Unofficial Portkey Archive

Wherein the H/Hr relationship hits bottom; Hermione doesn't know what she should do, but has to meet with an Auror; they learn magical linguistics and defensive strategy; Harry attends an Anglican funeral with Eliza; they watch meteors at Sherwood Forest; Eliza makes a declaration; Harry has a realization; he learns more about sex; goes to Reims; learns that Hermione wants to sever the link; receives a mysterious note; gives a smashing speech in French; gets a dose of Veela charm; looks for, but can't find, Hermione; sets up a fateful date with Eliza; learns shocking information from Dudley; selects a new guardian, tries - unsuccessfully - to tell (and show) Hermione what he has learned, and gets her hand headed towards him.

Most people on this site are here because they are H/Hr shippers. Thus, for most people this chapter will be rather painful.

Disclaimer: I neither own nor claim any other rights in the characters and other concepts created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money, nor do I seek any commercial advantage from this work. As such it constitutes "Fair Use" as defined in 17 U.S.C. §107.

Chapter 26 - From Reims to Ruin

The bad patch in Hermione's life was getting rougher. It had not been a good week, nor did things seem likely to improve anytime soon. Her first and foremost problem was the sorry state of her wannabe relationship with Harry. Hermione felt like she was swimming against a strong current - one largely of her own making. Worse, she was backsliding.

On top of that, she could no longer ignore the imminent move of her parents to Australia. Its signs were all around Hermione now. Throughout the house, moving boxes were strewn about - filled, unfilled, and half-filled. Things that had stayed the same for years were changing. Her Muggle past was disappearing behind endless rolls of translucent bubblewrap. That was problem number two. It seemed that everything in her heretofore stable home life was in a state of flux.

Another problem - number three - was Harry's relationship with that … that … that other woman.

Enough said.

And then, as bizarre as the idea might seem to everyone who knew her at school, Hermione was under appreciable academic pressure. She not only had her assigned summer work to finish, but as always she was intent upon reading and outlining several chapters ahead in the next term's syllabus. This year, however, that was easier said than done. Instead, she was spending an inordinate amount of time training with Harry. That would have been quite all right - more than all right, actually - if not for problem numbers one and three.

But more than any previous summer, there was the problem of too much this and that - distractions - most of which in some way involved Harry: investigating the Black inheritance, planning the birthday party, reorganising the D.A., and in recent days Harry's upcoming Reims speech.

There were the Death Eater attacks, and all these funerals making her depressed.

There was … Harry.

All these commitments and catastrophes were starting to corrode Hermione's outwardly tremendous self-confidence. That was one reason she had leapt at the chance to help Harry with his upcoming speech. Whilst keeping it to herself, she recognised that this eagerness was due in no small measure to her need to convince Harry that she bore him no hard feelings following the scene she had caused upon meeting Eliza Brookings - and his subsequent reprimand.

As in the previous year when Harry had been so sullen, Hermione found it hard to cope with his being upset with her - and she compensated by trying to be helpful. Sometimes she berated herself for feeling the need to prove herself over and over again to Harry. Logically, it made no sense. After all, he had not demanded (or even asked for) anything.

Logic she could handle, but Hermione's feelings for (and about) Harry had long since transcended logic. She was in emotional terra incognita - and making a right awful mess of the journey.

Hermione had been slaving away to create a usable text of a speech Harry would be comfortable giving (not to mention ordering French-language tapes for him).

"Aaarrrggghhh," she groaned.

It was happening again - that damnable mixed-up sensation of happiness, lust, and uncertainty was underway again. There was no mistaking it. This combination of emotions flowing over her shared link with Harry immediately told her that, at this very moment, he was with that other woman.

Every time it happened, Hermione wanted to scream. Then she wanted to cry.

Harry had sounded so troubled at Bill's funeral. His pledge to stop Voldemort, made at the end of his impromptu eulogy, resurfaced all of Hermione's repressed fears about the mysterious prophecy and the secret, nastier aspects of Harry's training. Perhaps everything was for the best, then. If they had gotten closer, she doubted she could tolerate what he was obviously being prepared to do.

But then, perhaps not…. No, definitely not. It would never be for the best…. Not for her, and certainly not for Harry. She just could not stand idly by and let him kill himself, not even to save the world.

She had wanted to comfort Harry and to dissuade him from doing anything rash - but her blasted overly full schedule intervened. Comfort would have to wait. Time could still pass. She had to attend a long-scheduled meeting with an Auror who was investigating the Death Eater attack on the surgery. It could not be rescheduled on such short notice.

That meeting was itself worrisome. Some of the Auror's questions flummoxed her - a rarity. It made no sense that the largest fire in the aftermath of the Death Eater attack did not exhibit signs of magic. The burned out records room had been behind them. If Death Eaters had attacked from that direction, neither she nor her father would have lived. The cause had to be an errant spell unleashed by one of the attackers in front. Hermione had seen the entire attack, and her father's pistol had been the only non-magical weapon used. The investigator's question about Death Eaters using Molotov cocktails was simply absurd.

The crusher had been yesterday - Harry's admission that he was attending a wizard funeral with that Eliza woman. That was not supposed to happen. Harry had told her that Eliza refused to be seen in wizard public with him. That fact had become her talisman. Eliza's refusal disturbed Harry so much that Hermione thought it would inevitably destroy that relationship. That would leave her in position to pick up the pieces.

Ever since learning about the other woman's reticence, Hermione had daydreamed of soothing Harry's broken heart once they returned to Hogwarts. But now, everything had come a cropper. Something had changed that woman's mind. Hermione was devastated. Maybe there actually was no end in sight. Maybe what she had thought of as the light at the end of the tunnel was really an onrushing locomotive.

This latest revelation had so shaken Hermione that she had even sought advice from her mum, something she had vowed never again to do after the spectacular row the night that Harry had come to dinner. For the first time she overtly admitted her romantic feelings towards Harry to Mum - but to no avail. Mum's face immediately went all pale and stiff. Through a pasted-on smile, the woman had doled out hoary platitudes about "love will find a way" and "follow your heart."

That was rubbish. She had needed practical advice about how to attack and solve a problem - the kind that her mum previously had dispensed routinely. But there was none of that to be had any longer when the topic was Harry.

In retrospect, Hermione wondered why she had even bothered. The attack had changed everything. Both her parents were transparently frightened to death of anything involving Harry. They had given up. They were moving to the other side of the world to escape … to escape him; to escape magic; and thus to escape her as well. Her father had said essentially that - he was prepared to go "as far away as humanly possible" to flee from the nightmare that Hermione's magical world had become.

Oh Daddy! How had it come to this?

He was leaving this weekend to find a new residence in Australia. When she would see him again, she had no idea. The sale of the Grangers' London property had already been arranged. Hermione was meeting next week with the purchasers. At least (according to her parents) the buyers were a gracious lot. They would permit her to stay on until she left for Hogwarts. After that, she realised, she would be on her own at age seventeen.

Their unspoken assumption was that Harry would see her through. Now she was not so sure.

She had grimly participated in Tuesday's training with Harry - determined not to let him know how upset he had made her. Fortunately the lesson dealt with magical linguistics, something that played to her intellectual strengths. Etymological rules governing relationships between similar types of spells were very logical and surprisingly easy to apply. A more practical lesson could have been disastrous. If Hermione had had to do something along the line of casting emotion-based spells, the results would have been utterly unpredictable and probably embarrassing.

All day Hermione had been dreading the end of that class - dreading the evening, when her emotional link to Harry would once again bombard her with his amorous feelings towards that other woman. Over the course of the summer, things had turned out appallingly the opposite of her expectations when she first told Harry and Dumbledore that she wanted to retain the link. The link no longer helped her get closer to Harry. Instead, it was torturing her.

Maybe she had made a colossal mistake.

Hermione pondered whether to tell Dumbledore that she had changed her mind and that he should cut the link. That was not a step Hermione wanted to take. On an emotional level, it was symbolic of her throwing in the towel. But to that emotion, Hermione's logic answered that she no longer had much of value to surrender.

* * * *

At the end of class, Harry had no time to reflect upon Hermione's distant, businesslike attitude. The scheduling of the Fontaine funeral had always been rather problematic, and Eliza's unexpected change of heart about wanting to attend public wizard events with him had complicated matters even further. Since he had been the one pressuring her to go places with him, Harry had very little choice when she finally agreed.

Consequently, this would be the only one of the five funerals that Hermione would not be attending. After the last encounter between the two women in his life, he thought it was simply too risky to chance another meeting at a solemn ceremony.

Hurriedly, Harry had Apparated home, changed into his now well-used mourning robes (he left himself a reminder to Scourgify them before Reims), rendezvoused with Mundungus, and Apparated to Eliza's flat. He still preferred other modes of magical travel, but there was just too little time….

She was waiting for him. Eliza did not own mourning robes, so she had recoloured a set of old school robes to be velvety black with blue Ravenclaw trim. However, she had filled out since she had graduated, and the robes were now tighter (and more revealing) than the Hogwarts dress code would have permitted. Eliza was in the process of Transfiguring an Easter bonnet into appropriate mourning headgear when Harry arrived. The young man did bring out her magical side. She found herself using her wand quite a bit more frequently since knowing him.

Seeing Eliza in her rather tight black robes with her extravagant blond hair framing her face and spilling down her back took Harry's breath away. He greeted her with a nervous smile, whilst half bent over, recovering from his Apparition. She responded with a short but deep kiss that left a tingling sensation in Harry's fingers and toes. She whispered in his ear, "That's nothing" - promising more of the same after the funeral when they were finally to have their long planned date.

Eliza had yet to reveal the nature and location of that date. All Harry knew is that she had asked him to bring both of his Invisibility Cloaks. All he had been told was to expect to be out quite late.

Mundungus (who had discreetly Disillusioned himself upon arrival) produced a Portkey that took them to a prearranged location outside of Somerset, where they were greeted by Emmeline Vance and a couple of other Order members whom Harry had never met before, Brentworth Fenwick and Alixander ("with an I") Meadows. The church where the funeral was to be held was just around the corner.

