Bearings by MattD12027

Rating: NC17
Genres: Drama, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 10/10/2006
Last Updated: 27/05/2010
Status: Completed

Restless and disenfranchised following his defeat of Voldemort, Harry leaves Britain to continue
his education... With new direction for his life, Harry takes on the Wizarding world the only way
he knows how: head on. COMPLETED.




1. Prologue: Exodus
-------------------



**Bearings**

Disclaimer/Author's notes: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. And here we go folks, off the deep
end once again…a lengthy introduction here, setting up at least some of what's to come. Please
leave a comment if you feel so inclined.

*I'm falling apart again
And I can't find a way to make amends
And I'm looking in both directions
But it's make believe, it's all pretend*

*It's innocence within the maze
But I have chosen the wrong way
I'm still getting over who I was
There's no sense of trust, there's no definition of love*

*Shinedown*

*Shed Some Light*

Prologue: Exodus

May 1998

Harry pushed open the doors of the Hospital Wing, being careful not to jostle the tray of
potions in his hand, and strode over to where Madam Pomfrey was sitting. The elderly mediwitch was
tending to a fifth year student whose name Harry couldn't quite recall. That should have made
him feel guilty, but he wasn't. He wasn't feeling much at all these days, just mindlessly
traveling back and forth between the injured and dying and the dungeons, brewing potions as best as
he could along with anyone else who was healthy enough to.

It had been four days since Voldemort's final offensive, and the Wizarding World—what was
left of it, anyway—was still reeling from the losses incurred, all the while trying to find a sense
of celebration in their ultimate victory. Voldemort had amassed his troops at three points, all of
which were key to the ongoing survival of the Wizarding populace. The Ministry of Magic and Diagon
Alley were hit very hard, but the Death Eaters had eventually been defeated at both locations.

The third prong of his army—and the most powerful, because it included him and all of his most
trusted confidants—hit Hogwarts. The castle's outer defense, which consisted of enchantments
and protections left over from Dumbledore's tenure, had held for a long time, long enough in
fact for some reinforcements to arrive, but they had only taken down about one third of the Dark
army by the time they fell. That left approximately three hundred students, of which only eighty or
so were capable of magical combat, a dozen or so professors, and about twenty hastily assembled
Aurors standing against one hundred fifty Death Eaters…and Voldemort himself. Somehow, though, the
students and teachers ended up on top, perhaps because they knew more about the school, or they
were more desperate, but in the end, it came down to Harry and Voldemort, as it had been
prophesized. Others tried to step in to help, but they were soon swept away by the Dark Lord's
significant power.

Harry didn't know how he did it, but he found some new magical strength within that allowed
himself to stand against the barrage of Dark magic. It wasn't some righteous feeling, or even
desperation, that fed his actions; it was just an emptiness, magnified by Voldemort's
ever-present malignance in his life. He didn't hate the man, in fact he probably *hated*
Severus Snape more than Voldemort—it was something more than hate. It was disbelief. Harry Potter
couldn't believe that some being, who was probably nearing one hundred years in age, could just
kill so many without any thought at all. It went against all of his ingrained beliefs. Voldemort
was like some horrible caricature found only in Muggle comics—the evil arch villain who knew no
limits.

But this wasn't a comic. This was real, and Harry had fought for his very existence
throughout the halls of Hogwarts versus that caricature. Their duel had carried them from the Great
Hall all the way to the Astronomy Tower, with Voldemort using just about every curse at his
disposal, and Harry using few comparatively. In a moment of pure inspiration, or perhaps stupidity,
Harry had leapt from the top of the Astronomy Tower, summoning his Firebolt as he did so. Just an
instant before he reached the ground, it had caught up to him, and he soared back to the top,
fighting Voldemort from his broom. Curses weren't working though, so he did one final thing—he
flew right into the man, sending him flying off the tower and plummeting to his death.

Harry had had little time to celebrate though, because the battle was still being pitched within
Hogwarts. He had rushed back into the fray, saving as many as he could. In the end, nine students
and three teachers had been killed, along with about a dozen Aurors. The Death Eaters were not so
lucky, fortunately, as their surviving numbered less than twenty.

A mass funeral had been held the next day, for everyone who had died, which including Pomona
Sprout, Rubeus Hagrid, Filius Flitwick, Dean Thomas, Parvati Patil, and countless others who had
fought valiantly. Harry sat through the funeral with the five others who had been at the Department
of Mysteries with him at the end of his fifth year, not really listening to the various eulogies.
It was all he could do to stop staring at his five friends, each of whom had fought fearlessly.
Truthfully, he was wondering how they all could have made it out alive. He had thought that
everyone who mattered to him was going to die, because that had been the direction his life had
been going in.

But…here he was, three days from the funeral, trying to pick up the pieces of his shattered
world, along with everyone else that had been spared. He set the tray of potions down on the side
table next to the bed he was near, and turned to Madam Pomfrey.

“That's the last of them,” he said.

She barely acknowledged him; he knew she must have been utterly knackered. “That's
fine.”

Harry stood there for a moment, unsure if he should say anything to comfort the mediwitch, but
he realized there really wasn't much he could do. She was doing her job, just as he had done
his when he'd sent Voldemort over the edge of the tower.

“You should get some rest,” he said, softly. She nodded vaguely and waved him away, so he
shrugged lightly and turned to the door. Curtains mostly surrounded the beds he passed, but a few
of them weren't, and what he saw was enough to send his stomach roiling. Colin Creevey had been
magically burned, and what was left of his face was barely recognizable. He was in a potion-induced
coma—that much Harry knew—and would likely be there for a very long time. An Auror, now legless,
occupied the bed next to the door. A well-placed cutting curse had rendered the man useless below
the waist. There wasn't even a twinge of sympathy, though…only that same sick sensation he had
felt when he looked at Colin.

Harry couldn't feel sympathy anymore; he was too desensitized to all of the violence and
suffering. It had been going on for far too long, for the pettiest of reasons, that caring was just
too much effort. He had done his job, and he was doing his best to help everyone recover, but he
knew something about his attitude had changed. He just didn't *care* as much as he used
to. It had all seemed so pointless.

Sure, Voldemort was dead, but what did that change in the Wizarding World? All of the prejudices
Tom Riddle had fed on were still ripe for the picking, and would always fester just beneath the
surface of the magical society. The leadership was still mostly intact, so there was little hope
many policies—policies that had allowed the rise to power of someone like Voldemort in the first
place—would be changed. Harry was not stupid, and actually had more global awareness than people
gave him credit for, and he was sure it would happen just as it had countless times before in other
places: some traumatic event would alter people's perspectives, but they would eventually
forget and life would return to the same way it had been before.

Harry grew more and more frustrated as he traversed the empty corridors, making his way back to
the Gryffindor Tower. If nothing would change, what had happened four days before? Why did all of
those people, good and bad, have to die if in the end nothing much would change? Give it a few
years, and Harry was sure Voldemort would just be a bad memory, and people would be attempting to
move on, probably shunning stories or recollections of the last two dark years. They would want to
forget, to move on, but Harry knew better. Forgetting was not moving on. Forgetting was forgetting;
it was covering up something people didn't want to remember, or couldn't. The Wizarding
World couldn't face the blame for what had happened, and therefore would attempt to ignore it
all.

As Harry stepped through the portrait hole, all of these thoughts were burning through his head.
His five friends were strewn about the couches, not saying much, and they all looked toward him
when he came into view. They must have seen some of what he was thinking on his face, because Ron
spoke up.

“Who died?”

A week ago, Hermione would have admonished Ron for such a direct question, and Ginny surely
would have told her brother off, but not today. Hermione just raised her eyebrow at Harry, probably
wondering the same thing.

“Huh?” Harry asked, as articulate as ever.

“Your face, mate. You look like shite.”

Harry rolled his eyes at Ron. “Thanks,” he said dryly. Ron just shrugged. That same numbness, or
perhaps it was apathy, that Harry had been feeling these last few days had seemed to spread to his
five friends, because none of them pushed him for the answer to Ron's question, nor was there
any kind of reaction—at all, from Hermione even—to Ron's use of profanity.

Harry laid down on an empty couch, stretching out to his full length. He sighed and put his
hands under his head; he stared at the high ceiling of the common room.

“No one died,” he said.

“Oh,” was all Ron said. A silence, one that was neither comfortable nor uncomfortable, settled
over the six teenagers. It was just a silence, if for no other reason than no one had anything to
say. Just about everything that could have had already been said within the last four days.

Finally, Luna, of all people, broke it. Her voice had been much less vacant these past four
days, and Harry was still getting used to it. “What are you thinking, Harry?”

Harry blinked once, and then turned his head to look at her. He noticed that the five of them
were now staring at him.

“Honestly?” More expectant staring. “What was really accomplished?”

Some part of Harry was amused to see Hermione open her mouth to respond almost immediately, and
then that part was surprised when she closed it directly after. He had been expecting her to
respond, but when she didn't, the question seemed more valid than it originally had.

Before anyone could actually answer, though, the portrait swung open. They all turned their
heads to look as McGonagall made her way through the low passage. She straightened up, saw them,
and immediately made her way toward the couches.

“Professor,” they all said in one form or another.

She nodded at them. “You lot look quite busy,” she said, although Harry knew she hadn't come
in here just to make small talk.

“Not much to do…” Neville said, trailing off.

McGonagall nodded again. “Well, I just wanted to inform all of you that the rest of this
year's classes and exams are canceled.”

A horrified look flew across Hermione's features. “But…what about NEWTS?” she asked her
Professor.

McGonagall smiled wanly, probably the first smile Harry had seen on her face in several months.
“The Board has decided, in light of recent events, that your NEWT scores will be determined by your
grade in that respective class.” She gave them a moment for this to sink in.

“That said, I know how hard the six of you have been working this year, and I doubt that you
have anything to worry about.”

What she said was true, because Harry and his five friends had buckled down during the past year
of school and studied very hard. They had known the war was intensifying, and wanted to be as
prepared as they could be. It had paid off, because Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Neville were all in
the top ten for seventh years; Luna and Ginny were first and fourth, respectively, amongst the
sixth years.

“So…how long are we going to be here?” Harry queried.

“The Express leaves from Hogsmeade three days from now. Until then, you can spend your time
gathering your things, saying your goodbyes…”

“What about graduation?” Ron asked.

“I'm sorry, but a ceremony just isn't possible this year. We plan on mailing your
certificates,” McGonagall said, a note of real remorse ringing in her voice.

“What about for Luna and I?” Ginny asked. “Hogwarts will be open next year, right?”

“At this point, I would say yes, but a lot can happen between now and then. The Board is still
considering that issue. I'm sure you will receive a letter, one way or the other, sometime in
early August.” She turned her attention to the four older teens.

“If I may ask, what are you lot's plans?”

Ron, Harry, and Neville shrugged, but Hermione had an answer. “I was thinking about possibly
interning at the Ministry…but I don't know how badly the battle there affected things.”

“I'm sure with your excellent grades you can do whatever you want Miss Granger. I was just
wondering if there were plans, at all. Mr. Weasley? Potter? Longbottom? Any ideas?”

“Something with Herbology, I'm sure, though I haven't really thought that far ahead,”
Neville said, and Harry thought he saw a glimmer of something on McGonagall's face.

“Eh….I don't know. I thought about Quidditch, but I don't know if I could take so many
bloody losses with the Cannons.”

“There *are* other teams, Ron,” Ginny told her brother. He just rolled his eyes at her.

“Mr. Potter? What about you?” McGonagall asked, directing her question to just Harry this
time.

He shrugged. “I haven't thought about it. Honestly, I wasn't expecting to live this
long.”

The silence that followed was deafening. McGonagall and Hermione were glaring at him, Ron and
Neville looked uncomfortable, and Ginny and Luna were just shaking their heads.

“Harry, how many times have I told you—” Hermione began, but Harry raised his hand to stop
her.

“What? It's the truth. I've never really truly considered the possibility of life after
Hogwarts, and therefore I do not have any plans yet.”

“Well, Mr. Potter, I suggest that you give that some serious thought during the next few days. I
would hate to see talent and brains like yours go to waste doing something below you.” He locked
eyes with her for a second, seeing the disappointment from what he had said, but he didn't
care. He didn't have to live up to anyone.

He shrugged again. “I guess.” He turned his head back and resumed staring at the ceiling.

McGonagall cleared her throat after a moment, returning the bulk of the attention in the room to
her. “If you have any questions before you leave, my door will be open. Good day,” she said, and
turned to leave. Various good byes were called out, but Harry remained silent. As soon as the
portrait closed, Hermione turned to Harry.

“That was awfully rude, Harry,” she said. Her tone wasn't condescending or angry; she was
just stating a fact. Nevertheless, Harry became annoyed. He rolled off the couch into a standing
position and headed for the exit. He didn't acknowledge what Hermione said, preferring to
remain silent.

“Where are you off to?” Ron asked. He sounded slightly annoyed.

“It's bloody suffocating in here,” Harry muttered, loud enough for all to hear. “I need to
clear my head. Think I'll go for a fly.”

As the portrait slid closed behind him, he was greeted by wonderful silence once again. He stuck
out his hand and summoned his broom to him. It rounded the corner in a matter of seconds and sailed
into his open palm. He passed no one on his trek through the castle, although all over were the
scars of the battle that had taken place just four days earlier. Magical scorches on the walls,
large divots on the floors, some tipped statues…no one had gotten around to cleaning everything up
yet.

As soon as he had crossed into the sunny day, he mounted his broom and shot into the air, hoping
to bleed off some of his irritation and numbness with the speed he could coax from his Firebolt. As
he swung low over the Lake—low enough to have a slight wake behind him—his thoughts turned to what
McGonagall had said. He was done with his education, at least as far as Hogwarts was concerned.
Yet, he really had no idea what he wanted to do.

Financially, he could never work a day in his life and be set, but he knew that wasn't an
option. Boredom would quickly set in, and that would be far worse than any job he could have had.
The problem was everything he had thought he was interested in, one being Aurorship and the other
being Quidditch, seemed quite lackluster now. He'd had enough Dark Wizard-hunting for one
lifetime, so being an Auror was completely and totally out. As for Quidditch…well, let's just
say he wanted to do something more meaningful than flying a broom and being followed by groupies.
Even if it wasn't profound, he knew it had to be something that was personally satisfying.

He turned, rising a little, and flew over the dark Forbidden Forest. What options did that leave
him? What was he interested in? Well, for one thing, he knew he could lead, and was actually very
comfortable in a leadership position. The last eleven months had solidified that feeling. He also
knew that he was very book smart, if he applied himself like he had over the past year, and that
learning new things was actually very interesting to him. Other than that…he didn't know. As a
Hogwarts student, he had spent too much time defending his life to really think about his options.
And, as he had told McGonagall, he had never considered the definite possibility of life after
Voldemort.

He turned around and sped back toward the castle, pushing his broom to its limits, reveling in
the wind as it whistled past his ears. Hogwarts' grounds soon came into view, and he went in
for a smooth landing by the shores of the lake. As he stepped off his broom, he noticed that he was
directly across from the White Tomb, and brief pang of loss washed over him. He and Dumbledore had
had their fair share of problems, but he knew that if the old man was still alive he could have
gone to him with his current problems. Anger then flared up briefly, at Severus Snape, but that
died quickly when he remembered hearing that Snape had been killed at the attack on the Ministry.
The greasy git had gotten his comeuppance after all.

He shook his head. He was losing his train his thought. Had he figured anything out? Nope. With
an almost-but-not-quite rueful smile, he turned and made his way back toward the castle.

----------

“I think I'm going to pack,” Ginny said, standing abruptly from her chair by the hearth.
Harry glanced at her briefly, noting that it was now dark outside, and looked back toward the small
fire. The six of them had just returned from dinner in the Great Hall, a subdued affair for sure.
McGonagall had told all of the students present what she had told them earlier in the day, and many
had had the same questions. Some of the younger years looked quite lost when she said that she was
unsure if Hogwarts was reopening, but Harry didn't think twice about it. He wasn't coming
back after he left on that train in the next few days.

Harry stood and leaned against the hearth, crossing his arms over his chest. Some part of
him—some part that was disembodied—mused that he must look quite foreboding, creating stark
silhouette against the fire. It was a barely tangible thought, but even so, it brought a curious
smile to his face. He then realized his name was being called, and he looked over to see who it
was.

“Huh?” he grunted. It had been Neville saying his name.

“Alright there, Harry?” he asked, with a raised eyebrow. “Said your name several times.”

“You've been distant all day, mate,” Ron said.

Harry shrugged, which he'd been doing a lot of recently. “Had a lot of things on my
mind.”

Ron nodded. “Where are you going when we leave? The Burrow? Grimmauld?”

An interesting question, because that was something else Harry had given no thought. “Dunno
yet.”

“You need to start making decisions, Harry,” Hermione smartly informed him. As if he didn't
know that already.

“Thanks, Hermione.” His gaze refocused on the fire crackling in the hearth, and although he
really didn't need to derive any warmth from it, he found comfort from it's changing,
living, and coalescing presence.

“I should resume my packing as well,” Luna said, and Harry heard her start for the exit of the
common room.

“I'll come help,” Ron said quickly.

Harry could almost hear the smile on Luna's face. “You can't get into my dorm,
silly.”

“We'll think of something,” Ron said, although his voice had grown softer, and soon enough
the portrait had swung closed behind them. Harry briefly entertained questions of what Ron and Luna
had between them, but he quashed them with his mantra of late: he didn't really care. He heard
Neville get up soon after, and listened as he went to the dormitory stairs and climbed them. He was
still staring at the fire as Hermione sidled up next to him. She rested a hand on his shoulder.

“What's the matter, Harry?” Harry looked at Hermione. The firelight danced across her
features, and he really *looked* at her for the first time in awhile, it seemed. She was
without her school robes or uniform, wearing simple Muggle jeans and white t-shirt. Her hair was
set in a loose ponytail; he noticed that she had small dark circles under her eyes, but otherwise
her face was as unmarred as ever. She was staring at him intently, searching his face for the
answer to her question. She had crept into his personal space when he wasn't paying attention,
and he found himself a little uncomfortable. Not uncomfortable that she was there…just more so that
they rarely were this close together.

And, as if something had slapped him across the face, he noticed the curves of her hips and her
ample bosom. When had Hermione become a woman? When had she grown up? Had he been so preoccupied
with the war and the Prophecy and Voldemort that he hadn't noticed his friend growing into the
fine young woman she was? He became frustrated then, frustrated at the world for allowing him to
miss something as simple yet *key* as that. It wasn't as if he was attracted to Hermione,
but he certainly had never done her justice before.

“Er…” he managed to say, thoughts still swinging wildly around his head. Hermione smiled blandly
at him.

“Always clear about what you want to say?” Her tone was light, though he could still hear that
previous concern.

“Sod off,” he said, jokingly, and smiled slightly in return.

They remained looking at each other for a moment, but Hermione asked again eventually: “So, what
*is* the matter?”

Harry sighed and ran his hand through his unruly mop of black hair. “Nothing, really…” She just
glared at him.

“What? I don't *know* exactly what's bothering me. I'm just restless,
that's all.”

She seemed to hesitate for a moment before asking something else. “Is it…is it because
you've fulfilled the Prophecy.”

“*Fuck* the bloody Prophecy,” Harry said, watching her wince at his language. She
didn't verbally admonish him though; rather, she just stared at him, as if she expected him to
go on. “I never did take much stock in that stupid thing.”

“But then…?” She left the rest of the question unsaid.

“Voldemort killed my *parents*, Hermione. He killed Cedric and Sirius. If anyone deserved
to kill him, it was me. Like I said, the Prophecy was rubbish.”

“So why the restlessness? You could probably do anything you wanted now, you know.”

“Why, because I'm the Boy Who Lived?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“I've always hated that name,” Harry interrupted her, quietly. His eyes were drawn back
toward the fire.

“I know you do, Harry. But if you have options, why not use them?”

“Because I refuse to use my name to get me anywhere,” Harry said, resolutely. And he was
serious. He never wanted any advantage over someone just because his name was Harry Potter.

“Oh, don't be mental, Harry, that's not what I meant.” He merely raised an eyebrow at
her, eyes once again on her face.

“Look, your grades are excellent, you're well-rounded physically, you're generally a
likeable guy…”

Harry grinned at her. “Just generally?”

She hit his arm lightly. “You know what I mean. I just don't like to see you moping around
here, obviously thinking that there's nothing after this place,” she said, with a sweep of her
arms, “for you. We all have to adjust to life after Hogwarts, you know.”

He gazed at her eyes for another moment, and then turned away. He began to pace back and forth,
as he often did, though part of it was to remove Hermione from his personal space.

“I know what you're trying to do, Hermione, and I appreciate it, I really do, but I'd
rather have some time to work out these things on my own. After all, I won't always have you
there to look after me, will I?” Even though he said it in perfect innocence, if he had looked at
Hermione's face just then, the aching hurt etched into her features would have astounded
him.

Harry chuckled bitterly. “I am right mess, though, aren't I?”

“Yeah, s'pose so,” Hermione said, almost at a whisper. Harry assumed she was thinking about
something, since she often whispered when she was concentrating on two things at once.

“I think I'll get some packing in,” Hermione said, and Harry was momentarily startled by her
abrupt conclusion to their conversation. She had already turned away when he looked toward her.

“Alright…”

“Have a good night, Harry,” she said, waving over her shoulder as she mounted the stairs to her
dormitory.

“You too,” he called, watching her disappear `round the curved staircase.

Harry was now alone in the Gryffindor common room; the only noise reaching his ears was the soft
crackling of the flames in the hearth, which cast interesting patterns of light over the circular
room. He slowly made his way around the room, looking at objects that had been there for his entire
tenure, but that he hadn't really noticed before—or had, and had since forgotten about
them.

For instance, there was a rather unique clock perched over the stairs to the boy's
dormitory, one that he couldn't remember ever paying attention to before. Also, there was a
bulletin board between the stairs that Harry hadn't looked at since sometime during fifth year.
He decided to peruse it, simply because of the fact that he had nothing better to do with his time
at the moment. Nostalgia hit him full force as he saw Quidditch announcements, as well as many
other notices, ranging from student-sponsored clubs to new rules that were being enforced. It all
seemed so insignificant now, though, seeing as several of the students who had lived in Gryffindor
had recently forfeited their lives. Just as he was about to turn away, his nostalgia having turned
into disgust, an advertisement caught his attention. It read:

*Interested in continuing your education beyond Hogwarts? Does the Muggle world stimulate your
curiosity? If both of these things interest you, perhaps you should consider the Wizard Amongst
Muggles program, offered by the British Ministry of Magic, in conjunction with the American,
Australian, and Canadian Ministries. We are offering magical students the chance to complete a
four-year undergraduate education at a Muggle university, in a field of their choosing. Entry will
be based on your Hogwarts' grades, which will be converted to the Muggle system for the
application process.*

*If you're still with us, let us further interest you by informing you of the universities
that have agreed upon this deal: Stanford University, California, United States; University of
Australia at Sydney, Australia; and The North American School of Technology, Toronto, Canada.
Applications can be acquired by placing your wand against the attached parchment and incanting,
“*Replacatio*.” We must receive your application at the Department of Foreign Education,
Ministry of Magic, London no later than June 15**th**. You will then be
advised of the results of your application within one week's time. Thank you for your time, and
we hope that you will continue your education, whether through this program or other means.*

Harry was intrigued, to say the least. He wondered who could have possibly put this notification
here, and then not tell anyone about it, but after a moment he was sure it was McGonagall. Of
course it was she. She was probably obligated to post the notice, but she didn't want to lose
any of her promising magical students to the Muggle world, and had decided to just let sleeping
dogs lie.

He lifted the piece of parchment, saw the attached application the first page had mentioned, and
placed his wand against it.

“*Replacatio*.” A fresh sheet of parchment materialized and fluttered to the floor. Harry
bent to retrieve it, glancing briefly at the many lines waiting to be filled. He gave the notice
one more cursory look, and then pursed his lips. McGonagall had spoken to them all about their
future not six hours before…and she had failed to mention this. He respected her as a teacher and
as an administrator, but he felt she should have at least told them so they knew all their
options.

Thinking of all the packing he also had to do in the next two days, he folded up the application
and tucked it away, making his way up the stairs toward his dormitory. He would consider this for a
few days, and see where those thoughts led him.

----------

The rocking motion of the train was already in full swing as Harry exited the luggage
compartment, having finally stowed his trunk. He passed compartment after compartment looking for
his friends, and didn't come upon them until the back of the train. He slid open the door, and
in a moment of utter surprise, had to duck slightly to make it across the threshold. He was able to
stand straight once inside the compartment, but ducking was new to him. He must have grown since
he'd last ridden the train, the previous fall.

“Hullo, Ron. Hermione,” he greeted his friends, taking a seat next to Hermione. Ron sat across
from them; they both nodded at him, and resumed the conversation they had been having.

“And you said Neville was talking to McGonagall about possibly being the new Herbology
Professor?” Hermione asked Ron, clarifying some earlier point that Harry had missed. His ears
perked up at this, though, because he hadn't known that little tidbit of information.

“Yeah, and he was in a right state after,” Ron replied. Harry noticed that Ron was smiling.

“Well I think that's brilliant,” Hermione said. “What about you, Harry?”

“I'm happy for him, if it's what he wants to do. There wasn't a better Herbology
student in Hogwarts,” he replied, giving Hermione a playful grin. She was slow to reciprocate it,
for some reason, and eventually only gave him a small smile.

“He's got to be the youngest Professor in about a million years,” Ron said.

“Something like that,” Hermione intoned.

“Oh, I forgot, but McGonagall said that Hogwarts would probably be reopening, and to pass that
on to the younger years,” Harry suddenly told them.

“When did she say that?” Hermione asked, rather sharply. Ron just looked at him.

“As I was leaving for the last carriage. I was the last student out.”

“Oh,” she said.

“Well, that's good news for Gin and Luna, I guess,” Ron said.

“That would have been a bloody mess, finding a new school,” Harry agreed. He stretched out his
legs, grinning slightly to himself when he realized the compartment wasn't wide enough for him
to do so fully anymore.

“I think I'm going to try out for the Wimbourne Wasps,” Ron blurted out. Harry was startled,
and so was Hermione, but they were soon both grinning at their red-haired mate.

“Go for it!” Harry said.

Hermione's response was much less…boisterous: “Charming,” she said, sarcastically, albeit
with a Cheshire grin.

“I figure since their Keeper is retiring they might need a new one…so why not? What have I got
to lose?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Harry said. He was already thinking of watching a professional Quidditch
game with Ron as one of the Keepers, but his train of thought soon derailed as he remembered the
folded up application still tucked away in his pocket.

Over the past two days, he had actually sat down and seriously thought about what he wanted to
do with his life, cutting through all of the vagaries and apathies that seemed to be clouding his
mind lately. He had spent the majority of the last forty-eight hours—well, those that weren't
spent sleeping—trying to work out what he would do now that his Hogwarts career and lunatic-hunting
duties were over.

He had come to the conclusion that he had absolutely no bloody fucking clue. None whatsoever.
And that's where the application now burning a hole through his pocket came in. If he
didn't know what he wanted to do for the rest of his life yet, why force the issue? Why make
himself decide when he could potentially have another four years to work out that very same
question? The only problem was it would take him away from Britain, from his friends, from the only
place he had ever called home.

He winced at that word, though. Four Privet Drive had certainly never been home, and that left
the Burrow, Grimmauld Place, and Hogwarts. He mentally scoffed at the notion of calling Grimmauld
home; there was no way in hell he would ever be caught dead calling that mausoleum home. Hogwarts
held some fond memories, but he could also remember countless times when his life and the lives of
people he cared about had been threatened…not to mention taken completely. That left the Burrow. He
loved the Weasley's, especially because they had taken him in as a sort of surrogate son, but
he was older now and even he could admit that they smothered him perhaps too much. Some part of him
knew that was why Ron was so rebellious; his parents had tried to smother him too much.

So, what would he be leaving then? His friends, that's what. He'd be leaving the people
who had guided him through his toughest times, and who had stood by his side at all costs. It
wasn't any sense of home or belonging that was giving him second thoughts about the
application. It was having to leave his friends behind. That same small part of him that understood
Ron's rebellious nature also understood that if he were to leave like this, leave Britain for
four years or possibly more, everything would change. The changes might not be monumental, but they
would be there.

He was interrupted from his thoughts when he realized Hermione was asking him something. He
looked over at her. She was staring at him with a raised eyebrow and a putout look.

“Do you ever listen to me?” she pouted.

“Huh?” Harry intoned.

She rolled her eyes at him. “Before you left us there, I asked if you had thought anymore about
what you're going to do.”

“Oh.” Well, there it was. Should he tell them what he was considering now, or wait till later?
Eh…he wasn't a Gryffindor for nothing.

“Actually, I have. I was thinking about going to a Muggle university.”

Both eyebrows were now raised, and she seemingly appraised him with a new look on her face.
“Really? That's interesting,” she said.

“Why would you want to do that?” Ron asked, eliciting a laugh from both Harry and Hermione. It
sounded odd, to genuinely laugh, but Harry supposed it was because the three of them had done so
little of it recently.

“Honestly, Ron, not all learning is a *chore*,” Hermione supplied, and Harry couldn't
help but laugh harder at the horrified look on his best mate's face.

“Well, now that I'm done with it, there's no way I'm doing more,” Ron replied, with
a smug look in Hermione's direction. She huffed and crossed her arms across her chest, but
there was smile tugging at her lips.

“Anyways, Harry,” she said, looking at him once again, “which one were you thinking about?
Oxford? Cambridge?”

He was secretly amused that she held such lofty ideals for him, as he could never see himself at
such reputable places. He shifted in his seat, unsure how to say what he needed to.

“Well, actually, the three I'm looking at are—” But he was interrupted by the door to the
compartment sliding open and Ginny, Neville, and Luna entering. He turned his head in their
direction and greeted them, as did Ron and Hermione, and he was glad for the temporary reprieve in
divulging his information. He scooted closer to Hermione so Ginny could sit next to him; Neville
sat across from her and Luna sat between Ron and him.

“Harry has some news for you, Luna and Ginny,” Hermione said, cutting through the light chatter
that had started. Harry looked confusedly at Hermione for a moment. Surely she couldn't have
meant that he was thinking about attending university.

“McGonagall…” she prompted him, and the light bulb flickered on in his head.

“Oh! Right…well, as I was leaving, McGonagall told me that Hogwarts would most likely be
reopening next fall,” he said, looking at the two younger girls. He was rewarded with appreciative
smiles.

“That's good news,” Ginny said, and Luna nodded her agreement. Harry noticed that she seemed
to be leaning on Ron, and that he looked a little uncomfortable. He was tempted to pester Ron about
it, but he decided that now was not the time. He glanced over at Hermione, saw her looking at the
same thing, and nudged her. She looked at him and he raised his eyebrows, nodding in Ron's
direction. She smiled and shrugged, and nodded to Harry's other side. Harry looked over there
and saw that Neville and Ginny were holding hands across the compartment. He looked back at
Hermione, barely suppressing a chuckle. She patted his shoulder fondly.

It had always amazed him that the two of them could hold silent conversations like that, but it
happened so often that he didn't question it anymore. In fact, he probably took it for granted,
but there were just some things that Harry Oblivious Potter would never realize…not unless he was
slapped in the face with it. He settled back into the seat, anticipating enjoying the rest of the
so-far pleasant train ride, one that would be his last. Some point along the way, Hermione laid her
head on his shoulder, but he paid no mind to it accept to adjust his position a bit, allowing her
to get more comfortable. After all, what were friends for?

An easy silence settled over the occupants after awhile, and soon enough, lulled by the rocking
motion of the train, the six of them succumbed to the warm drowsiness. Harry was the first to jerk
awake, albeit slightly, because some part of his mind had been aware that jerking too hard would
wake Hermione. The first thing he realized was that the train had stopped moving; the second thing
was that a heavenly scent filled his nostrils. It didn't take him long to figure out that it
was Hermione's hair, now fanned out across his shoulder and the side of his face. He smiled in
spite of himself; she had always looked peaceful when she slept…not that he had seen her asleep
very many times.

He quickly took stock of the cabin, and grinned when he saw Ron and Luna. Luna was leaning into
him, asleep, and Ron had his arms around her waist, also asleep. Neville and Ginny were asleep, but
were still lightly holding hands. He nudged Hermione lightly, trying to wake her up gently. She did
something unexpected, however; she curled into his side, wrapping an arm around his back.

“No,” she mumbled, although it was little more than a sigh. She was obviously still asleep.
Harry had two options, one being waking her up and the second being carefully extricating himself.
He knew that if he woke her up now she'd likely be mortified, so he chose the second option.
Carefully, he removed her arm from around him, against her mumbled protests, and leaned her gently
against the wall. He stood up, smoothed his own clothing, and clapped his hands loudly.

The reaction was instantaneous, if not hilarious. Five sleeping people bolted awake, with Ron
having the most violent reaction. He almost chucked Luna on the floor, accidentally of course.

“Home sweet home,” Harry said, holding back laughter at the glares Ron and his sister were
sending him. As he left the cabin, he heard the call of *Prat* at his back. He turned around,
smiling sweetly at Ginny.

“Anything for my l'il sis,” he said, pinching one of her cheeks and smiling. He had no idea
what possessed him to do it, but the murderous glare in Ginny's eyes told him to make a swift
exit. As he beat a hasty retreat, he saw an utterly perplexed look on Hermione's face, one that
was accompanied by a far away gaze. He quickly forgot about it though, because he had to get
through the mass of students to get to his trunk. Deciding to be somewhat of a gentleman after the
rude awakening of his friends, he levitated all six trunks down onto the platform.

He immediately saw that Remus, the Weasley's, and Hermione's parents were already making
their way toward him. The Twins, suspiciously enough, were with their parents.

“Hullo, everyone,” he said, as they neared him. They all greeted him in various ways.

“Harry! Our trunks?” he heard Ron call out from the train. He waved him over without turning.
Ron and the others soon joined them.

“Where's Tonks?” Harry asked Remus.

“Tending to ickle Wolfiekins, no doubt,” Fred said, earning an amused glare from Remus.

“She had to attend to Auror business today. Her maternity leave is ending soon, after all,”
Remus supplied, his voice sounding a bit wistful. “How are all of you?” he asked them.

The six of them, though somewhat subdued, told everyone they were fine and just glad that it was
all over.

“You lot looking forward to a relaxing holiday?” Mr. Granger asked. Harry barely knew the man,
but he smiled and nodded all the same. Actually…he didn't even know Hermione's father's
first name.

“Sure are, Mr. Granger,” Neville replied for them. Mr. Granger nodded, and then smiled at his
daughter. Everyone took that as a sign to break into their respective groups, and the six of them
said their goodbyes, however temporary they might be.

Hermione turned to Harry. “You know, my parents had our hearth hooked to the Floo. Feel free to
drop by whenever, Harry.” He nodded and smiled.

“Will do. Stay out of trouble,” he said, smiling mischievously at her.

“Harry…you know if you ever want to talk—”

“Stop worrying your pretty little head about me and go to your parents, Hermione. They look like
they're about to burst,” he said, patting her shoulder. She gave him a very familiar look, then
hugged him briefly, and made her way to her parents.

Ron called out just then: “I'm sure we'll be seeing a lot of each other this summer, but
the six of us have to get together sometime soon.”

Harry replied in the affirmative, as did the rest, and the groups slowly broke up as people
started to leave. Harry didn't miss the looks the adults were giving him, though, probably
because they wanted to talk to him about Voldemort. He ignored them as best as he could, but he
also knew that some of those conversations were inevitable. He turned to Remus.

“So how's Grimmauld these days?”

“Much warmer,” Remus smiled.

“And how's *William* these days?” William was Remus's three-month old son, born to
him and his wife, Nymphadora Lupin.

“Great,” Remus said; a true grin lit up his face. The age seemed to melt away from the old
wolf's features when he grinned like that.

“Got room for me, for a little while at least?” Harry asked.

Remus slung an arm around his shoulder. “Of course, Harry. It is your house, after all.
You're welcome there anytime.”

“Don't start that rubbish again, Remus. I gave the house to you.”

“Yes, yes…and I thank you very much for that.” Remus turned to face Harry, placing his hands on
Harry's shoulders. The older man glanced briefly at Hermione's and her parents'
retreating backs. “If you ever want to talk about *anything*, you know you can come to me,
right?”

Harry smiled genially at him. “Of course. Now, let's go,” he said, and Disapparated from the
platform.

----------

A surprise greeted Harry the next morning as he exited the bathroom at Grimmauld Place in naught
but a towel, having just taken a shower. He literally bumped into Hermione; whose presence startled
him so much he almost dropped the towel from around his waist.

“Hermione!” he cried, more startled than embarrassed.

She, however, turned an alarming shade of mortified red. “Er, Harry!” she exclaimed, for once in
her life unable to articulate anything. “I just needed to use the loo,” she mumbled, and then
quickly pushed past him, slamming the door. He stood outside the bathroom for another moment,
laughter bubbling up inside him. Fortunately for him, he made it to his room before it escaped,
because he didn't want to know what Hermione would do to him if she had heard it.

He dressed in a pair of jeans and a tee, and then started to finish organizing his room. He
heard the door to the toilet open and close, a light patter of steps, and then felt more than saw
someone standing in his doorway. He looked up into Hermione's face, which was still a bit red,
and then burst out laughing.

“I'm sorry,” he said, through gasps of air.

“Git!” she exclaimed, but she remained where she was.

“You have to admit,” he said, once he'd calmed down, “that it *was* quite funny.”

He could tell she didn't want to, but a smile soon spread across her lips. She crossed her
arms over her light-colored blouse, which matched the light skirt she was wearing. Her feet were
bare.

“Really, Harry, you should put some clothes on *inside* the loo.”

“Why? How did I know you were going to be here? And it's not like it matters anyway; I have
nothing to be ashamed of around you.”

A funny look crossed over her face for a second, but she didn't say anything. She merely
continued to stare at him.

“What are you *doing* here, anyway?”

“I can't visit?” she replied, raising that distinctive single eyebrow at him.

“You must drive your parents barmy. You haven't even been home for a day.”

“Oh, come off it, we can all Apparate now. It's not like distances matter much anymore.”

Harry conceded the point. “True. I was just a little surprised, that's all.”

“Understandable,” she said, and then chuckled a little.

“See! I told you it was funny!” he said, as he continued moving about the room, setting up his
things.

She moved into the room and sat on his bed. “You're impossible.”

“And you love me for it,” he said, cheekily. He turned around, catching her with her nose
wrinkled in consternation.

“Hardly, Potter.”

“You know the blokes like it when you play hard to get, Granger,” he said, winking a bit at her.
He turned back around, hanging some clothes up in his closet, missing the slight flush to her
cheeks.

“Well, anyways,” he said, finally done putting things away, “what can I do for you today?”

“Does there have to be a purpose to my visit?” she asked, innocently enough. He gave her his
patented *Oh really?* look, and she just sighed a bit.

“Ok, so maybe I am a bit predictable. I just wanted to continue that conversation we were having
on train.”

“Which one?” Harry asked.

“About the Muggle universities,” she said.

Ah. So that was why she had come. He had thought it a bit odd that she didn't take at least
a whole day with her parents, but now he knew why. He had piqued her curiosity and she wouldn't
rest until it was satiated.

He glanced briefly at his desk, which held the now completed application, and went over to sit
beside her on the bed.

“What do you want to know?”

“Well, which ones?”

Harry fidgeted for a second, unsure of how to tell her what he was thinking, but then decided
that honesty, as it always had been with Hermione, was the best choice.

“Actually, Hermione, all three are foreign.” He braved a look at her face, and saw that she had
had absolutely no reaction at all. She blew out a breath from between her half-parted lips.

“Oh.” She seemed to not be focusing on anything.

“One's in California, in America…uh, another is in Australia, and the third is in
Canada.”

“Why?” she finally said.

“Why what?” Harry asked, perplexed.

Her eyes finally focused on his. “Why are they all so far away?”

Harry shrugged. “Why not?”

“Harry, you're *home* is here, in Britain,” she said. She seemed to be getting
aggravated with him, though for what he did not know.

“I don't have a home, Hermione,” he said, simply, because it was the truth.

“What?” she asked, clearly confused.

“The Boy Who Lived has a home in Britain, Hermione, but Harry Potter does not.”

“*Harry Potter* has people who care about him in Britain, you know,” she said, a little
acidly. “*I* care about you, Harry,” she said.

He smiled at her. “And I care about you. You're my best friend. But that's not what this
is about. This is about me not knowing what I want to do with the rest of my life, and not forcing
the issue yet. I can give myself four more years to determine that.”

“There are plenty of Muggle universities much closer to home,” she said.

Harry shook his head. “There's that word again, Hermione. *Home*. What if I don't
want this place to be my home?” he asked, although his question was meant to be indicative of more
than just Grimmauld Place.

“There's so much I haven't seen…so much I haven't done…I think it'd be a little
hasty of me to decide right here and now what I want to do. And I know you're going to say
*Well, you can always change* but we both know how hard it is to do that in the Wizarding
World.”

“I just…I don't understand.”

Harry was becoming a little frustrated. He stood up, running a hand through his hair. “Is it so
wrong to want to experience some new things, and perhaps get a quality education about something
new in the process?”

Hermione deflated a little. “No.”

“Besides,” Harry added, “I don't even know if I'll be accepted.”

She perked up again. “Why not?”

“I haven't sent the application out yet,” he said, motioning to his desk. She stood up and
strode over there, reading over the parchment that he had filled out the previous night.

“Stanford? I've heard that's very exclusive…” she trailed off, and turned back toward
him.

“So you'd just leave me? All of us?” she asked. Harry knew that it was going to happen, the
guilt trip, and he was prepared for it.

“It's not like I couldn't come back on holiday, and we can always write. No matter what
happens, Hermione, I could never forget the friends I've made or the people I care about. Just
because I'd be away from Britain doesn't mean I'd forget.”

She was silent for a moment, and then turned away to look out of the window above his desk. “So
you've thought a lot about this.” It wasn't a question.

“Yes, actually, I have.” She was silent. “What about you?” he asked her. “What are you going to
do?”

“Well,” she said, still looking out of the window, “I have several internships lined up at the
Ministry, and if any of them go well, I suppose I'll work there.”

“You suppose? You don't sound so sure,” Harry said.

“I just thought—naively, apparently—you…and Ron, of course, would always be here,” she said,
laughing slightly to cover the shake in her voice Harry knew was there.

Before Harry could reply, there was a knock at his doorframe. He turned and saw Remus standing
there.

“Hullo, you two,” he said.

“Remus,” Harry replied. Hermione just nodded to him.

“Have you had breakfast yet Hermione?” She nodded again. “What about you Harry? Hungry for
anything?”

He shook his head. “Not really, not at the moment, but thanks for offering,” Harry replied.
Remus nodded and left the doorway.

Harry walked over to Hermione, hugging her from behind. He didn't know what was bringing
about such a reaction from his best female friend, but it bothered him. By the way she was shaking
slightly, he knew that she was crying, even though he couldn't see her face. She turned
suddenly in his embrace, hugging him for all she was worth. He smoothed her hair a bit as he tried
to convey strength with his presence.

After a few minutes of standing there holding each other, Hermione looked up at him, still
teary, but smiling. She backed away from him a few steps.

“Sorry,” she mumbled wiping a hand across her cheeks.

“S'alright,” he replied. What else could he say? Her emotion had surprised him.

“It's just a lot to take in,” she said, offering an explanation. Harry nodded. “It won't
be the same, without you around,” she continued. “Even if you do visit and write, you know it
won't be the same.”

Harry shrugged. Was there an easy way to say this? “I know, but we all have to grow up sometime,
Hermione. We're all going to have our own lives, our own careers…it's going to be very hard
now that school is over to keep that daily contact we've had for so long.”

He was silent for a moment, regarding her. They just stood there like that, gazing at each
other. She sniffled a bit and wiped the back of her hand across her face again, taking a shuddering
breath as she did so. She nodded.

“I know…I just didn't want to accept that.”

“Well, the war certainly buggered everything up, didn't it?” Harry asked, more as a
rhetorical question though. “If we weren't fighting for our lives so much, maybe we all would
actually have had a handle on what to do after Hogwarts.”

“Maybe,” Hermione replied, noncommittally. “So you're set on this?” she asked.

He nodded. “I think so. There's nothing around here that interests me right now, and I
really don't want to sit around doing nothing.”

“Not Quidditch? Or teaching, maybe?” Hermione asked. He was tempted to laugh at the hopeful tone
to her voice.

“Teaching is a definite no, Hermione. I don't think I'll ever be able to go back to
Hogwarts…too many things have happened there that I'd like to forget. Granted,” he continued,
seeing the look on her face, “there's plenty of good to go with the bad, but I like to think
I've taken the good away with me.” He smiled at her, and she reluctantly smiled back.

“And Quidditch? No thanks. It was fun during school, and I'm sure I'll always like
flying, but I don't want that kind of publicity. I don't want to constantly be in the
spotlight—I've experienced enough of that to last a lifetime.”

“But you can't just run away from that Harry. It will follow you for the rest of your life.
You did defeat Voldemort, you know.”

He gave her a withering glare. “Yes, *I know*, Hermione. But I figure if I'm
inconspicuous for long enough some of it will die off.”

“So you're running away? Is *that* what this is really about?” she asked.

Ok, now he was becoming a little angry with her. He knew she was stubborn, but Merlin!

“No, that's not what I'm doing. If you had listened to what I've been saying you
would know that,” he said, perhaps a little sharper than he should have.

“I was listening, Harry,” she said, very quietly.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It wouldn't do to row with her. “Look, Hermione,
I'm pretty sure this is what I want to do. There's really no point in arguing over it.”

After a moment, she asked him another question: “When are you going to tell everyone else?”

“When I know if I've been accepted or not, I guess. No point in getting everyone worked up
over nothing, really.”

“Alright, well I was just going to stop by and talk to you about this, so I really do have to
get going,” Hermione said, albeit an obvious reluctance in her stance.

Harry nodded. “I have some things I need to do as well, like stop by Gringott's and figure
out just how much money I actually have,” he joked, although it fell flat. Hermione just smiled at
him, and started for the door.

“I'm sure I'll see you soon, Harry,” she said, as they made their way down the stairs to
the Floo.

“Spot on,” Harry replied.

“You'll let me know the results of your application?” she asked, throwing him a cursory
glance over her shoulder. She reached into the Floo pot and took some powder.

“I wouldn't *dream* of anything to the contrary.”

She smiled in a patronizing sort of way. “You're bollocks at sounding snooty, you know.”

He shrugged. “I try.”

“Have a good day, Harry,” she said, and threw the powder in. The flames roared green, she
stepped in and called out her destination, and she was gone.

----------

Harry sent the application off that very day, and spent the next week getting his affairs in
order, as he waited for the results. He made that trip to Gringott's and met with a goblin; he
was astounded when he found out his total net worth. Since his full name was really Harry James
Potter-Black, he knew that he'd inherited some of Sirius's things, but the total amount had
been lost on him. When the goblin told him that as of June 1st, 1998, he would be worth
close to eleven million galleons (or fifty million pounds…a little under a hundred million American
dollars), he had to take a step back to take stock of his situation. He knew he was wealthy, but he
was actually the second richest wizard in Britain.

Those eleven million galleons didn't include various holdings, stocks, and securities within
the Muggle sphere, so in actuality his net worth was somewhere near thirteen million galleons. He
didn't know how right he was when he'd surmised that he didn't have to work a day if he
didn't want to.

Upon finding out his worth, he immediately stopped by the twins' shop, explaining that he
would be funneling some money into their business, because he felt what they were doing was a
worthy cause. They had protested, quite vehemently, at first, but he'd finally convinced them
when he agreed to take a small percentage of their profits as his own. What he didn't tell
them, however, was that that small percentage would be funneled right back into their business.

During that week, he also did as much as he could with his friends, because he knew that he
might be soon leaving them for quite awhile, although most definitely not permanently. Some of
things Hermione had said had eventually started to resonate within him, and he dealt with some
doubts, but in the end they weren't enough to totally disrupt his plans.

When the envelope from the Department of Foreign Education finally came, it was with some
trepidation that he opened it, but he soon found out that it was for nothing. He had indeed been
accepted, and to his first choice, no less. He could officially become a student at Stanford
University if that was what he really wanted to do. Orientation was scheduled for August
12th, later that summer.

He looked at the calendar, noting that it was a little over two months away. He had to respond
by the following Friday, indicating whether or not he was accepting the invitation. He knew that
the Weasley's were having a big thing at the Burrow on Wednesday, so he could tell them all
then if he decided to go.

As he sat there in his room, though, the decision became clearer and clearer to him. Of course
he was going to go; it would be very foolhardy to pass up an opportunity like this. He Floo'd
Molly and let her know that he would in fact be attending her dinner. She was ecstatic of
course.

The days until Wednesday passed uneventfully, though he saw very little of his friends. Each
time he tried to reach them they seemed to be busy; he did talk to Hermione a bit, however. She was
busy getting her Muggle driving license.

Wednesday came, and as he got ready for the thing at the Burrow, some trepidation clouded his
mind, but he was fairly resolute in his decision. He would tell them all during dinner some time.
Just before he Floo'd over to the Burrow, he had a wild thought, and summoned his Firebolt to
him. Perhaps they could get some kind of pick-up Quidditch game going; might be something fun to
do. And if they did, it would probably be the last Quidditch he'd play for a very long
time.

----------

Everyone was already at the Burrow when he arrived, tumbling through the Floo. The Grangers, the
Lovegoods, the Longbottoms, the entire Weasley clan, except Charlie…Bill and Fleur were even there.
Remus and Tonks were there with William, enjoying the attention many of the people were giving
their son. McGonagall was there as well; she was chatting with Arthur when Harry entered the
kitchen and dining area, which had been magically expanded to fit everyone.

Several young adults Harry recognized as alumni of Hogwarts were also there, most likely all
friends of Fred and George. His five friends were sitting on the porch in the backyard, enjoying
the two Muggle swings Arthur had installed at some point during the last six months or so.

“Harry!” Hermione said, and jumped up to hug him. He returned the hug, and then turned to the
others.

“Excuse me if I don't hug you, mate,” Ron said, joking.

“Aww, why not?” Harry whined.

“Blokes just don't hug other blokes like that,” Ron said, deadpan. Silence for a moment…and
then they all burst out laughing. Harry sat down on one of the swings next to Hermione.

“Really, Ronald, are you so insecure with your sexuality that you can't hug your best
friend?” Luna asked. Harry grinned at the expression on *Ronald's* face. Leave it to Luna
to ask the most direct questions.

“S'quite alright, Luna. I know Ron loves me, deep down,” Harry said, smirking at the evil
glare his friend was giving him.

“Well, I know his love for me isn't quite as concealed,” Luna said, rather airily. Harry
almost choked he started laughing so hard. Ron's face had turned beet red; clearly he was
embarrassed at what Luna had said.

“Not now, Luna,” he muttered.

“I think it's cute,” Ginny said, through her own laughs, and Hermione agreed with her
redheaded counterpart.

“Shut it you. Don't think I haven't noticed you and Neville,” Ron said.

“Oh?” Ginny said, sitting up a little straighter. Neville stayed out of it, wisely. Harry shook
his head at Ron, not quite understanding how he could so willingly incur the wrath of his sister.
“What does that have to do with anything?”

“You and him—”

“Yes?” Ginny cut him off. Harry and Hermione winced, and he thought he saw Ron's face change
as he realized the error of his ways. “I don't need your bloody approval for anything Ron, and
neither does Neville, so you best not finish that sentence.”

Ron wisely kept his mouth shut, and the conversation soon turned to lighter fare. Soon enough,
everyone was called in for dinner, and they all sat around the magically expanded table.

The majority of the meal was spent reliving various funny occurrences in the past, and Harry
heard more than one story that night about his parents and what they'd done during their time
at Hogwarts. He couldn't help but smile at Remus's description of his mother, Lily, hexing
Sirius into oblivion one afternoon for trying a prank that involved her knickers.

Harry realized that in a perfect world, his parents would be sitting at this table right now, as
would Sirius and Dumbledore, but this world was far from perfect. They might all be the image of
peace and serenity at the moment, but it hadn't been too long ago when everyone was afraid of
everything. He knew that's why he wasn't really going to have too much trouble leaving,
because his life really hadn't been that spectacular yet. He had so much more to do…to see…and
he just couldn't do that here. He'd be smothered, distracted, confined… It was with these
thoughts that he called for everyone's attention.

“Alright, everyone, I have an announcement to make,” he said glancing briefly at Hermione. He
noticed that many people were glancing back and forth between him and Hermione, but thought nothing
of it.

“All of us that just graduated from Hogwarts have that wonderful question of *What do we want
to do with our lives* hanging over our heads, as I'm sure you know.” There were several nods
in his direction, but also some perplexed looks. He was clearly saying something different than
what many of them had thought.

“Well, rather than decide that just yet, I've decided to take a little more time and perhaps
learn a little more,” he said. The looks were as confused as ever…so he went with the direct
approach.

“I've decided to attend a four year Muggle university, in America,” he blurted out.
Perplexity turned into shock, and silence reigned for a few moments. It was then broken by an
uproar of voices and questions, all being thrown at him.

It took awhile for everyone to calm down, but Harry weathered the storm. He knew some people
were very unsatisfied with his decision, including McGonagall, as he had expected, but there was
little they could do to change his mind. The biggest shock to them all was that he was leaving
Britain, not that was attending university, which he understood. Many of the same arguments that
Hermione had used were tossed at him, but he replied in much the same way: it was something he had
to do for himself, if only to branch out a little bit.

By the time two o'clock in the morning rolled around, the only people left awake were he and
his five friends. Everyone else had either gone home or to bed. They sat out on the same porch
swings from earlier, enjoying the cool night air, listening to the peepers.

“So you're really leaving, eh?” Ron asked. Luna was cradled against his side, though she
wasn't sleeping. He had obviously gotten over his earlier embarrassment.

“Not really leaving, Ron…just think of it as an extended holiday,” he replied. He hated to say
he was leaving, because that sounded too final.

“I must admit, I never expected this Harry,” Neville said, and Ginny nodded from her position
next to him.

“Neither did I,” she said.

Harry shrugged. “Then perhaps this is for the best. It never hurt anyone to do something a
little unexpected…”

“When are you leaving?” Hermione asked, rather quietly. It was the first time she had spoken in
quite awhile.

“I'm leaving from Heathrow the morning of the first of August,” he said. “Orientation
isn't until August 12th, but I figure I might as well learn a little bit about the
area surrounding the university,” he said.

Hermione nodded, but did not respond verbally. The ensuing silence was broken by several yawns,
one after another.

“Well, Ginny, I think I'm going to get going. My Gran's going to be a bother if I get in
any later.” She nodded and stood with Neville. Neville turned to Harry and looked like he wanted to
say something, but just smiled and patted him on the shoulder instead. They made their way inside
toward the Floo.

“I should be off too, Ronald,” Luna said.

“I'll walk you home,” he offered, helping her up off the swing.

“I can Apparate there, you know,” she said, although she gave him a winning smile.

“And I can Apparate back,” he said, ending any debate. Ron turned to Harry. “I'm happy for
you, mate. You seem to be really happy and sure about this. Just don't forget us.” Harry
nodded, touched for some reason by his best friend's words. Ron turned away and him and Luna
wandered off into the darkness, a whispered *lumos* lighting their way.

Harry started to rock the swing slightly; Hermione drew her legs up under her, shifting a little
in her seat, so she could lean her head on his shoulder.

“What are you thinking, Hermione?” Harry asked. She had been so quiet since he'd broken the
news.

“I'm going to miss you,” she replied, her voice barely a whisper. He reached an around her
back, pulling her to him in what he thought was a friendly way.

“I'm going to miss you, all of you, too,” he said, resting his chin on her head. That same
scent that always seemed to be near her, of vanilla and something else, was now pervading his
nostrils.

“But it's not like this is goodbye, not yet, and certainly not forever,” Harry said.

“I don't know if I'll see you again before you leave,” she eventually replied. He leaned
forward as she snaked an arm around his back, allowing her room to do so.

“What? Why not?”

“My parents decided to go to Singapore this year. We leave tomorrow, and we probably won't
be back until sometime around the first of September.”

“Oh,” he replied. He wouldn't see her again for…well, for a while, at least. He didn't
know how he felt about that, but he didn't like the suddenly empty feeling somewhere in the pit
of his stomach.

“Will you be home for Christmas hols?” she asked. He knew he wasn't imagining the highly
hopeful tone in her voice.

“I'd assume so,” he said, although he really didn't know. A lot could happen between now
and then.

“I hope so,” she replied. “That's probably the next time I'll get to see you.” The
sadness creeping into her voice was breaking his heart, but he wouldn't let this change his
mind. He loved his best friends, all of them, but this was something he was set on doing now. Like
he'd already told her, he wouldn't stop caring about them or writing them, and he was
almost positive he'd back in Britain a few times during the four years.

“I'm looking forward to it,” Harry said, trying to joke a little bit, but something told him
it was the wrong thing to do. Sure enough, Hermione was soon quietly crying into his side, as
revealed by her slight tremors.

“Hermione, Hermione…” Harry murmured, pressing his lips into her hair as probably the tenderest
gesture he'd ever done toward her. “Why are you so upset?” he asked her, very quietly.

“I just can't believe you're leaving,” she said, looking up. He could see the tear
streaks on her face, and again, they broke his heart, but there was nothing he could do. He
wasn't changing his mind now.

“I'm sorry that I've upset you so much, but I'm not changing my mind. This is
something I'm going to do,” he asserted.

She held his gaze for a moment, and then began to untangle herself from his grip. He let go of
her, and she stood up, smoothing her clothes. She sniffled, but she didn't wipe her face.

“I'm sorry, Harry,” she finally said. She wasn't looking at him; rather, she was staring
into the backyard of the Burrow.

“For?” he asked, highly mystified.

“Everything. Not being there more. Not convincing you…just not doing enough, I guess.” She began
to walk off the porch, probably thinking about Apparating home.

He stood up and walked to the railing. “Hermione, you're not making sense.”

She turned to him, and in the half-light coming from the Burrow's windows, he saw a wistful
smile on her tear-stained face.

“Someday you'll understand,” she said, and raised her wand.

“Wait—” he started

“Goodbye, Harry,” she said.

“Bye,” he replied, but it was said to empty space. She had already disappeared.

----------

The rest of his time in Britain passed uneventfully. Hermione sent him one short postcard from
Singapore, wishing him well on his journey overseas. He thought about writing back, but he
didn't know where she was exactly, and didn't want to risk sending Hedwig into a Muggle
area.

He made the most of the rest of his time with his friends and surrogate family, and by the time
August first rolled around, he was more than ready to go. He went to Heathrow accompanied only by
Ron, preferring to keep it a small affair. Ron tried to shake his hand before Harry boarded the
plane, but Harry pulled him into a hug instead.

“Take care of Hermione, will ya?” Harry asked, as he released Ron.

“Sure will,” he said, sticking his hands in his pockets.

They stared at each other for a moment, myriad memories running through each other's heads,
but there was little more they could say. They nodded at each other, and Harry turned away to board
the plane.

As he passed onto the jetway, he looked back, but Ron had already melted into the sea of
faces.

-->



2. Dawn
-------



**Bearings**

Disclaimer/Author's notes: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. This chapter is as
`out-of-canon' as this story gets; it is the only chapter that focuses significantly on who
Harry meets in the States. Feel free to review.

*Look, if you had one shot, or one opportunity*

*To seize everything you ever wanted—One moment*

*Would you capture it or just let it slip?*

Eminem

*Lose Yourself*

Chapter One: Dawn

March 2002

*Dear Harry,*

*I know that is has been entirely too long since we've written each other…over a year, in
fact…but I'm sure that we've both been very busy. I'm sorry that you couldn't make
it home for Christmas or last summer; I would have liked to see you. I'm rather bored right
now, and I felt that sending a letter to you would be a good use of my limited free time.*

*So, how are you? What have you been doing, since we last wrote? How was your summer and fall?
You said that you were playing baseball, right? That's certainly a surprise. I never figured
you for the Muggle sports type. What position do you play? Are you a good hitter? Any home runs?
Don't laugh…I do actually know some things about baseball, since my Dad prefers that to
cricket.*

*And you're a senior now, too! I almost forgot about that. I must admit, the fact that you
majored in business was very surprising to me, although I suppose it shouldn't have been since
you've been helping the twins these past few years. With your capital, it shouldn't be too
hard for you to be a major entrepreneur. Do you have any kind of thesis or final project you have
to do to graduate? If so, it would be interesting to know what that is. Maybe I could provide you
some help, like the old days.*

*Well, on to news from home. Neville and Ginny just got engaged! They announced it at a
get-together at the Burrow! Isn't that great? It kind of chokes me up to think of how far
we've all come, from those days in Hogwarts. And before you start wondering…no, Ron and Luna
haven't made it official yet. They both seem content to just have a really serious
relationship, but not be engaged…yet. Molly doesn't approve, of course, but I think Ron and
Luna are being very careful about* that*, so she doesn't really have anything to complain
about.*

*Fred and George are as single as ever, but they are so busy these days I don't think they
mind. Molly* and *Arthur are on their cases, but they are doing a pretty good job ignoring
them. They opened a new shop in Hogsmeade, and have plans to open another, though they aren't
sure where yet. I haven't seen Bill and Fleur in a quite a while, as they live in Paris now,
but I'm sure they're doing fine. Remus and Tonks send their best, as does William, who is
about the cutest little four-year-old I've ever seen.*

*As for me…I'm just really busy. I've been putting in sixty to seventy hours a week
most of the past year, but I think all of my extra work is paying off, because I just received
notice that I'm a definite candidate for the Muggle Liaisons chair position. I would still be
under Arthur, of course, but it would be a huge step up from where I am right now, which is barely
anywhere. The Ministry is a good place to work, now that most of the corruption has been weeded
out, but sometimes I think it's too hard to move up or change things.*

*Ok, I'll stop whining now. I guess I'll wrap this up, because I should go into the
Ministry sometime today. I hope you're safe and happy, Harry, and I hope you're having the
time of your life. Please write back…it would be really nice to hear from you.*

*With love,*

*Hermione*

“Harry? You ready yet? We're gonna be late, man!” came a voice, startling Harry from his
reading. He laid the sheet of paper, since it came through Muggle post, on his desk and looked over
his shoulder at his open door. His teammate, John Sanders, was standing there. He had a baseball
equipment bag slung over his shoulder and was dressed in his Stanford practice uniform.

“Yeah, yeah, I'm ready,” Harry said, standing up and retrieving his own bag from his bed. He
looked at the clock, which said 5:45 am.

“Ugh,” Harry intoned. “Too bloody early,” he added, stepping through the door and closing it. He
locked it with the key and turned to John.

“Yeah, I agree,” John said, rubbing his eyes. John was a tall bloke, probably almost as tall as
Ron, with sandy blond hair and a powerful frame.

“It's not even light yet,” Harry whined as they made their way toward the elevator.

“Well, you're lucky you decided not to go out with us last night. We didn't get in till
fuckin' 2:30.”

Harry laughed. “No wonder you look like shite, mate.”

John was silent for a moment. “All this time you've been here, and you still talk like a
Brit. I woulda thought you'd have picked up some of our slang by now.”

“Dude, no way,” Harry said, in his best impression of his friend's accent.

They both laughed at that, and got into the elevator, riding it down to the first floor of the
apartment building. Harry lived on campus in an apartment complex set aside for juniors and
seniors. Most of the rooms in the place were singles. John lived just down the hall from him.

“Any idea what we're doing today?” Harry asked.

“I heard something about circuits, but I really hope not,” John replied, and Harry silently
agreed with him. He had never been that adverse to all-out physical exertion, even back in Britain,
but circuits just hurt, plain and simple. Their coach, Don Mains, told them that the point of
circuits was to push them all to their limits…to build their endurance, and all that. The only time
Harry had been pushed to his real limits was during his fight with Voldemort, and he didn't
want to repeat that feeling, ever.

His step faltered for a moment as images of Voldemort and Britain flashed through his mind—the
first time that had happened in quite awhile—but he soon fell into step right beside John once
again. There was some light on the eastern horizon, Harry noticed, as they stepped out into the
crisp morning air.

“Hey guys, wait up!” a voiced called, and Harry and John turned toward it. Tom Rockwell, another
teammate of theirs, was rushing to catch up to them. He was short and stocky with black hair much
like Harry's; he was an excellent catcher and was the team's starter.

“How are ya, Tommy?” John asked, clapping the smaller man on the shoulder as he fell in between
Harry and John.

“Besides the fact that it's not even six fucking o'clock, wonderful,” he said, smiling
all the while.

“Yeah these morning practices are going to be a bitch,” John agreed. “Too bad we have to go to
class during the day…”

“So,” Tom said, turning to Harry.

Harry merely raised an eyebrow at him. “Can I do something for you, Rockwell?”

“What kind of spectacular grabs are we going to see from our star shortstop today, eh?” Tom
asked him.

Harry laughed and shook his head. He supposed that his Seeker reflexes had paid off after all,
because they had landed him a starting position on Stanford's baseball team, at shortstop no
less. Harry had only made one fielding error in his previous two seasons; he was also a decent
hitter and a smart base runner, and therefore was the apple of his coach's eye. He remembered
all too well a conversation he'd had with the man at the end of the last season…

“*So Potter, have you given any thought to going pro?”*

*“Pro, sir?” Harry asked his coach.*

*“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Don…and yes, pro, as in Major
League.”*

*“Oh,” Harry replied. It was habit calling his teachers (or coaches) sir or Professor, so it
was hard to call his coach by his given name. It felt disrespectful.*

*“Is that a yes or a no, Potter?”*

*“I haven't really thought about it, to be honest. Why…do you think I have a
shot?”*

*Don nodded. “I know for a fact several MLB teams already have their eye on you, mostly
because you're probably the best shortstop in the NCAA right now.”*

*Harry shrugged. He had played against other shortstops that he'd thought were just as
good, if not better. What he didn't realize, though, was that he had never really seen*
himself *play, and was really just comparing the other shortstops to each other.*

*“If you say so, sir,” Harry said, earning an amused smile from Don.*

*“Obviously, you don't hit very many home runs, but you have a great eye and are on base
so much that your lack of power is really a non-issue.”*

*“At this point, I don't know what I'm doing when I graduate from here. Don't
forget that I grew up in Britain,” Harry replied.*

*“You'd pass up a lucrative contract and a spot on a professional team just to return to
Britain?”*

That statement had given Harry quite a pause, and it had been several moments before he'd
responded, noncommittally once again. If what his coach had said were true, about several teams
being interested in him, he would have another hard decision when he graduated. It had been hard
deciding to come over here in the first place, but to stay? That was another matter entirely, and
one that he avoided as much as he could.

“Earth to Harry,” someone said, and Harry shook his head. He looked over at Tom's bemused
face.

“I think it might be too early for our friend here, John,” Tom said.

“Shut it,” Harry said. “In answer to your question, I'll make sure I commit an error just
for you.”

Tom and John burst out laughing. “Right, Harry, you couldn't do that if you tried,” John
said.

“Although there was that one time…” Tom said.

“Sun was in my eyes,” Harry said, although there was a smile on his face.

“Harry…it was a throwing error. Sun was in your eyes my ass,” Tom retorted.

“A bloke can try, can't he?” Harry asked.

The three of them were nearing the practice field now, and they could hear several voices,
indicating that some people were already there. It was so early that the lights had to be on.

“Well, here's to another season,” John said, holding out his fist. Both Harry and Tom
knocked knuckles with their star pitcher.

“Indeed,” Harry replied. “To many strikeouts, throw outs, and errorless games,” he said, and the
other two men nodded.

“With less sun,” Tom added, snickering as he did so. Harry just shook his head. His teammates
would never let him live down that one error. He supposed it was for the best though, because he
knew how much pressure would be on him if he hadn't made any. Everyone would have wanted him to
keep the streak alive.

The three men rounded the backstop and entered through the gate into the field. Harry saw that
Don and several others were already there, though it appeared that the rest of the team had yet to
make an appearance.

“Potter! Get over here!” Don called out, immediately after seeing Harry.

“Go get `em, tiger,” John chuckled; Harry just sent him a withering look.

“Sometimes I wonder about you, Sanders,” Harry called over his shoulder, as he jogged over
toward his coach. “That blond hair…those dreamy blue eyes…” Harry trailed off, laughing outright at
the look on his friend's face.

“I was waiting for you to get here,” his coach said. Harry put his bag against the fence and
merely raised an eyebrow at the older man.

“Do you remember that conversation we had awhile ago, about the pros?” Don asked. Harry nodded,
thinking it ironic that he had indeed *just* been thinking about it.

“Of course.”

“Have you thought about it anymore?”

“Er…” Harry magnificently returned. He had given it very little thought, actually, and whenever
he did, it always lead to thoughts of Britain and his old friends. He didn't know when he'd
started using that modifier—old—to describe Ron and Hermione and the rest, but at some point it had
slipped into his consciousness, and he just couldn't get rid of it.

He knew that he hadn't exactly been the best at keeping in touch with everyone from Britain,
as evidenced by his letter from Hermione that he had just received, but for some reason, it
didn't really bother him a whole lot. He hadn't had *real* contact with most of them
since the Christmas of 2000, since that had been the last time he'd been in Britain.
Hermione's letter was actually the first he'd talked to her since then; Ron had sent him a
short letter during the last summer.

If Harry was honest with himself, he loved university. He loved all the new people he'd met
and all of the new experiences that had come his way. He loved seeing a new region of the world,
and learning more about American culture. He would never give up his British habits, but living in
a foreign place had granted him some insight he hadn't previously had, and he wouldn't
trade that for anything.

