Author's Note: I want to thank everyone for the encouraging reviews for Chapter 1. And to the anonymous reviewer who was considering a "workaholic Hermione" fic, don't let this story dissuade you. I can practically guarantee that our two stories will bear no resemblance to each other.
Before we slide into Chapter 2, I wish to offer a small, two-edged apology for what is to follow. First, this chapter includes a smattering of dialogue that hovers dangerously on the edge of sappiness. It should be remembered that this story was born at a time when we were all on the defensive regarding the H/Hr ship. I could have changed it, but I decided to leave it as it was, as a reminder to myself that I don't have to club the dragon over the head to make my point. And I must further apologize for the length -- or rather, the lack of same. But in my defense, I can promise a surprising element that will open the door to many unexpected twists and turns to come. That's one of the advantages of a short fic. You don't have to wait forever for the anvil to drop.
Thanks for coming to the party. The ride is just beginning, so hop on board and hang on!
Hermione stood facing Ginny, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, her face frozen as if carved from stone.
"Don't jump to any conclusions," Ginny warned in a would-be calm voice. "You, of all people, know how Harry is...how he closes himself off sometimes. It's become second nature to him after so long. Ron calls it 'Dursley Syndrome.' Being alone and unloved all those years, it's only natural that he'd have taken to withdrawing into himself to keep from losing his mind. You can't blame yourself. I don't think any amount of love can ever erase those scars completely."
"Of course," Hermione said, her voice a distant, hollow echo. "He didn't even take his umbrella...I imagine he'll come back soaked to the skin...well, at least his hair will be lying flat for once when he finally turns up..." She added this last with a very strained smile.
"Don't worry, Hermione," Ginny said with an encouraging smile. "He'll be fine."
Hermione's eyes drifted across the parlor, lingering briefly on her writing desk, thence on the perch where Hedwig sat sleeping with her head tucked under her wing, before coming to rest at last on the mantel over the artificial fireplace. Her gaze fixed upon the framed photo of herself and Harry in their wedding robes, waving happily as they stood hand-in-hand in the Weasleys' back garden. Hermione had Charmed the photo so that, under the scrutiny of Muggle eyes, all motion would cease, and any non-magical onlooker would see her and Harry dressed in non-wizarding wedding attire. She stared unblinkingly at the two faces shining with an unbridled happiness that even the animated wizard photo was inadequate to convey.
Hermione gasped suddenly, the intensity of her concentration such that she had quite forgotten to breathe. Catching her breath now, she turned away from the mantel, trying unsuccessfully to shut out the image of those two joyous faces. That photo had been taken less than a year ago, but suddenly, to Hermione, that brief interval seemed like a virtual eternity.
Ginny, who had been regarding Hermione silently, snapped to life with a suddenness like unto the gargoyle guarding the entrance to Dumbledore's office at Hogwarts. "It's settled," she said with a quiet resolve. "Girls' day out. You'll love this little place I was telling you about. They serve a latte that would make a Death Eater renounce Voldemort."
Hermione hesitated for a few moments before allowing a smile to spread slowly across her face. "You're on. Just let me 'Curse' some of these 'demons' out of my hair. I won't be a minute."
Hermione quickly ducked into the small bedroom she shared with Harry. It was a bit cramped -- as was, indeed, the entire flat. They had agreed from the start that beginning their marriage in such modest accomodations would enable them to save up the down payment for a proper house all the quicker. Nor had either of them found the intimacy of the living arrangements at all to their displeasure -- at least, for the first few months.
What had happened between then and now? More importantly, how had it happened without either of them noticing? Or -- and Hermione felt a sharp twinge in her chest -- had Harry noticed, while it was only she who had not?
Hermione emerged less than a minute later, but Ginny could see at once that no change had been wrought in her friend's bushy mane.
"I was sure I left my hairbrush on the vanity," Hermione frowned, a puzzled furrow creasing her brow. She rolled her eyes and sighed dramatically. "Maybe Harry's right...I am pushing myself too hard..."
"Is this it?" Ginny asked, holding out a hairbrush in much the same manner as she might have brandished her wand in one of their long-ago D.A. meetings.
"Where did you find it?" Hermione said in a mystified voice.
"Right here." Ginny was standing in front of the hallway mirror, beneath which a small, semi-circular table stood against the wall. As Hermione walked over curiously, Ginny said, "Maybe you last used it when you were going out in a hurry...just gave yourself a quick touch-up and tossed it down..."
"Maybe," Hermione said doubtfully as she stood staring at the table, still not moving to take the brush from Ginny.
"Well," Ginny laughed as she regarded the brush in her hand with a practiced eye, "at least married life has made you a bit neater." When Hermione gave her friend a quizzical look, Ginny turned the brush over and and said, "I've been telling you for years that your hairbrush looks like something Crookshanks coughed up. Now this -- " and Ginny brandished the brush, in the bristles of which barely a trace of Hermione's bushy brown hair could be seen, " -- is what a hairbrush should look like. I swear, Hermione, you'd think the Vanishing Charm had never been invented -- a couple of times at school, I thought sure you had a baby knarl sleeping on your dresser..."