Harry had been informed that the Fontaines were Anglican wizards, as were most of their relatives and friends. The service thus took place in a local Anglican church. Harry assumed that the minister, if not a wizard himself, was well versed in wizard ways. Their introduction promptly confirmed that supposition - the familiar upward flick of the minister's eyes to Harry's scar. The ceremony was mostly conducted in a traditionalist Muggle fashion, lots of incense and organ music, with overt displays of magic kept to a minimum.

Harry had never met the deceased or any of her family, and he was attending only as a spectator. He had never been to a Muggle-style funeral, and he had not set foot inside a church since before he had learned he was a wizard. He would have been quite at sea if not for Eliza.

She was sitting very close - close enough that he could feel her wriggle against him (which she did whenever he put his hand on her knee). Unlike Muggle classical music, Eliza knew about Muggle church services. Since Harry was unfamiliar with them, she helped him use the Bible and a hymnbook. There being but one copy between them, their hands touched often.

After the seemingly interminable service concluded, a cortège and interment were to follow. Harry and Eliza absented themselves and Portkeyed back to her flat. Mundungus said he would be back in short order with a "borrowed" Ministry car. As she quickly doffed her robes, Eliza told Harry she had a rental in the car park. He thought little of her request that he help her unzip the Muggle dress she had worn underneath her robes - until he figured out that Eliza intended to change clothes in the same room with him.

His face reddening, he wordlessly fled to the loo and shut the door. Breathing hard, and his fingers unsteady, Harry removed his change of clothes from a compartment in his Auror's belt, ended the Shrinking Spell that he had placed on them, and started changing. As he was dropping his pants, Harry decided to take the precaution of locking the door.

Eliza heard the lock click. "Oh, Harry, did you really think I'd come barging in for a look at your drawers?" she called to him through the door. "It's really not that big a deal. You've seen me before. Honestly! Sometimes I wish you weren't so different from any other guy I've ever known. Why do you only want to touch me when I'm dressed?"

It was a good question. Harry, in a cold sweat listening from the other side of the door, could not think of an equally good answer.

Neither could Eliza. That made her nervous. She had been hiding something from him, and she had decided to tell him tonight. She hoped he would be able to accept it without wrecking their relationship.

Soon Eliza was driving them north along the M1 away from London. Mundungus was attempting to follow in the Ministry car that he had "borrowed" for the evening. Eliza was not accustomed to acting as the lead car in a two-car convoy, and was paying poor Dung no mind. All four northbound lanes were crowded, and Eliza was weaving in and out of traffic a bit in her haste and excitement.

Even with the Ministry car's magical ability to slip through impossibly narrow gaps in traffic, Dung was having a hard time keeping up with them. Motorway driving was not his cup of tea - and he hated reverse cambers. Tired of playing dodge-ball with cars, busses, and lorries, he eventually gave up and just left the car in compressed mode. It was less than entirely comfortable, but at least he could travel in an unobstructed fashion through the gap between the rightmost lane and the central reservation.

From his spot in the passenger seat in Eliza's rental, Harry reached over and put a hand on Eliza's thigh, above her knee and below her pastel orange skort/culottes. "Not now, Harry," she squealed. "Do you want to cause an accident?"

He removed his hand with an obviously faked sulk. "At least tell me where we're going and what we're going to do. You've been so mysterious about this."

Eliza felt she was not being as much mysterious as she was being nervous. She decided it was finally time to start putting paid to the suspense. "Remember when we first met, you got upset about all of the things I asked you about that you hadn't done."

"Yes, vividly," Harry responded.

"Well, we've now done almost all of them." Eliza forced a laugh, knowing how both she and Harry were undoubtedly thinking about what Harry had not yet been able to bring himself to do. "One thing that we haven't done is look for falling stars, and you can't really do that around London with all of the lights."

"So we're going someplace dark," Harry answered. Realising how that sounded, he added, "at least someplace where the sky isn't all washed out with Muggle electrical lights."

"That's right," Eliza agreed. "We're going to Nottinghamshire - to the Sherwood Forest. That's been a royal forest forever, but it's now a national park, so most of it's quite free of Muggle buildings and roads. It's a little more than 130 miles away. I expect we'll be driving for two to three hours, depending on all of this bloody traffic."

"A couple of hours," Harry said skeptically. "But it's already after 9:00. We'll be out all night."

"That's perfectly all right, Harry," Eliza cooed back at him. "The show doesn't really start until after midnight, anyway."

"Wh- What show?" Harry asked anxiously, not sure he wanted to find out how randy Eliza was planning to get, and recalling the two Invisibility Cloaks he had squirreled away in his Auror's belt.

"The Perseid meteor shower," Eliza responded authoritatively. "Astronomy was my best subject at school. The Perseids are a very rich shower. We might see hundreds of meteors an hour. They're debris left over from some comet that the Earth's orbit passes through every year. You'll get to see lots of falling stars - and make lots of wishes."

"Meteors? Wishes?" Harry asked in both relief and puzzlement. "Who said anything about wishes?"

"It's traditional to wish upon a falling star," Eliza explained.

"So you've been planning all this time to bring me way out here to look at meteors?" Harry continued.

"Well…. Yes," Eliza conceded. Batting her eyelashes at the boy in the seat next to her, she added, "And whatever more you're up to…."

"Umm.… You see…."

"…But you're going to have to tell me what that is," she talked over his incoherent mumbles. "I'm not about to be embarrassing myself again."

She reached over and returned the favor - putting her hand on Harry's thigh, whilst nonetheless keeping her eyes on the still quite crowded road. "But you know I'm not going to tell you to stop once we finish driving. You're the one who keeps saying `no.'"

As it was clear that Harry was having trouble making conversation, Eliza added, "Why don't you try to get some sleep? We'll be up most of the night watching the meteors."

The rumbling of the Muggle car down the motorway worked its own magic. Harry was asleep almost immediately after reclining his seat.

All the way to the Sherwood Forest Country Park, whilst Harry slept, Eliza fretted about what else she had to tell him. Since he looked so cute and peaceful whilst asleep, Eliza only woke him once they were in the car park at the forest preserve. Harry was groggy, so Eliza tickled him awake.

The preserve was rather more crowded than she had expected. Quite a few Muggles were also taking advantage of the forest's dark skies to watch the meteor shower. A ranger with a torch covered in red cellophane directed them down a path to a large clearing. There were several dozen Muggles - even somebody with some sort of camera attached to a telescope. At Harry's remark that it must be difficult to follow something as fleeting as a meteor with a telescope, the Muggle explained that he was using a charge-coupled device to take meteor images superimposed on star trails.

The Muggle would have talked his ear off, but Harry made his excuses before his eyes glazed over. The conversation impressed upon Harry that he had an Astronomy O.W.L. retest - and that he badly needed to study for it.

Having thus embarrassed himself, Harry was somewhat irritated even before he and Eliza found a rather bumpy spot that nevertheless had a good view of the eastern sky. Not particularly enthused with the idea of snogging under an Invisibility Cloak, he was intrigued when she told him to spread the Cloak out like a tablecloth. He questioningly did what she asked. When he was done she lay down in the middle of the Cloak (as measured by where the grass was pushed down). Giving Harry a sultry look, Eliza bade him to lie down next to her and look at the stars.

He complied. Almost as soon as Harry had gotten himself comfortable, Eliza asked him to levitate the Cloak. After the briefest confusion, a flash of comprehension crossed Harry' face. Wingardium Leviosa applied to an Invisibility Cloak in a horizontal position meant that, as long as they kept their arms and legs within its borders, nobody on the ground could see them. Harry carefully performed the spell and the Cloak, bearing him and Eliza, gently lifted off the ground and rose to about thirty metres - about the height of the Major Oak and other tall trees.

Soaking in the now glorious view, Harry and Eliza alternatively watched the meteor shower and explored one another for the next couple of hours. While Harry had seen the occasional shooting star during practical Astronomy classes at Hogwarts, nothing he had learnt in school prepared him for the majesty of a strong meteor shower - almost a storm, really. Meteors radiated from a point in the constellation Perseus at a rate of one every few seconds. Some of them were bright enough to leave trails. Often several meteors streaked across the sky at the same time.

As they lay comfortably, after watching the Perseid meteors for several hours, Eliza snuggled close to Harry and whispered in his ear, "I-I-I've got a confession to make."

Harry jerked just a bit, going fully awake. `Oh, oh,' thought Harry, `this cannot be good news.' His only audible response was an acknowledging grunt halfway between "huh" and "wha…?"

Haltingly, Eliza continued, "I-I-I'm afraid … afraid that I haven't been … entirely honest with you lately…. You, you remember how this was supposed to play out … companionship not commitment ... trying to have some fun? I'm afraid that hasn't turned out to be enough … for me."

Harry groaned and started to sit up, looking into Eliza's eyes. She was on the verge of tears. `Here it comes,' Harry thought to himself. `She's going to dump me for sure. She brought me all the way out here to dump me. Maybe it's for the best….'

Harry tried to say something aloud that made sense. "I'm.… I'm sorry that.…"

Eliza shushed him with a finger to his lips. "Please Harry, this is hard for me…. Please let me say my piece before I lose the nerve."

Harry gulped and nodded.

"I wanted our time together to be fun for the both of us … without adding to the crushing responsibilities that you face.… I was open to sex, to be sure, but I wanted it to be zipless. It's just that … everything's changed … with me, that is. I'm just not satisfied, I guess…. I've concluded that I need more than what we agreed upon.…"

Harry grimaced, but kept his mouth shut as she had asked. But the look on his face gave him away.

"Oh no, Harry…. It's not like that," Eliza pleaded. "It's nothing you've done…. Even with the sex part.… Oh, Harry, it's just what's happened to me … that's all."

`Oh, Hell,' Harry thought. `She's dumping me for sure, and for some other bloke no less.' He could stand the suspense no longer. He was feeling like he had been run over by the Knight Bus. She was hesitating, but he wanted to get it over with.

"Who is it?" Harry asked, not really wanting to know the answer, but looking to get closure through confirmation.

"Who- Who- Who is who?" Eliza stammered, looking lost. To Harry, she resembled a unicorn in the headlights, with her big questioning blue eyes staring into his.