When he was faced with the question of staying in America after uni or not, though, he knew that
he had no idea whatsoever, and that the idea actually scared him a bit. Even though he hadn't
kept in great contact with his Hogwarts friends, some part of him knew they would always be
important in his life.

“No, sir, I haven't,” Harry finally replied.

Don just smiled at him. “I figured that would be your answer.” He reached into his pocket and
pulled out three folded sheets of paper, all with official-looking seals printed across the top in
bold colors. Harry thought he recognized those logos…

“These are official correspondences from the Baltimore Orioles, the New York Yankees, and the
Seattle Mariners. All three of them are requesting permission to attend some of our games to
observe you and the way you play,” Don said. He was clearly waiting for Harry's reaction,
though Harry did not know how he was supposed to.

“Oh.”

“Oh? That's all you have to say?”

“What do you want me to say, sir?” Harry queried.

“Potter—Harry, all of the players on this team,” he said, indicating the rest of the team with a
sweeping gesture of his hand, “would do just about anything to have a professional team express
interest *in them*. Hell, most of the NCAA would. They're all going to have to enter the
draft and hope for the best; you, on the other hand, are already past the hardest step.” He paused
for a moment, putting the letters back into his pocket.

“That is, of course, assuming you want to go pro.”

Harry was a modest person. He was always uncomfortable being in the spotlight, which he knew was
a small part of why he left Britain. Therefore, the next words out of his mouth really surprised
him.

“Am I really that good, sir?” Harry was sure shock was written on his face for having asked
that.

Don chuckled. He indicated that Harry should wait a moment, and then turned to the rest of the
team, which was assembling by the dugout.

“Work out the kinks, fellas! We have a hard practice ahead of us!” he called out. He then turned
to Harry.

“Walk with me, Harry,” he said.

He began walking around the edge of the field, away from the dugout, and Harry followed, falling
in step beside him.

“I must admit, the first time I laid eyes on you, I couldn't believe what people had said
about you. You were quite scrawny, a few inches shorter…” he trailed off. That was true, at least.
Harry had grown several inches since coming to America; he now stood at 6', weighing in at 180
pounds. He had put on quite a bit muscle, simply from training with the team.

“It was actually John that first told me about you,” Don continued. “He said he knew this kid
that he'd met in his Accounting class who had `the most amazing reflexes' he'd ever
seen. In retrospect, I guess it's a good thing you two became friends, because who knows if
you'd be on the team otherwise.

“Anyways, as I was saying, my first impression of you wasn't that great, but that quickly
changed. You showed great natural talent that first day, stuff that I knew could be molded into
real skill.”

Harry was silent as they walked on, listening to his coach. It was very rare that he allowed
another person to talk about him without interrupting them, but he *had* asked the question,
so he supposed it would be awfully rude if he cut Don off.

“There is an unassuming air about you, Harry, that I know I appreciate, and I'm sure others
do, as well. I've seen a lot of conceited players in my time; most with much less skill, and
you don't qualify as one. The fact that you even asked me that question shows me how different
you really are.

“In *answer* to that question, I will simply say: Yes, you are *that* good. You move
about the field with a natural ease I don't think I've ever seen. You're an excellent
base runner and rarely strike out. Players with much lesser talent have left college early and gone
pro; I'm proud that you haven't. Though, I guess it's not a surprise since you're
so unassuming.

“So, now that I've answered your question, let me ask one of my own.” Don looked over at
Harry, and Harry nodded.

“What are you so scared of?” They had reached center field now, and Harry looked toward home
plate for a moment, watching his teammates go through stretching routines. The eastern sky was pink
now, heading toward orange.

“I came here on a whim…Don,” Harry said, using his coach's given name for the first time.
The man had humored him with an honest and heartfelt response, Harry thought, so he decided to
humor his coach on that aspect.

“I came to America with no forethought, with no plans other than to attend uni for four years. I
gave no thought to what would happen after because…well, because I guess I just assumed I'd go
back to Britain.”

“You came here on a whim…but something must have pushed you. No one just leaves their home for
this long without a good reason,” Don said.

Harry nodded, sighing a bit. “I was just frustrated. There were too many expectations…too much
pressure,” Harry said, careful to avoid anything too specific about the Wizarding World.

“And you don't feel pressure here,” Don asked, sounding slightly surprised.

Harry shook his head. “Why should I? No one knows me except for the Harry they've seen here.
No one has any expectations.”

“Except your legion of adoring fans,” Don said, chuckling once again.

Harry shrugged. “I'm used to it,” he said. Don didn't know that he'd dealt with all
that crap to a much larger extent back in Britain.

“So…when—if you go back, will those pressures still be there? Those expectations?”

“I don't…” Harry started to respond, but trailed off. He had never really thought about that
before. He had just assumed he'd go back to Britain after the four years at uni knowing what he
wanted to do with his life, therefore avoiding all of those old questions. What if he didn't,
though? Would people pester him just as they had been before? He was an adult now, his own person,
and took criticism and skepticism much better, but he knew he still wouldn't like it.

“I have no idea,” Harry finally said.

“I mean no offense, but were you happy there?”

Harry flinched slightly, but he didn't think his coach saw it. Happiness was a word that had
plagued him in Britain and to a certain extent here, as well. He knew he was very `happy' here,
but sometimes he found himself questioning if it was for the wrong reasons. Whatever the word
actually meant, he did know that his friends—Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and all the rest—made him happy.
They supported him during the rough spots, stood by his side when he fought for his existence, and
accepted his decision to leave with little real resistance. Sure, Hermione and Molly had been hard
to convince, but they'd come around in the end…

“There are people that make me happy in Britain, Don,” Harry said, finally figuring out how to
answer.

“Can you say the same for here?”

Leave it to his baseball coach, of all people, to ask Harry the questions that really got him
thinking. He had made some very good friends during the past three and a half years at Stanford,
but he knew deep within his heart they just weren't as substantive as his old friends. John and
Tom and many others just hadn't been there with him during his adolescence, when he'd been
faced with nothing short of his mortality.

“Not as much, if I'm being totally honest, but I'm glad I've made a lot of the
friends that I have,” Harry replied.

“Well, Harry, it is ultimately up to you, but you need to understand that this is an amazing
opportunity. I know none of these teams have said anything official, but if the rumors I'm
hearing are true, you'll probably get an offer the day after you graduate.”

“I understand, sir,” Harry said.

Don grinned at him. “Back to that, huh?” The two of them had completed their loop of the field,
and were now back by home plate.

“Go get some stretching in, Potter. Don't want you seizing up on your first day back,” he
joked.

“Thanks for—” Harry started, but Don waved him off.

“No problem. Now go warm up,” he said, and turned away. Harry strode over to his teammates and
started loosening up.

----------

Harry dumped his books on his bed, freshened up a bit, and headed back out of his door. John was
already there, standing in the middle of the hall. He was yawning.

“I feel ya, mate,” Harry said, yawning himself. It was only 12:30, and he was already exhausted.
John looked like he was falling asleep on his feet, though. After practice, he had gone to
breakfast and his morning classes, and now he was on his way to lunch.

“Fuck going out tonight,” John mumbled, rubbing his eyes. “I don't know how I'm gonna
get through the rest of this day.”

“Caffeine. Lots and lots of caffeine,” Harry responded.

“No doubt,” John said, nodding.

“Wonder what shite the dining hall will serve today?” Harry mused.

“Aww, it's not that bad.”

“Yeah well, you'll stuff your face with anything put in front of you.”

“I gotta eat, don't I?” John asked, rhetorically.

“Excuse me for having slightly more refined tastes.” They were now walking along the sidewalk
toward the dining hall. It was a beautiful day, for March. They were both enjoying the sun.

“You're a funny guy, you know? Refined…more like, `Hey, my name is Harry, I'm from
Britain, I'm better than you, so anything you have to say…don't.'”

Harry was laughing out loud by the end, more so from John's imitation of his accent than
what he actually said.

“Don't ever talk like that in Britain,” Harry said, as his laughter subsided.

John was smiling. “Oh? Why not?”

“Because you'll be shot… Or buggered by a bloke,” he added, almost laughing again at
John's horrified expression.

“What would possess you to say something like that?”

“Those dreamy blue eyes…”

John made a gagging sensation, and held up his hands. “Ok, Potter, you win. For now.”

“I always do,” Harry said, smugly, as they entered the dining hall. It was already very crowded
with the lunchtime throng.

John scoffed as they picked up trays and proceeded to the food queue. “I beg to differ.”

A stunningly beautiful brunette walked past them just then. “Hey, Harry,” she almost cooed,
waggling her eyebrows coquettishly on the way past. Harry pursed his lips, but he noticed
John's eyes following her as she walked away.

“Now that's one fine piece of ass.”

“Is that all you think about?” Harry asked.

John shrugged. “More or less. After all,” he continued, picking up some food, “when you look
like Adonis, it's not like it's hard to get.”

“Now who's conceited?” Harry asked him, though he was smiling.

“Eh, well…you do realize you have something to be conceited about, right?” John replied.

“We weren't talking about me, you know, even though I know how much you want to,” Harry
said, as they finally exited the queue with their food.

“Really, Potter, I was trying to be serious.”

“Mm hmm.” Harry got his drink, waited for John to do the same, and they made their way to a
table.

“No, really though, how can you be so modest all the time?” John asked.

“I have manners?”

“Harry—”

“Look, I don't know what you're getting at here, John. So what if I'm a modest guy.
Maybe I don't like all the attention.”

John tried a different approach. “What were you and Don talking about today?”

Harry smirked indulgently. “So that's what this is about? You could have just asked.”

John gave him an impatient look; one that surprisingly and very strongly reminded him of one
Hermione would have given him. He didn't tell John this, though, as he didn't think the
other man would appreciate being compared to a girl—no, woman.

“Well?”

Harry stayed silent for a moment. “Nothing really,” he eventually said.

“You're lying.”

Harry looked up from his food. “Oh?”

“You don't make eye contact when you're not telling the truth.”

“Well, I'm flattered that you notice me so well,” Harry said, although he began to sense he
was pissing his friend off. He sighed.

“We talked about the pros, and what it meant after graduation.”

“MLB?”

“What other `pros' are there?” Harry asked.

John shrugged. “Just clarifying. So…you're going into the draft then?”

Harry shook his head. “No. It was more…whether or not I wanted to be signed directly out of
school.”

John's eyes widened a little. “Don told you that? There are teams that interested in
you?”

Harry made a noncommittal gesture. “From what I gather.”

“How can you be so blasé about this?” John asked, gesturing wildly.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, isn't it a no-brainer? Fuck, I'd kill for that opportunity.”

Harry was getting a little impatient. “Well, what you and everyone else seem to be forgetting is
that I'm not from America. I don't know if I'm going to stay after graduating or not.
And it'd be pretty fucking hard to play in the majors if I didn't live in the country.” His
voice was heating up a bit at the end.

“Whoa, whoa, ok…” John said, attempting to placate Harry. “What's gotcha all riled up?”

“Nothing…I'm sorry…I've just got a lot on my mind right now, and this whole MLB thing
just adds to it.” Not to mention, Harry didn't add, that he'd been thinking quite a bit
about the people from Britain since that morning, probably because of what his coach had said.

The two men ate in silence for a little while, content with enjoying their meal. Harry noticed
John watching just about every good-looking girl that walked by. His friend was utterly
hopeless.

“So how's Monica?” John asked.

“Who?”

“Oh, come on, don't play dumb,” John said, a mischievous smirk on his face. “I know you and
her hooked up.”

“Uh…”

“I heard she gives great head,” John added, a little longingly.

“Whoa, fuck John, too much information,” Harry interrupted, not wanting to hear the rest of his
friend's musings on whoever this Monica girl was.

“First of all, I have no idea who this Monica is, and second of all, that's really no
one's business if I did. Who told you that, anyway?”

“Oh, I heard it around campus.”

“*Around* campus?” Harry didn't like the sound of that.

John nodded. “You know, even though you refuse to accept it…and capitalize on it…you are quite
the popular guy, Harry. I think just about every upper class female would give up their first child
for one night with you.”

“I think you're exaggerating,” Harry said, very flatly.

“Oh, on the contrary, my friend. I am not exaggerating one bit. Even you, as oblivious as you
seem to be, must have noticed Ms. Walking Tits, not ten minutes ago in the lunch line.”

“Sure,” Harry replied, trying to sound uninterested. He hated these conversations. They always
made him highly uncomfortable.

“Well, there you go. Her name is…hmm, I think it's Erin, but I could be wrong. Anyways,
I've heard she has the sweetest pussy imaginable, and the tightest ass—”

“I swear, if you say `arsehole', I will puke all over you,” Harry said, thoroughly turned
off from the rest of his lunch.

“What?” John asked.

“What is it with you and arse?” Harry asked, with a raised eyebrow.

“Can't blame me for a being a butt pirate.”

Harry was silent for a moment, and then burst out laughing. By the time he had to catch his
breath, he was wiping tears from his eyes. John was looking at him with a dour look on his
face.

“That has to be the most retarded thing I've ever heard,” Harry said, forcing down even more
laughs.

“Laugh it up, Potter.”

Harry shrugged. “You can't honestly say something like that and expect someone to take it
seriously. And…how do I always get pulled into these conversations with you?”

“We're babe magnets,” John said, deadpan.

“Ah, there's that elitism I had missed. It's only been,” Harry said, checking his watch,
“twelve minutes since I last heard it.”

“Notice how I said `we're'.”

“Whatever. Let's just agree to disagree. You're obsessed with sex and you'll take it
out on anyone who'll listen,” Harry replied.

“Fair enough. And you're too afraid about all the good things in your life to use them to
your advantage,” John said, finishing his drink. “I still haven't figured out why, though.”

John didn't realize it, but his statement hit a lot closer to home with Harry than the
taller man could have ever imagined. It was true that Harry was afraid of all the good things in
his life. He was afraid of them because he knew what life was like without them, how hard
everything was when you were hated, and how different fighting for your life makes things. He had
never burdened his Stanford friends with anecdotes about his years in Britain, especially nothing
in regards to the Wizarding World, and he was not about to start.

“Should have majored in Psychology. Awfully smart for a bloke whose thoughts are on tits and
arse 99% of the day.”

“Trust me, it's far more productive than actually doing work,” John responded. They put
their trash in the bin, placed their trays on top of it, and exited the dining room.

“Says the bloke with the 4.0,” Harry returned. His own GPA was 4.0, as well.

“Well, I am taking Nipples 334 and Hindsight 603 this semester.”

“I think you need to take Basic Comedy 101,” Harry shot back.

“Ha ha. I do believe Anatomy 101 is on your schedule this semester?”

Harry looked sideways. “That was funny?”

“I thought it was,” John said. They were back in the sun once again. “Ok…maybe not. Whatever,
man.”

“Well, it's been fun,” Harry said, turning toward the apartment building.

“Indeed. I'm going to work out. Don't work too hard, Potter.”

“Don't think too hard, Sanders,” Harry replied; he was rewarded with the sound of John's
laughter as he crossed the threshold of his building.

----------

The morning and afternoon were catching up with Harry, and as he entered his apartment at five
o'clock, having completed his afternoon classes, he could feel the exhaustion creeping up on
him. He let his books crash down on his bed and plopped down in his chair, leaning back a bit and
stretching out his neck. He rubbed his eyes for a moment, trying to invigorate himself, and then
looked around. He didn't own a computer, so his desk was filled with papers and odds and ends;
his eyes fell on the letter he'd received that morning. He picked it up off his desk and read
it once again.

As he came to the end, it really hit him how long it had been since he'd talked to his
friends. It was easy to get caught up in the business of every day life, but it had been a
*long* time. There was something about Hermione's letter; something Harry couldn't put
his finger on, that just made Harry imagine Hermione, as he had last seen her, with a frown on her
face, or perhaps a sad smile.

He placed the letter back on his desk, vowing to write back to her after he'd finished his
work for the night. He swiveled around toward his bed and began digging for his class work. He had
to review quite a few pages of charts and graphs for his Management class. He then had to analyze
them in the context of keeping a struggling business afloat.

What he hadn't known, though, was that the questions his Professor had given him required
some Calculus. That sent him digging through the piles of papers on his desk, because he knew his
old Calc notes were somewhere in there.

Finally he found them, and just dumped the rest of the papers back on his desk. He turned back
to his work and dove in, and before he knew it, the clock read ten pm. He'd been working for
five solid hours, and although he was still tired, he seemed to be getting his second—or
third—wind. He closed his Management folder, stuffing all of his work inside, and threw it on his
desk, on top of the big mess he had created earlier. Just then, a knock came at his door.

“Come in,” Harry called out.

The door opened and John walked in. He was rather dressed up, Harry noticed. He was wearing a
nice polo shirt and a pair of pressed khakis.

“Yo man, wanna go out?”

“Eh?”

“Some of us are gonna go out to MaXM, you know, over on Broadway.”

“I'm fucking knackered, John,” Harry said.

“You weren't napping all this time?” John asked, honestly surprised.

“Uh…no…I was doing work.”

“Jesus, Harry. You definitely need to come, then. Take a break from all that shit.”

Harry thought for a moment. “Do we have morning practice tomorrow?”

John shook his head. “Wednesday, not tomorrow. If we did, I wouldn't be going out
again.”

Harry had finished most of his work, all that was due the next class, so he finally just
shrugged and nodded.

“Sure, why not.”

“That's the spirit. I'll meet you downstairs in…5 minutes?”

Harry nodded. John left and Harry picked out some nicer clothes from his closet. He cleaned
himself up a bit, shaving quickly and throwing some deodorant and cologne on. He stared at his hair
in the mirror for a moment, lamenting internally how wild it always looked, but left it, because he
knew nothing he could do would ever fix that. Magic, something he had done very, very little of in
the past three and half years, wouldn't even help. It seemed James had wanted something for
everyone to remember him by.

Shaking almost-foreign thoughts of his parents from his mind, he turned around, grabbed his
wallet and his keys, and left the apartment. When he exited the elevator into the lobby, John, Tom,
and few more of his teammates were waiting there.

“About time,” Tom said. The short, stocky catcher was leaning up against a pillar.

“Shut up, Rockwell. You take ten times as long as I do,” Harry replied, smirking at him.

“When you look this good, you have to,” he replied, and the rest of team started laughing. As
they all exited into the rather cool night air, they gave their catcher some good-natured
ribbing.

“I think Potter has you solidly beat in that area, Tom,” their centerfielder, Adam Poole
said.

“Aww, thanks Adam, didn't you know you felt that way about me,” Harry said, laughing.

Adam sized Harry up. “For the right price, I could,” he said, wagging his eyebrows, sending
everyone into laughter again. The rest of their walk to the MaXM club, which was only a few blocks
from the campus, was filled with similar banter. They saw quite a few people they recognized
heading toward the club, as well.

“Quite the popular place tonight,” Harry commented.

“Buy one get one free on drinks,” John said.

“Well, that explains it. Wave booze around and everyone comes running.”

“You've never had a problem with liquor,” John replied, looking at him.

“Was merely an observation,” Harry said.

Drinking was never something Harry had shied away from, and he prided himself on his very high
tolerance. It had gotten his friends out of trouble more than once, when they'd all been
drinking, and he'd been the only one coherent enough to get them all back. He supposed it had
something to do with Butterbeer, which actually did have alcohol content. He'd drank that a lot
when he was younger. He also wondered what proof Firewhiskey was, now that he understood what it
meant. Something told him that it was very high, probably rivaling some of the stronger Muggle
rums. In any case, he didn't mind drinking.

As they drew near the club, they could hear and feel the bass thumping within; there was a large
line waiting at the entrance, as well.

“Shit,” someone said.

“That's gonna be an hour, at least,” Tom said, eyeing the line. Harry looked over at John,
who seemed to be squinting. He was looking at the head of the line.

Suddenly, he spoke: “Hey! Don't we know the bouncer?” The whole group zeroed in on the large
fellow standing at the head of the line, and sure enough, Harry did recognize him. His name was
Ethan Kenner, and Harry had shared several classes with him over the years. Ethan was also a big
baseball fan, and came to nearly every one of Stanford's games.

“Yeah, that's Kenner, isn't it?” Tom asked.

“Think he'd let us in?” Adam asked.

“Eh…” Harry said. “I doubt it.”

“What, you gonna feel bad cutting the line?” John queried.

“I don't give a shite about the line; he has a job to do, though,” Harry replied. “But,
whatever, probably doesn't hurt to try.” Harry smiled.

“I nominate Sanders,” he said, and before John could react, the rest of them had nominated their
pitcher to do the talking. John glared evilly at them for a moment.

He made his way over to Ethan, and Harry and the rest of them watched as John talked to him.
They saw Ethan look over their way, then glance at the line; finally, Ethan nodded to John,
smiling, and waved the rest of them over.

“Hey guys,” Ethan said, when they reached him.

“Hey man,” most of them returned.

“This is no problem, the club doesn't care who goes in as long as they get paid, so just
head on in.”

“Wow, thanks Ethan,” Harry said. Ethan nodded to him and the rest, and they started through the
door into the club. There were some angry yells, but more noticeably, there were some calls of
“Harry!” or “Potter!” or some such thing. Harry ignored them as best as he could, though he could
see all of his friends smirking at him. It seemed like even in America, thousands of miles away
from where he was known for what he really was, he had somehow attracted attention again.

He had begun noticing it after his first season of baseball, but didn't think too much of
it. He just assumed that he was more recognizable because he played on one of the university's
sports teams. He realized that with every passing day, however, his popularity was growing. He did
his best to ignore it, and tried to go about his university life as normally as he could. During
and after his second season of baseball, it became much more of an issue, though, and he was forced
to actually acknowledge many of the people that talked to him.

Sometimes it seemed to him that his fame would follow him wherever he went, in some form or
another, for as long as he lived. He knew that most people would give up quite a bit to have half
of his fame, whether back in Britain or here in the NCAA, but he wasn't like that. It
wasn't like the pressure bothered him, or anything; rather, he just felt that what he did
wasn't noteworthy enough to call all that attention to him.

Some part of him knew, on the other hand, that he was in fact a very good shortstop, but he
would never willingly admit that to himself. He had known he was a good seeker, but it never went
to his head. He was modest to a fault—even he knew that—but it wasn't something he'd ever
give up. One of the smaller reasons he'd come to America was to blend in, for a little while at
least, and he had succeeded for his first year.

Then, he'd started playing baseball, and all that had changed. It's not that he hated
it, but it embarrassed him slightly. The Stanford team wasn't as good as they were just because
of him, and sometimes he felt like he got all the credit. The credit was due elsewhere, as well,
and he hated to think he was accidentally short-changing his teammates. They never complained,
though, and most often just teased him mercilessly about it.

“I think you just cut some of your fans, Potter,” Tom said, raising his voice quite a bit to be
heard over the pounding bass. The group entered the main part of the club, and they all immediately
bypassed the dance floor for the bar. They had to start off their night with a few drinks.

“You might have to find someway to make it up to them,” John added.

“Bugger off, you two,” Harry replied, ordering a shot of Bacardi. He downed it quickly,
signaling the bartender for another.

“Easy Harry,” Tom laughed. “The night is still young.”

“He could drink all of us under the table,” Adam said, ordering a beer.

Harry smirked. “Can't hold your liquor?”

“Never did I say that, Potter,” Adam replied, drinking half of the beer. The men stood around
the bar for a few minutes more, warming themselves up with a few more drinks. Slowly, they were
peeled off one by one by recognizable faces asking them if they wanted to dance, to which most of
them readily agreed.

“Oh, hey look, here comes Erin,” John said, looking to his left. Harry looked over there, and
the girl that greeted him earlier that day during lunch was walking over to them. She smiled at
Harry when he met her eyes.

He had to admit, she was gorgeous. There was no other word for it. She was shapely, had wavy
brown hair and an amazing face with a pert nose and full lips. She was also very lithe, moving with
an almost cat-like grace. She wore a small black dress, revealing much of her tanned legs…legs that
were almost impossibly long. Black stilettos completed the look.

She walked up to the bar between Harry and John, and placed an order for a strawberry margarita.
She then turned around, leaning back against it, and looked at Harry and John.

“I must admit I'm surprised to see you both here,” she said, in a sultry voice. Harry
didn't think it was her normal voice, though if it was, she certainly was gifted.

“Have we met?” Harry asked, trying to hide his slight annoyance. Erin must have taken it as an
invitation, however, because she turned to Harry. Harry raised an eyebrow over his shoulder at
John, who shook his head and smiled, and started to walk away.

“Erin Lowell,” she replied, sticking out her hand. Some of the sultriness seemed to have left
her voice.

“Harry Potter,” he replied, shaking her hand and draining his fourth shot at the same time.

“Yes, I know,” she said, and he could hear the laugh in her voice.

“What year are you in…?” he asked, secretly enjoying the putout look on her face when she
realized Harry really didn't know who she was.

“Senior, same as you,” she replied, sipping from her margarita. She took a seat, placing her
elbows on the bar. Harry had to avoid the temptation of looking at her cleavage, which was now in
full view because she was leaning forward slightly. Harry took a seat next to her, asking the
bartender for a beer, figuring he should slow on the alcohol a bit. He'd barely been there
fifteen minutes and had already had four drinks.

“Oh,” Harry said, tipping the beer back. “What's your major?” Harry asked, trying to keep
the small talk going.

“Engineering,” she replied. For some reason, he was surprised. He then chided himself for his
preconceived notions. He had expected her to say Philosophy or PolySci, or something like that.

“That math must be fun,” he said. She looked at him and smiled, sipping her margarita once
again.

“Math is my specialty. You're Business, right?” she asked.

“I don't know whether I should be scared or not that you know that,” Harry tried to
joke.

“Come on, Harry, everyone knows that.”

“Why do they care what my major is?” he muttered, but Erin heard him anyway. She must have
exceptional hearing, because the music was awfully loud.

“Same reason they care about your batting average,” she replied. Harry looked over to her, and
couldn't read her face. She wasn't smiling, and therefore he didn't think she was
flirting.

Harry took another swig of beer. “They should concern themselves with themselves more,” he said,
making a face at the ineloquence of what he'd said.

“Was that as stupid as it sounded to me?” he asked.

Erin had a small smile on her face. “I don't know if I should criticize the `great'
Harry Potter.”

“Oh, don't start with that shite. That's all bollocks, anyway,” he said, reverting
somewhat to his native slang, as he often did when he spoke quickly.

“I like your accent,” she said, in reply.

“Thanks,” he said, dryly.

“You know, you're not at all like I imagined.”

This is not what Harry needed tonight. He didn't need some fan girl praising his many great
aspects, all of which were imagined, of course, and was just about to tell her off when she
continued speaking.

“I had this image built up of someone who was really full of himself,” she said. That caught him
off guard. What had he ever done to this girl to make her think that?

“Why is that?” he asked, cautiously. The beer now sat empty on the bar, although Erin had
ordered a second margarita. She was rather small; maybe 5'4”, and he found himself wondering
how much alcohol she could possibly hold.

“You're always so aloof. No one really knows you that well outside the baseball team,
although most of them claim to,” she said, rolling her eyes at the last part.

“What are they claiming?”

“Oh, you know, that they've done this and that with you…” she responded, trailing off. She
started giggling at the horrified look on his face.

“However, it is quite clear after talking with you that all of what those people have said is a
load of bullshit. You're charming, in your own way.”

“Well, now that I have your approval, my life is complete,” he said.

“You also seem to have quite the sarcastic streak.”

Harry shrugged. “When you've dealt with that kind of crap all your life, you tend to develop
a defense to it. I guess that's mine.”

“Touchy, touchy,” Erin said, though he sensed some nervousness in her voice. He wasn't
trying to intimidate the poor girl.

“Sorry. It's been a long day.”

“So you decided to the end the day with a bang?” she asked. He glanced over at her, but once
again her face was unreadable. He didn't even know if she realized the second meaning in what
she'd said.

“You could say that.”

“You know, you're not very talkative.”

Harry ordered another beer. As it was handed to him, he turned slightly toward Erin.

“Were you *expecting* something else?” he asked.

“Oh, low blow, Potter,” she said, turning toward him. “That's not what I meant. Look, why
don't we just dance? That way you can avoid having to talk to me.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “You like to make assumptions, don't you?” It was barely
noticeable, but her face fell slightly.

“If you don't want to dance—”

“No, no,” he said, genuinely laughing, “that's not what *I* meant. Who said I was
avoiding talking to you?” She didn't say anything for a moment, though it looked like she was
fishing for a response.

“Come on,” he said, saving her the trouble, “let's go dance.” He didn't know why he did
it, because he hadn't really planned on dancing, but why not? He placed their drinks on a
nearby table and led her by the hand to the dance floor. He ignored the envious looks sent
Erin's way; he was actually rather angry with that. If this girl, who actually seemed to be
pretty sweet, got flak just because she'd been seen with him…

But, his train of thought trailed off as they found a spot on the floor and started dancing to
the music. It was a mix of techno and hip-hop, and the beats were easy to move to. Erin was a
spectacular dancer, probably having some experience at some point. Harry just went with the beat,
doing his best to keep up with the far more talented girl.

At some point, the alcohol must have caught up with her, because Harry found himself supporting
her on more than one occasion. After quite awhile on the floor, they went back to the table their
drinks had been on, and he saw that they had been cleared away.

She sat heavily into her chair, and he sat across from her. He glanced around the large room for
a moment, trying to locate his friends. He saw most of them on the dance floor, so he returned his
attention to Erin. She was trying to cool off, waving the rather low neckline of her dress back and
forth. It certainly didn't leave much to the imagination.

“So he can dance, too,” she said. He detected a very slight slur in her words. “What other
tricks does he have?” Ok, now she was definitely flirting with him.

“Erin—” he started, but she cut him off.

“Another margarita!” she called out to a passing waiter, who then looked at Harry. He shook his
head; something told him drinking more would be a very bad idea. The margarita was on the table in
seconds, and Erin immediately started sipping it. Her wavy brown hair fell over her shoulders when
she dipped her head, hiding her face slightly.

“That was fun.” She was nearly bouncing in her seat. There was something about her posture,
something in her voice, that Harry couldn't read though.

“Indeed.”

“Indeed! Is that all you have to say?” she pouted, playfully. Harry rolled his eyes slightly at
the blatant flirting. Perhaps this girl wasn't as sweet as he'd originally thought, having
pretty much forgotten what John had told him about her earlier in the day.

“What? I agreed with you,” he replied.

“Sure you did,” she said, smacking her lips as she finished the margarita. Harry stared at the
empty glass. She had gone through that very fast.

“Come on, let's keep dancing,” she said, standing up quickly and pulling him from his seat.
He followed her, noticing that she stumbled once. Someone clapped him on the shoulder as he went
past, and he turned his head, seeing that it was Tom. The shorter man was grinning unabashedly at
Harry. Harry just shook his head at him. He was getting quite exasperated with all of the
assumptions people were making, as evidenced by the types of looks he was receiving. If just being
in the presence of this girl was leading to that, maybe he should just call it a night and head
back to bed.

However, when they finally reached an open spot, and Erin turned around, he saw that abandoning
her right now wasn't the best of ideas. She was clearly intoxicated, and was heading further
down that road every moment, and he didn't know if she'd come here with anyone. He
wasn't going to leave her alone, drunk like that, wearing what she was. He knew what went on
around campus, how often people were taken advantage of, and he didn't need that on his
conscience.

So he danced with her for quite awhile longer, watching the steady progression of her
drunkenness, until he was supporting her more than dancing. He glanced at his watch after awhile,
and saw that it was a little after twelve o'clock.

He slowed his dancing, making eye contact with Erin, and nodded his head toward the side of the
floor. He thought he saw something flash through her eyes, but he didn't know what. He led her
from the floor.

“Where do you live?” he asked her.

“Uh…Carter Residences,” she replied.

“I'll take you back,” he said. He was almost completely sober, as he stopped drinking about
two hours before. She, on the other hand, wobbled a bit in her stilettos as they made their way for
the door. He reached out a hand to steady her, placing it on her lower back. She tensed up a
bit.

“S'alright,” she lightly slurred. “I'll just take them off when we get outside.” She
moved ahead of him a bit more, pushing through the crowd. He almost lost her, but when he made it
outside, she was standing there, alone, with her heels in her hand. She was shivering lightly so he
gave his jacket her.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Carter Residences, huh? Are they nice?”

She nodded, but didn't say anything. He thought her newfound reticence odd, and coupled with
her strange tone of voice and odd body language he knew that something was off. He couldn't put
his finger on it though. She stumbled just then, and he grabbed her just in time. She would have
eaten pavement, otherwise.

She laughed, although it was a much different one from her earlier giggles. “I see they
don't lie about your reflexes,” she said. Harry kept a hold of her, not wanting to see her
fall.

“I do what I can,” he said. She just needed to be back in her room, sleeping it off. He would
walk her back and make sure nothing happened to her.

They crossed the few city blocks in relative silence, entering the campus and heading toward the
Carter residences, which were south of where Harry lived.

“…walking me back…” he heard her mutter, though he didn't catch the rest of what she'd
said. He didn't ask. He just wanted to get her home, and head back to bed.

When they reached the Carter buildings, Harry was impressed. He hadn't actually been down
here in a long time, and had never realized that the Carter residences were actual houses. Erin
stopped in front a smaller one, and went fishing in her purse for her keys. She found them, but
dropped them. Harry picked them up for her.

“Which one?” he asked, holding up the keys. She bit her lip for a moment.

“That one,” she said, pointing. He slid it into the lock, turned it, and opened the door. Erin
crossed the threshold first, and Harry followed just beyond the door, reaching for a light. Erin
had her back to him when the room was illuminated, and Harry saw that it was a rather posh living
room.

“Wow, you weren't lying when you said it was nice.” He moved toward her to hand her the
keys. She turned before he reached her though, and what he saw surprised him beyond belief. There
were tears streaming down her face.

“Erin…?” he asked, setting her keys on the arm of a chair.

“I'm s-sorry,” she said, in between shuddering breaths. “I j-just don't think I c-can do
this.”

“Do what?” he asked, perplexed.

“You know…everything. What you're h-here for,” she said, and then started crying harder. She
sank to her knees—dropped to them, really—and let the tears come. Harry was so bewildered for a
moment that he could do nothing but stare at her crumpled figure. So that was what had been
bothering her most of the night. She had expected him to want something from her. He replayed the
last ten minutes of their night in his head, going over everything he'd said and done, and he
could see how she'd taken it all the wrong way.

“Erin,” he said, getting on the floor next to her. She recoiled slightly. “Erin, look at me,” he
said. He didn't know it, but his voice changed a bit when he told her to look at him. If Ron or
Hermione had been around to hear it, they would have told him that it was his `leader voice,'
one that they said supposedly instilled confidence and poise into anyone who heard it. He thought
it was a load of rubbish, personally.

She slowly raised her face to his; the tears had not let up, and make-up was smeared down past
her lips now.

“I walked you back because I thought you were a little too drunk to do so on your own. I
didn't want you falling, or anything…” he trailed off, trying to be as sincere as he possibly
could. He hated that this misunderstanding even had to take place, but he wondered what she was so
insecure about. She was absolutely gorgeous, and apparently liked to flaunt herself around.

“I thought you expected something o-out of me,” she replied, sounding every bit like an insecure
fourteen year old.

“The only thing I expect out of you is for you to get a good night's rest,” Harry said,
standing up. He reached out both of his hands, and she hesitantly took them. The tears were
starting to abate.

“From everything I've heard about you, I expected you to—”

Harry shook his head sadly, cutting her off. “We've been over this already. Everything
you've `heard' about me is probably rubbish.”

Erin wiped the tears from her face, smudging her make-up even more, but she obviously didn't
care.

“Well, I don't know what to say,” she said. She was still intoxicated, so she was still
slurring a little, but the crying had gone out of her voice.

“Just answer me one thing,” he said. She nodded. “Why do you go around like this,” he started,
indicating her dress, “if you don't want people to have that idea?”

She laughed bitterly. It was very unexpected, as was the acid in her voice when she responded.
“It's expected. I'm sure you've heard at least some of the stories about me.”

Harry nodded. “What was that at lunch today, then? That little `Hey, Harry' or whatever it
was you said.”

She crossed her arms, trying to block some unseen chill, and seemed to think for a moment before
responding.

“Again, expected of me. I was…” she trailed off. “I was very stupid my first year here. It's
very hard to escape that kind of reputation, and I guess I always found it easier to just go along
with it as much as I could.

“Tonight, I guess I thought I'd gotten carried away, and had led you on or something, and
who would I be to suddenly say to Harry Potter that I didn't want to…”

Harry was angry beyond belief at his stupid fucking reputation for a few seconds, and
couldn't respond to what she'd said. His reputation was quite clearly out of control, if it
made some girl almost do something she didn't want to do—or think he wanted her to do something
she didn't want to do. He finally took a deep breath, settling his rampant thoughts.

“I hope I proved to you tonight that I'm not that kind of person, Erin,” he said. “I hope
you can tell your friends or whoever it is that tells these lies about me that you know the real
me, and I'm not like that.”

She nodded at him, and he looked at his watch. “Look, I'm really sorry for the
misunderstanding.”

“S'ok,” she slurred, reminding him she was still drunk.

“I need to get going, though; I'm quite knackered.” He leaned forward and kissed her lightly
on the cheek, on impulse, as hopefully just a friend. He pointed to the chair.

“Your keys are there,” he said, though he was looking amusedly at her hand, which was on her
cheek where he'd kissed her.

“What was that for?” she asked, though she was smiling as well.

Harry shrugged. “Seemed like the right thing to do,” he responded.

“And he has manners, too,” she said. “What other tricks does he do?” She obviously remembered
the whole night, which was a good sign. Maybe she wasn't totally plastered.

He smiled and shook his head, turning for the door. As he opened it and passed through, he
turned back.

“Have a good night.”

“You too, Harry.”

He left and shut the door, and began walking back toward his apartment. He was still angry with
everyone and everything for that whole situation, but it was fading a bit. Really, he was just
exhausted, and he wanted to sleep. Upon reaching his room, he just threw all the crap that was on
his bed over on his desk, removed his shoes and shirt, and flopped down.

He was asleep within a minute or two, having totally forgotten about responding to
Hermione's letter, which was nowhere to be seen under the piles of papers and books.

-->



3. Retrospect
-------------



**Bearings**

Disclaimer/Author's notes: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. And now a chapter through the eyes
of my favorite character. Any reviews are welcome.

*
I will remember you
Will you remember me?
Don't let your life pass you by
Weep not for the memories*

Sarah McLachlan

*I Will Remember You*

Chapter Two: Retrospect

April 2002

Hermione Granger pushed open the door to her house and was immediately assaulted by the smell of
cooking chicken. She inhaled the scent as she crossed into the foyer, pushing the door closed
behind her and hanging her coat up on the hook.

“Hermione, is that you?” Jane Granger called from the kitchen.

“Yes, mum,” she replied, setting her work briefcase on the small table. She slipped her shoes
off and padded down the hall into the kitchen. Her mother was moving around the room busily,
preparing for what was most definitely a late dinner. Her father was nowhere to be seen.

“How was your day, honey?”

“Fine, mum. Why are you eating so late?” Hermione asked, glancing at the clock on the wall. It
read 7:30 pm.

“Your father had to work late tonight,” her mum responded, opening the oven and taking the
chicken out. “I know how late you always get home, so I thought it would be nice for us all to eat
together for once.”

Hermione sat heavily into a chair at the table, sighing as she did so. She did indeed get home
late, just about every day, and the weariness that spread through her indicated that. She had gone
into the Ministry around eight that morning, and had left just a half hour ago. Eleven-hour days
weren't unusual, nor were longer ones.

“You look terrible,” her mother commented, setting the chicken and some smashed potatoes on the
table.

“Thanks, mum,” Hermione said, dryly. She brushed some of her bushy brown hair away from her
face, resting her chin in her hand after. Before their conversation could continue, however, the
sound of the front door opening and closing reached their ears, as well as her father's
voice.

“Bloody kids…” Hermione heard. She looked to her mother, who just raised an eyebrow, smiling
slightly.

“Something the matter, Dan?” Jane called out to her husband. After a moment, the man in question
came into the kitchen, with a decidedly sour look on his face. He pecked his wife on the cheek,
which Hermione eyed.

“Just a hold-up…longer than expected,” he said, face brightening up when he saw his
daughter.

“Hermione, you're home!” he said. She nodded, giving him a smile.

“Busy day?” he asked, probably noticing her slouch.

She shrugged. “No more than normal.”

“Well, if every day was like today, I'd go bollocks,” her dad said, earning a short chuckle
from Jane.

“Well, you're home now,” her mum said.

“Yes; we all are,” he said, grabbing some vegetables and setting them on the table. He then sat
down, and Jane soon followed.

“Well, this is nice,” Jane said. “We're all here for once,” she continued. The next few
minutes were spent serving themselves food and starting in on their meal. Hermione was eating
slowly, reflecting on just how busy she had actually been that day.

“What's the matter, Hermione? You look sluggish,” her dad said.

“Just tired is all, dad,” Hermione replied, ironically holding back a yawn as she did so.

“You *have* been working awfully hard for quite some time now, you know,” he said.
“Don't you deserve some kind of break soon?”

“At this point, with all of the things I've got lined up?” Hermione asked, with a raised
eyebrow.

Jane looked at Dan, who nodded, and looked back to Hermione. Hermione didn't like that one
bit; they had obviously talked about whatever it was they were going to say to her beforehand.

“Surely it wouldn't kill you to cut down on the hours some?” her mum asked.

Hermione shook her head. “I can't do that. Not now. The competition for that position I told
you about is heating up. I have to keep at it as much as I have been, or else it would look like I
was slacking or something.”

“Really, Hermione, cutting down to forty-five or fifty hour weeks from sixty would be seen as
slacking?” her father asked. None of them were eating anymore, their food forgotten on their
plates.

“That's not the point. I have momentum. I don't want to lose that.”

“You just look…so tired,” her father said, in an uncharacteristically quiet voice. Hermione
didn't argue with him on that one; she was bone tired. There was little she could do about
that, though.

“They'll announce who they're appointing to chair position soon. If I get it I can cool
off a bit,” Hermione replied.

“And if you don't?” her mother asked.

Hermione didn't want to consider that. All of her hopes and plans had been resting on
getting that position, which would put her in charge of the Muggle Liaisons office. Arthur, the
Vice Minister, and Amos, the Minister, would be the only ones above her. She had come so far in the
Ministry in a very short amount of time, with almost no setbacks, so she was one hundred percent
sure she would get this appointment.

“I will,” she said, refocusing on her parents. In doing so, she missed the look that passed
between them.

There was another silence as the three concentrated on finishing their meal. Sometime during the
previous five minutes, it had started raining, and Hermione could hear the cold, windswept drops
pattering the roof and windows. The wind could be heard sighing through the eaves of their house,
creating a melancholy atmosphere that perfectly fit her current mood.

“Oh, has Harry written back yet?” her mum asked. Hermione looked up, hoping that there
wasn't too much disappointment showing on her face at the mention of her old friend.

“No mum, not yet,” she said.

“When did you send that letter?” her dad asked.

“About a month ago,” she replied. She was hoping that a reply of some kind would come any day,
but as each day passed and April crept toward May, the hope was slowly being washed away by
sadness. She missed Harry a great deal, and it seemed like he had forgotten about his home.

“It could have gotten lost in the mail,” her mother said, hopefully.

Hermione shook her head. “I charmed it to return to me if Harry hadn't gotten a hold of it
within two weeks.” The fact that it hadn't returned to her told her that Harry had at least
received it, which led her to wonder why he didn't respond…which in turn led to that
sadness.

“Well…couldn't you call him?” her mother asked.

“He doesn't have a mobile, and I don't know his local number,” she replied. This whole
conversation was depressing her.

When she was at work, she usually kept busy enough to avoid thinking about Harry. Ever since he
had left, after they had graduated, she had worked many hard hours to keep her mind firmly in
Britain. Before he'd left, she had done everything she knew of to hint to him that she…well
that was water under the bridge now. He was over there, and she was over here, and he seemed to not
care about her anymore.

Now that her parents were bringing it up, however, she found herself returning to those same
futile thoughts. She really did miss Harry, but what difference did it make if he wouldn't keep
in touch with her? And as far as she knew, he hadn't kept in touch with Ron or the others
either.

“This Harry bloke doesn't impress me too much, Hermione,” her dad suddenly chimed in,
totally catching her off guard.

“Come again?” Hermione asked.

“Well, you know, we didn't really get to know him when you were at Hogwarts,” he continued.
“We were looking forward to meeting him after you were all done with that place, since you always
seemed so fond of him growing up…” he trailed off, and she tried to hide the blush that crept to
her face. She *had* gushed occasionally, hadn't she?

“Anyways, he just left? And now you can't get a response from him? Just doesn't impress
me too much,” he finished.

“You didn't know him like I did,” Hermione said. “He defended Ron and I, and countless
others, with his life. And I know he'd do it again,” Hermione said, unsure of why she was
defending him, but doing it anyway.

“How do you *know* that, dear?” her mother asked, surprising Hermione even more. Why were
they both being so obstinate about this? She knew Harry; she knew what he was and wasn't
capable of. Some part of her, deep down in her heart, knew that he wasn't capable of just
forgetting her, but that was a part that had little weight in her well-ordered mind. So, she just
lived with the fact that Harry would hopefully return to Britain when he graduated…

“I lived, studied, worked, fought, and *bled* with him for seven years, mum. I might even
know Harry better than himself,” she said, raising her voice a little. She was beginning to get
frustrated with this line of questioning, not only because it was pointless but also because it was
freeing up long-buried feelings.

“The Harry from four years ago,” her father corrected. Both her mother and her father were
staring at her now.

“Look, why are you doing this?” Hermione asked. Not only was she frustrated, but also she knew
she was going to burst into tears soon, and that was something she didn't want her parents to
see.

“It's just…” her mother started, but faltered. Her father took over.

“We're just worried about you. You're 22 and you're still living at home. You work
ungodly hours and you have no social life,” he said. She winced, and dropped her eyes to the table.
Everything he was saying was true.

“We're worried that life is just going to pass you by, and you're going to miss it.” He
paused; she looked up. “And we think Harry is the reason.”

Hermione blinked. “What?!”

“Now Hermione, listen to your—”

“No!” Hermione said, loudly. She stood and brought her plate to the sink. As she started rinsing
it off, she said, “Regardless of what you may think, I'm perfectly happy with my life right
now. I'm saving up for my own apartment, but if you want me to leave, I can. I have a lot of
friends at the Ministry.” She turned off the faucet and started for the door of the kitchen.

“Hermione, wait—”

“You've said enough,” she overrode her father, and continued on her way out of the kitchen,
up the stairs, and to her room. It wasn't until her door was closed and locked that she let the
tears come…and come they did. She slid down her door and drew her knees to her chest, silently
sobbing so that her parents wouldn't hear it. A soft yellow glow came in through her curtains
from the streetlight outside, and the rain cascading against her window threw streaked patterns
across her room.

She rested her chin on her knees, watching as her tears left her face and dropped onto her legs,
and then went rolling down toward the floor. She pulled her legs tighter against her as an
involuntary shiver passed through her. She sniffled once, willing her tears to stop, but they would
only slow.

She wondered what Harry was doing at that moment, as she leaned against her door wallowing in
her sorrow, all alone in her room at her childhood home. She wondered what kinds of friends Harry
had made, if there was anyone he loved…she wondered why he wouldn't write back, after all
they'd been through. There were so many things she wanted to tell him, about herself and her
life and the people they both called friends, but that was impossible to do with one-sided
letters.

She rarely saw Ron anymore; he was often away training for Quidditch, and when he was home, him
and Luna spent all of that time together. Ginny, who had once been her best female friend of sorts,
had just gotten engaged to Neville, so she rarely saw them, too. They were both busy with their
respective professions, and they loved each other deeply. The other four, besides Harry and
herself, had found their counterpart.

She sniffed once as the tears finally abated. Maybe that was what was really bothering her—she
loved her work, but she knew she was relatively lonely. Sure, she had colleagues that she saw every
day at the Ministry, but those were strictly professional relationships. She hadn't made a real
connection to anyone besides the five other people that had gone to the Department of Mysteries so
long ago, not even to her parents. The problem was, all five of them seemed to be drifting away
from her, and she either wasn't strong enough to stop it or didn't know how.

She had all but told Harry her true feelings before he had left for America four years earlier,
and she had futilely hoped that he would change his mind for some reason or see what she was really
trying to say, but that hadn't happened. If she could do it all over again, she would just tell
him explicitly, but she also knew that it wasn't that easy. It's one thing to think about
saying something hard, but then to actually follow through with it when faced with the
situation…

So here she was, 22 years old and as alone as the day she came back from Singapore four summers
before. She smiled mirthlessly to herself as she remembered that fine day. She had unpacked her
things and then Apparated over to the Burrow, looking for Ron or Ginny. The only person that had
been home was Molly.

*“Hermione, how was your trip?” the Weasley matron said by way of greeting.*

*Hermione smiled at the older woman. “Fine, Molly. I had a good time. Ron or Ginny around
anywhere?”*

*“Oh, I'm sorry, but I think you've missed them both,” Molly replied.*

*“Oh? Any idea where they went?”*

*“About a week after Harry left, Ron and Luna went with her father to Switzerland for four
weeks.”*

*“Really,” Hermione said. That meant that Ron wouldn't be home for another week. She
vaguely wondered what it had been like for Ron, to have that final contact with Harry before he
left. She knew that if it had been her at the airport she would have cried.*

*“And Ginny, she's back at Hogwarts,” Molly said, giving Hermione a curious look.*

*“Oh, of course, how could I forget about that? It is after the first, isn't it?” Hermione
questioned, rhetorically. How could she have forgotten that school was already in session again for
the year?*

*Her mind was telling her that she had been really distracted of late, but she ignored that
voice. It didn't do to dwell on thoughts of Harry, especially now that he was thousands of
miles away.*

*“Wait…how can Luna be missing classes?”*

*“Minerva exempted her for the week. Figured it wouldn't hurt anything—and Ron, well, he
doesn't have to worry about classes anymore.”*

*“And Ginny didn't argue?” Hermione asked.*

*“No,” Molly said, again looking at Hermione a little strangely. “Why would she?”*

*“Well…Luna gets to miss classes…”*

*“Ah, but you forget where your good friend Neville Longbottom works now,” Molly supplied,
moving about the kitchen of the Burrow and straightening things up.*

*“He got the job?” Hermione asked.*

*Molly nodded. “Minerva informed him about three weeks ago.”*

*“I see,” Hermione replied. Well of course she hadn't known, as she had been out of the
country for quite awhile now.*

*“I don't think Minerva would mind if you popped on up to the school for a bit of a
visit,” Molly said, sitting at the table. Hermione hadn't moved from her spot by the
door.*

*“No, that's alright. I wouldn't want to be a bother. And besides, I have quite a bit
of work to do to get ready for tomorrow. I just wanted to say hullo, is all.”*

*“I'll let Ron know when he gets home,” Molly replied, and Hermione turned to leave. “One
more thing, Hermione,” Molly added. Hermione turned back and raised her eyebrow.*

*“Harry left a few things for you, before he left. They're up in Ron's room if you
want to have a look.”*

*Hermione's heart fluttered for a brief moment, and then she wordlessly nodded and
ascended the stairs. When she came to Ron's door, she pressed the palm of her hand against it,
took a deep breath, and pushed it open.*

*Ron's side of the room was immaculate, for once, but her attention was immediately drawn
to the bed Harry had used when he'd stayed at the Burrow. On it was a small, plain box with a
short note attached to it. She moved over to the bed and sat on it, with several memories of the
Trio's time in this room running their merry way through her head. She could almost hear
Harry's laughter at something particularly stupid Ron had said, or Ron's apologetic voice
for offending her in some way or another.*

*She brought her attention to the note stuck to the box. Harry's familiar writing was
scrawled across its surface:*

Hermione,

I won't need my magical things in the Muggle world, so I'm giving you all of my effects,
except for the Firebolt, of course. Ron got that. I hope you aren't too offended. Everything
has been shrunk and placed in this box. The invisibility cloak is in there, too, though I know you
won't use it for mischief. The Marauder's Map…everything is in there. I'm sure
you'll find a good use for them.

Harry

*She ran her fingers across the note as she reread the words he had written; some part of her
was very saddened by the starkness, the emotionless tone of the note, but what had she expected?
Something a little more resonating, that was for sure.*

*She picked up the box, crumpling the note and throwing it in the bin, and went back
downstairs. Molly was nowhere to be seen, so she Apparated back to her house. She placed the box on
her shelf and started in on the work she had to complete for her first internship the next
day.*

The rain brought Hermione's attention back to the present, and she listened to the staccato
beat of the heavy, wind-driven raindrops as they hit against her house. Her eyes strayed over to
her shelf, where the box still sat, all these years later, unopened and untouched since that day.
Everything in the room had an EverClean charm on it, so there was no dust on it, but the dust was
in her mind. Cobwebs had sprung up since she'd placed that there, making her unable to go to it
and move it. The weaver of those webs was her own feelings.

She heard footsteps on the stairs, and she knew she didn't want to speak to her parents
again that night. She quickly stood and moved over to her bed, slipping under the covers and
feigning sleep. The footsteps paused outside her door, and then came a light knock. Hermione
didn't answer, and a few moments later she could hear the door open, presumably so one or both
of them could see if she was sleeping. The door closed a few seconds later and the steps continued
on past her room.

----------

May 2nd, 2002

Hermione's eyes shot open as her alarm went off; the adrenaline that briefly pumped through
her body had stopped and she was already weary again as she sat up and shut it off. The clock told
her the sad story of six in the morning, and she slowly swung her legs out from under the covers
and stood up.

She stretched to her full height; stretching the thin tee and making the small shorts she was
wearing ride up a bit. She looked at herself in the mirror for a moment, seeing all of her flaws
rather than her many attributes, and turned away from those negative thoughts. She gathered up the
blouse and the skirt she would wear under her robes that day, and headed for the loo. After
showering and attending to various daily maintenances, she went downstairs and started preparing
breakfast for herself. It was still only six twenty, so her parents wouldn't be up for another
forty minutes. She had been very frosty with them since that night they'd brought up Harry, so
they hadn't said much to each other in quite awhile.

As she sat down at the table with her breakfast, though, Jane walked sleepily into the kitchen;
something must have woken her.

“Hermione,” she said.

“Mum.” Hermione watched her mother as she went about the kitchen gathering things for her own
breakfast.

“What are you having?” her mother asked.

“Some toast,” Hermione relied, accentuating it with the crunch of the hardened bread between her
teeth. She took a sip of water, watching over the rim of her glass as Jane sat at the table, across
from her.

“That's all?”

“I've never really eaten much in the morning,” Hermione replied.

“Ah, that's right…” Jane said, although for some reason she seemed to be distracted.

“What's got you up so early?” Hermione asked, attempting to cut through the awkward silence
between their words.

“Didn't feel well,” Jane said, off-handedly.

“Headcold?”

Her mother shook her head. Hermione watched her push the food around on her plate, before she
sighed and let the fork clatter down.

“I've been nauseous the past few mornings,” she said, staring at her daughter. Even already,
Hermione's mind began to put the pieces together.

“Mum, what are—”

“Hermione, I think I'm pregnant.” Silence engulfed the kitchen and its occupants for a few
seconds; that is, until Hermione noisily exhaled. What did her mum want her to say?

“That's great! And you know, you're only forty two, that's not unheard of, women are
having babies up to fifty now—”

“Hermione,” Jane said, cutting her off. They locked eyes with each other. “What do you really
think?”

“Uh…that it's great?” Hermione stated, more as a question though. Her mother wasn't
making a whole lot of sense at the moment.

“Yeah, but you've been an only child for so long…and this would change that…”

“Mum, I'm a grown woman. My sibling would be 23 years younger than me…I really don't
think that's even an issue.” Hermione was silent for a moment, considering what this news
really meant.

“Does dad know yet?” she asked. Her mother shook her head.

“No. I'm going to the doctor today to get the final word. If he says that I am indeed
pregnant, I'll tell Dan then.”

Hermione wasn't sure how she could ask the next question on her mind without embarrassing
herself and her mother, but the more inquisitive side of her won.

“Were you not using protection…?” Hermione trailed off, feeling the slight blush rise in her
cheeks, but somewhat satisfied at seeing the same thing on her mother's face.

“Well, we were told we *couldn't* have any more kids,” Jane explained. “So we
didn't think it was an issue.”

“Do you *want* another kid?” Hermione asked, and her mother looked up at her, rather
sharply she thought. Jane considered her for a moment or two, and then resumed pushing the food
around on her plate with her fork.

“Yes, of course, but this is very unexpected. It will just take a little getting used to.”

Hermione nodded her head, and then looked at the clock. It was six thirty-five. Her eyes widened
in surprise. She was going to be late if she didn't get her arse moving. She stood up quickly
and magicked her dishes into the sink.

“I'm sorry that I have to run like this, but I'm going to be late if I don't go. I
hope the doctor tells you what you want to hear, mum,” Hermione said as she left the room,
purposely leaving her statement ambiguous. She didn't think her mum really knew what she wanted
yet.

If she put herself in her mum's position, she knew she would be a little overwhelmed.
Forty-two, a grown kid, a stable job…and all of the sudden another child on the way. That would
certainly throw a kink in whatever plans her parents had. It was with these thoughts that Hermione
Apparated to the Ministry's atrium. They were soon swept away as she made her way through the
tumult of all the employees trying to get to work on time, though. As she passed through the wand
checkpoint and into the atrium proper, her eyes went to the statue and the fountain as they did
every morning when she walked past it.

Shortly after Harry had left for America and before Hermione had gotten home from Singapore, the
powers that be had decided the statue that had resided in the atrium for many years was no longer a
good representation of Wizarding society, and had sought to replace it with something more fitting.
It had only taken two days of deliberation for the Wizengamot to come to a unanimous decision over
what the new statue should be of, and they had immediately hired the two best magical sculptors in
Britain.

The day that Hermione had come to the Ministry for the start of her first internship, she had
been supremely startled to be greeted by her own likeness. Standing in the middle of the fountain
were three figures, all dressed in Muggle jeans and a light sweater, as Ron, Harry, and herself had
often dressed on their hunt for the Horcruxes. The left figure, if one was looking at it from the
front, was the tallest of the three, and had rather short, straight hair. His features were fair
and his smile huge, as if he were laughing. This person was Ron of course, and Hermione had to
admit to herself that the person sculpting it had done a very good job. The body language fairly
screamed Ron Weasley.

The middle figure was the shortest and the most feminine, as it was Hermione herself. This
Hermione had longish straight hair, a pert nose, flawless skin, and a small smile across her lips.
Her hands were on hips, and she knew the pose was a perfect imitation of what she did when she was
either slightly amused or slightly frustrated. She sometimes wondered how the creators had gotten
so close to the real thing.

The third figure, the one she found herself staring at quite often, was none other than the Boy
Who Lived, the Savior of the Wizarding World, or Harry Bloody Potter, as she recalled Harry saying
once. He was slightly behind Hermione and Ron, looking at them with a smile on his face, as well.
His pose exuded confidence, and would have been tacky with any other person, but Hermione knew it
was a way that Harry had actually looked from time to time. The sculptor had even recreated the
mess that was Harry's hair.

“Sometimes I think Ronald gets jealous when I look at his statue,” a voice behind Hermione
stated.

“Why is that, Luna?” Hermione asked, recognizing the voice.

“He seems to think that visage is more handsome than his,” the blond said, coming up to
Hermione's side. Hermione glanced over her, envying for the briefest of seconds her very slim
figure and beautiful hair. Luna had, at some point, gotten Muggle corrective lens, although they
did not detract from her appearance. In fact, if her wire frames were taken in combination with her
blue eyes and swept up blond hair, she was actually a very striking person. Luna wore heels, a
skirt, and tight blouse.

“Well, mine certainly is,” Hermione said, eyeing the very feminine and alluring shape of her
statue. She sometimes wanted to rage against that statue, to destroy it, but she knew she
couldn't. Regardless of how inappropriate she thought a statue of herself was, there was
nothing she could do about it. It was a permanent fixture in the Ministry now.

“What do you mean?” Luna asked, turning the paradox of an inquisitive and an airy gaze upon
Hermione.

“None of us look that good,” Hermione said, shrugging. Luna considered her for a moment, and
then turned back to the statues.

“Well, you do have a splattering of freckles on your nose not on the statue,” Luna said, and
then giggled lightly. Hermione stared at her incredulously, and then laughed a bit with her.
Merlin, it felt good to laugh! She hadn't done that in so long. The two young women turned away
from the fountain and the statues and started toward the lifts. Hermione turned toward Luna
slightly.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” she asked.

“Oh, I have to do some interviews for daddy,” she said, tapping the quill that was firmly tucked
behind her ear, as it always was. Luna worked for the Quibbler, and was quickly moving her way up;
Hermione had been rather surprised when she'd read some of Luna's stories. It seemed that,
regardless of the occasionally…*off*…things the blond said, her reporting was actually very
factual and rarely inane. It had given the Quibbler a bit of a more solid reputation in the last
few years.

“Awfully early for that sort of stuff,” Hermione said, as they stepped into the elevator.

“Yes well, Ronald has an early practice today. I decided to start early, as well. After some
fun, of course,” Luna said, causing Hermione to blush.

“Luna,” Hermione implored.

She simply raised an immaculate blond eyebrow from behind her frames at Hermione. “Yes?”

“Never mind,” Hermione said, wanting to avoid yet another discussion about sex with Luna. That
was another thing that had surprised Hermione about Luna during the past few years—she was as frank
as anyone she had ever met about sex, and had learned more about Ron's *thing* than she
cared to admit. Sometimes Luna just went on and on…

“Well, I'm off,” Hermione said. The elevator doors slid open.

“Have a good day, Hermione,” Luna said.

“Make an honest man out of Ron,” Hermione said, looking over her shoulder at the small smile on
Luna's face.

“Some day,” the blond said, and the doors slid closed. Hermione turned away from the elevator
and was confronted with the set of offices that had been her home for a long time now. She strode
down the corridor, slipping her work robes over her shoulders as she did so, and stopped at the
door closest to the end of the hallway. There was one door further down, at the very end, but that
had been empty for some time now. It had *Muggle Liaisons Chair* magicked across the frosted
glass, but the spot for the name was empty.

Hermione looked at the door to her own office, seeing the *Hermione J. Granger, Muggle
Coordinator* written there, and turned the doorknob. Her office was as she had left it the
previous night—papers, folders, and memos strewn everywhere. She had had a particularly long and
stressful day, and she had wanted to just get the hell out of there. With a few flicks of her wand,
though, the mess had righted itself, and she set about to see what her various tasks for the day
would be.

She took everything from her inbox, all of which had accumulated since she'd left, and
started leafing through it. As she read a note from the Prime Minister, she leaned back in her
chair and chuckled at the man's ignorance. For some reason, he was expressing concern about the
secret of a magical society getting out, but Hermione knew he still didn't understand the
concept of Obliviation.

She met with him on a weekly basis, and he had a limited understanding of the magical world, but
there were still so many things that baffled him, and rightly so of course. She wrote a quick reply
to him, assuring him that everything was under control, as it had been for centuries, and sent it
off.

Her next note was from Gringotts, informing her of various large transactions that had occurred
between the magical and Muggle societies during the past week, as well as the accompanying
documents to prove that the Statute of Secrecy had not been violated in any of the
circumstances.

The next hour for her was much of the same, going through notes and documents that were related
to the Muggle world somehow. A major part of her job was monitoring the Statute of Secrecy, and
hence a majority of the documents she received were the proof required that said statute was not
broken. At last, she came to the last note in the pile, and saw that it was from Arthur Weasley. He
requested her presence in his office at nine o'clock.

She glanced up at the timepiece mounted on her wall, and saw that it was only 8:15, so she still
had some time before she had to make her way to the Vice Minister's office. She passed the time
by filling out several forms dealing with the Muggle transport of several magical animals, and as
8:50 rolled around, she sent them off to be processed and filed. She stood up, adjusted her robes,
and exited her office. The other offices had filled up since she entered her own, and several
greetings were said her way as she passed open doors; she responded in kind.

She descended one floor to the administrative level of the Ministry building, turning left out
of the elevator and heading down the hall that held all of the most senior positions. The Vice
Minister's door was open when she came to it, but Arthur was turned away from her, writing
something. She knocked lightly on the doorframe. He looked up, and immediately smiled brightly upon
seeing her.

“Come in, come in,” he said, as jovially as ever. Arthur Weasley had to be about the nicest man
Hermione had ever met, barring anyone except maybe Harry. She did know that, like Harry though, he
could become a formidable fighter if the occasion ever arose.

As she sat in the chair in front of his desk, she chided herself on those thoughts. Of course he
could—just because he was nice didn't mean he hadn't lived through the era of Voldemort.
Anyone who had been of age or close to it then had invariably learned *some* fighting
skills…just some more than others. Arthur Weasley had a large family to protect, all of whom were
visible in the war. It should be no surprise that he could handle himself if threatened.

Shaking her head at her wandering thoughts, she turned her attention to the balding older man in
front of her. What hair he did have was still that blazing red, though.

“How are you this morning?” he asked her, putting his quill down.

“Fine Arthur. Yourself?”

“Oh, just fine,” he said. “I had hoped that you would see my note, as I couldn't get to your
office myself this morning.”

Hermione nodded. “What's this about?” she asked. She thought she knew what it was about, and
her hopes were either going to be crushed or affirmed.

“Well, I just wanted to personally say that your time and effort here at the Ministry during the
past few years has been invaluable. We all knew you were brilliant, but you sure do get a lot
done,” he said, praising her. She felt her cheeks flush a little. She wasn't used to
praise.

“I'd also like to say that it hasn't gone unnoticed; far from it, actually. Amos was
actually commenting on the efficiency of the Muggle Liaisons office of late, ever since that old
codger Henry left.

“Tell me, Hermione,” Arthur continued, leaning forward a bit. “Who would you say has taken over
the administrative duties since Henry left the Chair position?”

“Er,” Hermione said, unwilling to just blurt out that she was the one. She quickly began to
think of another name, of someone else that worked in the Department, but Arthur stopped her.

“It's alright, you can say yourself,” Arthur said, smiling genially at her.

“I guess I have taken over some of the responsibilities,” Hermione said, albeit very
reluctantly. She could sometimes be very modest, and it usually showed up at inopportune times.

“Some of them?” Arthur laughed. “I don't think you give yourself enough credit.”

“Well, no one was really assigned Henry's duties after he left…” Hermione said, wary of
criticizing any of Arthur's actions. Arthur just nodded, however.

“Indeed, you are very correct. In fact, Amos and I did that on purpose.”

“On purpose, Arthur?” Hermione queried, very confused at this point.

“We figured that the best way to really figure out who deserved that Chair position, and hence a
pay raise and more vacation time, was to see who had the initiative and the ambition to do on their
own some of things that being Chair means they would have to.”

Hermione felt a rising sensation in her chest, as if someone was lifting her spirit from the
stormy depths to which it had sunk recently. Surely Arthur was talking about what she hoped he
was…

“And since you are the only notable example of that, it has been determined by a unanimous
Wizengamot vote to appoint you to the Muggle Liaisons Chair position,” Arthur said, with a grand
old smile on his face.

A huge weight lifted off Hermione's shoulders; suddenly, she felt a thousand kilos lighter.
She couldn't keep a huge grin from spreading across her face, one that was so large her cheeks
hurt.

“There's the Hermione I missed!” Arthur exclaimed, standing up. He came around the desk and
pulled Hermione into a hug, embracing her in a very fatherly way. It occurred to her that she was
closer to this man than she was with her own father. It was only a passing thought, though.

As Arthur let go of her and stepped back, he looked down in that same paternal way at her. He
was still smiling broadly; however, it had softened a little.

“You know, I never had any doubt that you would get it,” he said.

“Thanks,” she said, amazed at how choked up she sounded. She was so happy she was on the verge
of crying.

“I hated to see you so serious, every day,” he said. “And the hours you put in…” he added,
shaking his head a little.

“Hey, at least I got it,” she replied, laughing. Arthur's face suddenly sobered a bit. He
motioned to her seat.

“Hermione, sit down for a moment, will you?” he asked, and she complied without hesitation. His
change in demeanor was unsettling.

He was silent for a moment, staring at the top of his desk, but soon looked at her, resting his
chin on his hands.

“What's been going on? Why are you spending your life here?” he asked her.

Hermione didn't know what to say. Whatever she had expected, this wasn't it. She thought
he would have already known the answer to that particular question, but she supplied it to him
regardless.

“I really wanted that position, Arthur.”

“Yes, yes, but you could have worked fifteen or twenty less hours a week and still been a lock
for it. And,” he added, seeing that she was going to say something, “before you say you didn't
know that, you did. You knew that you were getting this position.”

Well, she had been pretty sure, but the doubts had still plagued her. There was one of the
inopportune times for her modesty to show up—she wouldn't let herself admit that she was by far
the best candidate for the job.

Hermione shrugged. “It's easy to bury yourself in your work,” she replied, quietly.

“Too easy,” Arthur countered. Hermione did not respond immediately.

“Have you heard from Harry lately?” he asked her.

What? Why was he asking her about Harry? In fact, why was everyone asking her about Harry? She
didn't know anything more than anyone else. It was beginning to aggravate her, actually, and in
his absence she almost blamed Harry for the lack of information. Well, she *did* blame him for
not keeping in touch better.

“Not lately,” she finally said, keeping her voice neutral.

“I see,” Arthur intoned, staring hard at her. Hermione grew uncomfortable under his gaze, and
wondered just how perceptive Arthur really was. He kept it well hidden, that was for sure.

