his wand, but stopped when he realized that Ron’s wand was in his
face.

“Put him down, Pat!” Ron blinked as he saw Hermione’s hands on the big teen’s arm, trying to
make him release the now purple-faced Malfoy, who was gaping like a fresh-caught trout as he
struggled to breathe. Pat – whoever he was – simply tightened his grip on Malfoy, and Ron was
beginning to worry that he would be a witness to murder --

“What’s going on here?” Heads swiveled around as Hogwarts’ Potions Master strode into the shop,
followed by a steely-eyed Anne Umanski whose harsh voice was a perfect counterpart to Snape’s cold
voice: “Put that boy down, Pat.”

The big teen dropped Malfoy and Ron almost laughed at the expression on the madly coughing
Malfoy as he knelt on the floor, but he was cut off as Snape turned to him: “Put down that wand,
Weasley, unless you want to start belching slugs.”

Flushing, Ron lowered his wand and was about to speak when Draco spoke from the floor: “He
*attacked* me, Professor--”

“What!” Ron and the other two guys reacted angrily, but they were cut off by Snape’s cold glare
and sneering contempt: “I see--”

“Liar!” Snape’s cold eyes locked on the bushy-haired girl who was now holding back two angry
teens. “You started it, you filthy--”

“Silence, Miss Granger!” Snape’s next words were cut off, however, by the fiery glare of the
girl as she turned on him: “I am *not* Miss Granger whoever she is, you nitwit!”

The Potion Master’s eyes bulged and his mouth dropped at that retort; for a moment, Ron wished
that Colin Creevey – who he saw in the crowd – had thought to bring his camera but even Colin was
frozen at what was going on. Before Snape could get his mouth into working order, however, Anne’s
voice lashed out: “Miss Cohen! You will apologize to *Professor* Snape right now.”

The girl blanched, and it was her turn to go through the eye-bulging, mouth- open routine. The
silence in the shop was so profound that no one missed the snicker that escaped the now-standing
Draco’s mouth – or his trademark smirk at having gotten one over the Gryffindors. His glee was
short-lived, however, as Snape turned to Anne: “Miss Cohen? That’s Miss Granger--”

“No,” the Assistant Secretary for Magical Education said, in a steely voice that reminded the
audience of McGonagall at her feistiest. “That is Joyce Cohen, one of *my* students.”

“Professor.” Eyes turned to Ron as he stepped up to the two adults, Draco now watching him
warily, eyes darting around as if seeking an escape hatch. “Malfoy came in here and started
insulting Her—I mean, Miss Cohen, which is why her friends stepped in.”

“Insult? What do you mean insult, Mr. Weasley?”

“Malfoy called her ‘Mudblood,’ Professor.”

“What?!” The look that Assistant Secretary Anne Umanski cast at Malfoy was enough to make the
latter step back, hands raised in a defensive gesture – she turned to face Snape who also stepped
back at her steely glare. “Is *that* what you are teaching your students at Hogwarts,
*Professor*?”

“It is most definitely *not*, Madam,” Snape responded in his silkiest purr. “Unfortunately,
there are *some* people” – he turned to glare at Malfoy – “whose social *position* is
much higher than their intelligence.”

He paused for a moment, and turned his glare full-blast on the gaping Malfoy. “Get out of here.
I will deal with you later.”

The shop was silent as Malfoy, followed by his two cronies, quickly exited the shop – pausing
only to glare at Ron and the others before heading out. As the door closed, Snape turned to the
Americans with a slight bow: “My apologies, Miss Umanski … Miss Cohen.”

“Please, Professor,” Joyce said. “I … uhm, shouldn’t have called you names--”

“Apology accepted, Miss Cohen – although I must request that we keep this incident quiet. It
wouldn’t help if we started your program on the wrong footing …”

“Of course, Professor,” the young girl said, flushing a bit. “Although that, that—”

“I *will* take care of Mr. Malfoy, Miss Cohen, rest assured of that.” He paused and cast a
glare around the shop; the Hogwarts students in the place quickly nodded and turned away and a cold
smile curled his lips. Seeing the other Americans in the place, he gave a short bow, “Ladies,
gentlemen.”