"Who's the guy?" Harry repeated, although half of his brain was screaming at him to cover his ears because he really, really did not want to know.

As Eliza comprehended the question, a look of shock spread across her face, followed closely by something approaching relief.

It was nothing like that at all. Harry had misunderstood completely.

"It's you," she said. "I love you, Harry."

Harry went slack-jawed. His shoulders slumped as the blow he had been bracing for never came. Instead, his question had drawn a very different response from an entirely unexpected direction. He could not believe his ears.

"Yes, Harry," Eliza confirmed, her voice racing to get the phrases out before words failed her altogether. "That's what I've been trying to say … not very well, I guess. I love you. I've fallen in love with you. I didn't mean, or even want, this to happen, but … I just can't deny it any longer…. Not to myself, and not to you.…"

Practically weeping, Eliza threw herself into Harry's arms.

As Harry held her, he was sure that Eliza's unicorn-in-the-headlights expression had transferred itself to him. So many years…. So many words…. But never these words….

His head was filling with powerful, contradictory emotions - shock, disbelief, fear, wonderment, and (yes) love swirled around inside his head until he felt like his skull was about to explode.

Harry told Eliza something he had often thought, but had never before dared to express out loud. "As long as I can remember … all my life … nobody's ever told me that. My-My- My parents probably said it when I was a baby … too young to understand…. Your `I love you' is the only one I remember." Harry could tell he was close to crying too.

"If you'll let me, I'll, I'll, I'll tell you that every day for the rest of my life," Eliza responded quietly but firmly. She looked so fragile after her confession.

Harry stiffened. He was not over the L-bomb Eliza had just dropped, and now she was alluding to forever. "Eliza, I need you to know that…."

"Don't say it, Harry," she cooed gently. "I know that you don't feel the same about me - at least not yet. If you did say it, I think it would be a lie, and I've never known you to lie to me. I don't want you starting now. I just hope that you … might eventually grow to have feelings for me that approach what I'm feeling for you right now."

Eliza captured Harry's lips and pulled him into a passionate embrace. They fell together onto the softness of the floating Invisibility Cloak, lost to the rest of the world. For the moment, all conscious thought was banished from Harry's brain.

Presently, after their lips separated with a barely audible "pop," Harry asked Eliza, "How … how long have you known?"

Eliza answered, "I-I-I'd been attracted to you since the first time we met.…"

"I'll say," Harry broke in.

"…but the first time I really knew that it was … love … not just infatuation or physical attraction … was on that awful night when everybody died. You … you thought Death Eaters were attacking us, and you pushed me into that horrid hole you created. I couldn't see anything, but I could hear and feel explosions all around. With every shake of the earth, I thought you were going to die.… I thought I'd never see you again…. That was it. That's when I knew."

Harry said nothing, looking like a unicorn in the headlights. Thus, Eliza rambled on.

"I was frantic … completely beside myself.… I didn't care about myself any more. I didn't care whether I lived or died. All I knew is that I was in one place and you were somewhere else … and you were in danger and fighting for your life. I understood then that I couldn't bear to live without you anymore. If you had died, I wanted you to take me with you."

"If I'd been able to work that bloody Portable Hole, I'd have come to you straightaway, but I couldn't. So I had to lie there and listen to all those spells crashing around, thinking that any one of them might have killed you. I couldn't bear that. I curled up into as tight a ball as I could and prayed. I hadn't prayed - and really meant it - since I was a child. I was praying for you, Harry. That was love speaking, nothing else, nothing more, and nothing less…."

Harry had started out only half listening, but as Eliza bared her soul, he paid more and more attention. What he heard, and what he felt, made Harry ever more conflicted, and less and less certain about what he should do. The eeriest thing about it all was that it began to dawn on Harry that he understood exactly how Eliza had felt that night….

Harry understood because at that moment he realised that he had felt exactly the same emotions that very night, even though - as thick as he was about such things - he had not recognised them for what they were at the time.

It was so very much the same, yet again so radically different. Harry grasped that every word of Eliza's description mirrored his own feelings … at the moment his Auror's ring had glowed scarlet….

He had been frantic beyond measure - ready to risk anything and everything. He had shed all concern for his own safety. What he had felt at that moment had been far beyond Harry's usual "saving people thing." He had been ready to risk splinching himself by trying to Apparate someplace he had never been. The arriving Aurors practically had to restrain him physically.…

…from going to Hermione's rescue.

Hermione!!! Everything suddenly became clear to Harry. The fog lifted from his own emotional landscape. The cause of his confusion was laid bare.

He was in love with Hermione!

Eliza was accurately describing her love, but the love that Harry had felt was for Hermione. Harry knew that he would risk his life for Hermione every day of the week and twice on Sundays if necessary - and call it a bargain. Just thinking about his best friend in this new way caused a warm fuzzy sensation to fill Harry's brain and to light up his eyes.

That outburst of feeling, while intense, was short lived, because at that particular moment, Harry was not with Hermione. He was with Eliza. That presented the acute problem of his being in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong person. The situation was becoming more extreme by the second….

Eliza had just declared her love for Harry - and now she wanted to show him.

Taking Harry's stunned, thoughtful smile and the emotional glimmer in his eye as consent - or at least acquiescence - Eliza had resumed her advances. "Now that you know this isn't just some one-night stand, let me show you how much I love you," she purred. Her fingers were wandering onto his trousers again.

On one level, Harry knew it seriously wrong to let this go on, but he was becoming aroused in spite of himself. Bill's advice had been never to lead a woman - and especially this woman - along under false pretenses. But Bill had cautioned him not to hurt her either. At this time, in this context, Harry knew that if he revealed what he was really thinking, he would crush Eliza. It would be cruel to the point of inhumanity for him to break Eliza's heart by telling her that her declaration of love had just convinced him that he fancied someone else … let alone that the someone else in question was Hermione.

As Eliza's fingers busied themselves, he searched urgently for some half measure. There had to be something that would get him through this spot of serious bother without doing permanent damage either to himself or to Eliza. He needed something that would deflect Eliza's insistent sexual desires, or at least hold them at bay, until that he could get a calm moment to think about sorting out what he could only describe as bizarre circumstances.

With Eliza amorously crawling all over him, her hair in his face, her lips on his, and her hands increasingly inside his clothes, a crazy half-formed thought came to Harry. It probably was not the best idea. It might not even be a good idea. But at least it was an idea, and something was better than nothing.

Coming up for air after another of Eliza's mind-numbing kisses, Harry gasped, "Eliza, you were right, you know.… I'm not where you are.… I-I-I still need to take things rather more slowly.… Can you…? Can you first show me how to pleasure you?"

"Oh," Eliza responded hesitantly, not knowing whether she should consider this progress or not. Yielding to the optimism of her just-declared love, she quickly decided to make the best of it. "Sure, Harry… I'd looooove to."

She took Harry's hand and guided it to herself…. "The first thing to know is that whilst you come as long as you can, we can come as long as we want…."

* * * *

Set for 11:00 a.m., Harry's alarm clock rudely roused him from a strange dream combining his two most immediate concerns: Eliza and his impending speech in France. Still more than half asleep, Harry staggered forward, and his erratic hand motions generated an unbidden wandless spell that Transfigured his clock - into a rather noisy French tickler.

A few moments later, Harry's head cleared enough to comprehend what he had done … even if he had no idea how he had done it. Red-faced, Harry waved his wand in the characteristic motion for "Finite." He noted with relief that the clock returned to its usual state.

Mulling over that incident, Harry thought about how he had managed to get to this point. In retrospect, his bright idea to fend off Eliza had not been so bright. True, he had managed to get through the rest of the evening without having cynically used Eliza for his own pleasure, but the converse was most emphatically not the case.

True, he had also avoided crushing Eliza emotionally by confessing his epiphany - that she had inadvertently described his own feelings about Hermione more clearly than he, himself, had previously comprehended them. Thus, he had bought himself some time to think. The cost of that time, however, had been very high. In every other way, he believed that he had just made things worse.

Lost in thought, Harry robotically made for the loo and began washing up. He had to get ready for Reims.

But he was unable to stop thinking about it….

A neophyte at matters amorous, before last night Harry had had next to no concept of the sexual capacity of a genuinely aroused woman. Now he fully grasped how pathetic his own autoerotic experiences truly were by comparison. Nor had Harry anticipated how much he was going to be aroused by Eliza's own pleasure. Harry cleaned his glasses. He had to admit that, if he were not bigger and stronger than Eliza, SHE might have raped HIM.

Harry started to shave, using the electric razor he incongruously kept in a Hogwarts drawstring bag. He was still thinking about it….

Aided by the second Invisibility Cloak and an Imperturbable Charm, they had carried on for quite some time. After Harry's wrist went numb, Eliza breathlessly brought up something that sounded scandalous, but worked splendidly in practice … even if at times it had been somewhat difficult to breathe.

Harry helped himself to a rather overlarge dose of Uncle Vernon's greenish-blue antiseptic-smelling mouthwash…. He drank it straight out of the bottle….

Thus his jaw had wound up going the way of his wrist. After that, Harry had even showed Eliza the Orgasimos Charm. For once, Eliza was dumbfounded - but not for long. More arched back screaming followed. Finally, when it was nearly four in the morning, Harry used his upcoming speech as an excuse to Apparate back to Privet Drive.

Harry knew one thing for certain. He could not go on like this. It was not being honest to her, and it was not being honest to himself. Bill was hardly cold, and already Harry was ignoring his advice - advice that he had specifically solicited. Even though Eliza was clearly the sexual aggressor, he felt that he was leading her on. The longer he continued, the worse the fallout would be for the both of them.

Unfortunately, he could not spare any time at present. He would have to deal with that problem later. At the moment, he had to get ready for his speech in Reims. Nervously, he glanced over the parchment written in Hermione's neat script, marred only occasionally by his own messier interlineations….

Harry sighed. Once he had sorted out Eliza, he had to make things right with Hermione. At least with her he had the luxury of time. They would be together at Hogwarts….

Thus fortified in what he had to do, he fished his mobile out from under a stack of papers on his increasingly cluttered desk and dialed Eliza's number. One of the stacks wobbled, but Harry steadied it before it toppled and made a mess that he had no time to clean up.

