Honey Boy

Disclaimer:

All characters and references pertaining to the world of Harry Potter are the property of J.K. Rowling, and are used here for non-profit entertainment purposes only.


Author Notes:

I apologize again for the posting delay. I've put my own writing on hold for the last month so I could devote the whole of my literary energies to the cause of helping a good friend whose Muse has been on holiday. Now that that pleasant but daunting adventure is done, I can once more attune my ear to the ramblings of my own Muse. My dilemma has been that I'm hearing so many voices of late, I don't know which one to heed. As a result, I am currently plotting at least four fics, one of which will (if I am successful) be my first novel-length work. That one is a post-HBP, semi-AU story that I am striving to complete before Book 7 is released in mid-2007. That seems like a long way off, but in J.K.'s words, time has a disobliging habit of speeding up when deadlines rear their ugly heads. A "between novels" story loses its validity if the following novel comes out before it's finished. I have certain theories I want to put forth before the final bell rings, after which all speculation will become moot.

I don't want to forget to thank everyone for the kind reviews of By Whatever Means Necessary. I should mention that the essence of that story, Ginny's illicit potion-making, is NOT what I truly believe. I merely used that for entertainment purposes to give the story a sharp bite (and to exorcise a few personal demons in the midst of my HBP funk). I'm saving my REAL theory for my novel, so you can see why I want to finish it before the truth is revealed in Book 7. I expect to emerge looking either like a genius or an idiot (Ludo Bagman can give you good odds on the latter).

Between now and then, I hope to put up some shorter stories to fill the gap, a mixture of old and new. Honey-Boy falls into the former category. It was plotted before OotP was released, and finished after. I held it back, being less than satisfied with it compared with my later works. I didn't want to abandon it, but I felt it needed some fine-tuning before I was comfortable turning it loose on fandom. I'm shooting for weekly posts so I can put the best face possible on each chapter before placing them at the readers' mercy. I hope the result is ultimately readable. I'm sure everyone will let me know, one way or the other.

A final disclaimer: I have never been comfortable writing Harry as an aggressive prat with a short fuse. That description is better suited to a certain redhead we all know. As a result, some have inferred that my Harry's lack of confrontationalism makes him a wimp. Since when is manliness directly proportional to aggressiveness? I prefer to write post-Hogwarts Harry as a mature adult who, having spent his youth in constant battle, now chooses harmony over conflict. That is not to say Harry is without passion. Rather, maturity has taught him to temper his passion with reason, allowing his emotions to serve him rather than being his master.

As for Hermione, I write her here as she has been portrayed in the first five books, a forceful personality composed of rawhide and steel, but with a heart full of tenderness and love. Faced with a challenge, she responds as she ever has, with determination and tenacity. If that is the Hermione you prefer (as opposed to the ridiculous characture we endured in HBP), this story should be up your street.

Thanks for being here. I hope you will find the journey worth the effort. I have nine chapters in which to convince you that your valuable time has not been wasted. Let's get started, shall we?

Hermione's shriek of surprise was so sharp and piercing that it sent a peacefully sleeping Hedwig exploding from her perch in a chaos of wildly thrashing feathers and hoots of alarm and indignation. The point of Hermione's quill snapped, sending a spray of ink over the parchment on which she had been writing and making a long rip down the center. Her head shot up and back with the ferocity of a bullwhip, her dark eyes spitting flames and her bushy brown hair fairly crackling with electricity.

"Harry James Potter!" she spat venomously. "What in the bloody hell is wrong with you? Look at this mess! I've been working on this report for over two hours, and now it's ruined! Well? Say something!"

"All I did," Harry said weakly, sounding like a child caught with his hand in the biscuit tin, "was put my arms around my wife and give her a hug..."

"Sneaked up on me, you mean," Hermione said accusingly. "No warning at all, just creep up like a bloody Death Eater and grab me -- "

"I'm sorry," Harry said quietly, his eyes not meeting his wife's. "I wasn't thinking."

"Too right you weren't," Hermione said as her head snapped back to her writing desk, which was wedged into a corner of the cramped parlor, there being no room in the small flat for a proper study. She flashed a disgusted look at her ruined report before crumpling the parchment savagely and pitching it in the waste bin. She opened a drawer and fumbled around for a moment, all the while muttering to herself in a manner not unlike Argus Filch, the sour-faced caretaker at Hogwarts. Her hand emerged at last, clutching perhaps a dozen scraps of parchment upon which tiny, hasty-looking scribbles were discernable. "You're lucky I still have my notes..." she grunted without looking up, "...but all that work...damn..."

When Hermione gave no indication of turning to speak to him directly, Harry left the parlor without a word, certain that his absence would likely not be noticed for a while, if at all. He paused in the doorway, looking back in a last, forlorn hope that Hermione might turn her face his way. But she was already bent over a fresh roll of parchment, her quill scratching noisily -- angrily, Harry thought. Sighing heavily, Harry walked the short distance to the front door, took his cloak from the peg above the umbrella stand, and walked out into the drizzling rain.

Hermione sat at the small kitchen table, her head bent over the steaming cup of tea cradled within the circle of her clasped hands. Lifting the cup, she took a small sip and immediately grimmaced. Without looking up, she reached for a small earthenware pot at the center of the table. Lifting the lid, she dipped her spoon inside and transferred a large dollop of honey to her cup. She stired mechanically for a few seconds, the spoon ringing melodiously against the inside of the cup. She inhaled the sweet pungency for a long moment before taking a large gulp and expelling a deep, satisfied sigh.

A soft whooshing sound burst without warning from the parlor, followed by a voice announcing, "Call for you, my dear."

Rising from her chair, Hermione entered the short hallway, still stirring her tea. The wall on her right was broken by two doors, opening onto the loo and her and Harry's bedrom, respectively. A small door on the left concealed a utility cupboard, and beyond that, shouldering the front door, was an open archway leading to the parlor. Passing the hall mirror as she entered, Hermione said, "Thanks."

"Not at all," said the mirror cheerfully as Hermione passed through the doorway. "Happy to be of service."

Hermione made straight for a low table around which were gathered two upholstered chairs and a small couch. At the center of the table, surrounded by a scattered assortment of magazines and folded pages torn from the Daily Prophet, was a small fire grate. It was cleverly disguised to mimic the appearance of a metalwork dish, such as might be used to display flowers or candy in a Muggle house. Now, it was filled with magical flames that bathed the room in a warm, friendly glow. In the heart of those flames, entirely unaffected by the heat spilling out to fill the center of the parlor, was a face that broke into a smile as Hermione approached. Though the rippling waves emanating from the grate tended to obscure a caller's features from any mean distance, there was no mistaking the soft brown eyes, the freckled nose, and the halo of long, red hair which seemed part of the very fire itself.

Hermione planted herself on the small couch, setting her cup upon a well-thumbed copy of Which Broomstick, and smiled wanly at the caller.

"Hi, Ginny. What's up?"

"Not you, that's for certain," Ginny said, arching an eyebrow meaningfully. "Even through the flames, I can see on your face that something's wrong."

Hermione let her eyes fall from Ginny's and onto her cup, which she began to stir indifferently with her spoon.

"Do you feel like talking?" Ginny asked tentatively. "I can pop straight over. I promise, you won't be interrupting anything."

Hermione sat perfectly still for a long moment before nodding. "Hang on."

Banishing her cup to the kitchen with a wave of her wand, Hermione promptly Summoned a small wooden box from the nearby mantel and set it before her. Tilting back the lid, she surveyed an assortment of tiny crystal phials arranged in neat rows. Most were open and empty, but a select few were magically sealed with glass stoppers. Hermione extracted one of the sealed phials from its niche and held it before her. It contained a single human hair, quite long, which reflected the flames of the fire-com like burnished copper. Hermione tapped the glass stopper with her wand, and the phial began to glow softly after the fashion of a Muggle light bulb, the long hair acting the role of the filament. Almost instantly Hermione heard the familiar soft popping sound that announced the Apparation or Disapparation of a magical being, and she looked up to greet the new arrival with a welcoming smile.

"I have got to learn that Charm so we can use it at the Burrow," Ginny said as she seated herself in a chair so that she was facing Hermione across the table. The flames had disappeared from the fire-com so that, to the uninitiated, it was once more indistinguishable from the simple decorative centerpiece it was designed to imitate. "This is so much handier than Apparating to the door and knocking -- especially on a day like this," she added, nodding toward the rain-splattered window with a pantomime shudder.

"Quick as your mum says it's okay, we'll have lunch in the back garden and I'll teach you the spell," Hermione said. "It was only recently approved by the Committee on Experimental Charms," Hermione said. "Being a Ministry employee, I was among the first to learn of it. It's not even in the textbooks yet, though it will probably be in the next edition of Advanced Charms. But you won't have to go to Flourish and Blotts. I learned the spell directly from the Ministry files. Quick as your mum says it's okay, we'll have lunch in the back garden and I'll teach it to you."

"Of course she'll agree," Ginny said. "Why wouldn't she?"

"She may not want to risk the Burrow's safety with a new Charm," Hermione said. "Nearly everyone in the family was a member of the Order of the Phoenix. You all had a part in the defeat of Voldemort, and with so many Death Eaters still on the loose, no one would fault her for being a bit cautious."

"Considering that you and Harry did more than anyone in the fight against Voldemort," Ginny said, speaking the name quite easily now that its owner was no more, "I think your example will convince her. Of course," she added with a grin, "I'll still have to learn the Charm."

"Oh, you'll get it easily enough," Hermione assured her. "Granted, there is more to it than just the incantation. There's a very tricky rune you have to etch into the air with your wand in order to place the Charm over your house. It took me three times before I got it right."

"In that case," Ginny laughed, "it'll take me about eight."

"Rubbish," Hermione responded with a throaty chuckle. "I saw your N.E.W.T. scores. You finished second in your entire year."

"But you finished first," Ginny grinned, at which Hermione smiled briefly before her face fell into a sort of expressionless neutrality. To Ginny, it was as if a book had been slammed shut before she could divine its contents, and she gave Hermione a searching look before which the latter retreated slightly.

"Um," Hermione said a bit awkwardly, "care for a spot of tea? The kettle's full, and I can have it on the boil in a moment. It's real leaf tea," she added as an incentive, "not bags."

Ginny seemed to consider for a moment before saying, "I have a better idea. Let's pop out, shall we?"

"Oh?" Hermione said curiously. "Where?"

"A little place I've been dying to show you," Ginny said with an evasive smile.

"A tea shop?"

"Um...no," Ginny said somewhat guiltily. "You remember my new beau -- the one I told you about a fortnight ago? He's from Toronto, and he's introduced me to coffee. I've kind of got the habit of late. Up to five cups a day now."

"Barbarian," Hermione sniffed disdainfully, trying her best to look reproachful. Unfortunately, the twitching corners of her mouth were her undoing, and Ginny chirped with laughter, Hermione joining her a moment later.

"So, um, where's Harry?" Ginny said without warning, catching Hermione completely off guard. "Down at the pub having a pint?" She added this last with a smirk. It was a source of constant amusement to their friends that Harry would not touch alcohol in any form -- not even a dinner wine -- and always declined to accompany any of his mates who might feel the inclination to "raise the wrist" at one of the ubiquitous public houses dotting the village. "Seriously," Ginny smiled now, "he having a lie-in? Good day for it...bloody rain...or is he out in the shed polishing his Firebolt and wishing Quidditch season would hurry up and get here?"

Hermione went very still, hesitating for a long moment before saying in a very soft voice, "He's...out." When she did not elaborate, Ginny suddenly remembered the reason for her visit.

"What is it, Hermione? Are you and Harry having...problems?"

"No," Hermione said quietly, her eyes not meeting Ginny's. But even with her own gaze averted, she could feel her friend regarding her with the intensity of a basilisk. "I don't know, Ginny. Merlin help me, I really...don't know."

"Talk to me," Ginny said in the imploring voice of the sister she had long since become in Hermione's eyes -- and in her heart. "I can't imagine anything coming between you and Harry. Why, he can't even speak your name without it sounding like a prayer of thanks. I've never seen anyone this side of my parents who love each other as much as you two. Unless...is there something I don't know about? Are you...have you..."

"No," Hermione said quickly, still averting her eyes. "I still..." Her hands were before her, hanging in mid-air as if trying to grasp something just beyond her reach. At length she curled her fingers into small, tight fists which shook slightly, frustratedly. Without warning she bolted up and began to pace the small parlor.

"I...snapped at Harry this morning," she said plaintively. "I was immersed in my Ministry report, and he sneaked up behind me and grabbed me."

"He grabbed you?" Ginny said, an edge of condemnation in her voice. "Men -- horny prats, the lot of them -- "

"No," Hermione said quickly, her shoulders slumping slightly. "He...he hugged me..."

"He hugged you?" Ginny said, more loudly than she'd intended. The disapproval in her voice was more pronounced, but Hermione sensed that it was no longer directed at Harry.

"And I think..." Hermione said softly, her words seeming to come without forethought, "...I think he kissed my hair..."

"You think?" Ginny said sharply, rising now to stand before Hermione, her eyes flashing. "Your husband of less than a year -- the man who worships the ground you walk on -- tries to express his love for you, and you're not sure if he kissed you?"

"I was busy!" Hermione said petulantly. "My work at the Ministry is important!"

"More important than your husband?" Ginny demanded quietly.

"That's not fair!" Hermione said defensively, rounding on Ginny. "Your dad's been with the Ministry for more than thirty years! Are you going to tell me that, in all that time, he's never been so busy that your mum's sometimes felt like she was wearing an Invisibility Cloak? There was never a time when he couldn't tuck you into bed and kiss you goodnight because he had something more important to do?"

"He's been busy," Ginny said evenly. "Loads of times. He's been called in at all hours of the day or night, more times than I can remember. But he's never been too busy to remind us how much he loves us -- or to let us remind him of the same thing."

Unable to remain stationary, Hermione was beginning to resemble a caged tiger. She paced the floor with short, jerky steps, her hands swiping at the air as if swatting at a cloud of invisible midges.

"If he wasn't always underfoot twenty-four/seven," she snapped exasperatedly. "Training interval for Quidditch season is six weeks away, and he's so restless, so full of pent-up energy! He bounces around the house all day, day after day, like a loose Quaffle. I swear, there are times when I just want to scream!"

"It sounds like you wish he'd gone on with his Auror training instead of chucking it all," Ginny said.

"No," Hermione said without hesitation. "I know why he did it. He'd seen so much killing by the end, he couldn't bear any more. In the last days of the war, it was like every Curse he uttered hurt him as much as the one he struck down. And the prospect of him facing Dark wizards in life-or-death situations for the next hundred years was hardly one I relished -- not after nearly losing him so many times in the past. I didn't want him to end up like Alastor Moody, scarred inside and out by what he'd seen and done. I was glad when he chose a career where the most dangerous thing he'd have to confront was a Bludger hit by an opposing Beater. And when he's playing, all the misery of those hard years seems to fall away and he looks happier than I've ever seen him. But when he's not playing," she grunted through gritted teeth (which action would have made her dentist parents wince), "he can be the world's biggest pain in the arse.

"And this report -- " she said with renewed defensiveness, " -- it's important -- the head of department needs it on Monday -- and it was almost finished when -- "

Hermione's hand swiped at the air angrily.

"I -- shouldn't have been so short with him, I know," she sighed heavily. "He was only trying to -- anyway, I got my notes out and started to write out my report again -- and when I got up later to make myself a cup of tea, I saw that his cloak was gone. I suppose he's gone off with Ron again, like last night and the night before that..."

"Come again?"

Hermione stopped her pacing and stared at Ginny, whose face now wore an expression of mild confusion.

"I told Harry straight off that I'd be busy with this report all week," Hermione said, her inner fire now noticibly dimmed. "I told him to find something to do with himself until I was finished on Monday. Anyway, he told me that Ron and Luna'd had a row, so he's been taking Ron all around Muggle London all this week, showing him the sights, trying to distract him -- Ginny, what is it?" For Hermione now saw that Ginny's face had gone white as parchment.

"Hermione," Ginny said slowly -- almost fearfully, Hermione thought, "Ron and Luna patched things up ages ago. I haven't seen you in so long, I forgot to tell you. Luna's been at the Burrow every night this week. Mum's teaching her how to make some of Ron's favorite foods, and he's been right there spot-on to sample everything and pass judgment on it." Ginny paused, swallowing dryly. "I don't know where Harry's been all week -- but he hasn't been with Ron."

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."

Author's Note: This chapter needed a massive face-lift before I pronounced it fit for posting. It should make up for the last chapter, if only in size, being more than three times as large. There remains a small portion of sappiness which I again decided to keep. But as compensation, we will at last see Hermione demonstrate the cleverness with which she has saved Harry's arse more times than we can count in canon (and who knows how many more times in fanfiction).

Also, one reviewer questioned the Potters' need to economize when they have Harry's massive inheritance from Sirius to add to his original treasure. It should be remembered that this story was plotted before OotP, so I did not incorporate Sirius' death into the matrix. Moreover, we did not learn until HBP that Harry had inherited his godfather's wealth. So that aspect of the story remains as when it was first conceived, with the Potters facing much the same financial woes as any other newlyweds. If they were rolling in wealth, the story could not have unfolded as it was initially plotted -- indeed, it would not have been the same story at all. All will be made clear in time. This is, after all, a tale comprising both romance and mystery. As to that, the latter aspect is about to heat up, so let's get to it, shall we?

Despite her self-confessed (and borderline scandalous) conversion to coffee, Ginny made the best cup of tea Hermione had tasted in ages. It was with no small pang of guilt that Hermione realized precisely where she had last had so savory a cup as this -- at the Burrow, the weekend she and Harry had attended Ron's 20th birthday celebration. Merlin, had it really been that long? Could Hermione honestly say that she had been so busy that she had not found the time to visit her dearest friends in the wizarding world for nearly six months?

Delicious though the tea was (Ginny was undoubtedly using the same preparatory spell as her mother), something was still not as it should be. Something was missing. Nor did Hermione have to prod her brain to divine what that something was. As Ginny bent her head to sip from her own cup, Hermione quietly drew her wand and pointed it at the doorway. She gave the wand a little twist to compensate for the bend in the hallway as she said, "Accio," in a barely audible whisper. A moment later, Hermione deftly caught the small object that zoomed into her hand at the terminus of its flight from the kitchen. She removed the lid, spooned out a dollop of honey and plunged it into her tea, and hastily slipped the pot under the table between her feet before Ginny's eyes rose once more.

For a few moments, the only sound in the room was the soft, musical clink of cup on saucer. Ginny reached out for a biscuit from the platter provided by Hermione. Tossing her long, red hair aside with a graceful flick of her head, Ginny took a delicate bite before raising her cup again. Hermione's hand was cupped unobtrusively over the lid to the honey pot, concealing it from view as she waited for an opportunity to slip it under the table to join its companion. The moment Ginny's eyes fell onto the contents of her cup --

"You know," Ginny said casually, her cup hovering an inch from her lips, "I've seen you dipping honey from that pot a hundred times, yet it's always full to the brim. Where did you get it?"

Ginny's soft brown eyes smiled as she sipped deeply from her cup, and Hermione was relieved that Ginny appeared to have taken no offense at her mother's prize recipe being altered in this manner (as Molly almost certainly would have).

"Harry gave it to me," Hermione said as she selected a biscuit from the assortment on the platter and nibbled at it almost absently. "For our one-week anniversary. It's really some wonderful Charm-work, and I told him so. I've been taking honey in my tea for ages, and he said he'd see to it that I never ran out."

"Now that's the kind of husband I'm holding out for," Ginny declared. "Mum always says nothing's too good for her only daughter. And truth be told, I am quite the catch, if I say so myself. Poise, charm, grace..." She ticked these off on her fingers, from the smallest on up. She stopped when she reached her index finger, which, paired with her thumb, was still holding the half-eaten biscuit. She regarded this object momentarily with a sort of exaggerated awe, as if its presence were something entirely unexpected -- then, to Hermione's astonishment, she proceeded to stuff the whole into her mouth, smacking her lips loudly. She followed this with an energetic gulp of tea, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand in a frighteningly accurate burlesque of Ron, and said brightly, "And, of course, manners." She winked at Hermione, who nearly sprayed the biscuit platter with tea as she burst out laughing.