Turning to Anne, he gave a formal bow before saying, “Shall we proceed with our tour, Miss
Anne?”

The latter smiled although her stance indicated that she would much rather have someone else –
preferably younger and with less grease in his hair -- escorting her. She nodded at her students,
and turned to walk with the Potions Master, who gallantly held the door open for her to pass
through.

“That was interesting.” Ron turned to see a seemingly deflated Joyce Cohen wavering on her feet.
He was about to assist her when the tall teen named Pat stepped up and wrapped an arm around the
smaller girl, asking, “You OK, sweet?”

The girl seemed to draw strength from her friend – and for a moment, Ron was struck by how much
the gesture reminded him of his best friends. He almost sniggered at the thought of Harry seeing
double over the next few months, and blinked when he realized that a puzzled Joyce was looking at
him. If this were Hermione, he mused, her brain would be processing information at lightning speed
as she asked: “Excuse me, but have we met before?”

“Not unless you tried to slap me for mistaking you for Hermione,” he responded lightly – and
frowned as he felt a brief sensation of pain on his cheek. He glanced at Joyce and her friends, who
were all staring at him in surprise. “What? I got dirt on my nose or something?”

His light tone broke the tension and the girl and her two friends laughed, and he heard a titter
from behind him – glancing about, he saw that Ginny – Gillian, he reminded himself – and Erin
smiling. He turned back to Joyce, his hand extended: “I’m Ron Weasley, Hogwarts Class of ’97.”

Joyce shook his hand as she responded, “Joyce Cohen. And this,” indicating the others, “is Pat;
Jim – who we sometimes call Photoman” – he held up a camera that was hanging over his shoulder –
“for reasons that are obvious.”

Glancing around, she saw Gilly and Erin and called them over, “This is Gillian and Erin – we’re
all with the American delegation.”

“We’ve met,” Ron said with a smile at the two American witches.

An awkward silence fell and then Joyce smiled, “I really would like to meet this Hermione – why
do people keep confusing us?”

She blinked at Ron’s sudden bark of laughter, and he quickly sobered: “You wouldn’t ask that
when you meet her. She should be at the Three Broomsticks about now, unless they’re somewhere
around Hogsmeade…”

“Do you know her?”

Ron smiled at her bemused face, “She’s one of my best friends – has been since we were First
Years --”

His smile faded, however, as his earlier thoughts came back to him: *they* had been best
friends since First Year – Harry, Hermione and himself. He felt a hand on his arm and blinked, his
eyes focusing on familiar brown eyes filled with concern … realized it was Joyce looking at him and
forced a smile. “Sorry – got lost in memories there. What were you saying?”

He caught the look of concern that passed between Joyce and Pat; saw a flash of sympathy and
understanding in Jim’s eyes as Joyce turned back to him, “Why don’t you join us back at the Three
Broomsticks, Ron? We can wait for Hermione there—“

“Sure, but I have some errands to run.” He paused, thinking and grinned. “Why don’t you guys
join me? I have to get some things at Honeydukes and Zonko’s – that’s the sweet shop and joke shop
here – and I can give you a guided tour of Hogsmeade at the same time.”

“Oh, good! I wanted to ask around for a guide but Pat and Jim said it was better to go exploring
on our own. I read in Sites of Historical Sorcery that the inn was the headquarters for the 1612
goblin rebellion, and the Shrieking Shack is supposed to be the most severely haunted building in
Britain --”

The mention of the Shrieking Shack made Ron’s eyes go blank as two disparate memories clamored
for attention: one of Hermione on the train, talking about the very things that Joyce was asking
about while he kept rambling on and on about Pepper Imps, Chocoballs and sugar quills; the other of
the Shrieking Shack one cold, moonlit night almost two years ago when an act of unbelievable
treachery was revealed, and an adventure where he was unable to fully participate had happened—

“What?” Joyce’s voice broke through his thoughts and he blinked, catching sight of Jim and the
girls rolling their eyes at Herm—Joyce’s, he reminded himself, recitation of historical facts about
Hogsmeade, even as Pat was doubled over from the elbow that had hit his chest – and he shook
himself.