Harry held his breath. One ring… Two… Three… Four. Eliza's answer phone came to life. For once, Harry was relieved to reach that infernal machine. In as calm and even a voice as he could muster, Harry left a message.

"Eliza? It's me, Harry. We need to talk … about things. Can I pop over to your flat this Friday, say around seven o'clock? Call me back. You know the number."

Harry was almost shaking as he put his mobile away. He was at sea, in uncharted emotional waters, and he knew it. The arrival of Hermione's owl Athena only underscored his dilemma. Athena bore a short note of encouragement from Hermione: "Good luck, Harry. Not that you need it. You're going to be great. I know it. I'll see you in Reims."

Harry sighed. He needed to straighten things out with Hermione badly - at least as badly as with Eliza. He had something huge he needed to figure out how to tell her…. But he had to do it right….

Right now, there was at least as much wrong as there was right…. Hermione had written him that note even though she must have known both whom he had been with the previous evening and approximately what they had been doing. Exactly how much she knew, he did not know. He was too ignorant of the finer points of their shared link to be able to say.

Shak collected Harry at Mrs. Figg's house. He saw to it that Harry was properly dressed in his formal Knight-of-the-Realm robes (without the cumbersome sword and shield), this time including the purple/black outer cape. He performed the Imago Vestmentae spell to make sure that everything stayed just so. Then it was off to Hogwarts to join the official party for the trip to France.

Upon arrival, Harry found himself once again breathing rarified air as a member of the official British party to Maréchal Delacour's state funeral. Cornelius Fudge, Amelia Bones, and Arthur Weasley headed up the Ministry contingent, ensuring that all of the political factions were represented. Also in the Ministry contingent was Percy Weasley, who, after a perfunctory conversation with his father, promptly attached himself to Harry like an annoying shadow.

Hogwarts was represented by Headmaster Dumbledore, Deputy Headmaster McGonagall, and (looking more dressed up than Harry had ever seen him) Hagrid. Several goblins were also present, although nobody that Harry knew.

Dumbledore led the group at a swift walk to the Quidditch pitch, where a huge, powder-blue, horse-drawn carriage was waiting. A dozen winged palominos the size of elephants waited placidly in their traces, heads lowered, drinking from buckets that Harry could tell from quite far away emitted a strongly alcoholic odour.

At the approach of the British party, the carriage doors parted and a physically imposing witch - easily Hagrid's size - disembarked. Harry instantly recognised Madame Olympe Maxime, Headmistress of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, the foremost institution of magical education in France.

Although dressed from head to foot in a gauzy black mourning robe, Mme. Maxime wore a distinct smile as she descended from the carriage. She reached out her hands to Hagrid, who strode forward to greet her. She planted kisses on both of Hagrid's cheeks, which promptly turned as red as his rather sunburnt ears. Chattering rapidly in French, she gave directions to a couple of liveried coachmen. Almost immediately, the British party was invited inside.

Harry had never seen such luxurious appointments, not even in the Ministry Silver Spur limousines that had taken him to the Ashrak. Everything seemed to be finished in leaded glass, silk, or velvet - right down to the blue cloth-of-gold brocaded seat belts. The coach had seating on three levels, and a massive crystal chandelier lit the open space in the middle.

Inevitably Percy ensconced himself in the seat next to Harry. He was going over and over the order of events. Shortly after takeoff, Minister Fudge briefly plopped himself down in the seat opposite Harry and explained that "to take the pressure off," Harry's speech had been scheduled before his own remarks and those of the French Minister of Magic. Harry could expect to be speaking to a packed house of over 1500 witches and wizards.

After Fudge left, Percy droned on about the minutiae of protocol. Because of Harry's claim to the Black inheritance, there was a minor religious complication involving the proprietors of the cathedral. Fortunately, that complication could be finessed. Harry had trouble paying attention. He noticed that there was a handle on the side of his seat, not unlike the handle on Uncle Vernon's recliner at Privet Drive. Thinking that propping his feet up would be more comfortable, Harry grasped the upholstered handle.

The effect was entirely unexpected. Instead of reclining the seat, the handle converted it into a full-sized sleeper compartment complete with blue satin sheets and perfumed pillows. Sleep, however, was one luxury Harry could not afford at the moment, so with regret, he pushed the handle forward again and the sleeper disappeared. Percy's continuing babble left no hint that he had even noticed Harry's brief disappearance.

`Anything would be better than Percy,' Harry thought. Then Harry caught the flash of Dumbledore's silver-sparked robes, looked up, and saw the Headmaster motion for him to follow. `Almost anything,' Harry corrected himself.

With reservations, Harry followed Dumbledore to an unoccupied row of seats on the second level of the carriage. They sat down across from each other.

Harry knew it was time for a serious conversation when the Headmaster silently cast an Imperturbable Charm around them.

"My understanding is that Percival is in for quite the shock this afternoon," commented Dumbledore.

"So you know, then?" Harry asked warily.

"Not only do I know, but I heartily approve," responded Dumbledore in a lighter voice. "Miss Granger informed Minerva of your plans, and Minerva naturally sought my counsel. I was somewhat concerned, of course, but since your stellar improvisation with the goblins, I have learned to trust your judgment on such matters."

"Where is Hermione, anyway?" Harry inquired nervously. "I rather thought she would be here. I know she was planning to come."

Harry almost instantly regretted the question.

Dumbledore sighed. "I expected her as well, but this morning I received word from Miss Tonks that Miss Granger would be making other travel arrangements. Apparently Miss Granger is somewhat indisposed. I did not press Tonks as to the cause."

The Headmaster's eyebrows were raised, and Harry sensed his unspoken question. "Don't press me either," Harry growled. "If she's upset because of me, I'll be handling it. I promise."

Dumbledore sighed even more deeply. "Very well. I need to see you both next week - together. Miss Granger has asked me to sever the affinity between the two of you. For that, you must be together. I would also like to recommence your Occlumency training, which has been disrupted of late."

Harry barely heard Dumbledore's last sentence. At the news that Hermione had requested the destruction of their mutual emotional link, Harry sunk his face into his hands. Apparently there had not been the luxury of time he had thought….

He was forcibly pressing his thumbs into the bottom of his jaw - determined NOT to break down in front of Dumbledore. After an awkward silence, he nodded his head slightly and choked out. "So be it…. It's always been her choice…."

Dumbledore pulled himself to his feet and looked down at Harry. "I shall respect your wishes and not pry," he said. "But I must ask, is there anything you would like to tell me?"

Harry thought about the events of the last fortnight, and how much his increasingly intense encounters with Eliza must have bothered Hermione for her to take this action. He thought about being ready to chuck it all and live as a Muggle, if that was what it took to work things out with Hermione. He thought about how he was intending to end his relationship with Eliza tomorrow. He thought about the reasons why.

"No." Harry replied.

Dumbledore invited Harry to look out the window. The Beauxbatons carriage was passing over Reims, presumably concealed by some sort of Invisibility Charm akin to what had - intermittently - shielded Mr. Weasley's long lost Ford Anglica. Reims was not a large city, counting less than 200,000 in population. In all respects the city's centre was physically dominated by the Cathédrale de Notre-Dame de Reims, one of the finest examples of Gothic architecture in the world.

In order to calm Harry, Dumbledore gave him a brief tutorial on the history of the building in which he would soon be speaking. Notre-Dame de Reims was begun in 1211 and, typically of Gothic construction projects, was not finished for some 250 years. It was a huge and elaborate stone structure, with damage from the last war only recently repaired. The seating area, consisting of the nave and choir, was 139 metres long and thirteen metres wide. The stunning ceiling, which surmounted numerous stained glass murals, was fully 35 metres above the floor. At 225 metres, the two west towers of the cathedral dominated the Reims skyline.

As fine an example of architecture as it was, the Reims cathedral's primary significance was historical. Between 1223 and 1825, no fewer than 24 kings of France, from Louis VIII to Charles X, had been crowned within its walls. The most notable coronation was that of Charles VII in 1429, which could not have happened without the cooperation of the French magical and Muggle communities. For that reason, Reims had also been the site of every important French Muggle-wizard treaty after that date.

As much as any place else in France (and, indeed in Europe) Notre-Dame de Reims signified the acceptance of magic by the Roman Catholic Church. The efforts of Ste. Jeanne d'Arc had led the Church to an understanding that all magic was not evil and a tool of the Devil - an attitude that still poisoned magical relations with many Protestant denominations (particularly in America). Recognition of the positive aspects of magic became even more firmly ingrained in Church policy with the advent of the Counter-Reformation and the rise of the Jesuits, some of whom were also wizards.

By the time Dumbledore had finished his story, a soft jerk signified that they had landed. Harry took a deep breath, and disembarked.

Harry thought, `I'm as ready as I'll ever be,' as the British delegation approached the crowd milling about on the steps beneath the ornately carved west entrance to the cathedral. Whilst most of the delegation plunged right into the crowd, Harry, Percy and Dumbledore hung back, waiting beneath an oddly out of place modernistic sculpture. They had one last prefatory ritual to complete. Soon enough the cantor of the cathedral strode out of the crowd. Even though Harry knew what was coming and what he was supposed to do, he found himself unaccountably nervous.

"You are Harry Potter?" the cantor asked - in English. Percy had made it sound like such an accomplishment when he had arranged for this conversation to take place in their native tongue.

"I am," replied Harry according to the script.

"Are you the legatee of the line of Merak Black?" the cantor asked.

"Not at present," Harry responded. "The patrimony is disputed. I may be in the future, but I am not now."

"Then you may enter," pronounced the cantor. "But you are warned that the Black legacy is subject to permanent personal and local interdict for schism, blasphemy and heresy. As the legal heir of Black, you will not be welcome here in the future."

"I understand," said Harry.

That was supposed to be the end of the conversation, but the archpriest produced an intricately sealed envelope and offered it to Harry. "As you are not of Black blood, there is interest in resolving the dispute, which is centuries old. Please consider the contents, and respond if you interest is mutual."