"I'm so glad you came over today, Ginny," Hermione said gratefully. "You always seem to be my personal Pepper-Up Potion whenever my spirits need a lift."

"What are sisters for?" Ginny replied sincerely.

"I really hope things work out between Ron and Luna," Hermione said earnestly. "For her sake as well as Ron's. It's been only her and her dad for so long now. Having you for a sister and Molly for a mother would be wonderful for her. I'm lucky enough to still have both of my parents, of course. But Luna and I both grew up without any siblings, and I honestly can't tell you what it's meant to me having you in my life these last seven years."

"I feel the same way," Ginny said warmly. "Having nothing but brothers for so long, I never knew what I was missing until that first Summer you came to stay at the Burrow, right before I started at Hogwarts. I was so scared, not knowing if I'd be good enough, what with Bill having been Head Boy and Percy flashing his prefect badge like it was the Order of Merlin. And who could I talk to about it? Not my brothers, certainly. And Mum? Well, she'd have tried to understand, of course, but I really don't think she remembers just how frightening your first year at school can be.

"And then you turned up, and suddenly I knew everything was going to be alright. I couldn't put it into words then -- I'm not sure I can now -- but as I look back on it today, that was one of the turning points in my life. Bigger even than Tom Riddle, I think. I mean, it was no lark being possessed by Voldemort -- " Ginny gave the slightest hint of a shudder, her smile flickering momentarily, " -- but in the end, he was just a shadow...a bad dream that came and went. But I knew, somehow, that you'd be a part of my life forever...that I'd finally found the sister I always wanted.

"Of course," she added slowly as her cheeks began to glow with the famous Weasley blush, "there was a time when I thought we might actually become sisters -- as in, sisters-in-law."

"You never!" Hermione said through a scandalized grin. "You seriously thought that Ron and I -- "

"Well, not seriously, no," Ginny admitted with a chuckle. "I guess you could say it was more of a double-edged fantasy. See, I reckoned if you and Ron took up, that would leave Harry for me. I did rather fancy him then, I hardly need tell you. Bloody hell, I still can't believe I sent him that embarrassing singing valentine..."

"His eyes are as green as a fresh-picked toad," Hermione warbled throatily in a dead-on imitation of the singing dwarf who had literally sat on Harry bodily to deliver his musical message in their second year (Ginny's first).

"Stop it!" Ginny shrieked, her indignation quite undermined by an uncontrollable fit of the giggles. "I'm warning you! Just because I haven't used the Bat-Bogey Hex since school doesn't mean I've forgotten how!"

Hermione laughed so hard that she kicked over the forgotten honey pot, which was still sitting (uncapped) under the table following her unsuccessful attempt to conceal its presence from Ginny. She snatched it up, though not before a small puddle of honey had spilled out and onto the braided throw rug under her feet. Hermione set the pot on the table, pointed her wand down and said, "Scourgify!" The spilled honey vanished. As she moved to replace the self-sealing lid, a soft bubbling sound was heard as the pot re-filled itself to the very top. Ginny observed this with interest before lifting her eyes up questioningly toward Hermione.

"I still don't know how he did it," Hermione answered Ginny's unspoken query as she regarded the re-filled pot with a dreamy smile. "One of these days, I'll find the answer."

"You do know," Ginny said with a soft smile, "that there's never been anyone for Harry but you." Hermione looked up, her eyes glowing like soft, dark jewels. "After Luna and I became mates, she told me all about Cho. It was obvious that Harry only fancied her for her looks. He never really knew the real Cho. Once he finally saw past her outer shell, there was no contest. But he had to learn the hard way, didn't he? Boys only look at the outside straight off. It takes them a while longer to see past the oyster to the pearl inside.

"But for her part, Cho was never fooled. She saw the connection between you two straightaway. So did Krum. Funny, but it never occurred to him at the start that Harry hadn't spotted what he'd seen all along. But he was older, so I suppose he'd already learned what Harry had yet to learn. But he knew your heart, Krum did. And he knew that Harry wouldn't stay a stupid, blind prat forever.

"And Ron?" Ginny sighed almost mournfully. "Well, he was in flat-out denial for years, wasn't he? But he was never fooled...not really. We all saw it, Hermione. Easy as spotting a giant in a roomful of house-elves. You and Harry."

Ginny leaped across the table, her eyes fastening on Hermione's.

"I don't know what's behind Harry's absences, luv. But I won't believe that he's doing anything wrong, or hurtful. Not without proof -- more proof than an unnaturally tidy hairbrush, at any rate."

"So, what should I do?" Hermione asked in a small, almost pleading voice. Her eyes had left Ginny's as she concentrated almost imploringly upon the honey pot cupped in her hands, as if seeking comfort and reassurance from its familiar feel.

"Do what you always do." Ginny reached across the table and tapped her finger emphatically against the smooth side of the honey pot. Hermione looked up to see her friend's mouth twitching with the merest suggestion of a smile, her soft brown eyes challenging. "What did you just tell me you were going to do about this?" She tapped the side of the honey pot again, underscoring her question.

"I said," came Hermione's almost breathless reply, "that I'd find the answer."

"Right," Ginny nodded sharply. "All through school, no one was better than you at finding answers to questions. Use that marvelous brain that netted you all those O.W.L.'s and N.E.W.T.'s. The post-owl has dropped a mystery into your lap. Solve it."

Hermione sat very still for a few moments before her lips, heretofore pressed into a taut line, curved into a mirror of Ginny's knowing smile. She gave a short nod, and Ginny's smile widened triumphantly.

The seed of a plan was germinating in Hermione's brain even as she bade Ginny goodbye and watched her Disapparate back to the Burrow. Banishing the Apparation Chest back to the mantel, Hermione set her and Ginny's cups, saucers and spoons on the now-empty biscuit platter and carried them into the kitchen. Placing them in the sink, she did not draw her wand, but turned on the tap and began to wash them very slowly and methodically, Muggle-fashion.

Having grown up in a Muggle home, Hermione was no stranger to household chores performed without benefit of magic. In fact, she had found over time that certain ritualistic tasks bestowed a sort of calm detachment in which body and mind acted independent of one another. As her hands skillfully cleaned and put away china and silver, her mind was humming like the well-ordered machine it had been for as long as she could remember. There had never been a problem she could not solve by applying simple reasoning, common sense, and organization. Ginny was right. This was just another homework problem or O.W.L. question to be solved. So long as she considered it in that light, she knew she could trust her mind to find the answer. And, indeed, she found upon reflection that she needed to view this situation in a clinical, detached manner. To do otherwise, she realized with a suppressed shudder, might well reduce her to a trembling mass of protoplasm treading dangerously close to hysteria.

Thus, locking her emotions fast with a sort of ethereal Colloportus Charm, Hermione detached her mind from her body, freeing her thoughts to soar beyond the confining walls of the kitchen like a bird on the wing. As her hands worked mechanically, washing and rinsing the cups and saucers with unhurried care, her eyes stared intently through the small window over the sink, fixing on the blank surface of the high fence surrounding the small back garden. There was a time not too long ago when that wall had been obscured by all manner of flowers and shrubs and assorted verdure. It now shone stark and bare, the back garden having fallen into a state of neglect in direct proportion to Hermione's increasingly busy work schedule. Using the fence like a telly screen, Hermione imposed the images flickering in her mind onto the sun-dulled wood, where they came alive in a manner so as to allow her to audit her thoughts from the perspective of an unbiased observer. In this detached manner, she examined her dilemma from every angle, separating minute details from surrounding dross much as a beachcomber would sift grains of sand for hidden treasure. By the time the last cup was dried and replaced on its hook in the overhead cupboard, a fully formed plan was imprinted on Hermione's brain, ready to be implemented.

Wasting not a moment, she dashed into her and Harry's bedroom, emerging a minute later with her old Hogwarts school bag slung over her shoulder. Having been her constant companion for seven years, the worn but still sturdy satchel now served her in her Ministry job in lieu of a standard briefcase. Hermione patted the bag with an affection reminiscent of that which she once lavished on the now departed Crookshanks. Adjusting the strap on her shoulder for optimum comfort, she approached the hallway mirror and, catching up her brush, essayed the delayed task of taming her wild hair before venturing forth on her mission of discovery.

"Sleekeazy's would do wonders for your condition, my dear," the mirror said, repeating a mantra of which Hermione had long since wearied unto exhaustion.

"I'm off to Diagon Alley," Hermione said in a casual voice. "And when I've finished my business, I think I'll pop into the furniture shop and look over their selection of mirrors." As Hermione tugged the brush forcefully through her hair, her lips compressed into a thin, hard line, the mirror gave a dignified sniff but otherwise declined reply.

Nodding at her reflection with something less than satisfaction, Hermione moved to place the brush on the table beneath the mirror. She paused, surveying with a frown the cluster of brown hair tangled in the brush's bristles. She drew her wand, pointed it at the brush and said, "Evanesco!" The hair vanished. She set the brush down slowly, staring intently at the empty bristles. She closed her eyes as her mind reverberated, It's not what you think. It's not what you think.

But another voice, echoing deep in the recesses of her mind, countered: But what if it is?"

"No," Hermione said aloud. "I won't believe it. Not until..."

She left the thought unfinished. Turning away from the mirror, she glanced through the doorway to the corner where her desk sat with its neat, ordered stacks of parchment, capped bottles of varicolored inks, and precise rows of quills in guages varying from bold to razor-thin. Nothing was ever out of place in any area Hermione claimed as her own. Organization was the watchword by which she lived. Lying precisely in the center of her desk blotter was the scroll that was her Ministry report. Though she had not gone into the office today, this was by no means a skive-off day. The atmosphere here at home was more conducive to organized thought than the Ministry, what with people passing from office to office, Interdepartmental memos zooming hither and yon, and various other disturbances that popped up in the course of a normal day. It was Hermione's standard practice to retreat to her homely corner to fashion reports such as this one in an atmosphere free of distraction. Even with her having had to start over following Harry's unexpected display of husbandly affection, the report was now done and ready to present to Madam Bones. The head of MLE was expecting the report tomorrow morning, but it was not out of character for Hermione to finish an assignment early. Everyone agreed that the Ministry's newest addition would go far in her chosen field, perhaps as far as the Minister's chair itself.

But, uncharceristically, Hermione did not enter the parlor to take up her report for delivery. If she felt guilty over this slight dereliction, it was only a shadow of what she was feeling in regard to the mission she was about to undertake. Clearing her mind, she cast her thoughts out until a clear image of the winding pavement of Diagon Alley appeared, as vivid as if she were viewing it through her kitchen window. A relieved smile spread across her face as she saw that the rain that had cast its pall over Godric's Hollow all week did not extend as far as London. Dispensing therefore with umbrella or macintosh, Hermione concentrated. Her body leaping forward to join her outstretched consciousness, she Disapparated with a soft "pop." When she opened her eyes a moment later, she was standing before the white marble facade of Gringotts Wizarding Bank.

She walked up the polished steps with purposeful stride and entered, the uniformed guardian bowing her inside. She quickly found an unoccupied goblin, stepped up to his station and said pleasantly, "Potter vault, please."

"Your key?" the goblin inquired as he set aside his quill and capped his bottle of ink.

Hermione produced the duplicate key Harry had given her on their wedding day almost one year ago. He had, in fact, offered it to her the day he proposed, drawing it from the same pocket from which he had produced the magnificent engagement ring he had placed on her finger only moments before.

Hermione had quietly declined to accept the key then, preferring to wait until she had the unquestioned legal right to claim her fiancee's "worldly goods." The pain that had appeared almost immediately in Harry's eyes then had been manifest, and as that memory flooded her thoughts now, Hermione began to doubt the validity of this first phase of her greater endeavor. Nor did staring at the diamond on the third finger of her left hand, its polished facets glinting in the torchlight, serve to strengthen her faltering resolve.

But before these nifflers of doubt could erode the walls of her defenses to the crumbling point, the goblin was pushing her through a doorway and into one of the self-propelled carts which bustled the bank's many and varied patrons through the endless miles of underground passages to the treasure vaults hidden far below the streets of London. Her mind a jumble of conflicting thoughts, Hermione found herself lurching to a halt before her destination in what seemed mere moments (though she knew from experience that it was a journey of many minutes' duration).

Climbing from the now motionless cart on unsteady legs, Hermione inserted her key in the lock and turned it. The door opened noiselessly on well-oiled hinges, and she entered while the goblin waited beside the cart, an indifferent scowl on his face as he scrutinized a gold pocket watch attached to a chain running to his waistcoat pocket.

In her brief tenure in the Magical Law Enforcement division of the Ministry, Hermione had learned certain basic rules by which the activities of a "person of interest" could be determined in situations where solid evidence was lacking. In cases where money was a factor, whether giving or receiving, the rule was simple: Follow the golden trail. If there was any foundation at all to Hermione's suspicions, then the logical place to begin her journey was here at her and Harry's vault.

The contents of their vault -- a small fortune in gold Galleons, silver Sickles and bronze Knuts -- varied only marginally from that which Harry had found on his first trip to Diagon Alley (in the company of Hagrid) more than eight years ago. It was true that Harry (or Molly Weasley, acting on his behalf) had found it necessary to withdraw some small portion of his inheritance any number of times during his seven years at Hogwarts, which necessarily depleted the vault's contents to a certain degree. But since their marriage, both Harry and Hermione had made regular (and occasionally substantial) deposits, including Harry's generous signing bonus from the newly-formed Darbyshire Dragons of the British Quidditch League, augmenting their savings to an aproximation of its former, pre-Hogwarts state.

They would need every Galleon they could save, and then some, if they were to realize their dream of someday owning a proper home. The wizarding world being but a scattering of islands in a vast Muggle sea, secure housing in a venue apart from unwanted scrutiny was a costly commodity, the price of which was rising steadily year by year. Moreover, the goblins who administered the affairs of the only wizarding bank in Britain were far more circumspect than their non-magical counterparts when it came to lending money. A witch or wizard wishing to acquire any sort of living accomodations must be prepared to offer up fully half of the purchase price before the bank would consider supplying the balance. Sirius had offered to provide the needed sum from his own vault, but Harry would have none of it. He was determined to make his way in the wizarding world on the strength of his own acumen, abetted by hard work, and accepting no help save that of his wife. Hermione applauded her new husband's independence, vowing to make whatever sacrifices were required in support of their life's goal. Thus, the newlywed Potters agreed that, by depriving themselves of certain luxuries for a time, they would be able to amass the necessary down payment for their Dream House all the sooner. When that happy day finally arrived, the victory would be all the sweeter for that they had earned it together.

But one aspect of the Potter vault had changed dramatically since Harry's bachelor days. Gone were the untidy piles of uncounted coins which had met Hermione's disapproving eye upon her first visit in her new capacity as Mrs. Harry Potter. A silent vow made that day (exclusive of the one spoken aloud at their wedding) was fulfilled upon their return from their Caribbean honeymoon, which results Hermione surveyed now as she entered the unlighted chamber and conjured candles with a wave of her wand.

Spread out upon three wooden tables were row upon row of drawstring bags, each color-coded and neatly labeled with its contents. The surface of each table had been divided into numbered squares, in fashion not unlike a chessboard, the chief difference being that each row contained ten squares instead of eight.

Upon the first table sat neat rows of bags the size and color of small pumpkins. Each of these bags contained 493 Knuts. This sum was further divided into 17 smaller bags of 29 Knuts each, all contained within the larger bag. Each orange bag represented, therefore, 17 Sickles, or one Galleon.

The bags occupying the second table were roughly half the size of those on the first table, and were a pale grey in color. These contained 170 Sickles, internally divided into ten bags of 17 Sickles each. Thus, each bag was the equivalent of 10 Galleons.

The bags arranged in crisp rows upon the third table were smaller still, though only marginally so. They were of a butter yellow and contained 100 Galleons each, in groupings of 10.

Hermione smiled with satisfaction as she surveyed the results of her organizational skills. Before the implementation of this system, it had been next to impossible to track the comings and goings of monies flowing in and out of their vault. Wizards, Hermione thought, clucking her tongue. If logic and common sense were currency, some of them wouldn't have the price of a cup of tea.

Shaking her head, Hermione opened her school bag and withdrew a small square of folded parchment. She unfolded it and spread it out until she could read the figures thereon (all neatly inscribed in her own hand). This was her and Harry's personal ledger sheet. Neither of them made a deposit or a withdrawal without the exact amount being recorded in the same permanent ink used by the Ministry for all of its important documents (the same ink with which her twice-written report had been rendered).

Feeling her heartbeat increasing by the moment, Hermione surveyed the three heavily-laden tables, comparing the evidence of her eyes with the figures on the document. She sighed with relief to see that all was as it should be. Every bag of carefully counted coins was accounted for. Hermione felt a great weight slide from her shoulders. If Harry were doing anything along the lines of her suspicions, he could not proceed without funds. Polyjuice brothels were as costly as they were despicable, and even the fame of the hero of the wizarding world would not serve in place of hard coin where these low women were concerned. Laughing inwardly at her own foolishness, Hermione folded the parchment and turned to exit the vault. But in the course of turning, her eyes swept the left-hand wall of the vault -- and she froze as if struck by a Stunning spell.

Attached to the wall by means of a Sticking Charm was a large, flat square of parchment. Hermione stood rooted to the stone floor, her eyes fixed on the document before her. She felt her blood suddenly run cold. Very slowly, she unfolded the parchment in her hand and held it up beside the larger one. Her eyes ran up and down the columns of numbers, comparing the figures on the two sheets. This she did three times, hoping with each new viewing that she had somehow been in error. But she had known from the start that she had not been mistaken.

The figures on the two sheets did not match.

Hermione stared at the large sheet with a mixture of confusion and trepidation. The sheet hanging before her was an enlarged counterpart to the ledger in her hand, but with a critical difference. In order to ensure an exact tally of funds, Hermione had placed a Protean Charm on the vault, linking its contents to the ledger sheet on the wall. Any change in the former was automatically recorded on the latter in bold, indelible script. It was fine-tuned to a degree that, should she take a Knut from her pocket and drop it on the floor, the sheet would instantly record the increase to the vault's assets.

Hermione had intended to extend the Charm to the smaller sheet, only to be reminded by the goblins that the many protective spells guarding the Gringotts vaults rendered such an extended link impossible. Thus, whenever she or Harry made a deposit or a withdrawal, it was necessary for them to enter that transaction upon their personal ledger by hand. It would never have occurred to Hermione that the figures on the two sheets would not match. In her haste to prove Harry innocent (and herself a foolish worry-wart), she had trusted to the sheet in her hand, giving no thought to comparing the smaller sheet with the larger one.

Hermione approached the third table bearing the yellow bags of neatly sorted Galleons. According to the sheet in her hand, there should be five rows of ten bags each, totaling five thousand Galleons. That was the figure written on the small sheet which Hermione now held so tightly that her knuckles showed white; moreover, that was the sum to which her eyes now bore witness.

But that total was not reflected on the larger sheet hanging on the wall. What had gone wrong? Had she made an error in casting the Protean Charm?

No. She reviewed the elements of the spell in her mind, ticking off the steps one by one. This was hardly the first time she had employed this spell; though it was N.E.W.T. level, she had mastered it early in her fifth year, making good use of it in the formation of the D.A. under the nose of Professor Umbridge. It had served her flawlessly then, and she was absolutely certain that her spellwork here had been equally flawless.

Could the Gringotts security spells be interfering with Hermione's spell? She shook her head. She had spoken directly to the chief security goblin before beginning the complicated process of casting the Charm, and he had assured her that any spell cast inside the vault would not affect, nor be affected by, those in force outside the vault.

Then what was the answer?

Hermione suddenly recalled Ginny's admonition to her earlier that day. The post-owl has dropped a mystery into your lap. Solve it.