“Are you *sure* you and Hermione were not separated at birth?” His amused voice caused
laughter to rise in the others, except for Joyce’s suddenly red face. She was about to say
something when Pat’s arm went around her in a comforting hug, and she closed her mouth – to the
sounds of gagging from Jim and amused chuckles from Gillian and Erin.

Erin suddenly spoke up, “Why don’t you guys go on ahead and meet me at the Three Broomsticks? I
have to check in on Nicole—”

“Nicole?”

“My roommate,” Erin replied. “She’s been feeling under the weather lately--”

Her words faded out as, for a brief moment, the memory of a beautiful girl in a khaki twill
skirt, orange tank and a black short-sleeve button-up shirt left unbuttoned walked through his
mind. He shook his head in time to wave to the departing Erin, and turned back with a smile to his
new friends before turning to lead them around the wizarding village of Hogsmeade.

***

‘Booooring!’ The thought boomed around Nicole’s mind as she rigorously tried to keep an
interested face as Kaze and Blaise Zabini moved from topic to topic seemingly at random – and she
snorted softly to herself as she regarded the two sitting with her in the Three Broomsticks.

Kaze was an enigma, she thought again: tall at 5’9, fair-skinned, with soft brown hair streaked
with red and gold highlights framing a now-animated face. Nicole couldn’t be sure whether the other
girl was joking when she said that she enjoyed the visit to Azkaban – but then, there seemed to be
a dark and brooding side to the other girl, and she found herself wondering whether it was this
‘dark side’ that had attracted the tall and handsome wizard sitting at their table.

Blaise Zabini, he’d introduced himself. Hogwarts Class of ’97, making him a fifth year by the
Brit system. Slytherin, he’d said, as if that made a difference and she shivered as the name made
its way through her mind. There was something … slithering in the name, bringing to mind serpents
and the Garden of Eden – maybe that’s why Kaze seemed to be intrigued with him in return.

She looked around the crowded tavern and her eyes locked on Lils, sitting at another table with
her cousin who was talking animatedly with several guys. Lils gave her a wink and a slow eye roll,
and Nicole giggled … probably discussing Quidditch again, she thought. Lils may well be bored out
of her pretty skull, but she knew how to roll with the punches … and Nicole gave her a wink to
which the other girl responded before turning back to the others at her table.

Nicole turned back to her companions and sighed. She hoped that the rest of the school year
would turn out better than it had so far although, she admitted that, Azkaban aside, these Brits
did know how to make you feel welcome. Imagine – a *ball* just to greet you and introduce you
to the student population of the school … although, to be honest about it, *this* was a far
better approach to getting to know people than a formal dance in a drafty old castle …

‘Oh shite,’ she thought as her ears suddenly picked up on the music emanating from the Wizarding
Wireless that someone in the noisy room had inadvertently placed on full volume – and the familiar
strains of ‘Somewhere in Time’ floated into the room and a soft, mellow voice started the lines of
that oh-so-familiar tune … and Nic felt a shiver down her spine as if she were stepping on to the
shores of Azkaban prison once again.

For a moment, she fought back against the memory but knew that it would be hopeless … Her
dream/nightmare of the night before asserted itself, albeit in a different way: she saw herself in
Jayne Seymour’s place in the movie, screaming as a red-haired, freckle-faced Christopher Reeve was
torn from her embrace …

She heard a voice speaking from a distance and grabbed it as if it were a lifeline that could
bring her safely back, realizing that it was Blaise Zabini’s explaining to Kaze: “Celestina
Warbeck. She’s the most popular singer in Wizarding England … she has a new album out, using Muggle
songs like that …”

“Are you all right, Nic?” She nearly jumped when she felt a hand on her shoulder, and she looked
into the concerned eyes of Erin, her best friend and ‘big sister.’ She nodded and smiled, about to
allay her friend’s fears when a snide and malicious voice interrupted her: “Only someone like you
would enjoy that smarmy Muggle shite that Warbeck’s dishing out, Zabini.”

She looked up to see a tall blond with what looked like a permanent sneer on his face standing
by their table, an arm around a broad girl with a face like a pug, flanked on both sides by two
large boys who looked as if everything they knew could be written on a matchbook with a felt-tipped
pen.

She fought back the urge to rearrange the smug look on the blonde’s face, but her mouth got the
better of her: “I happen to *like* that smarmy Muggle shite.”