Confused and curious, Harry took the plain envelope wrapped in a yellow and white ribbon. It was addressed to "Hr. Potter." Harry made to open it, but the cantor raised his hand and remarked, "Best be done in private." Before shoving the letter into an interior pocket in his cape, Harry noticed embossed words on the reverse side that read, "Msgr. J. Echevarría, Prelature of the Holy Cross and the Work of God." Whoever he was, and whatever that was would have to wait, because the funeral of Maréchal Delacour was about to begin.

Seeing the plethora of wizards in formal robes similar to those worn by Dumbledore and Fudge made Harry more nervous than ever. As he walked the length of the nave with its soaring pillars of stone, he openly gawked at the arched ceiling far above. Even at Hogwarts he had never seen such intricate stonework.

With a start, Harry realized that, unlike almost everyone else, he had not brought flowers to leave at the almost completely bedecked bier of the deceased. Affecting a veneer of calm that he hardly felt, Harry produced his wand, performed the Liliaceous Charm, and conjured a large bouquet of - golden iris. How that had happened, Harry did not know. The charm had worked differently the last time he had used it.

Clutching the bouquet, Harry banished that momentary confusion from his mind. His luck was with him. Entirely by happenstance (or so it appeared), Harry had conjured the flower that was an immemorial symbol of France. His offering of fleur-de-lis oriflam did not go unnoticed, although none of the French was gauche enough to comment.

Returning from the bier, Harry was ushered to the speakers' section located near the junction of the transepts. He was more or less beneath the towering marble and mahogany pulpit from which the speeches would be delivered. Harry found a programme and learnt that his speech came close to the end of the ceremony, followed only by the addresses of the English and French Ministers of Magic.

All of the speakers were given a brief acclimatisation tour of the pulpit before the ceremony commenced. Harry noticed an odd Muggle device affixed to the balustrade just to the left of the lectern. He asked Percy what it was.

"Oh! That's an autocue. Handy little Muggle electrical device that helps you keep track of your speech. You activate with this switch, here, and control the speed with that dial, over there. The Minister swears by it.… Uses an autocue whenever he's in a Muggle location. I've taken the liberty of loading your speech into it…."

"No thanks!" exclaimed Harry a little more vehemently than the situation warranted. "Er … I don't need it and on such short notice I wouldn't know how to work it.… I've memorised my speech anyway.…"

The ceremony began, and all too soon it was Harry's turn to speak. Reaching the apex of the pulpit, he quickly scanned the audience. Finally he saw Hermione, who was studying him intensely, seated near the back, to his right. Harry could not help how he felt as he smiled at the girl who was, for all intents and purposes, the author of the speech he was about to give … and so very much more.

Clearing his throat, Harry placed his notes on the lectern. In so doing, he bumped the autocue screen. Annoyed, Harry made a hand gesture and muttered "Evanesco." The autocue disappeared, much to Percy's (and Minister Fudge's) surprise and chagrin. But their surprise and chagrin was only beginning. Not only did Harry's speech in no way resemble what Percy had written, but Harry was delivering it entirely in French.

"Sorcières et sorciers de France, je suis Harry Potter, et à cause de mon rapport avec mon tuteur, William Weasley, et à cause de son rapport avec Maréchal Delacour, ils sont tous les deux morts. Autant que je suis honoré d'être avec vous aujourd'hui au site de la plus grande réussite de la sorcellerie française, je donnerais tout ce que j'ai, et j'abandonnerais toute la magie que je possède, afin qu'ils ne soient pas morts. Mais il y a des choses qu'on ne peut pas changer."

[Witches and wizards of France, I am Harry Potter, and because of my relationship to my guardian, William Weasley, and because of his relationship to Maréchal Delacour, they are both dead. As much as I am honoured to be with you today at the site of the greatest accomplishment of French wizardry, I would give everything that I have, and surrender all the magic that I possess, were this not so. But some things cannot be undone.]

"Bill Weasley est mort à la main de Voldemort, qui n'est pas un seingneur mais seulement un autre sorcier malin. Moins de deux mois avant sa mort, Bill a consenti à ma demande qu'il soit mon tuteur. Il est mort comme mon tuteur précédent, et comme mes parents sont morts avant lui - et à la même main. Maréchal Delacour est mort en défendant Bill, et sa propre famille et foyer, contre cette attaque - et à la même main. Je n'ai jamais fait la connaissance de Maréchal Delacour. Je voudrais l'avoir connu. Sa force en guidant la résistance magique de France contre Grindelwald et les Nazis, est vraiment ce qu'il nous faut aujourd'hui."

[Bill Weasley died at the hands of Voldemort, not a lord but just another evil wizard. Less than two months before his death, Bill agreed to my request to be my guardian. He died just as my prior guardian, and my parents, died before him - and at the same hands. Marechal Delacour died defending Bill, and his own family and home, from that attack - and from those same hands. I never met Marechal Delacour. I wish I had. His strength in leading France's magical resistance to both Grindelwald and the Nazis is exactly what the strength that we all need today.]

"La première fois en plus de cinq siècles, un sorcier malin anglais a attaqué les français sur la terre française. Une marque de ténèbres anglaise a salli les cieux de l'Europe. La dernière fois que c'est arrivé, la sorcellerie anglaise et les moldus anglais ont conspiré pour éteindre la vie de la sorcière qui a sanctifié cet édifice même où nous sommes aujourd'hui. La magie noire a accompli ce que le feu ne pourrait jamais faire."

[For the first time in more than five centuries, an English Dark Wizard has assaulted the French on French soil. An English dark mark has sullied the skies of the continent. The last time this happened, English wizardry and English Muggles conspired to end the life of the witch who sanctified this very structure. Evil magic accomplished what fire never could.]

"Des décades sont passées, mais enfin toute la France a été libérée, et les anglais, mon peuple, ont été expulsés. Aujourd'hui, c'est l'Angleterre qui a besoin de libération - avec l'aide de toutes les sorcières et tous les sorciers du monde qui croient à la liberté de la magie. La France est attaquée, mais cette attaque fait partie d'un assaut beaucoup plus grand, la plus grande partie de laquelle s'est produite dans mon pays."

[It took decades thereafter, but eventually all France was liberated, and the English, my people, expelled. Today it is England that needs liberation - with the assistance of every witch and wizard everywhere who believes in freedom of magic. France has been attacked, but that attack is part of a much greater assault, most of which occurred in my country.]

"Un grand sorcier a dit, `Si l'on ne reste pas ensemble, on va tous être pendus séparément.' Cette fois-là, la France a aidé Benjamin Franklin et les americains. Il y a cinquante ans, un cracmol a offert à la France - et au monde - le sang, la sueur, et les larmes. C'était l'heure la plus magnifique de mon pays. Maintenant, je vous prie d'aider Albus Dumbledore et la communanté magique anglaise. Il faut qu'on débarrase le mond du fléau de Voldemort ensemble. Il n'y a pas de choix. Si l'Angleterre est vaincue, il n'y a pas de doute que la France va suivre."

[A great wizard once said, "If we do not hang together, we will all hang separately." France aided Benjamin Franklin and the Americans then. Fifty years ago, a Squib offered France - and the world - his blood, sweat and tears. This became my own country's finest hour. I ask you now to help Albus Dumbledore and the British magical community. Together we must rid the world of the scourge of Voldemort. There is no choice. If England falls, it cannot now be doubted that France will be next.]

"Maréchal Delacour aurait compris. Il savait la signification de déclarer `Un seul but la victoire.' Je vous remercie de fond de mon coeur."

[Maréchal Delacour would understand. He knew what it meant to declare, "Un seul but la victoire." Thank you from the bottom of my heart.]

On autopilot, Harry descended the stairs from the pulpit and sat down, breathing hard and almost unaware of his surroundings. He was done. The die was cast. A week of funerals was over.

Harry hoped he had not made a fool of himself - he thought the speech had gone rather well. There had been no fumbled phrases, although the word play in the Franklin quotation did not translate as well as he had hoped. At that moment, Harry wanted only go home for a richly deserved (he thought) evening of doing absolutely nothing. But he also wanted … as much as he wanted anything … to thank Hermione. It was up to him to begin their reconciliation….

The French knew of Harry Potter only by reputation. Throughout his speech, the curious standing-room-only audience had listened with such rapt attention that Harry had no idea how he was being received. That silence was broken with sustained stormy applause when Harry invoked the old Résistance slogan in his conclusion.

The overwhelmingly French crowd knew Harry's story, of course. The entire Wizarding World did. But nobody had expected a barely sixteen-year-old English boy to speak more than a few words, if any, en français - far less to deliver an entire speech in the native tongue of his hosts.

It took Harry a few moments to comprehend what was happening. The applause continued for what, to an increasingly embarrassed Harry, seemed like forever - longer than the speech itself. He had no idea how to respond. Fortunately, he did not have to figure that out.

Unseen amongst the standing, roaring crowd, Gabrielle Delacour had slipped away from her overcome sister and mentally absent mother. She found the aisle between the seats and sprinted towards the pulpit. Harry saw little more than a blonde streak running towards him and catapulting herself into his lap. "Magnifique! Magnifique! Mon héros merveilleux!" she squealed. If possible, the crowd roared even louder at the ten-year-old's public display of affection.

Gabrielle was not to be denied. A French deputy Minister of Magic surrendered his seat, and Gabrielle did not leave Harry's side for the rest of the programme. Only once did she even let go of Harry's hand - when he had to use his wand to end the spell that had evaporated the autocue so that a somewhat peeved (and even more embarrassed) Minister Fudge could deliver his own speech.

At the conclusion of the ceremony, Harry thought he caught a brief glimpse of Hermione coming towards him as he was engulfed by enthusiastic Gallic well-wishers. He tried to move in that direction, but all of a sudden Fleur was in front of him, looking typically stunning in the same form-fitting mourning robes that she had worn to Bill's funeral.

Fleur introduced Harry to her mother, who was plainly not at all there. The older woman had gone round the twist in a big way, and Harry assumed from Madame Delacour's blank eyes and slow movements that she was under the influence of a strong Sedating Potion. Fleur also prised Gabrielle away from Harry's side.