Hermione walked slowly back and forth between the enchanted parchment and the Galleon table. Logically, if the spells outside the vault were not affecting the ledger, then the only answer that seemed to fit was that another spell had been cast inside the vault. Pushing from her mind the thought of who had cast that spell (who apart from herself and Harry had a key to their vault?), Hermione addressed the more significant problem of determining what kind of spell had been performed. Had it been cast over the enchanted parchment, or over the vault itself so as to fool the parchment into reflecting something other than what was? Magical objects could be hoodwinked by a powerful wizard -- Barty Crouch Junior, in the guise of Mad-Eye Moody, had Confunded the Goblet of Fire into forgetting that only three schools were participating in the Triwizard Tournament, allowing Harry's name to be entered (also by Crouch) under the name of a fourth school. Had Hermione's Protean Charm been likewise deceived?

But speculation was pointless. Hermione preferred to act. Drawing her wand, she waved it slowly around the vault. In her Advanced N.E.W.T. Charms class at Hogwarts, she had learned a variety of spells designed to detect the presence of magic. These were but one means of many employed by the Ministry's Improper Use of Magic office in the interests of monitoring underage wizardry. Hermione had long suspected that an umbrella of such spells had been cast over Number 4 Privet Drive, alerting Mafalda Hopkirk to Harry's occasional outbursts of magic, as when he had lost control during the holidays preceding his third year and inflated his Aunt Marge to the size of a weather balloon. (It had likewise detected the Hover Charm cast by Dobby, for which Harry had been unfairly blamed.)

With the passage of time, traces of lingering magic would dimish to a point where detection became almost impossible. But if this spell were still fooling the Protean Charm (as evidenced by the differing figures on the two parchments), it was still active and would prove no match for Hermione's counter-spells. Prodding her wand with silent commands, Hermione probed the confines of the vault for the spell that her reason told her must be present.

And there it was -- the unmistakable signature of a spell -- a Transfiguration spell!

This revelation put a new tail on the unicorn. Being in the employ of the seat of government for all of Great Britain, Hermione well knew that it was a serious breach of wizarding law to Transfigure common substances into precious commodities like silver and gold. These metals were valuable only because they were scarce; if gold were as common as the cobbles paving the streets of Diagon Alley, it would likewise be worth no more than those common stones and therefore have no value as a medium of exchange. One of the numerous spells infusing Gringotts was a Charm that would reveal if gold brought in for deposit had been conjured by magical means (this had been implimented following Ludo Bagman's attempt to pay off a debt to some goblins in Leprechaun gold following the Quidditch World Cup). Anyone caught trying to pass Transfigured gold at Gringotts would quickly find himself passing time in a cell in Azkaban.

But, as with most laws, whether wizard or Muggle, this one was not without loopholes. A wizard was allowed to Transfigure silver and gold in limited qualtities as long as he was not intending to introduce it into the wizarding economy. Weathy families like the Malfoys commonly ate off gold plates and drank wine from silver goblets, all wrought by their own magical skills in tribute to their inflated egos. (These differed vastly from the goblin-forged silver goblets owned by Sirius, which were worth far more than the metal of which they were composed.) If these families did not attempt to sell such items, they were at liberty to surround themselves with the wealth of Midas if it struck their warped fancy.

Therefore, if someone (Hermione still would not attach a name to the spell-caster) had Transfigured a base metal into gold inside the vault, it would not be a transgression of the law -- nor would it be detected by the bank's security spells, which did not penetrate beyond the outer boundaries of the vault. But it had not been sufficient to bamboozle Hermione's Protean Charm. Her enchanted ledger knew the difference between natural gold and the Transfigured variety.

Her path now clear, it was with a sense of inner pride that Hermione summoned forth another spell from her school days. Harkening back again to the era of the false Mad-Eye Moody, Hermione recalled the day when Draco Malfoy had attacked Harry behind his back -- only to be seen by "Moody" and promptly Transfigured into a snow-white ferret as punishment for his cowardly act. Professor McGonagall had appeared a minute later and set Malfoy to rights with a counter-spell. Employing that spell now, Hermione waved her wand over the contents of the Galleon table, producing a sound like a whip-crack. Giving the table an appraising look, Hermione saw that no difference had been wrought to the naked eye. But whatever lay unseen in one or more of those yellow bags had now been restored to its original state.

Hermione now began to search her mind for another spell, one which she remembered from her N.E.W.T. exam. It was a variation on the Vanishing Charm, designed to separate elements mixed at random. If, for example, one had accidentally poured the wrong ingredient into a beaker to produce an unwanted solution, the spell could be fine-tuned so that only the offending substance would be vanished, leaving the original contents unaltered. Gringotts goblins likewise used spells of this nature to ferret out counterfeit coins -- those composed of metals other than silver and gold -- from genuine Galleons and Sickles with which they might be intermingled to forestall detection. If she could remember the spell (it was very complex, worthy in itself of the Outstanding N.E.W.T. she had earned in Advanced Charms), she intended to employ it in the same manner as the goblins. Turning the pages of her memory one by one, Hermione at last found that which she sought. Fixing the words in her mind, she waved her wand in a complex pattern over the table before her. She completed the action by flicking her wrist so that her wand whipped the air with a crisp snapping motion. There was a sharp report, louder than the first had been, the sound magnified within the confines of the vault. Her ears smarting, Hermione blinked hard. When she opened her eyes and surveyed the table, she gasped.

As Hermione had known in her heart from the beginning, the parchment on the wall had not lied. The contents of the table had altered dramatically. The entire back row of bags had effectively vanished -- the bags remained, but they were now lying flat and empty, their contents magically vanished. Hermione gaped at the four rows of butter-yellow bags that a moment before had been five, realizing the terrible truth:

One thousand galleons had gone!

Sorry for the delay in posting. I expected to update last week, but some unexpected complications arose, leaving me unable to meet my weekly deadline. In compensation for the extended wait, I'm posting two chapters together, and I'll do my best to see that the rest of the story appears on schedule. Thanks for your patience, and for the positive support. Now, let's see if these two chapters can keep you hooked.

Hermione took a few moments to reinforce the metaphorical Locking Charm on the door of her anxieties. She breathed slowly, calmly, as her mind clicked onto the details of this latest revelation and extrapolated.

There are any number of reasons why Harry took that money without telling me, she argued in her mind.

But as she stood in silent thought, staring into the flickering flames of her magical candles, she could find no possibility that satisfied. The bulk of their savings was earmarked for the down payment on the house they hoped to buy -- assuming they could find something they liked that met the dual criteria of location and affordable price. Their search had yielded a couple of likely prospects in areas with long established wizard habitation, but both were far too expensive for even their combined incomes to manage. The down payment alone would have been more than the entire contents of their vault (the original contents, Hermione thought grimly). It was therefore highly unlikely that the missing money had anything to do with their future living arrangements.

Their anniversary was coming up, of course, followed by her birthday -- but neither of these scenarios seemed to justify an expenditure of a thousand Galleons.

Hermione's thoughts drifted back to Harry's birthday, nearly three weeks ago. As July 31st had fallen on a Saturday, her MLE job did not interfere with them enjoying a proper celebration. They had gone off on a weekend retreat, having found, through one of Hermione's Ministry friends, a secluded cabin on the shores of a remote Scottish loch. The scenery had been breathtaking, in aspect not far removed from the surroundings of Hogwarts. In retrospect, it was a shame that they had not spent more time outside enjoying the pristine beauty of the countryside. As things transpired, by the time Sunday evening rolled around, they were both far too exhausted from their "indoor activities" to Apparate home without risk of splinching. The Floo network was out of the question -- even had the cabin been connected to the Floo network, their flat had no proper fireplace to receive them -- and Hermione's limited tenure at the Ministry made it inadvisable for her risk a reprimand (not to mention a substantial fine) by enchanting an unauthorized Portkey. If one of them were dying, maybe...

Left with no other option, they had journeyed all night on Harry's Firebolt (which, thank Merlin, he never let out of his sight -- Hermione playfully referred to her husband's treasured broom as his "straw-haired mistress"), Hermione sleeping most of the way, clasped securely in Harry's arms. Arriving home more or less rested on Monday morning, she had Apparated straight to work, munching on a piece of toast pressed into her hands by Harry, and looking quite as if she had been trampled by a herd of rampaging hippogriffs.

Hermione smiled now, in spite of herself, at the memory of that romantic liaison. But suddenly she felt as if a ball of ice had settled in the pit of her stomach. Had that weekend really been the last time she and Harry had made love? She cursed herself under her breath. What the bloody hell kind of newlyweds fell back onto sodding birthdays as an excuse to make love? That was for doddering old buggers with barely enough strength to lift a wand, not young, virile witches and wizards in the prime of life. And she was further chilled by the realization that she could not remember their last intimate encounter before then.

Merlin help her -- was Harry being forced to find another warm bed every night because his wife was suddenly too sodding busy to warm theirs? Had her playful reference to his "straw-haired mistress" planted the notion in his head to seek out a more amenable companion to fill Hermione's increasing absences?

Cuffing herself mentally, Hermione jerked herself back to the matter at hand. The money was gone, and no one but Harry could have taken it. That left only one question to be answered: Why? What use could he possibly have for so large a sum -- a use, furthermore, that he was going to such pains to conceal from his wife?

Once more slamming the door on her anxieties, Hermione drew a slow breath and nodded to herself. There was nothing more to be learned here. The answer to her remaining question lay with Harry. Reason dictated that when she found Harry (or, more precisely, discovered where he had been going every day for the past week), she would also find the missing money -- or, at the least, the use to which he was putting it. And that brought her back to the question which had started the Quaffle flying in the first place. Where was Harry? Where had he been disappearing without telling her? And this, in turn, birthed yet another question, perhaps the most ominous of all.

Was she fully prepared to learn the answer?

In like manner as the cart ride to the vault, Hermione found herself walking down the marble steps of Gringotts and into the bustle of Diagon Alley without remembering how she had got there. She walked in a sort of trance for an unknown space of time. She knew what her next course of action was. She had planned for it carefully, methodically, in typical Hermione fashion. But right now, she was not feeling like "typical Hermione." She was feeling -- Merlin, she did not know what she was feeling.

But if her thoughts were confused, her instincts were sharp as ever. Without realizing she had stopped walking, Hermione suddenly found herself standing in the shadowed doorway of a boarded-up shop on the corner where Diagon Alley debouched onto Knockturn Alley. It seemed that her unconscious mind had taken the reins relinquished by her conscious, directing her actions with uncanny precision.

Nestling herself deeper into the shadows, she opened her bag and withdrew a bundle that reflected the feeble light lurking in the doorway like molten silver. Her eyes darting nervously about, Hermione shook out Harry's Invisibility Cloak and whipped it about her shoulders, tugging the hood over her face in a single fluid motion.

"Forgive me, Harry," she whispered into the shadowy gloom. "But I have to know."

Careful not to dislodge the voluminous hood, Hermione raised her left hand to her face so that, even in the semi-darkness, she could see clearly the twin bands of her engagement and wedding rings. As she stared intently at these two earthly representations of Harry's love, she felt her stomach twist into a guilty knot beneath her hammering heart.

Shortly after returning from their honeymoon, she and Harry had forged a pact that if either of them had need of the other, for whatever reason, no power in Heaven or on Earth would keep them apart. To that end, they had used their combined magicks to place an immensely powerful Charm on their wedding rings. The two bands were linked by an intangible yet unbreakable thread whereby a mental "tug" on the one would produce a corresponding response from the other. If either she or Harry were suddenly in danger, it would require but a single thought to alert the other, not unlike a Muggle pager. And once that signal had been sent, all either of them had to do to be united was concentrate on his or her ring, and the one would instantly Apparate to the other's location, no matter how far away. Nor, indeed, was a warning signal required to activate the link. If one of them were unconscious and unable to send a signal, the other need only activate the ring's enchantment by mental command to be joined with the one lost. All that was required was the desire of the one to find and unite with the other, and the ring would do the rest.

It was Harry (with Hermione's glowing endorsement) who proposed that the rings not unite them in the strict sense, but would instead project an invisible barrier so that the "rescuer" would appear no closer than 100 feet from the one in need. Thus, in case one of them were trapped or under attack, the other would not unwittingly jump straight into the the dragon's jaws, so to speak. This was imperative, for, unlike ordinary Apparation, this would be a blind transfer, powered solely by the magic in the rings rather than their own personal magic. Hermione herself added the final touch, a built-in Hover Charm that would automatically suspend them in mid-air should they find themselves Apparating over a body of water, or some more dangerous substance, like acid or boiling lava (they both hoped fervently that this would never be needed, but better to have it and not need it than the reverse).

Once the "rescuer" had arrived, his or her ring would act as a sort of magical compass, pointing unerringly toward its Charmed companion. (This was Harry's idea, inspired by Hermione having taught him the Four-Point spell during the Triwizard Tournament.) In this way, they could come to each other's aid from a safe distance, yet be able to home in on the other without hesitation.

Both of them had fully intended this Charm to be employed as a safeguard against attack by Death Eaters, or some other minion of the Dark forces. Neither could have conceived of it being used for one of them to spy on the other, to track their spouse down like a criminal escaped from Azkaban. Not for the first time, Hermione felt her resolve weakening with every moment she lingered in this spider-haunted doorway, her eyes burning with tears of shame as she stared at the third finger of her left hand.

Could she really bring herself to do this? Could she effectively betray Harry, betray their mutual vows of trust and loyalty, merely to satisfy the beast inside her head that craved always to know, to understand, to learn the truth at any cost?

Despising herself, cursing herself with invectives she would not have spoken aloud to her worst enemy, Hermione concentrated on the pure, white-gold band on her finger. It hummed lightly, like a firefly caught in a child's cupped hand. A moment later, with a sound so soft that none of the passersby in Diagon Alley heard, Hermione Disapparated.

At first Hermione did not recognize her surroundings, due in part to the fact that the glare of the afternoon sun was reflecting from some unnamed surface directly into her eyes. She turned her head, blinking until the spots dancing in her brain had faded so that she could see clearly again. When she turned about once more, this time shading her eyes with her hand (careful not to dislodge the hood of the Cloak), she gasped. She found herself standing in the midst of Hogsmeade, and the surface which had blinded her was nothing less than the storefront window of Honeydukes Sweet Shop. Squinting now, she could see the sign for Zonko's Joke Shop in the distance, and beyond that the painted board bearing the legend The Three Broomsticks.

What in the world is Harry doing in Hogsmeade? Hermione thought distractedly. But she brightened suddenly at the realization that, as nearly everyone in the wizarding village knew Harry on sight, it was highly unlikely that he was here under what might be considered questionable circumstances.

Her fears thus allayed, Hermione was overcome by an unexpected tide of emotion at finding herself in this place after more than a year. It was here where some of the most treasured memories of her life were centered. She vividly remembered her first official date with Harry: Butterbeers at The Three Broomsticks, followed by a visit to Honeydukes, an hour of window shopping along the main street -- and, ultimately, in the shadow of a deserted doorway, their first kiss. Thinking back on that magical moment now, Hermione could still taste the Pepper Imps on Harry's lips (not that she had needed any enhancement of the fire kindled that day in her heart).

Hermione had not realized until this moment how much she missed the little wizarding village. It had been her grandest dream (aside from the enduring one of someday being Mrs. Harry Potter) to live here for the rest of her life, just her and Harry in an endless state of wedded bliss, never to be parted from Hogwarts, whose magic had nestled forever in a young girl's heart with the promise that anything she wished could -- and would -- come true.

Unfortunately, reality found a way to burst that particular dream bubble. As the only all-magic settlement in Britain, Hogsmeade was, of necessity, restricted by stringent codes and laws to prevent it growing so large as to attract Muggle attention, by which its very existence might well be threatened. The entire village was, of course, protected by powerful Muggle-repelling spells, similar to the ones safeguarding Hogwarts and its surrounding grounds. The one time Hermione had brought her parents to visit, on Christmas last, it had taken her a full four days to weave a counter-spell around them, without which they would have been unable to aproach to within a mile of the outermost cottage without succumbing to the irresistible urge to turn around, go straight home, and forget that such a place as Hogsmeade even existed.

Just as with Hogwarts, the protective spells had to be placed around every inch of the village's perimeter and reinforced regularly. The larger the perimeter, the more (and stronger) spells required to accomplish the task. Thus, the size of Hogsmeade had been strictly circumscribed for centuries, a policy made all the more poignant as the Muggle population of Britain (and Scotland in particular) swelled until it must ultimately encroach upon the very limits of an island which could in no wise grow to accommodate its increasing population.

So it was that Hogsmeade found its evolution arrested in the interests of its very survival. No house had been built in Hogsmeade since the late 19th century. Added to this was the timeless tradition by which virtually any habitation, from the grandest manse to the humblest cottage, was handed down from one generation to the next, century upon century. As a result, no newcomer (save merchants who dwelt apart and Apparated to work at need) had joined the ranks of Hogsmeade's population since the middle ages.

Sighing wistfully at what might have been, Hermione reluctantly closed the back door of her memories and returned her attention to the matter at hand. What was Harry doing here? The simplest way to answer that was to find him, and for that Hermione needed look no farther than the third finger of her left hand.

Lifting her hand underneath the Cloak, Hermione concentrated, and her ring tugged her hand about so that it was pointing directly at The Three Broomsticks. "He's probably come to visit Hagrid," she told herself with a smile as she dodged the few pedestrians passing by and wended her way toward her destination. "We haven't seen him in ages."

Hermione's stomach jumped involuntarily at this thought. There were far too many old and dear friends whom they had been neglecting of late, she reflected with no small pang of guilt.

Hermione slipped into The Three Broomsticks easily, finding it only sparsely inhabited. Checking her watch (a graduation present from her parents, complete with calendar and an alarm buzzer so that she would not be late for important meetings), she saw that it was past 1:30, which meant that the lunch crowd was long since departed, leaving the pub as she found it now, nearly deserted. This made finding Harry child's play. He was sitting in a booth in the corner farthest from the door -- their booth, Hermione realized with a start, where in days gone they would hide from friend and foe alike and retreat into their own little world, if only for an hour at a span. And -- her stomach did a backflip -- he was not alone.

Hermione's heart leaped into her throat as she spied a head of curly blond hair perched atop wizard's robes of a shocking violet she had not seen since the days of Gilderoy Lockhart. Would Harry dare share their booth with another woman? In her present state of mind, Hermione might have found cause to question the presence of even so innocuous a companion as Lavender or Parvati -- neither of whom, she realized with yet another guilty twinge, had she seen for at least four months.

But her fears, imagined or otherwise, proved groundless when the blond head turned about to reveal the face of Justin Finch-Fletchley as he signaled to Madam Rosmerta with his empty wine glass. She provided a refill of a pale liquid Hermione gathered to be elderflower wine, and Justin turned back to Harry, who was sipping from a glass of iced pumpkin juice. Hermione smiled as she approached the booth on cat feet. They had come to know Justin quite well in their later years at Hogwarts, first in shared Herbology classes (Justin was in Hufflepuff), and later in their secret D.A. meetings in their unforgettable fifth year.

But even as she slid into the unoccupied booth next to them (sitting behind Justin so as to see Harry's face), something began to gnaw at Hermione's brain. For all their shared classes, Justin had never been more than acquaintance at school. He had not even been invited to their wedding, which had been a small, intimate affair held in the Weasleys' back garden at the Burrow. What purpose could Harry have for meeting with Justin now? And why so far from London, where she knew Justin was currently living above his offices in Diagon Alley?

Suddenly Hermione felt a cold dart of dread lance her heart like a spearpoint of goblin-forged steel. For she had just remembered that, although she had not seen Justin since graduation, she had heard his name any number of times in recent months...in conversations with Ginny and Molly Weasley in their once-frequent get-togethers at the Burrow. It had been a major topic at her last visit for Ron's birthday.

Following his graduation from Hogwarts, Justin had been licensed by the Ministry to practice as a wizard solicitor. He had gone to London and promptly found premises just a Knut's throw from Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. One of his first clients had been Penelope Clearwater Weasley, who had retained him to represent her in her divorce proceedings against her husband, Percy. It had been front page news in the Daily Prophet for a solid week, and for good reason. The wizarding world's attitude toward marriage was medieval in the extreme. The bond between a husband and a wife was held sacred, and all measures were taken to ensure that divorces were extremely difficult to procure. In furtherance of this, they were also prohibitively expensive; no doubt the cost of such dissolutions alone preserved many unions that would otherwise have fallen apart in anger and haste.