“And what would you know about Wizarding music, little girl?” Draco Malfoy’s trademark sneer
made Nicole’s blood boil, but she glared back with full force: “I know it’s much better than that
mating call you sometimes call music.”

“Mating call, huh? At least you can find someone with *our* music … Tell you what, I’ll
walk into the Great Hall naked tonight if you can snag a pureblooded wizard into asking you for a
date with that Muggle tripe.”

“You’re on!” Nicole stood up quickly, sending her chair with enough force to slam into Miss Anne
who, followed by Snape, had approached to cut the building argument that had the entire tavern
silenced. Nicole turned and locked eyes with a shocked Erin who, after one look at her, mutely
nodded in support. With that, Nicole strode towards an old upright piano beside the tavern’s bar,
brushing past an astonished Miss Anne.

***

In a table near the door, Harry Potter looked up from his mug of butterbeer at the sound of
Malfoy’s contemptuous voice. He was about to stand up and make his way over but was stopped by
Hermione’s hand on his arm and he turned to see her eyes warning him to stay put. He was about to
protest but Sarah’s voice stopped him: “I think that blond git has met his match.”

He turned back to his companions, and saw that even Hermione’s eyebrows were rising in question.
Sarah smiled back and said, “That’s Nicole. From what the others told me, she’s got a wonderful
singing voice, as does the other girl -- Erin. If anyone can pull this off, they can.”

Harry turned back to watch the two girls walking towards the piano – and felt something tugging
at his memory. There was something familiar about them, he thought … something that he should
remember … something that felt *recognizable* about this place and the circumstances. He
shifted around to look at Hermione and their eyes met – the frown he saw there deepened his unease,
and he was about to ask what it was when a hard slap on his back almost made him dive into the
butterbeer.

“Harry! I’ve been looking all over for you.” Ron’s enthusiastic voice identified whoever it was
who’d slapped his back and he looked up to snarl a response at his friend – but merely gaped as he
saw the girl beside him.

Sarah’s soft snicker as she said, “I told you that they were separated at birth,” made him close
his mouth and he stood up, looking from one Hermione to another in astonishment. “Do I know you?”
he asked, and shook himself as he heard his words echoed by the other two at the same time.

A flash of light made him blink and he turned around to admonish Colin Creevy but stopped as a
tall teen put down his camera with the words, “If I didn’t see it, I wouldn’t believe it,” and he
found himself agreeing with those words.

Ron’s bark of laughter broke his trance, and he turned to face his friend as Ron said, with a
smile, “I wonder how you could tell them apart, Pat.”

“Don’t worry, I will,” the tall, broad-shouldered teen beside Ron said with a laugh. “Even if we
have to put sashes around them or something.”

The two girls broke off from their gaping contest to glare at him and Harry could sympathize as
he watched the teen step back as if the girls had threatened him with knives. The teen with the
camera snickered, “They even have the same death-glare, Pat,” and then whispered, “Oh crap,” when
Hermione and her twin glowered at him.

“Hermione Granger, meet Joyce Cohen.” The girls and Harry blinked at the grinning Sarah, “and
this is Harry Potter.”

Joyce had shaken hands with Hermione and turned to Harry, hand out but she stopped suddenly and
frowned. “Do I know you?”

Before Harry could respond, Ron spoke up, “Not unless the story of The-Boy-Who-Lived has made it
across the pond.”

Harry glared at Ron’s smirking face and was about to retort angrily, but was interrupted by the
red-headed girl standing to Ron’s side who near-squealed, “Oh, you’re *that* Harry
Potter!”

He closed his eyes briefly at that, wondering whether another Ginny had made her way into his
life and opened his eyes to glare at a snickering Hermione – and closed his eyes as he felt a wave
of dizziness washing over him at the sight of two of them in front of him.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and blinked as the broad-shouldered teen said, “I know how you
feel, man. We better learn to tell them apart or we might end up hexed for kissing the wrong
girl!”

“Pat!” The teen ignored the protest and held out his hand to Harry. “I’m Pat, by the way … this
is Jim, and that’s Gillian.”