All the while Fleur was talking to him in breathless and rapid French. Harry was mentally exhausted, and he soon gave up even trying to translate what Fleur was saying. All he could pick out of the torrent of words were references to Bill and to Maréchal Delacour. Harry felt like his brain was turning to warm, pleasant mush.

"Fleur, don't you worry about a thing," Harry drawled in English. "I'm going to destroy Voldemort and any Death Eater that gets in my way. I've been taking combat training all summer, because I'm the only…."

Reflexively, Harry's Occlumency training brought him up short. Harry realized that he was strongly under the influence of Veela charm. Harry eked out, "Fleur, please stop. Why are you doing this to me?"

Fleur looked startled, and switched to her heavily accented English. "Oh, I am zorry, `Arry. It ees not intentional … zee `eat of zee moment…."

"All right," replied Harry a little warily. He did feel somewhat warm.

"…But you know, `Arry. Bill ees dead. Nuzzing you or I can do will bring `eem back. Zo eef I am to `ave les bébés zat you spoke of at Bill's funeral, I must find zomeone else to create zem…."

Fleur's mother was starting to wander away, so Fleur said "au revoir" and slinked off after her. Harry was thoroughly unsettled. Why had Fleur brought up creating babies - of all things?

Shaking off such thoughts, Harry again set about searching the crowd for Hermione. Unfortunately she was nowhere to be found, and a mass of French-speaking glad handers and autograph seekers constantly interrupted Harry's effort. After a fruitless forty-five minutes, he gave up and sought out Dumbledore for the long ride home.

* * * *

For Hermione the last two days had been a continuation of the downward spiral of her relationship with Harry Potter. Wednesday night had brought another onslaught of Harry's feelings from what was obviously another sexual encounter between him and that other woman. But the sensations from this encounter had been worse for Hermione than the others. Previously, they had been a muddle of lust, happiness, confusion and frustration. This encounter started out the same way, but then - in the middle of it - had come the unmistakable feeling of love.

Hermione was despondent. That shining beacon of emotion could not have been clearer. The natural progression that she had always feared was indeed coming to pass. Harry was transcending mere sexual desires and actually falling in love with Eliza - it was the oldest story in the world….

That emotion could not be ignored, denied, or wished away. The sensation of love radiating from Harry late that evening had been strong, pure, and powerful. Hermione felt all of her plans, hopes, dreams, and wishes turning to ash before her eyes. For once neither her intelligence, diligence, nor her creativity could save her. Eliza had beaten her. There was no longer anything Hermione could do….

The emotional link that Hermione had once thought would be her key to understanding, and winning, Harry's affections had instead becomr the engine of her destruction. Hermione surrendered. Not hesitating this time, Hermione wrote a strongly worded note to Headmaster Dumbledore demanding that her link with Harry be severed at the earliest practicable time.

After that, it took all of Hermione's discipline and will power just to write a short note of encouragement to Harry on the occasion of his crucial speech. She had largely conceived, planned, written, and strategised this speech. Her reward was the same as always. Harry had treated her as a useful friend, showering her with compliments, but that was all. As she wrote, Hermione repeatedly muttered "Evanesco" to remove her tears from the parchment. A friend was all she would ever be to Harry. Someone useful. A resource. Nothing more.

Under the circumstances, Hermione did not think that she could tolerate the emotional strain of being close to Harry for any extended period of time - not just yet. She decided to ask Tonks to tell Dumbledore to cancel the arrangements she had made to travel to Reims from Hogwarts. In her current state, she did not care to have any conversation with the Headmaster herself. She might let something indiscreet slip….

She would still go, of course. She could not bear to miss witnessing the culmination of her handiwork. Nor did she want to distract or worry Harry with her absence. Delivering a speech, in a foreign language, to a large, sophisticated audience, on unfamiliar turf…. That would be hard enough for Harry under optimal circumstances.

She would never add to his burden if she could help it. That was not her way.

Hermione slowly climbed the stairs to the roof of the house that she would soon be leaving for the last time. Next to the rooftop observatory - a gift to her from her father on the occasion of her thirteenth birthday - Hermione found Tonks in her usual post maintaining her usual lookout.

Hermione discussed with Tonks her desire to leave for Reims directly from home, and to avoid being intercepted by the Hogwarts party. Tonks sensed something was amiss, but had the good sense not to say anything. She had come to know Hermione quite well over the last few weeks as she had become her regular minder and been put in overall charge of her security. Tonks knew better than to push Hermione. She would talk only when she was good and ready.

True to her word, Tonks expertly put together some Portkeys and some international Floo transportation that brought the both of them to the cathedral on time and unnoticed. Hermione regretted that she was too hurried to investigate the cathedral's intricate architecture, but the less time spent there, the better. She was emotionally fragile at the moment. She did not want to risk anything that might cause another scene. This was Harry's moment. Hermione would do nothing to detract from it.

She sat near the back. At one point she thought Harry had looked straight at her. Almost immediately that cursed link told Hermione that she must be mistaken. Harry was not looking at anything. He was daydreaming about Eliza. She was certain of it. In his thoughts, she had felt a reprise of the unmistakable emotional signature of romantic love.

Harry had been magnificent - exceeding even her rather high expectations for him. The speech had been powerfully delivered in almost flawless French. The crowd's reaction had been overwhelming. Harry received far louder and more enthusiastic applause than anyone else, more than even the French Minister of Magic.

Momentarily conquering her anxieties, Hermione decided to talk to Harry after the ceremony ended. She had some trouble fighting her way through the crowd that surrounded him. She had almost succeeded when she felt it - Harry was feeling an intense sexual attraction that had left him almost completely besotted. Ever so briefly, the crowed parted, and Hermione saw Harry with Fleur, and Fleur was giving Harry a full measure of her Veela powers.

In this way, Hermione was forcefully reminded that, even if Harry's current relationship with that Eliza woman somehow foundered, someone else would be more than willing to fill the resultant vacuum. What chance did she have against someone as beautiful, accomplished, beautiful, rich, beautiful, suddenly available, beautiful, and mesmerising as Fleur Delacour if Fleur decided she wanted Harry? A snowball had a better chance in Hell.

At that, Hermione had turned on her heel and left the cathedral as fast as her feet could carry her.

* * * *

Upon Apparating to Mrs. Figg's house, Harry collected his mobile, which he tried never to take to Hogwarts because of the risk of magical damage. There was a message from Eliza, "Hi, Harry. I just called to say `I love you,' and to let you know that I've got an interview this afternoon at the Muggle May & Slaughter law firm. I don't know how they got my resumé, so I figure it's your doing one way or another. Wish me luck. I'll see you tomorrow night."

Harry did not feel like calling her back. He would be seeing her soon enough - for what he reckoned would be the last time. Early the following morning he would be leaving by international Portkey to see Ron, Ginny, and the rest of the Hogwarts picked seven play for the international interscholastic Quidditch camp championship in Denmark. Dumbledore had come through for him in that respect at least. Harry knew he would be needing that break.

He was about an hour into what had promised to be a relaxing evening in his room, when there was a soft knock on his door. Harry put down the copy of Black Ivory that he had been lackadaisically trying to read and found Dudley looking at him rather tentatively.

Harry said, "Come in," and his lumbering cousin limped into the room. Harry could see that he was still wearing large plasters to cover burns on both legs. The fibreglass cast on his left arm would be there for at least two more weeks.

"What's cooking, Dudders?" Harry asked languorously.

"I was hoping you could help me," Dudley croaked, in a half whisper. "I know you have them, and I was wondering if you could tell me how you deal with them."

"Deal with what, Dudley?" Harry asked, now paying better attention.

"Nightmares," replied Dudley, lowering his voice even more. "I've been having them almost every night since the fire at Gator's Gym. I hoped they'd get better on their own, but they haven't. I figure yours are even worse, so you've got to have something you take for them."

"Can you describe them for me?" Harry asked. He knew from hard-won experience that content was essential to any and all treatment of nightmares.

"Well, the basic dream is always the same," Dudley began. "I'm … I'm in the gym, working out, and then a flock of crows … what you called ravens … flies in from somewhere. Then the ravens turn into black hooded freaks … er … wizards.… I think, anyway…. They're sort of … like you … well not that way. They're all wearing some sort of masks; at least I think they're masks…."

Dudley was stumbling, but Harry was intrigued. This sounded too much like a classic Death Eater attack to be a coincidence. "What did they do?" he prompted.

"They had wand thingies like yours," Dudley continued. "They started destroying the gym, and trying to hurt everyone in sight with light and stuff coming out of those wands. Then things start to get different…. Sometimes I get away okay, sometimes I'm hurt, and sometimes I get hit by one of the flashes of light…. Then I wake up…. It's getting that I'm afraid of going to sleep at night…."

The more he heard, the less Harry believed that Dudley was describing nightmares. It was clear the Dudley was somehow having visions of the Death Eater attack that had come very close to killing him. For some reason, Harry had no idea why, the Memory Charm administered to Dudley after the attack was malfunctioning - somehow slipping whilst he was asleep. Harry's Auror training had taught him that supposedly repetitive dreams were the classic symptoms of incipient Memory Charm failure.

Harry decided that Dudley had become enough of a friend over the summer that he deserved to know the truth about what had happened to him. "Dudley, there's more going on here than you know. Do you really want to know what I think is the truth?"

"Yeah," his cousin answered, after only a moment's hesitation.

Harry performed a Silencing Charm. "You have to swear to keep this a secret," Harry told him seriously. "It's important and Mug … people like you aren't usually allowed to know things like this."

"I'm in," Dudley reaffirmed. "What's going on…? I'm scared."

"It's not a dream at all," Harry told his cousin. "The whole story about a gas explosion at the gym is phony. You were attacked by Death Eaters … evil wizards…. It's the same crew that's been after me. In fact, they went after you because they were trying to get to me. You survived because my karate teacher … the Chinese bloke, Lao Kung, was really a wizard assigned to protect you from exactly what happened."

"Shit," said Dudley. "But I guess it wasn't the first time, was it? There were those Demeanor thingies last year…."

Harry thought that Dudley would be scared out of his wits, but his cousin turned out to be surprisingly receptive to the notion that he had been attacked. Dudley was quite relieved that he was not going bonkers.