Using his pull at the Ministry, where he had been employed since graduation, Percy had circumvented the financial angle by clever means, citing numerous precedents involving past employees where fees were waived for one reason or another. He further congratulated himself in that he had arranged for none other than Amelia Bones, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, to preside over his case. He reasoned that she, being a fellow Ministry employee, would naturally favor one of her own, where an impartial magistrate would feel no such inclination. To his horror, Madam Bones herself signed the dissolution papers, upholding Penelope's claim of "spousal neglect" and declaring for the record that Percy's single-minded ambition left little room in his life for "secondary concerns" like a wife and a home. Hermione could remember Molly's despairing comments (in the days when Hermione was a frequent visitor at the Burrow) on her son's endless overtime, shaking her head sadly how Percy's relentless drive to succeed resulted in his forgetting -- or worse, disparaging -- such trifles as his wife's birthday, and even their wedding anniversary.

Hermione's thoughts instinctively jumped back to Harry's birthday last month. It had been a truly marvelous weekend, giving her a memory she would cherish forever. But -- what if Harry's birthday had not fallen on a weekend? What if it had come on a Tuesday or a Thursday (as it inevitably must in future)? Would she and Harry have enjoyed that magical liaison in her friend's cabin by the loch? Or would they instead have dined quietly at home, perhaps made love ritualistically in the cramped sameness of their little flat, after which she would have turned over in bed on the grounds that she needed a full night's rest in order to be at her peak at work the following morning?

Hermione felt sick. Was Harry meeting Justin for the same reason Penelope had met with him months ago? Desperate to know, she leaned as close as she dared, striving to catch Harry's every word. As she peered over the back of Justin's seat, she saw Harry flipping through a sheaf of official-looking papers, nodding from time to time as he glanced at the tiny print written on the crisp parchment pages. When Justin spoke, in was in a low, conspiratorial voice, and Hermione held her breath as she perked her ears for every word.

"Does Hermione suspect anything yet, Harry?"

"I don't think so," Harry replied as he patted the papers into a crisp stack and tucked them into an envelope, which he slid across the table at Justin. Justin pulled a briefcase from beside him and placed the envelope inside. He then drew his wand and tapped the lock of the briefcase, sealing it magically, even as Hermione had done a hundred times with her own bag when carrying sensitive, job-related materials. "But I don't know how long I can keep it from her. She's not the cleverest witch in a century for nothing, you know," he added with a pale smile (a guilty smile, Hermione wondered?). "She's bound to figure it out before too long."

"It was a good idea for us to meet here rather than at my office," Justin said. "London's a big place, but Diagon Alley is still too close to the Ministry for our purposes."

"That's what I thought," Harry said. "Hermione might have popped in to Gringotts and spotted us coming out of the Leaky Cauldron."

"From what you've told me," Justin said as he sipped casually from his wine glass, "she's so busy with her job, she wouldn't know if Merlin rose from the grave and played Seeker for the Wimbourne Wasps. I think we're safe enough. The funds have been secured, I take it?" When Harry nodded, Justin smiled, "Good. I found a notary in Kent who's agreed to 'misplace' his records for a bit -- for a small compensation, of course. By the time he sends the Ministry their copies, I'll have filed the originals," he patted his briefcase to indicate the contents within, "with the appropriate parties. Once that's done, we can rest easy. It'll be a done deal."

"Maybe you can rest easy," Harry said, staring into his glass as he swirled it so that the ice cubes made a muted clinking sound. "I don't like going behind Hermione's back."

"It's not like we have a choice," Justin reminded him. "Working at the Ministry, she'll know what we're doing before the ink is dry on the parchment. This is the only way. And in the end, it's all for the best."

"I still feel uneasy about it," Harry said. "I have to keep making up these stories to explain my absences. I don't like liars, and I especially don't like myself for lying to my wife, no matter the reason."

"You'll only have to keep it up for another month," Justin said bracingly. He again patted his briefcase meaningfully as he added, "Trust me, in the vernacular of the BQL, we've got all the hoops covered. There's no way the Quaffle's getting in. I may be new at this, but I haven't lost a case yet."

"I was told you didn't miss a trick in the Weasley matter," Harry said without looking up.

"I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt," Justin said quietly. "Percy brought it on himself. If he'd put his wife and his home ahead of his career, he'd still have a wife and a home, wouldn't he?"

Harry nodded. "It's still sad, y'know?"

"Yes," Justin agreed, sipping at his wine with lowered eyes. "It's always sad when a marriage ends." There was an awkward silence that was broken when Justin cleared his throat and said, "Do you have the time, Harry? I never liked wearing wristwatches, and I left my pocket watch in my other robes this morning."

"It's -- " Harry began, raising his left arm to look at his watch, " -- bloody hell! It's nearly two! I'm going to be late!" Harry jumped up, slapped four Sickles on the table, paused, then dug his hand back into pocket.

"I'll take care of the tip, Harry," Justin grinned. "I reckon I can afford it on what you're paying me. Off you get. Don't want to keep your lady friend waiting, do you?"

Harry turned a distinctly Weasleyish shade of red. "What makes you say that? I never said -- "

"Off you get," Justin repeated with a laugh. "I won't breathe a word. Solicitor-client privelege, you know."

Still blushing scarlet, Harry dashed out into the street and, as Hermione watched through eyes burning with tears, Disapparated.

Welcome back, and thanks again for the feedback. This chapter was particularly satisfying to write, because it spotlights the real Hermione who was Harry's greatest asset in the first five books. Our favorite witch's greatest strength is not her magic, but her incredible brain. If you missed that aspect of Hermione in HBP, scroll down and see if this version is more to your liking.

Even with The Three Broomsticks nigh deserted, it was a miracle that Hermione made it to the door without blundering into someone, so distracted was she over Justin's words to Harry.

"It's not true," she muttered thickly as she stumbled out into the street and immediately fell against a dustbin to keep from collapsing. Her legs seemed suddenly unable to support her weight. "Justin was just guessing...he didn't know what he was saying..."

Then why did Harry go all red? echoed the voice in the back of her head. Why didn't he deny it? Why didn't he simply tell Justin that his innuendo was just that and nothing more?

"No," Hermione shook her head, coming perilously close to dislodging the hood of her Cloak. "I won't believe it...not without proof."

Then get it, the voice retorted. You have the means at hand -- or rather, on your hand.

Hermione bit her lip sharply, the resulting jolt of pain bringing her thoughts back to the reality of the moment. She lifted her left hand and sent a mental command to her ring, which instantly began to hum softly. Hermione Disapparated an instant before a hag with an eye patch stumbled into the dustbin, dropping a half-empty bottle of firewhiskey so that it shattered on the stone sidewalk.

In the wink of an eye, Hermione found herself standing on the edge of a narrow backstreet in Muggle London. She saw at once that this was not one of the better neighborhoods in the city. The sidewalk under her feet was cracked, and tufts of straggly grass and weeds struggled their way toward the sunlight through these gaps. The buildings on either side were in no better state, varying only in the degree of shabbiness which hung on them like an old and tattered cloak. A few looked as if they might crumble to dust before Hermione's eyes.

Coming to herself with a sudden jolt of awareness, Hermione was barely able to fling herself out of the path of a quick-striding pedestrian, who had no slightest notion that the seemingly empty sidewalk before him was in fact occupied by a witch wearing an Invisibility Cloak. She ducked into a deserted doorway and ran an appraising eye up and down the street. Harry was undoubtedly in one of these buildings. What he was doing there was a subject on which she feared to speculate. Blocking out such thoughts, she gave her ring a mental prod, whereupon it jerked her hand forward to point at the building directly across the street from her hiding place.

If the other buildings were disreputable, this one was abject in the extreme. In was five stories in height, and its windows were boarded up from first to last. Here and there a board hung askew, revealing window glass either black with grime or missing altogether. Hermione watched as pedestrians passed in either direction. Not a one of them gave the slightest notice to this building. This was not unusual of itself. The inhabitants of this neighborhood may simply have seen it so often that it had long since fallen beneath their notice. But Hermione's suspicious nature left her less than convinced. Something about this building reminded her of St. Mungo's Hospital, the secrecy of which was maintained by a facade of abandonment not unlike that presented here. Hermione had seen Muggle-repelling spells at work in many forms in her short but adventurous life. When a wizard structure must needs exist in full view of Muggles, it was common to place spells around it prompting non-magical folk to ignore it altogether. This was easily accomplished in respect to a single structure. Safeguarding an entire village such as Hogsmeade, however, was quite another matter.

Without realizing she had done so, Hermione found herself opening the flap of her bag. Her hand emerged with a large envelope of yellow parchment on which both the Ministry seal and the word "Classified" were emblazoned in red. From this she extracted a sheaf of glossy photographs, their surfaces glinting in the afternoon sun even through the fabric of the Cloak. As she tucked the envelope under her arm to free her hands, her eyes fell on three words inscribed in black ink across the flap: Suspected Polyjuice Brothels.

Hermione flipped through the photos slowly, her eyes shifting back and forth between the images thereon and the building standing ominously before her. Abruptly she stopped, her hands trembling as she clutched the stack of photos with steely fingers. She scrutinized the topmost photo with unblinking eyes for nearly a full minute before turning it over. As with the envelope, the back of the photo bore the legend "Suspected Polyjuice Brothel." Pulling a stubby pencil from her pocket, Hermione scratched out the word "Suspected" and wrote underneath it "Likely."

Returning the photos to her envelope and the envelope to her bag, Hermione dashed across the street on unsteady legs, checking for traffic both motorized and pedal, and approached the front door of the tomb-like building. It stood at the head of a low tier of crumbling steps, and though boarded up in like manner as the windows, it appeared to be an ordinary glass door of the type common to office buildings throughout London and the world. As Hermione pondered her next move, her peripheral vision detected movement on her left, and she dodged aside to avoid a pedestrian who was strolling along at a leisurely pace with a vapid expression on his face and a tuneless song on his lips. As she awaited the man's passage, Hermione reminded herself not to become so distracted as to forget that she was still invisible. A collision with an unseen person was not a common occurrence in Muggle London; of course, she could always modify the man's memory at need (for which she was duly qualified, even if she was not a designated member of the Obliviator Squad) -- but that would mean additional paperwork at the office tomorrow morning, and she already had enough on her plate without an additional trip to the buffet.

But as Hermione stood beside the iron railing which clung precariously to either side of the steps, waiting for the man to pass, she was startled to see him stop dead in his tracks, look quickly in either direction, and bound right past her to the foot of the blocked door. As his unseen watcher's eyes narrowed, the man plunged his hand inside his jacket and drew forth a wand! He quickly pointed this at the door and murmured, "Alohomora!" The boarded-up door swung open noiselessly, and the wizard -- for such Hermione now knew him to be -- entered the building with the smooth confidence of one following a routine of long familiarity.

As the wizard disappeared from view, the door closed slowly behind him, drawn back into its frame by a common spring-arm. In that instant, Hermione acted with the decisiveness which had been her trademark since her first year at Hogwarts. She bounded up the steps and slipped inside, narrowly avoiding catching the hem of the Cloak on the corner of the door. She heard a click behind her, and she knew that the door had sealed itself automatically from aught but magical intrusion. Even had a Muggle seen the wizard enter, he could no more have opened the door without a wand than pick up the building and fling it into the Thames.

Hermione was only mildly surprised at the sight which met her eyes upon her entry. The dilapidated outer shell of the building was, as she had surmised, merely a camouflage. The corridor in which she now stood was nothing short of immaculate. The walls were eggshell white, interrupted at precise intervals by framed paintings and an occasional potted plant.

Notable by their absence were doors of any kind. Naught but unbroken wall showed between the regularly-spaced paintings. This might have given Hermione pause for thought, but her foresight and inspiration at following the wizard inside rather than entering at a later (and presumably safer) time bore instantaneous fruit. As Hermione stood discreetly by the door, she watched as the wizard walked slowly along the left-hand wall, nodding at each painting as he went. Hermione was struck by the indelible impression that he was counting the paintings as he passed each in turn, and this was confirmed in her eyes when he stopped abruptly, looked back along the line of paintings as if recounting them, and nodded with a satisfied smile.

As Hermione crept silently up the corridor (grateful for the plush carpeting which muffled her footsteps), she fully expected to see the wizard extend his wand again in yet another bid for magical ingress. Instead, he returned his wand to its pocket in his Muggle jacket and, to Hermione's surprise, extended his index finger toward the painting before which he stood. Though her point of vantage was less than ideal, Hermione could see that the painting was of a small village, which skyline was dominated by an ornate clock tower. His hand moving with sure confidence, the wizard touched the numbers 12, 6, 3 and 9 on the painted clock in rapid succession. This done, he paused, his face screwing up as if in deep thought. After a few seconds' concentration, his features relaxed and he touched the clock face one last time between the 8 and 9. His smile broadened as he took a single step to his right -- and promptly strode through the blank wall as if it were naught but milky white fog.

Alone now in the hallway, Hermione approached the place where the now departed wizard had stood. Not daring yet to emerge from the Invisibility Cloak, she extended a single finger past its concealing folds and touched the wall through which the wizard had disappeared. She was entirely unsurprised to find it solid once more. With a knowledgeable nod, Hermione drew back her hand and touched her finger to her chin thoughtfully. This corridor was undoubtedly Charmed in like manner as the barrier between platforms 9 and 10 at King's Cross Station. The difference here was that each hidden "doorway" was clearly accessible only upon entry of a number code transmitted via the paintings. This seemed reinforced by her observation that, though no two paintings were alike, each one bore, in one form or another, the face of some kind of timepiece, be it mantel clock, pocket watch, or even (in the midst of a garden landscape) a sundial.

But a frown was now spreading across Hermione's unseen features. As certain as she was of her hypothesis, she was equally certain that to enter the wrong sequence of numbers must raise an alarm of sorts, dooming her mission almost before it was begun.

The first four numbers entered by the wizard had been rudimentary. They were nothing more than the four compass points, North, South, East and West, in the order in which most people were wont to recite them. These were undoubtedly a priming sequence to set up the key fifth number. And here was where Hermione was stymied, for the angle of her observation had made it impossible for her to see precisely where the wizard's finger had touched the clock face to enter the crucial last number. It was somewhere between the 8 and 9, of that she was certain. But there were no true numbers in that space, merely tiny dots. Which of those dots had the wizard touched to gain entry to the chamber beyond? She dared not trust to guesswork. If she did not choose correctly the first time, she would almost certainly get no second chance -- not today, and perhaps not ever.

"Think, Hermione," she muttered vexedly. "Just do what Ginny said. Use that brain that got you all those O.W.L.'s and N.E.W.T.'s! The answer is right in front of you! Think!"

Hermione walked back and forth between the painting and the wall through which the wizard had vanished, muttering under her breath and heedless of the Invisibility Cloak as it whipped about her ankles.

"The number probably changes regularly, for security reasons. Otherwise, there'd be no safeguard against unauthorized entry -- like mine, for instance," she added with a short, hushed laugh. "But if that's so, how do the patrons know what number to use each time? While there are undoubtedly regular visitors who might be able to memorize a sequence of numbers, for the most part wizards must come and go at random. Yet they must use the correct number each time or be denied entry! So now do they know?"

Hermione continued to pace, her right hand now fisted and gently slapping her left palm.

"That wizard! He didn't get that last number from a piece of parchment or anything. He got it from his mind! He paused to think! And it only took him a moment to reason it out. That means it's something simple. But it can't be too simple or it would be useless as a safeguard."

Hermione was beginning to feel like her tea kettle at home, primed to boil over at any moment. This was clearly a problem of logic. She remembered telling Harry in the Potion Chamber guarding the path to the Sorcerer's Stone, "A lot of the greatest wizards haven't got an ounce of logic...They'd be stuck in here forever!"

"I'd bet my Ministry pension that a Muggle-born came up with this," she hissed with a sort of grudging appreciation. "Well, what one Muggle-born can devise, another can crack! And that other is going to be me,, or I'll -- I'll drink tea without honey for the rest of my life!

"Come on, big brain! A number! A number that changes regularly -- a number that's so -- so obvious that no one would give it a second thought..."

And it hit her like a Bludger between the eyes!

"The date!" she rasped triumphantly. "Of course!" Heedless now of the Invisibility Cloak, Hermione raised her arm and looked at her watch, her eyes locking onto the tiny square framing today's date. "The 19th...could it really be that simple..."

Hermione studied the painted clock thoughtfully. If her analysis was correct, she would have to touch a point on the clock face representing the number 19. But where to begin her count? Nominally, one would begin at the 12 and proceed clockwise a total of 19 spaces. But such a course would fall far short of the place where the wizard had touched the clock face with the results Hermione had witnessed. Should she count backwards? That would place her precisely within the space where she knew the magic number lay. And yet, would an everyday, logic-challenged wizard have the wits to fathom even so transparent a subterfuge? Hermione gave her head a metaphorical shake of dismissal.

And then it hit her. Hermione thrust her face forward until her nose was nearly touching the canvas. The time represented by the painted hands was precisely 12:23. She was absolutely certain that the position of the hands had not altered since her first observation, proving that this was not an animated wizard painting, but the common Muggle variety. The time represented was therefore exactly the same now as when the wizard had entered the final number of the entry code. Dismissing the nearly upright hour hand, Hermione placed her finger just above the minute hand and ticked off the numbers one by one with slow, measured precision, taking the utmost care not to touch the surface. When she had counted off precisely 19 spaces, her finger was hovering directly over the second dot following the number 8.

"Yes!" she breathed with ill-suppressed excitement. "Yes! That's it!"

But was it? Reason and logic argued that no other answer was possible. But there was only one way to know for sure.

Moving quickly, a-quiver with nervous excitement, Hermione methodically touched the 12, 6, 3 and 9.

"So far, so good. Now to go for the Snitch!"

As her finger poised to touch the fifth and last number, she considered what might happen if her logic had failed her and she was wrong after all. It was not out of the question that the paintings might be hexed to do more than sound an alarm. Hermione had her own experience with hexed objects, dating back to the list of secret D.A. members in Fifth Year. Thanks to Hermione's clever Charm-work, Marietta Edgecombe's betrayal of her fellow members had resulted in the manifestation of a string of purple pustules across her face spelling the word SNEAK. Hermione had no idea what would happen if she entered the wrong number here. She might find herself stunned, paralyzed -- or worse.

"Well," she thought with a grim smile, "might as well be hanged for a dragon as an egg." And, holding her breath, she touched the final number.

Nothing happened.

"I'm still conscious, at any rate," she chuckled, her nervous tension ebbing away. "And I don't feel any pustules on my face." She laughed again, then quickly sobered. "Now let's see if the dragon flies..."

Taking one step to her right, Hermione held her breath once more and extended her hand toward the blank, white wall. A smile of satisfaction spread across her face as her hand disappeared to the wrist. She drew it back quickly; after all her stealth, it wouldn't do for the occupants of the chamber beyond to see a strange hand hovering suspiciously in the magical doorway thereto -- though, she reflected now with a wry grimace, the witch and wizard on the other side were undoubtedly far too distracted by "other concerns" to have noticed her momentary "intrusion."

Her way now clear, Hermione returned her attention to the primary focus her her mission: Harry. That he was in this building was certain. But where? Once again, Hermione turned to her wedding ring. She raised her left hand and concentrated on her ring finger. Without hesitation, her hand jerked up and to the left. Harry was not on the ground floor, then, but on one of the floors above.

And this presented a new problem, one which Hermione should have seen the moment she entered the hallway. For just as there were no doors in the unbroken walls, so was there no sign of a lift, nor stairs, nor of any other means, magical or otherwise, by which she might ascend to the upper levels.

But even as her stomach tightened with this revelation, Fate intervened once more. The front door opened to admit another wizard, Muggle-dressed like the first, yet just as clearly identified by the wand in his hand. Unlike the first wizard, however, the newcomer did not count his way down the corridor painting by painting. He strode purposefully down the hallway, his eyes fixed straight ahead. Hermione flattened herself against the wall and watched as the wizard walked to the very end of the corridor, where he turned crisply on his heel and stood with his back to the wall so that he was facing the door through which he had just entered. Whereas Hermione had expected the first wizard to employ his wand earlier, she had been disappointed. Not so now. The second wizard lifted his wand and held it before him, the gesture not unlike one signaling the Knight Bus from a street corner. And, in similar fashion, the wizard's summons was answered, though in a manner which brought a quiet gasp to Hermione's lips.