Harry shook hands with Pat and the others, mentally thanking whichever star stood watch over him
as Gillian shook his hand firmly; at least, she didn’t go all fan-girlish on him, he thought. He
smiled as he looked at her fully for the first time, and realized that the red hair was all that
she had in common with the Weasleys; he didn’t think he could handle the prospect of two Hermiones
and two Ginnys in his life at the same time.

He was about to say something but a soft, melodious voice caused the room to hush and he turned
towards the bar even as he heard Jim’s voice ask, “What the hell is going on?”

***

*As we eye*

*The blue horizon’s bend*

*Earth and sky*

*Appear to meet and end*

*But it’s merely an illusion*

*Like your heart and mine*

*There is no sweet conclusion*

The noisy tavern had fallen into a deafening silence by the fourth line of the song, and Blaise
Zabini smirked at the shocked face of Draco Malfoy. He was about to reach out to close the latter’s
mouth but was stopped by a warm hand on his and he turned to see the sparkling brown eyes of Kaze
as she smiled at him, and he smiled back as he settled back to listen to Nicole’s song.

*I can see*

*No matter how near you’ll be*

*You’ll never belong to me*

*But I can dream*

*Can’t I?*

*Can’t I pretend*

*That I’m locked in the bend*

*Of your embrace*

*For dreams*

*Are just like wine,*

*And I am drunk*

*With mine*

Harry felt a hand in his, and he gripped it tightly, his eyes still on the brown-haired girl in
green glasses who was standing by the piano, seemingly pouring her heart into the song. He felt
Hermione standing beside him, and he stepped behind her, arms going around her waist as he laid his
chin on her head. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Pat and Joyce in a similar pose and he
smiled at them.

*I’m aware*

*My heart is a sad affair*

*There’s much disillusion there*

*But I can dream*

*Can’t I?*

*Can’t I adore you*

*Although we are oceans apart*

*I can’t make you open your heart*

*But I can dream*

*Can’t I?*

Anne Umanski blinked the tears from her eyes, wishing that her husband and daughter were beside
her right here, right now. Nicole’s song tugged at her heart; she could feel every nuance of the
song and she could feel every beat as she thought of Mr. U in his den with Maya on his lap,
probably looking through their albums as he sat with a glass of wine in hand as he thought about
her …

She looked around the room and gasped at the look on Snape’s face, wondering for a moment
whether someone had kidnapped the constipated professor who had grudgingly toured her around
Hogsmeade and replaced him with a reasonable facsimile thereof, with a softer face, a wistful smile
and – Horrors! she thought, was the big git *crying*?

She turned back to Nicole and blinked as she realized that Lils was now beside Erin, and the two
young girls blended their voices into the chorus:

*Can’t I pretend*

*That I’m locked in the bend*

*Of your embrace*

*For dreams*

*Are just like wine,*

*And I am drunk*

*With mine*

Nicole smiled at her friends who grinned back at her, and she looked around the tavern – and
froze as her eyes met a pair of so achingly familiar blue eyes in a red-haired, freckled face and
she wondered how she could stand there when her heart had stopped beating.

She felt Lils poking her and she quickly got back to the business at hand, although her eyes
remained locked on Ron, who was the only animated person in a tableau of frozen bodies as he made
his way slowly towards her …

*I’m aware*

*My heart is a sad affair*

*There’s much disillusion there*

*But I can dream*

*Can’t I?*

*Can’t I adore you*

*Although we are oceans apart?*

*I can’t make you open your heart*

*But I can dream*

*Can’t I?*

As she slowly put down her makeshift mic, the entire room was silent as if a charm had been cast
around the place – and then, with a sniffle, Rosmerta’s hands slapped together … within seconds, a
groundswell of cheers erupted from all over the room, followed by thunderous applause and she bowed
her head to the cheering crowd.

At their table, a whistling Blaise Zabini turned to a sneering Draco and asked, “So, hotshot –
what time will we expect your spectacular entrance tonight?”

The blond Slytherin sneered. “She may have gotten into your Muggle-loving heart, Zabini but she
still hasn’t gotten a date with anyone with that stupid song.”

“I believe you are about to lose your bet, Mr. Malfoy.”