"Why couldn't I remember any of this except in dreams?" he asked Harry.

"It's because of what the wizard police do to Muggles who witness magic," Harry explained. "They wiped out your memory, and did the same to everybody else who was there, except with you they apparently didn't get it quite right…."

Harry got up, bent over, and popped open the loose floorboard. He pulled a small phial from amongst several hidden beneath it. "Here," he said to his cousin, "try some of this - only a bit at a time though. It's Dreamless Sleep Potion. I use it sometimes when I'm having similar problems. Use it only as a last resort … it's both powerful and addictive."

"Thanks," Dudley said, grasping the phial as if it were something rare and valuable - which, in actuality, for a Muggle it was.

"Then you need to decide what you want to do," Harry told him gravely. "If you'd rather not know … and get rid of the nightmares … I could call the Obliviators - those are the people who erase memories - back in and they could give it another go. Or you can stay the way you are, as long as you can keep the secret. What'll it be?"

Dudley pulled on his chin with his hand, thinking it over. There were advantages and disadvantages both ways, but ultimately Dudley decided, "I think I'll leave it. All in all, I'd rather know the truth."

Dudley was even more gratified when Harry used some of his recently learned field first aid techniques to heal the burns on his legs.

But as Dudley was leaving, he accidentally kicked Harry's chair and stumbled. He leant on the corner of Harry's desk to regain his balance and knocked over several stacks of papers with his ungainly, casted arm. Dudley hastily apologised for making a mess and tried to pick up the scattered sheets.

Harry had his wand out and was on the verge of telling Dudley not to bother when he saw his cousin suddenly freeze whilst staring mutely at one of the papers.

"Do… Do… Do you know this g-g-girl?" Dudley asked, wide eyed.

Harry got up, crossed the room, and discovered that Dudley was drooling over the erotic picture of Ron and Cho on a broom.

Harry was a little exasperated at his cousin. He never intended for Dudley - or anyone - to see that photograph. "Yeah, I do," Harry muttered. "That's Cho Chang, the girl I had half a date with last year. And her boyfriend's my best mate. What's it to you?"

"Holy shit!" Dudley exclaimed. "Some guys have all the luck. I-I-I know her…. Well I know of her, anyway. But not by that name…."

"Dudley, what are you on about?" Harry asked testily. Harry was genuinely confused by his cousin's reaction.

"That…. That girl…. She's Liko Mee. She's.… She's…. Well, to be blunt … she's a porn star on the Internet." Dudley finally choked out.

"What the Hell…?" Harry barked angrily. Instead of performing the A Priori Charm to deal with the mess, he pointed his wand threateningly at his cousin. "I'll not have you standing here and insult my best mate's girlfriend like that."

Dudley paled and quavered as he looked at Harry's wand pointed right between his eyes. But he did not back down before his magical cousin. "I'm … I'm serious, Harry. The girl you call Cho Chan, er … Chang, is also Liko Mee … a porn star…. I've got pictures on my computer. Let me show you.… You be the judge."

"You'd better be right," Harry cut him off gruffly. "Her boyfriend has four brothers and a sister. If you're wrong, you're going to have quite a few wizards using you for target practice."

"I know…. I've met some of them already…. Remember?" Dudley replied bravely. "But this time, I'm not wrong…. I swear it."

Warily, Harry followed Dudley into his own bedroom, where his cousin wordlessly booted up his computer, and clicked on some ambiguously named files. Soon the intended images appeared on the monitor.

This time it was Harry's turn to stare at the pictures in wide-eyed incomprehension. Dudley was right. That girl … if you could call her that … was Cho Chang. Having had a serious crush on Cho, Harry would recognise her anywhere, even if her eyes did look oddly blue and catlike in the downloaded photographs.

The images, however, were nothing like the Cho Harry knew. This was way beyond page three. She was completely starkers, or occasionally in impossibly revealing outfits. More to the point, she was engaged in all sorts of sex acts with various men, all of whom looked like they had used Engorgio Charms on their you-know-whats. Cho looked like she was enjoying herself immensely - and these were only non-moving Muggle photographs.

Weighing on Harry's conscience had been what he considered to be quite a bit of naughtiness with Eliza over the past fortnight. These pictures let him know that he had barely scratched the surface, if you will. The images seared Harry's brain as, entirely involuntarily, he found himself becoming aroused. How could she possibly fit something that big into…? Ugh, Harry did not even want to think about it.

Harry saw other odd things. Cho had some sort of round tattoo about midway between her navel and her … you-know-what. She had another tattoo - long and thin - sort of like a bird in flight, but not really, in the small of her back just above her you-know-where.

He was having a very hard time believing what his cousin was showing him - but seeing was believing. Breathing heavily, Harry collapsed into a chair, muttering, "Oh, shit…. Oh, Hell…. What will Ron think…? Ron will kill her for this.… No, he'll kill me first for telling him that his first-ever girlfriend is a…. What in Merlin's name am I going to do now?"

"Is there anything you want me to do?" Dudley asked quietly.

Harry sat there, staring into space. Finally he decided that he had to tell Ron - although he had no idea how and when. Even if Ron hated him for it, it was better than keeping something this big a secret, at least Harry thought it was. Ron might be unwittingly exposing himself to a fatal disease. Harry had never paid much attention, but he thought that some of the things Cho was doing in those photographs could transmit AIDS.

"Yeah," he sighed, with a defeated look on his face. Pointing to the thumbnails on the screen, he told Dudley to print him out copies of about a dozen specific photos. Harry tried to select pictures with a minimum of sex and a maximum of Cho's face, but it was not an easy task - since Dudley had originally selected these pictures for quite a different purpose.

"You keep those well hidden, I tell you," Dudley warned Harry. "Mum and Dad would have my hide if they knew I did this…. And I'll have yours."

It was a meaningless threat to an Auror-trained wizard, but even so Harry affirmed, "You have my word."

Still feeling stunned, Harry was soon back in his room. The night had turned into anything but the relaxing interlude he had hoped for. These pictures could ruin his friendship with Ron. But Ron obviously had no idea what was going on with Cho. Harry could not see himself simply standing aside and allowing Ron to be used like this. Cho's motives were entirely inscrutable, but to Harry they could not possibly be benign.

The situation was absurd, and absurdly delicate. It called for thoughtfulness and finesse, not precipitate action - for craftiness, not courage. Everything he could think of seemed to have twice as many drawbacks as advantages. Harry was no good at this sort of thing. Hermione, on the other hand, was a master at solving this sort of problem.

* * * *

Harry was up early Friday because he remembered that he had to write a letter to Blackie Howe. Blackie had told him he could hold off the Ministry for a while, but not forever. Even that had gotten dicier, as the prospect of the Black inheritance grew more likely. Harry had decided that his new guardian had to have no loved ones to leave behind. Sudden death was, if not part of the job description, at least a serious occupational hazard. He also wanted any new guardian to have a strong personality. To serve as a gatekeeper between Harry and everyone trying to get a piece of him, that was essential.

The answer had come to him last night in something of a dream. It was not a conventional pick, but it made sense. An Order member would also be easier to contact in an emergency - and Harry always seemed to be having emergencies. The main trouble was that Harry had no idea where the person he had picked was at the moment. He did not want to broach the subject with Dumbledore unless he was sure that the nominee would accept the selection. Thus Harry was writing a letter. Hedwig could find practically anyone.

But Hedwig was not there when Harry finished. `Out hunting probably,' Harry thought. He would have to send the letter in the evening, when he returned. He left the letter in plain sight on his desk, to remind himself to post it.

Friday's training was in defensive strategy - how to retreat under fire whilst maintaining order, how to anticipate and avoid ambush, how to conduct an evacuation, that kind of thing. It was a rigorous class with complicated simulations, complete with multiple attackers and, at times, panicky charges over whom Harry and Hermione were supposed to exercise responsibility.

Hermione could sense that Harry was troubled and tentative towards her. He had experienced some sort of panic attack the night before. Ordinarily she would have tried to find out what was bothering him - because that was what she always did.

But not today.

She really did not want to deal with Harry until the link was severed. Thus, she brought her large books again, and barricaded herself behind them when they had breaks, which was not often. She dodged him at lunch by claiming (partially truthfully) that she had some shopping to do in Muggle London, and that she was shopping for "girl things."

Finally, Harry could no longer take being put off. He told Hermione directly that he needed to talk to her after practice was over, and that it was urgent. Reluctantly, Hermione agreed.

Harry caught Hermione immediately when they had finished, and directed her into the first empty office he came across. He was very anxious, and found it hard to string sentences together.

The link betrayed Harry's uncertainty and embarrassment.

"Hermione, you've got to help me," he started. "You've got to help figure out how to tell Ron…." Harry stopped, not sure how to phrase this next part.

"Tell Ron about what?" Hermione asked impatiently. At least Harry was not asking for advice about Eliza.

"About Cho." Harry burst out. "About how she's… she's…."

"I assume that Ron knows far more about Cho than I do," replied Hermione coolly, "since he's never said a thing about her to me."

"It's not like that!" Harry replied hotly. "It's a hundred times worse! Ron doesn't know, but I do."

"You know what?" Hermione asked, puzzled. Harry was not making sense. His emotions were more and more jumbled.

Harry was getting rather red in the face, "That she's … she's … she's Liko Mee," he finally forced out. Hermione looked at him blankly, her eyes narrowed in concern - about him.

Harry did not know what else to do. Words were failing him. "Look!" Harry thrust the printouts from Dudley's computer at Hermione.

Reflexively Hermione took the photographs, but after one glance at them she pushed them back at Harry in disgust. "Harry James Potter, I don't know what's come over you, but I am not going to look at this filth…. I'm surprised and appalled at you."

Harry would not take the pictures back, but instead pushed Hermione's hands back towards her. "It's not like that…. No, it is…. Can't you see? It's Cho! She's Liko Mee! She's living a double…."

"I'm warning you, Harry, take this smut back," Hermione snapped.

"No, look at it. It's Cho. How are we going to explain this to Ron?!" Harry pleaded.

"I'm not explaining anything to Ron!" Hermione huffed, getting more upset by the second. "Take this back, I tell you. I feel unclean just holding it!"