“Look, I'm going to cut to the chase here,” he said. “I'm worried about you. I think you
need some time off before you start at your new position.”

“But Arthur—”

“No buts, Hermione,” he cut her off. His tone was more serious than she'd heard it in a long
time. “You need a break. You're working a right bit harder than anyone here at the Ministry,
including the Aurors and the Unspeakables. You *deserve* a break.”

“Well,” she sighed. “I guess a few days off wouldn't hurt.”

“No, not a few days,” Arthur responded, picking up a sheet from his desk. It was the one
he'd been writing on when she'd entered his office. “You have until the first of June
off—paid, of course.”

Hermione opened her mouth to say something, but the look on Arthur's face told her that he
wouldn't take kindly to any more protests. She acquiesced with a nod and took the sheet from
Arthur, glancing at it. It was a written statement proclaiming Hermione's new position and her
time off, as well. The facsimile signatures of the Wizengamot were on the bottom, as well as the
real signatures of Arthur Weasley and Amos Diggory.

“Th-thank you, Arthur,” Hermione said, again almost overcome by emotion.

“It's my pleasure, you know,” he said, standing up once again. He motioned for her to follow
him out of his office. “You and Harry, you both feel like surrogate children to me,” he said.

Hermione hastily wiped the tear that fell down her cheek away. Arthur's words and actions
were profoundly affecting her in ways that she knew she couldn't articulate. She had grown up
with this man's children, putting them in mortal danger more than once, and yet still he
considered her a daughter of sorts. She didn't think she'd ever get used to that, and knew
that she finally had some inkling of how Harry felt sometimes.

“All of you kids were forced to do things no one so young should do or see,” he continued as
they entered the elevator. “There was more responsibility placed on your shoulders than any three
Aurors or Order members…and yet you all came out the other side well-adjusted young people.”

They exited the elevator, back on the floor of the Ministry where Hermione's office was
located. Arthur continued to talk as they headed toward it.

“I just wish that you all were still together,” he said. “You three—well, you six, really—were
so good for each other. I don't think any of us knew that until time and circumstance and…well,
growing up changed that.” They stopped by Hermione's door.

“That's why *I* want you to take some time off. Burying yourself in your work isn't
going to solve your problems, Hermione. I know. I've done that before.”

“I don't know what to say, Arthur,” she said, staring at the words printed across her
door.

“You don't have to say anything. Just think about what I'm saying. I've experienced
firsthand what distancing yourself from everyone can do. Contrary to popular belief…my marriage
with Molly wasn't always perfect,” he said, quietly.

Hermione looked at him, somewhat shocked that he would reveal something like that to her. He
just stared back with that same knowing look across his features.

“I know what it's like to think everyone is against you and to take that out in how many
hours you work. And I know that it is the wrong solution. That's why I want you to take this
time off, and hopefully figure out some things.

“That said, the Chair position will be waiting for you when you get back.” He withdrew his wand
from his pocket and pointed it at the door at the end of the hallway. Hermione's name suddenly
appeared over the lettering already there. Hermione could stare at that forever, but Arthur drew
her attention once again.

“You can move your things when you start. You can leave now,” he said.

“But what—”

“Don't worry,” he said, smiling. “We'll keep *your* department in order while
you're gone.”

Perhaps it was his use of the possessive, maybe it was really seeing her name on the door, but
the full weight of all of what Arthur had been saying to her hit, and she found herself hugging the
older man again. When she let go of him, he was laughing lightly.

“Go, Hermione,” he ordered, although lightly. “Figure yourself out. Get some rest. Don't
think of this place at all. It will still be here on June first.”

“Thank you, Arthur,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

“Don't mention it,” he replied. “Now I must be off. I expect you to be out of here before
ten o'clock.” She nodded, and he patted her shoulder briefly, before walking back the way they
had come. She just stood there for a few moments, trying to absorb everything that the Weasley
patriarch had told her.

She now had a month to do whatever she wanted, as long as it did not involve the Ministry and
her new position. She gathered a few things from her office and departed, her mind mulling over the
various activities she could distract herself with during her time off. It was with a rare feeling
of not knowing exactly what she would be doing in the next few hours or days or weeks that she
Disapparated from the Ministry.

----------

The slamming of the front door startled Hermione awake, and she almost rolled off the couch in
the process.

“What the hell?” she asked, groggily.

“Hermione?” her mother's voice came.

“Yeah, I'm in here,” Hermione called, sitting up. She glanced at the clock. It was now four
o'clock in the afternoon. She must have fallen asleep while watching the telly. She clicked the
thing off, watching the doorway as her mother came in.

“Why'd you slam the door?” Hermione was thinking of the conversation she'd had with her
mother that morning. She wondered if she was possibly upset at the news the doctor had given her,
either way it had gone.

“The wind caught it,” Jane replied, and Hermione detected no lie in her voice. Her mother sat in
the armchair across from the couch.

“I'm surprised you're home already.”

“There's a story behind that,” Hermione said, leaning forward. “You remember that position
I've been talking about?” Jane nodded. “Well…I got it!” Hermione gushed, and her mother's
face lit up.

“Congratulations, dear! I'm so proud of you!” They both stood and embraced for a moment, and
then settled back into their respective seats.

“But you're not settling into your new position?”

Hermione noticed that her mother was leaning back in the chair, something that Jane never did.
Her mother rarely slouched.

“That's the other part of the story. Arthur told me that I had been nominated, and then he
told me that I had a month off.”

Jane's eyes widened a little. “Wow. A month? Did he say why?”

Hermione made a noncommittal gesture. “Something about working too hard…”

“I'm sure,” Jane said, and then sat up a bit.

“What about you, mum? How did the doctor's go?”

Jane's face lit up in a genuinely warm smile. “Seems like you're going to have a brother
or a sister,” she said.

“Wow,” Hermione intoned.

“I wonder how your father will react,” Jane said, and Hermione was completely sure she detected
the slightest hint of nervousness in her mother's voice.

“I know he will love it,” Hermione replied. Hermione knew how much her father loved her and her
mum, so it was without question that she knew he would welcome the new addition. She had previously
thought that it might crimp their future plans, but as she had just learned earlier that day,
sometimes life didn't go the way you expected it to. Sometimes there were no plans that could
be made for the unforeseen.

“So, back to you,” Jane said, shifting once again in her chair. “What are you going to do for
the next month?”

“You know? I don't know,” Hermione replied; and she liked the sound of that. She
*didn't know* what she was going to do, but her days were no longer structured and ordered
by the clock. It was a liberating feeling, though a bit scary.

“I'm bollocks at being spontaneous,” she added, and her mother gave her a knowing smile,
much as Arthur had earlier in the day.

“That is something you will have to work on, then.”

“I suppose it is.”

“Just don't go get yourself knocked up like this poor old woman,” Jane said, laughing at the
horrified look on Hermione's face. She couldn't believe her mum had said that.

“Mum!” Hermione cried.

“What? That's some of the spontaneity you need.”

“I think I could do without *that* particular brand, thank you very much.”

“Perhaps you should take some lessons from your friend, the blond haired one,” Jane said, again
smiling at Hermione.

“How do you know Luna?”

“Oh, I have my ways,” Jane responded, mysteriously.

Hermione raised her eyebrows at her mother, and crossed her arms in front of her. She gave her
mother a look that clearly told Jane she was expecting an answer decidedly less cryptic.

“Molly and I chat occasionally,” Jane finally said.

“I see.” Hermione had not known that, and she was a little surprised that that detail had
escaped her notice.

“Anyways, I've heard Luna can be a bit…forward…when it comes to matters of sex and
sexuality.”

Hermione smiled despite herself. “You have no idea. If they had known what a deviant Luna was
during Hogwarts, they would have kept her far, far away from the boys.”

“Deviant?” Jane asked.

“Well…what else do you want me to call her?”

Jane made a funny face. “Do you really think that sort of attitude is deviant? Being open about
your sexuality?”

This conversation was going in an unexpected direction, and it was making Hermione
uncomfortable. But she knew that if she just left the room, she would upset her mother, not to
mention the fact that it would be extremely rude.

“Um…not really…”

“So why would Luna be deviant?”

Hermione made an exasperated noise. “I dunno, ok? Just some of the things she talks about are a
little risqué. That's not even counting the fact that most of what she says includes Ron, who
I've known since I was eleven.”

“Well, ok, that might be a little awkward, but Luna has a right to a healthy and fun sexual
life. The fact that she shares that is something I wish more people could do.”

Hermione creased her eyebrows together, trying to figure out where her mother was coming from.
They had never really talked about sex before, besides the few obligatory talks every mother must
have with her daughter; she didn't care to know the details of her parents' sexual lives,
either.

“Why have you never talked about this before?”

Her mother smiled wanly. “It was always too awkward with you, Hermione. You grew up with two
boys as your best friends. I didn't want to corrupt that relationship any earlier than I had
too, because I knew that if I told you some of the things I've wanted to, you would undoubtedly
look at one or both of them differently.”

Hermione was very glad her mother didn't know she harbored feelings like that deep down in
her heart, long buried as they were. If Jane had known, Hermione didn't want to know the things
her mother would have said.

“I think I could have handled it, mum.”

“I don't know, Hermione. You really need to open up. Loosen up—” her mother said, but cut
herself off laughing.

“What's so funny?”

“Nothing. I just have an extremely dirty mind. Forget I said anything.”

“Ok…”

“Hermione, the point I'm trying to make is that you need to start looking at life
differently. And now that you have a month to yourself, you have the perfect opportunity to do
so.

“Life is not a series of events planned out on a calendar, dear. Things happen. Things change,
whether you want them to or not. The best that you can do, that we *all* can do, is change
with them and make them work for us. You have stop living totally by this,” Jane said, patting her
head, “and let this do some of the talking,” she finished, placing her other hand over heart.

“It's hard, mum,” Hermione responded, quietly.

“I know, but what would the thing we call life be if it was easy? Take Harry for instance. He
did something totally unexpected by attending university in America, something that was so against
the grain no one knew what to think. He didn't do it for anyone either, not even totally for
himself I think. I think he wanted to explore a little, to see his options, to have a richer
experience…”

“How could you possibly know that?” Hermione demanded, suddenly frustrated. Why did everything
go back to Harry with her? Why was it so hard for her to escape him? Did she even want to?

Jane shrugged. “I don't *know* that, but I remember what I was like when I was your
age. The world was so large and full of possibility…and here you are, 22, working every day in an
office in some stuffy building.” At Hermione's affronted noise, Jane held up a hand.

“Don't get me wrong, I'm not bashing your job, but you're far too young to be cooped
up like that all the time. You have so much to do, so much to see. I just wonder why you
haven't started already.”

“What was I supposed to do?” Hermione asked, now angry. “Just run off? From everything and
everyone I knew? That I loved?”

Jane raised an eyebrow at her daughter. “Is that what you think Harry did?”

Hermione felt like she'd been slapped, and immediately all of the anger and frustration that
had been directed at her mother deflated. She visibly slouched in her seat.

“Is it?” her mother asked again.

Slowly, almost against her will, Hermione nodded, and then looked up at her mother. Her face
held no accusations; rather, support and love.

“Well, there it is, isn't it?”

Hermione did not respond; instead, her thoughts had gone to the day that Harry had informed her
he was leaving without question, and how crushed she had felt. She thought she would have had so
much more time to try to express what she really felt. She knew that it was on that day that
she'd started blaming Harry.

“Hermione,” Jane said, causing Hermione to refocus on the present. “I want to ask you something,
and I want you to be candid with me.”

Hermione could only nod, having a good idea of what her mother was about to ask her. She hoped
she would be able to answer with the truth, though it would be incredibly hard.

“Do you love Harry?”

Inexplicably, Hermione's lip started to tremble, and she could feel her eyes watering. How
could she answer such a direct question? With a direct response, of course.

“Yes,” she said, as the first tear fell from her eyes. “It's not that simple, though.”

“It never is,” Jane replied, getting up and moving over to the couch to sit beside Hermione. She
leaned into her mother, who wrapped her arms around Hermione.

“I love who Harry was,” she continued. “Who he was when the war ended. I didn't love the Boy
Who Lived. I loved Harry Potter. He was so selfless, so caring, so *unique*.”

“You don't still?” her mother prodded, gently.

“I don't know, m-mum, I haven't seen him in so long. How much could he change,
though?”

“So what's the problem?”

“Why'd he have to leave? Why couldn't he take me with him? Why wasn't I brave enough
to tell him how I felt before he left? Where was that Gryffindor courage when I really needed it?”
Hermione spat, bitterly. In a way, it was cleansing to get all of this out. And what better person
to share it with than her mother?

“You blame him, don't you?”

“I guess so. But I blame myself for letting him leave without telling him. I had the perfect
opportunity…and I Apparated away like a coward. And now I'm afraid that too much has changed,
that too much time has gone by.”

“Fear of the unknown is understandable, Hermione, but how will you know if you never confront
it?”

“What do you mean? Confront Harry? I couldn't do that.”

“And why not,” Jane asked, stroking Hermione's hair.

“He doesn't need that in his life,” Hermione replied.

“How is that for you to determine? How can you possibly know exactly what he's thinking and
what he needs? Hermione, that is your main fault. You think you know what everyone else is
thinking, but in reality those feelings are based on your well-ordered view of the world.”

Her mothers words were hitting Hermione like hammer blows, but she knew that what she was saying
was true. The fact that it was her mother that had to tell her this, and was something Hermione
would not have figured out on her own, was a blow to her pride. That blow was probably what she
needed, though.

“Well, all of it is moot, anyway,” Hermione laughed, bitterly, wiping the tears off her
cheeks.

“How so?”

“He's so far away, and he doesn't write back when I write him,” she said.

“Don't write him then.”

“Huh?”

“Don't send him a bloody letter! Go yourself!” her mum exclaimed. Hermione disentangled
herself from her mother's embrace, staring at her face.

“What? But—”

“You have a month off! You're a grown woman now. You can do as you please, and if that means
traveling to America, do it!” Jane said, surprising Hermione with her vehemence.

“You've thought about this before.” It wasn't a question.

Jane nodded. “Of course I have. When I see my daughter getting lost in her work and moping
around all the time, I start to wonder why. And when I saw how much you wanted Harry to respond to
that letter, I made the connection…and so did your father.”

“Dad doesn't like Harry much, does he?”

“A father doesn't like any bloke his daughter is interested in,” Jane said, earning a smile
from Hermione. “Especially one that breaks her heart,” Jane added.

“He didn't break my heart, mum.”

“What's this now?”

“I said he didn't break my heart. He didn't even know how I felt—”

“Bingo! I was waiting for you to say that. He *didn't know* how you felt. Therefore you
*can't know* how he feels. Go over there, Hermione. If I'm not mistaken, his
graduation is soon.”

Hermione didn't say anything for a few minutes, merely thinking about what her mother had
said. What could it hurt to go over there? She had so much time off and so little planned.

She desperately wanted to see Harry, but that same fear of inadequacy was still there, as strong
as ever. What if she showed up and he didn't want to see her? What if she showed up and he was
already with someone? She didn't know how she would be able to take that kind of letdown.

But, as her mother had said, it was time for her to be a little more spontaneous and listen to
her heart a little more. It was time for her to be a little generous when it came to doing what she
wanted, not what she felt others wanted out of her.

“Ok,” Hermione said.

“That's it? You'll go?” Jane asked.

“Yes, and don't sound so sad about it,” Hermione said, dryly, injecting some of her rather
stark humor into even such a heartfelt moment between herself and her mother.

“I'm anything but sad!” Jane cried, and hugged her daughter tightly. Hermione was laughing
as they separated.

“Careful, mum,” she said, patting Jane's tummy lightly. “You have another to think about
now.”

“That I do,” Jane sighed, happily. “When will you leave?”

“The day after tomorrow,” Hermione said.

Her mother nodded. “Good. Now, let's go upstairs. I'll help you pack.”

Hermione watched her mother get up and move toward the stairs, but she did not follow. Jane
turned around with a questioning look.

“You coming?”

Hermione smiled softly. “Thanks, mum,” she said.

Jane grinned back. “It's what I'm here for.”

----------

Two days later, Hermione boarded a plane for America, leaving from Heathrow and arriving at San
Francisco. As Hermione stepped off the jetway into the American airport, a sense of purpose filled
her. She collected her baggage and strode outside, hailing a taxi. She gave the driver her
destination, and sat back as the ride to the rest of her life began.

-->



4. Interlude:  And So It Goes
-----------------------------



**Bearings**

Disclaimer/Author's notes: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. And here is the first of many
forays into other characters' lives.

*Permanence unfolding in the absolute.
Forgiveness is
The ultimate sacrifice.
Eloquence belongs,
To the conqueror.
The pictures of time and space are rearranged,
In this little piece of typical tragedy.*

System of a Down

*Sad Statue*

Interlude: And So It Goes

May 3rd, 2002

Ginny Weasley—soon-to-be Longbottom—rubbed her face wearily as she went over the last of the
day's charts. St. Mungo's had been fairly quiet all day, and the only sound reaching the
nurse's station was the squeaking of the wheels on a cart. She looked up from the files spread
out in front of her, rolled her neck, and glanced at the clock. It read 6:15 pm. She groaned a bit;
she had to be at the Burrow for dinner in forty-five minutes. She heaved a sigh, knowing that she
wouldn't be able to complete these today, and flicked her wand. The files ordered and collected
themselves into a nearby folder.

She shrugged out of her white Healer's scrubs, placed them a hook, and strode out from
behind the desk. She looked down the hall, making sure everything was in order, and then headed
toward the front of the hospital. As she was passing into the lobby, she reached up and tied her
hair in to a loose ponytail, sweeping the red strands away from her pale, freckled face.

“Goin' home, Ginny?” the receptionist asked, as she passed. Ginny nodded and smiled at her,
but kept on walking.

“Yeah, see you tomorrow,” she called back, and passed out of the front doors into Diagon
Alley.

As she descended the steps to the cobbled street, her senses gradually became aware of the
activity going on around her. Laughter reached her ears, several small children running by captured
her eyes, and the smell of Fortescue's rich chocolate ice cream stole her nose. She stopped as
she stepped off the last step, and looked around. The sun was just passing below the roofs to the
west, casting long shadows over the Alley.

All around her were the signs of contentment, of a happy life. She listened and watched as
people went about their business, whether it was shopping, or dining out, or simply strolling along
the street. Every day she came out of St. Mungo's she did the same thing, unable to get over
how different it was compared to several years before, during Voldemort's time.

There had been so much fear, so much uncertainty. People were afraid of their own shadows, and
they certainly wouldn't be caught out in the open, especially in a highly visible place like
Diagon. Most of the shops had been forced to close up, at least temporarily. Many of the wizards
and witches that she now saw populating the magical alley weren't even able to say the bad
wizard's name; probably not even to this day. And yet…here they all were, going about their
lives as if nothing had changed.

She supposed that she was a touch bitter, and more than a little bit cynical, but there was
nothing she could do about it. She had seen how easily people were able to forget and move on
and…*repress* those bad memories. It could easily happen again, something or someone like
Voldemort, and she knew it. Harry had ended all of it, but it hadn't been truly stopped.

Thoughts of Harry brought a frown to her face. She didn't think many of these witches and
wizards knew just how much they owed to the then teenager, and many of them probably didn't
care to. It would make them feel guilty, and guilt was one thing that no one wanted to live with.
It had been effortless at the time to just call Harry the Chosen One and place the weight of the
world on his shoulders, without a second thought of what that was doing to him.

No one, she included, knew what it was really doing to him, until it was all over. Until he had
left. Until he had stopped coming home… Then again, there was the bloody statue of him in the
Ministry, and she supposed that was reminder enough for the Wizarding world as a whole. It
wasn't enough for her though; she missed Harry. He had been a true friend to her, even if their
relationship had been quite disastrous.

Unlike Hermione did, and Ginny knew that, she did not blame Harry for leaving or for losing ties
with her and the others. She could only guess at what Harry had felt after he defeated Voldemort,
and none of those feelings were positive.

Her feet started to carry her down the Alley toward her brothers' shop, and she continued to
watch the people around her. She just wanted Harry back. Ever since he had left, their circle of
friends had slowly been falling apart. The six of them had been inseparable from the time
Dumbledore had been killed until Voldemort's downfall, but now Ginny rarely saw any of them
except Neville.

Hermione was caught up in her work, Ron in his Quidditch, and Luna in Ron. She was extremely
happy that Neville had proposed to her, but it seemed bittersweet because the connection she had to
her closest friends was slowly being eroded away. She was 21, a grown woman; she had a steady job
and a loving fiancé; she knew she had all of those things but the unhappiness was still there.

Ginny heaved another deep sigh as she came to the door to WWW, and put on a happier face. She
had her health and her family, too; she wouldn't let herself get too down about things. She
pressed her hand against the door and pushed, and was immediately assaulted by the noises of the
various gadgets in the shop. There were quite a few shoppers, even at this late hour, and she had
to thread her way through them to reach the counter. Fred was standing there, tending to customers.
He spotted her, and grinned.

“Gin!” he said. He then glanced at the clock. “Just gettin' off work?”

“Yeah,” she nodded. George came out of the back room just then, looking behind him.

“Fred, do we have any more of the Exploding—” he started, but cut himself off when he saw
Ginny.

“Hello, sister of mine,” he said. “What brings you to our humble business?” He grinned at her,
just as Fred had done. She didn't respond for moment, thinking it was impossible to get her
twin brothers down. They were perpetually happy blokes.

“Just wanted to make sure tonight is still on?”

Fred nodded. “It is. Dinner's around seven. You game?”

“Sure,” Ginny replied, already cheered by Fred and George's presence. “You both are coming,
right?”

“Wouldn't miss it for the world,” George responded, rather dryly.

“Yes you would,” replied Fred.

“On the contrary, Mr. Weasley, I wouldn't miss our dear mother's cooking for
anything.”

“But—”

“Boys!” Ginny intervened. She laughed at the brief look on their faces; she could sound
remarkably like her mother when she wanted to.

“Oi, sorry Gin, forgot you were there for a moment,” Fred said.

“How wonderful,” Ginny said, laughing. “Alright, I'll see you two in a little while.”

“See you soon, Gin,” George called as Ginny exited the shop into the Alley. She looked around
again, taking one last glimpse at the happy existence happening all around her, and then
Disapparated to her home on the outskirts of Hogsmeade. The newly installed wards, which she had
forgotten about, deposited her on her bum at the end of the drive. She stood, rubbing her bottom
for a moment, and then shook her head. She hadn't disagreed that wards were necessary, but she
didn't think they'd needed to be so large. She approached her modest home, a small
two-story structure built in the current Wizarding style, noticing several lights on. That meant
Neville was already home.

She pushed open the door and crossed the threshold, calling out, “Neville?”

“Yeah, Gin?” came the reply, from the direction of the kitchen.

“Don't forget about dinner at the Burrow,” she said, entering the kitchen. Her fiancé sat at
the table, leaning over some Herbology books. It looked like he was creating lesson plans.

“Yeah, I know,” he replied, though he was obviously preoccupied. Ginny took a moment to observe
him; he had grown and filled out a bit during the past few years. He now measured in at about
6'1”, 190 pounds; he had that same dark brown hair, but it was much shorter than it used to be.
He was still in his Hogwarts robes.

Ginny moved to stand behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders. She was rather short, so
she could rest her chin on the top of her head by bending only slightly. She began to knead the
knots she could feel under her hands.

“Anything interesting?” she asked.

“Lesson plans for the last few weeks,” he replied, relaxing into her ministrations slightly.
“McGonagall's been somewhat of a bother about them lately,” he continued. “Not sure why.”

Ginny kissed the top of his head. An earthy scent spread through her nostrils. Neville turned
slightly in his chair, looking up at her.

“How was your day?” he asked, standing up and embracing her. Her arms went around his back, and
she rested her head below his; his chin now rested on her crown.

“Busy,” she intoned, reveling in the feel of his body. She was so glad he had asked her to marry
him…

“That bad, huh?” he asked.

She chuckled lightly. “No, not really. There weren't too many crises. Paperwork is rubbish,
though.” He nodded against the top of her head.

“It sure is.” They were both silent for a few moments, holding each other. Ginny tightened her
hold on Neville briefly.

“What is it?” he asked, clearly sensing something was off with her. She sighed, and backed out
of his embrace. He leaned against the edge of the table, watching her as she leaned against the
wall.

“I dunno…I was just thinking about things earlier.”

“What things?” he asked.

“Voldemort…the six of us…Harry,” she replied.

“What about them?” He crossed his arms over chest.

“How different do you think things would be if Harry was still here?” she asked, deciding to be
blunt. “I mean, with the six of us, with my family, anyone we knew, really.” Neville was silent for
a moment, and she met his eyes.

“What brought this on?” he eventually replied.

“People. Life. Existence without Voldemort.”

“I see…well, I don't really know Gin. We all loved—love—Harry, but it was his choice to
leave.”

“Yeah, I know, but I didn't really mean that. I meant if he had chosen to stay.”

“Probably not much different, if you really want to know,” he said, and sat down at the table
again. She moved to it and sat across from him.

“We're all adults now, babe,” he continued. “I think you're unspoken question is would
the six of still be as close as we were?”

She nodded. “Yeah, I guess that's what I was asking.”

“We would both be just as busy. So would Ron and Luna. And Hermione…” he trailed off. His face
took on a contemplative look. “I'm sure she would be, too. And Harry, who knows what he would
be doing…or what he's *doing*, really. When was the last time either of us spoke to
him?”

“Last Christmas? Err…the one before, I mean,” she replied.

Neville inclined his head. “Exactly. So I don't really think too much. Maybe…actually, I
dunno. Where is this getting us, though? He's gone,” he finished.

Ginny gave him a look. “Gone?”

“You know what I mean,” he shrugged.

She sighed again. “Yeah, I guess.”

“I need a shower before we kip on over to the Burrow,” Neville said, after a moment. He stood
up. She raised her eyes from the table, meeting his, a mischievous spark lighting her face. He
raised an eyebrow at her.

“I know that look, Miss Weasley.”

“I need a shower too, Mr. Longbottom,” she said, standing as well.

He held out his hand, smirking at her. “Shall we?” She took his hand, nodding at him.

“We shall,” she answered, and let him lead her toward the loo, shedding clothes along the
way.

----------

The Burrow was filled with commotion as the hour of dinner approached. People started arriving
around 6:45, and Molly was busy in the kitchen, ensuring there was enough of her delicious food for
everyone that was bound to show up. Dinners at the Burrow had become a sort of weekly tradition,
with an open invitation to anyone in their large circle of family and friends. Attendance
fluctuated quite a bit; sometimes there would only be ten and other times there would be near
thirty. This week was shaping up to be one of the larger affairs.

Fred and George had already arrived, and were sitting in the living room, conversing with Remus,
who had just arrived with Tonks and their son, William. Bill and Fleur had been there since much
earlier in the day, as they were visiting from Paris. Molly was just putting the finishing touches
on a dish as her husband and a familiar, though long absent, face came in through the back
door.

“Charlie!” she exclaimed, rushing over to hug him. She embraced him as she did everyone—very
tightly—and stepped back. He was chuckling lightly.

“Hey mum,” he said, eyes twinkling. “How's everyone been?”

“Great! I didn't know you were coming home,” she half-scolded, poking him in the chest. She
glared at Arthur for a second, who pretended to look at something on the wall.

“Yeah well, dad and I wanted it to be a surprise. Haven't seen my family in awhile, so I
thought it would be nice to come home,” he responded.

“Well,” Molly said, smiling, “let me have a look at you.” She stepped back, sizing him up. He
looked a little older, perhaps a little more careworn, but other than that, there really
weren't any remarkable changes in him. Except, she noticed, with his hair.

“Better be careful, Charlie. You're going to end up as bald as your father!”

“Hey!” Arthur exclaimed, and then grinned. He leaned in and pecked her on the lips.

“Ugh!” Charlie intoned. Arthur turned to him, shaking his head.

“I think the rest of the gang, or at least those that are here so far, are in the living room.
Why don't you go say hello them?” Arthur said. Charlie nodded, smiled at him and Molly, and
turned to the living room. Molly smiled at the excited noises that reached her ears after Charlie
had passed out of the room.

“How did he get home?” Molly asked, turning back to the food. Arthur walked over and started
helping her, following her wordless directions.

“I set up an international portkey for him,” he answered.

“Well, that was a nice surprise,” she said, leaning into him.

“Yeah, I was sure it would be.” They continued to prepare the food in silence for a few moments.
Molly was almost afraid to ask the next question.

“And…Percy?” she finally just asked.

Arthur sighed. “Molly…”

“What? Don't I have a right to know about my son?”

She saw Arthur's jaw clench out of the corner her eyes. “Yes. You do. I have nothing more to
say about him. He continues to refuse to come home.”

Molly sighed, echoing her husband. She was beyond tears or anger over her third child. At this
point, she was just resigned. There had been so much conflict between them and Percy over the years
that it had ceased to upset her. She didn't know why he was being so obstinate, though. He had
been removed from the Ministry long ago, yet he still refused to have anything to do with his
family.

“I wonder if he'll ever—”

“Can we not talk about this tonight? It's supposed to be a happy night,” Arthur interrupted
her. Any other time she would have gotten annoyed at him, but she could not do so over Percy.

“Yeah. Ok,” she said. A look to the clock told her that it was seven. “Where are the rest of
them?” she wondered out loud.

“I'm sure they'll all be here soon enough,” Arthur replied.

“Mostly,” Molly replied. She was, of course, thinking about Harry. She had never told anyone but
Arthur, but she missed him as one of her own sons.

“Hmm?”

“Oh, nothing,” she said.

“Harry?” Arthur asked. She silently nodded. “Wishing he was here?”

“Of course,” she said.

“I do, too,” he responded. She shrugged, more to herself than anything. Harry had always been so
kind and so polite. He was a genuinely nice person, and she knew that he had made her children
better because of that. Ginny was a much warmer person, Ron was much less rebellious, and the twins
had actually turned into respectable businessmen.

He was doing his own thing now, probably having a wonderful time, and she wouldn't take that
away from anyone. Sometimes she wished he were still around, though, because life just seemed a
little more complete with him in it. She knew that Arthur and most of the rest of her family felt
the same way.

Her musings were interrupted by some loud noises from outside. She and Arthur looked at each
other, smiling.

“That must be Ron,” he said.

“I'm sure,” Molly replied.

The kitchen door banged in and tall, lanky, red-haired Ronald Weasley strode into the room. Luna
trailed behind him, a smile on her face.

“Mum! Dad! How are you?” he grinned. He put an arm over Luna's shoulder when she came up
next to him.

Arthur nodded at them and Molly moved to embrace both. After doing so, she stepped back and
said, “Fine, Ron. It wasn't too difficult to get time off this week?”

Ron waved her off. “Honestly mum, it was only that one time. I don't even need to ask for
time off from practice anymore.”

The smirk on Luna's face told Molly a different story, however. She suspected what his
*real* difficulty had been in getting to the Burrow on time had been, but she did not say
anything. She learned long ago to avoid that subject altogether with Ron.

“Well, alright. Everyone else is in the living room. Why don't you two go say hello?” Ron
nodded, squeezed Luna's shoulder, and turned away.

“Thank you for having me, Molly,” Luna said, and turned as well. Molly smiled at her back, and
watched the two leave the room. She then turned back to the food preparation; she stopped after a
moment when she noticed Arthur looking at her.

“What is it?”

“She is so polite,” he said, laughing slightly.

“She is,” Molly agreed. She had always loved that about Luna, even though Luna's more risqué
tendencies had always puzzled her. To hear some of the *other* things that came out of that
girl's mouth…well, she never expected it.

In her and Arthur's silence, she could hear the noise of a happy reunion coming from the
next room, and she smiled.

-->



5. Reunion, Part I
------------------



**Bearings**

*Disclaimer/Author's notes: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. Normally, flashbacks are in
italics, but Portkey is having formatting issues, so now dates indicate the appropriate segment.
Sorry about the entire chapter being in italics. Now, I present Harry & Hermione, without
further ado.*

*And being apart ain't easy
On this love affair
Two strangers learn to fall in love again
I get the joy
Of rediscovering you*

*Journey*

*Faithfully*

*Chapter Three: Reunion, Part I*

*May 4**th**, 2002*

*“What the fuck?”*

*Similar sentiments were grumbled around the lecture hall, but the professor either took no
heed or had not heard them. Harry was currently attending the final lecture for his Management
class, and his professor had just told them all that a final project was due in a week's time,
during their scheduled final exam.*

*Harry bit his tongue, wanting to express something equally as profane as what he'd heard
behind him, but he was sitting in the front row, and he really did not need to get on his
professor's bad side a week before he graduated. However, he was already thinking about how
busy he was going to be, and now to have another project piled on to his plate…*

*The baseball team was currently in the playoffs, he had to study for finals in all of his
classes, there were two graduation rehearsals coming up, and all of that didn't even include
the fact that he was still unsure of where he was going after graduation.*

*“The topic of your project is your choice, as long as it is relevant to our curriculum. The
format is also your choice, but it must be presentable in front of this class and within five
minutes, as well. Each and every individual will be presenting during the final exam period. There
will be no exceptions, and you will stand down here as I am now.”*

*His professor, one Dr. Jason Gerard, was the most uptight human being Harry had ever met. His
only rival in that category was Minerva, and Harry thought he had her by a nose. The older man was
small, and he glared up at the class over his spectacles. Some person behind Harry must have raised
their hand, because Gerard indicated for him or her to speak.*

*“Professor, what are we supposed to be proving with this presentation?” The voice was female,
and Harry slid down in his seat a bit. The particular girl that was speaking was highly annoying;
she seemed oblivious to the fact that most of her questions pissed the hell out of Gerard.*

*“Proving, Anna?”*

*“Yes, what should we be focusing on here?”*

*Gerard looked down for a moment, and Harry could tell that he was trying not to lose his
patience. Even Harry, as little as he actually listened during lectures, knew that the man had just
spent the last ten minutes going over the assignment. When he looked up, the only indication of his
consternation was a small twitch under his left eye.*

*“You should be focusing on passing my class,” he said. “I want you to prove to me that you
have learned something about leadership. I need to see that you can handle running a
business.”*

*“Ok, but—” the girl, Anna, started to say, only to be cut off by Gerard.*

*“No buts. You are all seniors, on the cusp on earning a four-year degree from one of the most
respected institutions of higher learning in the world. If you cannot figure out for yourselves how
to go about this assignment, then perhaps you should rethink your goals.” Silence reigned for a few
moments after that, and Gerard turned his back on the class.*

*There was a clamor of commotion as people packed up their things, stood, and hurried for the
door. The lecture was over, by the clock, and no one wanted to stay any longer. Harry sighed as he
pulled a strap of his pack over one shoulder and started for the door. He now had a laundry list of
things to do during the next week, so he might as well get started as soon as he could. As he
exited the building into the bright sunlight, corralled toward the quad by the escaping members of
his class, he spotted two familiar people sitting on a nearby bench. He stopped and let the people
flow around him.*

*“Oi! Lovebirds!” he called out, and grinned as John and Erin looked in his direction. They
waved him over, and he left the sidewalk, trekking across the grass, to meet them. John had been
incredibly curious as to how Harry's night with Erin—now almost two months prior—had gone, and
Harry had eventually been forced to introduce them to each other.*

*It would be an understatement to say they hit it off, because John and Erin were officially
dating the next day. They apparently made each other very happy; Harry had given John a rough
sketch of what had happened after he and Erin had left the bar, and had made it clear that Harry
wouldn't approve if the taller man exploited the brunette's reputation. In an
uncharacteristic bout of seriousness, John had agreed with Harry, perhaps demonstrating to Harry
how much they actually cared for each other.*

*Regardless, he knew his two friends, one older and one recent, were happy, so he was happy
for them. He just didn't want to see them snogging in public, which was what they had been
doing.*

*“Yo, Harry!” John said, standing up and clapping Harry on the back. Erin nodded to him; she
was wearing denim shorts and light tank top.*

*“Hullo, you two,” he said, grinning still.*

*“Something funny?” Erin asked, demurely.*

*“No, `cept the whole world seems to be your audience.”*

*Erin and John both shrugged, then looked at each other, and finally burst out laughing. Harry
looked back and forth between them for a moment.*

*“Ok, it's official,” he said.*

*“What is?” they both asked, at more or less the same time.*

*“You two are spending far too much time together. You talk at the same time and do the same
things.”*

*John nudged Erin. “Harry's jealous, I think,” he stage-whispered,
conspiratorially.*

*“Of what? You?” Harry asked, laughing.*

*“Sure,” John replied, easily.*

*“What do you have that I would possibly be jealous of?” Erin put her hands on her hips. “No
offense Erin, of course,” Harry added, still trying to contain his smile.*

*“My good looks?” John asked, preening a bit.*

*“Oh, sod off. Back to this, are you? One would think you're insecure about your good
looks, with how much you talk about them.”*

*“I dunno, I rather like them,” Erin said, leaning against John and stretching. John waggled
his eyebrows at Harry.*

*“Ok, ok, enough! I don't want to see this!”*

*“Aw, poor Harry…” John returned.*

*“No, really, I do have to get going though. This week is going to be hell,” Harry
replied.*

*Erin groaned. “Tell me about it. Damn finals…”*

*“Yeah, those plus playoffs and this project I was just assigned,” Harry grumped.*

*“Gerard gave a fucking project? During finals week?” John asked.*

*Harry nodded. “Yeah…”*

*“Well, that sucks.”*

*Harry nodded again. “Yes it does. And now I have to be going. Gonna get started on this shite
while I actually have some time.”*

*“Alright, man, catch you later. We should go to the gym later, loosen up a bit for
tomorrow's game.”*

*“Sure, just come by my room,” Harry said. He leaned forward and kissed Erin on the cheek,
winked at John, and turned away.*

*“Watch it, Potter,” John called out, to which Harry just flipped him the bird over his
shoulder. He adjusted the pack on his back and quickened his step a bit. It was quite hot out, and
he was looking forward to the air-conditioned apartments. He had to cross most of campus to get
there, though, so it was another ten minutes before he entered the cool lobby. He was sweating a
bit, but he held off on the shower, because he knew he'd be going to the gym later. In a rare
fit of magic, he waved a hand over himself and sighed as the Refreshing Charm vanished the sweat
and aired out his clothing.*

*There were probably less than a hundred instances in the past year that he had done magic,
but he was unconcerned. There was just no need to do very much of it here, and in a way he had
proven to himself that he didn't need to rely on it. It was almost empowering to realize that
while magic was nice, it wasn't necessary. He thought many magical people could perhaps learn a
thing or two from that, but he was no crusader. It was just a personal observation.*

*He entered his room and started in on his project. Time passed rather quickly and he was very
productive, so it was a fast three hours and one-fourth of his project later that a knock came on
his door.*

*“Yeah?”*

*“Yo, you ready to go work out?” John's familiar voice came.*

*Harry rolled his neck, hearing the faint popping noises as the tendons and ligaments
realigned themselves. He took a deep breath and pushed back from his desk.*

*“Sure, give me a minute,” he replied.*

*Harry threw on some exercise clothes, turned off his desk lamp, and grabbed his keys. When he
opened the door, he saw that John was similarly dressed.*

*“What did you have in mind?” Harry asked, closing and locking the door.*

*“Eh…maybe a few laps around the track, get the blood flowing. I was thinking about getting
some lifting in, too, though not too much, since I'm starting tomorrow.”*

*Harry nodded. “Sounds like a plan. I might stay a little longer; I'm probably gonna do an
ab workout, as well.”*

*“Ok,” John said, as they stepped from the elevator into the lobby. As they exited the
building, Harry noticed that the afternoon was moving slowly toward evening. The light was a little
softer and the shadows a little longer.*

*“Why don't we jog over to the track?” Harry asked.*

*“Sure,” John replied, and started out. Harry followed and the two of them strode side-by-side
along the sidewalk, in the direction of the athletic complex. They passed many people along the way
that greeted them in some way or another, and ever the gentlemen, they responded in kind.*

*“Lot of people out right now,” Harry commented, maneuvering through a particularly busy
stretch of sidewalk.*

*“Well, can't ask for a nicer day, really,” John replied, huffing just slightly. “It's
not too hot yet, and there's no chill.”*

*“Perfect weather,” Harry said.*

*“Yeah. Unfortunately, it's supposed to rain tomorrow, from what I hear.”*

*“For the game?” Harry asked.*

*“I guess so,” John responded.*

*“Damn,” Harry responded, slowing to a stop in front of the entrance to the track.*

*“Playing in the rain can be fun.”*

*“Just don't get too distracted by all the wet t-shirts in the stands,” Harry laughed,
entering the track and field complex.*

*“Ha ha, Potter,” John replied, though he was chuckling.*

*“What? We need you focused if we're gonna win tomorrow.”*

*“Yes, I know, you don't have to remind me. As for all the wet t-shirts…well, there's
always after the game.”*

*Harry rolled his eyes. His friend truly was impossible. They set out at a mild run around the
track, and their chatter fell off. Harry had a lot on his mind, chief of which was whether or not
he was going to return to Britain or stay in America. At this point, and the point was getting
closer and closer to when he would have to make a decision every day that passed, he really had no
idea.*

*The idea of playing in the majors was not all that alluring to him, because he really had no
concept of the fame and fortune it would probably bring. He understood what being in the spotlight
was, because he'd experienced that in Britain, but this was an entirely different notion. On
the other hand, he really did enjoy baseball, and it seemed like a sure bet, at least from what his
coach had said. It would save him the trouble of figuring things out, at least temporarily…*

*But he was getting ahead of himself. For the next few days, at least, he had the project and
studying for his finals to worry about; then, when all of those things had passed, he would think
seriously about what to do after graduation. He just wanted to enjoy what little time he had left
here as much as he could.*

*The two men ran two miles—eight laps—and then went to the athletic building itself. They
spotted each other as they did some easy bench-pressing, and then wandered off to do some more
individual exercises, like curling. After about a half hour, John came back over to Harry.*

*“Alright, I'm all set,” he said. Harry, who was doing some tricep curls with twenty-kilo
free weights, nodded.*

*“See you later then?”*

*“Probably. Not sure what I'm doing tonight. Erin said she had a lot of work to do, so I
may actually try to get some of my own done.”*

*“Mm hmm. Sure,” Harry intoned.*

*“Get your mind out of the gutter, Potter,” John retorted.*

*Harry just raised an eyebrow. “My mind?”*

*John smiled, shook his head, and turned away. Harry watched him go briefly, and then returned
to his exercises. After completing his arms and chest, he went over to a mat, and started working
on his abs. He did that for a good twenty minutes before finally sitting up and stopping; sweat
dripped from and he was a bit flushed, but he felt good. He absentmindedly wished Hogwarts had had
some sort of gym, but that thought faded as he toweled himself off and left the workout area. As he
stepped outside, a brief chill passed over him, and he rubbed his arms. The sweaty tank top, even
in the slightly balmy late-spring evening, was not exactly very warm. The sun had progressed
westward, and the shadows were a little a longer, the light a little less.*

*He started strolling back toward his apartments, looking forward to the shower he would take
when he got there. The throng of people from earlier, those that had been out and about, was
considerably lessened now, and he had no trouble moving along the sidewalk without really paying
attention.*

*Harry thought that he would work on his project for the rest of the night, possibly get most
or all of it done, and then focus on studying for the next few days. He hadn't had to fish for
ideas, since he had done his fair share of leading before, so it was just a matter of making sure
he had enough content and that it looked good enough.*

*His thoughts had carried him more than halfway back, and he glanced up to see exactly where
he was. After getting his bearings once again, he was about to wander back off into his thoughts,
but something caught his eye—or rather, someone.*

*Dark denim shorts, a white tee, a svelte figure, and brown hair, surely it was Erin. That was
odd, though, considering John had told him she was holed up doing work for the night.*

*“Oi, Erin,” Harry called out, and jogged to catch up to her. She was walking away from him,
and she did not turn at his voice. She hadn't heard him, apparently. And that was when he
noticed her stopping by a taxi, and leaning into the open passenger door. Harry admired the view
for a moment, and then reminded himself that John was the only one who should be doing that. He
smirked at that thought.*

*“Erin,” he called again, as he drew nearer. She started to back away from the car, possibly
to look at him, but something held her gaze. Harry slowed as he neared, slightly out of breath, and
stopped about ten feet away. Her head was still turned, but he knew something was off.*

*“Erin?” he asked. She paused again, and then leaned back out of the car, turning her face
toward him. Harry's eyes went wide and his skin broke out in goose bumps…*

*----------*

*January 1998*

*…from the ridiculous wind that was bone-chillingly cold. Harry surveyed the yard and the
surrounding area one last time, and then turned back toward the small abandoned house. The sky was
dark and cloudy, so the stars were not even out to give light. That was not altogether a bad thing,
though, since they were trying to attract as little attention as possible. The wind gusted again,
and for the thirtieth time that night he wished he had brought along a heavier coat. He blew on his
hands as he went up the steps, and then carefully and quietly entered the house through the
slightly leaning door. It was quite late—past three in the morning—and he didn't want to wake
anyone up.*

*He picked a quilt off a chair by the door, small and ratty though it was, and wrapped it
around his frame. The panes rattled in their slots as another violent gust hit the house, and Harry
could feel the draft tease his face, but it was receding from his mind. His first priority at the
moment was to make sure the house was secure, or at least as secure as it could be.*

*The six of them—himself, Hermione, Ginny, Luna, Ron, and Neville—were currently on a hunt for
the second to last horcrux. They were cavorting around Northern Scotland, and had been for two days
now, tracking its last known whereabouts through the wintry wonderland. This latitude in the middle
of January was brutal, and all the more so because they were now resting upon the highlands,
continually slammed by wind and snow and Merlin knew what else.*

*He paused in the middle of the living room, looking at Hermione's relaxed form spread out
on the couch. She had wrapped herself tightly in another blanket, and was deep in sleep. Her chest
rose and fell slowly, and small puffs of air shot from her half-parted lips. Harry felt a pang of
guilt at that; that his friends would have to sleep this night cold because of this trek they were
on, but quickly squashed it. They were here, with him, because they wanted to be, not because he
had asked them or had wanted them.*

*He hadn't wanted them at first, and would have been perfectly content to just leave them
behind at Hogwarts, but in the end he was glad that they had all chosen to come along. He doubted
that he could have done all of this by himself, especially the research side of it, and the fact
that he had good enough friends to follow him to this godforsaken tundra warmed him in a way the
blanket couldn't.*

*His eyes roamed over the rest of the room for a moment, and then he moved into the dining
area, content that everything was as it should be. The same with this room…and he moved on, into
the hall that led to the small house's other rooms. It was somewhat of a blessing that they had
found this abandoned abode, because the prospect of sleeping outside in that bitter wind was dire.
Magic could provide some comfort, but when the wind chills dropped below -30C, it eroded
quickly.*

*The first door he reached was partly open, and he stuck his head in. Luna occupied the sole
bed in the room, and she had wrapped herself much the same way Hermione had. She was soundly
sleeping, and Harry's eyes tracked to another form on the floor, one that could only be
Ron's. If it struck him as slightly odd that these two had decided to room together, and not
Luna and Ginny, he barely gave it any thought. His mind was on other things. Once he was satisfied
that all appeared normal here, too, he moved on.*

*The next room was empty, of everything, and he barely glanced at it. It was just a wooden
square really, because it had no furnishings. The third room was similarly occupied as the first
had been, but this time Ginny replaced Luna and Neville replaced Ron. Ginny was curled up on one
side of the bed, in a more or less fetal position, asleep. Neville was in an armchair in the corner
of the room, also asleep. His head had lolled to the side; Harry considered waking him for he knew
the cramp Neville would have in his neck in the morning, but decided against it. He looked too
peaceful to bother.*

*Harry left, wandered to the end of the hall, making sure nothing else seemed out of place,
and then headed back toward the kitchen/dining room. He stuck his head into the living room briefly
to make sure Hermione was still comfortably asleep on the couch. She was.*

*He searched around in the cupboards for a few moments, being as silent as he possible could,
and eventually found a teakettle. After quickly retrieving some snow from outside, he set it on the
stove, and lit it. He cast a small yet powerful silencing charm over the whole thing, so that the
whistle wouldn't alarm or awaken anyone. And then he waited. He listened to wind howl through
the eaves and the grains of snow brush against the windows, melancholy sounds for sure. He supposed
this was one of the most desolate places on the planet, and if not, it definitely seemed like it at
this odd hour when everyone else was asleep.*

*He got up and poured the boiling water into a cup, placing a tea packet into it that he had
found on the counter. He didn't know how old it was, but he didn't think tea could go bad.
After it had diffused properly, he sipped, and was rewarded with real warmth, this time, spreading
through him. He entered the living room, wrapping the quilt tighter around himself, and sat down in
a beaten recliner that was across from where Hermione was sleeping. From his position, he could see
out into the night, and he could watch Hermione if he so chose. He found himself doing that more
than looking outside, as he slowly sipped the warm liquid.*

*As the tea was dwindling, something must have woken Hermione, because she stirred slightly
and opened her eyes. The first thing she saw was his gaze on her. She smiled softly but did not sit
up.*

*“What is it?” she asked, softly.*

*Harry set the now-empty cup on the side table. “Hmm?” he asked, though it was barely
audible.*

*Hermione cocked her head at him. “Why are you still up?”*

*“I'm keeping watch,” Harry responded, now raising his voice to little more than a
whisper.*

*“Why?” she asked, propping herself up on one elbow. Her hair fell over her shoulder, across
her chest.*

*“Because someone needs to,” Harry said. “You all need your sleep, so I decided to.”*

*Hermione smiled again, though Harry wasn't sure if it was at him. Her eyes were
unfocused, for the moment, and she seemed to be thinking of something. Soon, her gaze returned to
him.*

*“You need to sleep too, Harry,” she said.*

*“I know, but—”*

*“We have a long day tomorrow, hopefully the final one in this search,” she continued.*

*“So we're that close?”*

*“I think so, yes,” she said, frowning slightly. “All the clues say yes, and all of the
research we've all done indicate the same thing: it's not far.”*

*Harry sighed and relaxed into his chair. “That's a relief. I guess being at Hogwarts all
these years, I've never realized how cruel the environment actually is up here.”*

*“What do you mean?”*

*“Oh, just that all of you have spent the last two days freezing and hungry, not to mention
tired. A pretty terrible combination,” Harry answered.*

*“We're here because we want to be,” Hermione said, echoing his earlier thoughts.*

*“Yes, yes, I know, but I'm sure you'd much rather be warm and safe in your bed at
Hogwarts.”*

*“Safe? How would I be safe there, Harry, if you were out here by yourself?”*

*“I'm not following,” Harry returned.*

*“You know you're the only defense against Voldemort. If you were away from the school,
like you are now, no one there is truly safe,” she replied. Her arm must have gotten tired, because
she turned over onto her stomach, laying her head sideways onto the couch, so she could look at him
still.*

*“You know what I meant. Tired, cold, hungry…a triple threat, if there ever was one.”*

*“I wouldn't want to be anywhere else,” Hermione responded slowly, after a few
moments.*

*Harry had no answer to this, and merely sat there, looking at her. They stared at each other
for a few seconds, with nothing but the wind breaking the silence.*

*“What are you thinking?” Hermione eventually asked.*

*“That I don't want the rest of you involved, but that I couldn't imagine it without
you.” She rewarded him with another smile.*

*“That's sweet, Harry. I'm glad you're finally able to see that nothing you say
could make me stay behind.”*

*“Oh, I've known that for a long time, Hermione,” smiling warmly at her. He was a little
tired, at the moment, but it felt good to smile like that.*

*“Why don't you go back to sleep,” he said, motioning with his hand for her to get settled
back in.*

*She shook her head slowly, still smiling. “If you're going to be `watching' all
night, so am I.”*

*Harry sighed. “Hermione…”*

*“What?”*

*“You need your sleep.”*

*“So do you.”*

*“I know, and we've been over this already,” Harry replied. “Someone has to do it, and it
might as well be me.”*

*“Oh, come on, Harry. You think anyone's going to bother us in this weather? This far out
in the middle of nowhere?”*

*“That's the kind of complacency that gets people killed,” he said.*

*Hermione pursed her lips. “It's not complacency out here, Harry. It's
reality.”*

*“Well, Voldemort had to have come out here at least once to do his business,” Harry pointed
out, smugly thinking he had won the argument. He should have remembered this was Hermione Granger
he was talking to.*

*“Twenty years ago, or more…” she said. “And besides, as far as we know, he doesn't have a
clue we've been eliminating his horcruxes. At this point, I'd say it's a safe bet
we're alone out here on this cold, frozen plateau.”*

*Harry, still skeptical, shrugged. “I'm not going to argue with you anymore. I'll feel
better knowing that I'm doing my best to protect all of you.”*

*“And I'll feel better knowing you're not nodding off when we might actually need you
to protect us tomorrow,” Hermione retorted, her voice rising a little.*

*“Hermione, shh, don't get so worked up,” Harry placated. In an attempt to mollify her, he
conceded the point. “And alright, I'll just kip out right here, nothing to worry about,” he
finished, closing his eyes. He had hoped that it would end the conversation, but again, he should
have known better.*

*“Nonsense,” Hermione stated, and he heard some rustling noises. He opened his eyes and saw
her moving around, pressing her back against the back of the couch. “You'll sleep right here,”
she asserted, looking him in the eyes and patting the space in front of her.*

*“Er…” Harry intoned. “I can sleep perfectly well in this chair.”*

*“I won't bite, and you won't get much rest sitting up like that,” she said, and
continued staring him in the eyes, as if daring him to disagree. They held each other's gazes
again for a few moments, and Harry opened his mouth to resist, but then he deflated. What good did
arguing with Hermione ever bring about? Slowly, reluctantly, he got up, unwrapping the
quilt.*

*Hermione pressed her back further against the couch, and Harry stood there, staring down at
her for a few seconds. This was a Hermione he had never really seen: sleep-tousled, horizontal, and
openly inviting him to lay down with her. His teenage brain was trying to tell him things he
didn't want to hear, so he ended any debate by gingerly lying down next to her.*

*Hermione threw the blanket she had been covered with over Harry as well, and he did the same
thing with the quilt he had been holding. As he settled into the slightly lumpy cushions of the
couch, facing outward, he felt Hermione move a little and press herself into his back. It was
surprisingly warm, under the blankets with Hermione, and Harry found the drowsiness hard to fight
off. At first, he had told himself that he would watch from this position, but now he knew that was
impossible.*

*He was just about to get up, and just plainly tell Hermione that he was going to watch,
whether she liked it or not, but he then felt a thin arm attached to a small hand snake up his side
and over his body, coming to rest across his chest. It then tightened slightly, and if he wanted to
move, he'd have to move her arm. He debated whether or not he should do that, but before he
could reach a decision, Hermione's breathing had evened out. He was stuck here now—there was no
way he would wake her again.*

*Sighing, burrowing a little deeper into the couch and Hermione's warm body, he closed
his…*

*----------*

*May 4**th**, 2002*

*…eyes against the absurdly vivid and totally unexpected recall, and when he opened them, the
girl had just finished turning toward him. He couldn't believe his eyes.*

*“Hermione?”*

*The girl—surely it was Hermione, had to be, even though if it was, she had undergone several
changes since he'd last seen her—raised her eyebrows at him, smirking slightly. Did Hermione
smirk?*

*“Well if it isn't Harry Potter,” she remarked, eyeing him up down.*

*“Hermione?” was all he could manage, again.*

*“I see he hasn't changed much,” she said, laughing, and moving to embrace him. Any doubt
he had held over whether or not this really was Hermione ended then, as the familiar sensation of
her body against his in one of her patented hugs overtook him. He fought recall again, and returned
the embrace. When they pulled apart, he was smiling.*

*“What are you doing here?” he asked. She moved toward the trunk of the cab.*

*“Oh, you know…visiting,” she said, and opened the trunk. She removed her bags and set them on
the sidewalk, nodding to the cabbie. After she had closed the trunk, he drove off.*

*“Visiting? Just like that?” he asked, picking up one of her bags. She pursed her lips at him
for a moment, briefly drawing his attention to her very lightly made up face, and then picked up
the other bag. She swept a few strands of her hair—straightened and sleek—away from her face, and
Harry could see how he had mistaken her for Erin. They had similar figures, almost exact figures,
actually…they were dressed similarly, Harry noted, looking for a second at Hermione's long
legs…and they were both very beautiful…*

*“Sure, why not?” she asked him, her face breaking into a smile once again.*

*“Um…ok,” he said, trying to digest this new information and turn his mind around the visible
changes in Hermione. Maybe an inch taller, possibly ten pounds lighter, and looking much more like
a grown, adult woman than he could remember, she looked very good. Very good indeed.*

*“Four yeas of uni and you're still as articulate as ever,” she responded.*

*That brought Harry out of his thoughts. “That's me,” he said, and then cocked his head at
her. “Uh, where did you plan on staying for this `visit'?” he asked, motioning toward the
luggage he was holding.*

*She smiled slightly at him. “With you, of course.”*

*Harry's eyebrows shot up at this. “With me? My room is a single,” he informed
her.*

*“Are we not magical?” Hermione asked him.*

*He chuckled. “Of course we are, but no one else around here is. If they walked into the room
and saw magical changes, the universe would surely end.”*

*“Mm hmm,” Hermione intoned, looking around her. The sun glinted off her hair. “You think I
can't be discreet about it?” she asked, meeting his eyes once again. The black speckles in her
irises interested him for a moment, but then he shrugged.*

*“Well whatever,” he half-sighed, half-laughed. This was all so unexpected; he didn't know
what to think, really. Hermione's presence wasn't going to make any of the decisions he had
to make any easier. It would have been nice if she had told him she was coming—but then his brain
randomly remembered the letter she had sent, probably still under the refuse on his desk. The
letter he had never responded to. The letter he had ignored.*

*Well, now he felt like a git. “Oh, hey, about that letter you sent—”*

*“Yeah, I was wondering about that,” Hermione interrupted him. “Why did you never write
back?”*

*“I forgot,” Harry replied, sheepishly. The way Hermione was currently glaring at him brought
flashbacks of similar looks from their formative years.*

*“Forgot?” Hermione raised an eyebrow. “How wonderful,” she said, dryly. “It's nice to
know that I'm so important to you,” she finished. Her stance told Harry she was waiting for
some response, and for his sake, he knew it had better be a good one. He couldn't help the
smile that spread across his face, though, because more than anything else, it felt
good—immeasurably good—to have the Hermione he remembered standing before him. He supposed the
saying `absence only makes the heart grow fonder' had some merit.*

*“What are you smiling at, Potter?” she questioned. Her use of his surname reminded him of
John, and he started laughing.*

*After it settled, he replied, “Nothing, Hermione. Just that it's good to see you.” She
smiled.*

*“And it's great to see you,” she said, adjusting her grip on the bag. “Now, where do you
live?”*

*“I dunno…” Harry started. “Not sure if it's good to take a girl—pardon me, woman—back to
my room after having just met her.” Oh, he just couldn't resist.*

*“`Having just met' me is a relative term, you know. We've known each other since we
were eleven,” she stated, though she was still smiling.*

*“Yes we have,” Harry said, and started moving in the direction of his building. She fell in
beside him.*

*“So, how have you been?” Harry asked, but then another question occurred to him. “You
don't have work or anything?”*

*“More than one question at a time? Sounding like me,” she shot back. “But, in answer to your
first, fine. Life's been a bit crazy lately, but that should calm down a bit, since I was just
promoted.”*

*“Promoted?”*

*“Yeah, I'm now the head of the Muggle Liaisons division at the Ministry,” she said, and
he detected a seemingly deserved note of pride in her voice.*

*“Wow, congratulations,” Harry said, happy for her. He couldn't fathom ever working for
the Ministry, but she appeared to be doing well.*

*“Thanks. And as for your other question, Arthur gave me some time off. A month, in
fact.”*

*“A month? Why would he do that?” Harry queried.*

*“Er…well to be honest, I've been burying myself in my job lately. Hoping for that
promotion, you know, things like that,” she replied. He could tell there was something she was
leaving out, but he did not press her. He flexed his arm and then shifted the bag to his other
hand, since his one arm was getting tired.*

*“Merlin, Hermione, what do you have in here?” he asked.*

*“Knickers, bras, stilettos…you know, things like that,” she said. He looked over at her, saw
that she was smiling, and shook his head.*

*“Where is Hermione and what have you done with her?” he asked.*

*“Standing right here, and grew up, I guess,” she replied.*

*Harry leered at her, smirking as he did so. “I can see that,” he replied, sweeping his eyes
over her figure. Two could play at that game.*

*“Easy Harry, wouldn't want you spouting off out here on the pavement,” she came back.
That shut him up, though he was having a hard time keeping the raucous laughter from escaping his
closed mouth. He couldn't ever remember Hermione joking about these things, but then again, the
last time he'd seen Hermione face to face was eighteen months previous. In those eighteen
months, she had seemingly made the transition into adulthood. He wondered if the perspective from
her end was the same about him.*

*“And yourself?” she asked after a brief silence. “How have you been?”*

*“Fine,” he said. “Wonderful, really. Just bloody busy. I have a project to finish up, a
playoff game tomorrow, and then finals to study for. After that, graduation.” He left out what was
plaguing him, which was what he would be doing after graduation.*

*“Ah…well since I'm going to be here until graduation—”*

*“That long, huh?” Harry asked, though he really didn't care. “I might have to start
charging rent.”*

*“I wonder how you would look transfigured into a fluffy white bunny,” Hermione commented,
almost offhand.*

*“Oooookaaay, nevermind then. I don't need to test your magical prowess; I've seen
what you can do,” he replied.*

*“Yes…I know you have. Anyways, as I was saying, since I'm going to be here for a little
while, perhaps you would like some help on whatever you have to do?”*

*Harry looked incredulously at her. “You're on holiday and you want to do more work?
What's wrong with you, woman?”*

*“Well, since—you know, you just reminded me of Ron, for a moment,” she stated. Harry just
continued to stare at her, absently noting they were nearing his building. “Regardless, I'm
your guest, the least I can do is help you out a bit,” she said, a smile tugging the corner of her
lips. Lips that were slightly rouged, Harry noticed. Slightly parted as well, with just the hint of
a pink tongue at one of the corners.*

*He cut his train of thought off abruptly. “More like roommate, yeah?” he asked.*

*“I guess so,” Hermione responded. They passed into the shadow of the tall building. Harry
could actually feel the change in temperature from sunlight to shade. Hermione must have as well,
because she drew her arms against her body, pushing her bosom out a bit—*

*“Damn it,” Harry said, vocalizing his annoyance at his own brain. Hermione just looked at
him, stopping and quirking an eyebrow.*

*“Nothing, nevermind,” Harry said, quickly, and started moving once again. He knew the uni
would give him no trouble about having a visitor, since they almost always turned a blind eye to
that sort of thing, and because he was Harry Shortstop Potter, so he waltzed through the lobby with
Hermione in tow without a glance toward the desk. She followed him wordlessly.*

*“Pretty posh,” she remarked, once they had gotten into the elevator.*

*“Yeah, the whole campus is. Much of it's been renovated since I've been here. Some of
the interiors are now really beautiful,” Harry said, thinking of the practical yet luxurious dining
hall.*

*“Well, considering its endowment, I'd expect it to be,” she said, as the elevator dinged
his floor.*

*“Endowment?” Harry asked, following Hermione from the elevator and motioning her toward his
room.*

*“You've been here four years and you don't know what an endowment is?” she asked.
Harry shook his head, a tiny bit annoyed at the condescending tone in her voice. It might have just
been his imagination, though, and he let it pass.*

*“It's the annual amount of income they receive through gifts,” she said.*

*“Sure, ok,” Harry responded, stopping outside of his door. He set down the bag, fished his
keys out of his pocket, and unlocked the door. His room was fairly clean, except for his desk, so
he had no reason to feel self-conscious when Hermione's eyes swept over it, but he was anyway.
He didn't know why.*

*“Nice, Harry. Won't even need magic,” she said, smiling at him. “Well ok, maybe a
little.” She crossed the threshold, motioned him to do the same, and set down her bag. He picked up
the bag and followed, and then closed the door as she motioned for him to do that as well.*

*One side of his room was relatively bare, and she scrutinized it for a moment. He had a
pretty good idea of what she was about to do, but stood back and watched silently. She looked at
his bed for a moment, then back toward the other side of the room, and then waved her hand. The few
objects there placed themselves on Harry's desk, albeit neatly, and she drew her hand across
her body. Palm outward. It glowed briefly, and then a bed very similar to Harry's own faded
into view.*

*Hermione's magical handiwork had always fascinated Harry, and he found it no different
now. Where Harry was the brute force of the trio, magically, Hermione was the most measured and
accurate. She knew more spells than he did and could execute them more properly, but when they
dueled, Harry always won. Her shields simply weren't powerful enough to protect against one of
his hits, and he eventually did hit.*

*“I see you've learned much more wandless magic,” Harry stated, remembering that magic of
the wandless variety had once been very difficult for her. She hadn't ever been able to
separate the act of doing magic from the wand.*

*Hermione nodded, turning toward him. “I rarely carry my wand with me these days,” she said,
indicating she had indeed mastered wandless casting. “What about you, where's your wand?” she
asked.*

*“Oh, uh, you know? I have no idea,” he said, and laughed at Hermione's look.*

*“You don't know where your wand is?”*

*The butt of a very obscene joke occurred to Harry, but he held back. He was sure Hermione
wouldn't appreciate it, and he didn't even know where he'd heard it. Probably from
John.*

*“No,” he shrugged. “The very little magic that I do doesn't require a wand,” he said, and
she nodded, conceding the point.*

*“Still, for emergencies?”*

*“You think there would be magical emergencies around here?” he asked.*

*“No, I suppose not.”*

*“Well, make yourself comfortable,” Harry said. “I need to get out of these ruddy clothes and
take a shower,” he said, turning toward his closet.*

*“Sure, Harry,” she replied, and he heard her zipping open one of the bags as he left the
room.*

*----------*

*Hermione was in his room, just down the hall. That thought kept playing over and over in his
mind as he dried himself off, having finished his refreshing shower. It was something that seemed
so alien to him that he honestly did not know what to think. He felt ashamed that he had thought so
little of her and the rest of his friends from Britain, especially now that she was here, but that
wasn't something he would ever say to her.*

*Still…to have her here, to see her just show up like that, it was all a little bewildering.
The thought had never entered his mind, not once, and it wouldn't have either. As he pulled his
clothes on, though, he knew that it wasn't some grand delusion. She was actually here and it
appeared that she would be staying with him for almost two weeks.*

*He didn't know how he felt about that. He hadn't seen her in such a long time,
hadn't even thought about her really, that the perceptions he'd once had of her had faded.
The bookish, bossy, know-it-all personality she'd once possessed and personified had washed
out. He knew he was doing her an injustice, though. That personality he had just described was what
people who didn't really know her were apt to say, but he really did know her.*

*Well, he knew her. Not so much anymore. That was a little depressing to him, but he pushed
that aside. He knew that the traits many people saw in her were just her defense to a world that
couldn't tolerate highly intelligent, driven people. It was known as `tall poppy syndrome',
or TPS, as he'd learned in one of his business classes. With success came the envy of others,
and with that envy came the insults and hurtful words Hermione had suffered through when she was
younger, to an extent. Aristotle had likened it to sweeping a blade across a swath of poppies,
cutting the heads off the tallest ones.*

*He had never suffered TPS, or anything like it, because he had always relied on Hermione, and
from his older perspective, that was much clearer than it ever was. He doubted very much that he
would have survived the seven years at Hogwarts without her, traced as far back as the incident
with the Philosopher's Stone, even. That now seemed like a dream to him, the memory was so old,
but he knew that her quick thinking had saved his and Ron's life. All that had come after,
including his present healthy state of mind, was because of that day, so long ago.*

*Exiting the loo, his thoughts confirmed the fact that he had no bloody idea what to expect.
Hermione had also always been somewhat of an enigma to him, especially during the last six months
before he'd left for uni, and the fact that she had showed up here, unannounced, after so long
solidified that feeling. He was happy that she was here, but he did not know what to
expect.*

*In its simplest form, his confusion formed because of the distance, both physically and
emotionally, that had separated them until twenty minutes ago. Some part of his subconscious
acknowledged the fact that she had been an integral part of his life for so long, and when he had
left, he had had to cope with that absence, but that voice was very small and easily pushed aside,
as were thoughts that perhaps she had felt similarly. The dominant part of his brain was telling
him that it was good see her, no matter the circumstances, and he listened to that, mostly.*

*The other thing that confused him, whether he would admit or not, was his initial reaction to
Hermione. He had thought she was Erin, who Harry regarded as a gorgeous human being with a sexual
nature. His thoughts had never, at least as far his dominant memories were concerned, strayed in
that direction with Hermione, but there it was. She was beautiful, no matter how he termed it, and
that was slightly shocking to him. She had never been `beautiful'; that moment at the Yule Ball
had confirmed to him that she was indeed a girl that could be pretty, and there were later times
that he'd acknowledged that, even verbally, but it had never been beauty.*

*If it hadn't been for his abrupt and jolting flashback, he wouldn't even be able to
admit to himself that he'd ever thought of Hermione in that way, but he now knew that he had a
very few times, albeit briefly and more as an intellectual `what if?' This Hermione, this woman
that had showed up almost literally on his doorstep, was challenging that notion, and he didn't
know how he felt about that.*

*Hence, the confusion.*

*As he neared his room, he heard two voices, one feminine and the other masculine, and noticed
that the door was open. As he got closer, he saw John sitting on his bed, and assumed that it was
Hermione he was talking to. When he arrived in the doorway, they both looked at him; Hermione had a
smile on her face, and John just raised his eyebrows.*

*“I see you've met already,” Harry said, hanging up his towel and stowing away his
toiletries.*

*“Yes, we have,” John said, and moved over so Harry could sit down as well.*

*“Good, then I don't have to introduce anyone,” Harry replied.*

*“Hardly, Harry. This charming young man wouldn't tell me much about himself,” Hermione
replied.*

*John held up his hands. “I'm sorry that I couldn't resist asking questions of a
beautiful lady such as yourself—”*

*“John,” Harry warned, and something in Harry's voice must have told John that Hermione
was not to be trifled with.*

*“Anyways, this is John Sanders, star pitcher and misogynist,” Harry said, looking at John,
daring him to disagree.*

*“Misogynist, huh? He seemed sweet enough…” Hermione chuckled.*

*“Oh, don't let him fool you,” Harry replied.*

*“I feel as if I'm being misrepresented,” John interjected. “I haven't been a
misogynist for two months now. I believe that our good friend Erin has cured that,” he said, in
mock seriousness.*

*“Yes, well, you can believe what you want,” Harry said, laughing as well. “And this
`beautiful lady',” Harry said, quoting his friend, though he wouldn't disagree, “is none
other than Hermione Granger, childhood friend and cohort in various mayhem.”*

*“Mayhem? What kind of mayhem could you get into?” John asked her.*

*“Oh, you'd be surprised,” Hermione responded, crossing her legs and leaning back. Her
upper back rested against the wall behind her.*

*John looked at Harry. “Why didn't you ever tell me you had such nice friends?” he asked,
and Harry caught the double meaning there. He shook his head ruefully at John.*

*“Because I knew you'd be too interested,” Harry replied, happy that John had a solid
relationship with Erin. He didn't know if he would have been able to deal with any advances
toward Hermione, even though the feeling was odd. It's not as if Harry had to protect Hermione.
She could handle herself very well. He had seen proof of that.*

*“Are all your friends just as charming?” Hermione asked Harry, a twinkle seemingly entering
her chocolate eyes. It was a look Dumbledore would have given him.*

*“They're all more charming than this piece of meat,” Harry said. John let out a bark of
laughter.*

*“Don't flatter yourself, Potter!” he said. They both knew they were joking. They had a
very easy rapport with each other. He didn't think he'd ever been truly mad at
John.*

*“Harry couldn't flatter himself if he tried,” Hermione said.*

*“Oh really? I'll have you know that I have top marks, am a star shortstop, and very
good-looking, thank you very much,” Harry said, as seriously as he could.*

*“Mm hmm. Now if only you were serious…” Hermione trailed off. John looked back and forth
between Harry and Hermione for a few moments, and then burst into laughter. They both looked at
him.*

*“Something the matter?” Harry asked.*

*“Yes,” John said, through the laughs. “You two are,” he finished.*

*“We are?” Harry inquired.*

*John stopped laughing, cocking an eyebrow. “I'd say so, but if you don't know why,
I'm not telling!” he said and sprang to his feet. “Alright, time to get back to work.” He
extended a hand to Hermione. “Nice to meet you, Hermione. I'll have to get Erin up here soon,
so she can meet you.” Turning to Harry, he said, “Better watch her around the baseball team.
They're like a pack of dogs,” he said, lowly, so only Harry could hear. He then exited the
room, leaving Harry and Hermione alone once again.*

*“What did he say to you?” Hermione asked.*

*“Just being his usual crude self,” Harry responded.*

*“I see,” Hermione said, and looked thoughtful. After a moment, she said, “Alright, time to
see this project of yours.” She stretched, thrusting her chest into the air, and Harry scratched
his head, scolding himself for even bothering to notice that. This whole thing was going to be
impossible.*

*“Sure,” he said, and stood. They both moved to his desk, and Harry took his notes and what
he'd completed from the top of the pile, and showed them to Hermione. They both sat back on his
bed, and settled into some work. Harry could barely keep the smile off his face. This was so
familiar, doing work like this with Hermione, her sharp insights refining his natural intelligence.
This was so right.*

-->



6. Reunion, Part II
-------------------



**Bearings**

Disclaimer/Author's Notes: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. The flashbacks and interludes are
key to this story because I'm going for a more complete picture than just Harry and Hermione.
Sorry if you don't like them, but as the summary indicates, this isn't only about Mr.
Potter and Ms. Granger. Anyways, I'm glad that some of you noticed the oddly forced quality of
their initial reunion. The fireworks, both good and bad, are dancing closer and closer to the
flame…

*And I still hold your hand in mine,*

*In mine when I'm asleep.*

*And I will bear my soul in time*

*When I'm kneeling at your feet.*

James Blunt

*Goodbye, My Lover*

Chapter 4: Reunion, Part II

Harry lay awake long after the lights had been doused, after Hermione's breathing had evened
out, and after true silence—the kind only experienced between two and four in the morning—had
descended across the campus. The LED of his alarm cast a faint blue light across one corner of his
room, but otherwise everything was shrouded in darkness. If he turned his head to the side, he
would barely be able to make out Hermione's form across the room.