"Floor, please."

The voice reminded Hermione of the one which greeted guests of the Ministry in the phone booth which served as the visitors' entrance. Like that voice, this one seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere. But if Hermione was surprised by the bodiless voice, the wizard at the end of the hallway was not. He cleared his throat in a dignified manner and said, "Third floor, please."

Hermione's surprise now became unbridled wonder. For at the wizard's command, a section of the carpeting under his feet, a square roughly two feet to the side, rose up like the floor of a mechanical lift -- except that, insofar as Hermione could see, it was attached to nothing whatsoever. Smothering her wonder and replacing it with critical appraisal, Hermione watched as the wizard rose upward and disappeared through the ceiling quite as easily as the first wizard -- and Hermione's hand -- had passed through the wall only minutes before.

Walking forward now, Hermione saw that the square of carpeting, which upon rising had left the floor underneath exposed, was now restored without the merest hint of a seam. She nodded in spite of herself, impressed, as always, with any and all demonstrations of skilled magic. Stepping onto the space where the second wizard had stood, Hermione checked her watch, marking sufficient time for the just-departed wizard to have left his "lift" and entered the chamber of his choice on the appropriate floor. It was still for the best that she remain unobserved if at all possible. Though the two wizards who had preceded her were likely to be occupied for some time, there was always the chance that an earlier visitor would emerge from a blank wall without warning and discover her, invisible or not. The unknown was always a factor in any equation. But that was something to be dealt with if and when it arose. For now, her path was clear, as was her purpose. Standing in place now, she poked her hand out from the folds of the Invisibility Cloak and raised her wand before her.

For a stomach-tightening moment, Hermione wondered if the enchanted "lift" would respond to the presence of someone it could not "see." Or was her weight on the appropriate space -- or her upheld wand -- sufficient? Hermione expelled an audible sigh of relief when the magical voice once more entreated, "Floor, please."

"Second floor," Hermione said in a clear voice. She feared momentarily that any uncertainty in the timbre of her voice might prove her undoing. But she quickly laughed at this notion. Given the nature of this "establishment," there must inevitably be first-timers whose demeanor was far more apprehensive than any momentary quaver in her voice might suggest. No, she was safe from that avenue.

As she rose up and passed through the ceiling -- which, like the wall before it, parted like smoke at her entrance -- Hermione thought distractedly of the clumsy and outdated lifts she rode every day at the Ministry. When she composed her report on this day's excursion -- as she most definitely would, Harry's as yet undefined involvement notwithstanding -- she would include a strong recommendation in the area of magical transportation. If something so reprehensible as a brothel could employ such up-to-date magicks, there was, in her judgment, no excuse for the seat of magical government in Great Britain to continue to wallow in the mire of wizardry that was obsolete when Dumbledore was sitting his O.W.L.'s.

Hermione's lift stopped smoothly on the second floor, which stretched out before her a virtual mirror of the level below, excepting only the main entryway. A glance downward showed that the carpeting under her feet was as smooth and unseamed as if it had never been other than a single unbroken strip. "Yes," she murmured with an embellishing nod, "I'll drag the Ministry into the 21st century kicking and screaming if I have to."

Raising her left hand, Hermione gave her ring a mental prod. As before, it tugged upwards (its angle now right rather than left, owing to Hermione's reversal of perspective). She lowered her left hand while raising her wand with her right.

"Third floor, please."

With each level she gained, Hermione's ring continued to beckon her upwards. When she reached the fifth and last floor, she frowned. She knew from the evidence of her own eyes that this building was only five stories high. Why, then, was her ring still pulling her hand up? Suddenly her furrowed brow relaxed as a knowing smile curved her lips. In the wizarding world more than anywhere else, eyes could not be trusted. Was not she herself wearing an Invisibility Cloak at that very moment? It would, she knew, take potent magic to erect and maintain an invisibility barrier around an entire building. Simple Muggle-repelling spells were much more practical. But a single floor was another matter entirely. A floor, perhaps, reserved only for the most elite clientele? Patrons with heavy purses -- purses weighted down by hundreds of Galleons -- perhaps even -- a thousand?

Stifling the primal scream rising in her throat, Hermione raised her wand for what she knew would be the final time.

"Penthouse, please."

In regard to the following chapter, I have two comments (apart from my usual gratitude at your return). First, this chapter is shorter than the previous one. This will be compensated by the two remaining chapters, each of which will roughly triple the size of this one. But in my defense, I can state that this chapter is precisely as long as it needs to be to make its point -- which brings me to my second comment. I wish everyone who reads this had a webcam, if only so I could see your eyes pop out of your head when you read the last sentence. (And no peeking -- I have an army of invisible house-elves under my spell, and one of them is peering over your shoulder right now! In the words of Professor McGonagall, "You have been warned.")

When Hermione’s magical “lift” came to rest on what was undoubtedly the topmost floor of the building, she found that she was not standing in the familiar corridor, but in an alcove which let onto a chamber that was almost palatial in aspect.

She was looking into a sort of parlor, though this appellation was far too feeble to define its true nature. She would have wagered a month’s pay that her and Harry’s entire flat could have fit into this one room with space to spare. Its spaciousness was enhanced rather than diminished by its elegant furnishings, which were scattered about with a sort of artistic carelessness that could only have been achieved by design. Couches and divans dominated, abetted by a few high-backed chairs and even a pouf or two. Small, fringed pillows littered the couches and the floor alike, the latter of which was of highly polished wood that gleamed mirror-like in the gaps between numerous rugs which were wrought with what Hermione would swear were threads interwoven of silk and fine gold.

Paintings adorned the walls – not the pedestrian fare lining the corridors below, but masterworks of unquestioned taste and quality. Statuary of like station stood grandly upon marble pedestals or reposed upon one or another of the polished tables which dotted the spaces between the upholstered furnishings. A few gold-framed mirrors vied with the objets de’art along the walls, and Hermione sincerely hoped that none of these was of the enchanted wizard variety. Invisible she might be, but she was still solid enough to raise a row if she bumped into a table or stumbled over a pouf. If her own mirror at home was any example, even a muted cough might be her undoing. Even her footfalls on the hardwood floor might draw unwanted attention. Rather than attempt to navigate her way from rug to rug to mute her steps, she instead knelt carefully (keeping her Cloak snug about her) and untied her shoes, thereafter placing them carefully in her bag. It was with a renewed confidence that she glided into the room, her shoeless feet making no more sound than a shadow.

The silence within the vast space seemed unnatural somehow, and Hermione reasoned that the entire building was likely Charmed with a Silencing Spell for privacy’s sake.

In spite of herself, Hermione could not help but be impressed with the splendor of her surroundings. What price must the occupant of these grand quarters command to keep it so lavishly appointed? Whoever occupied these opulent chambers must entertain only the most affluent clientele, wizards whose regard for a sack of Galleons was no more than she might reserve for a packet of crisps. This thought had the effect of stiffening Hermione’s spine into a rod of unbending steel.

Ten Galleons or ten thousand, she thought disgustedly. She’s still just a whore – a filthy, stinking whore!

But if that were true, what of Harry? Was the patron of sin less reprehensible than the purveyor? Hermione shook herself and returned her thoughts to her mission. She raised her left hand and gave her ring the familiar mental command. It immediately tugged to her right, and she followed its pull to a doorway which seemed to lead to a less ornate, more pedestrian area of the penthouse flat. Upon reflection, Hermione concluded that such a large area as this must comprise a full-time place of residence for its owner and not merely a “place of business.” This seemed confirmed when she peered cautiously around a corner and found herself looking into a strikingly modern kitchen that appeared to incorporate concepts both wizard and Muggle. A gas stove not unlike her mother’s (an electric appliance would not work in magical surroundings, of course) stood beside a magic-fire stove nearly identical to that used by Molly Weasley at the Burrow (though this one was much newer). Hermione might have found such incongruity intriguing under other circumstances. But she had more pressing concerns now, which effectively quashed her natural curiosity for the nonce.

Two doorways beckoned in the far wall, and Hermione, following the pull of her ring, approached the one on the right. Apparently, the Silencing Charm covering the parlor (and, presumably, the bedroom) was relaxed here, for no sooner did Hermione enter the kitchen than she heard voices coming from the right doorway. And as the speakers’ voices came to her ears, she felt a chill as if a Disillusionment Charm had suddenly been placed on her.

“Harry, Harry, Harry,” came a sickening-sweet voice of exaggerated delight. “You’re the very devil, you are!”

This declaration was answered by a throaty laugh in a deeper, decidedly masculine voice – a voice Hermione knew well.

“Harry,” she whispered, inhaling a tortured sob beneath the folds of her Cloak. “Oh…Harry…”

Struggling forward on legs suddenly turned to rubber, Hermione edged around the doorway and found herself, to her mild surprise, in a sort of open patio that looked out onto the skyline of London. It was a one-way view, she knew, as the entire penthouse was quite invisible to outside eyes, be they wizard or Muggle. She pulled her own eyes from the open sky, and they fell abruptly on two people seated at a wrought-iron table surfaced with what appeared to be nothing less than snow-white virgin marble (which descriptive irony was not lost on Hermione, even now). Clapping a hand to her mouth to keep from gasping aloud, Hermione felt her legs give way, and she sank to the tiled mosaic floor and pressed herself against the wall beside the doorway. Feeling both courage and anger draining away, she curled up, child-like, hugging her knees to her face as she beheld the pair sitting less than a dozen paces in front of her, their muted laughter ringing in her ears like the chimes in Big Ben tower.

“More tea, Cassandra?” Harry asked, reaching toward a cart upon which sat a silver tea service that would not have been out of place in Buckingham Palace.

Cassandra shook her head, sending strands of midnight-black hair flickering across the pale oval of her face.

“You didn’t come here today to drink tea,” she said in a silky voice, winking a long-lashed eye wickedly. “Any more than all the other days this week.” Harry smiled weakly as he withdrew his hand from the tea cart and sat back in his chair.

“No,” he said in a somewhat sheepish voice, “I didn’t. Well, then, I guess we’d best get down to it.”

“Right you are,” Cassandra smiled seductively. “After all, you’re not my only client today, you know. Business is business, after all.”

Giving her head a carelessly regal toss, Cassandra rose cat-like from her chair and turned in the direction of a nearby cupboard that reminded Hermione of nothing so much as her parents’ liquor cabinet. But Cassandra had barely left her chair before Harry drew his wand and said, “Allow me.”

Pointing his wand at the cabinet, Harry said, “Alohomora.” The inlaid door sprang open, whereupon Harry said, “Accio!” As Hermione watched, her arms tightening around her knees, a square, cut-glass bottle emerged and streaked toward Harry. Bewilderment wrinkled Hermione’s brow as Harry caught the bottle and pulled out the egg-sized stopper. The bottle gave every appearance of containing some sort of spirit, whether firewhiskey or some other intoxicant, it was impossible to say. But Harry did not drink alcohol! Or was that merely a pose – just another sham among the many Hermione was discovering about her husband of late? After nearly eight years, Hermione thought she knew virtually everything there was to know about Harry. It was beginning to look as if she knew nothing about him at all.

But a moment later, when Harry Summoned a crystal goblet from another cupboard and set it before Cassandra, the truth hit Hermione with the force of a physical blow. Given the nature of this “establishment,” that bottle, its appearance notwithstanding, could hold naught but one thing.

This was confirmed when Harry tilted the bottle and began to fill the goblet with a thick, glutinous substance which, even at that distance, assaulted Hermione’s nostrils with an odor as of overcooked cabbage. A moment later, as Hermione’s stomach tightened and her blood turned to ice, Harry produced a plastic bag from a pocket of his jacket and extracted from it a long, very tangled – and very brown – hair. He immersed this in the gobletful of potion, stirred it briefly with his wand, and looked at Cassandra expectantly.

Her nose wrinkling with undisguised revulsion, Cassandra muttered, “The things a girl has to do for a Galleon these days,” and promptly downed the contents of the goblet in three gulps.

The change was almost instantaneous. Though Hermione had herself experienced the sensation of changing into someone (or, in her particular case, some thing) else in her second year at Hogwarts, this ill-prepared her to witness such a transformation in another. The shock was further compounded by the foreknowledge of whom Cassandra was about to change into. For there was no longer a shred of doubt in Hermione’s hammering brain.

For a few moments, Cassandra’s exotic face writhed and bubbled, looking not unlike the surface of the potion itself as Hermione had observed in the confines of Moaning Myrtle’s loo all those years ago. Then it was as if a silent explosion were unfolding in slow motion. Like hot chocolate leaping from a lawn sprinkler, Cassandra’s raven hair erupted into a dull, chestnut brown, its former sleekness inflating into a wild, bushy mane. Her face melted like wax, reshaping itself almost instantly. Its oval contours became rounder, her aquiline nose shortened, her full lips thinned noticeably. Her obsidian eyes lost their seductive obliqueness, dulling to a deep mocha.

Nor was her face alone affected. Her supple curves shrank, her very nature diminishing. Her ample bosom, the better part of which was revealed by her plunging neckline, retreated like a deflating balloon. Her long, shapely legs, which she had purposefully dangled invitingly from the folds of her dressing gown, shortened. The gown itself, which had clung like a second skin to her figure, hung limply now, its sleeves falling to the very tips of her fingers.

Holding the now empty goblet before her, Cassandra regarded her reflection in the polished surface with something less than approval. But almost immediately – spurred, no doubt, by the professionalism demanded by her occupation – she smiled over the rim of her goblet at Harry, who, to Hermione’s utter revulsion, smiled back in an almost embarrassed way. And the face at which he smiled – into whose eyes he looked with unmistakable longing – was no longer Cassandra’s. It was now the mirror image of his wife’s.

Unable to watch any longer, Hermione buried her face in her hands, holding in an anguished sob with the greatest of efforts. She wanted nothing more in that moment than to scream at the top of her lungs, to cry, to beat her fists against the wall until the stone cracked or her flesh turned to bloody pulp. She wanted…she wanted to curl up and die…

When at last Hermione looked up again, her eyes blurred with tears she could no longer restrain, the patio was deserted save for herself. Struggling upright through a profound lethargy, she leaned weakly against the wall, striving desperately to clear her thoughts sufficiently to choose a course of action. But before she could summon even the ghost of a rational thought, voices came to her ears from a doorway opposite that through which she had entered the open patio. She wanted desperately not to listen to those voices, but she found, whether by inner weakness or secret desire, she was unable to do otherwise. And the words that penetrated her numbed brain lit a fuse which set off a veritable explosion inside her, snapping her from her anguished despair like a faceful of icy water.

“Shake a leg, Honey-Boy,” came Cassandra’s voice – no, Hermione's voice! – with a sickening, cloying sweetness that made the invisible listener nearly choke with disgust. “Hurry up and get out of those clothes so we can get down and dirty, lover!”

I want to express my sincere thanks for the feedback engendered by Chapter 7. I think the best way I can show my appreciation is to let everyone off the hook. The previous chapters were overflowing with -- what did JK call them? -- oh, yes -- anvils. Time to clear the skies. Meet you at the bottom.

The suddenness of the change that came over Hermione was as startling as the change itself. She exploded to her feet as if the floor underneath her had been electrified. In one terrible instant, all of her self-pitying despair was swept away by an overpowering tide of pure, white-hot rage.

“Down and dirty?” she rasped, feeling her gorge rise. “Honey-Boy?”

Her eyes flashing in a manner to cow a Hungarian Horntail, Hermione drew her wand with a savage jerk, flinging aside the Invisibility Cloak so that it draped over her left shoulder, its descent arrested only by the string tying it loosely around her neck. Slowly, with deadly purpose, she glided toward the doorway from which the voices had come, her lips moving soundlessly as she sorted through her vast store of magical knowledge for a Curse sufficient to express the hurricane fury of her anger.

“A rat,” she muttered venomously. But she shook her head immediately, the action sending her bushy hair flying. “No, not a rat. For all that it’s a vile piece of vermin, a rat still has a backbone. A cockroach! Yes! That’s what you’ll be, Harry! A slinking, scurrying, filthy, disgusting insect!”

A thin smile of steel-hard resolution etched onto her face, Hermione strode through the doorway, tensed to thrust her wand before her and hurl her Attacking Spell in a single lightning stroke. Her knuckles showed white as her fingers tightened convulsively, her arm fairly trembling with anticipation –

Hermione froze as suddenly as if she had been petrified by a Stunning Spell. An expression of indescribable astonishment burst over her face, leaving her jaw slack as her eyes bulged to the size of a house-elf’s.

Hermione had expected to find herself in an ostentatious boudoir of some kind, with silk tapestries of lavender or shocking pink, mirrored ceiling, surrounding a grand bed – round – draped with satin sheets of blazing crimson. What she found instead left her nearly numb with stunned amazement.

She was standing at the edge of a garden! She shook her head, blinking repeatedly as if to wipe away what must surely be an illusion. But when she brought her Knut-sized eyes back into focus, the scene was not altered. It was real.

Or at least, she reasoned as her encyclopedic mind wrested control once more, as real as magic permitted. For this was surely the work of magic. The open patio lay behind her. She was unquestionably in an enclosed room. This in itself was not difficult to explain. She had seen many examples of such enchantments as this, beginning with the ceiling of the Great Hall at Hogwarts that mirrored the weather outside the castle. Standing here now, she was reminded of a sudden of Firenze’s Divination classroom at school, which had been enchanted to emulate the trappings of the centaur’s former home, the Forbidden Forest. This was unquestionably an enchantment of like nature.

But what did it all mean?

Abruptly, Hermione caught a snatch of conversation…punctuated by soft laughter. Lowering her wand and wrapping the Invisibility Cloak around herself once more, she crept forward, taking care not to snag either the Cloak or her clothes on the assorted shrubs which littered the area in a very natural disorder. She found that she need have no concern over her footsteps, for her stockinged feet encountered only a soft loam that was strangely comforting underfoot. In spite of herself, she found the tempest of her anger melting away, replaced by the omnipresent curiosity which had been both blessing and curse for her for as long as she could remember. The voices were growing more distinct as she drew nearer, and at length she knelt down behind a shrubbery and peered through the leafy branches. And her mouth fell open once more.

She saw Harry and herself – no, Harry and Cassandra – kneeling in the fresh, black earth of a flower bed. Each wielded a spade in a gloved hand, and they appeared to be turning the soil carefully around the base of a large bush that was oddly familiar to Hermione. In fact, the entire scene was disturbingly familiar. The squared-off dimensions in which Harry was working...the position of the flower beds, the shrubbery, the small elm tree in the left-hand corner...Realization struck her like a bolt of lightning. This was her garden! Hers and Harry’s! It was as if the small, now sadly neglected garden just beyond their back door where they had spent so many simple yet wonderful Saturday afternoons in the days preceding their marriage (when the little flat had been Harry’s “bachelor pad”) had been plucked from her back doorstep and deposited in this enchanted setting. Hermione's heart fluttered in her chest as her eyes roamed over the familiar contours of the small square, fond memories flowing through her like an intoxicating draught. She was living with her parents in those months between graduation and her wedding day. It was a hectic time, she recalled, with her internship at the Ministry having just begun, and the thousand-and-one details of a wedding to plan and execute. In spite of that, she could not recall a Saturday when she did not Apparate into Harry’s – now their – bedroom, stuff him into a pair of Muggle overalls (the very ones he was wearing now?) and drag him into the tiny back garden before he could so much as pour himself a glass of orange juice or catch up the morning paper for a glance at the rugby scores.