Harry sensed that his explanations were being ignored. He appreciated that the pictures were pretty disgusting, but if Hermione would just look, she would see that the naked girl was really Cho. "You've got to believe me," Harry protested. He reached out and caught Hermione's left wrist. "Here, let me show you…. Please listen…. It's not like that…."

"Harry! Stop!" Hermione protested loudly. "Let go! You're hurting me!"

He was not listening to her. He kept on babbling absurd things about Cho Chang and somebody called Leeko Mee.

Being physically (and painfully) restrained by Harry pushed Hermione over the edge. Harry's romantic involvements - on top of her parents' preparations to move - had made her last week a living Hell, and Hermione finally snapped.

SMACK!!!

With her right hand Hermione slapped Harry with as much force as she could muster.

Harry immediately released Hermione's arm, as she screamed at him, "I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S GOTTEN INTO YOU LATELY, BUT AS LONG AS YOU'RE ACTING LIKE THIS, I DON'T WANT TO SEE YOU ANYMORE!!!" Her hair wild and disheveled, Hermione flung the offending pictures in Harry's general direction and fled - literally running out of the room in tears.

The pain brought Harry's hand automatically to his left cheek. Otherwise he remained motionless - rooted to the spot where it had happened. Too shocked and hurt for words, he stood there gaping, staring first at Hermione's back and then (for much longer) simply gawking at the empty doorframe.

All the while, Hermione's last words reverberated. "I don't want to see you anymore…." "I don't want to see you anymore.…" "I don't want to see you anymore.…"

Slowly the magnitude of the event sunk in - first to Harry's conscious faculties and from there as an intensely cold sensation seeping into his very bones. In his foolish and frantic attempt to "save" Ron from something Ron had no desire to be saved from (and which in any event was causing him no apparent harm), Harry had lost Hermione.

Harry's emotional façade crumbled. The door slammed itself shut, impelled entirely by his shock and grief.

He had lost Hermione.…

He had lost Hermione.…

Occlumency had helped with his nightmares, but this was even worse. This was real, and it was totally his own fault.

Harry started to feel faint. He sat on the floor until his wooziness passed.

Instinctively, almost catatonically, Harry pointed his wand at the scattered computer printout pictures of Cho/Liko that had assumed such great importance such a short while ago. One by one, Harry incinerated them. "Enflagrate," Harry repeated tonelessly a dozen or so times, too numb even to consider silent magic. With a final flick of his wand, even the ashes disappeared.

He got up. He started to walk. Harry was supposed to meet up with Elphias Doge for a routine trip home, but that was now the farthest thing from his mind. He needed to get away - now.

Harry walked wordlessly to the maintenance stairwell, ignoring everyone he passed. Even though he was "The Great Harry Potter" passing through the halls, the other witches and wizards shied away. They could sense magical power and intensity pouring out of him - and Harry's aura told all comers "I'm extremely confused and extremely hacked off and I don't want to be disturbed."

Once in the stairwell, Harry methodically climbed the stairs, flight after flight, until he reached Level B. Using the same deliberate steady gait, Harry stalked through the largely deserted corridors of Level B, retracing his steps from the night of the Ashrak. Harry reached the exit to Muggle London. Calmly, but firmly, Harry opened the various doors and passed through.

Somewhere along the way, Harry started replaying the events of the past 24 hours over and over in his mind, second-guessing his own actions from beginning to end. All the while Harry kept up a heated conversation with himself.

You should have left well enough alone…. After all, Ron was the last person in the world who wanted saving…. If you'd ever showed him those pictures, you'd find that Hermione's slap was a love-tap by comparison….

But it just wasn't right. What kind of friend would I be to let Ron date somebody who was concealing a secret life as a pornographic movie star?

You'd still be a friend of Hermione's, that's what.

* * * *

Why did I show her the pictures? Why didn't I just tell her?

Because Hermione never would have believed me without the photos to back it up. Hell, I wouldn't have believed me without seeing the photographs.

But Hermione never saw the photographs - or at least never looked at them.

* * * *

Why didn't I just write her a letter explaining everything, enclose the pictures, and let Hermione make up her own mind?

Because she was … is … Hermione, dammit. I'm supposed to be able to tell her everything.

Really? Have I ever once done that all summer?

Actually not. I never told her that I fancied her, for one thing.

I didn't know that until just recently.

Oh, I knew it all right…. I just wasn't clever enough to figure it out, that's all.

Bloody late on the uptake, then. I'll never have that opportunity again, that's for sure….

* * * *

Harry had no idea how far he had walked. In Muggle London, even moreso than in the Ministry, nobody bothered Harry or tried to puncture his melancholy trance. No Muggle in his (or her) right mind would want to approach a disheveled teenager in full-length black robes who was constantly muttering to himself and appeared to be off in his own world.

Harry was finally jolted back to reality not by man but by machine. He happened to be passing the Houses of Parliament when Big Ben announced that it was 8:00 p.m.

* * * *

Eight o'clock on the first day of the rest of my life.

Why didn't I think to talk about this with Eliza first? She's a girl, and she could have told me that Hermione would have been mortally offended. Even if Eliza were offended, it wouldn't have been that great a….

"Oh shit!" Harry exclaimed aloud. "Eight o'clock. I was supposed to be at Eliza's a half an hour ago."

As he urgently looked for a secluded place from which to Apparate, Harry reflected upon the incongruity of it all. He had originally made this date because, upon hearing Eliza explain how SHE had fallen in love with HIM, Harry had concluded that HE was in love with HERMIONE rather than her.

Harry had resolved to end his relationship with Eliza because he felt he was using her and leading her on. In short, Harry intended to break up with Eliza because he wanted to be with Hermione instead.

"Fat chance of that ever happening now," Harry grumbled.

Not finding anything better, Harry crouched down between a parked delivery lorry and a caravan and disapparated. A moment later Harry arrived at Eliza's without the slightest idea what he was going to say or do.

* * * *

Eliza was getting nervous … on the verge of panic was more like it. She had already almost swooned less than an hour earlier. She had been doing some last minute tidying up when, without warning, she had felt faint - only dimly aware of her surroundings, as if she were going to float away….

Not that it had been terribly unpleasant, just passing strange. She had felt vaguely happy. In another circumstance the sensation might even have been pleasurable, but not this evening. Fortunately, the episode was brief, and Eliza shrugged it off. She picked up the mini-Hoover she had dropped, took a Muggle iron pill, and kept on going. She had to be ready for Harry.

Now that she was ready, Harry was nowhere to be found. It was most unlike Harry to be late. She had had a bad feeling about this date from the moment Harry had made it. Harry had seemed different - more reserved, less enthusiastic - than any other time he had asked her out.

Afraid that she had pushed Harry too far, Eliza tried to compensate with a romantic meal. The candles were burning low in their holders when her mobile rang. She grabbed for it like a drowning person seizes a life preserver.

Breathlessly, she babbled into the phone, "Oh, Harry, I'm so glad that you called. Where are you…?"

A strange voice answered, "Sorry, but I'm not 'Arry, I'm Mundungus, his … er … bodyguard. So 'e's not there either, I gather."

"No he's not. Why are you ringing me…?"

The doorbell rang. Looking through the peephole in the door, she saw the man she had come to love.

"Harry," she squealed almost involuntarily.

"Thank Merlin," Mundungus Fletcher exclaimed, having overheard. Then he hung up.

As she opened the door, Eliza was excited and worried at the same time.

* * * *

Author's notes: Terra incognita is what ancient mapmakers called the unknown parts of the Earth

Hermione's suppositions about the prophecy are somewhat accurate, but terribly mistaken in a critical respect. That is reiterated here due to its importance

The non-magical fire is, of course, a clue to future developments

Vyacheslav Molotov was the Russian foreign minister who plotted the Russo-Finnish War. The Finns named the improvised gasoline bombs they used against Russian tanks after him

"As far away as humanly possible" - another clue, this time for the geographically inclined

The M1 is the route between London and parts north. Near London it is three to four lanes in both directions

The location and description of Sherwood Forest is accurate

The Perseids are a real meteor shower. The descriptions of how it occurs, and when it starts, are accurate, as is the date upon which it occurs in 1996

The use of a charge-coupled device in astronomical photography is accurate

I don't remember an invisibility cloak used this way in fanfic, but it seems logical

Zipless, as a description of sex, comes from Erica Jong

Hermione's a triple first, but not the first person to tell Harry, "I love you"

Eliza's "every day" speech is also a clue

Call it a bargain (the best I ever had), from Bargain, by the Who

A French tickler is a textured condom designed to increase sexual pleasure

"She might have raped him" - this recalls a scene from "Time After Time" in which the diffident H.G. Wells character is faced with a similarly aggressive woman

Harry's wrist going numb - from the line in Zappa's "Dinah-Moe-Humm"

Harry's uncharted waters parallel Hermione's terra incognita

Here's my guess at the interior of the Beauxbatons carriage

Most of the description of the Reims cathedral is accurate. All of its history is. The one exception is the height of the spires. I chose the height as a ratio of the length, which is accurate

The conversation with the cantor introduces something that is primarily a next-summer/seventh-year element

"Msgr. J. Echevarría, Prelature of the Holy Cross and the Work of God" - a real person and a real organization, although not ordinarily known by its formal name

Golden iris are the original fleur de lis

An autocue is known in America as a teleprompter

I hope my French is passable. It's been a long time since I've studied it, and it gets little use

Recurrent themes - Franklin as a wizard and Churchill as a Squib. Harry's speech quotes Franklin and paraphrases Churchill

"Un seul but la victoire" is a Resistance slogan

There is a prestigious law firm in England called Slaughter & May. I inverted the name

The "What'll it be" comes from "Paradise by the Dashboard Light"

"Liko Mee" is a triple entendre, but if you don't get it, I'm not telling

Blue and catlike is a clue to what eventually happens

"Page three" is a reference to the quasi-erotic photos on the third page of some British tabloids

The round tattoo is of cosmic importance

Big Ben is part of the building housing Parliament

The description of Eliza's vertiginous feeling is a clue

60

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch26 from Reims to ruin.doc 11/19/04

1

-->