He was staring at the ceiling, however; it faded in and out of focus, just at the edge of his
night vision. One moment, he could clearly make out the patterns there, and the next it was nothing
more than a murky grayness. His arms lay placidly at his side, and his breathing had settled to a
near-sleep rhythm, but the welcome tendrils hadn't even made an appearance in his
consciousness.

The last eight hours had been such a drastic change of pace that he found himself floundering,
as if at the edge of some giant pool that kept growing larger and larger, as the shore grew smaller
and smaller. Hermione's appearance was not unwelcome, but it complicated things. On top of
everything else that was going on in his life at this moment, he now had guilt to deal with, guilt
that he hadn't even realized he'd had until an hour before.

Hermione had blown off his blunder over the letter she'd sent, but even he wasn't thick
enough to not sense some bitterness from her. She had every right to be bitter, he supposed, but he
couldn't deal with this right now. He maintained that…but in the end it didn't really
matter, because that guilt had come flooding through him anyway. It had led to an examination of
the last four years of his life that left him discomfited and ashamed, but there was a defensive
streak there too.

Had he not said before he left Britain all those years ago that he didn't know what would
happen, that he didn't know how often he would be back? Had he not told everyone that he was
doing this so he could add some direction to his life, one that had been molded by Voldemort, but
was now free to choose its own path?

He had, and he remembered it clearly, but he also realized the significance of his childhood
friends, and what they meant to him. He'd told himself that he was so busy with this new life
and these new friends, so far removed from Britain and the problems of the magical society there,
that it would be fine to put all of those issues on the back-burner for a little while. The problem
was that a little while had turned into a long while, and he had done more than simply putting
aside those thoughts. He had forgotten them.

He'd previously had no experience with the phenomenon of `recall', but the one earlier
in the evening had been proof enough that some memories were shrouded, unknowingly. He couldn't
believe he'd forgotten something as simple as that night in that small house, but he had. And
now he couldn't believe that he'd simply forgotten to write back to Hermione, after all
they'd been through. But he had.

A distant rumble of thunder rolled faintly through the silence. The patterns on the ceiling
faded into view once again. Everything that he and Hermione had been through faded back into his
brain, and he had to clench his teeth against the sudden and overwhelming urge to violently sigh,
or perhaps gasp.

He wouldn't be here today without Hermione. If the troll had killed Hermione in the bathroom
during their first year—something that Harry couldn't even contemplate, walking into that
bathroom and seeing Hermione crushed and bloodied on the floor—he was sure he'd be dead. He
could actually enumerate the times she had literally saved his life, sometimes from himself but
most often from external threats, and the thing that struck discord within him was that he
couldn't count nearly as many reciprocations. Sure, he'd physically saved her life a few
times, perhaps twice or thrice, but they didn't add up.

The ceiling drifted out of focus, and Harry closed his eyes against the odd floating sensation.
Thunder rumbled again, this time slightly louder, and a soft sighing sound reached Harry's
ears. The trees were rustling in the new breeze.

He loved Stanford and all that he had accomplished here, his friends and the baseball team, the
new perspective he had gained, but he hated himself for distancing himself so completely from his
past. It had been unintentional, that he was sure of, but it was inexcusable. The simple memory
that had resurfaced had shown him just how key Hermione and the rest really were, for even such
mundane things as staying warm when magic wasn't an option.

As he lay in his bed, his mind drifted back to that cold night, and he could almost feel
Hermione's slim arm draped over his side; her soft chest pressed into his back, rising and
falling slightly in time with the *thump* of her heart; her hair as it whispered against the
back of his neck, propelled by her tiny puffs of breath; the leg that had curled between his at
some point, with the feline curve of her calf pressed against his lower leg.

With his eyes closed, it was easy to see the scene again, and he knew how long he had lain
there, unable to fall asleep…almost like now, really. Except, this time Hermione was not in his bed
(or he wasn't in hers?), and he didn't know this Hermione nearly as well as that one. The
feel of her body would be different than he remembered, wouldn't it? Everything changed, he
supposed.

The nostalgia was crushing, and he had to open his eyes. His heart ached for that simpler time,
even though on the surface it probably appeared to be much more confusing than now. He knew better,
though. The six of them had formed a bond that year, trekking across the UK after Voldemort's
horcruxes on weekends, which was as easy as it was profound. He longed for the time before
pretense, when they could share a room and not worry about offending anyone, or share a bed and not
worry about any repercussions.

Harry was feeling the repercussions now, though, and he listened as a *shhhh*-ing sound
grew into existence, followed by a closer and louder rumble of thunder. That could only be rain,
the very same rain that John had promised earlier in the day, and it was soon streaming against the
window steadily. Quickly, almost too quickly, the storm grew in intensity: the thunder rolled
louder and clearer than before and the flashes of lightning were more distinct now. All at once,
the blue light of his clock cut off, and then he was in total darkness. The power had failed.

And in a strange way, the complete lack of light brought up his other sense, hearing, and the
rain hitting his window dominated the room. The thunder and lightning were already passing, it
seemed, but the rain had not lessened. Just as he was getting lost in that sound, perhaps finally
succumbing to the sleep that had so long evaded him, noises to his right aroused his failing
consciousness.

He turned his head slightly and although he knew he couldn't really see it, he saw Hermione
moving, turning over possibly. Again, it was just on the edge of his vision, and the sound was
clearer than anything.

“What's that?” came her voice, disembodied, from the darkness. It was thick with sleep.

“Power died,” Harry replied. His voice was low and raspy, almost a dry whisper.

There was more movement, again perceived more through his ears than his eyes, and somehow he
knew that Hermione was facing him, peering at him through the gloom, as he was she. The rain,
relentless in its noise, gusted against the window.

Hermione sighed. His ears told him she was rubbing her eyes with the backs of her hands, but he
couldn't know that. Not in this absolute darkness. She might have then brought her hands away
from her face and turned more toward him, curling under the blanket a bit.

“Why did you never write back, Harry?” her voice sailed out of the dark again, and Harry could
do nothing to dodge the ship as it docked in the harbor of his brain. Hadn't he just been
thinking about that very same question? And now she wanted to know? Perhaps it would be best if he
somehow tried to articulate the reason to her…

The reason? What reason? He hadn't gotten that far. He'd been stuck on the guilt and the
shame, and hadn't ever found a good reason for why he'd done it. And that wasn't the
type of answer that one gave Hermione Granger. She needed something a little more substantial, and
he had a sinking feeling that he wouldn't be able to give her what she wanted.

“I don't know,” his mouth said; his brain screamed in frustration at his ineloquence, but
there was nothing it could do. He was Harry Potter, not Winston bleeding Churchill. Harry had no
eloquence, at least not when it came to matters of the heart.

That sigh came again, though it had changed in tone. It was a little sharper on the front end,
and lasted longer on the back end. He thought it could have meant frustration, but for once his
hearing failed him. He didn't know what she was thinking.

“How come you haven't been back in so long?” came another question. Hermione's voice was
a little clearer this time, but that might have been because the last vestiges of sleep had cleared
from her mind.

“I don't know,” he said again, aware that he sounded unflatteringly like a broken record.
And maybe because he was expecting it, or perhaps he had some Seerish qualities, he knew the sigh
was coming again before he heard it. He also knew that it would be sharper and longer, and sure
enough, it was.

“What *do* you know?” she asked. It changed pitch in the middle in an odd way, and he could
only assume she had sat up. He squinted into the gloom, but he could merely see a blob of
indistinctness.

“That I'm a right git,” he replied, with sincerity. His brain was nodding in approval, but
he knew that it was only a start. There would have to be a lot more to come.

“What?” The voice that came to him had changed timbre, and he knew that she was sitting on the
edge of her bed, facing him. Harry still didn't move from his back.

“You heard me.”

“I did, but I didn't understand you.”

“I'm a git, Hermione. S'why I didn't write back,” he said. The rain had faded to a
drone, though it was as strong as ever. There was something weird about holding a conversation with
a disembodied voice, but it was wisp of a thought, lost as soon as it had come.

“That's not really an explanation, you know.”

“It's all I know how to say,” he replied.

“Harry, if there's something you want to tell me, please do,” she said, and there was an
interesting new quality to her voice. It was…fearful? No, that wasn't it. More
like…waiting.

“I can't tell you anything more than I'm sorry.”

Silence fell between the pair, but it was very brief. More rustling noises, and Harry knew that
Hermione had stood.

“Sorry doesn't cut it, Harry,” she said, and that quality he had heard was gone. It had been
replaced by a harder, harsher edge; something that he didn't like hearing from Hermione.

He bit back a growl of frustration. It was hard enough to sort through his thoughts, and now he
had Hermione interrogating him. It was like staring into the barrel of a loaded gun with a faulty
trigger, praying to god you or it didn't set the mechanism off.

“What do you want me to say?”

“How about answering my questions?” She was standing now. “Why did you stop coming back to
Britain? How could you just forget my letter? Shall I go on?”

Harry sat up and ran a hand through his hair. Movement in his periphery caught his eye, and he
turned his head. Hermione slowly materialized out of the darkness—she was slowly crossing the room,
almost warily. She was wearing a pair of boxers and small tank top. He thought something was
glinting around her midriff, but there was no light for anything to reflect.

Her edges slowly sharpened, and soon her face was clear enough for Harry to see the frown there.
Her hair hung loosely around her face, swinging lightly with every movement. Her eyes appeared
black in the gloom.

“You just show up like this…and you expect me to have all the answers?” She didn't answer
immediately, and instead came up next to his bed. She was looking down at him.

“Are they really that hard to come by?”

“Hermione, I left Britain because I didn't have the answers people wanted. I left because I
didn't have the answers *I* wanted!”

She put her hands on her hips, and that thing glinted again. Harry squinted, and was mildly
surprised to see that Hermione had her navel pierced. Another wall came tumbling down in his
head…

“I didn't need any answers from you Harry. Not then.” She paused, and then sat down on the
edge of his bed. She was turned away from him slightly, so that he could only see the side of her
face. Harry was having a hard time focusing on it, with all that lovely skin exposed.

He swallowed hard. What was wrong with him? This was Hermione, not some object to lust after. He
didn't know where (her chest pressed against his back) all of these foreign thoughts (her arm
over his side) were coming from.

“But I do now,” she said. All the harshness had gone out of her voice. Now it was very
quiet.

Harry said nothing for at least a minute. He simply watched her face, watched her stare at
something that only she could see. She then turned slightly, so her back was to him, and leaned
against his side.

“Isn't this all kind of surreal to you?” he asked her. “To show up like this, after so
long…and now you're rooming with me, like nothing's changed.”

“What *has* changed?”

“We have, Hermione. We both have. We used to see each other every day, for *seven* years.
We had a constancy then that's hard to duplicate, even if we wanted to… You've been
building your career for the last four years, and I'm sure you've forged a lot of new
relationships in the Ministry. You also have Ron and the others very close.

“I, well I've been exposed to a lot of new things, some of which seem so fundamental now
that I wonder how I ever lived without them. And I don't mean the Muggle comforts, I'm
talking about the normal, everyday life that I have here that is impossible for me back in
Britain.”

He hadn't expected to say so much, but it had just flowed. Hermione didn't move for
quite a while, though he could feel her breathing against his side. When she finally did, it was to
turn so her legs and her head were aligned with Harry's.

“Move over,” she said, and he thought he might have been able to hear a smile in her voice. He
tried to look at her face, but the angle wasn't right. Whatever reaction he had been expecting
from her, this wasn't it. But he moved over anyway, and then she was sitting next to him, her
body leaning against his, shoulder to shoulder.

“You overestimate me, you know,” she told him. “I really don't have many friends back
home…kind of reminds me of the old days,” she said, and laughed derisively. If there had been a
smile on her face, it was gone now.

“But—”

“*And*,” she intoned, cutting him off; “Our old friends have their own lives now as well.
We hardly see each other anymore. The only time that really happens is at the Burrow at one of
Molly's dinners, and it's rare that all of us are there at once.”

Harry shrugged, though his shoulders didn't go very far, because Hermione's was pressed
against his.

“What do you want me to say? I don't have the solutions, Hermione. We live in a new world,
one that we are shaping, with everyone else our age. None of the decisions are going to be
easy.”

“So it was a decision to stop coming home or writing? Or responding?” She laid her head on
Harry's shoulder as she spoke. “You *decided* to forget about us? About me?”

“No, ok? No. I didn't forget about any of you. I just…it was easy to get caught up in things
over here.”

“You could've gotten caught up in things back home,” she mumbled.

“Yeah, the bloody PR machine that is the Boy-Who-Lived,” Harry responded.

Hermione lifted her head and turned it to look at Harry. He turned as well and looked in her
eyes. He could just barely see the darker speckles amidst the lighter irises.

“What's so ruddy bad about the Boy-Who-Lived?” she asked

“That's not me, Hermione—”

“It may not be *all* you, Harry,” she said. Their faces had inched closer together. “But it
*is* at least a part of you. You killed Voldemort. You freed millions of people from his
terror. You can't deny that.”

“I'm not denying that, alright! It's just not who I want to be. The fucking prophecy
made me what I was. I never wanted to kill anyone! I never wanted to have the lives of the five of
you in my hands!” Harry started to turn his face away, but Hermione reached up and held it, forcing
him to look at her. He almost knocked her hands away, but held back.

“But that was something you did, and you did it admirably. To deny a part of you is to never be
completely whole, someone much wiser than I once said. Why are you running from it, Harry?” Her
voice had grown very soft at the end.

“I'm not running from anything, Hermione,” he said, more as a sigh than anything else. Her
eyes, her pert nose, her pouty lips, and the conversation they were having…they were all vying for
attention in his overworked and overtired brain.

“Yes you are,” she whispered. “You're running from what you've been unable to accept.
And I've been chasing you.”

“Huh?” he asked, but all thought ceased as she leaned forward and pressed her lips against
his.

----------

May 5th, 2002

The first thing Harry was aware of was unusual warmth against his side; accompanied by a weight
he couldn't ever remember being there. Sleep left him slowly, and he stretched languorously as
full consciousness greeted him. A soft form pressed against his side.

His eyes shot open, and for one confused second, he was seeing two things at once. The
translocation was disconcerting, because he was back in the cold shack and in his dorm room. The
only constant between the two was Hermione sleeping next to him.

Then, he was in California, all of him, and he blinked back the dull gray light coming through
the blinds. He could still hear the rain, and one look at his clock told him that the power had
been restored at some point, and that he still had several hours until he had to be ready for his
game.

He glanced down, and saw the aftermath of the night before; Hermione was sprawled out across one
side of the bed on her stomach, one leg over Harrys', her face turned to the side so he could
the see the peace her sleep brought her. Her tank top had ridden up a bit, giving him a fairly long
view of her bare back, and her boxers had scrunched up. The curve of her rear was just visible, and
her legs stretched to infinity toward the end of the bed…

He rubbed his eyes, trying to figure out exactly how he had gone from arguing with Hermione to
kissing her. Except, he hadn't kissed her—*she* had kissed *him*. Her lips had moved
through the darkness and greeted his before he could react, and then she had pressed him back
toward the bed. Everything that followed was a bit of a blur, but he knew that it had been mostly
limited to kissing. Mostly.

What had he done? Why had he let it continue like that? This was Hermione here. This was the
girl he'd known since he was eleven, before she'd exhibited any of the womanly qualities
that so interested his gaze now. But, then again, he hadn't initiated it, so what was the
problem?

The problem was that he didn't know how or why he had let it continue, and if he was honest
with himself, he felt like a creep for letting it. He had let something as simple as responding to
her letter slip, and here he was kissing her.

Why did she kiss him, though? Did she come all this way, halfway across the world, to do that?
He did enjoy the feel of her lips and her tongue, and her body pressed against his, and since this
was Hermione, and not some random bint, they at least had years of history together. How had that
history led to this, though? This giant leap from the last time he'd seen her, when she had
actually seemed rather distant.

Hermione stirred, and his thought process trailed off as he watched her come up from slumber.
She stretched slowly, and the maddening boxers rode up even more, but he told himself that it was
just the female form he was interested in. Then there was this mewling sound, somewhat like a sigh,
which drew his eyes back to her face. She turned toward him and opened her eyes slowly. Her face
remained unreadable.

“What time is it?”

“Almost nine,” he replied. He found it hard to make eye contact with her.

She wriggled a bit, and then reached to remove the bunched up material from between her legs. It
smoothed out, recovering her curves.

“So,” she said.

“So,” Harry echoed.

Hermione raised herself up on her elbows. She looked straight ahead for a moment. She then
rolled off the bed into a standing position, and the tank top returned to its proper length.

“What time is your game?”

“One.”

“Shall we get some breakfast?”

Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Hermione, what happened—”

“Harry,” she interrupted. “Let's get some breakfast.”

“But—”

“Just let it go for now,” she said, and waved her hand, creating a screen that stretched across
the room. “I'm going to get changed and then we can go eat.” Harry sat there for a moment,
eyebrows raised, more confused than ever. He decided to let it go…for now…and got changed. After
they were both decent, they made their way silently to the dining hall. Several people greeted
Harry and his new friend with curious looks, but none of them said anything.

After Harry had gotten Hermione into the dining center and some food, he led her over to a table
near the back. He watched her pick at her food for a few minutes, and then he'd had enough.
They were going to talk about this, here and now.

“Hermione—”

“Harry, are you glad to see me?” she asked over him.

“What? Sure, of course I am.” She raised her eyes to meet his.

“Are you?”

“Yeah, Hermione…you're just confusing me, alright? We're bloody arguing then you off and
kiss me? I'm not exactly a sodding genius, but I know that *something* is off here.”

“You kissed me back,” she pointed out, though to Harry it sounded a lot like what a petulant
child would say.

“Yeah, I did, and that's one of the reasons I'm confused.”

“Did you like it?”

Harry let his fork clatter down on the tray. “What kind of question is that? How old are you,
fifteen? I think you could tell I liked it.” She had a weird smile on her face, as if she knew the
answer to some mysterious riddle that Harry didn't (which was very likely), and that it somehow
had to do with the meaning of life.

It was out of place, and Harry thought that all of the past sixteen hours were out of place. He
couldn't fathom what was going on.

“Hermione, why did you really come over here?”

“Because I was trapped, Harry.”

“Trapped?”

She nodded. “Trapped, smothered, confined…what have you. I guess I stopped living, and was just
*existing*.”

Great, now she was going to get philosophical on him. Harry sighed, picked up his fork again,
and took a bite of the omelet in front of him.

“Ok…” Harry intoned.

“Harry, don't you get it?” she asked him, gesticulating wildly. Harry made a helpless
gesture.

“I haven't done anything since you've left, you know. I work fifty sometimes sixty hours
a week, I have no social life, haven't had a date since Hogwarts really…”

She looked down at what she was doing to the food on her plate. When she looked back up, Harry
noticed that her eyes were shimmering.

“That's why I came out here, Harry. To see you. To help you remember there are people and
places that still need you, whether you care to admit it or not. To spend some time with you. To
kiss you…” She looked down again. Harry dropped his fork for the second time and reached across the
table, enveloping Hermione's smaller hands in his.

“You know I could never forget you, right?”

She didn't look up, but spoke to her plate: “Then why did I never get a response?”

“Because as I said last night, I'm a git. There's no excuse.” She finally looked up, and
the shimmering had pooled into definite moisture, gathering on her lower eyelids. She was worrying
her lower lip with her teeth, and Harry could barely keep his eyes off it. It hadn't been that
long ago that he had been indulging in those lips…

“Harry, I…”

“What?”

She took a deep breath; Harry watched, mesmerized, as her chest strained against the blouse she
was wearing. What was with him recently? He was acting like a teenager.

“I came here to tell you…to tell you…”

“To tell me what?”

“To tell you that—”

“Harry!” a familiar voice cut across the dining hall, and whatever Hermione had been about to
say, it was lost. She pursed her lips and looked over at the interruption, discreetly wiping her
eyes, Harry noticed, as she did so. Harry looked over there as well, and saw John and Tom heading
their way. John gave them a winning a smile, and Tom looked curious. They both pulled up chairs and
set their breakfasts down on the table. John was still grinning at the two of them when they were
settled.

“So, ready to play on this gorgeous day?” he asked Harry. Harry merely nodded.

“Excuse me, but if you don't mind me asking, who is this lovely lady?” Tom asked, looking at
both Harry and Hermione.

“Hermione Granger,” she said, extending her hand to the short, stocky man.

“Tom Rockwell,” he replied, shaking it. “Are you one of Harry's friends from—how do you say
it? Across the pond?”

Hermione smiled at him. “Indeed I am. And you are…?”

“He's our catcher,” Harry replied for him. Tom nodded.

“And you're really going to play in the rain?” Hermione asked them. Harry marveled at how
quickly her attitude had changed, in the span of a few seconds. She was a very good actress,
because Harry could tell that she was still bothered. That inner language they had shared, that had
developed over their years at Hogwarts, had come back almost instantly, and he could see it in her
pose and even in the tone of her voice. He wondered how many things she could tell about him just
by the way he was sitting.

“Yeah, sure, why not?” John asked.

Hermione shrugged. “Dunno. Thought they usually postponed it during weather.”

“Nah,” Tom replied. “That's only for those pussies—err, excuse me—those *wimps* in the
majors.” Tom turned just slightly red. Harry and John laughed at him, and Hermione smiled at
him.

“Sorry,” Tom mumbled.

Harry laughed even harder. “What are you sorry for? I've heard *far* worse come out of
her mouth, though she would never admit it.”

“Harry! You have not!” she replied, and although Harry knew it was an act, it was a convincing
one, and it drew Tom and John in. He stared at her for a second, and she just smiled demurely at
him. She knew he knew.

“Like what, Potter?” John asked.

“I don't think you're mature enough for that type of language, John,” Harry said. John
looked affronted, and this time it was Tom's turn to laugh.

“Out with it, Potter,” John said.

“Ok, but I'm telling you, she's going to deny it,” Harry said, still looking at
Hermione. She raised a brunette eyebrow, as if daring him to continue.

“We were out shopping just before the last Christmas I spent in Britain…so that would be
eighteen months ago…and we were in the bookstore. For some reason, the proprietor was astounded and
furious that Hermione here knew more about the place and about books in general than he did.”
Hermione's eyes widened a little, and Harry smiled at her. She knew what he was talking about.
John and Tom were listening with small smirks on their face.

“So as we're leaving, the guy says under his breath, `Ruddy twats, all kinds this time of
year…' Now, I don't know if he meant for us to hear it, but Hermione whipped around and
stared the guy in the face and said, “Fuckin' poofter, why don't you go bugger
yourself?'”

Harry could barely contain his laughter at the memory, but he noticed right away that Tom and
John looked puzzled more than anything else. Hermione just looked liked a tomato, but there was
still a small smile on her face.

“Poofter? What the hell is that?” Tom asked.

“It's a very derogatory term associated with homosexuals,” Hermione answered, and most of
the redness had gone out of her face.

“So…kinda like `fag'?” Tom asked.

Harry shook his head. “Worse.”

“Ah,” Tom replied, and looked to Hermione. “Well? Is it true?”

“Ask me no questions and I will tell you no lies,” Hermione answered, and then started
laughing.

“That's a confirmation if I've ever heard one,” Harry said, and locked eyes with
Hermione again. Some of that hidden tension had faded, and Harry watched as more and more of it
went out of her through the rest of the meal.

The rest of the morning passed quickly. Harry and Hermione finished up his project and then
Harry got ready for the game. They avoided further talk of what had transpired, but Harry was sure
that it would come up again, and probably soon. After Harry had donned his uniform (“Rather
dashing,” Hermione had commented) and collected his equipment, they set out for the athletic fields
in the rain, which had increased again throughout the morning. Hermione had applied a very discreet
Repelling charm to herself, but she was carrying an umbrella to keep up appearances. Harry was
going to get wet no matter what, so he didn't bother with such comforts. Most of the team was
at the field when Harry arrived, and the stands were already mostly full, so Harry and Hermione
parted at the team entrance.

She went toward the public seating and he went into the locker rooms, and both happened to look
back over their shoulders at the same time. Hermione smiled at him, and Harry returned it; she
disappeared around the corner of the stadium.

----------

The weather hadn't exactly made playing easy, but the Stanford team pulled out a win, 5-4.
Harry had two hits, both singles, and a few standard plays in the field, but all told, it
wasn't a very exciting game. John had given up 3 early runs, but had then held them to only one
more through the rest of the game.

Harry was painfully aware of Hermione's presence in the stands the entire time, and for some
reason he felt more nervous than ever before because of it. He couldn't explain it, but he
didn't want to let her down. He didn't, but it was odd, since he was usually so calm and
collected when it came to the games.

Later, after the game and dinner, Harry and Hermione stopped off at his room for a few
minutes.

“You wanna come out with us tonight, Hermione?”

She shook her head. “No thanks. I'm still quite jet-lagged.”

“Ok…then you're just going to bed?”

“Yeah, I think so,” she replied.

“Hermione…”

“Go have a good time, Harry,” she said, waving him off. “You deserve it. Your team is excellent,
and so are you.”

“Alright, but that's not what I was talking about.”

Hermione sighed, and then turned to face him fully. Harry had to admit, she did look tired. Her
normally lively eyes were somewhat dimmed.

“Later. We can talk about it some other time.”

“Ok,” Harry acquiesced. “There's a spare key on my desk over there, in case you decide to go
anywhere—”

“Harry, I can handle it. Go,” she said, and laughed lightly at him. He shrugged, and turned
away. As he exited the room, he stuck his head back in for just a second. He opened his mouth to
say something, but stopped when he saw that Hermione had dropped her face into her hands, standing
there in the middle of his room. He closed his mouth and left, silently closing the door behind
him.

He went out with the team, bar-hopping across town, but his heart wasn't in it. He had a few
beers, but by the time he arrived back on campus much later that night, he was completely sober and
feeling a little melancholy. His world had been turned upside down during the past day, and it felt
like it was still spinning.

He opened the door as quietly as he could, assuming correctly that Hermione was asleep, and the
ambient light coming from the window told him a strange story: she was asleep in *his* bed. He
stood in the doorway, blinking at the oddly serene sight, and then moved into the room. He had to
let his eyes adjust further after he closed the door, and when they did, he went about changing
into a pair of boxers and light t-shirt for sleeping.

He stood in the center of the room for a minute or maybe four, warring with himself over where
he should sleep. One part of his brain was telling him to sleep in the other bed, but the other
part, surprisingly not totally controlled by his animal instincts, told him to slip into bed with
Hermione. Eventually, that side won out, because after all it was *his* bed.

He pulled back the corner of the blanket and slowly slid in; the warmth under there was amazing,
and he quickly found himself succumbing to the long day. He took a deep breath, turned on side so
his back was to Hermione, and closed his eyes. In a startling and overwhelming moment of déjà vu, a
thin arm slipped over his side and rested across his chest. Sleep came quickly.

----------

May 6th, 2002

“Leadership,” Harry started, “is not about power over someone else.” He paused, sweeping his
eyes over the assembled Management class, and glanced down at his speech. He had given his
professor, Dr. Gerard, the other copy. “It's not about influence, either.”

“Leadership is about truly believing in something, and getting others to believe that. Being a
leader requires more than public speaking skills, or the ability to multitask—it requires a real
belief in what you are trying to accomplish. Without that belief, it is very easy to become lost in
the mundane tasks you're presented with, or the roadblocks along the way.

“Without that belief, the people and the things and the ideas you are supposedly leading can
lose themselves, and when that has happened, it's very hard to regain the trust required to
lead. It can be difficult, at times, but a true leader uses that belief to overcome the
difficulties, to rally his people or works around the cause, and to set them off so they can
accomplish the tasks before them.”

He looked at his speech again, drawing a breath. The class was paying rapt attention, and he
knew it was because he was Harry Potter, star shortstop…it's funny how things came full
circle.

“Whether you are leading a corporation, a classroom, or an army, it is up to *you* to know
the direction you want to go in, and ultimately the outcome that is collectively desired. As a
leader, the belief that must be so sure within you is what drives the entire process, the ability
to fail or succeed, to live or die…

“Look around this room. There may be people in here who are natural born speakers; they have
charisma, poise, elocution, but they have no true belief. This is an extreme example, but Adolf
Hitler had all of those things, including that true belief, and look at what he did. Osama bin
Laden truly believes in his cause, which is considered to be extremist and terror-based in most of
the rest of the world, but he has rabid followers that would die for him.

“Obviously, I hope that none of you will become leaders of that sort, so another good example is
Bill Gates, the CEO of Microsoft. He truly believes in spreading easy-to-use, cheap, and uniform
software across the globe, making it easier for everyone to communicate, and look at all he has
done.

“I could go on and on, but I won't. I don't need to. Leading is more than a powerful
voice and an imposing presence. *It's belief in what you do*. If you can find something
you physically, mentally, and spiritually believe in, you will be formidable, no matter what the
content is.”

He looked to Dr. Gerard and nodded, and then returned to his seat. There was a smattering of
applause, as was expected after every final presentation, and then the next person went forward to
present.

Following that final, Harry had several more, and then a few days off before graduation. Harry
continued to dance around Hermione, and she seemed content to do the same. Their kiss was not
repeated in the days leading up to his graduation, but they continued to sleep in the same bed.
Harry was drawing some kind of comfort from it, and he could tell that Hermione was as well.

One morning he woke up spooning her, and when she woke up and stretched, accidentally (he
thought so, at least) rubbing her bum against his crotch, there was stirring there that Hermione
had to have noticed. She didn't say anything, but she hadn't moved. They had lain there in
silence for several minutes, before Harry couldn't take it anymore, and had gotten up to take a
shower. It wasn't mentioned, and the days passed quickly.

----------

May 15th, 2002

The ceremony had come and gone, and Harry was officially a graduate of Stanford University,
*summa cum laude*. As he sat in his seat, with the cheering of all his fellow grads around
him, he realized that he hadn't figured anything out. He still didn't know where he was
going, and he had to move out the next day. He sighed and stood, and plastered a smile to his
face.

He turned in a full circle, stopping when he spotted Hermione toward the back of the large
crowd. They made eye contact; she smiled at him and he nodded back. He began to fight his way
through the celebrating students, pausing once or twice to exchange pleasantries with a classmate,
and eventually got into the main isle. That reprieve lasted only a short time, though, because it
was soon just as crowded. He didn't think he'd ever get to Hermione, who was waiting
patiently, watching his progress, but he cleared the last of the people and started toward her.

Ten feet from her, a man stepped into his path, extending a hand. Harry looked into his smiling
face. He was shorter than Harry and balding, but he was wearing what looked like an extremely
expensive tailored suit. He was rather slim, Harry noted.

“Hello. Harry Potter?” the man asked. Harry hesitated for a moment, and then shook his hand,
nodding.

“That's me.”

“I thought so. Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Brian Cashman, and I represent the New York
Yankees.”

-->



7. Interlude:  Patriarch
------------------------



**Bearings**

Disclaimer/Author's Notes: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. Some of the eventual plot comes out
here, if you're a sharp reader…

*Is there a cure among us
From this processed sanity
I weaken with each voice that sings
Now, in this world of purchase
I'm going to buy back memories
To awaken some old qualities*

Collective Soul

*Run*

Interlude: Patriarch

Perhaps it was just some passing feeling, some poorly constructed or misconstrued notion of
reality, but Arthur Weasley was sure that, at some point, things had irrevocably changed in his
world. He wasn't thinking of Voldemort, or marrying Molly, or even the birth of any of his
children; rather, the thing that was foremost in his mind, and had been for quite some time really,
was how different things had been since he'd returned from work early one morning to find Harry
Potter eating at his breakfast table.

It was funny that he hadn't even known who the rather scrawny, bespectacled, black-haired
child was at the time; especially considering how much Harry had influenced his life and the lives
of everyone in his family. And it was almost ironic, in a way that could only be amusing to the
father of seven children, that he hadn't questioned it either. He had thought he knew how his
youngest children—Ronald and Ginevra—would turn out, long before that day, but those suppositions
turned out to be fallacies. And Harry Potter was the cause of that.

Arthur had known long before Ron had reached Hogwarts age that his youngest son was a bit of a
slacker, could be very standoffish at times, and had issues with the amount of money their family
had. He loved his son very much, but at the back of his mind he was aware that the color of his
hair and the last name he took to Hogwarts with him could create some issues, and he hoped that Ron
didn't get into too much trouble, or make the wrong enemies too early.

And Ginny…well, she was his only daughter, so it was very difficult for him to be critical of
her, but somewhere in him he had the steel to be impartial about all of his progeny. She was
vivacious where Ron was fiery, cunning where Ron was straightforward (a good thing, really), and
sweet where Ron could be very genial.

However, he had observed over the years that she could and probably would do just about anything
to get what she wanted, if she *really* desired it. She could be vicious or even downright
nasty, but that was only on very rare occasions and few and far between. He loved her dearly,
because she was his youngest, but he knew there were latent issues there.

Then, Ron had gone to Hogwarts, and he had gotten into *some* trouble, but he had done
marvelously better than Arthur had expected. There had been no serious issues, and according to
Albus at the end of the term, had even contributed greatly to keeping the safety of the school. He
didn't know what to think, other than that something had happened to his son to cause such a
drastic change (drastic in his mind, at least, since he hadn't been at Hogwarts to see the slow
evolution) in his attitude and mentality that Arthur observed over the summer.

Ron had mentioned Harry in his few letters from school, and had said a few things about the boy
during the summer, but Arthur couldn't wrap his mind around his son being a friend of
*the* Harry Potter. Looking back on it, he supposed that even he to a certain extent was
wrapped up in the image that Harry hated so much, but it had pervaded the Wizarding World for so
long it was hard to let go of the stereotype. Therefore, when he had walked into the Burrow that
morning and come face to face with the *actual* Harry Potter, he was unprepared for how
totally his preconceived notions would be shattered.

The boy was polite, almost painfully shy, and seemingly unaware of the persona of The Boy Who
Lived that would be bound to plague him. Arthur was astounded that he'd had so little exposure
to the magical world before meeting Hagrid—here was the boy that had ended Voldemort's first
reign of terror, one of the most revered (sadly, sometimes hated) wizards in the past five hundred
years, and he didn't even know he was a wizard until he was eleven.

But, that was neither here nor there. The boy, this version of Harry Potter that Arthur had no
idea how to deal with at first, had brought out qualities in his son that Arthur had known were
there but hadn't expected to see until Ron was an adult. Ron measured his responses more
carefully than he had before, which to the layperson meant little because Ron was still as
hotheaded as ever, but to Arthur it was a vast improvement over the almost-obnoxious-at-times
pre-Hogwarts Ron.

The way that the two children interacted—they seemed to be protective of each other—was a much
older activity than Arthur had ever seen or expected to see in a child. Truth be told, much of it
came from Harry, and Arthur could understand that. Regardless of how ignorant Harry was of the
magical world, there was a legacy he lived up to, unconsciously or not. Ron reciprocated to an
extent, though.

Also, even though Ginny hadn't been at Hogwarts that year, he could see subtle differences
in his daughter throughout Harry's stay at the Burrow. For one, she was normally very
extroverted, but she had receded at least partly into a shell around Harry. He understood, from
what Molly told him anyway, that it was just part of some silly girlhood crush that Ginny'd had
on The Boy Who Lived. That itself presented problems that Arthur didn't even want to think
about, lest he be short with Harry when the boy had done nothing wrong. But also, beyond the usual
feelings of protection for his daughter any father feels around boys at some point, he knew that
`The Boy Who Lived' was not an image Ginny should hold of Harry.

Seeing that Ron and Harry had become best friends, inseparable really, there was no way that
would be healthy for the three of them. Harry was already very uncomfortable with anything
associated with his fame, and nothing that Ginny did for The Boy Who Lived would help her cause,
even if in the end it was just friendship. Arthur couldn't even believe he was contemplating
such things at that time, but they had entered his thought process and he'd found it difficult
to excise them.

The next year had come and gone, and at one point at the end of the term he had been certain
that Ginny was dead. She was somewhere cold and dark and wet, unable to be reached by anyone, even
Albus himself, and he had lost his only daughter, his youngest child. And then…

And then Harry Potter had walked into the Headmaster's office with Ginny and Ron in tow, and
his daughter had been reborn. He had seven children again—he was whole again. He knew that he had
never properly thanked Harry for it, and now it almost seemed mundane to the myriad other things
Harry had been through with Ron and Ginny (and the others, of course), but it *really*
wasn't mundane. Harry had saved his daughter's *life*, had given her the chance to
live and grow, and had given Arthur the chance to see those things…

Harry was like that though. He was a flashpoint for gratitude that never came his way, even
though it was richly deserved, and he didn't care. He did it because it was in his nature, and
he didn't question it. Arthur didn't really understand, but over the years he had come to
accept it as purely *Harry Potter*, and at some point he realized that he'd gained
absolute confidence in Harry to protect his children.

It was odd to think that way, since Harry had been only a teenager and Arthur was an adult, but
in some way he knew that Harry could protect his children better than he ever could. It saddened
and exhilarated him at the same time, that the time for innocence had ended so abruptly, but there
was nothing he could do. He had gained an external perspective that day when Harry had saved Ginny
that he'd never lost, and right now it was telling him that just as the years had advanced, so
had Harry's intrinsic place within the fabric of their lives.

`Their' meant much more than just his family—he was referring to anyone associated closely
with Harry. He wasn't shallow enough to suppose that it had only been because Harry could
`protect' them all (though that in and of itself was a concept Arthur had refused to ever
consider, especially when it came to Voldemort), but it was a very small part of it. There was a
security that people, even adults and leaders of the Wizarding World felt when around Harry, though
Harry had always refused to ever see it.

That was why, on his eldest's wedding day, Arthur had observed calmly and knowingly the six
children—no, teenagers—

But that wasn't even right. Though their ages suggested they were teenagers, they
weren't, not in mind and spirit at least. They had been sitting around a table, the six of
them, and Arthur had just watched them—

A knock came at his door, startling Arthur from his musings. He sat up, blinked his eyes a few
times, and cleared his throat.

“Yes?” he asked. He was Vice Minister, after all, and no matter how powerful the nostalgia was,
he couldn't shirk his duties.

The door opened and Amos walked in, smiling at him. Arthur smiled back. He had always had a very
good relationship with Amos, and it had only strengthened after the death of Cedric. In a way, he
was glad that Amos was Minister and not himself. The man deserved the recognition after all the
hard work he'd done, even after the death of his son.

“Busy this morning, Arthur?” Amos asked, congenially, after closing the door.

“Not in the least,” Arthur replied, waving his hand over his cluttered desk. Amos just laughed
and took a seat opposite him. The Minister had several sheaves of parchment in his hands.

“How is your family doing?” Amos asked, settling back into the chair. Arthur didn't answer
for the briefest of moments, considering the oddly casual start to the conversation, but let the
thought pass.

“Oh, you know, same as usual.”

Amos inclined his head, and then looked at the parchment in his hands. A brief frown flit across
his features, but it faded quickly.

“Hermione won't be back till the first?”

“Yes. Why?” Arthur asked, genuinely curious.

“Oh, nothing. Just, the Wizengamot is being a bother about these new Knightbus policies, and
it's really Hermione's jurisdiction, not mine.”

“Well, I'm sure it can wait till she returns. Her vacation is already half over,” he said,
wondering where Hermione was and how she was doing at the same time. He wondered if she'd taken
any of his advice to heart. Come to think of it, he hadn't seen nor heard from her since that
day…

“I suppose it will have to,” Amos said. The Minister seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then
the amiable man met Arthur's eyes.

“Arthur…” he began, but trailed off. Arthur sat up a little more.

“What is it, Amos?”

“Have you given any thought to the elections coming up this November?”

“Not really, no,” he replied. “Why?”

“I'm not sure if I'm going to run for reelection, and that would leave it open for
you…”

Arthur was silent for a minute. Minister of Magic? Was that something he wanted? Could he even
handle it? The Vice Ministerial position was nice because it dealt with very little of the public
persona the Ministerial position came packaged with.

“Why wouldn't you run again? You've done an admirable job so far,” Arthur eventually
replied. Amos smiled, and it was slightly conspiratorial.

“While I tend to agree with you on that, I don't know if I can handle the ruddy politics any
longer.”

“It's lessened considerably in the past few years,” Arthur pointed out.

“It has, but everything's been a fight. You know that. Many of the changes we've wanted
to implement since Riddle left the picture are still stagnating.”

Arthur shrugged. “You'll find that with any bureaucracy, but we've made some
progress.”

“Oh, I know, but I'm just getting tired of it. I've been more than a little jaded
since…well, since Cedric.” Amos paused. Arthur nodded slowly at him. He understood. He knew what it
felt like to lose a child, although only very briefly.

“I'm finding myself less and less willing to devote the time to this job that I would like
to, and it would be a disservice to the populace to continue on for another term like that.”

Arthur conceded the point with a wave of his hand. “I suppose you're right. I don't know
if I'd want to replace you, though.”

“You won't, or you just haven't really considered it enough yet?”

“Haven't thought about it enough. And even if I did run, it's bloody well likely I'd
lose.”

“Nonsense,” Amos said. “I daresay you're more well-liked than I am, and that's hard to
do,” he said, with a smile. Arthur chuckled briefly.

“You're more assertive than I am, though, and so would be any other candidate. Vice Minister
suits me just fine.”

“Well, will you at least consider it?” Amos asked.

“Of course,” Arthur said.

“Good. I'd like to know I left the position in good hands.”

Arthur waved off the praise. “I do what I can. Nothing more. Now, was there anything else?” he
queried.

Amos scratched his head for a moment, glanced down at the papers in his hands, and then shook
his head.

“I'll just have these delivered to Hermione's office for when she returns,” Amos said,
and stood. Arthur stood as well. Amos turned to leave, and then stopped abruptly.

“Actually, I just remembered something else. Do you suppose that Harry will be attending this
year's V-Day anniversary?”

Arthur's eyebrows crawled up his forehead. He hadn't thought of that before. Harry would
be finishing school this year—in fact, he might have been done by now—so if he came back to Britain
he would be able to make the celebration. Arthur wasn't overly fond of it, but he understood
one positive outcome: people remembered Voldemort and the dark times, if only for one day out of
the year.

“I can't fathom why not,” he said.

“Alright, was just a consideration,” Amos said, and turned away. “You're available for the
meeting with the Ambassadors later, right?” he called, as he opened the door and walked out of
Arthur's office.

“Of course,” Arthur called back, and he saw Amos nod before turning the corner.

Arthur took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and sagged back into his chair. He waved his wand at
the door and it closed with soft *thud*. Amos had just given him more things to think about,
and he already had a lot on his plate. Now that he was alone again, though, in the silence of his
office, the nostalgia from before crept back in.

Would Harry return to Britain now that he was done at Stanford? And if he did so, what would
that mean for the rest of his close family friends, who had adjusted to life without Harry and
moved on?

Arthur winced at his own internal thought process. No one had *moved on*; rather, they had
just gotten used to life without Harry Potter. He almost laughed out loud at that, at how utterly
ridiculous is sounded, but it was true. Harry Potter had been the center point of so many lives for
many years, that when he'd left there was a hole that had needed filling. People had adjusted
in subtle ways, such as tackling the world of politics like Arthur had done, but it couldn't be
denied that the return of said center point wouldn't go without ripples.

Totally objectively, as Albus might have stated it, Harry was the thread that tied so many lives
together. Many of the people that Arthur considered close friends and family he would have never
met if Harry had never come into his or his children's lives. That thread had unraveled ever so
slightly in the last four years, frayed in some areas and was in danger of snapping at others, and
he wondered if the `Savior's return would repair or further damage those deficiencies.

His mind kept going back to the day of the Bill's wedding, when he had seen the six of them
at that table.

----------

*Molly bustled by him, distracting him for a moment, and he turned to his rather red-faced
wife.*

*“Molly,” he said, and she stopped and looked at him. He beckoned her over. She stood still,
and then walked to him.*

*“Dear?” she asked, her voice tight.*

*He laid his hands on her shoulders, drawing her to him. They embraced; he could feel how
tightly wound she was.*

*“Ease up a bit, Molly,” he whispered, since his mouth was so close to her ear. She pulled
back and looked into his eyes.*

*“I'm trying, Arthur. There's just so much to do, though,” she said, and started to
pull away. He held tight.*

*“Molly.”*

*She sighed. “What?”*

*“It will all get done. This is a happy day. Slow down some.” She stared at the collar of his
shirt, and then nodded. She was smiling when she met his eyes again, and her face had returned to
its normal hue.*

*“Ok. All right. I can do that.” She pecked him on the lips, and in that moment every little
thing about Molly Prewett Weasley that he loved flooded through his being. He had to contain the
goofy grin that threatened to spread over his face. Instead, he let a small smile spread across his
lips.*

*“Good,” he said, and let her go. She continued on her way. He stared after her for a few
seconds, and then slowly turned his eyes back to the scene he had been observing. He couldn't
help notice the ambience of the entire back yard, though, and took another few seconds admiring the
handiwork of everyone involved.*

*A blue awning had been erected over the back entrance into the Burrow, and a similarly blue
tent had been set up for the reception. He was just outside the edge of it, and he could see the
many strings of lights that went from the tent to the house, a span of twenty feet or so. The sun
was just setting in the west, so there was a soft glow across that small expanse. Their gardens had
been magically amplified, and were basically bursting with as many white lilies as possible, per
Fleur's wishes.*

*It was a false serenity, however, one that he and everyone else were all too aware of. The
death of Albus just three weeks before had been a huge shock, and no one had been able to accept it
yet. Bill and Fleur had been very brave to go ahead with the wedding anyways, and he supported them
for it. Molly was absolutely taken with Fleur after the part-Veela's impassioned speech in the
hospital wing, so there was no problem there.*

*These musings led him to the table toward the back of the tent; perhaps thirty paces from
where he was standing a group of six were seated. They were, of course, Harry, Hermione, Ron, Luna,
Ginny, and Neville. The sight would not have been odd—it would have been odd to see them seated
apart—under any other circumstance except this one. None of them were smiling, even though the
reception was in full swing. Beyond them he could see Bill and Fleur dancing…*

*Hermione appeared to be speaking about something important, because they were all listening
raptly. All eyes were focused on Hermione, and she didn't seem to mind at all. Occasionally,
Ron and Harry would nod at something she was saying, but Neville, Ginny, and Luna just sat there,
stoically.*

*Arthur was half-tempted to move closer and eavesdrop on the conversation, but he knew from
experience that one of them would suss him out and they would talk about something else or even
move away. The feeling was oddly melancholic, that his children and their friends were talking
about something they didn't want him to know, but he had a feeling that it dealt with
Voldemort.*

*He trusted them, which is why he didn't actually move closer. Albus had told him after
the attack from the snake that Harry and by proxy his children were likely to get involved in some
highly secretive things in the fight against Voldemort, and Arthur had resisted at first, but Albus
had made him see there was nothing he could do. The old wizard had said, rather bluntly, that
Ronald and Ginevra were more loyal to Harry than him, at that point.*

*It hurt Arthur to think about it, but he had eventually come to accept it. He was their
father, and would always be there for them, but there was a role that Harry filled he could never
come close to. And he didn't know if he wanted to. He was scared of Voldemort. He didn't
know if he'd be able to stand face to face with the dark wizard, as Harry had done several
times now, and that was something his children should never see or know.*

*Regardless, he watched as Hermione stopped talking; a silence settled over the table. He was
about to walk over and ask them if they were going to sit there all night, but Harry started
talking. He started out slow, appearing to carefully consider his words, but eventually whatever he
was saying was flowing from his lips unbridled.*

*If they had been paying rapt attention to Hermione, he didn't know what to call what he
was observing. They were hanging off Harry's words; if Death Eaters attacked just then, Arthur
was sure they wouldn't even realize it unless one of them was hit by a spell. Their focus was
so utterly complete on whatever Harry was saying that Arthur was being swept in just by
observing.*

*Harry turned his head slightly, looking directly at Hermione, and continued to speak. Arthur
could see a visible change in her face and posture as he did so, and when he turned his head again,
to look at Ron, Hermione's face was stony and resolute—her eyes were smoldering with a passion
Arthur had never seen in a child. The process was repeated, and by the time Harry reached Neville,
who sat on his other side from Hermione, all of them looked ready to leap into the fiery depths of
whatever hell they were discussing.*

*Harry finished speaking to all of them, it seemed, and Arthur held his breath for a moment as
a second, longer silence stretched across the table. Harry's eyes flicked to him, and for the
quickest instants, Arthur felt like he was being judged. He felt like the scrawny boy he had found
in his kitchen one morning five years before was scrutinizing his soul, and although it was only an
instant, the feeling would stay with him for the rest of his life.*

*It passed, and then Ron said something. Several of them nodded, and then they tangibly
relaxed. The vibe permeated the air, and Arthur found himself exhaling a breath he had not known he
was holding. As he watched, they broke apart in twos—Ron with Luna, Neville with Ginny, and Harry
with Hermione—to dance amongst the other couples. They were all sporting smiles now.*

----------

From then on, Arthur had always carried more hope with him than he felt he deserved, but there
was nothing he could do about it. Watching the six of them interact was enough to cause it.

But…that wasn't right. Not entirely. Watching *Harry lead* was what caused it. Even
though Arthur could clearly recall the uncomfortably visceral sensation of being examined by
Harry—he wasn't even sure if that had actually happened—he finally understood why people
rallied around Harry Potter.

Arthur rubbed his eyes, sat up, and looked at the parchment covering his desk. It wouldn't
do to reminisce all day. There was work to be done. With a small sigh, he picked up the top
document, replaced his glasses on his nose, and began reading.

-->



8. Crossroads
-------------



**Bearings**

Disclaimer/Author's Notes: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. For continuity's sake, Jeter
doesn't exist in this world.

*Desperate for changing
Starving for truth
I'm closer to where I started
Chasing after you
I'm falling even more in love with you
Letting go of all I've held onto
I'm standing here until you make me move
I'm hanging by a moment here with you*

Lifehouse

*Hanging By a Moment*

Chapter Five: Crossroads

Hermione watched as Harry's eyebrows scrunched together and how he peered down his nose at
the smaller man that had stepped into his path. She didn't know what the man in the
ridiculously expensive looking suit had said to Harry, but she didn't necessarily like
Harry's reaction. She took a few steps in their direction so she could hear what they were
saying.

“…New York Yankees?” Harry asked the man. Hermione felt her heart rate spike thirty beats per
minute; though she didn't know the context of the conversation, nor what had been said at
first, she had some idea. She didn't like it.

“Yes, Mr. Potter. The Yankees,” the man said, and he exuded supreme confidence. The tone of his
voice and the way he was standing hinted to Hermione he was either extremely wealthy or very sure
of what he had to say to Harry.

Harry did not answer immediately, and instead flicked his eyes to Hermione, who was now standing
only a few feet behind the man. There was an uncertainty and even an apology in his gaze. He made
eye contact with the man again and Hermione thought his shoulders might have slumped slightly. Her
eyes tracked movement over Harry's shoulder, and she saw John and Tom, along with a few of
Harry's other teammates, approaching. They looked excited.

“Oh…ok. What can I do for you?” Harry asked. His voice had become business-like, almost formal,
and Hermione recognized the inflection from when Harry was in `leader mode', as she liked to
call it. She'd only heard it a few times.

“I am here to inquire after your plans for the future, now that you are done with Stanford,” the
man said. Hermione saw Harry's teammates stop a ways back, chattering amongst themselves. They
kept looking at Harry and the man, and then at each other, speaking animatedly. Hermione shifted
her weight from one foot to the other. She felt like she was missing something.

“I'm not sure yet, Mr. Cashman,” Harry replied.

“Brian. You can call me Brian,” the man said immediately, and Harry nodded.

“Harry, then.” Brian nodded. Hermione's eyes tracked to the shiny bald spot on the back of
his head for a moment, but Brian's voice recaptured her attention.

“Well, Harry…I'll just cut to the chase then. We are prepared to offer you a place on our
team.”

Two things happened at once: Harry's eyebrows shot up his forehead and Hermione felt her
heart literally skip a beat. Whoever this man was, this Brian Cashman, he was interfering with her
plans! She waited for Harry's response, trying to calm her racing pulse.

“On the Yankees?” Harry asked, and even Hermione knew it was a stupid, redundant question. She
smiled slightly, though; Harry was at his cutest when he was bewildered.

Brian chuckled. It wasn't really a pleasant sound. “Indeed, Harry. On the
Yankees.”

Harry's eyes flicked to Hermione once again, and there was a third emotion there this time:
confusion. All three were swirling around his eyes, and Hermione knew that Brian couldn't see
them. Even though Harry's outward exterior was calm, Hermione could see the emotion smoldering
beneath. She always had been able to read his eyes.

“A starting position?” he asked. Hermione's jaw clenched. This conversation was not going in
a good direction. She didn't want to take anything away from Harry, but this wasn't
supposed to happen. The last ten days they'd spent together had been a bit of a refresher for
her, as far as Harry went, and she liked it.

Actually, she loved it. She knew she had told her mother that she loved Harry before she'd
left, but that hadn't been the entire truth. She'd thought she loved him. Now she knew,
though. Harry was still the same Harry, whatever new burdens or anxieties he carried.

Hermione'd thought she'd gone too far when she'd kissed him during the storm, on her
first night here, but it had turned into a mutual snog. And although they hadn't repeated the
performance, they *had* been sleeping with each other. Hermione knew she'd pressed the
issue when she'd chosen to sleep in Harry's bed the night he went out, but he didn't
seem to mind. She wished that he had done something, or that she had been a little more forward in
the past few days, but she didn't want to push it beyond what Harry could handle.

The mixed signals she was getting from him indicated to her that he was very confused at the
moment, probably grappling with her twenty-two-year-old self versus that eleven-year-old image of
her she knew he would always have in his mind. And the fact that he hadn't just gone after her,
but had indeed showed *some* interest, told her that he was interested in her for more than
her looks. There was a real connection there, and however often she told herself of *course*
there was, it was reassuring to feel it from Harry.

Feel it, indeed. That morning when she had woken with Harry pressed into her back, the little
devil in her mind—ok, the medium-sized devil that was growing every ruddy day—whispered that she
should `stretch' and grind her bum against his crotch. She had done so without really thinking
about it, and was immediately rewarded with the hardening of his member. She had been sorely
tempted (and maybe she really *would* have been sore, but she wouldn't have minded) to rub
it further, and the wetness already seeping into her knickers yearned for it, but she held
back.

She waited to see what Harry would do, half hoping he would do the rubbing himself, but the
stillness had stretched on and on; finally, he had gotten up and quickly said something about a
shower, exiting the room. She had lain there, aching to touch herself, to get that *release*
she so needed, but she hadn't. She had eventually gotten up to change her knickers, though.

She crashed back to the present when Brian answered Harry: “Yes, that is what we are offering.
Do you have a representative, Harry?”

“Representative?” Harry asked. Hermione shifted again, and almost blushed to find that she would
need to change her knickers again. Bugger her vivid imagination!

“You know, an agent?”

Hermione was quickly losing her patience with this whole thing. She didn't want to think
about the possibility of Harry not coming back to Britain with her. And that's exactly what
this man was offering.

“Oh. No, I don't. I haven't really thought about it,” Harry answered. He seemed to be
losing focus as well, because some of that poise had left his voice.

“Perhaps you *should* think about it.” Brian reached into a pocket and withdrew a small
business card. “In the meantime, think about what I've told you. We'll be waiting for your
response. A week is all we can give, though,” he said, and stuck out his hand once again. Harry
took the card and shook his hand. Brian nodded at him and turned, almost knocking into
Hermione.

“Oh,” he said, clearly startled. Hermione pretended not to notice the sweep of his eyes over her
body. “Excuse me, miss,” he said, and she moved out of the way. He moved past and she watched him
go. She then looked back to Harry. He was staring down at the card, and when he looked up at her,
she raised an eyebrow.

“What was *that*—”

“Harry!” one of his teammates called out over her voice. He continued staring at her for a
moment, and then turned toward the many players coming toward him.

“Yeah?” he asked, as they came near.

“Wasn't that Brian Cashman?” Tom asked. Hermione rubbed her forehead wearily. The stickiness
between her legs was more aggravating than anything at this point, and she discreetly passed her
hand over the region. A silent *evanesco* fixed the problem.

“Yeah,” Harry said, echoing his words.

“Well, shit!” John exclaimed, and the guys laughed. “What did he say?”

“Oh, not much,” Harry replied, turning the card over and over in his hand. He glanced over his
shoulder at Hermione. Their eyes met for a second and then she moved up to stand next to his
side.

John pursed his lips. “Sure Harry.” He looked to Hermione. “Hermione? You must have heard it.”
Suddenly, all of the attention was on her.

“Uh, yeah,” she started, haltingly. Did Harry want them to know what had passed? He didn't
object, though, so she continued. “He said they were interested in him.”

“They?” one of the guys asked. She vaguely remembered his name as Paul.

“You don't know who Cashman is?” Tom asked him.

“I didn't,” Harry said.

Tom shrugged. “Stands to reason. Paul grew up here, though. Anyways, he's the general
manager of the Yankees.”

Paul's eyes widened in realization. “Oh…”

“Yeah,” John said. “And what did you say, Harry?”

Harry sighed and looked around, first at them, then at Hermione, and finally at his classmates
mingling behind them.

“I told him I hadn't really thought about it, and—”

“What's there to *think* about?” John burst out. Several heads nodded in agreement with
him. A sinking sensation was spreading through Hermione, and she realized it had been since the
first words she'd overheard.

For some reason, she was acutely aware of a clenching in Harry's posture. The muscles in his
forearms seemed to be standing out a little more than they normally did, and he looked like his
stance had straightened out.

“Quite a bit, actually,” Harry replied, and it wasn't without a small note of condescension.
Hermione didn't think anyone but John had caught it, because his was the only face that
hadn't gone from excited for Harry to questioning him.

“Like what?” someone else asked. “It's the *Yankees*, for Christ's sake.”

“You all know I'm not from America,” Harry answered. “I don't know what I'm doing
now. I told him I would think about.”

“How long do you have?” John asked, and Hermione noted that accusatory tone had left his voice.
His disbelief must have faded with his realization that Harry had some imminent choices. Hermione
just hoped that her presence these past days, and the camaraderie that had eased back into their
relationship, would influence them in her favor.

“He said I had a week to get an agent.” Harry slipped the card into his pocket and took a deep
breath. “I just don't know.”

“It probably won't be very hard for you to get one,” Tom said. “If the fuckin' Yankees
are going after you, agents probably will, too.”

Harry waved his hand. “Whatever, I'm not gonna worry about it right now. I need to figure
out where I'm going first.”

“Well,” John said, “some of us are probably just gonna get a hotel room for a few days in town,
so we can figure out some things. You're welcome to join us,” he said, though he cut his eyes
toward Hermione.

Harry inclined his head. “Thanks for the offer. I'll let you know sometime later today.”

“When do we have to be out of here by?” a teammate asked.

“Uh, by noon tomorrow, I think,” Paul responded.

“Oh. Damn,” the bloke responded. “I gotta get my shit together. I'll see you guys later,” he
added, and then turned and hurried away. Several more teammates indicated the same thing, and after
they had split off, it was only she, Harry, Tom, and John.

“It's a great opportunity, Harry,” Tom said. “I don't think that happens very
often…”

Harry sighed again. “I know…I know. I guess I should have made some decisions long before now,”
he said, and turned to Hermione. “You want some lunch?”

Hermione blinked twice, restarting her stalled thought process, and cleared her throat
lightly.

“Sure, that'd be nice,” she replied.

Harry looked to the other two, a questioning look on his face.

“No thanks,” John said. “I need to get my things organized, as well,” he said.

“Yeah. I've procrastinated for long enough,” Tom agreed.

“All right. I'll catch you blokes later then?”

“Sure, Harry,” John said, and turned. Tom nodded and walked off, as well. Hermione stood next to
Harry, waiting for him to say something, but he just kept on watching them walk off.

“Harry?” she asked.

“Huh?” he asked, as though startled. “Oh, sorry. Kinda got lost there for a moment,” he
chuckled. He settled a hand on the small of her back and gently started her in the direction of the
dining hall. For a second, she was singularly focused on that pressure on her skin. Merlin, how did
he do that to her? She hadn't ever been like a dog in heat when they were growing up
together…

“Yankees, huh?” she asked, as casually as she could. She knew it sounded forced, though. They
walked a few more paces before he responded.

“I guess so,” he eventually answered, though it was without conviction or any kind of
excitement. She didn't want to admit it to herself—oh hell, what did it matter? Yes, she was
happy that he sounded dejected. She didn't want him to be anywhere but with her on a plane back
to Britain. And if he didn't want to play professional ball, then she wouldn't feel bad
about it.

“Something the matter?”

“Not really,” he said. They crossed the road and stepped up onto the pavement again. Hermione
could feel the heat of the day, reflecting off the pavement, warming her bare legs. She was glad
she decided to wear shorts again.

She nudged his shoulder, causing him to look over at her. Absently, she noted that he hadn't
shaven today, and she had to restrain herself from reaching up and rubbing the stubble. His green
eyes were startlingly intense and she found herself looking into them. After the moment had passed,
she raised an eyebrow.

“Something tells me your lying.” He looked forward again, and so did she. She watched the cracks
in the pavement as they passed.

“If I told you I hadn't figured *anything* out these past four years, would you believe
me?”

“No,” she replied. “I wouldn't.” She felt his eyes on her again, but she didn't meet
them.

“Why is that?”

“Because I know it's not true. I've seen you play baseball. I've seen the passion
you have for what you've just graduated. This time wasn't a waste, Harry, if that's
what you're implying.”

“No, that's not what I meant,” he said.

“Well then?”

“Well, you know…I came here to figure out stuff. But what did I figure out? That I'm a
bloody prat and that I still have no idea what I want to do.”

“Prat? For what?” she asked.

“Getting too caught up in things, I guess. I still can't believe I forgot about your
letter—”

“Harry, would you just let the letter go? I'm over it,” she cut him off.

“Yeah, but I'm not. It was easy, Hermione. Too easy. Now that you're here, though,
I'm questioning how I did.”

She smiled, more to herself than anything. This was the Harry she'd gotten to know over the
last week and a half—a calmer, more mature version, though with the same insecurities as the one
that had graduated Hogwarts. And she loved him even more because of it. He would always be just
Harry, regardless of what he did and where he went.

“Just relax about it, Harry,” she said. “You've been nothing but the perfect gentleman since
I've gotten here.”

“Well, that was pretty easy too,” he laughed, and bumped into her playfully. She looked up and
smirked.

“Careful, Harry,” she said, and shoved him. Before he could right himself, she took off, full
tilt. She heard him grunt and then the slap of his trainers against the pavement. She wondered what
sprinting in a graduation robe was like? She didn't look to see, though, because she was
running too fast to turn her head.

She couldn't help the smile that broke across her lips, and then a hearty laugh escaped her
lungs. The heat of the early afternoon was only a little bothersome, and her shorts and white tee
helped, so she just focused on out-running the handsome, smart, selfless bloke behind her…

A flash of color caught her eyes, though, and she turned her head slightly to see Harry come up
beside her. She was still smiling, and so was he. He laughed at the look on her face, and then
accelerated on past her. His robes were flowing around him like water, flapping together with his
movements, and she marveled at his speed. She had always thought herself a fairly fast sprinter,
since she was quite lithe, but Harry outpaced her easily.

He had put ten meters on her by the time they reached the path to the dining hall, and she
stopped next to him, chest heaving. She looked up and caught Harry eyeing her straining tee
shirt.

Before she could stop herself, she asked, “Something you like?” She even posed a bit for him,
watching as his face went even redder than it already was.

“Err…” he intoned; she could still hear the smile in it, though. “Sure, Hermione,” he said.

She pouted, still feeling playful and exhilarated from the random exertion. “Fine,” she exhaled
heavily, and her chest returned to its normal size. Sweat was running down her legs, and she could
see the same running down the sides of Harry's face. He was breathing hard and his eyes were
very bright. She thought they might have been twinkling at her.

He reached up, grasped the collar of his robe, and pulled it over his head. As it came over his
body, it pulled his shirt up as well, and she got a rather nice view of his abdomen and chest. If
she was feeling hot before, she certainly was more so now. Harry was going to kill her if he kept
doing that. He had a decent six-pack—not a ridiculous one—and his chest was nicely defined. It
wasn't huge or anything. She thought it was just right. She made sure she was looking at his
face again when the robe came off, though.

He fished the cap out of the robes and then bunched them up in his hands. He wiped a hand across
his forehead, seemed to think better of it, and waved his hand over his body. The sweat
disappeared. Hermione did the same to herself, repeating the earlier spell.

He peered at her. “There a reason we sodding raced?”

“You came after me,” she pointed out. “I just felt a like a run.”

“Felt like a run?” Harry grumbled. “Mm hmm…so why'd ya push me then?”

“You said it yourself,” she responded. “You're just a prat,” she added, laughing.