They had been so happy then, both before and after the wedding. Hermione’s shoulders sagged under the Invisibility Cloak. They were not even married a year now, yet those days seemed a thousand years away…a million…an eternity…

Hermione’s head jerked up, her reverie shattered like a fumbled tea cup hitting a stone floor, as Cassandra, using Hermione’s usurped voice, cried out shrilly. She was plunging her hands down the neck of her overalls while Harry looked on, his face a mask of feigned innocence. A single hot tear ran down Hermione’s cheek. She had forgotten how Harry would always catch her unawares (her concentration in the garden, as with all things, being one of singular focus) and playfully dump a trowelful of dirt down her neck. It always played out the same, like a late-night re-run on telly. She would scold him, threaten to Curse him – even threaten to call off the wedding before that threat was erased forever by the exchanging of their vows. Harry would hang his head contritely, then lift his eyes very slowly, brush his bangs aside, and flash her his best puppy-dog look that could melt her steely resolve like butter. They would laugh, exchange a playful slap or two. And in the end, they would hug…Harry would caress her face, lift her chin with a finger and kiss her so tenderly that the blood would leave her brain…

As she watched Harry with her counterpart now, his hands rose, and she feared for a terrifying instant that he was about to enfold Cassandra in a hug that should be hers alone. Hermione felt her own hands jerk, her fingers clawing the air, aching to run themselves through his untamed hair, to hold him to her as she had not since that night in the cabin a million eternities ago. She expelled a sobbing breath of relief as Harry merely brushed the last particles of dirt from Cassandra’s shoulders before taking up his spade and turning back to his gardening with a chuckle in his throat and the ghost of a smile on his lips. But his expression softened into one of deep thought as he spoke without taking his eyes off his work.

“Only a month now,” he said in what Hermione thought was a strained, apprehensive voice. “Exactly one month from today, in fact. There’s so much more work than I thought. Neville makes it all seem so easy. We used to tell him at school that his Outstanding O.W.L. in Herbology was the easiest grade he ever got. I’ve wised up a lot since then, let me tell you.”

“Don’t worry,” Cassandra said, her face alight with Hermione’s brilliant smile. “We’ll get it just right. That little witch of yours is going to get her best birthday present ever once this is all transplanted.”

“I hope Neville doesn’t forget,” Harry said without looking up. “Maybe I should stop off in Diagon Alley and get him another Remembrall. Or better yet, I’ll send him a Howler every day for the entire week preceding the 19th. If I try to do this without him, I know I’ll muck it up.”

“Don’t worry!” Cassandra repeated in a tone that was so dead-on Hermione that the original recoiled slightly. “Now, I think that’s enough of this. I think the base is properly aerated, don’t you?” She nodded toward the earth surrounding the base of the bush, which Hermione suddenly recognized as a hydrangea. Harry was looking at the bush with a secret smile which only the real Hermione understood. It was in such a bush as this that Harry spent many a hot August day in the holiday preceding his fifth year at Hogwarts, his ears perked for word on the Muggle news of any sign of the newly-resurrected Voldemort. And it was in that very same bush, located at the front of the Dursley house at Number 4 Privet Drive, where a scandalized Aunt Petunia found her and Harry in a very compromising position nearly two years later. The memory still made her blush, even though nearly a year of marriage had left her as far removed from that innocent 16-year-old as the Earth from the Andromeda Galaxy.

“You’re the expert,” Harry replied as he rose to his feet, revealing knees black with fresh earth (Down and dirty, Hermione recalled Cassandra's words with a silent, acrid laugh). He set his trowel on the seat of a small bench, made of wooden slats framed by wrought iron sides. It was just wide enough for two people to sit snugly side-by-side.

“That I am,” Cassandra agreed as Harry gave her a hand up. Unlike Harry, she did not relinquish her trowel. “I’m going to have a look at that little maple tree over there,” she said, gesturing with the implement toward the far corner of the squared space. “I'm not keen on the color of those leaves. And I believe you have your own little job waiting for you. Right, Honey-Boy?”

Hermione’s ears instantly perked up at this address. Looking at Harry now, she saw that he was going a very deep shade of pink that any member of the Weasley family would have envied. Grinning foolishly, Harry turned and disappeared out of Hermione’s sight. Remembering now that she was invisible, Hermione rose and tried to determine the direction Harry had gone. It was no use. Plants of every variety grew with abandon, and it was impossible to tell in which direction Harry had vanished. Cassandra ducked under the branch of a sapling and was instantly lost to view, and Hermione stepped cautiously forward. She was certain that Cassandra’s eyes had flickered in a particular direction as she dismissed Harry to his mysterious task, and she gambled that this was the direction in which Harry had gone. There being nothing better for it, Hermione slunk through the brush, careful to keep the Invisibility Cloak snug around her, and, her eyes being essentially useless, relied on her ears for a clue to Harry’s whereabouts.

She was quickly rewarded when she heard a distinct “Protego!” in a masculine voice. Hurrying toward the sound, Hermione emerged into a small clearing to find Harry standing before a small, rounded object that was roughly the size of a sidewalk dustbin. There was a soft humming pervading the air, and a cloud of tiny pinpoints which appeared to be insects swarmed around both the object and Harry.

“It’s a beehive,” Hermione gasped with sudden realization. “What in the name of Merlin’s grandmum – “

As Hermione continued to ponder, Harry pointed his wand at the hive and said, “Accio!” A honeycomb emerged and flew toward Harry, followed at once by a protective escort of bees. Hermione feared momentarily that Harry would be stung, but almost immediately she remembered his chanted, “Protego.” A personal shield surrounded Harry, and the bees, no doubt angry at the “theft” of their golden treasure, bounced harmlessly off the unseen barrier as they sought in vain to exact toll on the culprit. Though he could not touch or hold the honeycomb from behind his shield, Harry inspected it easily enough as it hovered before him, all the while “guarded” by its apian escort. He nodded with what Hermione interpreted as satisfaction before dispatching the honeycomb back to its place of origin, the small cloud of bees following in its wake.

“All done, Honey-Boy?” came a voice from Hermione’s right. She shrank back instinctively as Cassandra (still wearing Hermione’s face) appeared, a pair of pruning shears having replaced the trowel in her hand. Hermione saw Harry blush again. Clearly, he was not at all comfortable being addressed in this manner. But, in typical Harry fashion, he merely grinned good-naturedly as Cassandra approached – and suddenly rebounded as if she had hit a wall. Hermione nodded to herself immediately. Harry had undoubtedly erected two magical barriers, one around his person, and another, larger shield around the entire area to prevent the bees from straying too far from the hive. With an apologetic smile, Harry turned and pointed his wand at the beehive. He twirled his wrist, and the bees all flew back into their home like specks of iron to a magnet. Harry’s wand snapped sharply, and the beehive vanished, along with the protective barriers. This last was demonstrated when Cassandra strolled forward and approached Harry, who was now slipping his wand into a pocket of his overalls.

“I’m still waiting for you to explain what this is all about,” Cassandra said, a curious smile twisting her (Hermione’s) face. “Quidditch doesn’t pay enough that you have to moonlight as a beekeeper?”

Harry laughed. “It’s very simple, really. You see, Hermione absolutely loves honey in her tea. And I promised her after we were married that she would never run out -- of honey, not tea,” he chuckled. “Well, that’s quite a promise, as I soon found out. Hermione’s been known to put in more than her share of overtime for the Ministry, and during an all-nighter she can easily go through two pots without blinking.

“But, as he so often does, Dumbledore had the answer.”

Harry paused. His eyes, trained to spot a Golden Snitch moving at breakneck speed, had spied a bee that had eluded his Attraction Spell. He flicked his wand, and the bee vanished, presumably reappearing back in its hive.

“Anyway,” he continued, “Dumbledore is rather fond of honey himself – though not in his tea,” he added with a grin. “So I owled him and explained my predicament, hoping he'd find a way for me to drag my arse out of the hole my tongue had dug for me. And straightaway he told me about a little old wizard in Sussex who retired about sixty years ago and became a beekeeper. That solved the first part of my problem. The next step was getting the honey from point A to point B. I had an idea I wanted to try, but I didn't know if I'd be allowed -- he's a fussy old bloke, and his bees are the only family he has, so he's protective of them. But Dumbledore can be very persuasive, and together we convinced him to let me put an enhanced Protean Charm on one of the hives. That hive you saw is magically linked to a little clay pot in our kitchen. The moment the level of the honey in the pot falls below the rim, the link is triggered and honey from the hive is instantly transferred to the pot. The real trick,” he said with a short laugh, “is keeping the hive full. Like Herbology, beekeeping isn't as easy as it looks. Constant tending is required, and the old bloke is a bit forgetful sometimes. I usually Apparate over every day or two to make sure that the honeycombs are at full capacity. But I’ve been coming here all this week, haven't I? And this is the time of day when the hives have to be checked -- chap is adamant about that, says the bees' schedule is thrown off if the inspection is made at odd hours, and that compromises the quality of the honey. Besides that, he turns in early every evening -- I think he must have been in the same class with Griselda Marchbanks, he's that ancient -- and he keeps his grounds protected with special wards to guard against theft -- Dumbledore says his is the best honey in Britain, which is one reason I wanted it for Hermione -- and he won't lower them for anyone. So with all that, how was I to check the hive regularly if I'm working here for the next month on Hermione's garden?

"But once again, Dumbledore came up with a solution. He has a friend at the Portkey Office in the Department of Magical Transport, and he wangled special permission for me to enchant the hive as a portkey. There are two types of portkey, you know. The one activates when you touch it -- that's how it was with the Triwizard Cup at Hogwarts -- you probably heard about that -- I reckon everyone did. The other kind is pre-set to vanish and appear at a certain time, kind of like setting an alarm clock to go off -- we used one of those to get to the Quidditch World Cup from Ottery St. Catchpole, the year Ireland beat Bulgaria. That's the variety I used here. The spell is timed to bring the hive here at the same time every day, and when I send it back, I automatically renew the portkey spell for the next time. When we're finally done here, I'll cancel the spell and the hive will revert to its normal state. Then I'll just go back to checking it spot-on like I did before.”

Hermione covered her mouth to stifle a sob. Here at last was explained the mystery of the ever-full honey pot. For a moment, she was torn between her professional admiration for Harry’s exemplary spell-work, and the immeasurable love she felt for a husband whose devotion could extend to so fine a degree as this. In the end, it was no contest.

“That’s an awful lot of trouble to go to so the Little Witch can spoon honey in her tea,” Cassandra observed. “I hope she realizes how lucky she is to have a bloke like you sharing her bed.”

“I'm the lucky one,” Harry said. He did not elaborate, and Cassandra cocked one of Hermione’s eyebrows probingly. Harry looked into her eyes for a moment before his gaze fell abruptly. He stared at the ground between his feet, and Cassandra took a step toward him.

“Something on your mind, Honey-Boy?”

Harry lifted his head slowly. “Why do you do this, Cassandra?” he said in a small, apologetic voice.

“What?” she grinned expansively. “Gardening?”

“You know what I mean,” Harry said, his eyes meeting hers. “And being as you brought it up, I think you’d make a smashing gardener. And I'm not the only one. I'm told you left quite a legacy at Hogwarts -- that is how I found you, you know.”

“How?” Cassandra said now with genuine interest.

Harry looked both surprised and embarrassed. “I never told you? Funny, I thought I had. Anyway, it all started with Neville. I mentioned him, remember? Herbology was his speciality at Hogwarts, and when he graduated he started his own little magical nursery in Hogsmeade. When I got the idea for the garden, I went to him first. Like I said, this is very important to me, and I don’t want to muck it up.”

“What’s so important about a back garden?” Cassandra interrupted.

“It’s more than that,” Harry said. “You see, our flat is kind of cramped. There’s nothing beyond the front door but a welcome mat, and the so-called back yard is a box twenty feet square with an eight-foot fence on three sides and a broom shed in the right corner. Hermione and I used to do some gardening back there, but it was more of a lark, really -- we never managed to do much with it, just mucked about together, you know. But I started thinking about how Hermione spends all her time in a cramped office, never seeing the sun and the sky. I'm lucky, being outdoors all the time playing Quidditch, and it wasn't fair that all Hermione ever got to see was the walls of a cubicle. So I got the idea to convert the space beyond our back door into a sort of Japanese garden, with trees and bushes blocking the fence, and little twists and turns that make it look bigger than it actually is. There’ll be a little pool, even, fed by the outside tap. We can sit together, a million miles from the world and its troubles, on that loveseat bench I bought in Diagon Alley. I tried to Transfigure one,” he explained with a small smile, “but it didn’t come out right. Transfiguring iron is simple, but wood is trickier, being organic. Hermione could have done it properly, of course – but that would have spoiled the surprise, wouldn't it?”

“Whenever you say her name,” Cassandra said quietly, “it’s almost like you’re saying a prayer.”

Harry shifted his weight uneasily. “Um – as I was saying, I went to Neville, but he’s just getting his business going, and he had a load of clients he couldn’t afford to offend by taking time off to help me. He did promise to help me on the 19th – that’s a Sunday, and he’ll be able to put everything in order while Hermione and I are having dinner at her parents’ house. But that still didn’t help me now, so I asked him to recommend someone to step in for him. That’s when he told me about Professor Sprout’s Honor Scroll. She gave him a copy when he graduated, and he keeps it hanging in his shop, just behind the counter where everyone who comes in can see it.”

“She doesn’t add names to that scroll lightly,” Cassandra said knowledgably.

“Only two in the last fifteen years,” Harry said. “His – and yours. Neville said it was seeing all the names on that scroll that inspired him, and I gather that Professor Sprout always held you up as an example for him to emulate, since you were the most recent addition to the list. So when he couldn't spare me the time I needed, he suggested I contact Professor Sprout to see about engaging you.”

Cassandra nodded, a hard smile forming on her (Hermione’s) face. “Of course, he had no idea that I was making my way in the world by another profession when he recommended me, did he?” She laughed, somewhat bitterly, it seemed to Hermione, who was taking in every word.

“But why are you – you know – “ Harry said stumblingly. Cassandra laughed again.

“It’s not like I have too many options.”

“I don’t understand,” Harry said.

“That was a nice bit of Charm work you did on that beehive,” Cassandra said in a somewhat distracted way. “What did you get on your O.W.L.’s? Outstanding?”

“Exceeds Expectations,” Harry murmured.

“As good as,” Cassandra smiled. “I got a D. Some of my mates said I was lucky old Marchbanks didn’t give me a bloody T. Anyway, it’s moot now, innit? Good or bad, a witch needs a wand to do magic.” Harry looked confused, and Cassandra’s borrowed lips essayed a crooked smile. “Tell me something, Honey-Boy – in the week you’ve been coming here, have you ever seen me use a wand? Even once?”

Harry paused. Now that he thought about it, he hadn't seen Cassandra use a wand, not even to perform a simple spell. Less than an hour ago, when he had Summoned the bottle of Polyjuice from the cupboard, Cassandra was in the process of fetching it by hand. Standing invisibly to one side, Hermione now understood why the penthouse's kitchen was outfitted with Muggle appliances in addition to standard wizarding apparatus.

“What – what happened?” Harry asked hesitantly.

“Chalk it up to sins of youth,” Cassandra shrugged. “A few of my mates and I got caught doing a little Muggle baiting, and when we went before the Wizengamot, damned if my boyfriend didn’t have the bloody Dark Mark on his arm as grand as you please. I never knew – swear to Merlin I didn’t. We weren’t all that close, really. Just a quick shag now and then, know what I mean? And when the candles were out, I couldn’t have seen the bloody thing on his arm if I’d been looking for it. And I had other parts of his anatomy besides his arm on my mind then, didn’t I? Ah, well. Long story short, I got three months in Azkaban – and they snapped my wand for ‘conduct detrimental to the wizarding community.’ “

“That’s hardly fair,” Harry said with a touch of restrained indignation. Cassandra merely shrugged again.

“I wasn’t much of a witch, even with a wand. Fortunately, my two – and only two – O.W.L.’s came in subjects that don’t require a wand. One, as you already know, is Herbology. And I’m sure you can guess the other one?”

“Potions,” Harry said dully.

“Right in one,” Cassandra said. “So, as I say, my options were extremely limited. That being the case, I played to my strength, as it were.”

“You could have played to your other strength,” Harry offered weakly.

“Ask your mate Neville how many Galleons a month he takes in,” Cassandra said with a mirthless laugh. “I can make that much or more in a day – or night. All the same to me.

“Look at this room,” she said, her arm sweeping grandly about her. “This is my refuge, my sanctuary. I paid a wizard a small fortune to Charm all this – and without it, you’d have no place to piece together the Little Witch’s birthday garden. Work like this is medicine for the soul, but it does bugger all for one’s bank account. That's one reason I agreed to be your personal gardener for a few weeks. Business isn't what it was, what with the Ministry cracking down. I figured a few extra Galleons wouldn't go amiss, and I spend most of my free time in here anyway. Figured I might as well do a favor for the grandest teacher at Hogwarts -- until just now, I thought she was the one who sent you to me. Always made me feel special, Sprout did. I ought to pop in on her some time, just to see how she's getting on.”

Cassandra turned about, surveying the greenery all about her as a sovereign might regard her palace grounds -- but when she shifted her weight, her left leg abruptly folded up as she winced, her breath hissing between her teeth.

“What is it?” Harry said worriedly.

“Nothing,” Cassandra said with a wave of her hand. “Tripped on a tree root and bruised my knee on a sharp rock. Sometimes I think that wizard Charmed this place too bloody well.”

Hang on,” Harry said, drawing his wand. “Accio bench!”

The small bench to which Harry had alluded only minutes earlier flew through the magical sunlight, stopping fast at a crisply issued, “Impedimenta!” He eased Cassandra onto the narrow wooden seat, squeezing in beside her in a manner that made Hermione’s heart flutter as she stood silently, eyes and ears alert.

“Thanks, Honey-Boy,” Cassandra said with a sigh of relief. “Like I said, nice wand work. You ever need a few Galleons for a Christmas present for the Little Witch, look me up. The spells on this flat need refreshing every few months, and I can always use a good wizard who knows how to keep his pie-hole shut.”

Harry shifted uneasily, and it seemed to Hermione that he was not enjoying his close proximity to Cassandra on the narrow bench.

“Now,” Cassandra said in a silky purr that made Hermione’s skin crawl, “it’s my turn to ask you something. If all you wanted was my magical ‘green thumb,’ why did you go and nick this – “ she tugged at the bushy brown hair falling about her shoulders, “ -- from your wife’s hairbrush after your first visit to ‘tickle the potion,’ as it were?” Harry’s eyes went wide, and Cassandra laughed. “That’s where they all get it from, lover. Easiest place in the world to pick up a stray hair or two. So, what about it? If all I am to you is a stand-in for good ol’ Neville – “ she leaned in closer, her voice dropping an octave, “ – then why am I sitting here now, talking to you in your wife’s voice – looking at you with her eyes? What do you say to that, Honey-Boy?”

Harry turned away from the eyes which looked exactly like Hermione’s, yet were not. And when he turned, unbeknownst to him, he was suddenly looking directly into the eyes of the real Hermione. The pain in Harry’s eyes pierced his wife’s heart like white-hot needles. Harry mumbled something that Hermione could not make out. Apparently, Cassandra, though she was sitting right next to him, could not decipher Harry’s reply either.

“A little louder, Honey-Boy. Didn’t catch that.”

“I miss her,” Harry said softly.

“How’s that?” Cassandra prompted. “A little louder?”

“I miss her,” Harry said raggedly. Cassandra twisted the lips she had appropriated from Hermione into a knowing smile.

“I get a lot of chappies like you,” she said liquidly. “We have a saying in this business, Honey-Boy: Busy wives make busy whores.”

“It’s not like that,” Harry said hotly, his head jerking up. In a calmer voice, he said, “Being busy is Hermione's way of living life to the fullest. That's one of the reasons I love her. She never does anything by half measures. Did I mention she was the top student at Hogwarts for seven years? But in the end, all anyone remembers is that she was one of Harry Potter's friends. The spotlight was always on me, leaving her and Ron and everyone else in shadow. Well, I'm done with that rubbish. I never wanted it, and I'm well shut of it. It's time for Hermione to stand in the light. She deserves it. And I'm going to do everything I can to make it happen. It's past time everyone realized how special Hermione is. She's brilliant...and incredible...she's...the most beautiful person I've ever known...”

Cassandra snorted disparagingly, her disdainful expression entirely unsuited to her borrowed face. Wordlessly she ran her hands over her – Hermione’s – small breasts, her short legs…ran her fingers through her head of bushy brown hair. “Beautiful?” she said tartly. “Mate, if this was my body, I’d be out of business in a month, Polyjuice or no.”