Without a word, Hermione reached out and took the brush from Ginny. She stared at it with something like mild alarm, and Ginny, whose smile had melted away, saw that Hermione's hand was shaking slightly.
"Hermione? What is it?"
"No," Hermione whispered, her voice suddenly dry as dust. "No, it can't be...I'm...imagining things...he'd never..."
When it became apparent to Ginny that Hermione was speaking not to her, but to herself, she said with a touch of concern, "What's wrong, Hermione?" She placed a hand on her friend's arm, whereupon Hermione jumped and looked at Ginny as if she had only just realized that she was not alone in her flat. As Ginny looked on in complete bewilderment, Hermione walked into the parlor and sat down on the couch where Ginny had first found her. There being nothing better for it, Ginny re-seated herself in like manner and said softly, "What is it, Hermione? Tell me!"
After an interval that seemed without end, Hermione said in a very small voice, "Last week, when I was beginning that...bloody report...Harry asked me what it was about. He always asks me about work, you know...always very supportive..." Hermione's eyes took on a pained look, which Ginny suspected was related to the row with Harry earlier in the morning. "Anyway," Hermione continued with a forced calm, "I told him that a situation had come up that was attracting a good bit of the Ministry's attention of late." She paused, gnawing momentarily at her bottom lip, and Ginny saw that she was struggling now to get the words out. Seeing the encouragement in Ginny's eyes, Hermione resumed: "There are witches in London...they're...well, they're prostitutes, actually...But they've got a new angle. They've found a source -- a few of them may actually be brewing it themselves..." She paused again, drew a long, ragged breath, and blurted out, "They're using Polyjuice Potion."
Ginny looked at Hermione uncomprehendingly. "I don't understand..." Hermione gave a sharp, anguished laugh.
"Don't you see? The -- the patrons bring along the hair of some girl they want to shag, but who obviously won't have them. The prostitute dissolves the hair in a goblet of Polyjuice and becomes that girl for an hour. There are Polyjuice brothels springing up all over London. The Ministry has assigned a task force to look into -- "
"Are you telling me," Ginny exploded, "that some bloke who I refused to go to bed with can just nick some of my hair when I'm not looking and -- " She choked on the remainder of the thought as Hermione nodded soberly.
"The Ministry has designated them Polyjuice Prostitutes," Hermione said in a controlled voice. "But they're more commonly - and crudely -- referred to as Polywhores."
Ginny was too stunned to speak. Her eyes darted nervously about, her thoughts a jumble of shock and disbelief. When her gaze drifted absently onto the hairbrush which Hermione was twisting with a sort of nervous intensity, she started suddenly, her eyes bursting wide with sudden realization -- and horror.
"Hermione -- no! You can't possibly think that Harry would ever..."
But even as she spoke, a horrible thought occurred to her, one which she was powerless not to voice.
"How long..." she said in a hesitant whisper, "...how long has it been since...since you and Harry..."
Hermione could not bring herself to look into Ginny's anxious eyes. Her own eyes began to glisten with the beginnings of tears. "I've been..." she said in an almost childish voice, "...th-the Ministry...so...so busy..."
Ginny's head gave a sudden, savage shake. "Sod that! You have nothing to apologize for! You're Harry's wife, not a bloody concubine! If he expects you to fall on your back every time the 'dragon' rears its head -- "
"No," Hermione said, her voice quivering slightly, "Harry's not...he..." Hermione's face was now damp with tears. "Th-this morning...wh-when he p-put his arms around me a-and k-kissed me..he w-wasn't...h-he only wanted to sh-show me...h-how much he l-loves me...and I nearly b-bit his head off..."
The brush fell from Hermione's trembling hands, hitting the table with a resounding clunk. As she lowered her head to cover her face with her hands, Ginny swept over and wrapped her arms around her. But even as Hermione clung to Ginny with a desperate, child-like ferocity, she sobbed, "If only...I'd h-hugged H-Harry like this...he w-wouldn't have g-gone off and -- "
"You don't know that Harry's done anything wrong," Ginny said sternly as she cradled Hermione in her arms. "Bloody hell, where's the practical, level-headed witch I lived with for six years at Hogwarts? Don't let your imagination run away with you! I get enough of that with Luna!" Ginny pulled back and tilted Hermione's face so as to pierce her friend's dark brown eyes with her fiery gaze. "You listen to me, and you listen good. Harry loves you. He would never do anything to hurt you. I don't know what this is all about, but it's not what you think. It's...it's just not, that's all."
Ginny conjured a handkerchief out of thin air and pressed it into Hermione's hands. As Hermione began to dab at her eyes, Ginny patted her reassuringly on the back, then rose up and strode purposefully toward the kitchen.
"What are you...?" Hermione began, her voice slightly muffled by the handkerchief with which she was patting her glowing cheeks dry of tears.
"Coffee has its place," Ginny smiled as she drew her wand. "But at times like this, there's no
substitute for a good, strong cup of tea."