Harry shrugged. “You're bloody fast, you know.”

“Thanks, Potter.” She rolled her eyes at him. “You're not exactly slow yourself.” They
started walking toward the doors to the dining hall.

“I *am* pretty amazing, aren't I?” he asked.

She chuckled. “I can't imagine you after a year playing professionally. Your ego would be so
large…”

She welcomed the cooler air as they passed into the air-conditioned building. When Harry
didn't respond immediately, she looked over at him, and noticed that all playfulness had
evaporated. His face had sobered and his eyes weren't as bright.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Are you going with John and your other teammates to the hotel for a few days?” she asked.

“I don't think so, Hermione,” he said. His voice was unusually measured, and his use of her
name at the end seemed to emphasize something she should be aware of. Whatever it was, she
couldn't fathom it.

“So…where then? If you have to be out by tomorrow?” They were in line now, and were picking
things to eat and placing them on their trays. There were many other graduates around.

“New York,” he responded as they exited the line. Hermione had to force a neutral expression on
her face as her heart did that jumping thing again, and waited for him to continue. She wanted to
hear his justification before she offered her own.

“And then on to Heathrow,” he finished, sitting down at a table. Hermione just stood there like
a fish out of water for a second, trying to process what she'd heard. Heathrow? That was back
home. He was going home? She sat down heavily and looked at Harry. He seemed to be waiting for some
kind of reaction from her.

“But…but what about the Yankees?” she asked. She wanted to hit herself. That was the way to get
him home, encourage him with his baseball…

“I have a week, which you heard for yourself,” he said. “I haven't been back in Britain in
ages. I don't much fancy staying in a hotel for a few days, so I'd rather go back for a
short while, at least.”

Her heart started racing again, but this time it was because of all the possible things Harry
back in Britain meant, not the least of which was how she could get him to *stay* there.

“What about plane tickets?” her more practical side inquired. Harry graced her with a genuine
smile, and that simple act calmed her more than she could possibly hope to calm herself. It was
warm and slightly lopsided and so perfectly *Harry*.

“I *do* occasionally think ahead,” he said. “I bought us tickets online this morning from
San Francisco to Heathrow, through Newark.”

“Oh,” she replied, kind of surprised. That was another thing she hadn't expected. “Well why
did you tell your teammates you didn't know what you were doing?”

“I don't need to be pestered by them. And you know they would if I said I was going to
Britain, even if it might be only for a few days,” he said, his voice much slower at the end.
Hermione tried to ignore the pang his last words sent through her, but it was very hard.

“Yeah, I suppose so. When is the flight out?”

“Tomorrow, early…eight, I think. I'll have to look again.”

“So…we'd be back in Britain very early on the…seventeenth?”

Harry nodded. “I think it said arrival time at Heathrow was two in the morning. Get ready for
some lovely jet lag.”

“It's not *too* bad,” Hermione replied.

“I guess,” Harry sighed, and Hermione knew there was much more in that sound than just
resignation.

----------

The silence and solitude offered by Harry's room later that evening was Hermione's first
solace during the long day. She let her muscles and her nerves settle as she stood in the center of
the room, briefly closing her eyes. Harry had gone to John's room to inform the other man about
his plans for the next few days. If she strained her ears, she might have even been able to hear
them talking.

She was tired, and she had to get up early the next morning for the flight. Then she would be up
for a quite awhile on top of that… She decided that she was just going to get ready for bed and get
some rest.

She maneuvered around Harry's packed things—which actually weren't that numerous—and
opened up one of her bags. She pulled out a tank top and the shorts she usually slept in, and
started removing her clothes. Shirt and bra came off first, and she slipped the tank top over her
upper body.

She slipped her shorts down over hips and discarded them on her mostly unused bed, and then
hooked her fingers into the sides of her knickers. They slid down her legs and she bent to pick
them up. She paused for an instant as she thought she felt a draft between her legs, and then bent
further.

“Oh…” came a soft exclamation, and she jumped a foot into the air. She turned quickly; covering
her waist with her sleeping shorts, and saw Harry standing in the doorway with a gobsmacked look on
his face. Their eyes met and before either of them could be embarrassed, *something* passed
between them that lit a fire in her unlike anything she'd ever felt. Then she wondered how much
of her naughty bits had been in his face when he'd opened the door, and her features flamed
red.

His face followed, and they were soon stammering nonsense.

“Er…”

“Yeah…”

“I'm sorry—”

“Only an accident—”

“I'll just be right ba—”

“Harry—” but he had already turned and closed the door. She could feel the heat radiating off
her face—and from her core, surprisingly—and she stood there for a few more moments, bare ass
peeking out underneath the tank top. Finally, after she had collected her thoughts, she slipped the
boxers on and waited for Harry to return.

“You decent now?” came his voice, and she was relieved to hear a laugh in it.

“Yes, you perv,” she laughed back, and the door opened. Harry came in, face no longer red, and
closed it behind him. He leaned back against the door and regarded her.

“Sorry, Hermione—” he started, but she waved her hand.

“You didn't know. It's alright,” she replied, and he nodded after a brief pause.

“You going to bed already?” he asked.

“I think so, yes. It's been a long day and tomorrow's going to be another one.”

“True,” he said, and moved to the small pile of clothes on his bed. He had set aside a few
things to wear to bed and then the next day, when they'd be traveling. When he picked up a
t-shirt, she crinkled her brow.

“You're not going out with the team?”

“Hmm?” Harry intoned.

“It's your last night here, and you're not going out with the team?”

“Oh,” he replied, and pulled his shirt over his head. She didn't stare *too* hard at
his chest and abdomen, for the second time that day.

“I've already said goodbye to most of them, and we've been doing stuff all this past
week. I think tonight I just want to sleep.” He glanced at her, raised an eyebrow, and then
motioned with his hand. A screen came up between them and then fell away shortly thereafter. He had
changed his shorts.

Hermione pouted. “That's no fair.”

“Sure it is,” Harry grinned.

“You got to see,” she whined. She was purposely sounding petulant. She wanted to see where this
went, and truthfully, she was rather amused. The whole situation was quite ridiculous.

“I hardly think you *intended* for me to see your—well, you know,” he replied.

“My what?” she asked, placing a hand on her hip. She enjoyed the fact that she was making Harry
uncomfortable.

He just looked at her, and then shook his head.

“Harry, my what?” she asked again. The look he gave her was one of frustration, though it
appeared that even he was able to see the humor in all this.

“What, do you want me to say `pussy' or something?” he asked, though the offending word was
said in quite a forced manner.

Hermione shrugged. “I've heard worse—said worse, and you know it.”

“I don't see the point to all of this,” he replied, looking pointedly at her.

“What, we're adults, aren't we?”

“Sure.”

“Then what's the problem with speaking like adults around each other?”

Harry chuckled. “How often do you hear `pussy' passed off in casual conversation?”

“Probably quite a bit if you've just seen one,” she retorted, though she was pushing it now.
She was making *herself* uncomfortable.

“Ok,” Harry replied, ambivalently. “Let's just move on, shall we?” he asked.

Hermione nodded, and smiled. “Sure.” She paused, and then: “What time do you want to get up in
the morning?”

“4:30?”

Hermione moaned. “Too bloody early,” she grumbled. She then looked around at Harry's things.
“Are you just going to shrink most of this?”

He nodded. “Yeah, probably. No other way for me to get most of it back.”

“Where are you going to stay, once we get there?”

He shrugged. “Dunno.”

“You *don't know*?”

“Hermione, I'm Harry sodding Potter. I have several properties in and around London, though
I'll have to visit Gringotts to find out exactly where.”

“This coming from the `Harry sodding Potter' who hates his fame and wealth?”

“It has its uses,” he replied. “Every now and then.”

“You could probably stay at the Burrow, or Grimmauld, you know. Or,” she added, “you could
probably even stay at my house for a few days.”

He shook his head. “That's alright, thanks for the offer though. I don't need to
freeload off anyone. I have to find some way to use my assets...”

“You wouldn't be freeloading, and you know it.”

“Hermione, it's alright. It's not a big deal, really.”

“Ok…what about this `agent' business?”

“I'll probably be able to find good council somewhere in Diagon. And if not, someone there
will be able to direct me to a person who does what I'm looking for.”

She nodded, then yawned and stretched, and moved toward the bed. Harry placed his small pile of
clothes on the floor and she crawled in. After she had situated herself, she looked up to find him
staring down at her, smiling a little.

“What is it?”

“I wonder what Ron will say when I tell him I've slept with you?”

“*Slept* with me, Harry? I beg to differ,” she replied.

“Well, I meant—”

“You meant slept with me,” she said, emphasizing the word differently. He closed his eyes and
pursed his lips for a short time, and shook his head.

“Yes, Hermione.”

“I don't think he'd care much. He and Luna are…satisfied,” she said.

Harry slid into bed beside Hermione, and they settled into their normal position—Hermione's
front against Harry's back—with little thought.

“Satisfied?” he asked, as they settled themselves.

“Quite.”

“How so?”

“Luna is rather open when it comes to sex,” Hermione replied, thinking of all of the things
she'd heard the blond say.

“More open than you?” Harry asked.

Hermione was rendered speechless for a moment. More open than her? Why did he think she was open
about sex? The conversation she'd had with her mum came back to her…

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you just seem to be fairly comfortable with it all,” he replied. She wished she could see
his face, because it was hard to read his voice sometimes.

“Eh…not really, Harry,” she said. “To be honest, I'm still a…virgin.” She waited for him to
respond, but he didn't right away.

“Fancy that,” he said, softly, almost to himself.

“Hmm?”

“So am I,” he said.

She draped her arm over side. “The great Harry Potter, all-star shortstop, is still a virgin? I
find that hard to believe,” she scoffed.

“Laugh it up,” he grumbled, and tried to scoot away from her a bit. She held tight, however.

“Well it's not like you couldn't get any.”

“Maybe I didn't want any,” he retorted.

“But—”

“Come on, Hermione. You know I'm not like that. I'm not gonna just go after all the
women that throw themselves at me. I ignored them in Hogwarts and I have here, too.”

“I know.” She squeezed him to her for a second. “I was only taking the mickey.”

He finally relaxed fully into her. There was something reassuring about his weight pressed
against her breasts, though she would never have been able to articulate why.

“Were you really surprised?”

“That you're a virgin?” she asked

“Yeah.”

She didn't know what she had been expecting, really. She had always known that Harry was
very good looking, especially with his striking green eyes and his rakish black hair, and that he
exuded confidence in the right situations, but he had never gone after the girls (or the women,
apparently) like many in his situation might have. It gave her some hope that she hadn't come
in vain.

“No, I guess not,” she eventually replied. “What about me?”

“I've never really thought about it before,” Harry replied, and she could tell that he was
being honest. Some part deep inside was a little hurt that he had never considered her a sexual
being—that is, until she had accidentally bared all for him to see—before now, but she didn't
mind it too much. As long as he was slowly becoming aware that she was a woman, and that she was
here because of more than just wanting to see him, it was ok with her.

“Oh,” she breathed, and yawned again. She really was quite tired, and the ensuing silence
stretched on so that she was falling asleep when Harry next spoke.

“It *was* quite nice, though,” he said.

“What was?” she asked, slowly. The sleep was heavy in her voice.

“The view,” he whispered.

It took her a second to discern the meaning, but her face filled with lovely warmth when she
did. She squeezed Harry to her once again, and when she fell asleep, the smile was still on her
lips.

-->



9. Show Me The Way Home
-----------------------



**Bearings**

Disclaimer/Author's Notes: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. Here's some H/Hr fluff for the
rabid readers out there… Enjoy! And review!

*I woke up today in London*

*As the plane was touching down*

*And all I could think about was Monday*

*And maybe I'll be back around*

*If this keeps me away much longer*

*I don't know what I will do*

*You've got to understand it's a hard life*

*That I'm going through*

3 Doors Down

*Landing in London*

Chapter 6: Show Me The Way Home

May 16th, 2002

Hermione's pussy haunted Harry's dreams. Over and over again, he walked into his room to
be greeted by the rather obscene but undeniably arousing image of Hermione's splayed bum and
the intimate region between. He always saw things in the same order: Hermione's puckered anus,
the smooth lips of her labia, some pink folds, and a small brown tuft of trimmed hair.

Except, the dream elaborated on what he had actually seen, and he walked into the room, shutting
the door behind him. In his mind, Hermione didn't jump and turn around; instead, she stayed
bent over and as Harry moved closer, widened her legs a little. The view had been incredible before
(“…nice…” echoed in his mind), but now he could actually see into her most private of places.

He stopped behind her, raking his eyes over her smooth and hairless bum, trying to resist the
urge to look between her well-formed cheeks again, but not being able to help it. His eyes passed
over the crinkled skin of her anus (“…butt pirate…”), noting that even that was somewhat pink. They
passed lower and he saw the bottom—or, from this angle, the top—of her entrance glistening in the
dim light of the room. He reached out his hand to touch—

But then the dream would start over, and he would open the door and see the same thing again. He
walked up to her and looked, reached out his hand…

Only *this* time it didn't start over. His hand kept going, getting closer and closer
to her—was he actually going to touch her *there*?—and the tip of his finger brushed against
her folds. There was wetness and warmth there. Hermione cooed, but still didn't move. She
hadn't moved at all in any of his dreams.

Bold now, and wondering why this dream hadn't ended yet, but not complaining, he brushed the
tips of several fingers against her, and she moved back just an inch or so, forcing him to touch
her a little harder. His fingers went lower, in this position toward that tuft of hair, and he felt
a small nub. They had trailed the wetness along with them, and he rubbed it into the harder
point.

Hermione began to gyrate her slips slowly. His other hand came forward, of its own volition
because *he* certainly hadn't directed it to do so, and he made a fist, forefinger
extended. He hesitated for a moment, and then slowly pushed it forward, into the warmth and wetness
and tightness of Hermione. His knuckles came against her folds—

And he woke up. All of his muscles were clenched and he was sweating profusely. He was very
hard, so hard that he could feel the throb with every beat of his heart, and he was surprised to
find that he was very close to climax. He lay there for a few moments, letting his eyes adjust to
the darkness (and hopefully letting the buildup of pressure recede), and finally slowly unclenched.
A small sigh escaped his lips as he exhaled, and he jerked slightly as the most sensitive part of
his cock rubbed against the fabric of his boxers.

After lying still to make sure nothing else happened, he looked at the clock and saw 4:04
staring back at him in the soft blue light. He closed his eyes and frowned. He had to get up in 25
minutes.

The sweat was annoying, and he waved a Refreshing charm over his body. The magical air
stimulated him again, though, and he had to fight the urge to come all over the place. Merlin, that
had been one of the most vivid dreams he'd ever had; he hadn't been this worked up after
one since he was fifteen or sixteen.

And this one had been of Hermione! The Hermione that was currently sleeping behind him, her
front pressed into his back. If he concentrated really hard, he could probably feel the points of
her nipples. Harry took a deep breath, trying to focus on something *other* than
Hermione's many intoxicating nubs, so that at the very least he didn't make a mess of
things.

He almost chuckled at that. What would Hermione think if he woke her up because he'd had a
wet dream…of her, no less! She would probably be disgusted, one part of his brain told him, and
that was the part that insisted on remembering her for the eleven-year-old girl he'd met on the
Hogwarts Express. That was also the part that he'd been fighting for the past ten days or so,
because she *wasn't* eleven years old and she *wasn't* a girl anymore and she had
*obviously* come over here for something.

He knew that there was something between them, and perhaps there always had been, but it was so
foreign to actually consciously acknowledge it that he was literally fighting with himself.
Earlier, he had walked in on an image that he didn't know how to deal with, at least not in the
context of Hermione Granger. His hormones told him that it was a beautiful sight and an
irresistible one too; his rational side scolded him for thinking like that about Hermione—she
wasn't just some piece of meat; and the combination of both of them was saying that she surely
wasn't a piece of meat but she was gorgeous and smart and lovely and warm and compassionate and
gorgeous… And now he was just repeating himself.

He frowned again when he realized that his erection hadn't receded at all, and took a few
slower, calming breaths. He forced himself to think of something other than Hermione, but it was
very difficult. That ruddy image would be burned into his brain forever!

After another minute, and even though his brain was of no help, it did start to fade, and he
slowly turned onto his back, careful not to wake Hermione. Her hair had fanned out during her rest,
and it fell across his shoulder, obscuring most of her face. He reached out and brushed it back,
tucking most of the errant strands behind her ear. His touch was gentle enough not to disturb
her.

And now that he could see her face, he felt his heart thump a little faster and stronger. Her
brow, so often crinkled, was relaxed and line-free in sleep. Her nose and cheeks were still and
smooth and beautiful. Her lips, her lovely soft lips, were slightly apart for her breathing. His
eyes tracked to her chin and then on to the lines of her neck, and her collarbone beyond. They
started toward the curves of her breasts, and perhaps the purple hint of the nipple atop each, but
he forced them back to her face.

This beautiful girl had been sleeping with him for the past ten days. Hermione Granger, his
childhood friend, protector, and confidante was resting peacefully next to him, and all he could
focus on was how incredibly pretty she was. She was one of the brightest witches of her generation,
and could have done anything she wanted; yet she chose to come out here to a foreign land to spend
some time with him.

Harry turned more, leaving a little space between their torsos because of his semi-defiant
arousal, and brought himself face to face with her. Her arm, which had been slung over him, was now
resting between them. He stared at her for a little while longer, and then threw caution and
inhibition and everything else to the wind: he moved his face closer and brushed his lips against
hers. He detected no movement from her.

They had snogged the first night she'd been there, and Harry hadn't really understood
why he'd gone along with it at the time, but now he did. She was Hermione Granger. He was Harry
Potter.

He leaned forward again, and this time pressed his lips against hers. He held it for a second,
and then leaned back. Nothing happened at first, and then he caught a flicker of a movement as the
tip of her pink tongue shot out to moisten her lips. She breathed deeply and stretched slightly,
and then this incredible mewling sound escaped her lungs. If his erection had been flagging, it
shot back to full life.

He watched as her eyes slowly opened. She stared into his for a second or two, and then blinked
owlishly.

“What was that for?” she asked. Her voice was low and thick and husky. She wasn't helping
his problem, but he found that he no longer really cared—otherwise he wouldn't have kissed
her.

“Being you.”

“Hmm?” she purred. She brought her hand up and rubbed her cheek, and then refocused on
Harry.

“You're beautiful, Hermione,” he said, and that brought her fully awake. An emotion he
couldn't name seeped into her eyes, and that familiar crinkle crept into her brow. Harry was
vaguely aware that this was new territory, uncharted in his own experiences, but he didn't
care. He was going with it, and he *wanted* to, because this felt right. For the first time in
a *long* time, things seemed totally perfect.

“What did you say?”

“You're beautiful.”

They stared at each other; Hermione seemed unable to move, so Harry leaned forward once again,
pressing his lips gently against her. She didn't react at first, but then slowly pressed back.
Her lips were soft and moist.

He brought a hand up and framed the side of her face with it, brushing his fingertips through
her hair as he ran his tongue lightly along her upper lip. They parted slightly, and he deepened
the kiss. Hermione reacted by moving toward him, and in doing so she poked herself in the leg with
his raging hard-on. There was the briefest of pauses in the pressure of their kiss, but then she
parted her legs a little to move flush against him.

He was now pressed into her; his body was against hers and his cock was cradled next to her
crotch. He could feel the heat emanating from her core. She moaned into his lips, bringing his
attention back to their kiss, and her tongue met his in a lovers' duel. After a moment they
parted, both breathing rather heavily.

Her eyes slipped open and he thought he might have seen wonder there. He was distracted though
when she squeezed her thighs together, applying wonderful pressure to his most sensitive area and
eliciting a moan from his lips.

“What's gotten into you?” she asked, squeezing her legs again. Harry was working hard to
avoid finishing right then and there.

“Why did you really come out here?” he asked her, meeting her question with one of his own. His
voice was a touch ragged.

“Answer me first,” she said. He just smirked at her, and moved his hips a little. He saw her
eyes lose focus for a second and she blew out a little breath. As tightly as she had him pressed to
her, he knew any movement by him would be well received.

“I think you'll find your answer when you address *my* question,” he responded, moving
his hips again. Her lips opened in a small O.

“I missed you,” she whispered. He noticed that her voice was ragged as well. He was also rather
amused to notice that her nipples had hardened considerably and were now scratching against his
chest through their shirts when they moved.

She brought her hand along the side of his face and then behind, entangling her fingers in his
black hair. She just looked at him, not blinking or moving or saying anything, and then leaned
forward to kiss again. He met her lips and started to slowly move against her. Now that he had
seemingly won the battle against his own climax—for now—he wanted to give her something too.

He trailed kisses away from her lips and down her jawline, rolling over so he was half on top of
her. She offered no resistance; in fact, her moans and her movements were telling him that she was
enjoying this more than he was. Not that he wasn't enjoying it. Oh no.

He concentrated on her ear for a moment, and when he flicked her lobe with his tongue he could
feel her dig her nails into his back. She had a leg wrapped through his now, and they were grinding
slowly against each other. Down her neck he went, lightly tonguing her pulse point, and then
continued on toward the collar of her tank top.

“Harry…” she breathed. The grinding slowed even more.

“Yeah?” he asked, lifting his lips from her skin.

“No—don't stop that,” she said, pushing on the back of his head to bring his lips back to
her collarbone. He moved the strap over her left shoulder and kissed the newly bared skin.

“But…is this what you want?” she then asked.

Harry chuckled into her skin at the conundrum—answer her question yet doing what he was
doing—and she seemed to enjoy the vibrations. Her back arched a little, and the leg curled a little
more through his. His hardness was wedged tightly into the warm space between her thighs.

“Yes,” he answered, only breaking contact for a second. He moved a little lower, pushing the
tank top away some more, and got a little harder to find out he was kissing the upper swell of one
of her lovely breasts.

“Why—so—sudden?” she asked, haltingly. One of her feet was moving up and down his calf.

“Because I realized something,” he said, and pressed his lips to her breast. He pushed the
offending material further away, and was rewarded with the dark pink splash of her nipple across
the white of her skin. It was taught and hard and sticking up a little bit. He felt himself throb
just looking at it.

When he brought his lips to it and flicked across the top of it with his tongue, Hermione's
thighs clenched and that `O' sound escaped her lips again. She pressed onto the back of his
head again, pressing his face into the warm soft mound, and he lightly grazed his teeth along the
raised point. She inhaled sharply.

“What—did you—realize?”

“That you're gorgeous,” he said, flicking his tongue again. She jerked. “And incredibly
smart,” he added, sucking the entire nub into his mouth. She cooed. “And probably the reason why
I'm alive.” He rolled his tongue around the edge. She moaned.

He moved across her chest, pushing more white fabric out of the way, and moved the right strap
of the shirt off her shoulder. He pushed it down and her other nipple came into view, and he took a
second to admire the view. She opened her eyes and saw him smiling down at her.

He flicked his eyes to her and then leaned down, capturing the apex of her other breast in his
mouth, and she jerked again. She then brought a hand up to the breast he had just left, and he cut
his eyes to the side to watch her roll her nipple between her fingers for a second.

It was incredibly hot watching her pleasure herself, even if it was only the small pink nub on
the top of her breast. He was as hard as he'd ever been, and he was definitely throbbing now.
The movement down there was stimulating him to the edge again, and he backed off her, rolling away
slightly. She stopped touching herself and looked at him. Her eyes were a little dopey with
pleasure.

“Why'd you stop?” she asked, and he almost laughed at the offense in her voice.

“Don't want to make a mess,” he said, and then ducked his head a little as it heated up. Her
hand was then on his chin pushing up, and he looked up into her face. She was smiling this dainty
little smile, small enough to leave her teeth hidden, but there was something incredibly alluring
and sexy about it. It certainly didn't help matters.

“And why not?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. Merlin, here she was; both breasts exposed, lying
more or less underneath him, the heat of her own arousal seeping into his shorts, and she was being
coy with him. Minx!

“Er…” he said, unable to bring his thoughts to coherence. The smile widened and before he could
think, she reached down and rubbed her hand along the line of his arousal. He closed his eyes and
took a deep breath at the new sensation; he felt himself almost jump into her touch.

That ruddy eyebrow was still raised, tempting him! He smirked back at her, and moved his own
hand lower. He reached just past hers, still rubbing him, and moved his fingers into the folds of
her own shorts. The heat was incredible, and he could feel the lines of her. He began to rub back
and forth, up and down, and watched as the eyebrow slowly lowered and her eyes closed.

She arched her back again, but did not stop her own ministrations. Boldly, unsure of how she
would react, he pulled his hand back for a moment and then slipped it under the waistband of her
shorts. Her eyes shot open and then slipped slowly closed again, and he inched his hand lower and
lower, over her mons and the tuft of hair and finally into her hot, wet folds. She followed suit,
and slipped her hand into his shorts. He clenched his teeth as she gripped his length, and then
started to move up and down.

He lowered his face to her chest again and started suckling on a nipple, though he was
concentrating more on the slickness his hand was rubbing through. He moved lower with it and found
the warmest, wettest part and pushed slightly. She hissed as a finger slipped just inside her, and
that arch in her back became more pronounced. Her hand moved to the base of his erection and then
lower, cupping his balls.

It was new sensation and Harry was unprepared for how intense it was, and paused for a moment in
his pleasuring of her to get lost in it. She must have sensed it, because she began to knead them
in earnest. He was fighting a losing battle, and any second he was going to go over the edge…

He pushed his index finger a little further in—

“Harry!” she cried out, and her entire back and bum lifted off the bed for a moment. He must
have done something right, to get that type of response from her, and indeed he felt her clench
around his finger, so he kept on doing it. She gripped his shaft once again; pumping once and then
one more time, and then shuddered beneath him. The clenching was more powerful now, almost
insistent, drawing his finger further and further inside her. She pumped again and he knew that he
was so close, a few more strokes and he'd be there, and she would too, all he had to do was
push in and out a few more times. He flicked her nipple with his tongue and she pumped again, he
pressed in again, and they were both so close—

*BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP…!*

They both froze, unable to bring their minds from the edge of their ecstasies as the
ridiculously invasive sound assaulted their senses, and then the moment was lost. Whatever
collective wave they'd been riding crashed, and Hermione sunk slowly back to the bed, letting
go of Harry. He blinked a few times, withdrew his finger and then his hand from her and her shorts,
and sat up. He glanced over at the alarm clock, which was blaring away. Ruddy sodding piece of
shite fucking cuntish alarm clock! He was sorely (yes, literally) tempted to just blast the thing
to pieces with the strongest curse he knew, but then didn't because it would probably blow a
hole through the wall too.

“*Accio* clock,” he grumbled, and it flew into his hands. He saw “4:30” whiz toward him and
then blink out as the plug was pulled from the wall. He set it on the floor after catching it. He
looked at Hermione.

She was lying prone on the bed, chest heaving, with her arm across her face. He felt a twitch at
seeing her perky breasts, but his arousal was gone for good it seemed, and at what a lousy fucking
time! They had both been so close…

“Talk about horrible timing,” Hermione muttered, and Harry opened his mouth to agree, but
couldn't stop the chuckle that escaped first. Hermione moved her arm away from her eyes and
looked at him for a second, seemingly offended that he could *laugh* at something like that,
and then smiled. She then started to chuckle too.

Soon they were both laughing loudly and he fell back on the bed, wiping tears away from his
eyes. She turned slightly and laid her head across his chest, still laughing.

----------

May 17th, 2002

Somewhere over the Atlantic during the predawn hours Hermione's voice cut across the vast
silence that had settled across first class.

“Harry?” she asked.

He had been sinking into the plush leather seat, perhaps on his way to a short nap, but the
sound of her query roused him and he sat up. He scrubbed his face hard for a moment and then looked
over at her through the gloom of the darkened plane. She was wide-awake, staring at him
expectantly.

“Yeah?”

“Didn't you say we were getting into Heathrow at two?”

“Uh…yeah,” he said. She looked at her watch, a small silver thing.

“It's two-thirty right now, London time,” she replied.

Harry scratched his head and shrugged. “So I was wrong?” He searched around the pocket in front
of him, and found the small envelop with his tickets. He found the right one and examined it.

“Says six-thirty,” he said, and shrugged again. “Guess I didn't look at it close
enough.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, but Harry could tell by the inflection of her voice that something else was
coming. And sure enough:

“Harry?”

“Yeah?” he echoed, holding back a small laugh. It was incredible how well he still knew her.

“What happened this morning?”

“Don't you mean *yesterday* morning?” he asked. She hit his arm lightly.

“Don't play semantics with me,” she said. “But really, what was that?”

“An *almost*-mind-blowing mutual orgasm?” She smiled, then looked around quickly as if to
make sure no one had overheard, and leaned closer to her him. He leaned in as well.

“Come on,” she whispered, “I'm serious.”

“Hermione, I…” he started, but what was he going to say? He felt *something* for Hermione,
and he knew that part of that something had always been there, at least since the troll incident
when he was eleven and she was twelve, but how could he articulate that to her?

“You what?” she insisted. She wasn't going to let it drop. Harry sighed; it wasn't an
unhappy sound, though.

“What if I told you that you showing up at Stanford rearranged my priorities?” he asked. When
she didn't respond, he proceeded: “What if I said that before I saw you on the pavement, I had
no idea what I was going to do after graduation? I hadn't really gotten that far.

“Over the last two weeks, though, I think I might have found a little of that direction that
I've been searching for. And I'm not trying to be sentimental,” he continued, when he saw
her dubious look. “I'm totally serious. You made me remember what it felt like to be needed, to
feel accepted without any disclaimer. And I don't mean that in a platonic way.

“I'll be honest here—I hadn't really ever considered you as *you* before these past
weeks, but that's not a reflection on you. That's all me. I couldn't see it, Hermione,
and I'm glad that you showed me it. I'm glad that you're showing me the way.”

He looked into her eyes after he finished his improvised and, he thought, poor speech, but he
saw tears at the corners of hers. She reached a hand over and gripped his that was laying on the
arm rest. She sniffled once and then laid her head on his shoulder, and they stayed like that for
quite some time. Silence settled over first class again, and for a while Harry just listened to the
sound of Hermione breathing.

Soft noises then wafted in their direction, and shortly thereafter a flight attendant rolling a
cart of beverages and snacks through the aisle came by. She stopped next to their seat when she saw
they were both awake.

“Care for a drink? Or something to nibble on?” she asked. Harry and Hermione both looked at her.
Harry thought the attendant looked extraordinarily tired.

“No thank you,” Hermione said, politely.

“Uh, can I have some water?” Harry asked. The attendant nodded and poured some bottled water
into a small plastic cup, dropping an ice cube in as well. She handed it over to him. He sipped it
as he put the seatback down, and set it down on there. He looked back at the flight attendant, who
was still looking at them. He noticed she was smiling.

“How long?” she asked, quietly.

“Pardon?” Hermione asked.

“How long has it been for you two?”

Harry looked at Hermione, who turned her face toward his. She looked just as confused as he
felt.

“I don't follow,” Hermione said, after looking back.

“Married, I meant,” she clarified, and Harry's heart did a funky little two-step for a few
seconds. “How long have you been married?”

“Oh, we're not married,” Hermione answered, quickly. Her voice was a little higher in pitch
than usual.

The flight attendant cocked her head to the side and gave them an odd look, with a queer little
smile on her lips, and then shook her head lightly. She started pushing the cart further down the
aisle.

“My apologies,” she said, and then she was gone. Harry didn't say anything for a moment, and
neither did Hermione, but they finally looked at each other.

“Married, huh?” she asked.

“I guess so,” he responded, smiling at her. It broke whatever strain the moment had held and
they resumed their earlier, more comfortable position. Silence settled over the cabin once again,
and it remained long after Harry finished his water, and even longer after he felt Hermione's
even breathing against him.

----------

“Hermione,” Harry said. She didn't move. He nudged her, and she grumbled. “Hermione,” he
repeated, this time a little louder and more insistent. She made this weirdly cute snorting noise
and sat up quickly. She looked around wide-eyed for a moment, as if she couldn't figure out
where she was, and then settled back into her seat. She looked over at Harry with slightly bleary
eyes.

“What is it?” she asked, almost whining. “You woke me from an *amazing* dream,” she pouted.
Damn, he just wanted to kiss those lips. Those ruddy pink pouted lips.

“We're about to land,” he said, wrenching his eyes away from their molestation of her
lips.

“Oh. Thanks,” she replied, and started to gather her things. He saw her twist her wrist to look
at her watch. “Six-fifteen…not too bad.”

“It feels like we've been up for*ever*,” Harry commented, and yawned to punctuate
it.

“Well, you *did* wake *me* up, you know,” she said, pausing in her organization to
stare pointedly at him. He realized that she could have been talking about just now or back in
California, but he knew which she really meant. Her eyes were doing that twinkling thing again. He
would have to learn how to do that someday.

“You liked it.” He bent over and retrieved his small bag from under the seat, and when he sat
back up, he found her contemplating him with her trademark—the raised eyebrow.

“So did you.”

“I didn't say otherwise,” he said, and laughed at her.

“Please fasten your seatbelts and return your seatbacks into the upright position,” the
pilot's voice came over the loudspeakers. “We've been cleared for arrival at London
Heathrow Airport; local time is six-seventeen and the weather is a cool eighteen degrees.
Conditions are good and visibility is unlimited. Enjoy your stay in London or wherever you're
connecting to. Thank you for flying British Airways.” There was a click and then a brief hubbub of
commotion as passengers secured themselves and their bags.

“Well that was informative,” Hermione said, dryly.

“Sure was,” Harry said, thinking of breathing in British air for the first time in eighteen
months. He turned his head and looked out of the window, seeing the dark blue light of dawn
spreading across the land below and the sky above.

-->



10. Author's Note
-----------------



**Author's Note: I am sorry that it has been** **so** **long since you last heard
from me. I should have forewarned that this might happen, but I guess I never got around to it.
Currently, I'm very busy with uni and find myself lacking the time to do much of anything
besides work and sleep these days. I have not abandoned this story—let me repeat that: I have NOT
abandoned this story. When this semester calms down (not likely) or when it ends for the summer
(most likely) I will begin to update once again. Until then, I'm sorry to say that I have
neither the time nor the energy to write. So, all that I can say is, be patient. New chapters will
come in time.**

**-Your appreciative and humble author**

**Matt**

-->



11. Interlude: Morning Sickness
-------------------------------



**Bearings**

Disclaimer/Author's Notes: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. After completing a rough sketch of
some of the rest of the story, I've come to one conclusion: it's going to be long. At this
point, I'd guess somewhere over 200,000 words, but that's probably a gross underestimate.
Hope that doesn't bother anyone. Also, I'm glad to be writing once again! Feel free to
leave some comments.

*They made up their minds
And they started packing
They left before the sun came up that day
An exit to eternal summer slacking
But where were they going
Without ever knowing the way?*

Fastball

*The Way*

Interlude: Morning Sickness

May 17th, 2002

Jane Granger had to vomit.

She threw the comforter back and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She leaned forward and
dropped her head for a moment, hoping to quell the wave of nausea building within her, but she knew
it was hopeless. She stood up quickly, though quietly as to not wake her husband, and rushed over
to the adjoining loo. She knelt in front of the toilet and waited for it to come.

A few dry heaves later, the nauseous feeling passed, and she flushed even though nothing had
come up. She watched the clean water swirl down the bowl for a moment, and then moved to the sink
to wash her hands. She stared at herself in the mirror as she did so, and after she dried her
hands, she lifted up the shirt she wore to look at her tummy. At eight weeks, she thought she might
have just begun to show, but she couldn't tell for sure; she dropped her shirt and headed out
of the loo and her bedroom.

The carpet felt good under her bare feet as she made her way through the hall and down the
stairs, and finally into the kitchen. She glanced at the clock on the wall—it read 7:55. Morning
sunlight shone brilliantly through the windows on the east side of the kitchen. She filled a pot
with water and put it on the stove, and sat down at the table to wait for it to boil. Her eyes were
attracted to the dust motes floating lazily in the brightness, but her thoughts were not nearly as
settled.

She was thinking of her daughter and where she was at that moment; she was thinking of the life
growing within her, and what it would *really* mean when she and Dan had another child to
raise; she was thinking of how their successful dental practice had carried them so comfortably
through their lives; and she was thinking how nice it would be to have that tea…

The whistle of the kettle drew her attention and she stood to pour a cup, but a noise distracted
her for a moment. She turned her head toward the back of the house, curious as to what the light
popping noise could have been. She moved the rest of the way to the stove, took the kettle, and
poured, but another faint noise caused her to set the kettle back down. She thought she heard
voices, but who would be behind her house at eight o'clock in the morning? Placing a teabag in
the cup, she walked around the counter so she could look out the plate glass door that led into the
backyard. She raised her eyebrows at what she saw.

There, in the middle of her backyard, were her daughter and the raven-haired friend she had gone
on a quest after. She was pointing and laughing at him, and he was scowling at her. He seemed to be
missing half a shirt, and she watched as he waved a hand over his body, *regrowing* the
shirt…or something…so that it covered all of him once again. Jane didn't fail to notice the
young man's well-formed chest, or the nicely tanned tone of his skin. Hermione was somewhat
paler than Harry was.

And she knew it was Harry, because even though he had changed in significant ways since the last
time Jane had seen him—just after the war, at the Burrow—the scowl had changed into the attractive
lop-sided grin. The green eyes and the faint scar on his forehead were unmistakable, as well as the
pure color of his rather messy hair. Sure, the boy had grown into a man, and had grown very well,
but some things about him would apparently never change.

Hermione and Harry then turned toward the house, and her daughter immediately saw her standing
there. Jane waved and Hermione grinned, and walked toward the house. Jane smiled when she saw that
her daughter was dragging Harry by the hand toward the door, but it wasn't quite reluctance she
sensed in Harry's pose. It was more like bemusement. He was smiling at the back of
Hermione's head.

Jane opened the door and chuckled as Hermione let go of her extra weight and ran the rest of the
distance to her.

“Mum!”

She slowed just before she reached Jane, probably conscious of her pregnancy, and embraced her
mother. Jane hugged her back and looked over Hermione's shoulder, watching as Harry stopped a
few paces back. He watched them with a neutral face.

“Hermione, I'm glad you made it home safely,” Jane said, and stood back a little. She looked
her daughter in the eyes, and she knew the twinkle there was reflected in her own. “And I'm
glad to see that your journey yielded some positive results…”

Hermione hit her lightly on the arm and smiled back. “Mum…” She turned slightly and motioned for
Harry to come closer. He did so after a moment.

“I'm sure you know each other, but Harry, this is my mum, Jane Granger. And mum, this Harry
Potter—”

“Who of course needs absolutely no introduction,” Jane said. Hermione just shook her head. Harry
stuck out his hand.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Granger—”

“Forget about the handshake, Harry,” she said, overriding the second person in a row, and
drawing Harry into an embrace. The look on Hermione's face told her that Harry was surprised,
but she felt a hug was warranted. He awkwardly patted her on the back and they separated; Jane saw
a bit of an awkward look on his face.

“First thing's first, Harry. You can call me Jane. We're all adults here, and Hermione
here has told enough over the years for me to feel like I know you quite well.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Uh…ok…Jane.” He looked toward Hermione, and a small smile
spread across his lips. “I hope everything she's said has been good…”

“Have you always been good?” Hermione asked, putting a hand on her hip.

Jane knew what she was seeing, but she could hardly believe it. She hadn't expected much
from Hermione's visit to America, except for her returning with Harry at some point, but now
they were openly flirting with each other.

“Yes,” he answered, looking at Jane instead of Hermione.

“Well,” Jane said, smiling a little broader now, “why don't we move into the house, and then
we can discuss your merits.” She winked at Harry and then turned away, letting Hermione and Harry
into the kitchen and dining area.

Hermione was the first through the door, and by the time Harry crossed the threshold, Jane had
turned back. She was momentarily puzzled by the look in his eyes as he took in the inside of her
house, but a flicker of some memory came to her. Hermione had once told her that Harry's home
life growing up was horrible, and the look in his eyes was in some part due to the extremely nice
but lived in quality of the house.

He had only paused for a moment, and followed Hermione to the dining room table. They both sat
down, next to each other, Jane noticed, and a short silence settled across the three of them. In
that span Jane looked at her daughter, and noticed a few subtle changes there.

Hermione's face was more open than she'd seen it in a long time. There was a smile there
that hadn't left since she'd first seen her daughter in the backyard. Her eyes had lost the
dullness they'd gained during the past six months or so, and even the way she had moved into
the house indicated something different about her mentality.

“Tea?” Jane asked, shifting her eyes from Hermione toward the stove.

“Yes, please,” Harry said.

“Sure,” Hermione answered.

“Such nice manners you have, Harry,” Jane commented. “Hermione could learn a thing or two,
maybe?”

“Mum, honestly,” Hermione huffed. She didn't say anything more, and Jane turned back with
two full cups to see why. Harry had laid a hand on her arm.

“I know Hermione could teach me much more than I could ever teach her,” he said, smiling at
Hermione. Hermione smiled and nodded.

Jane set the cups on the table and sat down across from them. “Be that as it may—” She cut
herself off as Dan shuffled into the kitchen. It took her husband a moment to notice that it was
not just he and his wife. He almost jumped out of his skin when he saw Hermione and Harry at the
table.

“Well, you two scared me!” he said, chuckling a little.

“Daddy,” Hermione said, and got up from the table. She went over and hugged her father, to which
Jane raised her eyebrow at. Relations between Hermione and her father had been rather cool since
they'd confronted her that night at the dinner table, but her trip seemed to have settled the
animosity.

“When did you and, er…Harry get home?” he asked, glancing over at the man sitting at their
table. He made eye contact with Jane for a second and Jane narrowed her eyes at her husband,
shaking her head almost imperceptibly. She hoped it was warning enough for him not to start
anything.

“Just now,” Hermione answered, and beckoned Harry over, who had just gotten up from the table.
Harry walked over and stuck out his hand.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Granger,” he said.

Dan shook his hand and replied, “Likewise.” Jane frowned when Dan didn't offer Harry the
same as she had. Apparently Dan still had some issues with Harry, even though Jane was realizing
more and more every second that they didn't really know who Harry Potter was. Whatever they had
assumed had been based off what Hermione had told them, and then also off her attitude during the
last year or so. Jane firmly set aside her reservations and determined to get to know Harry from an
objective point of view, and she resolved to inform Dan that he would be doing the same thing.

An awkward silence settled over the room for a moment, in which Dan and Harry just stood and
looked at each other, before Dan cleared his throat and turned away slightly. Jane saw Hermione
frowning slightly at her father.

“Right, well, I'm just going to nip some toast and be off to work,” her husband said, and
grabbed some. He smiled at Hermione and exited the room. Jane could tell that Harry was trying to
work out exactly what had transpired in that little interaction. She took pity on the young man and
directed both Harry and Hermione back to the table. They continued sipping their tea when they were
seated.

“Are you going into work late, mum?” Hermione asked.

Jane nodded. “I don't have any patients until the afternoon, so I figured I'd get a
little work done around the house.” She looked oddly at the two for a moment. Not only was Harry
being extraordinarily quiet, but also there was something else that struck her. “How did you two
get here?”

“Oh, I side-alonged Harry, because he's never been here before,” Hermione answered. That
just confused Jane even more. Harry must have seen it, though, because he clarified for the elder
Granger woman.

“What Hermione means,” Harry started, cutting his eyes toward Hermione with amusement in them,
“is she Apparated both herself and I from the airport to your backyard.”

Jane watched her daughter roll her eyes. “Thank you, Harry, for stating the obvious.”

Jane snorted. “No, *thank you*, Harry, for explaining that to this poor old woman.”

“You could pass as Hermione's older sister, you know,” Harry stated, and then she watched as
his cheeks went red. Hermione turned her eyes toward him and arched an eyebrow, obviously waiting
for a further illumination. Jane was quite curious herself as to what he had meant.

“Er, that is…what I meant is that you look very good, Jane,” Harry said. Jane gave him a winning
smile.

“Aw, he's so sweet Hermione, I think I'm starting to understand what you see in him,”
she said, watching as her daughter's eyes widened.

“Mum!” she said, and then glanced at Harry. There was merely laughter dancing in his eyes. He
shrugged. “Flattery will get you anywhere, Potter,” Hermione grumbled.

By this time, they had finished their tea, so Jane collected the cups and deposited them in the
sink. She turned back and started to say something, but watched as the most curious thing happened.
A silent conversation seemed to pass between Hermione and Harry, much like the ones she and Dan had
occasionally. Hermione was indicating something with her eyes, and Harry looked at his watch and
nodded. Hermione sighed and patted Harry's arm for a moment, and then both pairs of eyes
settled on Jane.

“Think we should give Harry here a tour of our house, Hermione?”

Hermione turned toward Harry. “You have at least a little time, right?”

Harry nodded. “Gringotts doesn't open until nine, although I'd like to get there as
close to then as possible.”

“Ok, sure mum. Why don't we start in here?”

For the next fifteen minutes, Hermione and Jane gave Harry a tour of their fairly large and
comfy house. The room they had their tea in was a combination dining and kitchen area, and although
it was clearly meant for informal family settings, it still had state-of-the-art appliances, nicely
finished oak furniture, tables, and countertops, and a great view into their backyard through an
expensive-looking French plate glass door. Jane hoped she wasn't being too ostentatious by
showing Harry the house, but he seemed to be taking it all in stride. Given what Hermione had told
her and Dan of his home life, she was glad.

The tour continued through the rest of the first floor; through the living area complete with a
large flat screen plasma television, comfortable carpeting, and plush furniture; through the formal
dining area meant for entertaining guests, which even Jane had to admit was a little showy for her
tastes; through the entryway and then finally up the stairs.

The second floor held the master bedroom, Hermione's bedroom, two guest bedrooms, a master
bath with a hot tub, and a normal bathroom. There was also a den and a small library, which was
literally overflowing with books. Jane saw the smile that spread across Harry's features when
they showed him the library.

“Something funny, Harry?” she asked, lightly.

Harry chuckled for a moment. “I'm just imagining an eight year old Hermione resisting her
parents' demands that she leave this room and go to bed.” Hermione blushed, and Jane
laughed.

“You have no idea how right you are,” she said. Hermione hit Harry on the arm lightly, and he
just shrugged. The smile didn't leave his face.

“Well, this is quite a nice place to live,” Harry commented, and she knew it was a genuine
statement. He didn't seem overly impressed, just appreciative that Hermione would show him her
house.

“Tour's not over yet,” Hermione said, and took Harry by the hand and led him down the
stairs. Jane followed, unable to take her eyes off their linked hands. She was dying to ask
Hermione how her adventure in America had gone, but she supposed that would be best left for when
Harry was not around.

Jane followed them out of the plate glass door and into the backyard, and then finally into a
section hidden by a tall hedge. A cozy in ground pool and a rather large spa were revealed. Jane
looked at Hermione and saw that her daughter was looking at her with a slightly mischievous light
in her eyes.

“You're probably wondering about the hedgerow?” Hermione asked, directing the question at
Harry. He nodded. “Well…let's just say mum and I do our fair share of sun tanning.”

He nodded again, but then looked quickly to Hermione, as he understood the significance of her
words. It was very true that Jane and Hermione used the privacy of the hedges to their advantage,
and had very little problem with tan lines over the years. Dan had never been one to partake in
that activity too regularly, but even he indulged from time to time.

“I always wondered why you were so dark when school started up every year,” Harry said. That
same mischievous light was in his eyes, too. Oh, Jane had so many things to ask Hermione…that look
alone was enough to indicate that *something* had happened between them.

“Well…now you at least have an *idea*,” Hermione answered, smirking at him. The three of
them headed back inside. Jane sat at the table and Hermione and Harry stayed standing.

“Thank you for the tour, Jane. Hermione,” he said. “You certainly seem to do well for
yourselves.”

“Two dentists do provide nicely,” Jane commented.

“Harry, are you sure you don't want to stay here for a few days at least…?” Hermione asked.
For a brief second, Jane thought that might have been a bit presumptuous on Hermione's part,
but then she realized that it did not matter if Harry stayed with them or not. She would be happy
to get to know the young man better. He shook his head, however.

“Sorry, Hermione, but not right now. I need to get some things in order; this agent business
can't wait and neither can my response to Mr. Cashman.” Hermione's face seemed to fall
slightly, but Harry put a hand on her arm.

“I'll let you know what's up, ok?” There was tenderness in his voice that Jane loved to
hear.

Hermione nodded, and looked up toward Harry's face. They stared at each other for a moment—a
moment in which Jane felt like an intruder—and then Harry bent slightly and pecked her on the
cheek. He turned to Jane.

“Thanks again, Jane. It was a pleasure to meet you,” he said. She nodded, and he abruptly
Disapparated with a faint pop.

“Where'd he go?” Jane asked.

“He has some business to attend to in Diagon Alley,” Hermione replied, with a flat inflection.
Jane knew how to turn that around.

“So, Hermione Jane,” she started, in her scolding voice. She even put a hand to her hip.
Hermione looked up, confused as to her mother's tone. Jane smirked. “Tell me what happened in
America.” Sure enough, Hermione's eyes lit up.

“Well, at first he seemed to think I was someone else…”

-->



12. Home...Or Something Like It
-------------------------------



**Bearings**

Disclaimer/Author's Notes: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter.

*And we'll all float on ok
And we'll all float on alright
All ready we'll all float on
Now don't worry we'll all float on
All right already we'll all float on
All right don't worry we'll all float on*

Modest Mouse

*Float On*

Chapter Seven: Home…Or Something Like It

May 17th, 2002 (continued)

Harry appeared almost silently on the magical side of the Leaky Cauldron, immediately casting a
glamour charm over himself. Though he wasn't exactly adverse to Britain's magical
population knowing he was back, he wanted to delay it for at least a day. Most of the businesses
opened at nine, and since it was still five until, the Alley was nearly empty. Scattered here and
there, a few witches and wizards walked toward whatever destination they had in mind, and he could
also see several more opening their respective shops.

He stood in the shadow of the Leaky Cauldron for a moment, taking in Diagon Alley as it stood
around him. He had not been here since the Christmas of 2000, and it had only been a quick trip
during the busy holiday season. The crowds of people had distracted him from actually observing the
Alley itself, but now there were no such diversions. The most significant change was the apparent
removal of Knockturn Alley. Where the entrance had been now stood a brick wall, and Harry wondered
what was behind there now. Besides the obvious associations with criminality and Darkness, some of
the stores in Knockturn Alley had actually been legitimate businesses.

Further perusal of the Alley provided him the answer he was looking for though, because he
noticed at least five or probably ten new shops in a section that had been vacant when he was
younger. Two of them he recognized as having been located within Knockturn Alley, so it seemed
whatever powers that be had forced the closing of Knockturn had given some of the businesses a
chance.

He was momentarily impressed with the thinking of what was probably the Ministry—how often had
they given chances to the supposedly less reputable during Fudge's or Scrimgeour's tenures?
It seemed that, with the new, more balanced power in the magical government, things were actually
beginning to change for the better. Harry knew it was a cynical observation, but he had been jaded
for far too long to expect much from Britain's Ministry of Magic. Even though Arthur was the
Vice Minister, he recognized a bureaucracy for what it was.

He cleared his thoughts, and moved away from the Leaky Cauldron. The only other noticeable
change in the alley was the vast expansion of a certain store, and Harry couldn't contain the
grin as he stopped in front of the much larger Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. What originally had
been only 93 Diagon Alley was now 90-95 Diagon; the sign had been upgraded into the most garishly
humorous thing Harry had seen in quite a long time, and it seemed that Fred and George had somehow
charmed it to send personal messages to those looking at it. Right now, the bottom of the sign
read, “Get your mind off the brown-haired broad sunbathing nude.”

Harry immediately reinforced his Occlumency shields, which was an almost foreign sensation
because he hadn't had to do it in so long, but was satisfied when the message changed to, “Ah,
a *real* Wizard. It's too bad…I liked that image.” He was intrigued how the Twins had
charmed the sign to have some kind of passive Legilimency, but he was also wondering how to
actually get that image out of his mind, for the time being at least. He didn't need to be
distracted today with suppositions of what went on behind Hermione's hedgerow…

Somewhere a bell tolled nine o'clock, and the sign indicating the state of the store pointed
out it was now open. Harry put a palm to the door, paused briefly, wondering how this first reunion
of many reunions would go, and pushed it open after collecting his Gryffindor courage.

Even though he had seen the external evidence of the success of the Twins' store, the rows
upon rows upon shelves of goods were still surprising. And he even saw that they had started to
offer services…at weddings and birthdays, and things like that. After standing in the doorway for a
few moments, he headed toward the side of the store, where he knew the counter to be. Rounding a
corner of a row and dropping the glamour charm, he saw both Fred and George standing behind the
counter. They were laughing about something.

“Oi, what's so funny?” Harry called out. He thought they would have been surprised to hear
his voice, after so long an absence, but they merely turned to him, still laughing. Harry stopped
in front of them.

“Harry Potter!” George finally said. “How *are* you?”

“Err…good. You two?”

Fred laughed and shook his head. “From the look on your face, you're probably wondering why
we're not more surprised to see you in our shop after so long.”

Harry took a look around the store for a brief moment. “I'd say this is more than a
`shop', eh?” he asked, smiling once again.

“Yes, about that—” George started.

“We noticed one third of our profits— ” Fred continued.

“Coming back into the capital—”

“For the store and we were—”

“Wondering if our super secret third partner—”

“Had anything to do with that?” Fred finished. Harry was amused that they still completed each
other's thoughts. He had always wondered if they had some form of telepathy…

Harry arched an eyebrow. “I have no idea what you're talking about,” he said, though there
was some humor in his voice.

“Well, we just wanted to be sure that our original financial backer was getting his fair cut,”
George said, but then quirked an eyebrow at Harry. “So, I could be wrong, but was that a naked
Hermione you were thinking about out there on the street?”

“What?” Harry asked. They had seen that?

“You must have figured out the sign by now, Harry,” Fred said.

“Sure—passive Legilimency.”

George shook his head, and Fred responded: “Not exactly passive. We hired someone to control it,
but since it's so early George and I were taking a go at it. We liked what we saw…”

Harry felt his cheeks getting slightly warm. Just what he needed to show the Twins, of all
people—his lecherous thoughts about the brunette witch he had just spent the last two weeks
sleeping with. However, he could give as well as he got, and his wand slipped from the holster
around his forearm into his hand. He had thought it a prudent idea to carry it while in and around
magical society. He tapped it against the side of his leg, staring hard at Fred and George.

“Am I going to have to Obliviate it from your memories?” he asked. He was joking, of course, but
he enjoyed the slight wavering of the smiles on the Twins' faces. He hadn't seen them in
over a year and a half, so who knows what he might do? He smirked.

“No, I don't think so,” Fred said. “The image was very interesting, though…” he pondered.
“Does it indicate what I think it indicates, or are you just particularly randy today?”

Harry laughed. “I'm back for the first time since two Christmases ago, and you lot are
asking if I'm randy today. The mind boggles,” he said, as his wand slipped back up his arm into
the holster.

“We do our best,” George said. “Anyways…how are you doing, Harry? Back in Britain to stay?
Or…?”

“For a week at least,” Harry replied, suppressing the sigh that came with knowledge of
everything he faced over the next few days. They would ultimately determine what he would be doing
for a very long time, and he kept forgetting that. He kept getting distracted—partly from images
such as the one the Twins had pulled out of his head.

“And as for how I'm doing, fine really,” he shrugged. “Still the same old Harry, just a
little more distance between everything, you know?”

Fred nodded. “Sure. I assume you didn't come into Diagon and risk your legions of adoring
fans just to chat with us, so what can we do for you?”

“Actually I was just on my way to the bank and I saw the changes to your store. Figured I'd
stop in and say hello, and all,” Harry replied.

“That's so sweet,” George replied. “We never knew you cared so much.”

“You two haven't changed a bit, have you?” Harry asked.

“Why should we?” Fred asked, faking offense. “We're doing pretty well for ourselves.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Harry said, looking around the large store once again. “Still…any lucky
ladies?” They both shook their heads.

“We don't really have time at the moment,” Fred said, sounding uncharacteristically serious.
“The store in Hogsmeade is finally off the ground and running smoothly, and we're scouting
locations for a third store. Perhaps once that one gets established, we can slow down a bit, but
right now we can't afford to. This market has become extremely competitive, and our success
comes from staying on top and ahead of the competition.” Harry raised his eyebrows slightly. He
felt like he was back in one of his classrooms, getting a lecture on economics or something.

“Quite impressive there, Fred. I never knew you two were so completely interested in business,”
Harry commented.

“We *did* drop out of school to start one,” George pointed out.

“Yeah,” Harry chuckled, “with the parting line, `Give her hell from us, Peeves.' Not exactly
indicative of your bright futures in business, was it?”

“And everyone expected you to go major in business at a Muggle university?” Fred asked.

“Touché,” Harry responded. “It certainly has been interesting, since the end of the war.”

“And profitable,” George smiled.

“I realized that,” Harry replied, dryly. There definitely was enough visual evidence. “How are
you two handling yourselves? Investments, or just saving all of it?”

“A little of both, actually,” Fred responded. “We do need some readily available capital to
purchase the real estate for our new location, but other than the galleons we've set aside for
that, much of our profits are invested in the development of our products as well as some Muggle
toy manufacturers, believe it or not.”

Harry nodded. “I'm actually not surprised. As savvy as you too are, I kind of expected
something like that, really.”

George suddenly started laughing, and both Harry and Fred looked at him curiously. “Well, this
is fascinating,” he said, after calming down.

“What is?” Harry asked.

“The three of us discussing our business with any kind of seriousness—talking about investments
and portfolios. Four years ago, could you have imagined this?”

Harry finally got the joke, and smiled. “I suppose not. But that was a different time. Our
priorities were elsewhere…”

“Yeah,” Fred added, “Harry was saving the world from the bloody Dark Tosser and we were still
wet behind the ears. Now…our Boy Who Lived has been through four years very few wizards or witches
have ever considered and we're the second most profitable Wizarding business in Britain.”

“Oh? Which one is first?” Harry queried.

George looked at him oddly. “*The Quibbler*, of course.”

“The Quibbler?! No, you're joking,” Harry said. Fred and George weren't smiling,
though.

“No, my brother is not lying, for once. *The Quibbler* has been revamped since you've
been gone, and is now wildly popular.”

“Remarkable…” Harry said.

“They reduced the amount of tabloid news and report much more accurately and objectively on some
very relevant things. Seems like old man Lovegood has become very interested in politics and how
our society is actually run,” George supplied.

“It doesn't hurt that one of the most striking witches in Britain is a reporter for the
rag,” Fred commented, and George nodded, smirking.

“Who?” Harry asked.

“Luna,” Fred said.

Harry took a second to process everything he had just heard. Beyond the various intricacies over
what was the most profitable business in Wizarding Britain, his attention latched onto Luna being
one of the most striking witches on the island. When had that happened? The last time he had seen
Luna was, again, the Christmas eighteen months before, and she had been as ethereal as
usual…nothing too amazing, but certainly nothing to scoff at, either. He suddenly wondered
something—

“You're not jealous of your dear brother, are you?” Harry asked, laughing at the same
time.

Fred and George looked offended, and responded at the same time. “We could never be—”

“Jealous of dear Ronald—”

“But some of the things Luna says—”

“Are positively amazing, especially when—”

“They are not about Ronald's penis.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Harry stopped them, holding up his hands, trying to contain even more uproarious
laughter. “That's more information than I ever wanted to hear.”

Fred shrugged. “You will just have to hear some of it for yourself,” he said. The door to the
shop opened then, and all three of them looked over as gaggle of witches and wizards crowded into
the shop. Seemed like the morning rush was beginning, so Harry quickly put a glamour charm back on
himself.

“Don't feel like dealing with people today,” Harry said, in response to their raised
eyebrows. “I do have to be getting on to the bank, anyway.”

“Alright,” Fred said.

“It was nice seeing you, Harry,” George said. “Don't be a stranger, Mr. Silent Partner.”

“I won't,” Harry replied, nodding and turning away.

“You mind if we spread the word that you're back?” Fred asked. “You know, just between our
family and friends?” Harry paused and thought about it for a moment, and then shrugged.

“Go ahead,” he said, and waved over his shoulder. “I'll be seeing you,” he added, and
continued on his way. The shoppers thankfully did not recognize him through is rather simple
glamour charm, and he exited the store into the Alley. There were a few more people wandering
about, but he paid them no mind as he headed toward the large white structure of the bank.

As he ascended the marble steps in front of the main entrance, his glamour faded, and he stopped
for a moment. He could feel a light buzz of magic along his nerves, so the goblins must have added
some kind of anti-concealment charm since the last time he'd been there. Shrugging, and
unworried because no other witches or wizards were near him, he continued up the steps and through
the rather imposing entrance.

Immediately inside were two surly looking goblin guards, also new additions to the bank. They
glanced at him and, sensing no threat or possibly even recognizing him, returned to their watch.
The lobby was empty except for the goblin tellers and a few more of the small creatures behind
various desks. Harry looked around for a moment, and then went to a desk labeled `Account
Management.'

The goblin glanced up and seemed to frown, returning his eyes to his work, but then did a sort
of double take. He must have recognized Harry.

“Good morning, Lord Potter-Black. What can Gringotts do for you today?”

Harry winced at the official title. He had never really felt like a Lord. “Good morning, Shank,”
Harry replied, using the name he saw on a small placard in front of the goblin. The goblin's
features remained unchanged, but Harry thought he might have seen a twinge of something in his eyes
at the use of his name. “I was wondering if I could speak with my account manager?”

“Of course, Lord Potter-Black. Give me a moment to summon him.” The goblin waited for
confirmation from Harry, who nodded, and then disappeared through a door directly behind the desk.
Harry stood there for a few moments, considering how the interaction with that goblin had just
gone.

Shank had seemed slightly surprised at the use of his name, and had been unusually accommodating
the entire time. His memories of goblins were that they were rather angsty creatures, prone to
drastic mood swings in a matter of seconds if something was said they didn't agree with. Harry
understood that because he was officially Lord Potter-Black, he commanded *some* respect from
the goblins, but he didn't want them to think he assumed he was above them. There was enough
bigotry left in the world following Voldemort's demise to do away with at least one form.

The door opened then and Shank followed by a very familiar looking goblin came through.

“Lord Potter-Black, this is your account manager—”

“Griphook,” Harry interrupted Shank, hoping not to offend him too much. On the contrary, both
goblins were visibly surprised to learn that Harry knew the second goblin's name.

“Yes, how did you…?” Shank asked.

“He was the first goblin I ever met,” Harry said, smiling at the distant memory. That had been
the day Hagrid had introduced him to the magical world.

“Interesting,” Shank muttered, and waved to Griphook. There was a curious goblin smile on his
face as he turned toward Harry.

“I'm impressed that you would remember my name, Lord Potter-Black,” the goblin said. “Please
follow me through this door and we can address any issues you have with your accounts,” he said,
and retreated through the door. Harry followed, noticing as it shut behind him without a word from
anyone, and fell in step behind Griphook as they traveled down a well-lit, somewhat ornate
corridor. Doors lined both sides of the hallway, probably leading to offices, and Griphook stopped
outside of one after a short time.

“Here we are,” he said, and opened the door. Inside was a cozy office, with a desk that had a
placard reading Griphook on it. The goblin took a seat behind the desk and motioned for Harry to
sit in one of the comfortable chairs opposite him.

“It is actually most convenient that you've come here today, Lord Potter-Black. In your
absence, several things regarding the estates of Albus Dumbledore and Sirius Black have come to our
attention, though you've only recently just finished your magical maturation, which these items
stipulated.”

Harry was slightly taken aback for a moment, as he processed the new information, but the first
thing he needed to do was eliminate his bloody title from their conversation. Then, and only then,
would he allow his brain to wrap itself around what the goblin had just said.

“Please, Griphook, call me Harry. Lord Potter-Black takes far too long to say, and is only the
result of the deaths of some fine people…”

Griphook said nothing, considering Harry with his small beady eyes, but then nodded. “As you
wish, Harry. Though I must say you are a most unusual wizard.”

“How so?”

“Not only do you know my name and address me by it, but you prefer that I use your given name,
as well. Most wizards and witches do not take the time for such niceties,” Griphook responded. He
was eyeing Harry oddly.

Harry smiled a bit. “And even though most wizards or witches probably consider themselves above
you and your kin, they still trust you with their money and control of their assets. Seems a bit
hypocritical?”

“Indeed, Harry,” Griphook responded.

“Welcome to the Wizarding world…full of hypocrites,” Harry returned. Again, he knew he was
cynical and jaded, but it was mostly true. There was no reason for the poor treatment the goblins
garnered from much of the magical population, especially considering they were their bankers. Harry
shook his head briefly at the sad irony.

“Yes,” the goblin said. “In any case, let us continue with your business, though in a much more
pleasant manner than I am used to. Both Albus Dumbledore and Sirius Black left provisions in their
wills that were kept secret until your magical maturity, which according this,” Griphook stated,
looking at a piece of parchment, “was only three days ago. So, as you can see, your timing is
impeccable.”

Harry was confused. Magical maturity? Why had he never heard of that before? It was clearly
something of importance in the Wizarding world, but he had been ignorant of it. He sighed slightly,
considering everything that he did *not* know about the world he supposedly saved.

“And those provisions are?”

Griphook smiled at Harry, baring his goblin fangs. “Not so fast, Harry. First you must verify
what this parchment says. We must be sure that you have indeed reached your maturity before moving
forward.”

“And how do I do that?” Harry asked.

“See that panel on the wall behind you?” Griphook asked. Harry turned and saw a section of the
nondescript wall that was shiny and metallic. It looked like there was some kind of runic marking
on it. He turned back and nodded at his account manager.

“Simply fire your most powerful stunner into the panel, and the runes within will analyze your
magical core. If they acknowledge your maturity, we can proceed with the wills.”

“Ok…” Harry stated, slightly dubious. He was wondering why he had never heard of any of this,
especially since his best friend…or possibly something more…was the most brilliant witch in
generations.

Griphook made an odd sound in his throat that Harry could only assume was goblin laughter.
“Don't worry, Harry, this is normal procedure. I see that you have never been told any of this,
though.”

“No, Griphook, I haven't, and I'm wondering why,” Harry mused, but stood and drew his
wand. He positioned himself in line with the panel, about 15 yards away, and pointed his wand at
it. He centered himself, gathering power in a very familiar though long dormant sensation from his
core, and took a deep breath. The tip of his wand began to glow red as the word for the stunner
slid across his consciousness.

Albeit Harry was oblivious to it, ripples of magical energy began to flow through the room.
Magic arced between the ornate rafters near the ceiling, leaving the smell of ozone. Fully charged
now, because Griphook had told Harry to use his most powerful stunner, he set himself.

“*Stupefy!*” he said, surprised as his arm bucked back violently. The surge of energy
forced him a step back, and he watched, alarmed, as a violent dark red mass of magical substance
sizzled across the room. It seared the very air, sending an acrid smell to his nose. Random red
bolts of magical discharge speared out from the main source, but Harry barely had time to consider
that as the stunner splashed against the panel, literally shaking the room. A cold gong-like tone
sounded out, immediately reminding him of the time Dumbledore dueled Voldemort at the Ministry, and
then everything settled. He let his magic return to its dormant state, and the supercharged
atmosphere of the room died away.

The panel had a large black scorch mark on it, and unless he was seeing things, the wall behind
it had caved slightly. He had never produced a spell that powerful; he hadn't had reason to
test his magic since the final battle with Voldemort, and he knew none of the spells he'd cast
that day looked like that stunner had.

He turned back to Griphook, who was looking very bemused, or at least as bemused as a goblin
could. Harry sat back down and waited for Griphook.

“The tone you heard indicated that you are indeed magically mature, so we can proceed. Let me
just say, however, that you are the first wizard in a very long time to damage the sensor.”

“Sorry,” Harry said, but the goblin waved it off.

“Do not worry about it, Harry. Now, whose provisions would you like to hear first?”

“Uh…Dumbledore's, I guess,” Harry replied, really at a loss for words. What could the
Headmaster have left him?

Griphook picked up a parchment and began to read from it: “I, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian
Dumbledore, being of sound state and mind, leave one Harry James Potter-Black items within my
personal suite off the Headmaster's Office at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
They will become available to you once you reach your magical maturity.”

Harry sighed. He was afraid of something like that, though the thought hadn't actually
formed in his mind until after Griphook had started reading.

“So I *have* to go to Hogwarts to retrieve these items?” Harry asked.

Griphook nodded, setting the parchment down and picking up another. “Yes, as that is how he
stipulated within the document. Now, are you ready for Sirius Black's?” Resignedly, Harry
nodded.

“I, Sirius Orion Black, being of sound state and mind, leave one Harry James Potter-Black three
items upon your magical maturity: a magical painting of myself, which will be moved to Potter Manor
when you reach your magical maturity; my charmed motorbike, currently stored within one of the
Black vaults; and access to both the Black and Potter family libraries, the latter of which your
parents entrusted to me.”

Silence fell across the office for a few moments as Harry considered all that had just been said
and done. He would have to make a trip to Hogwarts at some point, something he had told himself
he'd never do again, but now it looked like he would have to in order to find out what
Dumbledore had left him. Though the pain from the incident had long since faded, he could still
hear the hate in Snape's voice as he called out the curse that killed the Headmaster.

And he had to wonder why Sirius had waited for his magical maturity—a concept of which Harry was
completely unfamiliar with until five minutes prior—to bequeath the named items. The motorbike he
could fathom, but the painting and libraries were things he possibly could have used to end the war
sooner. He would have to question the painting at some point, which brought him to his next
question.

“Potter Manor is one of the properties I own, correct?” he asked. The goblin grunted an
affirmative, and pulled another parchment from a folder.