“Hermione is the most beautiful witch in the world,” Harry said evenly, though with the merest hint of a dangerous edge to his voice.”

“And when’s the last time this ‘beautiful witch’ of yours worked a little 'special magic' with you, Honey-Boy? You know the type I mean.” Though Harry did his best to keep his face inscrutable, Cassandra read the answer in his eyes, and she licked her illusory lips suggestively. “The potion lasts for an hour, and by my reckoning we still have fifteen minutes left. Seems a shame to waste it all on hydrangeas and honeycombs when there’s a big, warm bed waiting just across the parlor. I might even do it as a special favor…off the clock…”

“No,” Harry said sharply, bolting up out of his seat. His voice softened almost immediately. “I’m…sorry. It’s my fault. If I wasn’t so bloody stupid – “

“You’re not stupid,” Cassandra said very softly, all trace of cynicism gone from her borrowed features. “You’re a wizard in love. Trouble is, you’re in love with a witch who, in my opinion, isn’t fit to press your robes. You told me once that she’s the smartest witch at Hogwarts in a century? That’s as may be. But from where I sit, she gets a D on the most important O.W.L of all – love.”

A tense silence reigned for at least a full minute. When Harry turned around to face Cassandra once more, he reached into his pocket and pulled out something that Hermione could not see. He handed this to Cassandra, who took it and angled it so that its surface was bathed in the magical sunlight filtering through the branches of the surrounding trees.

“‘Justin Finch-Fletchly,’“ she read from the business card. “‘Solicitor-at-Law.’“

“He’s new,” Harry said. “Graduated last year, same class as mine, different House. He’s good. He was down for Eton -- that's a first-class Muggle school -- before he got his Hogwarts letter. Doesn't miss a trick. If you don't have your Apparation license, you can take the Floo or the Knight Bus to his office. Mention my name and he'll see you straightaway -- and don't mind if he winks at you,” he added with a repressed chuckle. When Cassandra continued to look at Harry with blank, uncomprehending eyes, he grinned, “You do want your wand privileges restored, don’t you?”

"Eton," Cassandra repeated carefully, a trace of suspicion lurking in the careful pronunciation. "He's Muggle-born, then?"

"Yes," Harry said, having planned for this question. "Who better to defend you on a charge of Muggle-baiting? Trust me, you'll be standing in Ollivander's with a full pardon in hand before you can say, 'Peskipiksi Pesternomi.'"

“He’s that good?” Cassandra said cautiously, not daring to believe.

“Better,” Harry said, his smile broadening. His eyes had taken on a strange, unearthly glow which Hermione could discern even from the distance of her point of vantage.

“You look like a cat with a mouthful of pixie,” Cassandra said genially. “Give it up, then. What’s this bloke done for you?”

Appearing fit to burst, Harry said, “I told you about our flat? If it were any smaller, a house-elf would have to bend over to walk through the door. We’ve been trying to find a proper house for ages, but everything we like is either too expensive or too close to Muggles. We wanted to live in Hogsmeade – “

“Good luck with that,” Cassandra chirped. “They haven’t allowed a house to be built in Hogsmeade since my gran was in nappies.”

“That’s right,” Harry said, fairly bouncing with suppressed excitement. “In Hogsmeade. But what about outside of Hogsmeade?”

Hermione started so that she nearly lost her balance.

“What?” Cassandra said with renewed interest. “You mean outside the Muggle-repelling barriers?”

“Exactly,” Harry said.

“They’d never allow that,” Cassandra said with a shake of her head, which sent bushy brown hair flying in all directions. “An unprotected wizard house outside of town would draw Muggle attention like blood draws thestrals.”

“Who said it’ll be unprotected?” Harry countered.

“Do you know what it takes to Muggle-proof a building?” Cassandra challenged. “It took a dozen wizards three months to secure this place, even without the Invisibility Barrier around the penthouse.”

“I have a few friends who can help me there,” Harry said. “The same ones who stood up for me in front of the town elders, actually. Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall, Filius Flitwick…”

Cassandra’s mouth was open now, mirroring that of her invisible twin.

“Justin handled all the paperwork,” Harry said. “The land itself was cheap enough, but there were permits, registration, legal fees – a few Galleons even changed hands, um, under the table, if you know what I mean.” Cassandra grinned cat-like, indicating that, given her chosen profession, she was no stranger to spreading gold around to achieve a desired end. “All told, it came to nearly a thousand Galleons. It was a dodgy thing getting the money without Hermione knowing. I used a bit of spellwork in our vault to make it look like nothing is missing. My godfather helped a bit,” he added with a smirk. “He's good at that sort of thing, and he knows as well as I do that if Hermione spots anything out of place, she won't rest until she puts all the pieces together -- like I said, she doesn't do anything by half measures. She’s working her way up through the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and at the rate she’s advancing, she’ll be sitting in Madam Bones’ chair before Amelia can clean out her desk.”

Hermione felt her eyes burning. Cassandra stood mutely, studying the card in her hand.

“Of course, all we have now is the land,” Harry said. “I’m going to hide the deed in one of her birthday presents. I bought this black lace teddy for her last week – “ Harry caught himself, his face going crimson. “I don’t know if it would be better to buy a house we like and move it there with magic,” he said quickly to cover his embarrassment, “or build our own, just the way we want it. Arthur Weasley could help there, if it comes to that -- he built his family's house, and Hermione's always loved the Burrow -- but that’s something we’ll decide together, after I – “ Harry choked suddenly. He had cast a casual glance at his watch, and his eyes nearly popped. “Blimey! I have to go!” He pulled his wand from his overalls and waved it once. In the wink of an eye he was wearing his original Muggle clothes.

“I say again, Honey-Boy” Cassandra smiled, “nice wand work. Definitely an O.”

“I have to see Neville before he closes his shop,” Harry said as he turned away from the doorway leading to the open patio, leading Hermione to suppose that there was another doorway leading directly to the parlor alcove and the magical “lift.” “We’re almost out of dragon dung compost, and he gets it for me at cost.”

“Good to have mates who stand by you, innit?” Cassandra smiled brightly. “So, same time tomorrow, Honey-Boy? Workday for the Little Witch, right? No chance she’ll do a skive-off, make an early week of it?”

“Hermione?” Harry smiled warmly, his eyes brimming with love. “Never.”

“She’s a lucky witch,” Cassandra said in a low, throaty voice as Harry turned and left the enchanted clearing and disappeared through the trees. She rose from the loveseat-bench, wincing slightly as her knee twinged. She rubbed it, noting as she did so the fresh earth blackening her overalls. Smiling whimsically, she pointed her finger in a wand-like gesture and said, “Scourgify!” She immediately threw her head back and laughed, slapping her still-grimy overalls. “If wishes were broomsticks,” she said as she turned and walked haltingly toward the doorway debouching onto the kitchen, “Squibs would ride.” But even as she spoke, she tucked the business card into a pocket of her overalls. Shaking her head, she laughed again, the sound following her out of the enchanted garden.

Unheard over her laughter was the sound of quiet sobs from behind an Invisibility Cloak.

Afterword: How does an author camouflage something that is patently obvious and make it look like the direct opposite is true? As this story demonstrates, all it takes is a few well-placed anvils. Throughout the HP series, whatever we thought must be true invariably turned out to be completely false. Lesson: Always be suspicious of anything that hits you between the eyes. Chances are it's a calculated misdirection to keep you from looking behind you. As someone once said of a certain party of his acquaintance, "It's not what he thinks he knows that worries me. It's what he's sure about that just ain't so." A lot of what we thought to see in the HP books turned out to be not so. We all think we saw certain things in HBP. But, as with the previous books, we saw precisely what JK wanted us to see. The "other side" is crowing right now, but a wise rooster waits until the sun is up before opening his beak. Until Book 7 is released, we're all blundering in the dark, feeling our way blindly. In the end, the light of truth will dispel the last shadow of doubt. So let the other side laugh now. As the saying goes, "He who laughs last, laughs best."

One chapter to go. No more anvils will be falling from the sky, but that's not to say there won't be a surprise or two. See you then.

Someone asked if this fic should have been classified as angst rather than romance, since very little of the latter has been in evidence. But from its conception, this story was always a romance in my eyes, since Harry's mysterious activities were always motivated by his love for Hermione. Until now, that romance has been hiding in the shadows. Time for it to emerge into the light. (It's also time for this story to earn its PG-13 rating! ^_^ )

A light rain was falling as Harry entered his flat that evening and closed the door behind him, taking care not to make any undue noise in case Hermione was still working on her report. He’d been unable to cast a water-repelling spell over himself, since performing magic outside his flat (in a Muggle neighborhood) was frowned upon by the Ministry. Not only would he get in trouble, but Hermione, being a Ministry employee, would bear the brunt as well. Having left his umbrella behind that morning, he now found himself pushing his damp bangs out of his eyes as he shrugged off his cloak (which the neighbors always mistook for a macintosh) and shook the water droplets from it at the edge of the door. It was when he was reaching out to hang his cloak on the peg above the umbrella stand that he saw Hermione’s note. He recognized her elegant cursive immediately, and the Temporary Sticking Charm yielded to his gentle tug as he pulled the note to his face while hanging up his cloak mechanically with his other hand. His glasses were spotted with rain (he'd neglected to Charm them with an Impervius spell before going out), and a droplet fell from his hair onto the note and left a tiny ink smudge on the parchment. Wiping his glasses on his sleeve, Harry held the note away from his damp bangs and read:


Dear Harry,

I’ll be spending the night at the Burrow.
Go ahead and do whatever you were
planning tomorrow, and I’ll be waiting
for you when you get home.

All my love,

your Hermione


Harry essayed a wan smile as he folded the note carefully and turned toward the kitchen. No doubt Hermione was enlisting Arthur’s help with her report before submitting it on Monday, after which she would spend some long-delayed quality time with Molly and Ginny. This was a pleasant thought, as he had spent many an hour of late worrying that Hermione was working too hard. A brief holiday at the Burrow was just what was needed, he decided as he entered the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door.

The refrigerator was indistinguishable from an ordinary Muggle appliance, but it had, in fact, been purchased in Diagon Alley at a shop specializing in magical items designed to pass Muggle scrutiny in a household in which electricity was of little or no use. Harry chuckled, reflecting that he no doubt had the lowest electric bill of any flat in the village.

Opening the door, Harry scrutinized the contents with a leisurely eye before pulling out a plate of sliced roast beef left over from last Sunday’s dinner. Such simple fare as this had been the norm over the last year, what with most of their monies being set aside for their future home. Grinning with the thought that, with the acquisition of the land in Hogsmeade, that day was one step closer to reality, he made himself a four-slice (double-folded) sandwich of which his godfather would have heartily approved, returned the platter to its shelf and extracted a cold bottle of butterbeer. Before closing the door, he drew his wand and sent a pencil-thin beam of ice-blue energy into the refrigerator’s interior. He closed the door with a nod of satisfaction, satisfied that the Chilling Charm was now good for at least another week. He thought he should also reinforce the Freezing Charm in the upper compartment, but decided that his stomach came first. Anyway, he liked his ice cream a little on the soupy side.

As he was about to exit the kitchen, Harry spotted the little clay honey pot sitting at the center of the small breakfast table. Setting his meal aside, he lifted the lid and smiled to see the pot brimming with fresh honey. He replaced the lid, feeling the Sealing Charm engage the moment his fingers withdrew. Only the touch of a human hand could negate the spell, ensuring that, if the pot should be tipped accidentally, none of its golden contents would be spilled.

Harry entered the parlor, his sandwich (on a small plate) in his left hand, his drink and his wand in his right. Careful not to drop the bottle, he tapped the left arm of his easy chair, activating the Hover Charm he had incorporated into it. When he set sandwich and drink to the left of the chair arm, they sat motionless in mid-air as if upon an invisible table. Settling into his chair with a sigh, he pointed his wand at a cupboard of polished wood sitting just to the left of the faux fireplace and said, “Alohomora!”

The doors of the cupboard sprang open to reveal an ordinary Muggle telly. He turned it on with a flick of his wand, and his smile broadened as the screen glowed softly. It was Hermione who reasoned out how they could watch telly in a flat permeated with magic. A simple Shield Charm (the same type that had protected Harry from the bees earlier today) was placed over the wooden cupboard, thus blocking out waves of magic in the same way that a lead-glass barrier blocked out dangerous radiation in a Muggle laboratory. The barrier was further Charmed to be elastic rather than shield-hard, so that a beam from his and Hermione’s wands could press the front surface inward, stretching it just far enough to touch the telly controls like an invisible “finger.” As the programs came though an insulated cable, the telly was completely cut off from waves of interfering magic, allowing it to work as flawlessly as if it were in a non-magic home.

It was a mystery to Hermione why no one had ever thought of so simple a solution before. She was further confounded by her friends’ continued resistance to applying the same practice to their own homes, which were all limited to the WWN. She would complain at length about how it was just another example of “Nineteenth century thinking on the edge of the twenty-first century!” Harry grinned as he took a large bite from his sandwich and gave his attention to the screen, where the official had just blown his whistle to signal the start of the rugby match.

It was dusk on Friday when Harry Apparated into the midst of a small cluster of trees at the edge of the park which lay five minutes' walk from home. There was a spring in his step (albeit an uneven one, as he'd done quite a lot of bending in Cassandra's magical garden today) as he walked the quiet streets of Godric's Hollow. They'd accomplished a lot in only a few hours. Cassandra had scheduled no other "clients" today, allowing her to devote her full energies to Harry. In addition, Harry had forgone the Polyjuice Potion after his chat with Cassandra the previous day. This allowed him to devote his full attention to the garden, resulting in an increased efficiency which produced immediate results. He berated himself yet again for his weakness in nicking Hermione's hair as he had done. He'd known from the start that Hermione's career was important to her. So what if she was a bit busier than usual lately? When Quidditch season resumed, he would be the one who was distracted more often than not. It would all even out in the end. Compromise was a part of loving someone. Love was like any other treasure -- if it were easy to possess, it would not be the precious commodity it was. The love he and Hermione shared was beyond price, and that made it worth any sacrifice. In his biased view, a minute with Hermione was worth a year with another woman.

As Harry lifted his hand to brush a cloud of midges out of his face, he saw black earth under his fingernails. He grimaced. It wouldn't do for Hermione's keen eye to spot any evidence of his clandestine activities. Looking around to see if any Muggle eyes were turned his way, he slipped his wand out and performed a hasty Scouring Charm. Tucking his wand away, he resumed his stroll as if nothing had occurred, though with a satisfied smile on his face. If things continued to progress as they had been, all would be ready well before Hermione's birthday. But beyond even that happy thought, Harry always enjoyed being busy, working with his hands, Muggle-fashion. Though he’d always resented the grueling chores heaped upon him by Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia in his youth (before his advancing maturity ultimately cowed them into a sort of grudging acknowledgment that he was a member of the family and not an indentured slave), they had instilled in him a work ethic which now served him well in his new role as a productive member of wizarding society. In addition, such activities had of late helped him to “burn off” the seemingly interminable days and weeks before the resumption of Quidditch season.

Harry’s feet fairly floated above the sidewalk as he envisioned himself soaring through the air on his Firebolt, the Golden Snitch held high as he took his first-ever victory lap as a professional Quidditch player. After a year of seasoning as a reserve, he’d been virtually assured of a promotion to starting Seeker for the coming season. He was determined to work hard to prove that his triumphs as Gryffindor’s Seeker for seven years had been no fluke.

Truth be told, he knew the Dragons had little or no chance of seriously challenging the Wasps for the All-Britain Cup. The Dragons were the newest team in the league, created only a year ago to round out the number of teams to an even fourteen. As they were just starting out, they had been awarded the first draft pick of unsigned players. Harry had been their first selection, but he knew it was not because he was the best Seeker available. It was his name they wanted, to use as a drawing card to fill up the stadium. Harry had taken this in stride. He realized that, had he been drafted by a better team, he might have waited years before advancing to the position of starting Seeker. Now, he was about to become the youngest starter in the league -- the youngest in a century, even as he had been at Hogwarts. And if the Dragons were no threat to win the Cup, Harry would settle for a lesser goal -- that of finishing the season ahead of Puddlemere United. He could hardly wait to square off against Oliver Wood, who had himself been elevated to starting Keeper only last year. Harry almost wished he were a Chaser, like his father, just for the pleasure of scoring a few dozen goals under Oliver's nose. But, by way of consolation, he reckoned that waving the Snitch in Oliver's face in the course of a victory lap wouldn't be all that bad.

As Harry walked at a leisurely pace, waving to an occasional neighbor, he chuckled at the thought of what his wizarding friends would think of him walking even so short a distance to his flat when he could easily Apparate straight into his parlor (as with the Burrow and virtually every other magical abode, the Apparation barrier around their flat was proof against strangers only, and both he and Hermione could come and go at will). It was difficult for witches and wizards who had grown up in a world of magic to comprehend the simple pleasures of life as a Muggle. The easy answer was that, being as the Potters lived in a Muggle neighborhood, it would look suspicious if they were never seen by their neighbors to be coming and going in normal fashion. The best way for wizards to blend into Muggle society was to be as ordinary as possible, this rendering them virtually invisible by virtue of commonality. But more than simple pragmatism was involved. Both he and Hermione had spent the first eleven years of their lives in wholly Muggle environments. Magical blood notwithstanding, it was in their natures to thrive without benefit of magic, and not seven years’ training at Hogwarts, nor the prospect of a century or more of immersion in their chosen lifestyles, could stamp it out of them. It was but one of the many common bonds linking them, and it forever separated them, if but marginally, from the wizarding world proper.

Reaching his front door at last, Harry glanced around in a casual manner before drawing his wand fluidly and whispering, “Alohomora.” The door opened silently, and Harry slid inside and closed the door behind him. As it was not raining today, his cloak still hung in its place on the peg above the umbrella stand. Seized by a sudden playful impulse as he pulled off his jacket, Harry called out in his best Ricky Ricardo voice, “Honey, I’m home!” Smiling at his perceived cleverness, he hung his jacket beside his cloak and turned toward the doorway leading to the parlor. His smile retreated immediately. The parlor was dark, as was, he now saw, the entire flat.

Apprehension surged through him, fueled by an instinct honed in the war against Voldemort and still prone to surface without warning. Was Hermione not yet returned from the Burrow? Her note had told him she would be waiting for him when he got home. Perhaps he was earlier than she anticipated. Maybe she had come over dizzy from overwork (it had happened before) and was having a kip on their bed? Or – and Harry’s stomach clenched – had his worst fear at last come true? Had Voldemort’s surviving Death Eaters finally found them, despite the Fidelius Charm? Had Hermione been taken, to be tortured in retaliation for their master’s defeat before Harry himself was lured to a similar fate?

Forcing himself to remain calm, Harry called out into the darkness, “Hermione? Are you home, sweetheart?”

When long seconds produced no response, Harry reached slowly for his wand, his body tensing to leap in any direction in an instant. He may have eschewed professional Auror training in favor of Quidditch, but he was far from helpless against the forces of darkness, as many a witch and wizard in Azkaban could testify.

Suddenly, before Harry’s fingers could so much as brush the edge of his wand-pocket, the parlor exploded in a silent burst of light. A dozen smokeless candles hovered in a circle just below the ceiling, and the scene which they illuminated brought an audible gasp to Harry’s lips.

A small, round table sat in the middle of the parlor, draped in a white linen cloth that glowed softly in the light of the candles. Two place settings were separated by a crystal vase which held a single white rose. Beyond the ring of light produced by the candles was impenetrable blackness. As Harry stared, his eyes wide with confusion, a figure glided soundlessly into the ring of light. Harry’s mouth fell open.

Hermione was wearing a black silk evening dress that clung to her delicate form in a manner that enhanced her every curve to the point of intoxication. The fabric seemed to flow out of the surrounding darkness and wrap itself around her like liquid smoke. The calf-length skirt was slit past her hip, and the leg thus revealed as she posed seductively in the golden radiance was like a shaft of moonlight piercing the surrounding gloom. The plunging neckline formed a milk-white V cleaving her bosom, which was scarcely concealed by a bodice suspended by threads finer than spider silk. Her dark chestnut hair spilled over her pale shoulders in a sleek, satiny cascade, flowing in waves around the most beautiful face Harry had ever seen.