He whirled around to gape at his Head of House, who had silently walked up behind him, face back
into its unreadable and implacable mask, cold dark eyes with no hint of tears staring him down.
“Professor,” he started to protest but stopped when Snape turned away from him to look towards the
center of the room.

Draco Malfoy felt the blood draining away from his body as he saw the penurious pure-blood Ron
Weasley standing like a lunk and staring at the brown haired girl who was also staring up at him as
the room’s occupants held their collective breaths. Time slowed down for him and he found himself
begging that the Weasel would not do what he was about to do, and he was tempted to pull out his
wand and stun him before Ron could open his big mouth—

“I wouldn’t try that if I were you,” the cold voice of Miss Anne sounded in his ear and he
blinked, realizing that his wand hand was half out of his robes – but realized that the girl with
Zabini also had her wand out and ready. He closed his eyes tightly but there was no way he could
close his ears to the hoarse voices that everyone in the silenced room could hear…

“Nicole?”

“Ron?”

“This isn’t a dream, is it?”

He opened his eyes, prepared to scream at the smarmy scene that was playing out in front of him
but felt his voice catch in his throat as he saw the big lunk folding his arms around Nicole as if
he was wrapping his arms around a statue made of spun glass while she was embracing him, her face
buried in his chest as he dipped his head to plant a kiss on her brown hair – and he felt the
familiar sneer that he’d practiced in the mirror fall back into place.

“Ha!” he thought triumphantly – ‘the Weasel hadn’t asked the girl for a date!’ He was off the
hook, he was free from the bet – no matter if Weasley and the girl, whoever she was, walked into
the Great Hall snogging, the mere fact that he had *not* asked her for a date meant that …

“Will you be my date for the ball tonight, Nicole?”

“Of course. Do you even have to ask?”

He couldn’t breath … he couldn’t feel his heart … his skin felt cold and lifeless as he watched
Ron slowly dip his head towards the girl … Pansy Parkinson had turned away from him, but he knew,
he *knew* that she was smirking, grinning at the prospect of watching him walk into the Great
Hall naked – caught the leers on Crabbe and Goyle’s faces a moment before they wiped their faces
clean, and shuddered at the thought of the two walking behind him, admiring his bare-naked ass as
he walked into the Great Hall … and did the only thing left for him to do …

He fainted.

Blaise Zabini looked at the sprawled figure beside his table and shrugged, looked at the
laughing Kaze and smiled. He felt eyes on him and turned; saw the smiling eyes of Potter and
carefully lifted his glass in a silent salute – turned to look at the center of the room and, with
a smirk, shouted, “Get a room, you two!”

His cry was met by laughter, whistles and catcalls – and a blushing Ron and Nicole jumped apart
as if stung. Ron turned to him and lifted a fist – the middle finger extended – to further cheers
from the crowd, and turned back to the red-faced Nicole.

“Shall we?”

It eventually became part of Hogsmeade and Hogwarts legend – the endless discussion on who had
turned redder at Ron’s unthinking words, or Nicole’s impulsive nod. Suffice it to say that the room
had turned to stone for a moment – and it would forever be a source of regret to both Colin Creevey
and the Photoman that they’d missed the picture of the century: the sight of Professor Snape and
Assistant Secretary Anne Umansky with their jaws on the floor at the spectacle that their students
were making.

The silence was broken by Pat’s loud whisper: “What the *hell* is that all about?”

The responding laughter, cheers and wolf-whistles drowned out Harry’s response as he watched his
other best friend and their new friend walking towards their table: “I think Ron and Nicole finally
chased their dream.”

The End

**Author’s Notes**: My deepest thanks to **vicarious leigh**, who kindly allowed me to
make use of the opening scene of this chapter, which came from her wonderful story, “**The Power
He Knows Not**;” to my very dear friends and fellow shippers, **anneu**, **Nicole**,
**Erin**, **Kaze**, **Lils**, the **Photoman**, **Joyce**, **PhoenixDS**, and of
course, as always … to **Augurey**, the original inspiration for this fic.

For those interested, the song is of course, “I Can Dream, Can’t I” sung by Karen Carpenter.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed – and to everyone else who joined me in chasing a dream.

Sleep well, everyone – and may the dreams you chase tonight be the one you wake up to in the
morning.