“As of right now, the Potter estate controls five properties. Two have residences and three are
just land—prime real estate, however. And the Black estate controls eleven properties, with three
having residences, two having businesses, and six being just land.”

Harry frowned in thought for a moment. He had visited Gringotts before he'd left for America
back in 1998, but he couldn't remember much of this information. He wondered if it had been
withheld for some reason.

“What are the businesses?”

“Quality Quidditch Supplies and The Leaky Cauldron,” Griphook stated.

“I *own* the Leaky Cauldron?!” Harry asked, incredulous.

“It is not that simple, Harry,” the goblin said. Harry sensed that if Griphook were dealing with
any other wizard, he would have been frustrated by now. Harry could tell he was admirably trying to
contain his annoyance at Lord Potter-Black's ignorance.

“You own the land The Leaky Cauldron and Quality Quidditch Supplies are built on, and you also
control a majority interest in both businesses. You may not know this, but the Leaky Cauldron near
here is only one of many similarly named establishments throughout Wizarding Europe.

“Quality Quidditch Supplies is a subsidiary of Nimbus Racing, and your majority control of QQS
allows you a spot on the Nimbus Racing board of directors. You have not claimed that position yet,
though,” Griphook finished, glancing at a parchment.

Harry was a little overwhelmed. Why had he never been told any of this before? The only thing he
was told before he'd left Britain was that he controlled a few Muggle businesses, and that his
net worth had been something like thirteen million galleons.

“Why have I never been informed of any of this?” Harry asked, the business major in him already
mulling over his assets.

Griphook grinned, exposing those pointy goblin teeth. “Because you never asked, Harry. As your
account manager, I'm obligated to provide you with the information you request, and almost
nothing more. Wills are one of the few items we actually actively pursue clients about, though not
necessarily immediately.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “So your time is worth more than my natural ignorance of the
Wizarding world?”

If anything, the grin on the goblin's face widened. “Not at all, Harry.”

“What if I supplemented your Gringotts salary—would you be willing to keep me updated on the
status of my estates, as well as answer any questions I might have?”

“Now you are speaking my language,” Griphook said.

“How much does Gringotts pay you per week?” Harry asked.

“40 galleons,” his account manager responded. Harry sensed the avarice in his voice, but it was
completely acceptable. Greed was something he knew how to deal with.

“I'll double that, making it 80 per week. Deal?”

“80 more per week,” Griphook responded. Harry smirked—the goblin was falling right into his
trap.

“60, to make it an even 100,” he counter offered. Griphook considered it for a moment, and then
nodded. The goblin had done exactly as Harry had expected. He had almost offered 60 at first, but
then realized the goblin would want something higher. Oh, how Harry loved business.

“Ok, then, do whatever is necessary to seal the deal, as they say,” Harry said. Griphook looked
at him strangely.

“You trust me to draw up the arrangement correctly?”

“Well, you *are* in control of all of my assets—if I can't trust you to draw up a
simple business arrangement, then what can I trust you with?” Harry questioned.

“I see your point, Harry, though you are a most unconventional human. I hope you do not mind if
some of this conversation makes its way back to Ragnok, our director?”

Harry shrugged. “As long as my words are not misrepresented.” Griphook nodded.

“So what else is on your mind?”

“Could you just give me a general summary of my accounts?”

“Of course,” the goblin said, now much more willing to help. Harry smiled at what a little money
could do. Reading off another parchment, Griphook said, “You were not far off when you said your
net worth is thirteen million galleons, except for the fact that your *liquid* net worth at
the moment is just under fourteen million. That includes both the Potter and Black estates.
Non-monetary assets, including properties and businesses in both the magical and Muggle worlds,
raise that total to nearly twenty-three million.”

“Ok,” Harry intoned, nodding. His assets had grown in the last four years, but he supposed that
was reasonable. Economies usually boomed after victories in wars, and he apparently had a vested
interest in many intrinsic facets of the Wizarding world.

“Now, where is Potter Manor and how do I get there?”

“The Manor is located somewhere in the Scottish highlands, though I do not know its exact
location since it is unplottable,” Griphook responded. He then opened a drawer in his desk and
pulled out two small rings. One was a simple gold band with a moderately sized ruby, and the other
was an equally as simple silver band with similarly sized amethyst.

“These rings signify your lordship over both the Potter and Black estates, and again you can now
wear them because of your magical maturity. The Potter ring doubles as a portkey to the Manor, with
a keyword only you can know and activate,” Griphook explained. Harry reached out and took the
rings, slipping them both on his right ring finger. They automatically resized to fit him, and
suddenly he knew what the activation word for the portkey was…funny how things worked like that,
and even funnier that the activation word was `friend'.

“Ok…” Harry said, taking in even more new information. “My final question for you today is about
something your may or may not be familiar with. Do you know anything about agents for Muggle
sports?”

Griphook was silent for a moment, and then nodded. “Yes, I believe I know to what you are
referring. They act as legal go-betweens between the player and the team, correct?”

“Yes, that's it,” Harry affirmed.

“We outsource those issues to a Muggle firm which, coincidentally, you have some financial
interest in. Logan & Associates is the name of their enterprise. If I may ask, what prompted
the question?”

“You may, and I need an agent to deal with the New York Yankees. I played college baseball while
I was away from Britain, and they expressed interest in me,” Harry said, unsure of how familiar the
goblin would be with some of what he'd just said, and also unsure how he felt about this whole
baseball thing. He wanted to hear the Yankees out, though.

“Suffice it to say, you need a professional sports agent?” Griphook asked, clarifying.

“Yes.”

“I will contact them and set something up for you, if that is acceptable?” Harry nodded. “I will
let you know the details in a day or two, and you will probably have to come back into Gringotts or
go to their firm for a meeting.”

“That's fine,” Harry said.

“Any other questions, Harry?”

Harry considered everything for a moment, which was a lot, and shook his head. “I think that
about covers it,” he said, standing and extending a hand across the desk. Griphook eyed it for a
moment, and then looked to Harry's face. After another few seconds, the goblin shook hands with
Harry and stood as well.

“I cannot tell you the last time a wizard shook my hand, Lord Potter-Black,” Griphook said.

“Back to the formalities, are we?” Harry asked, though he was smiling at the goblin.

The goblin grinned back. “Our meeting is over, so yes.”

“Very well, Account Manager Griphook. I will not intrude upon any more of your time,” Harry
said. “You do not even need to escort me out,” he continued, smiling even more. The goblin looked
curiously at him, but his vision shifted as he touched the ring portkey with his wand and whispered
the activation word.

It took Harry a moment to reestablish his bearings; when he did, he saw he had been transported
to a rugged country lane, sloping gently up through a large meadow toward some iron gates. Beyond
and further up the dirt road, he could see a large house, presumably the Potter Manor. The weather
was wonderful, though a little chilly because of the hour of the morning and high latitude.

He started up the lane toward the gate, taking in more of his surroundings. Far to his left and
right, where the meadow ended, forests spread even further, as far as his unaided eyes could see.
Beyond the gate and toward one side of the house was a pristine lake, reflecting the clear blue
sky. The gate opened for him as he approached, and as he went through he saw a Quidditch pitch had
been built on the opposite side of the house. The expansive property was overgrown, though not
terribly so. Harry wondered when the estate had been occupied last.

The closer he drew to the house, the more its proportions impressed him. The small dirt lane he
walked on widened and evened out as he came toward the house, and he stopped about fifty yards away
to view the structure. It reminded him of a cross between a non-gloomy Grimmauld Place and a
smaller, more airy Hogwarts. It was at least three stories, from what he could tell, and it had
been kept in immaculate condition. There were several large balconies on the third level, with a
very significant veranda over the main entrance of the house.

His first general impression was one of sunlight and large open spaces, because of the many big
windows and balconies, and he continued on toward the door. He saw no way to open it once he stood
in front of it, although there was small circular hole where a doorknob would usually go.
Shrugging, he placed the tip of his wand in it, and the hairs on his forearms stood up as he felt a
magical discharge from somewhere. The door clicked open, and Harry stepped into *his*
house.

Harry was suitably impressed, because the foyer was large and inviting, but also slightly
opulent. The wealth was disguised, though, and he was glad his namesake hadn't flaunted their
good fortune. The foyer reached all the way to the top of the house, some forty feet, and as he
craned his neck he saw a large chandelier above him. A large central staircase rose in front of
him, splitting at a landing and continuing to rise toward opposite sides of the house. There were
landings for each floor.

To his left and right, there were doors that led to other parts of the house. He decided to go
left first, and found himself in a humongous parlor. It was a combination sitting and recreation
room it seemed, and his breath caught at what he saw hanging on one of the walls. He rushed over
there, and confronted three images that had haunted his nightmares for years.

Two paintings, one of Lily and James and another of Sirius, stared back at him. Harry eyed them
for a moment; his heart racing as memories soared along his nerves, but something struck him as
odd. The people were not moving, though their poses suggested they had been at some point. James
was twirling Lily, and Sirius was looking toward their portrait, laughing.

Unless they weren't magical portraits, which he found highly unlikely considering the
information he had just learned from Sirius's will, something was wrong with them. He looked at
them for another minute or two, marveling at his parents and his godfather, and then turned away.
He would have to ask Hermione why they weren't moving, because he would love to sit and chat
with them for hours.

Moving through another door, he found himself in a casual dining and cooking area. It seemed to
have many of the modern conveniences most Muggle homes had, and again he wondered how long the
house had stood unoccupied. He reasoned that his parents were the last people to have lived here,
though that would have been more than twenty years ago. Someone had updated the house's
furnishings since then.

His eyes were then drawn toward the table, upon which a plain white sheet of paper sat. He
walked over there and sat down, sliding the paper toward him so he could read it. It said:

*Master Harry*

*This is your elf, Hatty. I have waited many years for you to return to your house, but I am
afraid my time has run out. My old age prevents me from welcoming you back into the home your
parents loved so much, but I have taken it upon myself to keep the house in tiptop shape over the
years. I am the last of your parents' elves, so you will need to find new ones, if you choose
to. I am sorry that I could not meet you.*

*Farewell*

*Hatty*

Harry stared at the note for at least minute, trying to understand what had happened. During the
twenty years the house had stood empty, the elves his parents owned had died off, with the last one
being this Hatty. He studied the note once again, and noticed the prose sounded nothing like the
way Dobby or Winky spoke. That led him to assume that his parents had educated their elves, which
would surely warm Hermione's heart.

He sat in the comfortable chair at his new dining table, and contemplated everything that had
happened. He had only been back in Britain for a few hours, and so much had already occurred. He
wondered what other surprises this day and the following ones had to offer?

-->



13. The Heart of the Matter
---------------------------



**Bearings**

Disclaimer/Author's Notes: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. I just realized that the next
several chapters all take place during one day (as well as the last few). I promise once this day
ends things will accelerate a bit. This chapter attempts to fix some of HBP's shortcomings, in
my mind.

*Hope dangles on a string
Like slow spinning redemption
Winding in and winding out
The shine of it has caught my eye*

Dashboard Confessional

*Vindicated*

Chapter Eight: The Heart of the Matter

May 17th, 2002 (continued)

“Well, at first he seemed to think I was someone else,” Hermione said, motioning for her mother
to follow her in to the living room. Once there, they both settled into comfortable positions in
the recliners.

“Someone else?” her mum asked.

“Yeah, he was calling out `Erin' and running up to me,” Hermione continued. She brushed some
hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ear. “I thought I recognized the voice but I was
looking into my cab at that point, but when I did finally look out it really was him.” She sighed
softly.

“He just totally stopped for a moment—his eyes were glassy—but then they cleared and he looked
really surprised to see me, almost like he couldn't believe it.”

Jane laughed. “He probably was! He hadn't seen you in a long time…and let's face it,
Hermione. You've grown up a bit in the four years.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked, curious.

“Well, just look at you. You're in much better shape than you ever were at school. Must have
been a real eye-opener for Harry,” she explained, winking at Hermione, who blushed slightly.

“Oh mum, come on. I saw him that Christmas, and I haven't changed *that* much since
then.”

Jane shrugged and rested her hands across her tummy. “Think what you want, dear,” she said,
enigmatically.

Hermione had wondered what Harry was thinking in that first second or two when he seemed to be
quite far away, and now that she was reliving the experience with her mother, she couldn't help
wondering again. She would have to ask Harry at some point.

“Anyways,” her mum said, breaking across her thoughts, “what happened after that? Were there
fireworks and a spectacular kiss, or was it awkward?” Hermione noticed a twinkle in her
mother's eyes. She loved every minute of this.

“I think you're enjoying this too much, mum.”

“What? You just spent two weeks in America with Mr. McGorgeous—”

“Mum!”

Jane laughed. “Well, I'm right! He's damn easy on the eyes, Hermione. So, come on, how
did it go?”

Hermione mumbled under her breath for a moment, trying to misdirect her mind before it could
call up memories of what Harry and her had done in bed…that morning? Was it still the same day? By
date it wasn't, she realized, but they had both been up since then, more or less. And she
failed miserably, because now that was all she could think about. His fingers rubbing over—

She shifted in her seat. Damn him! He wasn't even here and he was making her wet. She needed
to find her suddenly absent self-control, though a part of her, probably the one that was leaking
at the moment, wondered if she had ever really had any.

“There were neither fireworks nor any immediate awkwardness,” she finally said, answering her
mum's earlier question. She discreetly passed a hand over lap, vanishing away the evidence of
her rebellious thoughts. She thought she saw her mother smirk, however. Just how perceptive was
Jane Granger?

“I find it hard to believe that it was an uneventful reunion,” Jane said.

“Not exactly uneventful, either. Naturally, we bantered back and forth for a bit, but then we
started talking about why he never wrote back and where I would be staying.”

“Why *didn't* he write back?”

“He forgot,” Hermione answered, frowning slightly. She held up a hand when her mother opened her
mouth. “It's alright, I'm over it. I can almost understand why that happened, now.” She
then grinned. “And of course I directly told him that I would be staying in his room.”

Jane's eyebrows shot up. “Oh really, Miss Hermione Jane?”

“There a problem, mum?” Hermione asked, raising her one of her own eyebrows.

Jane laughed and said, “No, of course not, but I would have loved to see his reaction.”

“He wasn't exactly against it—”

“I wonder why—”

“—but he wasn't totally comfortable at first, either,” Hermione said, ignoring her
mother's mumbled words. “I conjured a second bed, as there was plenty of space, and he
didn't really have a problem after that.”

“Meet any of his friends?”

“Yeah…just about all of his teammates and the Erin he thought I was.”

“Teammates?” Jane asked, confused.

Hermione realized her mother didn't know about the baseball, and what it possibly meant for
Harry's future. She didn't know if she could tell her mother all of it right now, without
talking more with Harry about it. She settled on as little information as possible.

“He played baseball for his school,” she said.

“I bet your father would love to talk to him about that,” Jane said, rolling her eyes in
Hermione's direction.

Laughing, Hermione agreed. Her father was a strange one—and Englishman who preferred baseball.
Men like that were few and very far between in the UK.

“So this Erin girl, she looked like you?”

Hermione shook her head. “She's much prettier.”

Jane was silent for a few seconds and then said, “Why do you do that to yourself, Hermione?”

“Do what?”

“Belittle yourself. Harry obviously thought you were very similar to his friend—which is an
issue entirely of itself—so you should assume that you are at least her equal in that
department.”

“But I'm not, mum,” Hermione argued, slightly frustrated now. She'd had this very same
argument with her mother many times over the years, though with different catalysts each time. Erin
was just the newest in a long line.

“Look at my bushy hair,” she said, running her hand through her hair; “and my buck teeth,” she
said pointing at mouth; “and my flat chest and small hips.”

“Hermione!” her mother scolded. “Stop that! You haven't had `bushy' hair since you were
eighteen…you just had to grow into it. You fixed your own teeth, if you'll remember correctly.
And as for your chest and your hips, you've filled out into a very good looking young woman in
the past few years.” She paused for a moment.

“But—”

“I'd wager that if Harry were here, after he got over his embarrassment, he'd agree with
everything I just said. And then he'd probably say something about how none of that mattered to
him, and how you'd always be his friend…or something else…no matter what.”

“You don't know what Harry would say,” Hermione said, quietly.

“Sure I do. He's the only person you ever talked about when you were home from Hogwarts, and
if you remember our little discussion before you left for America, I *do* know some of what
you think about each other.”

“Mum…”

“Hermione, I don't know what it will take to make you see your own self worth, but I have a
good idea it is that young man that just left a few minutes ago.”

She wanted to cry, but knew she couldn't. Harry was *hers*, no matter what, so she
couldn't argue with her mother. The end of her two weeks in America had been amazing, for both
the physicality and deeper connection she had felt…

Hermione wanted Harry to be in her arms at that moment, but he was off doing who knew what. He
was being Harry Potter, without even trying to, and she knew it. She just hoped that she fit in
there somewhere, because there was really no turning back now. She had, at some point during the
last twenty-four hours, become totally invested in her longtime bestfriend.

The silence stretched over the room for a while longer, and then Hermione finally looked up at
her mother. Jane was scrutinizing her closely. Hermione shifted again in her seat and just looked
at her mum, saying nothing.

“There is one thing that I've always wondered,” Jane asked, contemplatively. “Harry really
was the only person you ever talked about, except during your sixth year. Your other friend, Ron,
became your focus for a short time. Why?”

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. A truly obscene and absurd image
of a menage a trios with Ron, Harry, and herself flit across her consciousness—Ron was at her face
and Harry was between her legs—and she couldn't suppress the bemused smile that etched across
her lips.

“Smiling now? That's good,” her mother commented.

“Just thought of something ridiculous, is all,” Hermione said, and then thought about her
response. “How much do you remember of what I told you about my fourth, fifth, and six years?”

“Let's see here…Harry was involved in some kind of dangerous tournament and you really
wanted him to ask you to that ball in fourth year…Harry was angsty and withdrawn and you really
wanted to snog him senseless fifth year…and—here's the part I don't get—Harry faded to the
background and you went chasing after Ron your sixth year.”

Had she told her mother that much? Hermione honestly couldn't remember, but her observations
were spot on nonetheless. Mothers were too insightful sometimes!

“Something like that,” Hermione said, dryly. “I'm glad you've reduced all of our various
problems down to a sentence or two.”

“I try,” Jane grinned.

“You realize that what I'm about to tell you I've never told anyone, right?” Hermione
asked.

“That's what I'm here for, you know,” her mum responded. “I'm sure Harry will hear
it at some point, also.”

Ignoring her mother's presumptions, Hermione continued: “I think I knew from the moment
Harry went off to face Voldemort alone in first year that I loved him…or at least whatever my
twelve-year-old brain considered love to be. And it wasn't because he was the legendary Boy Who
Lived. It was because he jumped on the back of a troll to save my life, someone that the rest of
the school had completely forgotten about; because he actually wanted and needed my help and
friendship; and because he would sacrifice his own life to save people that didn't even
appreciate him.

“It was pretty dormant until the end of third year, when he and I embarked on our little
time-traveling adventure. There has been almost nothing more exhilarating or terrifying than
meddling with the fabric of time with Harry, and then to see him fight over one hundred Dementors
with his Patronus, at thirteen no less, was truly amazing. The ride back on Buckbeak, clinging to
him…I'll never forget. He loved every minute of the flight, and I loved every second of holding
on to him,” Hermione said, the story now flowing from her lips. She wasn't even looking at
anything in particular. She was seeing things as they had happened in her mind's eye.

“Fourth year came around and he somehow got stuck in the middle of the Triwizard Tournament. I
guess I should have expected it, but I was terrified for him. It was meant for seventh years and
was very challenging for even them. I helped him as much as I could, even acting as an intermediary
between him and Ronald when the jealousy thing happened—that got old, fast—both because I was his
friend and I wanted to and also because I had hoped he would start seeing me as something more. The
Yule Ball was incentive for that, but the closer it got, the less hope I had. Viktor Krum finally
asked me, and I had to accept because I had no idea what Harry was doing.

“Right around then I realized that Ron liked me, or thought he did, which led to the disaster
after the Yule Ball, but that was more my fault than his. Sure, I was angry that Ron was so
insensitive, but I was angrier with myself for not asking Harry. He'd clearly had a bad time
with his date, and I just knew that if he had gone with me, we both would have had a wonderful
time. The third task was a complete catastrophe and I thought for sure that Harry was dead, so when
he suddenly showed up with Cedric's body I was understandably overwhelmed. The year ended
before I could really form a coherent thought in his presence.

“That summer worsened things, if anything, because of the Dementors that attacked him. When he
showed up at Grimmauld Place, I forgot myself for a short time and launched myself at him. It was a
hug of love, not one of desperation, which he thought it was. Of course, my affection toward Harry,
platonic or not, made Ron jealous—again—so I fought with him most of the year about that. Harry was
still adjusting to witnessing Cedric's death and the rebirth of Voldemort, so he was having
attitude problems all year. Cho Chang—some girl—and he had something for a little while that year,
but I'm still not sure exactly what it was. He must have thought Ron and I were already warming
up by then, because he went to Cho instead of me for comfort.”

Hermione smirked and said, “It goes without saying that ended in disaster…just like the year
did, actually. The battle in the Department of Mysteries was stupid and reckless, but somehow we
weren't all killed.” She focused on her mother, who had been listening attentively the entire
time.

“I've never thought of telling anyone this, but when that curse cut me down, it didn't
knock me out right away. The pain was excruciating, but I could fight it just enough to hear the
sheer and utter panic in Harry's voice when he saw me fall. It was unreal. I remember thinking
before I passed out that possibly he and I had a chance, which was an odd thought considering the
circumstances.

“Anyways, when I was recovering I became so frustrated with everything that had happened that I
guess I let my hormones or whatever take control. I was angry with everyone, but Harry always
seemed to be there to take it out on. I yelled at him for using the potions textbook, for trying to
comfort me after an historic row with Ron, and for leaving me in the dark for so long about was
really going on in his life. I was trying to put distance between him and I for reasons I can't
fathom, and I also knew that Ron had a crush on me.

“That would have been fine, except I didn't like him in that way and whenever we were
together we fought uncontrollably. Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley will always be remembered
for shaking the very foundations of the castle with their arguments,” she said, with little
humor.

“And what will Hermione Granger and Harry Potter be remembered for?” Jane asked, interrupting
the flow of the story for the first time.

“I'm not sure,” Hermione answered. “I don't think that part has been written yet. What I
*do* know is that by the end of sixth year, things had changed. Ron and I had both
acknowledged that we weren't going to work, but by then he'd had his eyes on Luna anyway.
Harry broke up with Ginny the day of Dumbledore's funeral, and that was inevitable because
Neville and her had always seemed drawn toward each other. I think she just needed to get over her
crush on the Boy Who Lived…”

----------

*Hermione bid Ron, Luna, and Neville farewell and exited the compartment into the interior
hallways of the Express. She had no idea where Ginny and Harry were, and she intended to find them.
The return journey from Hogwarts had been a subdued affair so far, understandably so though because
of the funeral earlier that morning. She still found it hard to believe that Headmaster Dumbledore
was really dead, and perhaps if she had listened to Harry at all during the year he wouldn't
be…*

*She could beat herself up over her guilt later, however. Right now, she wanted to find Harry
and make sure he wasn't doing the same thing. She couldn't imagine what it must have been
like to watch as that bastard Snape killed Dumbledore, but she knew that it would only add to her
best friend's nightmares.*

*Slowly, she made her way back through the train, passing nary a soul. Every student was
cooped up in a compartment, surrounded by his or her closest friends. They were seeking comfort in
this time of despair, and little else. As she neared the rear of the long scarlet train, occupied
compartments grew few and far between, and she still hadn't found Harry. She was beginning to
worry that for some reason he wasn't on the train, but when she came to the very last one, she
found him.*

*She looked through the glass panel in the door at her longtime friend. He was on the far side
of the compartment, cheek resting against the window, staring vacantly and forlornly at the passing
countryside. All the life had gone out of him, and he was slumped over a bit. Even his hair,
usually unable to be tamed, had gone limp. Her heart cracked a bit at the sight.*

*Why hadn't she been there more for Harry during the past year? As she went over
everything that had happened during their sixth year in her mind, she became angrier and more
frustrated with herself. How had she just blown him off so casually, after all they'd been
through together? She still had feelings for Harry, and if anything they had gotten stronger during
the past year, somehow. Seeing him like this…she just wanted to curl up with him and make him
believe that everything would be all right.*

*Everything was not all right, however. Dumbledore, the only wizard Voldemort had ever feared,
was dead. The resistance was scattered and would likely fall apart with its leader gone. The
Ministry was floundering in a lack of resources and manpower. On the other hand, Voldemort had
never had more momentum. It seemed like the good side was slowly losing the war, however many
battles they had previously won. And Hermione knew that all of these concerns weighed heavily on
Harry's shoulders, considering the Prophecy and what it meant.*

*She didn't know how he did it—stay sane with so much responsibility on his shoulders. All
of her insecurities of the past year seemed incredibly insignificant when she compared them to what
Harry was going through, and that crack through her heart widened a little. She hadn't been
there for Harry when he needed her most, because she had let her feelings get in the way of
everything. She had wondered why Harry hadn't reciprocated, and had taken out that rage on Ron
over the past year, but she understood now. He had more important things on his mind. She vowed
then and there to help him and be with him, and if something developed there, then so be
it.*

*She slid the door open and slipped in. Harry's eyes went to her for a moment and then he
looked back out of the window. More than anything else, the absence of any greeting for her hurt
her the most; she knew then that the rift between them had grown more than she had
fathomed.*

*“Harry,” Hermione said, softly, sitting next to him on the bench.*

*After a moment: “What is it, Hermione?” There was a resigned sigh underneath his
words.*

*“I've been trying to find you,” she said, laying a hand on his arm. He had taken his
robes off at some point and was wearing jeans and a shirt.*

*“Well, now you've found me,” he said.*

*She fished for what to say for a moment. How could she break through his stupor? “I think
I'm going to come right to Privet Drive with you.”*

*Finally, he turned away from the window and looked at her. His eyes, normally vivacious, were
dull. The green was muted and the pupils were slightly dilated.*

*“You should be with your parents, Hermione.”*

*“I should be with you,” she responded, biting her lip against the unexpected surge of
emotion. She could feel it building up behind her eyes. She* would not *cry right now. Harry
didn't need a weeping girl at the moment, especially one that had drifted away from
him.*

*“What about Ron?” Harry asked, in a neutral tone. “You two looked cozy during the funeral.”
There were no accusations in his voice. He was just stating an observation.*

*“He was a shoulder to lean on, Harry,” Hermione said, wanting to nip this in the bud. “Ron
and I…we were never going to work out, so we decided to keep it as just best friends.”*

*Surprise colored Harry's features momentarily, but it faded away as quickly as it had
come. He had must of really thought she and Ron were together. She wasn't surprised, though,
with how she'd acted all year.*

*“I see,” he eventually said, now staring straight ahead. “Anyways, you should go home and be
with them.”*

*“I told you I would be with you on this, as did Ron,” she reminded him. It sounded too
pleading for her liking, and she could feel that pressure behind her eyes again.*

*“Neither of you have to come to Privet Drive. I could just meet you both at the Burrow after
a week. My relatives are horrible, Hermione. You don't want to meet them.”*

*“All the more reason for me to come,” she responded, tightening her grip on his arm slightly.
“I'd like to finally put them in their place…I* am *of age.”*

*He turned toward her. “Why would you do that?”*

*“Because I care about you, Harry, and I am your friend.”*

*He made no response, instead turning back toward the window again. The feeling behind her
eyes was fighting desperately to get out, and his nonverbal brushing off of her words was enough
impetus for it to do just that. The first tear leaked from the corner of an eye and down her
cheek.*

*“Harry?” she asked, and he must have heard the emotion in her voice, because he looked at her
again. His eyes tracked the progress of the tear, and then returned to her eyes.*

*“Don't cry, Hermione…” It only made the tears come faster.*

*“I'm sorry, Harry,” she said, trying to control herself but finding it difficult. He
looked bewildered for a moment, and then turned slightly so he could wrap his arms around her. A
sob escaped her throat at the tender gesture from her friend, and she returned the embrace. She
curled into his side and put her head against his chest.*

*“For what?” he asked, surprise still in his voice.*

*“For everything,” she cried, trying to avoid totally breaking down in his arms. “For not
listening to you this past year, for being such a bitch toward you, drifting away… There's
really no reason, other than my own stupidity.”*

*“You could never be stupid, Hermione,” he said, calmly. “We all had pressure on us last year,
and none of us are perfect. I wondered what was going on sometimes, but I trusted you enough to
know there was a good reason.”*

*She couldn't form words anymore, and just cried into his chest, shaking both their bodies
with the force of her emotion. Here she was explaining to him that there* was not *a good
reason for what had happened, and he brushed it off and was holding her like nothing had changed.
He literally had the weight of the world on his shoulders and he was comforting her and her trivial
insecurities. Where would she be without Harry Potter? Probably killed by a troll during her first
year.*

*“Oh, Harry,” was all she eventually said, and stayed in his arms for long after.*

*The gentle rocking motion of the train greeted her as she slipped in and out of consciousness
for an indeterminate length of time.*

*Finally, total awareness seeped back into her, and she realized her head was still pressed
into Harry's chest. She tilted it slightly, seeing that he was staring out of the window once
again. He blinked and his attention shifted, and his eyes met hers. The corners of his lips
lifted.*

*“Feel better?” he asked.*

*She didn't move or respond immediately, instead allowing herself a moment of pure bliss,
sheltered and protected and loved in Harry Potter's arms. It couldn't last, though, and she
knew it. Sighing, blowing some hair out of her face, she sat up and withdrew slightly from his
embrace. He let her go.*

*“I guess.”*

*“Hermione…” he said, but trailed off. His eyes turned toward the view, as if looking for
reassurance, and then sought hers.*

*“What is it?” she asked.*

*“If we're really going to do this…this* task*…we need to put whatever has come
between us in the past. You, Ron, and I need to move forward if we have any hope or chance of
really doing this.”*

*“But—”*

*“No buts,” Harry cut her off, and she felt a flicker of something along her nerves. “After
this is all over, we can talk about what's been going on, but until then, we can't afford
distractions.”*

*His voice had changed pitch a little, and that something she had felt could only be his magic
straining to break free. He was passionate about this, and his body responded accordingly. His
`leader' voice did something else to her nerves, but she didn't want to think about that at
moment. The other thing she noticed is that he'd talked about the future as if it could
actually exist. Where had his fatalism run off to? She wasn't complaining, however.*

*“Ok, Harry,” she said, leaning slightly into his side again. “Where are we?”*

*“About an hour from London.”*

*“Wonder what the others are doing?” Hermione asked. He shrugged, and that tingling sensation
within her nervous system subsided. His magic had quieted down. Time passed rather quickly in a
companionable silence, with the light contact between their bodies maintained, and soon enough the
warning whistle for arrival in London sounded. Reluctantly, Hermione stood up to go find her
luggage, pulling Harry along with her.*

----------

“Do you remember that day at the Station?” Hermione asked her mother, breaking the flow of her
story. Jane's eyes cleared and Hermione watched her think about it.

“Yes,” she responded, slowly. “I remember a bit of a row between you and your father and I.”

“Recall what it was about?”

“Oh yes,” Jane said, laughing now. “You wanted to go stay with two *boys* for a week
instead of coming home immediately.”

Hermione smiled from her curled up position in the armchair. The warm feeling from remembering
being in Harry's arms still pooled somewhere near her navel. She continued to tell the
story…

----------

*“We would really like you to come home, Hermione,” her father said, in a tone that indicated
he expected no further argument. He must have forgotten who his daughter was though, because she
wasn't backing down. She would not let Harry suffer through another hour alone with his
relatives, let alone a week.*

*“I will in a week,” she responded, reiterating what she'd already said three or four
times. A staring contest ensued between Dan and her, and in her peripheral vision she saw Ron and
Harry watching the interchange. They had slightly awkward expressions on their faces. Hermione had
heard Mrs. Weasley's words for her son, but he seemed to have prevailed already.*

*“You've just buried your Headmaster, dear,” her mother said, trying to come between the
lorry and brick wall that was her husband and her daughter.*

*“I bloody well know that,” Hermione retorted, too frustrated to care about her language. Her
mother looked shocked and her father's face became even redder.*

*“You will not talk to your mum in such a way!” he said. “I don't know why you think you
have to go with Harry,” he continued, glancing at the black-haired boy, “instead of coming home to
see your parents. We barely see you anymore.”*

*“I'll be home in a week!” she exclaimed, exasperated at her father's obstinacy.
“We're back two weeks early this year, anyway, so what's the problem?”*

*“We're worried about you, Hermione,” her mother said, placing a placating hand on
Dan's arm. He bit back whatever he was going to say. “Your letters this year seemed
awfully…strained.”*

*“Well, they were,” she replied. “That doesn't change the fact that I will be spending a
week with Harry and Ron, and then I will be coming home.” Hermione considered this conversation to
be over with, and glared defiantly at her parents.*

*Dan looked like he wanted to say something further, but he deflated after a moment, shaking
his head. He reached for his daughter, embraced her, and whispered for her to be safe. Jane
lingered after Dan had turned away, and then hugged Hermione. She also whispered for Hermione to be
safe, but added something else after, which made Hermione blush a deep red. She locked eyes with
her mum and nodded. Jane smiled and turned away, catching up to her retreating husband.*

*Ron and Harry slowly wandered over, looking warily at her parents as they left the station.
Both seemed more intently focused on her father, as if there was some universal gene encoding a
fear of girls' fathers.*

*“Everything all right?” Harry asked, as Ron and him flanked her. It was their natural
position, but it had been sometime since it occurred. She almost hugged them both tightly, right
then. They started moving toward the exit.*

*“It is now,” she responded.*

*“So your relatives didn't show up, Harry?” Ron asked.*

*He shrugged. “Guess not.”*

*“How are we getting there then?” their redhead friend asked.*

*“I figured we'd just Apparate into the back yard. There's a high fence around it, so
no one will see us,” Harry answered. Hermione saw red tinge Ron's cheeks.*

*“Uh Harry…I can't Apparate yet…”*

*“Yeah, I know,” Harry responded. “I'll just side-along you for now, but we need to get
you your license soon. Sometime before the wedding would be ideal.”*

*“Side-along, Harry? You sure you can do that?” Hermione asked, skeptical, though a small
voice in her mind reminded her this was Harry Potter, not some* average *wizard.*

*“Sure. I Apparated Dumbledore and I from the south of England to Hogsmeade.” His voice lost
some of its luster toward the end of that statement. Hermione chose not to comment on how unnatural
that ability was for a new Apparator.*

*“You're going to have to side-along us both then,” Hermione pointed out. “I don't
know where your house is.”*

*“It's not my house,” Harry corrected, though he motioned for them to each grab one of his
arms. Hermione rolled her eyes at his naivete.*

*“One at a time, Harry.” He locked eyes with her for a second, looked to see that Ron had
grabbed his arm, and smirked at her. Before she could do anything, he grabbed her hand and she
underwent the compression-like feeling of Apparition. There was a faint crackle of magical
discharge as the three left the station, but no pop.*

*The first thing that greeted her returning vision in the backyard of his house was a small
bolt of energy, arcing out from the three of them and snapping toward the antenna on the roof. It
faded as quickly as she had seen it. She looked over at Harry and Ron, seeing that they were all in
one piece. Harry hardly seemed affected—under normal circumstances a triple Apparition would have
knocked the wind out of a witch or wizard. Harry wasn't normal, obviously.*

*“You make that look easy, mate,” Ron said. Harry shrugged, giving his best male friend his
lop-sided smile. It faded, and he looked toward the house.*

*“Well, this is it,” he said, wanly. “Don't expect much of a positive reception.”*

*“You sure I can't hex them?” Hermione asked, coyly, twirling her wand in her fingers.
Harry watched the whirling piece of wood, probably wondering when she'd picked up that
particular skill, and then shook his head.*

*“Let's just be as unobtrusive as possible for this week,” he stated.*

*Suffice it to say, Petunia and Vernon Dursley were very unhappy that Harry and two of his
`freak' friends would be staying with them for one more lousy week out of their miserable
lives, but eventually they yielded when Hermione casually reminded them she was of age and legally
free to do magic if she chose to. The wand in her hand might have been persuasive, as well.*

*The second day of their stay, Ron had to return to the Burrow briefly to pick up some food,
since he was `dying' of hunger. Harry volunteered to Apparate him there and back, and when they
were gone Hermione set about changing and enlarging Harry's room. She vanished the horrible bed
and furniture, increased the dimensions threefold, and conjured much more comfortable sleeping
arrangements for the three of them. She was careful not to disturb an of Harry's precious
possessions, which she had found tucked away under a loose floorboard.*

*She contemplated bringing her wand to bear on Harry's aunt and uncle after that, but was
stopped in her tracks by that tingle along her nerves again. She had last felt it on the train, and
it could only mean Harry's magic was flowing once again. She raced out of the room, heart
pounding madly, but stopped when she heard a loud sizzle of energy coming from the rear of the
house. She Apparated out there and was surprised at what she saw. Harry and Ron had returned, but
Ginny, Luna, and Neville were also with them.*

*All four of them were holding onto Harry in some way or another, and each except Ron looked
slightly bewildered. There was some color high on Harry's cheeks, but otherwise he looked
unfazed after an unheard of quintuple Apparition.*

*“You're not supposed to be able to do that, Harry,” Luna said, in her characteristically
airy inflection.*

*“Everyone keeps telling me that,” he said, laughing.*

*“Harry?” Hermione asked, indicating with a hand the rest of her question. He looked around
briefly, and then motioned them all toward the patio.*

*“You're wondering what they're doing here?” he asked her. She nodded. “Well, it seems
they don't like being left out, and were lying in wait for whenever Ron decided to show up for
some food, since they apparently knew he would.” Ron smiled and pulled a small package out of his
pocket. He set it on the ground and enlarged it, and already Hermione could smell Mrs.
Weasley's home cooking wafting out of it.*

*“They were all being fairly stubborn about the whole thing, and I realize that I could have
just Apparated Ron and I back here, but I made the split-second decision that we could use your
help.” He was addressing Ginny, Luna, and Neville more than Hermione now.*

*“You three have been invaluable during the past two years, and I wish we could have been
better friends before then, but that's beside the point. Ron, Hermione, and I are going to be
getting involved in something extremely dangerous; it's a task left to me by Dumbledore, and it
involves the eventual downfall of Voldemort…”*

*Hermione was impressed that none of the six of them flinched at that Dark wizard's name,
and listened as Harry recounted much of what he'd recently told Ron and her. Luna seemed
particularly disgusted that Voldemort would use something as Dark as a horcrux, but otherwise the
three of them listened fairly stoically. Hermione wondered if they should be privy to all of this
information, but she trusted Harry. If he wanted to include them, she wouldn't argue. They
could definitely use and would probably need their help at some point.*

*“But I don't understand something,” Ginny interrupted. Harry looked at her, motioning for
her to go on. “Why does it have to be* you *to do all of this?” Hermione thought Ginny was
handling herself remarkably well for just having broken up with him. She wondered about
that.*

*“Didn't you say something yesterday about me not being happy unless I was hunting
Voldemort?” Harry asked her, grinning. Hermione looked sharply at the younger girl, but Ginny
seemed to be suitably chastised just by the memory of it. “Seriously, though,” Harry continued,
“the Prophecy we all thought was lost at the Ministry of Magic wasn't entirely—Dumbledore heard
the original.”*

*He then told Ginny, Luna, and Neville the full Prophecy, and they were understandably a
little shocked at the implications. Hermione still couldn't entertain the thought of Harry
dueling Voldemort to the death.*

*“Now that you know all of the information, and everything that Ron, Hermione and I will be
doing, I want to give you this chance to leave, no questions asked. I'll bring you back to the
Burrow with no hard feelings.” His voice lost some of its volume as his thoughts turned inward.
“This isn't going to be easy, or fun, and I would be lying if I said I didn't expect some
horrible things to happen to one or all of us. But that's the price I'm willing to pay. If
it has to be me to get rid of that sick fuck, then so be it. I don't want to drag any of you
down with me, though,” he finished, looking quietly at all of them, not just the three newcomers.
Hermione had goose bumps on her arms from the magic that had bled into the air around them. Harry
had to stop doing that!*

*“Harry.” It was Luna. They all looked to her. “I think I speak for all of us when I say I
will be by your side when you* do *rid the world of that sick fuck.” Harry and by proxy the
rest of them were silent for a moment, absorbing her words and the shock her rare use of profanity
brought, but he soon grinned at her.*

*“Thanks, Luna,” he said, looking at the rest of them as they nodded. Just then, a loud
grumble from Ron's stomach cut across the afternoon air, and they laughed. They dove into the
delicious food, and Hermione was almost looking forward to the task ahead of them. With Harry by
her side—and the four others—it couldn't be so bad. She then realized she would have to further
enlarge his room.*

----------

“And the rest of that week passed rather uneventfully,” Hermione concluded. She had been talking
for so long her throat was dry, so she conjured a glass of water and drank deeply. Setting it down,
she said, “The six of us grew much closer because we were all in that one room.” Her thoughts then
turned inevitably to how they had since grown apart, starting from the end of the war.

“You came home for about two weeks after, right?” Jane asked. Her mother looked very comfortable
in her chair. Hermione supposed listening to the rather lengthy story had helped with that.

“That's right. I remember you and Dad and I did many things together,” Hermione answered,
smiling fondly at the memories.

“We weren't sure what was going on in your life; we knew it was dangerous, and we wanted to
make the most of your time at home,” Jane commented. “Someday, Hermione, you're going to have
to tell me the rest of that story.”

“The rest?”

“Yes…the rest. As in, how six teenagers brought an end to a war.”

Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her seat. There were things all of them had done that were
better buried in the past…

“Some day, perhaps,” she said.

“Why haven't you told me at least that much before?” Jane asked, maybe sensing some of
Hermione's discomfort.

“Never came up, I guess,” she responded.

“Hmm,” Jane intoned, and then looked at her wrist. Her eyebrows shot up. “Where did the time go?
I have to get to work,” her mum said, and stood up. Hermione sat in the chair as her mother busied
herself getting ready to leave. Soon thereafter, Jane crossed back through the living room and
leaned down to peck Hermione on the cheek.

“Have a good day, dear. Thanks for sharing all of that with me.” The sincerity in her
mother's voice moved Hermione, and she smiled warmly.

“You too, mum, and it was no problem.” In truth, it was very cathartic, telling that story.

The door closed behind Jane and Hermione was alone in the house. An easy silence stretched
across the minutes as Hermione busied herself with her memories of that summer after sixth year,
and how it had changed all of them. Her mind then wandered to the past two weeks, and a feeling of
contentment spread through her soul. Harry Potter, savior of the Wizarding World, vanquisher of the
most evil Dark Lord in centuries, was maybe falling in love with her. She smiled and sighed,
settling deep into the chair—

A waft of displaced air distracted her from her thoughts, and she looked up to find the man of
her thoughts standing in front of her. He had Apparated directly into her living room, silent as a
ghost. His face held his classic bewildered look.

“Harry,” she said, smiling and standing up. She moved toward him and they embraced, though she
could tell it was only half-heartedly on his part. Something must be on his mind. They sat on the
couch; she faced him and looked him in the eyes. He was definitely distracted about something.

“Everything ok?” she asked.

He nodded. “Now it is, but it's been one hell of a morning.” He looked at her with his loopy
grin.

“Why don't you tell me all about it,” she suggested, leaning against him. He wrapped an arm
around her and they leaned back against the cushions. She waited for him to start telling her
whatever was on his mind, and fleetingly she thought of how far Harry Potter and Hermione Granger
had come from that day on the Express so long ago.

-->



14. Interlude: Eternal Moonshine of the Lovegood Mind
-----------------------------------------------------



**Bearings**

Disclaimer/Author's Notes: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. I've been compelled to remind
everyone **this is an adult story**, with this being a decidedly adult chapter. **Fair warning
to all**—this is from Luna's POV, our resident `deviant'.

*O Fortuna*

*velut luna*

*statu variabilis*

*semper crescis*

*aut decrescis*

Carl Orff

*Carmina Burana*

Interlude: Eternal Moonshine of the Lovegood Mind

May 17th, 2002 (continued)

A flash of energy swept along her nerves—

Luna's eyes slowly opened, greeted with late morning light as it filled the bedroom. She was
on her back, lying next to Ronald in their comfortable bed, content and very much naked. Her eyes
roamed the room for a few minutes, aware of the rising and falling motion of her breasts in her
peripheral vision; she contracted her abdominal muscles and slowly rose into a sitting position.
The bed hardly moved.

Ronald's snores came lightly from her side, and she looked over at him, blue eyes focusing
intently on his relaxed form. That is, relaxed except for one part of him. Near his waist, sticking
up like some conqueror's flagpole, stood his morning greeting for her. She smiled lightly and
licked her lips. She was familiar with the occurrence of `morning wood' and it's scientific
cause—pressure on the prostate from a full bladder—but that did not diminish the blossoming heat
within her. Even if she did not directly cause his arousal, she could still use it to her
advantage, and she moved gracefully toward the bottom of the bed, turning on her side as she
went.

Cool Ottery St. Catchpole air wafted in through an open window, and she could smell the Spring
in the trees. Her and Ronald had purchased a comfortable house on the opposite edge of the town as
the Burrow and her childhood home, and she couldn't have been happier with it. Sometimes, if
she woke at just the right time during the night, their room was bathed in moonlight, and she would
think of her mother…

But her mind drifted away from the memory as her face neared Ronald's morning delight. They
both slept naked; usually the result of their various activities the night before, and this morning
was no exception. Luna's eyes swept up and down, from the purple mushroom-tip to the slightly
wrinkled package just begging to be touched at the base. She rolled over completely, going on all
fours, and hung her head over his glorious member.

She felt a draft on her most intimate area, already wet, because of her position, but only
spread her legs a little further. Some moisture had accumulated on her bundle of nerves, and the
cooling sensation the air brought tickled the pleasure centers in her brain. She looked down at the
tip just below her lips, noting with some bemusement that it was actually throbbing a little bit.
She let a little saliva dribble from her mouth, pulled by gravity down over Ronald's—

That same flash of energy raced along her nerves. She looked up at nothing particular, eyes
fading out a little, even as more saliva dripped off her chin to its intended target, and
considered the source. She had felt that presence many times before, though not once during the
past eighteen months. It could only mean one thing, but she would tell Ron after she had properly
woken him up.

Looking back down, she slowly brought her hand up to her mouth, sticking two fingers in. Coating
them with saliva, and dribbling more down over Ron in the process, she then reached behind her.
Down over her back they went; she paused briefly as they met the softer beginnings of her glutes,
and then ever-so-casually dragged them down the cleft between her cheeks.

She stopped at the first entrance she encountered, and instead of continuing on toward the more
convention orifice, applied gentle pressure to the little ring of muscles. During this process, she
had never stopped leaking saliva over Ron—she could smell that another part of her was still
leaking—and now he was fairly coated with her slick spit. He was such a deep sleeper that he had
not even come close to waking up yet, though she noticed that he had gotten harder.

She pushed a little more insistently with her two fingers, feeling the ring give way slightly,
and sighed as their tips popped inside. Her other entrance begged to be touched, but she knew
during the waxing moon that anal stimulation fulfilled her desires more than vaginal did. That
thought brought more pressure to bear on her quietly resisting sphincter, but the saliva on her
fingers overcame it and they slid further in. She knew not how to describe the feeling—never
had—but it was just as exquisite as sliding two fingers into her other cavity.

Her pink tongue shot out and flicked the tip of rod nearly poking her in the face, and she saw
the two jewels at the base twitch. Glancing up at Ronald's face, she saw that it had screwed up
slightly, but that he was still asleep. Withdrawing her fingers and then pressing them in again,
she let saliva flow over him for another minute or so.

It looked about as lubricated as it was going to get, so she prepared herself by plunging her
fingers in and out faster and further than before. Her muscle no longer resisted her ministrations,
and the nerve endings there were on fire with the attention. Her clitoris throbbed, pleading with
her to be touched, but she denied herself that pleasure for now. It was always better in the end if
she did.

She withdrew her fingers with a very faint popping noise, suddenly feeling very empty, and
turned so she was facing the other way. Her legs were on the outside of Ronald's, and she
looked behind her at his still sleeping face. He was so gorgeous…she couldn't wait any longer!
Rising up a little, she reached between her legs and gently grabbed his saliva-coated rod. He made
an indistinguishable noise but stayed asleep.

Lowering herself slightly, she brought his tip against her puckered ring of muscles. Instead of
opening, though, they caved in slightly. She paused, letting her body adjust to the unusual but not
unwanted intrusion, and sure enough, her muscles soon relaxed enough to allow the head to slip
in.

“Unngh,” Luna sighed, appreciating the *full* feeling, but still needing to get used to it.
She hovered like that for another minute, with just the first inch or so of Ronald inside of her.
When the initial uncomfortable feeling was replaced with a very good one, she relaxed her legs
slightly. Slowly, another two inches disappeared inside of her, and then she smiled as two hands
flew to her hips.

“Merlin, Luna…” her lover intoned. She looked over her shoulder, meeting his astounded eyes with
her twinkling ones, and moaned deeply as most of the rest of him disappeared inside of her. It was
such a strange feeling, having something enter where things were only supposed to exit, but it was
an excellent one.

“Ohmigosh,” Ron grunted, pressing down on her hips with his hands. She sank the last inch or
two, and narrowed her eyes as she felt a twinge of pain deep inside her.

“Ronald,” she nearly purred. “If you want this to continue, you will resist pushing down with
your hands.” She clenched her bowels for good measure, and flashed white teeth as his eyes almost
rolled back into his head.

“Whatever you say, Luna,” he panted, and rested his hands on the bed at the sides of their
bodies.

“Thank you,” she said, pushing off his lap and moaning again as inch after inch withdrew from
her. Her internal nerve endings told her this was the normal direction for something to be moving,
and the pleasure increased. When she felt the head of his cock pushing out against her muscles, she
stopped, and reversed direction. The incredible feelings stayed this time, and she dropped all the
way down with no uncomfortable feeling and no pain.

Slowly, a rhythm developed, and soon she was bouncing leisurely on Ronald. His grunts and groans
of satisfaction were becoming louder and louder, as were her moans. Unable to resist any longer,
she dropped two fingers to her pulsing nub, and almost came right then and there at the combination
of sensations. She clenched her internal muscles on every upstroke, knowing every time she did so
she brought Ron closer and closer to the edge of ecstasy.

Her fingers moved lower and she pressed them inside, just holding them there and feeling
Ronald's erection through the thin wall of tissue. That did it for her, and rather unexpectedly
she crashed over the edge.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, eyes opening wide briefly and then closing almost completely as wave after
wave of pure pleasure shot along her nerves. Both her orifices clenched with each wave, and Ronald
let loose one final grunt and then flew over the edge as well.

A warm feeling spread within Luna, filling her up even more, and she bucked up and down quickly
a few more times, milking him for all he was worth. After his spurting had died off, he exhaled
deeply and she went all the way down again, staying there for a moment. They rested like that, him
still inside of her, recovering their composure. Eventually, she rolled off; he slipped out with a
quiet pop. He was still on his back, looking at her with lust and love and amazement and every
other positive emotion rolled into one. She fell onto her stomach next to him and smiled.

“Good morning, Ronald.” And then he laughed, a deep hearty thing that she absolutely loved and
adored. She reached over to the nightstand, picked up her wand, and evanesced the remnants of their
good time. Her back end felt a little raw now that it was empty, but the brilliant sensations still
lingered, so whatever soreness she might later encounter was well worth it.

“Good morning, Lovely Luna,” he replied, and rolled slightly to embrace her. They kissed
languidly in post-coital bliss, parting some time later for much-needed oxygen.

“That was something else,” he said. “I don't think I'll ever get used to that.”

“Good,” she chirped. “It wouldn't be nearly as exciting if you learned to expect it.”

He pondered that for a moment, and then nodded at her. He stretched and then sat up, rubbing his
face for a second. She watched all this, and as he stood from the bed she rolled over and did the
same thing. She stared out the window at the countryside, listening to her lover as he threw some
clothes on.

“Ronald,” she said. She heard him pause.

“What is it?”

“Harry is back,” she said, cutting right to the chase. She had never found indirectness useful.
When he did not respond immediately, she turned around to look at him. He was staring at her.

“How do you know?” he inquired.

“I felt him like we all used to,” she explained, knowing that he would understand. She had
always been the most fine-tuned to the magic around her.

“Huh,” he grunted, and finished pulling a pair of trousers on. “Wonder why now?”

“It *has* been four years,” Luna pointed out, preferring to remain nude as they exited
their bedroom and headed toward the kitchen. Ronald rolled his eyes at her, but tweaked one of her
nipples. She slapped his hand away good-naturedly. “He probably graduated from uni.”

“Yeah, probably,” he vaguely answered. Luna knew the information of their friend's return
trouble Ron somewhat.

“What's the matter?” she asked, leaning against the counter and using her wand to get their
breakfast together.

He answered as he set the table: “Nothing, really,” he shrugged. “It's just been so long,
you know?”

She nodded, levitating the breakfast to the table, and then summoned a pair of shorts from their
room. She had been fine without clothes, but the goose bumps on her most sensitive areas reminded
her that it was still only May. She swept her long blond locks behind her ears and sat at the
table. He sat across from her.

“What if someone decides to drop in?” he asked, raising his eyebrows at her hard nipples.

“They will see how pink areolas can actually be,” she stated, enjoying the amusement shining in
Ronald's eyes. He reached across the table and squeezed her hand briefly.

“I love you, Luna.”

Warmth spread through her. “I love you too, Ronald. Now, quit ogling and eat your breakfast.” He
laughed his charming laugh and nodded. She watched as he began to devour his food, and then
demurely started to eat her own. He ate five helpings to her two, but she never complained about
how much he ate. It was just one part of his personality that she absolutely loved.

As they were finishing their food, a tapping sound and hoot turned their attention toward the
window over the sink. Luna immediately recognized the owl as belonging to Ron's twin brothers.
He stood up to retrieve the note attached to it, gave the bird a treat, and then sent it back on
its way. He read the note and then looked at Luna.

“What does it say?” she asked, though she had some idea it involved the sudden return of a
certain very powerful wizard.

“It confirms what you already knew, that Harry is back, and that he can be reached through
Hermione if necessary. Fred and George saw him earlier this morning, apparently.”

“Through Hermione?” she pondered, raising an eyebrow toward Ronald. He shrugged lightly and
dropped the note on the counter.

“No idea, love.” He circled around behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders, and kissed
the top of her head. “She may have been the first person he went to see.”

“Speaking of Hermione,” Luna suddenly realized, “where has she been the past two weeks? I
don't recall seeing her.”

“Come to think of it, neither have I,” he agreed, slowly needing the muscles in her neck and
shoulders with his hands. She leaned into the massage, cooing contentedly.

“Keep that up, and you may get a repeat performance of your wake-up call,” she told him.

He laughed and said, “I'd love to, but I should really get going. I have practice in about
twenty minutes.”

“Ok,” Luna intoned. His hands left her shoulders and she listened as he walked back toward their
room. She could hear him getting his things together, but only faintly, and sat in silence for the
next few minutes.

She wondered what Harry's return would mean for all of her closest friends. They had been
such a tight group during the war, but after the end, not so much. She had tried her best to keep
herself and Ronald involved in everyone's lives, but their careers and relationships made that
harder and harder with each passing month.

She knew that the decay had started with Hermione, though she did not blame her brilliant friend
in any way. Hermione was simply the odd person out—the only one unattached in their little group.
With Harry's homecoming, that number increased to six once again, and Fred and George's
note about how to reach Harry made her wonder…

She had sensed a deep sadness, or possibly regret, in Hermione that last time Luna had seen her,
at the Ministry, and was aware that some or all of it was caused by Harry's absence. Luna had
always been aware of deep feelings between Hermione and Harry, but she was never totally sure of
what they were. For sure, though, they blurred the line between platonic friendship and a rare best
friend type of love. Maybe it would have a chance to develop now that Harry was back.

Ronald reentered the kitchen then, and she turned to look at him. She smirked when his eyes
dropped to her bare chest for a moment, and then stood to hug him. He embraced her and then pecked
her on the lips. He looked rather dashing in his Quidditch practice uniform.

“I'm going to get going,” he said, and she nodded.

“Are you going to contact Harry soon?” Luna asked. She wondered what his answer might be.

“Later today I might,” he answered, looking her in the eyes.

“I recommend doing it sometime today or tomorrow. This shouldn't wait, Ronald,” she told
him. He continued to look at her, seeking something in her eyes, and then nodded.

“I know,” he said. “I'll see you later.” She nodded and he Disapparated with a small popping
sound.

She stood in the middle of her kitchen, sunlight spilling in from a window across her pert
breasts. The warmth softened her nipples and she sighed in relaxation. She had to go into the
Quibbler at some point today, and perhaps she would owl Hermione sometime later as well.

Walking toward her bedroom, she cast a low-powered numbing charm on her bum, eliminating the
slight soreness. She smiled happily as she pulled an outfit from her closet, thinking of the rather
*full* start to her day.

-->



15. Harmony
-----------



**Bearings**

Disclaimer/Author's Notes: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. Sorry for the slight delay. This is
a thirteen thousand-word chapter to make up for it, which brings us to the end of this very long
day. For those crying for plot, there is some in this chapter. And for those worried, there
*is* a plot to this story, but as you might have noticed so far, I'm less concerned with
that than I am with characterization. I will try to tighten some things up, if possible. Also…the
lyrics aren't just for decoration. I suggest Youtubing the songs and listening to them while
reading, as the choice is directly inspired by the content of each chapter.

*Now and again we try
To just stay alive
Maybe we'll turn it all around
'Cause it's not too late
It's never too late*

Three Days Grace

*Never Too Late*

Chapter Nine: Harmony

May 17th, 2002 (continued…and finished)

Harry was glad his magic, at least, knew what he wanted. He had been standing in the middle of
the kitchen at Potter Manor, torn in several different directions—explore the Manor further, take
care of the house elf situation, find out more information about magical maturity, or go to
Hogwarts to receive his items from Dumbledore? Then he had found himself in the middle of
Hermione's living room, with no conscious thought toward Apparition. He hadn't even noticed
the compression of instantaneously switching locations.

Hermione had been curled up in an armchair, smiling to herself, not even realizing he was there
at first. Had he made any noise? He wasn't sure, but he didn't question it further. His
magic had instinctively resolved his indecision.

Hermione had looked up, and her chocolate eyes had come to life, sending his heart rate up a few
beats per minute. They had embraced and now they were sitting on the couch; his arm was around her
and he was enjoying her solid physical presence. It was comforting.

Responding to Hermione's prompt to tell her about his morning, he asked, “Would you believe
if it I told you a place called Potter Manor existed?” Her reaction was the surprise he had been
expecting, but not as strong as he thought it would be. She turned her head to look him in the
eyes, effectively pushing their bodies together more firmly, and slowly nodded.

“The Potter line is one of the oldest, wealthiest, and most respected Wizarding lines, anywhere
in the world,” she said. “*Hogwarts, A History* mentions something about ancestral estates for
the twenty oldest Wizard families.”

Harry couldn't suppress a swift smile at Hermione's mention of the book he still had
never read. He chose not to comment on it, however.

“What does it say, exactly?” he queried.

“That they're on properties as old or older than Hogwarts and scattered throughout the
Scottish Highlands, all within approximately one hundred fifty miles of the castle,” she responded,
easily calling up the fact from within her wealth of knowledge.

“Huh,” Harry intoned. “That's interesting.” He guessed that meant the Weasley's
weren't one of the older families, unless something had happened to their estate in the past.
It was something he'd have to think on later; for now, he wanted to continue informing Hermione
of his strange morning. Perhaps she would have some insights on his various questions—who was he
kidding? Of course she would.

“Anyways, Potter Manor does in fact actually exist, and that is where I just came from. It's
a pretty amazing place…”

“How did you find out about it?” Hermione asked him. She turned her head again and the silky
feeling of her hair on his cheek momentarily distracted him.

“Uh…well the first thing I did in Diagon was visit the Twins,” Harry replied. “Their store is
something else, that's for sure.”

“Experience their new sign?” Hermione asked, and he could hear the smile in her voice.

Harry laughed, remembering the image the sign had stolen from his head, and then turned a little
so he could look directly at the witch curled into his side.

“You and your mum had just told me about the real reason for the hedges,” Harry smirked,
waggling his eyebrows a bit. “The sign caught me speculating on that.” He was rewarded with a
slight crimson tinge high on Hermione's cheekbones; it made her even more beautiful than she
already was.

Harry closed his eyes briefly. Merlin, he was in trouble, wasn't he? He couldn't keep
his thoughts off Hermione when he wasn't near her, and the only thing he could think of in her
presence was how beautiful she was. That, and how delicious she had felt before they'd left
Stanford, how every part of her had responded to his touch, and how *he* had responded to
*her* touch—

“So you can imagine my chagrin,” Harry said, cutting his own thoughts off, “when I learned that
Fred and George had been manning the sign themselves. I expect they will take the mickey for that
for a very long time.”

“Yes, probably,” Hermione returned, albeit very slowly. He wondered what she was thinking, if
her thoughts mirrored his? Before he could get sidetracked again, however, he restarted the
tale.

“From there, I went to Gringotts, and met with my account manager. I don't want to bore you
with the details, but apparently I'm one of the wealthiest wizards in the world.” Harry pursed
his lips for a moment, thinking after everything he had been through in the last four years, his
fame was still at his heels, but mentally shrugged the thought off. If he played baseball, which
he'd had a hard time fathoming since being back in Britain, he would still be famous. It seemed
to be his fate.

“Harry?” Hermione asked him. He refocused on her.

“Hmm?”

“Still here?”

“Yeah, sorry…two things happened, though, that I need your expert opinion on.”

“I'm hardly an expert at banking—”

“Mm hmm,” Harry cut her off. “Sure. What can you tell me about magical maturity?”

Hermione looked confused for a moment, and he thought that maybe she really *didn't*
know what he was talking about, but the source of her perplexity became evident when she
responded.

“What does that have to do with banking?” she asked.

“I don't know…I thought you could tell me,” he encouraged.

Still sounding confused, she continued: “Magical maturity is essentially when your magical core
finishes going through puberty. For most witches and wizards, it occurs sometime between the ages
of twenty and twenty-five. I'm still not sure how this is relevant…” she trailed off.

“Why had I never heard of it before this morning? Why do they say nothing about it at
Hogwarts?”

“They do, Harry,” Hermione answered. She smirked at him. “It's discussed in Arithmancy,
since an entire unit in that class is based on magical cores.”

“But somehow it's not important enough for the rest of the students to know?” Harry
inquired, slightly irked now that something seemingly so basic had been withheld from him. He knew
the frustration had bled into his voice, and he was sorry that Hermione clearly thought it was
directed at her, but it couldn't be helped.

“I don't think it's worth getting upset over, Harry,” she replied, her tone a bit
tighter than before. “It's really not a big deal—it just means your magical core has finished
growing.”

“Not a big deal?” Harry asked, incredulous that she could be so ignorant of the implications.
She was telling him that Voldemort and all of his adult followers had been at a distinct advantage
the entire war, since the majority of the resistance had been made up of teenagers. He didn't
even want to consider how vastly different things could have been if they'd all been older.

He stood abruptly, raising his left hand toward the ceiling of the room. It was normally his
wand-free hand, but as he'd been doing mostly wandless magic for so long now, he supposed it
didn't matter one way or the other. He took a deep breath and let his magic flow out from
wherever his core was through his body. The process took far less time than it had at Gringotts,
and a noise from Hermione drew his attention back to her.

She was looking at him through eyes wide with shock and possibly even a little fear. He could
feel the power swirling in the air around him, and he knew she could too. He concentrated for a
moment, and then braced his hand wide open.

“*Lumos!*” he commanded, and then had to shield his eyes against the brilliant-as-the-sun
white light that pervaded the Granger living room. He could feel his own magic pulsing off of him
in waves; he tried to look at his left hand, but even through squinted eyes, the light was too
bright to view directly. A crackle of energy, spearing out from his body and hitting a window,
effectively ended his little experiment. Almost without thought, he repaired the broken glass, and
then turned again toward Hermione. She was looking at him with what could only be described as awe.
A brief but powerful feeling of sadness swept through him as his magic retreated into its dormant
state.

“Harry…” Hermione started.

“Still not a big deal?” Harry asked, rather lamely.

Just then, every light in the house flickered on and off several times, followed by a very low
rumble. The earth beneath their feet vibrated slightly. Harry stood completely still, looking
around to see if anything had been damaged. Everything appeared to be normal…

“What was that?” he asked.

“Normally I'd say a small earthquake, but after your little demonstration, I think your
magic disrupted something,” Hermione answered, looking at Harry with very curious eyes. The brown
was a bit darker than normal, and her pupils were slowly dilating and contracting. Harry suddenly
felt a pulse of warmth that made the hairs on his arms stand up—an odd combination of
sensations—and realized that Hermione's magic was tangible. That explained her eyes.

“You alright?” Harry asked, sitting back down on the couch.

Hermione nodded, took a deep breath, and Harry felt her magic dissipate from the air around
them.

“Now do you understand why I don't get how I could have been ignorant of magical maturity?”
Hermione nodded again. “And how I can't believe that every student wasn't told of something
so fundamental?”

“Yes…but Harry, I've never heard of anything like what just happened,” she said, glancing
toward the window he had repaired.

“Like what?”

She pursed her lips and gave him a *look* for a second, then stood up, pulling her with
him. “Do you have your wand on you?” she asked.

“Yes,” Harry nodded.

“Take it out and cast your most powerful *Lumos* with it,” she told him.

“Um…ok.” He took out his wand and braced himself, letting his magic flow through his body once
again. The atmosphere in the room charged with the raw power he had within himself, but he ignored
it. He saw Hermione conjure a pair of sunglasses and place them over her eyes, and shook his head.
She smiled at him and gave him the universal hand motion for *get on with it*.

He pointed his wand away from them, took a deep breath, and said, “*Lumos!*” He was
prepared this time, and his vision wasn't assaulted with the intense white light. It was so
powerful, possibly a little more than when he had cast it wandless, that it washed out everything
else in the room. The world was white. His energy was buffeting his clothing, and he could hear
more than see crackles of pure magic spearing out from their source—in this case, him.

He canceled the spell and lowered the wand. His magic faded away much faster than the spots in
his eyes, and he felt that low rumble beneath his feet once again. He turned toward Hermione, and
she was just shaking her head at him.

“What?” Harry asked. “What was the point of that?”

“Just watch, Harry,” she said. She raised her hand, already equipped with her wand. Harry felt a
small twinge as her magic hit him, but it was nothing compared to the amount of raw force he had
set free prior to unleashing his *Lumos*.

“*Lumos!*” she shouted, and he blinked at the fairly bright white light that erupted from
her wand tip, but after a moment he was able to look at it. It was decently powerful, because he
could easily see it in the already bright room, but it did not compare to the spell he had cast.
That didn't make sense to him, though, because he knew Hermione was nearly as powerful as he
was. Something wasn't right.

She ended the spell and lowered her wand, taking the sunglasses off and looking at him. Her eyes
were very dark, and her pupils were moving in time with her chest.

“You see, Harry?” she asked. “That's the most powerful *Lumos* I've ever
cast—I've never attempted a full-power one before that—and it pales in comparison to yours.
Your magical maturity is unique, it would seem, and I think that's why you don't understand
what's going on, or why you were kept in the dark.

“It wasn't done on purpose; just, no one knew that it would affect you so greatly. James and
Lily were powerful casters, from what I've read, but their best abilities were fairly
concentrated: Lily was extremely proficient at charms and James was very good at offensive magic.
You, on the other hand, dwarf any other wizard I've ever read about or seen, except possibly
Dumbledore, and your strengths aren't limited to specific areas of spell casting.”

How did she do it? How did she make so much sense? He loved listening to her explain things, as
weird as that was, because he loved listening to her voice and he loved experiencing some of her
formidable intellect. What she had just told him raised a few more questions, however.

“But…you must remember some of the times when we were out searching for the Horcruxes, when we
would have to defend ourselves? You and I were almost equal in terms of power, Hermione,” he
pointed out. He watched her eyes as countless memories flashed through her mind. He didn't know
how he knew that, but he did. He wasn't using Legilimency, either.

“That was before our respective magical maturities,” she pointed out.

“You've reached yours?” he asked. If she said no, that might explain the current difference
in power.

She nodded the affirmative, however. “Late last year. Gringotts contacted me and they confirmed
it, as they do with every witch and wizard.”

Something was wrong. He shouldn't be so much more powerful than her. Sure, he had always
possessed a slight edge in raw force when it came to casting spells, but she had always been able
to pick up new spells and refine them quicker than he. He was no slouch at it, but she possessed
the edge there.

“Before you cast that spell, what did you do?” he asked her.

“What do you mean?” she asked, sitting down. He sat next to her.

“Like…how did you get ready to cast it?”

“I just raised my wand and said the word…” she replied, trailing off in confusion. She clearly
didn't know what he meant.

“You said you cast it at full power, right?”

“Yes,” she said.

“How do you know?”

“I don't understand what you're talking about, Harry,” she said, obviously frustrated.
He put an arm around her shoulder and leaned into her. He smiled when he felt her relax slightly,
but also at the physical contact.

“Before I cast my spell, I let my magic…um…out, I guess,” he said, wincing internally at his
ineloquent explanation. He didn't think it was very helpful.

“Out?”

“I think that…well, when I'm not casting, or thinking about casting, my magic is kind of
dormant. But when I am casting, or going to…I can let it all out—argh! This is so bloody hard to
explain,” he commented.