“I hope you’re hungry, lover,” Hermione purred in a voice that made Harry’s blood pound in his temples.

As Harry drank in his wife’s barely-concealed charms, he felt a hunger that was unrelated to the grumbling of his stomach. He took a halting step forward, but Hermione lifted a finger, a playful smirk on her lips as her eyes danced impishly in the candlelight.

“Silly me. You’re not dressed, are you?” Her rose-colored lips curving meaningfully, Hermione snapped her fingers. In the wink of an eye, Harry found himself dressed from head to toe in the finest Muggle eveningwear. Hermione’s smile brightened, and it seemed to Harry as if the light in the room was suddenly increased a hundredfold.

As if suddenly released from a Body-Bind, Harry hurried forward and seated his wife before slipping into his own chair. Her coffee-colored eyes twinkling at her husband over the edge of the moon-bright rose petals, Hermione clapped her hands once. Harry jumped back in his chair. The table was instantly laden with dishes of the finest food he had ever seen, from filet mignon to stuffed mushrooms, artichoke hearts and baby carrots, tiny iced shrimp…

“How?” Harry stammered. “How did you…?” Hermione laughed musically, a sound like water trickling down a hillside into a crystal pool.

“Molly Weasley.” She waved her hand idly, and a shrimp rose from its dish and drifted toward her hand. “We worked for hours to get all the preparation spells down. Let me tell you,” she said with narrowed eye, “when it comes to not tolerating nonsense, Molly could give Minerva McGonagall a run for her money. She takes food preparation very seriously. If Hogwarts ever decides to add household magic to its curriculum, they could do a lot worse than hire Molly to teach.”

A look of amazement appeared abruptly on Harry’s face. “This is what you were doing at the Burrow? But -- this must have taken all day to prepare.” Realization struck Harry like a rogue Bludger. ”You didn’t go to work?”

“They can get along without me for a day,” Hermione said as she teased the shrimp in her fingers with the tip of her tongue. “In the past year I’ve put in enough overtime for three people. I may even skive off Monday.” She defiantly popped the shrimp into her mouth as Harry continued to gape at her.

“But – why?” Harry spread his hands, his gesture encompassing the table, the candles, and not least Hermione herself, the devilish gleam in her eye making her look all the more bewitching. But that gleam softened on the instant, mirroring a gentle smile that made Harry’s heart stop in his chest.

“Because I’m the luckiest witch in the world,” she said, her dark eyes misting. “I don’t know what I did to deserve to be loved so deeply. All I know is that I have the most wonderful husband in the world – in either world, wizard or Muggle. And sometimes I – I get so busy that I forget to remind him just how much I love him.”

“I love you so much,” Harry said through the lump in his throat. He reached across the table, and Hermione’s hand met his. As Harry caressed her fingers lovingly, the light from the candles danced across the diamond of her engagement ring, the tiny glints reflecting softly on the white-gold surface of her wedding band.

Their hands parted reluctantly, and Harry scrutinized the food-laden table with an appraising eye.

“This is incredible,” he said as Hermione playfully levitated a shrimp and sent it drifting toward him. “This must have cost – I dunno – more than our whole week’s food budget.” Hermione shrugged her delectable shoulders indifferently.

“So we’ll eat beans and toast all next week,” she said, selecting another shrimp as Harry plucked his own out of the air and popped it into his mouth. “And the week after, if it comes to that. What does it matter? Just so we’re together.”

Thereafter they dined in silence, neither seeming to want to break the spell of love hovering over them like an enchantment. Now and again a hushed laugh was heard as they pantomimed their way from course to course, one of them occasionally feeding the other over or around the white rose that represented the purity of their love.

As Harry enjoyed the superb repast, his eyes lingered ever and again on Hermione. Her aspect was so stunning that he was virtually speechless. He had not felt so tongue-tied since the time he'd stammered out his invitation to the Yule Ball to Cho Chang. Why, he asked himself for perhaps the thousandth time, hadn't he thought to ask Hermione the moment Cho turned him down? How could he have been so blind and stupid, never seeing how important Hermione was to him? Why had it taken him so long to realize that he loved her, and always had? He might have lost her forever any number of times, to Viktor Krum -- to Ron -- to who knew how many other wizards whose heads had not been planted firmly up their arses as his had been for so long. He had often been described as the luckiest wizard alive, whether for surviving Voldemort's Curse as a baby, or for his ultimate triumph over the Dark Lord against overwhelming odds. In truth, he did feel like the luckiest wizard in the world, but not for those reasons. If he could lay claim to that title, the reason was sitting across the table from him in the person of the witch who had forever filled the emptiness inside him with a love beyond measure. If there was anyone, anywhere, luckier than he, Harry would eat Hogwarts castle stone by stone, right down to the foundation of the Chamber of Secrets.

As he mentally caressed his wife's milky shoulders for the hundredth time in the last hour, Harry's eyes drifted up to fall lazily on the corner where Hermione's desk sat wrapped in shadow. He saw that Hedwig's perch stood empty in its place. He smiled as he refilled his wine glass with Merlot (which Hermione had Charmed to neutralize the alcohol).

“I see you sent Hegwig off,” he observed as he lifted his glass and took a sip, allowing the wine's flavor to caress his tongue.

“I'm not sharing you with anyone tonight,” Hermione smiled. “I always got the feeling that she was a bit jealous of me. She used to be the only 'woman' in your life, and I don't think she fancies my taking her place.”

They laughed together as Hermione's eyes twinkled in the candlelight. Had Harry been a Legilimens, he would have seen in Hermione's dancing eyes the real reason for Hedwig's absence. The snowy owl had, in fact, been sent on two very special -- and very different -- errands. Her first stop had been the Ministry, where she delivered Hermione's finished report on the Polyjuice brothels (along with Hermione's apology to Madam Bones for her absence that day). Hermione's report had urged an immediate raid on Cassandra's brothel -- to be carried out at midnight -- which she was sure the head of MLE would implement at once.

Her first mission accomplished, Hedwig would then proceed directly to her second destination -- Cassandra's penthouse, bearing a letter warning her of the impending raid. The owl would have no difficulty penetrating the building's magical safeguards, having already proven her mettle by delivering Harry's letters to Number 12 Grimmauld Place in defiance of the Fidelius Charm placed around it by Dumbledore. Per Hermione's instructions, Hedwig's timing would be such that there would be no moment to spare for Cassandra to warn the other witches (nor their customers). But the note assured her that she would be safe if she remained in her penthouse (which Hermione had conveniently “forgotten” to mention in her report). By tomorrow morning, Cassandra would effectively be out of “business.” She would then have all the time she needed to help Harry in her enchanted garden, ensuring that Harry's “present” would be ready on the appointed day. Beginning Monday, Hermione would make a point of checking the Wizengamot docket daily to see if Cassandra appeared with Justin to regain her wand privileges. Circumstances being what they were, Hermione believed that Cassandra deserved a chance to turn her life around if she so chose. She was helping Harry, earning honest gold in the process. If she elected to spurn Harry's offer and retain her old ways, there was plenty of time to bring her in after September 19th to prefer charges. But Hermione was confident that Harry would persuade Cassandra to do the right thing.

She was equally certain that Harry would quickly tire of “tickling the potion” with Cassandra. Beginning tonight, Harry would never again feel the need to look beyond his own front door (or back garden) to find the one whose heart and soul were one with his, today, tomorrow, and forever.

(All the same, after her experiences the previous night, Hermione would take Ginny's advice to heart and keep her hairbrush immaculate -- just in case.)

As the evening waned, the meal ended by unspoken agreement, and Hermione banished the remains with two quick claps of her hands. Harry rose and took Hermione’s hand, lifting her from her chair. Table and chairs promptly vanished, but Harry took no notice. Now that his physical hunger was sated, the fire that had kindled in him at first sight of Hermione's stunning aspect was become a volcano poised to erupt. He drew his wife to him urgently, burying his face in her soft, silky (and very un-bushy) hair as he nuzzled her shoulder and neck. He was entirely oblivious to the brief glance she cast over his shoulder toward the doorway, and of the “I-told-you-so” chuckle that came from the direction of the hallway mirror in response to her smile and wink.

“Wherever did you find this dress?” Harry mumbled as he inhaled his wife’s intoxicating fragrance. His hands ran up and down her bare back, caressing every curve within his reach.

“Gladrags,” Hermione gasped as her husband’s roving hands expertly found special places too long neglected, skillfully awakening them from their too-long slumber. She shivered wantonly, clinging more tightly to him. “Paris. The newest in their line of Muggle fashions. All the high society witches on the continent are wearing them this season. Ginny helped me…pick it out…”

“You look like a goddess,” Harry breathed as his lips traced their way along her neckline, under her chin, and down between her breasts. Hermione’s knees turned to rubber, and Harry, acting without thought or hesitation, swept her into his arms and covered her mouth with his. He kissed her with a heat like unto dragon fire, drawing the breath from her lungs. She clung to him with the fierceness of a she-panther, but the weakness in her knees was flowing through the rest of her body like heady wine. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, her strength pouring from her like potion from a sundered cauldron. Tears were spilling in torrents down her glowing cheeks.

“I love you so much, Harry,” she panted, unsure whether she had spoken aloud or merely mouthed the words. But Harry’s lips, drawing so ardently upon her own, felt every syllable as she formed the words of love that were the breath of life to him.

“Love you,” he moaned into her mouth in a near-sob. “Love you…love you…”

Even through her clouded senses, Hermione recognized the imperative in Harry’s declaration. As she hung suspended in his embrace, she sensed a tenseness in him, like a coiled spring straining for release. His urgency mirrored her own. “Harry…Harry…” Unable to articulate, she conveyed her need through animal grunts and anguished sobs. She breathed a fervent prayer of mingled thanks and supplication as she felt her shoulders and back being pressed against a smooth, cool surface – the sheets of their bed, which lay turned back in silent invitation by her own hands in anticipation of this very moment. “Yes,” she sobbed hungrily, achingly. “Yes…oh, please, yes…”

Her brain reeled. As if in a dream she felt the delicate straps of her dress sliding down her arms, thrilled to Harry’s hot breath against her skin. Her trembling lips emitted a giddy laugh, a sound like a house-elf tipsy on butterbeer. It was not long before her laughter deepened into moans, quickening into sobs that soon exploded into shrieks of unbridled ecstasy.

The first light of Saturday morning found Harry and Hermione entwined in each other’s embrace. Harry was drowsing lightly, his face nestled between his wife’s breasts. Hermione lay on her side, her left arm under and around her husband’s neck. The fingers of her right hand toyed with Harry’s bangs with a sort of childish amusement. Acting on a playful impulse, she brushed his hair aside and began to trace her tongue along the thin line of his lightning scar. Reacting to the tickling sensation on his forehead, Harry opened his eyes rolled them upwards. Seeing that she had an audience, Hermione renewed her attention to her husband’s famous brand, and Harry laughed, which sent a tickle rippling through Hermione’s bosom.

“You like that, lover?” Hermione said, her sultry voice vying with the feigned innocence in her large, dark eyes. Without waiting for a reply, she intensified her oral assault on Harry’s scar. Suddenly she paused, and Harry knew from the way her neck and shoulders had tensed for the briefest instant that her brow had wrinkled in thought. When he felt her shoulders relax a moment later, he playfully blew a soft raspberry against her skin.

“You’re not supposed to be thinking, Mrs. Potter,” he chided. “Thinking is for the classroom, not the bedroom.” He felt her vibrate as from a silent chuckle. “Well,” he said in mock exasperation, “as long as you are thinking, the least you can do is share it with me. I am your husband, you know. And if I’m not,” he added, blowing another soft raspberry onto her right breast, “your parents are going to kick up quite a row when they hear about all the fantastically salacious things I did with their only daughter all last night.”

Hermione was silent for a few moments before saying, very mysteriously: “Something’s missing.”

“Missing?” Harry said, both amused and curious. “From what?”

“From this,” Hermione said, wiggling her tongue against Harry’s scar meaningfully. Harry could not help but roll over now and regard his wife with questioning eyes.

“What are you on about?” he grinned as Hermione once more toyed with her husband’s bangs.

“You don’t…taste right,” Hermione said thoughtfully.

“I don’t what?” Harry laughed.

Rather than answering, Hermione gave a firm, decisive nod. “I know just the thing.” Extending her free arm, she reached out toward her night table. Though his vision was less than ideal (his glasses lay on his own night table), it appeared that Hermione had caught up her wand and was now pointing it toward the open doorway. She twirled her wrist a few times in an odd, looping manner, and said firmly: “Accio!”

A soft whooshing sound was followed on the instant by a small object that zoomed through the doorway and straight into Hermione’s waiting hand. Apart from his amazement that his wife could cast a Summoning Charm that worked around corners (something he had managed with mixed results at best), Harry wondered just what it was that she had called forth so mysteriously. Unable to see clearly without his glasses, Harry sat up and leaned closer. His emerald eyes went wide.

“You’re joking!”

With both hands now free, Hermione held the little honey pot in her left hand and removed its lid, which she set on her night table next to her wand. As Harry stifled a laugh, Hermione leaned in until her nose was less than an inch from Harry's.

“Hold this for me, sweetheart?” she said, pressing the pot into his hands. Parting his bangs again, Hermione dipped her index finger into the honey pot, whereupon she very carefully traced the honey-coated digit along the jagged length of Harry’s scar. With a nod of approval, she leaned close and proceeded to tease the sweet, golden line with the tip of her tongue.

“So, what’s the verdict?” Harry asked at last, trying his best to sound serious through muffled chuckles.

“Mmmmmm,” Hermione sighed with satisfaction. “Yummy.” She took the honey pot back from Harry and regarded it meditatively. As she had before, she nodded to herself, as if coming to a decision.

“You’re thinking again,” Harry said with amusement. “Give it up, then.”

“You were so sweet to make this for me,” Hermione said warmly. “You know what you are? You’re my…my Honey-Boy.”

Harry’s suppressed laughter turned into a choking cough. “Wh-what?” he said weakly.

”Do you like that name?” Hermione asked, her eyes soft and entreating.

”I -- dunno,” Harry said slowly, having been caught quite off his guard. ”Say it again.”

”Honey-Boy,” Hermione breathed seductively.

”Hmmm,” Harry said with an exaggerated look of thoughtfulness. ”Reckon I could get used to it. But,” he said more seriously, ”what made you...”

Pressing close against her husband now, Hermione looked into the depths of his emerald eyes and smiled. “Thanks to you, my little honey pot is always overflowing with sweet goodness.” Brushing her honey-sweet lips against Harry’s, she said softly, “And you do the same thing with my heart. You’re my sweet little Honey-Boy. And I love you.”

Running his fingers through waves of thick, luxurious hair (Hermione had used a double-portion of Sleekeazy's as an added safeguard against their anticipated bedroom activities), Harry devoured his wife’s mouth with his, tasting the sweetness on her lips and tongue. Lost in her husband’s kiss, Hermione relaxed her grip on the honey pot and surprised Harry when a large dollop spilled over the edge and splashed onto his chest. Hermione jerked back with a giggle, staring in fascination as the pot bubbled softly and filled itself to the brim before her eyes. Her brow wrinkled once more, this time in concert with the ghost of an evil smile and a devilish gleam in her eye.

“Is this really bottomless?” she asked, gesturing with the now refilled honey pot.

“Uh,” Harry said slowly, “yeah…I guess you could say…”

“Let’s find out, shall we?” Hermione said in a low whisper, her eyes narrowed wolfishly.

So stunned was Harry by his wife’s words that he could do no more than gape stupidly as Hermione, in a single swift motion, upended the honey pot and poured its contents over him, covering him from head to waist in a glistening golden glaze.

“HERMIONE!”

“Yes, my sweet little Honey-Boy?” Hermione said coyly as the pot in her hand bubbled softly until it was once more filled to the brim.

Shaking sticky droplets from his eyes, Harry stared into his wife’s faux-innocent eyes for an eternity of heartbeats before springing to life with a vengeance. Employing the reflexes that had earned him the largest signing bonus in BQL history, he lunged, snatching the honey pot from his wife’s hand as if it were a Golden Snitch. Hermione sprang aside, but she was not quick enough to avoid being sprayed by wave after wave of amber “rain” as Harry whipped the jar back and forth in front of him, his eyes alight with a deviltry any member of the Marauders would have coveted. Squealing like a banshee, Hermione leaped onto Harry, trying to wrestle the pot from his hand. Honey continued to spray in every direction as the jar continued to re-fill itself. At length the pot, propelled by four frantic, honey-slick hands, shot into the air and crashed to the floor, where it shattered into a hundred pieces in a widening pool of glistening amber.

In the pregnant silence which fell like a veil, Harry and Hermione stared around their bedroom, which seemed to drip honey from every surface. Their bed was a gleaming golden puddle in the midst of which Harry and Hermione sat, their naked bodies glistening from head to foot. Harry was the first to find his voice.

“You look sweet enough to eat – Honey-Girl.”

Hermione was running her hands through her honey-soaked hair abstractedly, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

“Do you know how long it took Ginny and me to get my hair looking…looking…like it did…”

“You don’t need Sleekeazy’s, or a slinky dress, to look beautiful, Honey-Girl.” Harry’s eyes were tender behind their honey glaze. “To me, you’ll always be the most beautiful woman in the world, witch or Muggle.”

Her lip trembling, Hermione looked as if she might burst into tears at any moment. (Or maybe it was the honey dripping down her cheeks that promoted the illusion.) With a strangled sob, she flung herself onto Harry with such force that they tumbled off the slippery bed and lay sprawled on the floor. Hesitating not a moment, they attacked each other in a frenzied bout of ravenous lovemaking which, upon its explosive conclusion, left them both too exhausted to twitch a finger. They lay curled together, clinging to one another as if never wanting to let go.

“You know something?” Harry said at last, prying his honey-glazed eyes open with an effort. “Living like a Muggle is okay for some things. But looking at this room – “ he paused to spit out a stream of honey that had run down his face and into his mouth, “ – all I can say is, praise Merlin for the witch or wizard who invented the Vanishing Charm!”

Hermione giggled, her honey-coated body trembling with mirth.

“As for you and me, Honey-Girl,” Harry continued, “what do you say we drag ourselves into the bathroom and enjoy a long, hot Muggle shower.”

“Not too long,” Hermione said as she pried herself from the sticky floor and sat up, which action sent a stream of honey pouring between her breasts like a golden waterfall. “I don’t have my watch – and even if I did, I don’t think the warranty includes being drenched in honey – “ she added with an arched eyebrow, “ -- but if the shadows on the wall are any indication, it must be nearly nine o’clock.”

“It’s Saturday,” Harry grunted dismissively. “Once we’re cleaned up, we can go back to bed and sleep as late as we want -- or not sleep, as the case may be,” he added with a feral grin.

“Not if we want to get any gardening done before the sun gets too hot.”

Harry stiffened as if a Freezing Charm had been placed on him.

“G-Gardening?”

“We haven’t worked in the garden for ages,” Hermione said, her eyes glowing with a soft light. “I was looking at it through the kitchen window only yesterday, and it looked so sad and neglected. What do you say, then? Just you and me against Mother Nature. No magic. Just like we used to do. It'll be like...like falling in love all over again.”

Harry wiped the tears from his eyes (pretending he was merely wiping away a dollop of honey) and stood up awkwardly, his feet slipping on the drenched floor so that he reeled momentarily like a tipsy house-elf. He pulled Hermione to her feet, thence into his arms. He kissed her until he was dizzy from lack of air and Hermione was gasping like a fish out of water.

“I love you, Honey-Girl,” he breathed, his lips brushing hers as he stared into her dark, fathomless eyes with unashamed adoration.

“I love you...Honey-Boy.”

Was that enough romance to justify the classification? If not, I'm sure your imagination can supply the lack. Either way, this is the end -- and the beginning.

Humble thanks to everyone who was kind enough to review (and to those who didn't, but still enjoyed the story). I'll return shortly with more H/Hr adventures -- and a few surprises. See you then.