She laid a hand on his arm, and he had to suppress a shiver at her touch. He locked eyes with
her, and she had that quirky little smile on her face.

“It's ok, Harry. You're saying that at all other times *except* during spell
casting your magic is concealed?”

“Not concealed, no…” Harry trailed off, searching for some way to relate the feeling to her.
“Compacted, maybe? Contained, I think, is a better word. There's really no reason to have all
of my magic at my disposal at all times. That would just be unnecessary.”

“So…you let it out when you're going to cast?”

“I haven't done much magic in the last few years, and the only times I've cast since
I've been back are at full power. But that's just because the situations called for it. I
think—”

He cut himself as an epiphany hit him. He knew how to explain it to Hermione! She must have
sensed it, because her famous eyebrow shot up.

“Harry?”

“I've got it! When you Apparate, you know the feeling *just* before the actual
Apparition? When your magic is flooding through you?”

“Yes, I think so,” she responded. He thought he saw a glimmer of comprehension in her eyes.

“That's what it feels like all the time, when I let it,” he said. He hoped he was being
clearer now.

“Hmm,” Hermione intoned, and then suddenly disappeared. The only sound was a faint crackle, like
someone snapping gum in his or her closed mouth. He turned his head to where he knew she had
appeared, and watched as she Disapparated once again. He followed her movement around the room as
she did it several more times; then, she was back on the couch.

“Ok, I know what you mean,” she nodded. “But…I don't know how to do that all the time. The
process of Apparition seems to draw the power to the surface,” she continued.

“How about you pretend like you're going to Apparate, focus on the destination and all that,
but don't actually change locations. Keep yourself from Apparating. Build up the power but
don't let your body go,” Harry said, hoping that it would work. He knew that Hermione could
cast as well as he, and he wanted to see her do it. Though she hadn't said anything to indicate
it, her self-esteem had taken a hit when he'd cast his two light spells. He wanted to rectify
that.

“Sure,” Hermione responded, and she took a deep breath. His eyes, for a brief second, went to
her chest as it stretched her shirt, but he directed his thoughts toward the task at hand. He could
think about *other* things later.

He felt her magic start to wash over him, a little more powerful than before, and he looked at
her eyes. They weren't focused on anything in particular, and he watched as they darkened from
tan, to brown, to chocolate, and then further to colors he knew not the names of. The energy in the
air was palpable now, and she suddenly flickered in and out of existence, as she fought with the
urge to Apparate. The muscles in jaw clenched, and her form solidified. The power kept growing,
starting to buffet his clothing as his own magic had.

She raised her wand, pointing it away from them, and held it there for a moment. He could feel
his magic building slightly, almost pulling toward hers, but suppressed it as much as he could. The
power he felt coming from her was very significant, somewhat less than his, but much greater than
what he'd felt before. This was the Hermione he knew. She was fierce when she needed to be, and
had held no quarter during the War. Someone had once told him of what it was like to watch Hermione
and him fight together on the battlefield, and the sensations he was experiencing added some
validity to that.

“*Lumos!*” she cried, and he averted his eyes just in time. Similar to what had happened
earlier, the light was bright enough to wash everything else out in the room, and all he could see
was whiteness. It faded after a few seconds, and he turned his back to Hermione. She was looking at
him with raised eyebrows and widened eyes. Her magic slipped from the room and everything returned
to normal.

“Incredible,” she breathed, and he just smiled at her. He knew that she had it in her.

“Now do you understand why it's a big deal? Can everyone do that? Could we do that before
our magical maturity? Were Voldemort's followers able to do that, and we weren't? Were we
just a bunch of underdeveloped kids fighting fully developed—” Hermione put a finger over his lips,
and laughed softly at him.

“You're starting to sound like me,” she said, withdrawing her finger. He was tempted to
follow it. He just shrugged though, grinning at her.

“The implications are considerable, however,” she added. “At some point, but not today, I think
both you and I should look into this more.”

“Ok,” he said, satisfied that she could see where his frustration had been coming from.

“After all that, anything else you did this morning will probably seem anticlimactic, but why
don't you tell me the rest over lunch?” she asked him.

“Sure.” He followed her into the kitchen and prepared some lunch with her. It was such a
mundane, domestic thing, but all the same, he felt happy doing it. The mundane seemed special when
he did it with Hermione, and he was starting to think maybe there was something between them. He
couldn't keep his mind or his eyes off her. She enjoyed his company, and had in fact sought him
out thousands of kilometers away. He would have to broach the subject with her later, especially
considering what they had done just before they'd left Cali.

She led the way out onto the patio, into the nice day, and they sat in the comfortable
chairs.

“After Gringotts you went to Potter Manor?” she asked him, after they'd started in on their
meal.

“Yeah, but there was one more thing my account manager and I discussed, though,” Harry replied.
“We talked about getting an agent…”

Hermione said nothing for a moment, but then met his eyes. “And what did he say?”

“That he would contact the firm that usually handles matters like that, and get back to me. I
expect to hear something about it in the next day or two.”

“When is your meeting with the Yankees?” she asked. Her voice had dropped a few decibels.

“A week from today,” he responded. “Do you know if it's just possible to Apparate to New
York?”

Her mood lightened at that question, and she even started chuckling. “I don't think so,
Harry, but even if you could, where would you Apparate to? You've never been to New York.”

“I've been to Newark,” he responded.

She conceded the point. “I don't know, but I don't think you should try it to find out.
You might only make it halfway, or splinch yourself—”

“You know,” he cut her off, “there's only one way to *find out*, isn't there?” He
focused all of his attention on a bathroom he had been in at Newark Liberty International Airport,
and felt the compression of Apparition. It was a little harder than a regular Apparition, but when
his vision cleared, he was standing in the bathroom. He was in front of the mirror, and he could
see in the reflection his image and the empty bathroom. That meant he wouldn't have to
Obliviate anyone. He focused on Hermione's patio and was back in the next second.

“Harry! Don't do that—” she started to say, but he raised a hand.

“It's alright, Hermione, I made it there and back in one piece.” She deflated a little, and
regarded him with a questioning expression.

“I don't think you're supposed to be able to do that, but that doesn't really matter
now. You're just going to Apparate over there for the meeting?” she asked.

“Yeah, that will work better than wasting time flying,” he affirmed, though he wasn't really
looking forward to the trip. A career in professional baseball hadn't started appealing to him
yet. Perhaps when he heard what the Yankees had to offer…

“I, uh…” Hermione started, and he wondered at her lack of articulation. She usually knew exactly
what she wanted to say. “Do you think you could Apparate both of us? I would like to go to the
meeting with you, if you think that's appropriate?”

Harry wanted nothing more than for Hermione to accompany him back to America. He just hadn't
wanted to ask her. He wondered why she wanted to come with him, but he thought it might have
something to do with the connections he had made earlier. They would definitely need to talk about
what was going on between them.

“Well, as I just said, only one way to find out!” He grabbed her hand and, focusing on the
bathroom once again, Disapparated from the patio. He next found himself in the bathroom, holding
Hermione's hand. A quick check told him the bathroom was still empty, and he brought them
back.

He watched Hermione get her bearings for a moment, which he thought was the cutest thing
he'd seen in at least a few hours, and they both sat down once again.

“So now you can do a several thousand kilometer dual Apparition,” she stated, smirking at Harry.
There was incredulity on her face, but also acceptance. He just shrugged.

“You're something else, Harry,” she commented. He locked eyes with her.

“So are you,” he returned, and was rewarded with a smile and slight blush.

“Mm… Anything else exciting happen?”

“Yes, but you really need to come to the Manor to understand the rest,” Harry said, hoping that
she would agree to visit his new home. He needn't have worried, however, because her mood
brightened considerably. She pushed some hair away that had blown into her face and nodded.

“Of course I'll come with you,” she said. “Do I need anything?”

“Well,” he said, eyeing her rather light clothing. “You may want to put something a bit warmer
on, or you could just use a heating charm if you have to. It's much cooler where the Manor is
located than it is here in London.”

“I'll just use the charm if I have to,” she said. He nodded and directed the dishes on the
table through the door and into the sink, and they started washing themselves. He dried them and
placed them where they came from, again with his wand, and turned to find Hermione smiling at
him.

“You make everything look easy, Harry.”

“Just hold on,” he said, smiling back at her. She did, and they were off. They appeared thirty
meters from the gate to the property, on the rough country lane. There was a strong breeze,
carrying with it the scent of wildflowers and pine trees. The sky was clear and blue, and the air
was crisp. The setting was so idyllic and peaceful that Harry briefly mourned the years he'd
lost for living here, but it was a passing thought.

“Wow,” Hermione intoned, and he saw that she was gazing around her in all directions. “Kind of
reminds me of Hogwarts, without the castle.”

“That's what I first thought,” he said, and then indicated the Manor, which was visible up
the walk and through the gate.

“That's your *house*?” Hermione asked, as they drew near the gate. Instead of
automatically opening for them this time, it remained closed. Harry frowned for a moment.

“I, Harry James Potter, wish for Hermione Jane Granger to have unrestricted access to this
property,” he commanded, hoping it would have the desired effect. He felt Hermione's grip on
his hand tighten, and then the gate slowly opened.

“You didn't have to do that, Harry,” she said.

“Yes I did. Now you can come and go as you please. You don't need me holding your hand every
time you want to visit.” She nodded, and the two of them continued up the slightly sloping path
toward the mansion in silence.

The door opened as they approached and he led her into the expansive foyer. Sunlight was
streaming in through the high windows, and Harry inhaled deeply the fresh scent of clear, sunlit
air.

“Merlin, Harry,” Hermione commented, again enraptured by the sight before her. He imagined the
look on her face was similar to the one that had graced his face when he'd first set foot in
the house.

“It's a little overwhelming, isn't it?”

“Just a little,” she laughed.

He started to guide her to their left, the same way he had gone earlier, and when they reached
the door he stopped.

“There are some paintings in this next room that I don't understand, Hermione. They look
like magical portraits, but they aren't moving.”

“Let's take a look at them,” she said, and led the way into the parlor. She stopped for a
moment to stare at its understated opulence, but continued on toward the portraits in question when
she saw them. He followed slowly.

“These *do* appear to be magical portraits,” she said, after examining them closely for a
several seconds. Harry came up behind her, staring at the dormant images of his parents and
godfather. He wished they would move and talk with him…

“I'm not really sure why they aren't moving, though,” she said. “You should probably
find someone who knows more about how portraits work,” she continued, but he knew it was hard for
her to say that. He moved closer to her, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“It's alright, Hermione,” he said, softly. “I'll look into it another time.” She turned
and regarded him closely, and then moved forward. She embraced him lightly, which he returned. They
stood like that for at least a minute, beneath the portraits of three people taken prematurely from
his life, in his palatial estate, silent and unmoving. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes,
but then remembered the other thing he wanted to show Hermione.

“One more thing,” he said, and turned toward the door to the dining area. He reached for her
hand and took it, and led her through the parlor and the door. He brought her to the table and
picked up the note Hatty had left, handing it to her. He watched her read it not once, but twice,
and by the time she completed it the second time, there was moisture at the corners of her
eyes.

“Hermione?”

She sniffed and wiped her eyes, giving him a watery smile. “Sorry, Harry. This elf's
devotion got to me, I guess. Hatty would have been an excellent friend to you, it seems.”

“I would have thought you'd be upset my parents had elves,” he responded.

She sighed, but it was one of acceptance, more than anything. “My crusade for Elf Rights has
died off recently, but that's only because Dobby cornered me one evening about a year ago and
explained how House Elf culture works. Their magic is based on their status as servants. House
elves are actually happier and more powerful when bound to someone. Dobby seems to be the
exception, though I know *someone* he'd love to have as his master,” she said, giving him
a sideways look.

“Hmm,” Harry agreed. “What do you think about the writing itself, though? That elf was
definitely educated.”

“It looks like it. Seems your parents or perhaps grandparents wanted their elves to be able to
speak and write properly.”

“Well…do you have any idea what Dobby is doing these days?”

“Still working at Hogwarts, I'd imagine,” she replied. “Why?”

He smirked at her, and then called out, “Dobby?” Nothing happened for a few moments, and he was
beginning to wonder if the elf was still alive, when the diminutive elf appeared before them.

“Harry Potter sir?” the elf asked, hope in his voice. Harry had never thought he would be glad
to hear Dobby's voice, but it brought with it a powerful wave of nostalgia he wouldn't have
experienced otherwise.

“Yes, Dobby,” Harry answered, and barely had time to brace himself as the elf launched himself
toward Harry.

“Oh, Harry Potter! I is so glad to be seeing you!” He backed away from Harry, looking at
Hermione. “And Miss Herm-eye-knee, I is glad to be seeing you too!”

Harry, laughing, said: “It's great to see you too, Dobby. What are you doing these
days?”

“I is working for Miss McGone-gull at Hogwarts,” he responded, looking up at Harry and Hermione
with wide eyes.

“Do you like it there?” Harry asked, glancing at Hermione as he did so. The look on her face
told him she knew what he was up to.

“Oh, it is being fine,” Dobby answered. “Winky is being better and we is starting a family!”
Dobby exclaimed.

“A family?” Harry and Hermione asked at the same time.

“Yes, we is having a little elf called Libby!” Dobby answered. Harry had thought it impossible,
but the look of paternal joy could in fact be seen on an Elf's face.

“That's great, Dobby!” Hermione said, and knelt before him. Before the elf could react, she
embraced him. He froze for a moment, and Harry watched as the look on his face changed from one of
bewilderment to sheer gratitude. Huge, fat teardrops welled up in his eyes and spilled down his
face as he returned the hug. Harry knelt next to them and patted Dobby on the back.

“I'm so happy for you, Dobby,” Harry said. Hermione leaned back, and Dobby regarded them
both with a look that could only be described as love.

“You is both being the greatest witch and wizard alive,” he said, wiping his eyes.

“Thank you Dobby, though you're overstating things a bit. I called you to ask you a
question,” Harry responded, taking the note from Hermione and handing it to Dobby.

The elf read the note over and handed the note back to Harry. “What is you wondering about it,
Harry Potter sir?”

“I was wondering if you, Winky, and Libby would want to live with and work for me?” he asked,
deciding to be as straightforward as he possibly could. Dobby's eyes bulged even further than
he thought was possible, and the elf opened his mouth to speak several times, but nothing came out.
Finally, he just squeaked and disappeared. Harry looked over at Hermione, a question in his eyes,
but she just shrugged. They were both still kneeling on the floor. Before a word could pass between
them, Dobby reappeared, this time with Winky and a very small elf wearing pink socks. The new
addition could only be Dobby's daughter, Libby.

“Harry Potter sir!” Winky exclaimed, and jumped forward to Harry. She then turned to Hermione,
and said much more cordially, “Miss Hermione.” She had little difficulty with Hermione's name.
Winky backed up a bit and stood on one side of Libby, with Dobby on the other side.

“Hi Winky,” Harry said. And then he looked to the small elf. “And you must be Libby,” he said,
grinning at her. Her little eyes widened, much as her father's just had, and she looked to
Dobby and then Winky. They both nodded to her and she approached Harry slowly.

“Harry Potter sir…” Libby started, in absolutely the cutest voice Harry had ever heard. He saw
that Hermione was literally melting at the sight and sound of the little thing. “Winky and Dobby
have told me many stories about you, and it is a great honor to finally meet you!”

“I am pleased to meet you too, Libby,” Harry replied, and laughed deeply as Dobby's daughter
sprang forward to embrace him. Her arms were so small she was really only hanging onto his shirt,
but it was touching nonetheless. He wondered at how well spoken she was, and just assumed Winky and
Dobby had been teaching her the proper way to speak.

“Is Harry Potter sir really asking if Dobby and his family would bind to him?” Dobby cut in,
sounding quite breathless. Libby backed up to her father and mother, and all three elves were
looking expectantly at Harry.

“Err…bind?”

“Yes…you would be our master,” Winky provided. Harry realized she was much better spoken then
she used to be, as well. He looked to Hermione for clarification, our perhaps reproach, but then he
remembered what she had told him about House Elves and their magic.

“You would all be happier and healthier bound to me, as opposed to working for Hogwarts?” Harry
asked.

“Libby and I are bound to the school,” Winky answered. “Dobby is the only free elf at Hogwarts.
He would be happier because he'd be part of your family, as would Libby and I, but it is true
that his magic would be healthier if was bound.” Dobby nodded vigorously at this, letting Winky do
the talking.

“You three want to be bound to me?” Harry asked. They all nodded yes. “How do we go about doing
that, then?”

“Harry Potter sir would have to come to Hogwarts and speak with Miss McGonagall. She is the only
one who can free Libby and I,” Winky responded.

“I have to make a trip to Hogwarts anyway,” Harry returned, “so why don't we all go there
and work this out?”

“Dobby is be meeting Harry Potter sir outside Miss McGone-gull's office with Winky and Libby
in one half hour?” Dobby questioned. Harry nodded, and all three elves looked overjoyed. They then
promptly disappeared. Harry stood, feeling his knees pop as his legs straightened out, and Hermione
followed suit.

“That was interesting,” Hermione said.

“I'll say,” Harry replied.

“What do you have to go Hogwarts for?”

“Dumbledore left me something that I could pick up after reaching magical maturity, and I have
to go to Hogwarts to retrieve it.”

“Oh. You want me to come with?”

“Of course,” Harry replied, moving closer to her and slipping an arm around her back. He was
starting to like the physical contact, maybe even depend on it. That was something else he'd
have to talk with her about.

“So is the rest of the house as amazing?” Hermione asked him, after a moment's silence.

“I actually haven't seen the rest of it,” he said. “Want to take a tour?” She nodded, so
they started back through the kitchen, the parlor, and into the foyer. They went over to the right
side and through the door there, and found themselves in a humongous library.

Except…all the shelves were empty. There were no books. The room was expansive, two stories tall
with wide-open spaces between various pieces of furniture such as armchairs and desks. There was
even a computer tucked into the far corner, though Harry had no idea how it would work out here in
the middle of nowhere.

“Where are the books?” Hermione asked, and Harry chuckled at the sound of loss in her voice. He
then remembered that Sirius had left him access to the Potter and Black family libraries, and he
could only assume that this was the Potter one… That still didn't explain the absence of books,
though.

They moved further into the room, and Hermione suddenly pointed to a shelf on the far side of
the room. Harry looked closely and saw one book sitting there, about eye level. They went to it and
turned their heads sideways to read the title on the binding: *The Most Courageous House of
Potter*.

Harry reached out and picked it off the shelf. He felt a rush of magic, starting from the book,
sweeping down his arm and through him, and then expanding out from him through the rest of the
room. Before his very eyes, the shelves filled to the brim with innumerable books. Hermione gasped
at the sheer volume of written knowledge. He looked at the book in his hand, and then opened to the
first page. It said:

*Welcome to the Potter Family Library, Harry James Potter and Hermione Jane Granger. Now that
you have activated the charms protecting these books, Harry, the library is free for you to use any
time you want. Anyone you wish to possess a similar privilege need only write his or her name in
this book. Do not give out that benefit lightly, though.*

The words faded and all that remained were blank pages. Harry held out his hand, summoned a pen,
and handed the book and the pen to Hermione.

“What?” she asked.

“Write your name in there,” he said.

“But Harry…”

“Do it, Hermione. I trust you with far more than my books.” She stared at him for a second,
biting her lip, and then nodded. She wrote her full name in the book, and a similar wave of power
crashed through the room. On the shelf in front of them, now full with books, two slid apart.
Hermione took the hint and placed *The Most Courageous House of Potter* in the slot, and then
watched as it disappeared and the two other books slid back together.

“Let's tour the rest of the house,” Harry suggested. “You can come back here any time you
want.” She nodded, and they continued. The only other significant room on the first floor was some
kind of entertainment room; complete with a large television and home theatre system, though again
Harry had no idea how they worked, since it appeared like the Manor was without electricity. He
would have to find out some time, but continued on.

They ascended the stairs in the foyer, through the sunlight, and turned left at the landing.
That wing on the second floor contained several guest bedrooms, all lavishly appointed, and a very
nice, large loo. The right wing on the second floor was primarily composed of the master bedroom, a
walk-in closet, and a loo that looked more like a spa than anything else. It had a large shower, a
walk-in sauna, a hot tub that looked suited for at least five people, and even two things that
appeared to be massage tables. The bedroom itself had a large Gryffindor crimson and gold bed, an
ornate desk off to one side, and another large television. There were also two bookshelves, which
were full. Harry couldn't believe how nice the Manor was, and missed living there all of his
life. He didn't miss it for the comfort, though. He missed it because it felt like his
*home*. This belonged to *him*. He was a Potter and this was his ancestral property. The
feeling was foreign but not unwelcome to him.

They ascended to the third floor, and were amazed to find most of it as a wide-open space.
Skylights abounded, and Harry counted at least six balconies on this floor alone. The effect was
wonderful, as it almost felt like they were outside in the crisp air. It reminded him of a loft he
had seen in a movie once, but it was much larger and better furnished. One corner of the truly
expansive space—this area was probably five or six times large than the library, at least in terms
of floor space—held a comfortable lounge, with squashy chairs, what looked like a bar and a small
kitchenette, another large television and even what Harry knew to be a video game system. He had no
idea that Muggle electronics could work here, but since there were so many, they apparently
did.

Harry and Hermione hadn't said much as they'd traveled from room to room, except for
gasps and oohs and ahhs where appropriate, but Hermione did now.

“It's amazing up here,” she said. He looked at her and saw that she was looking toward the
skylights. He turned in a circle, taking in the rest of the huge space: there was some gym
equipment off in another corner, and another small library opposite it. The rest of the area, the
great majority of it, was wide open, with nothing except plush carpeting and heaps of sunlight. He
wondered at the exact purpose of the room (floor, actually), other than the obvious one of
relaxation.

Harry took Hermione by the hand and led her toward the right side of the loft, if he were facing
the front of the house. They approached a sliding glass door that led to a large veranda, and he
pulled it open. They strode out onto the third-floor balcony and into the sunlight.

Down below them and stretching toward the trees in the distance was the lake Harry had seen
earlier, and this vantage point showed him how large and clear and gorgeous it actually was. He
also saw there was a beach and a dock, with a boat attached to it, bobbing gently in the
breeze-tossed waters.

“Is that a speedboat?” Hermione asked.

“It looks like it,” Harry said, grinning. He wanted to take it out right then and there,
but—

“Do you even know how to drive one?” Hermione asked, sensing his excitement.

“Nope,” Harry responded, looking to Hermione. She met his eyes and grinned back at him. The
breeze tossed her hair lightly around her face, and she was a sight, standing there framed against
the clear blue sky, hair and clothes buffeting around. He wanted to grab her into his arms and snog
her…

He turned back toward the lake, staring at it as he cleared his mind. Everything was so peaceful
here. How different would things be if he'd grown up here with parents? He closed his eyes
against the speculation, because it would get him nowhere, and took Hermione's hand again. He
led her back inside and all of the way across the loft, which was a large distance. Harry estimated
it between sixty and seventy meters all the way across, with it being at least twenty wide. They
came to another sliding glass door, and exited onto another veranda, this time on the opposite side
of the house.

The space below them was primarily occupied with a large Quidditch Pitch, which had been
immaculately kept as far as he could tell, and beyond that a meadow stretching toward a dark line
of trees. He watched as the wind created the appearance of waves through the tall grass in the
meadow, and heard Hermione sigh next to him. She leaned on the railing of the balcony, and just
stared out. He joined her, and their silence stretched on through the minutes. Finally, Harry broke
the peace.

“We should get on to Hogwarts,” he said, barely raising his voice above the sound of the
wind.

“I just realized something, Harry,” Hermione said, not turning away from the breathtaking sight
before them.

“Oh?”

“If you can Apparate from here to Newark, you probably could from here to Stanford as well.”

He didn't answer immediately, considering the possibility and what it meant. He could have
come back to Britain whenever he wanted…

“Maybe, but it might have something to do with my recent magical maturity,” he said.

“True, but if not, you could have come back at any time.” She paused, cocking her head as the
soulful cry of some bird reached their ears. “I guess now we'll never know.”

----------

Turning the final corner, Harry and Hermione saw the Gargoyle that had guarded the Head's
office since Hogwarts had been built. It was as solid and immovable as ever, but there was an
addition the familiar image—or, three additions, actually. Dobby, Winky, and Libby were there
waiting and when Dobby saw them he rushed up.

“Harry Potter sir is finally here!” The little elf grabbed onto his free hand—the other being
occupied by Hermione's of course—and tugged him toward the Gargoyle. When Harry reached it the
Gargoyle came alive, opening its stone eyelids to peer at Harry with colored stone eyes, and then
moved aside with a nod of its head. Harry was mildly surprised no password was required, but
didn't complain as the animated stone finished opening the way to the office. The eclectic
group climbed the stairs and Harry knocked on the door at the top.

It felt strange being in Hogwarts again, after so long, especially since he had once told
himself that he'd never be back. Some part of him had expected some kind of hero worship from
any student he ran into, even though he loathed that sort of thing, but he had been pleasantly
surprised to find the halls nearly empty. What few students he and Hermione had run into had either
not recognized them or had not acknowledged it. Maybe his time abroad had been more effective than
he'd imagined at pushing him from the public consciousness.

“Come in,” a very familiar voice called, and Harry opened the door. The office that greeted him
was largely unchanged fromm the last time he'd been there, though its sole occupant appeared a
little older and more careworn. Minerva McGonagall rose to greet the oddly formed group, coming
around her desk with a warm smile on her usually stern face.

“Harry Potter! And Hermione! And…Dobby and your family,” she said nodding to each of them in
turn. Harry stuck out his hand, but the matronly Headmistress surprised him by pulling him into a
hug. He awkwardly returned it briefly, and then she hugged Hermione as well. Dobby, Winky, and
Libby stood unobtrusively off to the side.

“Professor,” Harry greeted her, and Hermione did the same.

“You both are old enough and have done enough to be able to call me Minerva,” she said, in a
very friendly manner. An affable Headmistress had replaced their stern Head of House.

“All right Minerva,” Harry responded, agreeably. Minerva led them toward her desk and directed
them to sit, and she did in her own chair. Dobby and his stood next to Harry's chair. The elves
were fairly bouncing on their feet, and Harry saw McGonagall give them a questioning look.

“It's good to see you again, Harry,” she said. “And it has been far too long, Hermione.”

“It has,” Hermione replied. “We're not here about me, though,” she continued, deflecting the
attention away from her.

“Oh?” McGonagall asked, looking at Harry.

“I've actually come for two reasons,” Harry supplied. He motioned toward Dobby and his
family. “I find myself in need of at least one House Elf, and of course Dobby was the first one to
come to mind. I see that he's been a busy little elf since I've been gone, so I would like
to request that all three bond with me. I know that Winky and Libby are bonded to Hogwarts, and was
wondering if I could replace the school as their master, as well as bonding Dobby to me?”

McGonagall glanced at Hermione, probably expecting some sort of sour look on her face, but
looked back to Harry when she found none. She then looked at the elves in question.

“Is this what you want Dobby? Winky? Libby?”

“No disrespect to you or the school, Headmistress, but we would very much like to be bonded to
Harry Potter sir,” Winky responded. Harry still wasn't used to her improved command over
English.

“No disrespect taken, Winky,” McGonagall said. “I have absolutely no problem with the
arrangement, but I have no idea how this change in masters takes place.”

“You would need to give Libby and I clothes,” Winky said. There was perhaps a slight
undercurrent of anxiety in Winky's voice, but Harry could tell Winky was trying hard to mask
it.

“Very well…” McGonagall replied, opening a desk drawer and pulling out two wool gloves. “You are
sure this is what you want to do?” All three elves nodded. McGonagall stood and came around her
desk. She held out the gloves to the two female elves.

“Winky and Libby, I set you free of your bond to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”
The two elves took the gloves and there was a crack of magical discharge, and then it was done.
Dobby turned to Harry.

“You being able to bond us now, Harry Potter sir.” Harry nodded and knelt in front of the three
elves. He looked each one deeply in the eyes, trying to project his gratitude for their loyalty and
willingness to help him. All he could feel in return was love.

“Dobby, Winky, and Libby, I would be honored if you were bound to me, not as servants, but as
friends of the family and equals in my eyes.” The elves' eyes widened and he saw tears well up
in each; they each placed a hand somewhere on him, and said in unison:

“I accept your proposal of bonding.” Another crack of magic sounded, and Harry found himself
embraced tightly by three weeping House Elves. He looked up to McGonagall, found her smiling and
wiping tears out of her own eyes, and looked over his shoulder at Hermione. She nodded
approvingly.

The embrace ended and the three elves collected themselves. Dobby spoke first. “Is Master Harry
be needing anything else at this moment?”

“Only one thing,” Harry responded, again looking each elf in the eyes. “From this time forward,
you should call me Harry. Not Harry Potter sir, or Master Harry. Just…Harry.”

“Harry really is the greatest wizard ever, isn't he?” Libby asked her parents, looking at
them. Harry had to suppress a laugh at the forceful nodding of their heads.

“Duly noted, Harry,” Winky responded.

“I is understanding, Harry,” Dobby replied.

“Ok, that's all then,” Harry finished, moving back into his chair.

“We will be at Potter Manor, Harry,” Winky said, and the three elves disappeared.

“Potter Manor?” McGonagall asked, returning to her chair.

Harry nodded. “Yes, that is where I'm living for the moment, though I've only just today
found out it existed.”

“It's magnificent,” Hermione said, joining the conversation.

“Yes, I know,” McGonagall said. “I've been there several times, the last of which was your
parents' wedding, Harry.”

“You'll have to tell me about it sometime, but there is another reason I am here—”

“For the items you've been informed I bequeathed to you, correct?” a new voice said.
Harry's breath caught in his throat—he knew that voice. It was Dumbledore's. His eyes went
toward the sound, and there on the wall to his left was a magical portrait of Albus Dumbledore. He
was twinkling down at Harry. He felt Hermione grab his hand and squeeze, and he squeezed back a
silent thank you.

“Yes sir,” Harry said. He looked at Minerva. She had something like bemusement on her face.

“Harry, I must ask you, and Hermione for that matter, to call me Albus. You've both earned
it.”

“When did you wake, Albus?” Hermione asked.

“About eighteen months ago,” he answered, looking to Minerva for confirmation, who nodded. “It
differs with every portrait, but I seem to have taken near the longest,” he said, chuckling at
himself.

“Albus, there are portraits of my parents and Sirius at Potter Manor, but they do not move,”
Harry said. It felt so weird to be talking to his former mentor. He knew this Dumbledore was only a
shell of the man that had actually existed, but it also felt good talking to him again.

“I assume you bonded with Dobby and his wife and child because none of the Potter elves are
left?” Dumbledore asked. Harry nodded, though he was unsure what the question had to do with what
he'd said.

“Then I daresay the portraits will have returned to normal by the time you go back to your home,
Harry.”

“Why is that?” Hermione asked, before Harry could inquire the same.

“Magical portraits are linked to House Elf magic. One of the reasons Hogwarts needs so many
elves is the sheer amount of portraits within these walls. With nary an elf at Potter Manor, the
magic in the portraits faded over time, but now that you have three living in the home, they will
return to their former state.”

“It's ironic that portraits are fueled by the `lowest' of magical beings,” Hermione
said, a touch bitterly.

“Indeed,” Dumbledore agreed. “Harry, I am not sure how to ask this question, but I figure the
direct approach is the best.”

Harry perked up at this. “What question, Albus?”

“You are undoubtedly aware of the final fate of Severus Snape, correct? Minerva informed me that
he was killed in the attack on the Ministry of Magic during the final assault.”

“Yes, that is true, Albus.” Harry preferred not to remember the bastard. Snape had, in fact,
killed the very man he was speaking to now.

“I am curious as to what became of Mister Malfoy, who was so intricately involved in the night
of my death? Minerva has no idea, and I was wondering if you did?”

Harry looked over to Hermione, who had a stricken look on her face he knew was mirrored on his.
Draco Malfoy and his ultimate fate was something the six of them—Harry, Hermione, Ron, Luna,
Neville, and Ginny—had never spoken of to anyone. They had all agreed it was better left unsaid,
but it was hard to avoid a direct question. Especially when it came from their former Headmaster,
who had been scarily perceptive at times.

“Albus…” Harry started, but trailed off, unsure of what to say.

“Does it really matter what happened to him?” Hermione asked. “He was an evil git, pardon the
expression, and he's gone.” She looked darkly between Minerva and the portrait, daring them to
disagree with her. Harry was surprised at her vehemence, but he understood it.

“Evil, Hermione? Misguided, maybe, but I don't think `evil',” Albus said, which Harry
knew was the wrong thing to say. Sure enough, Hermione's face colored with anger.

“With all due respect sir, you weren't alive when Harry and I were dealing with just how
`misguided' Malfoy was. In fact, wasn't it his misguidance that got you killed?” Hermione
was on a roll now, and Harry did nothing to stop her.

“Hermione—” McGonagall cut in, trying to mollify her former student.

“No, Minerva, this has to be said,” she said, glancing at the Headmistress, before looking back
at Albus. “You trusted Snape blindly for years, and look where it got you? Inside a portrait. You
thought he could be redeemed, but he was never, *ever* working for our side. And you always
thought that Malfoy could be redeemed too, that his arrogance and carelessness and disregard for
life were a result of his upbringing, instead of truly being a part of his character.

“Harry and I both know the truth, however, and I think it's time you heard it.”

----------

*For a night in October, it was awfully warm, and Harry shifted uncomfortably under his
invisibility cloak. He needed it, however, if he wanted to make it through Knockturn Alley without
being harassed, or worse. He heard the light swishing of five other cloaks, hiding his five closest
friends, and knew they were right behind him. The Twins had somehow procured the extra cloaks, and
Harry had paid them generously for each, ignoring their protests.*

*They had been back at Hogwarts for about a month and half, and had finally come across a lead
on Slytherin's locket. They'd finally been able to locate Dung and he'd told them he
sold it to Borgin and Burke's, the famous Dark artifact store in Knockturn. Soon enough, the
six of them stood outside the small shop, and he heard Hermione begin the work to bring down the
security wards. He could probably brute force his way through them, but that would leave them
precious little time to recover the Horcrux before the enemy arrived.*

*Several minutes and many noises of frustration from his bright friend later, she indicated
that it was safe to proceed into the shop, and he opened the door and crossed the threshold. He
pulled the cloak off, and the other five did the same, appearing in the midst of the dark shop.
They were all dressed in black, complete with dark caps and dark shoes. All six were battle ready,
nerves on edge and ready to fight for their lives, if need be.*

*“Ok, spread out,” Harry whispered. “In three groups, the usual, and search for it,” he
commanded, though he wouldn't have considered it a command. The other five followed his orders
without a thought, breaking up into the assumed groups of two. Hermione and he went toward the
counter; Ginny and Neville went toward the shelves; and Ron and Luna headed for the back
room.*

*After five minutes of fruitless searching, frustration began to set in, and Harry could only
assume that the owner of the shop had sold the precious trinket. The six of them met in the middle
of the store at his word, and were about to don their invisibility cloaks and leave, when a very
bright light blinded them.*

*“Down!” Harry yelled, and heard all of them drop straight to the floor. A few spells whizzed
over their heads, but the light soon faded, and Harry's stomach dropped at what he saw. A dozen
Death Eaters surrounded them. Two of them made his blood boil: unmasked, and standing side by side,
were Draco Malfoy and Antonin Dolohov. His hatred for Malfoy needed no further explanation, but his
feelings for Dolohov could be summed up by one thing—the purple light that had gone from the
man's wand into Hermione's chest at the Department of Mysteries. He wanted to crush Dolohov
like a bug.*

*“Well, well, well,” Dolohov said. The other Death Eaters remained silent, even Draco. Harry
noticed that Draco's face was impassive. “Harry Potter and his merry band of friends. I wonder
what you are doing here, in the middle of the night, when all of you are supposed to be at
school?”*

*“How did you know we were here?” Harry growled out, calculating their chances of escape or
survival, if it came to a fight. He could feel the Anti-Apparition ward that had been erected
sometime in the last ten seconds, and again he thought he might have been able to brute force his
way through it, but the others couldn't, besides Hermione. And he would not leave them
here.*

*“Your lovely friend there,” Dolohov answered, leering at Hermione, “forgot about the simple
detection ward. We knew you were here as soon as you set foot inside the shop, Potter.” The look
Dolohov had given Hermione curdled Harry's blood, and he was having a hard time controlling his
magic. He wanted to blast the fucker through the wall.*

*Harry saw the horror on Hermione's face at Dolohov's words, and Harry wanted to tell
her it was not her fault, but he would deal with that later. For now, he had to get the six of them
out of there alive.*

*“What do you want?” Harry asked.*

*“Isn't that obvious?” Dolohov asked, laughing coldly. “Your friends dead, and you coming
with us to the Dark Lord, so you can lick his boots and beg for your life.”*

*Harry took a deep breath to settle his magic, which was fighting for control, but he knew he
was losing the battle. The Death Eaters had come to kill Hermione and the others, and take him to
Voldemort. He would* not *let that happen. He would not allow the Death Eaters to harm any of
them. He would give them no quarter. He wanted everything from them, and would give them
nothing.*

*He clenched his fists, and unleashed his magic.*

*“Never!” he screamed, standing and casting a powerful shielding charm over the six of them.
All five of them immediately began casting at the assembled Death Eaters, taking five of them out
right away. Harry saw they were using lethal spells, which was good because the Death Eaters would
be too. Several enemy spells bounced off the shield, and Harry knew it was weakening. He tracked a
Death Eater for several seconds, and let loose a blasting curse powerful enough to push him back a
step. The Death Eater literally vaporized.*

*A flash of green drew his attention, and he watched as Ginny nimbly rolled out of the way of
a Killing Curse, which set fire to the counter behind her. She returned with a blasting curse and
cutting hex in quick succession, punching through her enemies shield with the first and cutting his
throat with the second. That left five Death Eaters, including Dolohov and Malfoy. He glanced
around quickly, searching for them, and watched as two more Death Eaters fell.*

*His friends were coldly efficient at bringing down the enemy, and Harry recast the powerful
shielding charm, giving them some more time. He saw a quick glimpse of Dolohov just then—the man
must have an invisibility cloak, as well! And it had looked like he was heading for
Hermione.*

*Without thinking, he stuck out his hand and summoned her physically to him. As she knocked
into him, the floor she had been crouching on exploded. She briefly looked into his eyes, sending
him a silent thank you.*

*“*Accio *Invisibility Cloaks!” Harry cried, using all of his power. Seven cloaks shot
toward him, including Dolohov's, and the newly exposed Senior Death Eater was brought down in a
spray of blood. What was left of him hit the floor with a crunching thud.*

*And then he saw something that infuriated him beyond belief. Malfoy was hiding behind the
counter, watching the battle, and he'd finally found cause to participate. Ron's back was
to him, and Malfoy had his wand out, pointing toward Harry's red-haired friend, wand tip
already glowing the sickly green of the Killing Curse…*

*Harry knew two things at once: Draco would kill Ron and Apparate away* and *he would not
let that happen. Concentrating all of his power on Draco Malfoy, he felt the Anti-Apparition wards
crumble, and he translocated behind his hated classmate. He had time to do nothing else, and pushed
his magic toward Malfoy, hoping to knock the wand off target. The Killing Curse erupted just as the
wave of pure energy hit him, sending Malfoy flying through the front wall into Knockturn Alley and
the Curse into the ceiling. Another fire started where it hit.*

*Things settled then, and Harry looked toward his friends. They were in varying states of
disorder, and he hoped that none of the blood on them was theirs. The Death Eaters, on the other
hand, hadn't fared so well. Their remains littered the floor of the store…and the walls…and the
ceiling…*

*Harry didn't feel bad though. They had come with the intention to kill them and capture
him. And he had no illusions about what Voldemort would do to him if he were ever captured. The
hole in the floor where Dolohov had tried to kill Hermione was still smoldering with magical
residue.*

*“Ugh,” Ginny said, wiping her bloodied face with her dark shirt.*

*“Everyone alright?” Harry asked, picking his way through the wreckage. They really needed to
get out of there before anyone else showed up. They all responded affirmatively.*

*“What happened to Malfoy?” Hermione asked. She gave him a look that told him she knew that he
had been about to kill Ron.*

*“I blasted him into the street,” Harry spat out. “Let's go see if the fucker is still
alive, and then we have to get out of here.”*

*They exited the now ruined shop into Knockturn Alley, and were greeted with a grisly sight.
Draco's rather abrupt exit through the front wall of Borgin and Burke's had nearly torn his
head off, as well as driving several pieces of wood through his torso. He was definitely
dead.*

*“Pity,” Neville commented. “We might have been able to get information from him.”*

*“Doubtful,” replied Luna. “He failed Voldemort in his task to kill Dumbledore. Tom
wouldn't trust him with anything useful.” They all nodded at Luna's logic.*

*“Alright, meet up by the Hog's Head,” Harry said. “Wait—I have an idea.” He held out his
hand toward the shop. “*Accio *Slytherin's locket,” he said, but nothing came from the
store. A curious ripping noise met his ears, though, and then something solid, metal, round, and on
a chain jumped into his hand. He looked down at Malfoy's body, and saw a tear in the pocket of
the pants. He looked to his hand, and saw Slytherin's locket.*

*“What the bloody hell?” Ron asked.*

----------

Hermione finished telling the story and tense silence spread over the Head's office for at
least a full minute. Hermione was gripping Harry's hand very tightly, and he had held on just
as tightly as they both relived that horrible night. Eventually, Dumbledore cleared his throat.

“So Draco had the locket in his possession?”

“Yes,” Hermione answered.

“Were you intending to kill Draco, Harry?”

Harry shrugged. “At this point, Albus, that's irrelevant. I was trying to stop him from
killing Ron. I didn't matter to me if I killed him or not, and it still doesn't.”

“You feel no remorse for his death?”

Harry's ire grew a little. “No, and I never will. What did the bastard *ever* do to
deserve any pity or remorse from me, or any of my friends, for that matter?”

“He had the Horcrux, Harry, allowing you to eventually kill Voldemort.”

“He was going to kill Ron, Albus,” Harry said, staring the old man in the icy blue eyes. “I
hardly think he had some kind of noble intention with the Horcrux. Who knows if he even knew what
it was?”

“We will never know now, will we?” the portrait asked, rhetorically. Harry was heavily reminded
of what Hermione had said to him on the veranda, about Apparating back and forth between Stanford
and Britain. Had his life been defined by bad choices so far? He didn't think so, and he
wasn't going to let the Headmaster's speculation ruin his day.

“Again, irrelevant. It's in the past. And now can we please move on to the reason for my
visit?”

Dumbledore stared at him for another few seconds, and then nodded. “I left you my personal
library, Harry. I waited for your maturity because some of the material is fairly sensitive and
dangerous. It's stored in my personal office, now Minerva's, which you can enter through
the door on your right.”

“I shrunk it all and put it in a trunk for you, Harry,” Minerva said, and he nodded at her.

“Thank you, Minerva. I appreciate it. Now, is there anything else we need to discuss today?”
Harry asked, looking around at the two other living people and one deceased portrait in the
room.

“I don't believe so,” Minerva said, “but I would like it if you two visited more often. The
school hasn't been as…lively…since the six of you left.”

“We'll try,” Harry said, standing and moving toward the office door. Hermione followed
him.

“Goodbye, Harry, Hermione,” the portrait said.

“Bye, Albus,” Hermione, and Harry nodded at the portrait. They found the trunk quickly and
Flooed out of the castle from the office to the Leaky Cauldron. From there, they Apparated back to
Hermione's house, into the middle of her backyard once again.

The shadows were starting to lengthen as the afternoon headed toward evening, and the light was
softer.

“What are you going to do now?” Hermione asked him.

“Head back to Potter Manor, I guess, and make sure Dobby hasn't destroyed the place,” he
replied, smiling a bit.

“Libby is so adorable,” Hermione laughed.

“I know. I can't believe Dobby is a father. That's amazing.”

“It is,” Hermione said, wistfully. “I think I'm going to hang around here for a bit,” she
said.

He nodded, and prepared for Apparition. “I'll see you later then?” he queried. He wasn't
expecting her to bring her hand to his face, or to step closer to him, or to move her face toward
his…

Their lips met in a simple kiss, but that was all it took to awaken every feeling that been
burning beneath the surface since their little tryst back in Stanford. Her lips felt velvety and
moist and perfect, and he wrapped his arms around her, bringing their bodies flush against each
other. The complete physical contact was exquisite, though not very erotic at all, and he parted
his lips as her tongue sought entrance. The searing kiss lasted awhile longer, and they eventually
parted, chests heaving and cheeks red.

“Bye, Harry,” she said, quietly. Her eyes had darkened again.

“See you,” he said, shivering slightly at the look she was giving him. It set his blood on fire.
He Disapparated from her back yard.

----------

Harry had studiously avoided the parlor since he'd been back at the Manor, even though Dobby
had told him the portraits were moving around again. He wanted Hermione to be with him when he
faced his parents for the first time ever and Sirius for the first time in a long time.

Dobby, Winky, and Libby had settled into the life at the Manor without incident, and Harry had
found out that Winky and Libby had learned how to speak and write correctly from several books they
had. Dobby was also trying to learn, but it had been much harder for him because of his unbound
status. Now that he was bound to Harry, however, the process should be much easier. Eventually,
Dobby would be able to speak like the rest of them.

Harry had taken dinner up on the western third floor veranda, which was the one overlooking the
pitch and the meadow beyond. He watched the sun set as he ate with his elves, whom he had asked to
eat with him. They had politely refused at first, but he was adamant, and soon they were having
dinner very comfortably sitting around a small table he had conjured.

The fire in the sky, the oranges and the reds and the yellows, was truly beautiful and he wished
Hermione could see it with him. He knew that during the next week, before he went to talk to the
Yankees, he had to have a heart to heart with her. There was something between them, but he was
afraid to name what it was. He just wanted to be with her, that was all he knew. He was comfortable
in her presence. He enjoyed her personality. He wanted her physically next to him. If those
weren't strong indicators for something special, he didn't know what was.

It had been a monumentally long day, though, and he decided to retire soon after dinner. He
instructed the elves that they could do as they pleased unless there was something pressing around
the Manor, and took a long, hot shower in his enormous master bathroom. Throwing on a fresh pair of
boxers, he crawled into his extensive and, as he found out, very comfortable bed. The last of the
light was fading from the sky as he closed his eyes…

He awoke sometime later, when it was completely dark, with a strangely empty feeling inside him.
He looked over at the other side of the bed, half expecting to see Hermione there, but knew it
would be empty. Somehow, during the past two weeks at Stanford, he had come to expect her body
sleeping next to him. Then he felt it…a spike of magic that could only be Hermione Apparating near
him.

And there she was. Standing in the middle of his room, in a sports bra and a small pair of
comfortable shorts, was Hermione.

“Harry?” she called out, tentatively.

“I'm awake.”

“Can't sleep?” she asked.

“Just woke up, actually. You can't?”

“My bed feels empty,” she responded, moving toward his bed. He moved over and flipped the covers
up.

“I know what you mean.”

“I guess I got used to it,” she said, sliding into bed next to him. He turned slightly and felt
her move against him, pressing into his back. The familiar sensation of her soft chest against him
settled him more than anything else could have. He sighed, very contentedly.

“It has been quite the day,” Harry mumbled, sleep already trying to reclaim him.

“It has,” Hermione agreed, squeezing him a little tighter to her. “Harry, I received a note from
Molly Weasley a few hours ago, inviting you to dinner at the Burrow tomorrow evening.”

“Ok…” he trailed off, breathing deeply the scent of Hermione.

“It's set to be a large gathering. You ready for that?”

He just nodded, and felt Hermione move against him slightly. “G'night Hermione,” he
whispered.

“Night, Harry,” she whispered back. Her warm breath fell lightly across his neck, and he was at
peace.

-->



16. Back to the Burrow
----------------------



**Bearings**

Disclaimer/Author's Notes: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. It has occurred to me that this
story is becoming something much more than originally intended. You readers are mostly the cause
for that, because of your support and constructive criticism. The ride has only just begun, and I
hope all of you stay with me for its entire length; and I thank you most sincerely for being here
so far.

*Have heart my dear
We're bound to be afraid
Even if it's just for a few days
Making up for all this mess*

Snow Patrol

*Run*

Chapter Ten: Back to the Burrow

Saturday, May 18th, 2002

It was the silence that woke Harry. More than any kind of disturbance could, the complete lack
of noise pulled him from the warm embrace of sleep, and also the soft body behind him. Carefully,
trying not to wake Hermione, he extracted himself from the bed and padded silently across the cool
floor.

Upon reaching the French doors set into the opposite wall, he pulled back the light-colored
curtains and stared out at the coming day. The hour was somewhere between dawn and true sunrise,
when even the birds were contemplating the new day. Half the sky was still dark, and the other half
had splashes of violet, indigo, and blue. Harry continued gazing through the glass for a few
moments, and then cracked one of the doors and slipped through.

The chill of the morning hit him immediately, raising bumps along every inch of exposed skin—he
was still clad only in boxers—so he wandlessly cast a heating charm over himself. Going to the
railing of the balcony, he leaned against it, resting his forearms on it.

The master suite was on the second floor of the Manor, and this particular veranda faced north.
If he looked to his right, to the east, he could see the weak light of day just beginning to
reflect off the waters of the lake. To his left, to the west, he could see the hoops of the north
end of the Quidditch pitch, the tops of which were gilded with the breaking day.

Nothing stirred; there was no breeze and no animals were chirping or twittering. It was oddly
peaceful, yet mildly discomforting at the same time. Looking straight out, to the north, he could
only see the long flat expanse of the huge meadow, stretching into the inky blackness at the
northern horizon. Loneliness began to creep up on him, even though whom he'd recently come to
regard as the most important person in the world was only twenty feet away, and he shivered
involuntarily.

As he considered returning to the comfort of his bed, and Hermione's arms, because of the
otherworldly silence all around him, that same silence was broken by the click of the door handle
behind him. He heard it open and close and then the soft whisper of bare feet on the hard surface
of the veranda. A rush of extra warmth hit him as Hermione cast a heating charm over herself.

She leaned over the railing next to him, brushing against his bare arms with her own, and in his
peripheral vision he caught a glimpse of perky nipples through her sports bra before the heating
charm really took effect. It was the kind of misplaced observation early in the morning that would
bring a smile to anyone's face.

“What are you smiling at?” she asked him, sleep heavy in her voice.

“You,” he replied, and then cleared his throat. It was slightly raspy. He turned his head a
little and saw a small smile lift the corners of her lips.

“What woke you up so early?” she asked. “After yesterday I thought you'd sleep in.”

“Dunno really,” he said. “We did get to sleep early.”

“Yeah,” Hermione breathed, and then the silence returned. He stole another glance at her after
it continued on for at least a minute, and found that she was just staring out across the slowly
lightening plain. Lighter colors began to appear in the east, pushing the blackness out of the
west.

“It really *is* beautiful here, Harry,” she said, stilling looking fixedly out over the
property. Harry didn't respond; instead, his eyes tracked over her face, from her relaxed
forehead (for once), high cheekbones, pert nose, and to her precious lips. She looked at him then,
and his eyes flicked to hers.

“It is,” Harry agreed, though his mind was only half on the conversation. The other half was
thinking about how nice it would be to pull Hermione back into the bedroom and ravish her. He
blinked and turned back toward the scene before them.

“Did I wake you up?” he asked.

“Indirectly,” she answered, and he detected a hint of humor in her inflection. He turned bodily
toward her, quirking an eyebrow. She faced him, resting her side against the railing.

“Oh?”

“Your leaving didn't wake me…but your absence did,” she said, and he saw her smile openly at
the wordplay. He knew what she meant, but…

“Right…a Hermione Granger riddle…”

“Too early in the morning for you, Potter?” she queried, smirking at him.

“Not at all, Granger,” he shot back. “It's *you* that woke up just because your cuddle
object left the bed.”

Both eyebrows rose. “Cuddle object? That the best you could come up with?”

“Look, Hermione—”

“I much prefer snuggly-bear,” Hermione overrode, effectively shutting him up. He only lasted two
or three seconds, though, and then burst out laughing. Hermione soon joined him, and they turned
back to face out from the balcony.

“Seriously, though, I knew you were gone even before I was fully awake. Is it bad that I
can't sleep unless you're there?” she continued.

“I don't think so,” Harry nearly whispered, and moved closer to Hermione. Their arms touched
and they stood like that for a while longer, just resting easy in each other's company. As the
eastern sky moved toward light yellow, Harry cleared his throat once again.

“Dobby?” he called out. Not even five seconds passed before the elf popped in behind them. He
and Hermione turned around and leaned their backs against the railing.

“Harry be calling Dobby?”

“Yes; have you, Winky, and Libby had breakfast yet today?” he inquired of the elf.

“We is making it now,” he told Harry.

“Could you please make a little more for Hermione and I, and then join us for breakfast out
here?”

Dobby's eyes went wide with shock and admiration—Harry could see the emotions written
plainly across his features—and nodded. He disappeared without another word.

“D'ya think he'll ever get used to eating at the same table as us?” Harry asked. He was
surprised to hear Hermione gasp, and turned his head toward her. She was looking at him with a
guarded expression.

“What?” he asked.

“You just said…oh, nevermind,” she replied, waving it off with her hand. He had no idea what she
was on about, but her face relaxed and he soon forgot about it. He conjured a table and five
comfortable chairs. The light in the east was now bright enough to cast shadows along the
balcony.

“You realize we're not wearing much?” she asked, that dry humor in her voice again. He
shrugged and they both sat down, next to each other of course.

“The wonders of heating charms,” he replied, nudging her shoulder with his own. Before another
word could be said, Dobby, Winky, and Libby appeared by his side, followed soon after by their
breakfast on the table.

“I want to sit next to Harry!” Libby exclaimed, drawing a laugh from Harry and Hermione, a
bemused expression from Winky, and a curious one from Dobby. Harry pulled out the chair, conjured a
few more cushions for the tiny elf to sit on, and helped her into the chair. All the while she was
staring at Harry. He could tell she was bursting to say something.

“Like my new socks?” she squeaked, as soon as Dobby and Winky had settled into their own chairs.
He followed her barely-there finger, which she had pointed toward deep purple socks adorning her
little feet.

“They're vibrant,” Harry told her, amused at the elf's antics. He could hear Hermione
fighting more laughter at his other side. Even Winky made a noise that sounded like laughter. Dobby
was smiling, or at least to Harry that's what it looked he was doing.

“Let's eat,” Harry said, and the five of them loaded their plates. Of course, `loaded'
was a relative term when speaking of house elves, especially about one only slightly larger than
Harry's head.

Hermione leaned over and whispered into his ear, “I think you have a new fan, Harry.” Goosebumps
rippled along his skin, heedless of the heating charm, at her breath on his ear and neck. He looked
at her.

“Shut it, you,” he grinned. She just shook her head, and continued eating her meal. When they
were all nearing their fill, signaled by the slowing of the clatter of silverware on the plates,
light began to bloom in earnest in the east. Sunrise was coming.

“What are your plans for the day?” Harry asked, looking at the three elves. Winky and Dobby
looked at each other, and then Winky gave a kind of shrug.

“There is not much cleaning or other work to do around here, yet…so we will probably work on
Dobby's grammar until or unless something comes up,” Winky replied. Harry had to smile at her
practiced articulation. He wondered if it would be weird to hear Dobby speak like Winky, after
having heard him the other way for so long. He shrugged it off, knowing it didn't matter. Dobby
seemed eager to learn; by the way he had been nodding when Winky spoke, so Harry thought nothing
more of it.

“Sounds good,” Harry affirmed, and Dobby and Winky disappeared, along with the dishes and the
leftover food. Harry and Hermione looked at Libby, who had remained behind.

“You are a great wizard and Miss Hermione is a great witch,” she said matter-of-factly, and then
disappeared as well.

“We keep hearing that,” Harry teased, looking at Hermione with a large smile on his face. The
little elf just tickled something inside of him, which he did not know how to name. It was
almost…paternal.

“I wonder if they'll ever stop calling me `Miss Hermione'?” she asked, chuckling a
little. Harry sensed the same kind of feeling from Hermione toward Libby, though maternal,
obviously.

“I'll probably have to tell them to call you just Hermione, if you want me to.”

She waved it off. “Don't worry about it, it's not important. When you get the chance
although, I wouldn't mind if you did.”

“Sure,” he said, leaning over and wrapping an arm around her bare shoulders. She sighed and
leaned into him. They were still sitting in the conjured chairs. Harry banished the table and the
three empty chairs.

Light flared on the eastern horizon just then, drawing Harry and Hermione's attention toward
it, and they watched in silence as the first bit of sun came into view. The effect was
bewitching—what had previously only been a warm morning light was now bright, vibrant sunlight.
Harry canceled the heating charm on himself as the rays hit his skin. The shadows around the
property were almost impossibly long, Harry noticed, because the sun had literally just come into
view.

“I don't know if I've ever actually seen that,” Hermione commented, in a quiet voice. He
felt her skin cool slightly under his touch as she canceled her heating charm.

“What?”

“Sunrise,” she returned, looking again at the newly risen sphere, before averting her eyes
slightly. “The actual moment it comes over the horizon.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “Dunno if I have either.” And it was the thought of having never seen a true
sunrise that made him think of the countless things he had never experienced. Nothing specific came
to mind—only vague images of himself as a young child happily interacting with his parents—but the
effect was sobering, nonetheless. He wondered how different things would have been if the Second
War had never happened; if he had been exposed to the magical world from birth; if living at Potter
Manor all of his life would have influenced his friendship with Hermione or Ron; if he would have
left Britain for four years after Hogwarts…

He wondered if he and the five others who used to be his closest friends would have had the same
relationship if the Horcrux hunt had never happened. And suddenly, he wondered how much different
his life would be if he had not gone looking for Hermione on Halloween their first year at
Hogwarts. If she had been taken from him then, stolen away in only his eleventh year of life, where
would he be?

Where would Harry Potter be without Hermione Granger?

He tightened the arm that was around Hermione and pressed a gentle kiss into the bare skin of
her shoulder. He literally saw the goose bumps flash out along her body. She turned her head toward
him. Sunlight glinted off her hair.

“What was that for?” she asked.

Harry knew exactly what it was for. He had wanted to talk with Hermione all through the entire
previous day about whatever `it' was between them, but sitting here on a second-floor balcony
at his new house, as the sun warmed their faces, he knew what `it' was. The proverbial light
bulb had flickered on in his head…and his heart.

He took a deep breath and faced her, taking her hands in his. He stared down at their
interlocking fingers for a moment, trying to figure out how to say exactly what he was feeling.
Then, for the first time since he'd come outside, a light breeze began to caress his skin.

“It's for being you, Hermione. For coming out to Stanford and reminding me of the people I
left behind. And for showing me the *something* I've been missing since I left,” he spoke,
looking directly into her vivid brown eyes. He watched as her brow creased and as her teeth took
her bottom lip; quickly, there was a pool of moisture in her eyes.

“Harry?” she asked, barely a whisper. He began to rub a thumb over the back of one of her hands.
He had to get this next part right. He couldn't let Hermione down, or himself.

“I wish I had been able to see it before, what you really mean to me, Hermione. I don't even
know if there are words to express it. But I do know that I couldn't imagine my life without
you anymore. These past two weeks, I've come to depend on you. And during that time, I've
also understood how much I depended on you at Hogwarts and through the war.”

A tear cascaded down Hermione's smooth cheek, and he reached a hand up to brush the wetness
away. It was a futile gesture, though, because her lip was trembling, and more tears were imminent.
Harry had one more thing to say.

“Do you remember that night at the Burrow, before I went away to uni?” he asked her. She nodded
slightly, sending more droplets down her face. “And how you apologized for `not doing enough'?”
He received another nod. “You did more than enough, Hermione,” Harry told her. “You were always
there for me, when it really mattered. I wish I could say the same for myself, but I'm afraid
all I can say is that I hope to be in the future.”

Without warning, Hermione threw herself onto Harry, sending him back against the chair. For one
suspended moment in time, Harry really thought the chair was going to topple over backwards, but
then it righted itself and he was holding a crying Hermione in his lap. She didn't look up at
him, but he could hear everything she said, muffled though the words were:

“I don't know what's going to happen,” she said, “but one thing you can be certain of is
that I'm going to be with you, no matter what.” Her words rushed out. “I realized a long time
ago that I loved you, Harry, and I've been struggling with that ever since. You have no idea
how much it means to me to hear you say that you need me, as well.” She looked up into his eyes
finally, streaked cheeks glistening in the barely risen sun.

“Whatever it takes, Harry, this will work.” She gazed into his eyes, and he could only
reciprocate. For fear of saying anything that would ruin the moment, he kept his mouth shut, and
just lost himself in her chocolate pools. “Whatever it takes,” she whispered, fervently, and their
lips crashed together.

After a few moments of intense face melting, or at least that's what it seemed like to
Harry, because of the heat coming off Hermione's lovely features, Hermione grunted in what
sounded like impatience. Harry then felt a draft…over *all* of him. He broke the kiss and
looked at Hermione, sure there was shock written on his face. She had banished their sparse
clothing, and now he was naked on the balcony, holding a similarly buxom witch in his arms. He was
already hard.

“Only in the way,” she said, hurriedly, with lust and love dripping from her voice. “What are
you waiting for?” she asked him, smirking at his still-shocked face. “Take me to the bedroom and
show me what a *great* wizard you really are.”

“You sure?” he asked, noticing that his voice was slightly higher than normal. Hermione then
growled at him; he felt the vibrations all through his body, especially in the part of him that was
sticking up like some obscene mast.

“Yes,” she hissed, reaching under herself and squeezing him. He shut his eyes, welcoming the
pressure, and then opened them again when she released him. “Take—me—to—the—bedroom,” she said,
through gritted teeth. There was a deep crimson color high on her cheeks and her chest was heaving.
She was absolutely fucking gorgeous.

Harry needed no further prompting.

In one fluid motion, he rose to his feet, curling Hermione's warm body in his arms, getting
distracted as her chest bounced slightly, but then refocusing, banishing the chairs, and heading
for the French doors. He almost forgot to open them as Hermione reached down with two fingers and
began to massage her core, but he recovered in time and got them safely through the doors.

They closed behind them and he headed straight for the bed, listening to Hermione's mewls as
some strange lust animal took her over. Harry couldn't believe the change that had overtaken
her in a matter of seconds, but he wasn't complaining. In fact, the same animal that was raging
within Hermione was quickly growing in him.

He began to set her down on the bed, but she wriggled out of his arms and toppled down onto the
covers. She rolled once and ended up on her back, looking up at Harry through her hair, hand still
placed firmly between her legs. Her nipples were hard and very dark. They locked eyes—Harry saw
that her eyes were almost black—and she blew the hair away from her face.

“Get down here,” she said.

“Ok,” he agreed, grinning stupidly and settling himself down next to her. They kissed again,
albeit briefly, and then Harry worked along her jaw, down her neck, over her collarbone, and up the
swell of her right breast. She moaned, long and low, and his lips brushed against her taut nipple,
and then he took it completely in his mouth. It was hard as a rock; Harry brought his hand to the
other one and caressed it, much as his tongue was rocking against the first. He switched sides
after a moment, and then slowly started south with his lips.

Down over the end of her ribcage, her diaphragm, and finally onto her tummy, he dragged kisses
along her goose bumped skin. He stopped at her navel for a second, to twirl it with his tongue, but
Hermione impatiently pushed his head further down.

“Don't stop,” she gasped, and removed her other hand so Harry could continue moving toward
her most intimate and sensitive region. Never bringing his lips off her skin, he followed her
center down from her navel, over her mons, and into the top of her outer lips. She shuddered
involuntarily, and pressed his head down again. His lips settled over her inner lips and he pushed
them apart with his tongue, seeking the glorious little nub that lay within those folds.

After a moment, he knew he'd found it, because she gave a great cry and lifted her back
mostly off the bed. He dragged his tongue over the little spot, feeling the coarseness of his
tastebuds as they rippled along the smooth surface of her clit. The feeling was probably so
intense, however, that Hermione was soon dragging Harry's head up. She stared him in the eyes,
and he saw that her eyes were most definitely black now.

“I can't wait anymore, Harry,” she said, fighting to keep some sense of control. “I want
you, now!” she exclaimed, and reached down to find his erection.

“Hermione—” he started, but cut off at the look Hermione gave him. It plainly said *Shut up
and fuck me*.

“*Inconceivious*,” she muttered, and Harry felt a flash of heat pass between their
abdomens. He moved his hips lightly, bringing his tip close to her center, and she guided him the
rest of the way. She positioned him at her entrance and wriggled slightly, bringing the tip inside
of her. Harry had never felt something so tight or wet or exquisitely wonderful.

“Just hang on,” Hermione said, through gritted teeth. He was momentarily concerned about the
pained look on her face, but he remembered suddenly they were both virgins. He was fucking
Hermione! What had just happened? They had just been sitting out on the balcony and—

“Ok, slow,” she said, resting a hand against his belly. He moved his hips slightly, stopping
when she applied pressure with her hand. That same pained look came over her face, but she
apparently adjusted quickly and eased up. He inched forward again—the look reappeared, but no
pressure on his belly this time.

“Why does it have to hurt you?” he whispered, looking at her with concern. He felt horrible
feeling nothing but absolute pleasure while she was in pain. She gave him a winning smile, though,
and shook her head lightly.

“It only should at first,” she said, panting again. “Then it will just feel *good*,” she
added. He was mostly inside of her now, and she leaned back so that she was lying fully on the bed.
He felt her wrap her smooth, sensuous legs around his back, just above his bum, interlocking her
ankles. He moved in another inch or so and their pubic bones were resting against each other.

The pressure Harry felt on his cock was unlike anything he had have ever experienced before. It
was so complete, wrapping him perfectly in the grasping, sucking wetness, and he shuddered
involuntarily as her muscles clenched around him.

“Just go slow,” she reiterated, and Harry distinctly heard a tone of pleasure in her voice. He
could tell the pain wasn't completely gone—perhaps it never would be, he didn't know these
things—but she was enjoying herself at least.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he retracted his hips, bringing inch after inch out of her depths. She
gasped as his tip pressed out on her entrance, and he wasn't sure if it was in pleasure or
pain, so he paused, watching her face—she had closed her eyes—and then gradually pushed back
in.

Harry could already feel his climax building, because this was such a new and exciting and
breathtaking experience, but he clenched his muscles, pausing the buildup. He wanted this to last
forever, or at least until Hermione was fully enjoying herself. She had brought her hands to
breasts, at some point, and was tweaking her nipples between her fingers.

“Hermione,” Harry said, withdrawing again.

“What?”

“You're amazing,” he answered, pushing into the hilt. He felt a little less resistance,
though it did not feel any less incredible. Perhaps she was loosening up a bit.

“You're *big*,” she growled, and then started chuckling because he had paused. She
opened her eyes and looked up at him, with an innocent sort of gleam in them.

“Just telling it like it is,” she said, and then moaned as he moved in and out a little faster.
“Yessss, Harry,” she hissed. “Just like that—a little faster now.” She went back to massaging her
breasts.

A rhythm soon developed, and Harry knew that he wasn't going to last much longer. He was
inside Hermione, whom he had just told he wanted to be with forever. He was inside the girl he had
known since he was eleven; the girl that had saved his life countless times; and the girl that set
his heart afire with an emotion that could only be described as love.

He pushed in a little deeper than he had been, as the word love reverberated around his brain.
She gasped and nodded desperately, crying out for him to keep doing that. Merlin, she was so sexy,
gasping and moaning and squirming beneath him, but love? Was that what it was?

“Fuck me, Harry!” she screamed, and he suppressed his mild shock at her language with a grunt
and a grin.

“I'm trying!” he called back, and started pistoning in and out of her very quickly. He
suddenly realized that of course it was love, and it had been for so long he couldn't trace the
very beginning. Hermione Granger was the most integral part of his life, past, present, and future,
and he wanted to be her focal point, too.

Bur right now, both their focal points were building toward some mutual crescendo.
Hermione's inner walls had swollen slightly, and she had gone very slick. Harry felt the
pressure building at the base of his erection, and knew it was coming.

“Harry, I'm almost there!” she cried, wrapping her legs more tightly around his back. He had
time for three or four more thrusts; he lost count, and then called out:

“I'm *there*,” and spilled over the edge, wave after wave of sheer pleasure rolling
along his nervous system. He suddenly felt another clenching, around his currently clenching
member, and Hermione's whimpers indicated that she too had found her pinnacle. He continued
stroking in and out for a few more seconds, but the sensations became so intense after he'd
finished that he had to pull out. Hermione sighed longingly as he slipped from her.

He stayed above her, because she hadn't removed her legs from around him, and by the look
she was giving him, she wasn't planning on it. He looked into her eyes for a moment, where her
pupils had become indistinguishable from her irises, and then raised an eyebrow at her.

“We just had sex, Harry,” she said, in such a matter of fact voice that he couldn't help the
laughter that bubbled up within him.

“We did, didn't we?” he asked, rhetorically, as he settled lightly on top of her. They
snuggled for a few moments, and then he raised his head to look at her. Her cheeks were still very
flushed. She grinned at him, flashing white teeth.

“What a way to start the day,” she said. Harry couldn't agree more. Hermione looked around
briefly. “Wonder where our knickers got off to?”

----------

Hermione left for her house sometime later, when they eventually found their clothes and pulled
themselves out of bed. She said she needed to shower and eat and take care of some things.

Harry went back out to the balcony, leaning over the railing once again. Their little roll
through the sheets and subsequent snuggling had advanced the day to late morning, and the sun was
actually quite warm on his skin. In the clear light, he saw just how large the plain to the north
was, and he stared at the vast expanse as his mind went over what had happened.

He had finally been able to tell Hermione exactly what he'd been feeling since she'd
shown up in Stanford (except it was much longer than that, he knew now), and she had gone all
crazy-lusty on him and they'd…fucked.

He smiled as the memory of how it felt washed over him, of how *Hermione* felt. He
couldn't think of any better way to have spent the morning, except possibly some other fun
activity with her. And what had she said? *Whatever it takes*, he remembered. With her words
echoing in his head, providing him some comfort as to his impending meeting with the Yankees and
all it meant, he left the balcony for the shower.

----------

Showered, fed, and watered, Harry strolled through the Manor in tan sandals and a pair of khaki
shorts. He had decided against a shirt because of the temperature outside, and was glad for it as
he descended the staircase, with the sun coming through the high windows. The day seemed to be
shaping up for almost unusual warmth, but Harry wasn't complaining. He had gotten used to the
milder temperatures in Stanford.

Exiting the front door, he turned left, and headed east toward the lake. There was a faintly
worn path through the grass he followed intermittently, but it had so little use over the past two
decades it faded out at points. The yard sloped gently down toward the lake; Harry looked behind at
the receding Manor. He could see the east side of the house now, with all its balconies. The one on
third floor, which he and Hermione had been standing upon the previous day, was by far the
largest.

The smell of clean water soon hit his nostrils, and he realized that the lake was in fact much
larger than he'd originally thought. As he neared the sandy shore, he roughly estimated it at
ten kilometers wide and twenty kilometers long. The water was so smooth and clear that it almost
perfectly reflected the clear blue sky and sun. The image was slightly disorienting—two skies—but
it was all part of the natural ambience. The sheer physical beauty of Potter Manor and its
surrounding property continued to amaze him.

Finally reaching the sand, he bent down and removed his sandals, digging his toes into the
lukewarm beach. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine he was standing at the edge of the Pacific,
which he had visited a few times at uni, except for the absence of the sound of waves. And the
smell of the salt water.

He smiled, realizing that this beach had very little in common with one on the ocean, but was
enjoying it all the same. He also realized that this far away from everything, he and Hermione
wouldn't need privacy hedges to get that *complete* tan…

He started across the sand, toward the small dock protruding into the waters of the lake. It was
maybe thirty meters long, perpendicular to the shore; he stepped onto its slatted surface and
headed for the speedboat tethered at the end. As he came upon it, he saw that it, also, was larger
than he'd originally guessed and that it had to have been *very* expensive.

Sleek and shiny, built for as little wind resistance as possible, it had two large outboard
motors. There were eight comfortable seats—leather recliners with cup holders—each looking like the
kind of thing you'd find in a posh living room. The boat was tied very simply to a post at the
very end of the dock, Harry saw, and he vaulted over the side into it. Moving between the seats, he
came upon the front two. The passenger seat was like the six behind him (they were in rows of two),
and so was the driver seat, except for the steering wheel and small control panel in front of
it.

He looked closer at the gauges and instruments, and it didn't seem very complicated at all.
There was the aforementioned steering wheel, something that was clearly a throttle, a speedometer
that topped out at two hundred kilometers an hour, two engine thermometers, an ignition switch, and
a fuel gauge.

Harry did a double take when he saw the last, though, because instead of saying `Fuel' the
word `Magic' was printed there. The needle rested firmly over E, and he tapped the small glass
cover to see if it was stuck. Something strange happened then—the needle jumped slightly and Harry
felt some kind of *pull* on his magic. He tapped it again, this time a little harder, and the
same thing happened.

He pondered it for a moment, and then the realization came that the boat was fueled by magic,
not petrol. Gently, he pressed his finger against the glass cover of the magic gauge, and the pull
on his magic became steady. He could almost feel the energy traveling down his arm and out of his
finger. The needle rose steadily, passing the halfway mark after about half a minute and coming to
rest just above the bold F another half a minute later.

Harry withdrew his finger, expecting to feel tired or something to that effect, but he only felt
slightly out of breath. He stood there, next to the driver's seat of his new speedboat for
several seconds, letting his heart rate settle; a light breeze ruffled his hair, which was getting
shaggy, and he then sat down. Looking over the control panel again, he noticed another instrument
that he'd missed earlier—a small black button labeled `Water Brake'. He raised his
eyebrows, smiling at his oversight. It would probably be helpful knowing where that was
located.

He toggled the ignition switch and listened with some satisfaction as the powerful motors roared
to life. They were guttural and vibrating a lot, and Harry could almost taste the raw power they
exuded. He stood, reaching over the edge of the boat, and untied it from the dock. Immediately, it
began to slowly drift away from the long wooden platform.

Harry sat back into the driver's seat, curling his fingers around the throttle. He paused
then, just for a fraction of a second, and then pressed it lightly upward. The engines revved in
response, and the boat moved away from the dock. He only had the throttle one-eighth of the way up,
and he watched as the speedo crawled up to around 30 kilometers per hour. He looked behind, saw
that he was sufficiently far enough away from the moor, and pushed more insistently on the throttle
lever.

Harry grinned and laughed out loud as new acceleration pressed him back into his seat, and he
left the lever at about five-eighths. The engines were roaring, and soon the wind was competing
with the sound. The needle in the speedometer climbed gradually past eighty…one hundred…and slowed
at around one hundred twenty kilometers per hour.

Reaching down to adjust the seat, Harry moved it back, and stood to better control the boat. The
long, sloped windshield was just high enough to cut the wind around him, and he couldn't help
the smile that was plastered to his face as the waters of the lake rushed by. It was exhilarating,
speeding along the surface of the pristine body of water, with nothing but the wind and the spray
to greet him. He moved the wheel slightly, and had to adjust his footing as the boat banked into
the turn.

Harry turned the wheel back and forth a few times, tacking gradually across the lake. He saw
that he was quickly approaching the north end of the lake, and dropped the throttle to
three-eighths. Turning the wheel a little harder, he came around, heading south now. The lake
stretched before him for almost twenty kilometers, and he suddenly threw caution to the wind: Harry
mashed the throttle all the way up.

The engines roared, very loud, and the boat suddenly lurched forward. Harry held onto the wheel
tightly, not fancying flying out into the lake. The speedo needle rushed back past one hundred
twenty kilometers per hour and rose rapidly past one hundred fifty, slowing only when it reached
one hundred ninety.

The wind and engines were near deafening now, but Harry flicked a finger and cast a muting
charm. The noise fell away to a dull roar, and he could fully enjoy the top speed of the boat. The
boat sliced through the water like an arrow, at just over two hundred kilometers an hour. After a
little under three minutes, he was coming even with the dock again, and he chanced a look over
there.

Hermione was at the end of the dock, waving to him.

He pushed the throttle back down to one-eighth, and the boat rapidly lost speed. Banking in a
wide arc toward the dock so he'd come in next to it, and not at it, he pushed the engines back
almost all the way; the speedo fell to about 10 kilometers an hour, and he nearly coasted the last
fifty meters. As he drew very close to the moor, he pressed the water break, hearing something
deploy on the sides of the boat, under the surface of the water, and the boat came to a stop.

Hermione mouthed something at him, but he couldn't hear it. Waving his hand to cancel the
muting charm, he asked, “What?”

“A little short,” she repeated, and it was true. The boat had stopped about five meters from his
intended destination.

He grinned broadly at her. “Why don't you just Apparate?”

“You think I'm getting in that boat with you?” she asked, putting a hand to her hip and
sticking out her chest slightly. Harry licked his lips, lasciviously eyeing her wonderful
cleavage—she was wearing sandals, short shorts, and a bikini top. He looked around, suddenly
wondering where his sandals had gotten off to, and spotted them on the seat behind his. He swiveled
his head back toward his favorite girl.

“I'll let you drive…” he said, sticking his tongue out at her. The next second, she was
standing next to him, wrapping her arms around his bare chest.

“Mmm…” she cooed. “What if I just Apparated us both back up into your bedroom?”

“I wouldn't be responsible for my actions,” he murmured, dropping his lips to her neck. She
sighed and craned her neck, allowing him better access. He continued for another few seconds,
before pulling his head back. “But,” he added, “you wouldn't be able to drive our new
boat.”

“Our?” she questioned.

“Did you already forget I gave you access to everything in the Manor yesterday?”

“Oh,” she said, reminded of what he'd done for her. “Thanks,” she grinned. He moved out of
her way, sitting in the passenger seat, and she stood where he had been. He watched her peruse the
controls for a minute.

“Why's this say `Magic' and not `Petrol'?”

“Press your finger against it and find out,” he replied, watching as she did so. Her eyebrow
quirked and she withdrew her finger. “Well, that's interesting. Do you suppose all the Muggle
gadgets in your house work the same way?”

“Dunno,” he answered, staring at Hermione. She had pulled her hair into a ponytail, exposing all
of her face. She was beautiful. He knew he had already thought that many times today, and probably
would many more times. He looked away from her out over the lake; the waters had settled and once
again the blue sky was perfectly reflected.

“Could be, haven't actually looked at them yet,” he added, looking back at her. As the
engine was still idling, she didn't have to press the ignition, and simply pushed on the
throttle to get the boat moving. Unlike Harry had, however, she didn't start conservatively,
and he watched somewhat amused as she moved the throttle all the way forward. The front of the boat
lifted out of the water slightly—Hermione squealed, in either delight of fear, Harry couldn't
tell—and they rocketed forward. She was gripping the steering wheel as tightly as he had. When the
noise grew to a crescendo, he cast another muting charm. She looked over at him, grinning, and he
knew it had been delight. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks were red. She loved this.

The acceleration soon slowed as the boat approached its top speed. Hermione guided the boat into
a very wide turn as the north shore came upon them, bringing the vessel around toward the south.
They streaked across the lake in silence for another minute, just enjoying the adrenaline rush it
brought. Hermione's pony tail flew out behind her head. Harry thought she would have looked
like a movie star if only she was wearing sunglasses.

“My parents were wondering where I've been,” she said, conversationally, even though they
were skimming over the water almost as fast as Harry had ever flown on a broom.

“Oh?” he intoned. She looked over at him.

“Yeah, and guess what I told them?” There was a mischievous sparkle in her brown eyes.

“That you were a good little girl and shacked up with Luna or something?” he retorted, in a
playful tone. She just smirked at him.

“First of all, Luna and Ron live together, and secondly, you're not even close. I told them
truth,” she said, simply.

“You told your parents we had—”

“*No*, Harry,” she cut him off, laughing at what must have been the stupidity of what
he'd been about to say. “I just said that I'd been staying with you for the past two weeks,
and it grew into a habit.”

“I'm sure they ate that up,” Harry said. They had just passed the dock, and were now on the
southern half of the lake. He conjured a glass of water, took a few sips, and put in into the cup
holder.

“Daddy did,” she responded, “and he went outside to do some yard work. Mum knows better, though,
and wanted to know what I'd *really* been doing.”

“Well, you didn't exactly lie,” Harry pointed out, wondering how open-minded Jane was when
it came to Hermione. Harry didn't want to suddenly become the bad guy, though he would deal
with it if he had. Hermione was worth it, and he kept hearing her words in the back of his mind:
*whatever it takes*.

“True, and she knew that. But she could also tell, Harry. She asked if you were worth all the
hype,” she said, looking over at him. She started laughing out loud at the affronted look he knew
was on his face.

“Don't worry, *dear*,” she continued, patting his face in a patronizing sort of way,
though she was only joking. “I told her you measured up.”

“Nice, Hermione,” he responded, dryly. “I'm *sure* your mum wanted to know the
details.”

“Maybe,” Hermione came back, and they looked at each other. She was smiling, but he could tell
she was thinking about what had transpired only a few hours before, and so was he. He wouldn't
mind repeating that sometime soon. She was just so lovely.

Hermione turned wheel, skimming along the shallows near the southern shore of the lake, and
headed the boat north once again.

“Hermione…” Harry started.

“Yeah?”

“I was wondering if you would…come and see the portraits with me?”

“Of course, Harry,” she said. There was a tender look on her face. She steered the boat toward
the dock and powered the engines down a bit. Silence settled between them as they watched the moor
draw near, and Hermione eventually stopped the boat within inches of the dock.

“See?” Hermione pointed out. “Not so hard, is it?”

“I always knew you were brilliant,” Harry said, standing up and wrapping his arms around
Hermione's torso. Since she was only wearing a bikini top, there was much skin-to-skin contact,
and Harry greatly enjoyed it. Hers was very warm and smooth. She turned her head and planted a kiss
on his lips. When he tried to deepen it, however, she pulled her lips back and smiled at him.

“The portraits, Harry,” she commented, with a laugh in her voice. Her eyes still had that tender
look. She cut the engines and they faded away.

“Yeah,” he breathed. He reached down, grabbed the tether with a hand, and Apparated them both
onto the dock. After tying the boat off, he turned back to her and hugged her to him. She dropped
her head to his chest.

They appeared silently in the foyer of the Manor, just outside of the door to the parlor where
the portraits were. Hermione raised her head, looking him in the eyes.

“It doesn't even feel like Apparition when you do it,” she said.

“Hmm?” Harry intoned. He had already been thinking of facing his parents for the first
time…ever.

“Nevermind,” Hermione smiled. She let go of Harry and turned to the door. She looked back
briefly; meeting his eyes once again, and then went through the door into the parlor. After just a
short pause, Harry followed her into the room.

“Boys,” a voice said, one that he recognized, one that sent his heart rate up fifty beats per
minute. “Boys!” it shouted, this time much more insistently.

Harry could see that the three people were grouped in one of the portraits, and as he came
closer he saw that his mother—flaming red hair, small stature—was standing up, hands on her hips,
glaring down at the two other wizards. One of those wizards had hair like Harry's, though his
face was concealed, so Harry knew it was his father; the other wizard had slightly shaggy but tamed
dark hair.

“James. Sirius. Enough!” his mother shouted down at them. Harry stopped five feet from the
portrait, with Hermione by his side, and suddenly laughed at what he saw. His father and godfather
were on the ground, wrestling. Sirius had James in a headlock and James was trying to punch Sirius
in the back of the head. At Harry's laugh, however, they both looked up, as did Lily.

A shocked silence passed between the five people for a moment, and Harry suddenly realized he
was looking at his *parents*. Sure, they were only portraits, only an echo of the real thing,
but it didn't matter.

Sirius let go of James and they both stood, brushing themselves off. Both men were grinning like
fools; his father's was slightly lopsided.

“Harry!” Sirius exclaimed, and the silence shattered. “And Hermione!”

“Son,” his dad said.

“Harry James…” his mother said.

“Dad…Mum…Sirius!” Harry said, looking back and forth from their shocked and smiling faces.

“How old are you?” his mother asked, her eyes watering a bit. Lily was scrutinizing him very
closely, eyes sweeping over his figure. He felt his face heat up slightly when he realized he still
wasn't wearing a shirt.

“Almost twenty two,” he answered.

“Who's the lovely girl?” James asked, looking at Hermione.

“She's Her—”

“Thank you, Sirius,” Hermione cut him off, smiling, “but I can answer for myself. Mr. and Mrs.
Potter, it's a pleasure to finally meet you. I'm Hermione Granger. I, uh, went to Hogwarts
with Harry.”

“Twenty-two?” his mother asked, still hung up on Harry's age. “But…you should have come to
live here as soon as you graduated…” A dark look crossed her face, and she glanced at Sirius, but
Harry had an idea what she meant. Sirius had probably told her all that had transpired since their
deaths, as far as he knew. Except now there was almost a six-year gap in their knowledge.

“Sirius, you didn't tell me my son was buff,” James said, punching Sirius on the shoulder
and winking at Harry. Merlin, what Harry wouldn't give to actually have living, breathing
versions of the three people before him. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to feel, standing
before these portraits. There was a kind of disconnect, at the moment.

“He wasn't,” Sirius said, shoving James and rubbing his shoulder. “And,” he continued,
eyeing Hermione, “Hermione's changed a lot, too.”

“Keep your eyes where I can see them, Sirius,” Hermione said, sweetly, though her wand was
suddenly in her hand, tapping against her thigh.

“So why did it take so long for you to get here after graduation?” Lily asked, still looking
slightly confused. Harry saw Sirius roll his eyes.

“Lils, it's quite obvious that several years have passed since I died. I'm sure Harry
will tell us what's happened since then, when he has time,” Sirius said. Lily looked at him for
a moment, and then mimicked Hermione. Wand out and tapping against her thigh, she said:

“Call me Lils again and you'll wish you had died…again.”

“I like your mum already, Harry,” Hermione said, and Harry smiled. Whatever he had expected, the
playful attitude between the portraits was a bit of a surprise. They all seemed to be taking seeing
Harry again in stride; Harry assumed that they'd had a long time to come to terms with their
own deaths.

“Thank you…Hermione, was it?” Lily asked, now looking at Hermione. Sirius stuck his tongue out
at Lily behind her back. Harry chuckled at his godfather.

“Yes, Mrs. Potter,” Hermione answered.

“You two are friends?” Lily asked. Harry and Hermione glanced at each other, smiling, and they
both nodded back.

“Well, you can call us Lily and James, then,” she said. “And just call Sirius `git'.”

“Oh, come on, mum, Sirius isn't that bad,” Harry put in, figuring he should at least attempt
some defense of Sirius.

“Yes he is,” she replied, grinning at Sirius, who just shrugged.

“Anyways,” James cut in, “how are you, Harry? Hatty died around the same time Sirius did, just
after actually, so we don't know anything that's been happening. Is Voldemort…gone?”

Harry was bewildered. His parents had missed so much; he didn't even know where to begin.
Answering his father's question was first priority, though.

“Yes. That Dark tosser fell from the Astronomy Tower at Hogwarts,” Harry replied. All three
people on the wall looked very intrigued, and he knew he would have to tell them the full story
sometime, though not now. Hermione and Harry were due at the Burrow in a little while, and Harry
didn't want to get involved in a long-winded tale of all that he'd done in the last six
years. He'd just have to retell some of it to the Weasley's and whoever else was going to
be at the dinner.

“Hermione and I don't really have time to fill your gaps in, not today at least,” Harry
said, after a moment. “In fact, we have to get going, but tomorrow I'd like to sit and chat
with you three for awhile. I'd like to get to know my parents,” he finished, quietly, looking
intently up at them. Lily wiped her eyes and nodded, and James just smiled. Sirius gave them both
rabbit ears, as he was standing behind them.

“Tomorrow then?” Lily asked, with a slight shake to her voice.

“Yeah,” Harry nodded, and turned to Hermione. She looked hard at him for a moment—he would have
thought she was using Legilimency, but he would have felt it—and then nodded.

“Bye Lily,” she said waving to the red-haired witch. “Keep James and Sirius in line,” she
smirked.

“Bye mum. Dad,” Harry said. “Sirius.” The three portraits waved and Harry and Hermione turned,
heading for the door into the foyer.

“Keep Harry in line, Hermione,” Sirius shouted.

“I will,” Hermione whispered, glancing at him. Harry saw a distinct emotion in her eyes, and it
filled him with warmth. He smiled at her and led the way into the next room. As soon as they were
through the door, love changed to concern and she was looking hard at him again.

“Why'd you leave so fast?” she asked.

“I just…I want to have as much time as we need to tell them *everything*,” he said, hoping
Hermione would understand. She cocked her head slightly, as if considering his words, and then
nodded.

“We will,” she affirmed, laying a hand on his arm.

Harry suddenly had a thought.

“What time is it?”

“Umm…” Hermione said, glancing at the small watch around her wrist. “Two.”

“Think we have time to look through that box I left with you?” Harry asked her. He saw confusion
for just a moment, and then the realization of what he was talking about.

“But—”

“I know you never would have opened it, Hermione,” Harry cut her off, knowing what she was going
to ask.

“How?” she asked, running a hand through her hair so that it caught the sunlight coming in from
the windows set high in the walls.

“I know you,” Harry answered, looking straight into her eyes. She reciprocated and then
nodded.

“We do,” she said, taking his hand. A shutter-click, a brief feeling of compression, and they
were standing in the middle of the Granger living room. Jane and Dan were nowhere in sight. Still
holding Harry's hand, Hermione led him to the stairs and up them. The door to her room was open
and he followed her inside. She pointed to a small box on her shelf.

He paced over to it, removed the box, and brought it over to her bed, where she was waiting for
him. Waving a hand over the top of the box to magically unseal the contents, he placed the now open
container down on her mattress.

“It just never seemed right to open it,” Hermione commented as they both looked down into the
box. The invisibility cloak sat on top, obscuring everything else beneath. Harry lifted it out of
the box and set it on the bed, and then started pulling things out: a blank piece of parchment,
otherwise known as the Marauder's Map; his potion's kit; a shrunken cauldron; a few
spellbooks, battered and overused; and finally on the bottom a magical photo album.

“You left this here?” Hermione asked, taking the album from Harry's hands. She opened to the
first page, and smiled at the picture there. A very young—probably eleven or twelve—Trio waved up
at her, smiling and laughing.

“Yeah,” Harry said, staring at the happy image of his younger self. They had all been so
innocent then, ignorant of everything that lay in wait for them. He knew he wouldn't change any
of it, though, even his parents' deaths, because his friendships, primarily with Ron and
Hermione, had been forged and strengthened through the difficulties they had all faced throughout
the years. The reason the `Trio' had always held together so well, except for a very brief time
during their sixth year, was that they had all trusted each other with their lives. Neville, Ginny,
and Luna had come into the picture later (and literally, too, because now Hermione was looking at a
picture of the six of them, taken shortly before his seventh year), but they weren't any less
important. The Six, as they'd simply been called, faced death in various ways over the years,
beginning with the Ministry of Magic fiasco at the end of Harry's fifth year.

There was a certain kind of friendship born of the desperation and dependence caused by mortal
danger, a strong brand that transcended normal barriers between people; add to that the fact that,
as Harry now knew, the six of them had been splitting further into three pairs of two…the bond they
had created was sturdy. He would be returning to the Burrow shortly, facing them all again, and
after so long he didn't know what to expect. Without the war going on around them all, would
there still be common ground between the six of them?

“Look at this one,” Hermione said, drawing Harry's eyes back to the album in her lap. She
was lightly running her finger over a moving image of Harry, Hermione, Ron, Luna, Neville, and
Ginny leading the charge against the Death Eaters during the final confrontation. Harry was at the
front of the students and teachers, and Voldemort was at the head of the Dark army. The two sides
drew near—Harry and Voldemort began to cast powerful spells—and then the picture restarted.

“Colin took that just before he was burned,” Harry said, very quietly. “Did he ever
recover?”

“Mostly,” Hermione said, looking up at him. “There are some lasting scars, but nothing too
bad.”

“What does he do now?” Harry asked, curious for some reason.

“Photographer for a Muggle magazine. *National Geographic*, I think.”

“Oh,” Harry breathed, staring at the image once again. Harry and Voldemort were staring hard at
each other, a look of determination on his own face and a look of hatred on his archenemy's.
And there were the five others, bravely at his back, heading with him toward their fate. He would
be seeing them again. He wondered what he'd say?

“We should get going,” Hermione said, closing the album and piling everything back into the box.
“You can pick this up later.”

“Ok,” Harry sighed.

“You alright?” Hermione asked, concern on her face once again. She found a shirt and pulled it
over her bikini top. Harry conjured one and pulled it over his head.

“Yeah,” Harry replied. He reached for her hand. “I will be.” A heartbeat later, Hermione's
room was empty again.

----------

They appeared on the wide dirt lane leading from the Burrow to Ottery St. Catchpole, just
outside of the low rock wall that bordered the Weasley property. Harry looked toward the house,
with all of its familiar eccentricities, and saw that many people were congregated outside.

“Wonder what they're doing?” Hermione asked, as they both set off toward it.

Harry squinted against the sunlight. He thought he saw broomsticks in the hands of many of the
people—he was sure Ron had one, because he'd recognize his Firebolt anywhere. He had given it
to Ron before leaving for uni, and it looked like Ron hadn't had any cause to replace it since
then.

“Quidditch maybe?” Harry asked, looking at Hermione. She just rolled her eyes.

“Of course,” she said, dryly. “Can't go to a Weasley dinner without some Quidditch going on,
can you?”

“Still afraid of flying, Hermione?” Harry asked, looking sideways at her.

“Actually,” she said, stopping and looking at him, “I'm not. I just always thought Quidditch
was mildly boring.”

He stopped as well, pretending to look hurt. “You thought I was boring when I played Seeker for
Gryffindor?”

“I was too worried about you getting killed doing something stupid,” she said, smiling a little,
“to consider how boring it was.”

“Ooooh, I see how it is,” he said, and the continued on their way.

“You and your bloody aerial gymnastics…give a girl a heart attack,” she said, almost fondly, as
if remembering the days of Hogwarts Quidditch.

“You can blame Oliver Wood for everything,” Harry told her. “He was the one who first told me to
get the Snitch or die trying. I took that advice to heart in every match after that.”

Hermione made a noise. “I'm not surprised.”

“Harry!” a voice called, and he immediately recognized it as Ron's. Harry and Hermione
looked up toward the Burrow, and saw Ron rushing over toward them. Everyone else in the yard was
looking in his direction.

As Ron drew closer, Harry saw that his tall friend hadn't changed that much. He looked to be
slightly more muscular, was wearing fine clothing instead of second-hand, and his hair was a bit
more strawberry blondish than ginger. Harry thought it was probably because of all the Quidditch
Ron played in the sun.

“Hey! Welcome back!” Ron said, rather breathlessly when he reached them. Harry saw he was
wearing Keeper gloves, with little pictures of wasps on them.

“Hey Ron…” Harry started, wondering what he could possibly say.

“You have a broom?” Ron asked, surprising Harry slightly.

“Uh…no.” Harry indicated the Firebolt in Ron's hands. “Gave it to you, remember?” Ron paused
for just a second, looking down at the broom in his hands.

“Right. Well, we're gonna try and get a real Quidditch match going—you know, full teams—and
we need a Seeker and a Chaser.” Ron's eyes swept over Harry and Hermione. “And you two fit the
bill perfectly.”

“I don't play Quidditch, Ron,” Hermione said, giving Ron her *look*.

“Oh, come on—” Ron started, but Harry cut him off:

“Just this once, Hermione.” Harry pouted slightly at her, playing it for all it was worth, and
she just looked back and forth between him and Ron. Finally, she gave an exasperated sigh and shook
her head lightly.

“Fine,” she said, “but just this once. I don't have a broomstick, though.”

“S'ok,” Harry said, already fairly excited about the prospect of getting up in the air once
again. Whatever awkwardness he had expected with this reunion was being swept away by his love of
flying. “I'll just pop on over to Diagon Alley and get us brooms.”

“Harry—”

“Don't worry about it, Hermione. It's the least I can do,” he said over what he knew was
going to be a protest about him buying her a broom. She locked gazes with him and soon nodded.

“We'll set up teams while you're gone,” Ron said.

“I'll be back in a few minutes,” Harry said, preparing to Disapparate.

“It's good to have you back,” Ron called over his shoulder, as he and Hermione headed toward
the Burrow. Harry smiled and translocated, appearing just outside Quality Quidditch Supplies in
Diagon.

As it was mid-afternoon, the Alley was fairly busy, so Harry ducked into the broom supply shop
rather quickly. There were a few customers milling about, but none of them paid him any attention.
He walked over to the counter, getting the attention of the proprietor.

“Yes, what can I do for—Mr. Potter?” the man suddenly asked, staring at him. Harry felt a cold
wave of deja vu pass through him as the man's eyes swept to his scar and then back down
again.

“Yes,” Harry said, knowing the other patrons in the shop were aware of his presence now.

“Uh…how can I help you?” the man asked, clearly bewildered.

“What are your best Quidditch brooms?” Harry asked, wanting to speed the business along.

“Well, there's the Firebolt line, good for any Quidditch position, and also the Nimbus line,
who've just introduced brooms tailored for each position—”

“Seeker and Chaser,” Harry supplied.

“The best Seeker model we carry is the Nimbus 2100S; likewise, the best Chaser model we have is
the Nimbus 2100C.”

“What's the difference between them?”

“The 2100S is designed with faster acceleration and a high top speed, at the cost of a slight
amount of fine control,” the man explained, eager to help Harry. Harry knew why—the brooms they
were discussing probably cost several thousand galleons each. “The 2100C has very fine control and
decent acceleration at the cost of a high top speed.”

“I see. How much for both?”

The man's eyes widened. “Let me see here,” he said, consulting a parchment on the counter.
“The 2100S is 6,500 galleons and the 2100C is 6,000.”

“12,000 for both, and you have a deal.” Harry bartered. The man hesitated, but then nodded.

“One second, Mr. Potter.” He went into a backroom and soon reappeared with two expensively
packaged brooms.

“Can I interest you in anything else today? Perhaps some Broom Polishing—”

“Maybe another day,” Harry cut the man off. He took a quill and parchment from the counter and
wrote a withdrawal slip for 12,000 galleons. He signed his name and then added some of his magic to
the note.

“Send this to the goblins and they will transfer the funds to you,” Harry said, reaching out his
hands for the brooms. The man handed them over.

“Very well,” he said, picking up the parchment. “Thank you, Mr.—”

But Harry had already Disapparated. He reappeared at the edge of the back yard of the Burrow,
holding the brooms in his hands. Ginny spotted him first. She had matured a little since he'd
last seen her. She looked like a woman, not just Ron's little sister.

“Oi,” she called. “Harry's back.” All eyes turned toward him once again, and he was finally
able to see everyone who was in the yard.

Off to one side stood Ron, Hermione, Fred, Neville, Arthur, and Luna. Opposite them stood Bill,
Charlie, Ginny, Fleur, George, Remus, and Tonks. They all looked a little older than he'd
previously known them to be, but they also all looked healthy and happy.

Standing on the porch, watching the people in the yard, were Molly, Minerva, and Remus's
young son. Harry thought his name was William, but he was a little ashamed that he couldn't
remember for sure.

“Hey everyone,” he called out, and he knew it was a rather underwhelming greeting after being
absent for so long.

“Over here, Harry,” Ron called, waving Harry over to the group of six.

“Are those the new Nimbus brooms?” Charlie asked him, as he passed. He'd only seen Charlie a
few times over the years, and now that Harry was closer, he could tell that Charlie was still
working with dragons. Several small burns still stood out on his arms.

“Yeah,” he grinned.

“Great,” Charlie muttered, looking down at his Nimbus 2001. Something clicked and Harry
remembered Charlie had been a star seeker at Hogwarts. Harry would likely be flying against
him.

Harry arrived at his team and started unwrapping the brooms from the packaging. Hermione picked
up something that fluttered to the ground.

“Harry!” she exclaimed. He looked at her.

“These brooms cost six thousand galleons, *each*! I can't let you spend that much on
me—”

“Drop in the bucket,” Harry said, quietly. “Don't worry about it, Hermione.” She gave him a
look that indicated *We'll talk about this later,* but said no more. He handed the 2100C
to her.

“Nice, Harry,” Ron said, eyeing the new brooms. Harry attributed Ron's lack of any kind of
envy or jealousy to the redhead's older years and advanced maturity.

“Ok, here's how it's going to work,” Ron called out, drawing the attention of everyone.
“My team is me as Keeper; Hermione, Dad, and Luna as Chasers; Fred and Neville as Beaters; and
Harry, of course as Seeker.”

“My team,” Bill called out, “is Fleur, Ginny, and I as Chasers; Tonks and George as Beaters;
Remus as Keeper; and Charlie as Seeker.”

“Game ends when either Harry or Charlie catch the snitch,” Ron said, beckoning everyone into the
middle of the yard.

“Where're the goals?” Harry asked, looking around.

“We figured you could do a spot of Transfiguration for that, Harry,” Tonks said, grinning at
him. Tonks looked very good, he noticed. She'd toned up a bit since he'd last seen her—he
didn't have to wonder why she was chosen as a Beater.

“Why me?” Harry asked.

“It'd be easiest for you,” Remus said, also grinning at Harry.

“Ok…” Harry said, setting his broom down. He drew his wand and looked around for things to
Transfigure. He spotted a small pile of logs and pointed his wand at them. Three rose high into the
air and soared away from them. They stuck themselves into the ground and then grew into the sky,
fifty feet up. Hoops sprouted on the end of them. He took three more logs and repeated the process,
this time at the opposite end of the yard.

“Happy now?” Harry asked, replacing his wand and bending to pick up his broom.

“Very,” Minerva said, from behind them. “I see you haven't forgotten what I taught you,
Harry.” She was moving toward the teams, carrying a Quidditch crate.

“How could I?” Harry asked her, smiling a bit. That produced some general laughter. Minerva set
the crate on the ground in the middle of the improvised pitch.

“All of you ready?” she asked. They mounted their brooms and nodded. Harry's new 2100S
hummed between his legs. He couldn't keep the grin off his face—he was going to fly again!
Seeing everyone again had gone so smoothly that he'd completely forgotten about his earlier
anxiety.

“*Do* be careful, all of you,” Molly called from the porch.

“Yes mum,” a chorus of Weasley's called out, with the exception of Arthur, who said, “Yes
dear.”

“You too, Harry,” she said.

“I'll try to be, Molly,” Harry called back. “I can't guarantee Charlie's safety,
though…”

“Oh, it's *on*, Potter,” the second-eldest Weasley growled at him. His eyes were
twinkling with mirth, though.

“On my count…three…two…one…FLY!” Minerva yelled, opening the box. The Quaffle, Bludgers, and
Snitch rose into the air, followed by the players. In the next instant, the Snitch disappeared from
sight, and Harry rocketed upward, whooping slightly as the wind hit his face and ruffled his hair.
It felt good to be back.

-->



17. Interlude: Variations On A Boy Who Lived
--------------------------------------------



**Bearings**

Disclaimer/Author's Notes: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. This chapter is slightly
experimental, being a lengthy interlude. Harry and Hermione are still the focal points, however.
Oh…a plot twist some of you may have been expecting finally reveals itself. Read on…

*Privately divided by a world so undecided
And there's nowhere to go
In between the cover of another perfect wonder
Where it's so white as snow
Running through the field where all my tracks
Will be concealed and there is nowhere to go*

Red Hot Chili Peppers

*Snow (Hey Oh)*

Interlude: Variations On A Boy Who Lived

Saturday, May 18th, 2002 (continued)

Charlie Weasley surprised himself by admitting—inside his head, to himself, of course—that he
was being out-flown. The older, generic Nimbus 2001 he was riding didn't quite hold up to
Harry's newer, specialized 2100S, but even if they were flying the same brooms, Harry would
still be better.

And Charlie Weasley had to out-fly dragons for his day job. It was no easy feat to move with
more aerial grace than the second eldest Weasley son, but Harry was doing just that. Charlie
resorted to marking Harry off and on, because the younger man's maneuvers were just too out of
control for his broom and his abilities.

“Oi, Fleur!” Bill called out, and Charlie glanced over as his older brother hurled the ball
toward the part-Veela. Fleur caught it in a barrel roll…and Charlie brought his attention back to
Harry.

“Damn,” Charlie muttered, banking sharply to the left as he saw that Harry had gotten away from
during the distraction. He would have to focus solely on the snitch and the other Seeker if he had
any chance of beating Harry, which was unusual because he'd always been able to keep one eye on
the game at Hogwarts. Then again, he'd never played against another world class Seeker.

“Watch out…” someone cried out, and years of experience told Charlie to take evasive action,
even if he was unsure if the warning was for him. Bludgers hurt, a lot, and he didn't really
want to get hit by any today. He smiled a little as one of the nasty little buggers whispered
against his cloak, sought Fred with his eyes, who had hit it toward him, and gave his younger
brother the one-fingered salute. He heard Fred's chuckle, as he zipped past, trying to catch up
with Harry, who was still circling the pitch very quickly.

Turning sharply, he cut across the middle of the playing field, dodging his father and another
Bludger. Harry raced past the halfway point just as Charlie gained the same airspace, and Charlie
watched his counterpart perform an impressive sloth roll maneuver to avoid a collision. Charlie
tailed Harry closely as they zoomed around and around the pitch.

Just inside the windslip from Harry's body and broom, Charlie finally was able to stay on
the younger man's six. Charlie suddenly realized that, other than Bill and Fleur's wedding,
the only other time he had seen the Savior of the Wizarding World was during the Triwizard
Tournament.

Charlie had loved Hogwarts, but found himself stifled at home, hence his departure for Romania
and dragons soon after graduation. His father was an easy-going bloke and smarter than most gave
him credit for, and his mother was a loving woman, but they—or Molly, at least—lived too much in
the past for him. He had packed his bags relatively quietly, endured several tearful goodbyes from
his mum and a brisk handshake and hug from his father, and left Britain.

That was in June of 1991, just after graduation, and ironically only three months before Harry
and his younger brother Ron started at Hogwarts. He didn't know why that was ironic to him, as
he traveled in Harry's wake, but it was. He had left Hogwarts, and Britain, and Harry had
entered.

Bill had already been in Egypt then, as his older brother had graduated in 1989, and Charlie
knew Bill had left Britain for many of the same reasons. Home was too backward, too stifling;
everyone had forgotten the old war too quickly…

And so Charlie could fathom why Harry Potter had chosen to leave Britain after graduation, as
well. He remembered quite well the letter his mother had sent him in either September or October of
1998, filled with various mundane things, but also something about her confusion over Harry's
exodus from his home.

That had given him pause, as he considered the young wizard he'd seen at Bill's wedding
and briefly at the Triwizard Tournament. He hadn't realized it until that moment, but all of
the sudden he pieced together various tidbits of information his family had passed along to him,
especially as the Second War had come to a head, and it occurred to him that Harry Potter was an
important person in the Weasley family.

Charlie hadn't realized just how far removed from his family he'd become over the years
until that moment, and it left a bittersweet feeling in his stomach. His home, for all intents and
purposes, was in Romania with the dragons and his Keeper mates. His family, though, and all of his
old ties had remained in Britain, except for Bill, but he'd been back for a bit—though he now
lived in Paris…

Charlie sighed, pushing his broom forward as Harry pulled ahead a little. Here he was, seven
months away from his thirtieth birthday: single, living in a remote Dangerous Creature preserve,
removed from everything that had shaped the Wizarding world in the last ten years. He knew he would
return to the preserve and love it, but some part of him wondered what his life would be like if he
had settled instead of wandering off.

He focused on the wizard speeding along in front of him. What would Harry's life be like if
there had been no Second War? Or if Harry hadn't left Britain, much as Charlie and Bill had?
Here the three of them were, the only three at this gathering who had branched out beyond
Britain's borders, back at the place they'd each called home, Harry in a different capacity
obviously than Charlie or Bill. What twist of fate had brought them all back here?

Charlie knew he would be returning to the preserve the next day or possibly the day after, and
that Bill and Fleur were due back in Paris early on twenty-first, but where would Harry go? Did he
have some place he would be returning to; leaving everyone's lives once again, as Charlie and
Bill often did. Somehow it seemed more relevant with Harry than it did with himself or his older
brother, the leaving and returning and then leaving again thing, but that might have only been
because Harry Potter was a flashpoint for his family, Hogwarts, Britain, and possibly even history
itself.

But, they were issues larger than Charlie wanted to contemplate—how history would remember
everyone gathered—so he instead turned his wandering thoughts onto the game at hand. And it was a
good thing he did, because he suddenly found himself assaulted by Bludgers.

Rolling around an invisible axis to present less of a stable target for Fred and Neville, he
continued trailing Harry. Dipping slightly to avoid getting bashed in the side, and then rolling
again to prevent a crack in the head, he was about to tell them off for harassing the Seeker when
Harry suddenly dove.

Charlie's brain could barely process the falling-off-the-cliff motion of Harry and his
amazing broom in enough time for him to react accordingly, but he then experienced the familiar
sensation of weightlessness as he followed Harry over the unseen precipice. His world tilted
suddenly, with ground filling his vision instead of the horizon, and the wind began to whistle in
his ears as he and Harry accelerated at a monumental pace, straight toward the hard earth. He
searched frantically for the golden flutter of the snitch as blades of grass began to take
shape—

----------

Ronald Weasley saw his younger sibling, Ginny, line up for a shot on the hoop to his left, but
the cut of her eyes told him she was really going for the one on his right. He feinted left and
then lunged right as she released the ball. It smacked his hand and dropped for the earth, before
he had it in his hand again. Sudden shouts drew his attention to the dueling seekers, who were
plummeting toward the ground, more blurs than any solid forms. He chucked the Quaffle back out
toward Hermione, who moved to intercept it, and watched with riveted eyes as Harry and Charlie
neared the grass.

An incredibly sense of deja vu washed over his senses as he watched his slightly estranged best
friend perform a perfect Wronski Feint on one of his older brothers—for what reason, he knew not,
because he didn't think he'd ever seen Harry actually perform the move. He wasn't sure
though, and he winced as Charlie hit the ground, not as hard as less skilled seeker would have, but
hard enough to deliver some bruises.

Meanwhile, he noticed, as Charlie took flight once again, shakily at first but then stronger,
Hermione had the Quaffle and was streaking toward Remus and the far hoops. He had never known
Hermione to willingly play Quidditch before this day, or fly at all for that matter, but she seemed
completely able to handle her broom. Granted, Harry had bought her the *premier* Chaser broom
in the world, but they only worked well if the user had the skill to control them.

He watched Hermione rear back and take the shot, and idly wondered why Harry had so easily and
suddenly dropped six thousand galleons on their mutual friend. As far as Ron knew, it had been a
long time since Harry and Hermione had seen each other, as long as it had been for Harry and him.
Maybe he could get Harry to buy him the Nimbus 2100K…

But he squashed that train of thought ruthlessly, because he now had more than enough money to
buy the broom if he really wanted to. The fact of the matter was, though, he didn't need the
top of the line Nimbus to be an almost unstoppable Keeper, and would rather keep the six thousand
galleons for something more useful. Harry's old Firebolt was more than good enough.

It was odd, at first, flying Harry's broom while the Boy Who Lived was absent, but Ron had
quickly gotten used to it as his star had risen at the Wimbourne Wasps. Ron knew that the only
reason the Quidditch League existed, the only reason he had been able to play a professional sport
during the past four years, was because of what Harry had accomplished during their last year at
Hogwarts. He knew and he acknowledged it, but he hadn't really thought much on it, since Harry
*had* been gone for most of said four years.

Now that his best friend was back, however, he wondered what the world that had done *such*
a good job moving on from the horrors of the Second War would do now that the best reminder of
those dark times was back. Would it continue to forget everything that had occurred, or would it
embrace the returning hero?

Bill was streaking toward him, and he centered himself in front of the hoops. Ron wasn't
bitter at all about whatever fame Harry might have or might get; he'd long ago left the
`jealous prat' part of personality behind. He grabbed the incoming Quaffle with practiced ease,
smirking at Bill's disappointed look, and then threw it back out to the woman who had helped
along the aforementioned change in his personality.

Blond hair and fair skin raced toward the Quaffle; Luna caught it on the fly. Ron admired her
chaser form for a moment, in more ways than one… Luna had done an excellent job of mellowing him
out during their very satisfying relationship. He still had that Weasley temper, somewhere in him,
but it rarely showed itself these days. Luna seemed to be his perfect counterpart—he chuckled
suddenly as memories of his and Hermione's brief `romance' flitted across his mind—because
they offset each other's slight abrasiveness (him) and battiness (her) wonderfully.

His eyes tracked the Quaffle as it soared from Luna's hand, between enemy Beaters George and
Tonks, into Arthur's quite nimble hands, and then onto Hermione. His best female friend, other
than Luna, dipped slightly, confusing Remus, and hurled the Quaffle for the highest hoop. Remus got
his fingertips on it, but it wasn't enough, and Ron cheered out loud as the Quaffle soared on
through.

“All right Hermione!” he heard Harry yell, from his vantage point high above the pitch. Ron knew
even then Harry's eyes were relentlessly searching for the snitch—he smiled as he watched
Charlie desperately follow Harry.

It seemed to Ron that Harry and Hermione were awfully cozy with each other for having been apart
for the last eighteen months, and for the first time he wondered where Hermione'd been for the
past two weeks or so. She had disappeared, and then suddenly reappeared just at the same time as
Harry, and *she* had been the one they could have contacted Harry through.

He put the pieces together as he blocked another shot, from Ginny once again, and *knew*
that Hermione had gone to see Harry in California. Ron had no desire to go to America, for any
reason really, and he couldn't fathom why Hermione would have wanted to…unless…

A grin flew over his features as he pondered the possibility. Had Harry and Hermione finally
pulled their heads out of their arses, after so long? Had the four years for Harry off in distant
lands and for Hermione toiling away at the Ministry finally revealed to them their true feelings?
Ron had known at Bill and Fleur's wedding—yes, the teenager with the emotional range of
teaspoon had figured it out five years before Harry and Hermione.

His career and girlfriend had taken some of his attention away from his friendship with
Hermione, and the distance between himself and Harry had done a good job of that there, so he had
never really had the opportunity to discuss it with either of them. He wondered if he would have to
now.

His attention shifted toward Harry as the seeker performed a rising barrel roll, out-maneuvering
George's best efforts to hit him with a Bludger—

----------

Fred smacked the Bludger that had just seemingly flown through Harry's scant clothing toward
Fleur, trying to draw Tonks and George's fire off of Harry, though the younger wizard
wasn't having much trouble avoiding the enemy projectiles.

“Neville, focus on Ginny and Fleur,” Fred called out, to the slightly burly man flying near him.
The Longbottom patriarch nodded—his Gran had died the year before and his parents had finally
succumbed during the last year of the Second War—and sent another Bludger away from Harry toward
the opposing chasers.

Fred loved Quidditch once again, especially because Harry was on his team. He had supremely
enjoyed watching Charlie hit the dirt off of Harry's textbook Wronski Feint; Fred knew his
older brother was an excellent seeker, and had in fact brought glory back to Gryffindor house when
he was at Hogwarts, but Fred also knew that Harry was special.

Beyond the immense, Dumbledore-like store of magical power Harry possessed, and that Fred had
witnessed only or twice, Harry's reflexes were preternatural. Instant acceleration, so fast it
almost looked like Apparition; instant or near-instant braking, jarring enough so that Fred
sometimes wondered how Harry never got whiplash; almost perpendicular pivoting abilities, even at a
high speed…

Fred enjoyed just watching Harry seek the snitch, and this impromptu game with everyone back at
the Burrow, under some strange coincidence, because Bill, Fleur, and Charlie were almost never
around, brought back memories of the Hogwarts pitch and the Gryffindor glory days.

Those were simpler times, though the darkness had been gathering even then, when the most any of
them had to worry about was whether or not they'd be able to force down breakfast the day of a
match.

Fred dove twenty feet to intercept a Bludger Tonks had sent flying for Luna, and smacked it back
to Ginny, who didn't see it until too late. It grazed his younger sisters arm, and he saw her
wince; the Bludger flew off toward the edge of the temporary pitch. He watched Neville move to
intercept it.

Things hadn't stayed simple, of course, and Fred really wondered how different his and
George's lives would now be if Harry hadn't somehow escaped Voldemort that terrible night
at the end of the Triwizard Tournament, and then given them his winnings. At first, he and his twin
had wanted nothing to do with the gold, since it had seemed like blood money, but when they
realized that Ludo Bagman was probably gone for good—dead or hidden, they did not know—they turned
to the gold as a last resort.

And so had begun Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes; at first, it had been a glimmer of a hope,
mail order or something like that, but after their rather dramatic exit from Hogwarts just before
the end of their seventh year, they found themselves with a pile of gold and a lot of free time.
They'd opened the shop soon after and the rest, as they say, was history.

Now, and Fred was not ashamed to admit it, for modesty had never been one of his strongest
traits, WWW was respected worldwide as the premier brand of gag and joke gifts, but also, and
lesser known, as the premier name of offensive and defensive combat gear.

That branch of their enterprise began as an aid to the Six, as they'd been called, and their
fight against Voldemort. Fred and George had just about suspended research and development on new
humorous items during that last year of the war to develop items that would be of use for the Light
in their fight, and after the war's end, they'd continued that section of their
business…quietly of course.

Right now, Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes supplied the British Auror Corps with about seventy
percent of its combat gear, and they were in the middle of negotiating a deal that would make it
one hundred percent. Apparently the Aurors had been so satisfied with their products they wanted to
use WWW, exclusively. Fred and George weren't complaining.

Fred again wondered how much would be different if Harry hadn't given them that initial
start-up gold. Fred wasn't in it for the money, and he knew his brother wasn't either.
Harry had once said, to him or George or maybe both of them he couldn't remember anymore, that
a joke shop was a worthy ambition because they'd all need laughter, everyone did. That bit of
`Harry wisdom', as he and his twin had dubbed Harry's random pearls of philosophy, had
stayed with both of them for a long time, and that was what drove them to push their products to
their limits, the gag stuff *and* the combat items.

“Dad, watch out!” Fred suddenly called out, stalling his train of thought. A Bludger hit by
George was heading straight for his father, and Arthur was oblivious. He was concentrating on the
Quaffle in his hand, and whom he would pass it to. Fred would have to ask McGonagall sometime if
his dad had played Quidditch at Hogwarts, and if so what he was like…

Arthur turned out of the way and Neville whacked the Bludger back into play, toward Bill and
Fleur, who were both flashing toward Arthur. Fred saw his dad realize the other chasers were moving
to intercept him, and chucked the Quaffle toward Luna. As one, Bill and Fleur flocked toward the
pretty blond, who passed the Quaffle on toward Hermione. Ginny joined Bill and Fleur and George hit
a Bludger toward Hermione as the brunette moved toward Remus. Fred pushed his broom forward, hoping
to intercept the iron ball.

“Lookit Harry!” a voice called, one that sounded suspiciously like his mother, and the game
slowed as every head turned as one to find the returned Savior. Time seemed to slow for Fred—and
everyone else—as they all watched Harry climb straight into the sky, rapidly ascending away from
them, with Charlie straggling behind.

Harry reached an apex, and the time warp intensified, slowing everything almost to a stop as
Harry hung upside down for just a fraction of second. Fred saw a look of utmost concentration in
Harry's eyes, which to his great surprise were almost black, and then everything accelerated
forward at once—Hermione and the Quaffle toward the hoops; time onward again; and Harry straight
down toward the ground—

----------

Bill couldn't help the amazed laugh that escaped his throat as he watched Harry rocket
toward the ground, gaining speed at an unbelievable rate. He somehow knew that this wasn't a
Wronski Feint, not this time, and he saw that, sadly, Charlie wasn't aware of that fact.

His immediate younger brother hung back, letting Harry accelerate away from him, and Bill knew
the game was over. Harry dropped the final thirty feet to ground in an impossibly short time, and
also impossibly avoided hitting the ground. Bill pulled his own broom to a stop as Harry raised his
fist into the air. He could see the fluttering golden wings of the snitch glinting in the early
evening sun.

“Game's over, Harry's got it!” Ron called out, and all other action on the pitch ceased.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fred and George beat the Bludgers toward the box on the
ground, where McGonagall was suddenly waiting. Hermione had never had a chance to shoot the
Quaffle, and she held onto it as all the players sunk to the grass.

“Shite Potter, you can *fly*,” Charlie bemoaned as his feet touched the ground. Harry just
grinned at him, and Bill almost laughed again as he saw everyone do a kind of double take at the
lopsided grin, which was once again shining on them all.

“Thanks, your not half bad yourself,” Harry said, graciously, which did cause Bill to laugh.

“Are you kidding me?” he asked. “You just handed Charlie his arse.” Bill ducked a punch from
Charlie and grinned at him. “Come on, Charles, you must admit you were out-flown.”

“Boys, boys…” Molly bustled in, smiling at everyone and mock glaring at Bill and Charlie,
somehow at the same time. It was uncanny how she could do that; how she could make Bill squirm even
those he was in his thirties.

“Come on over to the picnic table, all of you, dinner is ready and I *know* the lot of you
are hungry,” she continued, herding everyone in the general direction of the food. Bill could smell
his mother's cooking from where he stood, and that was one thing he did in fact miss while
living in Paris—hearty home-cooking.

“Harry,” McGonagall suddenly called, drawing the attention to her and Harry. Bill noticed that
Harry had his arm around Hermione's shoulder, and that she was leaning into him. His eyebrows
crept up a little at that *interesting* development…

“Can you cancel the hoops?” she asked. Her wand was in her hand and she looked slightly annoyed
at something.

“Sure Minerva, but you couldn't?” Harry asked, removing his arm from around Hermione and
drawing his wand.

“No…” she said, and trailed off. Bill watched as Harry casually waved toward the far hoops, and
then once again at the closer ones. They shrunk rapidly into the logs they really were and dropped
to the ground with a loud *thunk*.

“Hmmph,” Minerva said, and put her wand away. She looked at Harry a touch queerly. He just
shrugged, put his wand away, and put his arm back around Hermione. After they had all drifted
toward the long table and found seats, Bill broke the odd silence that had fallen.

“About time for you two, I'd say?” he commented, staring at Harry and Hermione. Bill
*felt* the attention of the group collectively zero in on Harry and Hermione. Several people
started speaking at once, but quieted down when Harry held up his hand. That tangible `leader'
quality in Harry clearly still existed, though Bill had never been able to pinpoint exactly what
made it so palpable, and so *real*.

“For what?” Harry asked, innocently enough. Bill saw him cut his eyes toward Hermione for a
fraction of second to contain the humor in them.

“For finally pulling your heads out of your arses,” Bill responded; unbeknownst to him, Ron had
thought something similar only five or ten minute before. Bill was happy for them, he really was.
If anyone deserved to be with each other, it was Harry and Hermione. They had been through so much
together, from the stories about Harry Potter Ginny and Ron and even Fleur, to a lesser extent, had
regaled him with at various times over the years. Most of them had included Hermione, far more than
both Hermione and Ron.

“He bloody well has it right,” Ron said, cutting over the murmur of voices that had started
again. Ron was looking at Harry and Hermione, for once ignoring the food in front of him. “Only
took you four years—”

Hermione cut him off, sharply, but Bill saw a small smile on her face. “I believe you are
presuming an awful lot, *Ronald*, and who are you to talk? Thought about popping the question
to Luna yet? It's been *five* years for you two…”

“It's not just an assumption, though,” Luna interjected, airily, though she was staring at
Hermione. Hermione conceded the point and smiled, leaning into Harry some more.

“Ooo, zis iz wonderful!” Fleur exclaimed. “I always knew you two were perfect for each uzzer,
after the Triwizard.”

And Bill knew that Fleur's statement was very true, because Fleur had mentioned once or
twice the unusual bond between Harry and Hermione that had existed during Fleur's stay at
Hogwarts for the duration of the tournament. The bond went deeper than any Fleur had ever seen in a
platonic relationship, deeper than most in romantic ones too, but Harry and Hermione had been only
the best of friends.

Fleur hadn't understood it then, and never really had, but Bill was sure it was because
Harry and Hermione were both subconsciously avoiding putting the other in danger. Harry because he
knew Hermione would become *more* of a target if they were involved and Hermione because she
knew she'd be putting Harry in a hard place if she ever approached him about it.

They had probably never consciously thought about those things, but for Fleur to be amazed at
the strength of their bond it must have been incredible—and it probably still was, even though four
years and thousands of kilometers had separated them. As a part-Veela, Fleur could sense many kinds
of bonds and relationships between people, and she had said that Harry and Hermione's was one
of the strongest.

“How did this happen?” Molly asked, looking slightly bewildered. And frankly, Bill noticed, most
of the rest of those gathered around the table looked curious as well. Harry had been absent for so
long, and Hermione had been holed up at the Ministry for almost as long, from what his brothers had
told him, that they were probably wondering about the disconnect.

Harry and Hermione shared a glance, one similar to the looks that passed between Fleur and
himself, the quick gaze that spoke innumerable words, and they both smiled at everyone.

“That is a *long* story…” Harry began. He took a breath, as if to say more, but another
voice cut him off.

“Can we eat?” William asked, slightly petulantly. Bill looked over at the young boy and saw he
was staring longingly at the food on the table. He seemed to have inherited Remus's wolfish
appetite…

“Of course,” Molly answered, and whatever story (that would later become legend) Harry had been
about to tell was postponed until afterward, as myriad hands reached for food and utensils.

----------

Fleur was ecstatic for Harry and Hermione, and she knew the grin across her face as she ate
showed her true feelings. She couldn't help it, though; she'd waited for them to come
together for so long, and to finally see it happening, literally right in front of her eyes and
Veela senses was *truly* magic.

Of course, as a part-Veela, Fleur was also aware of the consequences of forcing a relationship
upon those with such strong bonds. Results opposite the intended ones most often occurred, ending
in disaster for the linked pair and the person or people trying to force it. That's why
she'd only ever told Bill of what she'd sensed between Harry and Hermione, all the way back
during the Triwizard Tournament, because she knew he could be trusted with the knowledge.

She'd waited, and during the wedding she thought she'd seen glimmers, but then the
Second War had shattered everything and Harry had left after graduation. Bill and Fleur had left
for Paris soon after, but Fleur had heard that Hermione was burying herself in her work at the
Ministry. Without her bonded, Hermione was adrift…and the most frustrating part of it all, for
Fleur at least, was the fact that the bond existed.

There was no reason it should have, because Harry and Hermione had never shown overt romantic
feelings toward each other before, well, now; nor had they had sex, which was more often than not
the event that solidified magical and spiritual bonds between people. And yet, Harry and
Hermione's bond had grown inexorably between the Triwizard Tournament and the end of the war,
until it was almost painful for Fleur to be in the same room as them and not comment on it.

But she couldn't interfere, so she didn't. She just let them do their thing, which
turned out to be going their separate ways. Fleur didn't want to know the pain that Hermione
had felt—she never wanted to experience something like that—when Harry had left, because Fleur knew
that Hermione had been at least somewhat aware of her own feelings. Harry, on the other hand, had
been as clueless as ever.

There were many times when Fleur had wanted to pull Harry aside and push him in the right
direction, but she resisted. It would have gone against everything she'd been taught, to force
something on Harry and Hermione when they weren't ready, even though almost every sign said
they were. The most important one was missing, though, and that was acceptance in both their hearts
*and* minds.

Relative silence settled over the occupants of the table as dinner slowly progressed, with only
occasional thrusts of conversation to keep everyone interested. Really, Molly's food was just
too good to put forth much effort into talking when eating.

“So Bill,” Molly said as desert popped onto the table. She was looking at Harry and Hermione as
she addressed her oldest son.

“Mum?” Fleur's husband asked.

“Do you and Fleur have any plans for children soon?” Molly queried. Fleur thought the question
was rather blunt and suppressed a soft smile as Bill sputtered on his treacle tart for a
moment.

“Mum!” Bill eventually said, in a completely different tone of voice than his previous
utterance.

“What?” Molly asked, somewhat innocently. “Arthur and I *would* like to be able to spoil
grandchildren, *sometime*,” she added, looking pointedly at all of the other Weasley brothers.
The only one who made eye contact with her was Ron, but Fleur wasn't sure if he wasn't just
staring into space as he savored the desert.

“When ze time iz right, Molly,” Fleur put in, hoping to mollify her mother-in-law. She looked
over at Bill and smiled, which he returned. She loved Bill Weasley more than anything in life,
except maybe her little sister Gabrielle, but that was a different kind of love. When she and Bill
thought they were ready for children, they'd start down that path, but until then she was
perfectly content with their life.

“And Charlie, any girls you have your eye on?” Molly asked, continuing what was quickly becoming
an interrogation of her sons.

“Girls, mum? How old do you think I am?” Charlie quipped.

“Oh, you know what I mean,” Molly said, rolling her eyes. Her gaze turned on the Twins. “Fred?
George? Maybe you two should take some time off and get started in on your lives…”

“We have lives, thank you very much mum,” George said, sharper than Fleur had ever heard either
Twin speak.

“Someday, but right now we're still busy,” Fred said, easily, diffusing the sudden tension.
Molly continued to look at them for a few seconds, before turning to Ron and Ginny, who were
sitting near each other.

“And what about you two?” she asked. Fleur heard a note of sadness in the matriarch's voice,
and she knew then that Molly wasn't just nagging. Molly really did want grandchildren to
spoil.

“Honestly mum, give it a rest,” Ron huffed, apparently able to draw his attention away from the
treacle tart. Ginny said nothing, and instead glanced at Neville and gave him a soft smile. Fleur
watched Neville smile back…

Ron and Luna; Ginny and Neville; and now Harry and Hermione, or at least it seemed so. The Six
had split evenly into three pairs, interestingly enough, and Fleur was probably the only present
who had been able to sense the slow evolution of all three couples during the Second War. She might
have even been more aware than the couples themselves were, and Fleur *knew* that was true of
at least Harry and Hermione.

“What about `arry and Hermione?” Fleur asked, directing the attention once again onto the two
that so far had been very quiet. Molly pursed her lips and nodded her head, looking at the named
witch and wizard. Fleur caught Harry's eye for a moment and winked at him. In his eyes, she saw
a promise of future playful retribution from the Boy Who Lived.

They looked at each other and shrugged. “I *just* graduated,” Harry said. “I've only
been back for two days.” Fleur could tell there was something he had left out, but didn't ask
what it was.

“That's right,” Hermione put in. “Let's not be hasty…” she finished, which drew a
general laugh from the crowd.

“So you're admitting that you and Harry are together now?” Ron asked, and Fleur looked over
at the younger man with a new kind of respect. From Ron's tone of voice, it was evident to her
that he had known of *something* between Harry and Hermione.

A low murmur of many voices erupted around the table, and suddenly it died off as Harry, and
then Hermione, started to laugh. Fleur saw many confused looks.

“It's like a soap opera around here,” Harry said, still laughing. Hermione nodded. “Yes Ron,
I suppose that what Hermione just said does indicate that.” Harry passed the back of a hand over
his eyes, wiping away the laughter tears that had started to collect there.

“Well I'm happy for you two, I really am,” Ron said, redeeming himself admirably.

As people finished their deserts, they began to drift into their own conversations and away from
the table. Fleur leaned against Bill, drinking in the soft late evening light; the sun was just
getting ready to dip below the trees in the west; the low rays cut through the tall grass of the
meadow between them and the tree line, spreading gold and dark speckles over everything.

Fleur glanced around, noticing that Arthur, Molly, her, Bill, Harry, and Hermione were the only
ones still at the table. Everyone else had wandered off, though they were all still in the yard.
Fleur observed Arthur swirling a dark amber liquid around in a small tumbler; he appeared to be
considering it, deep in thought. He raised his eyes toward Harry just then and set the short glass
down on the table.

“Harry?” he called. Harry and Hermione looked over to Arthur, as did the others still at the
table.

“Arthur?”

“Might I have a word with you…in private?”

----------

“Uh, sure…Arthur,” Harry answered, haltingly. Arthur watched as Harry stood from the table,
leaned over to whisper something in Hermione's ear, and then turned toward him. Harry had grown
during his stay abroad, and although Harry *had* been home eighteen months before, the changes
were much clearer now that Harry was dressed in shorts and a tee. He was an inch or two taller,
much darker, and broader than he had been. Though not bulging, Harry had some muscles along his
arms and Arthur could tell that Harry had taken care of himself.

Arthur turned away from the table and started toward the orchard off to the east of the Burrow,
toward the slowly darkening sky. Harry fell in step beside him; they were silent until they had
cleared the lawn and slipped between the trees.

“If you wouldn't mind, Harry, could you ensure our privacy?” Arthur asked, quietly. He had
been thinking long and hard on several issues during the past week or so, and had finally reached
what he hoped was an acceptable conclusion.

“Yeah,” Harry grunted, and waved his hand in a slow arc around them as they meandered through
the small trees. Arthur felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and then settle slowly back
down as Harry's privacy charm took full effect. He marveled slightly at the pure strength of
the charm.

“What's this about, Arthur?” Harry asked, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his khakis
and looking sideways at him. Arthur took a deep breath.

“Are you back here for good, Harry?” he asked. He glanced at Harry, and saw confusion and some
surprise there. Not what he had expected—

“Why do you want to know?” Harry queried. They reached the eastern edge of the orchard and
turned south, following the edge of the squat trees. Their shadows had lengthened further during
the past few minutes.

“I have something I need to ask of you, Harry,” Arthur explained. “And it requires the knowledge
of whether or not you intend to stay in Britain.” Glimmers of light reached Arthur's eyes, and
he looked through the orchard to his left to catch glimpses of the Burrow's lights, sparking in
the fading light of day.

“Probably,” Harry eventually said, although it was almost too quiet for Arthur to hear. He
looked back over at the young man, who had saved the world he had lived and raised a family in for
so many years now, and saw a pensive look on Harry's face. The younger wizard seemed to be
contemplating something, but what it was Arthur could not fathom.

“I see,” Arthur confirmed; he then had trouble getting the words he really wanted to say out of
his mouth, and so redirected the conversation slightly. “How was Stanford, Harry?” he asked. They
stopped at the corner of the orchard, which was to their left and behind them. In front of them,
across a meadow and to the south, lay the road toward Ottery St. Catchpole, and to their right was
a dark line of trees, dark green as the light left the eastern sky. Arthur had his back to the west
and hence could see Harry's face clearly against the almost-set sun. He looked confused
again.

“Good, Arthur. I'm glad I went through with it.”

“That's good, Harry,” Arthur said, congenially, briefly wishing he'd had the ambition to
branch out from Britain more when he was younger. It was only a passing thought, though.

“How have things been around here?” Harry asked, not looking at him. The startling emerald eyes
were instead focused over his shoulder, on the glittering lights of the Burrow and the yard, where
Arthur could hear everyone talking or laughing.

“Better, Harry, since…you know…” Harry's eyes came back to him and he slowly nodded, and in
that instant Harry looked much older than his twenty-two years. It served as a reminder to
Arthur—those old, depthless eyes, full of knowledge and memories no twenty-something should have—of
whom he was talking to, and it renewed his desire to ask Harry a very specific question.

“But not the same,” Arthur said, finishing his thought. “Not the same since you left,” he
repeated, personalizing it. Harry just gazed at him with those ancient eyes, considering some
hidden knowledge that Arthur wasn't sure he wanted to know, and just then he got deja vu, back
to that time at Bill and Fleur's wedding when Harry had *judged* him with only his
look.

“Everyone seems to be doing just fine,” Harry commented. And just like that, the wizard standing
in front of him was a young man again. “And look at you, you old man, playing Quidditch…”

Arthur smiled instantly, remembering how it felt to be back on a broom again. “It might surprise
you, but I played a mean Chaser at Hogwarts. It's been a very long time since I've flown,
though.”

“You fly well,” Harry said, and although Arthur didn't need his approval, or anyone's
really, he felt a little better knowing Harry had appreciated his efforts.

“If I fly well, I don't know what to call what you were doing.”

“Oh, don't start that shite Arthur,” Harry said, laughing a little. Arthur could almost see
the memory of diving and catching the snitch dancing in Harry's eyes.

“Anyways…” Arthur trailed off, drawing them both back to their previous topic. “You know that
Amos Diggory is Minister of Magic, right?” Harry nodded. “And that I'm Vice Minister?” Another
nod.

Here was the hard part. “Amos came to me recently, Harry. He told me that he wasn't going to
run again, this November actually. He wants me to run for Minister,” Arthur said, looking carefully
at Harry's face. The sunlight was slowly fading as the orb slipped completely behind the trees
in the west, at his back, and Harry's features were a little harder to see.

“Ok…” Harry said. “Why are you telling me this?” He sounded slightly wary.

“I'm not sure what I'm going to do—”

“You'd make a great Minister, Arthur—”

“And I'd need a Vice Minister if I were going to run—”

“Many people respect you at the Min—”

“I'd like for you to be my Vice Minister, Harry,” Arthur said in a rush, cutting off further
interjections from Harry. A shocked and loaded silence hung in the air for a moment, and then Harry
audibly exhaled.

“What?” Arthur heard perplexity in his voice.

“I said I'd like for you to run with me as my Vice Minister.”

Silence, and then: “But, but Arthur—”

“But what, Harry?” Arthur overrode him. “But *what*?”

“But I've been gone for the past four years, that's what!” Harry exclaimed, and although
dusk was rapidly enveloping them now, Arthur saw the bewilderment spread plainly across Harry's
features. “Why would anyone want me to run a world I left? Why would *I* want to run a world I
left?”

“Because Harry,” Arthur said, “you still care about this world. You came back, didn't you?
You saved it in the first place, didn't you?”

“I had help from everyone here tonight—”

“Bollocks, Harry. Sure, they might have helped you along the way, but it was *you* that
stood against Voldemort. It was *you* that defeated him and brought *real* hope to this
world for the first time in nearly thirty years.” Arthur stopped. Harry turned away slightly,
staring toward the northeast, where the first stars were twinkling in the sky.

“What made you think I'd want to be Vice Minister? You must realize how much I despised the
Ministry when I was still in school.” He paused. “No offense, of course.”

“None taken,” Arthur responded. “The Ministry has changed since then, though. It's a
completely different place. There are still some problems, and still many inequalities and
injustices and hypocrisies, but you could *fight* them as Vice Minister. You would be a policy
maker, Harry. You wouldn't just be the weapon or the Savior anymore. You'd be an instrument
for real change.”

He heard Harry sigh; he still did not turn back toward Arthur. Stuffing his hands deeper into
his pockets, Harry let his head fall forward slightly. Arthur watched this and knew that silence
was better than an outright refusal at the moment.

“Harry,” he said, softly. “One of the last conversations I had with Albus was about the future
of the Wizarding world, and how it would slowly shrivel and die if nothing changed after you killed
Voldemort—yes, Albus was always sure you would prevail.

“But that's not the point,” Arthur got back on track, tiredly. He removed his glasses and
rubbed his temples. “Our society needs a new impetus for change, to survive more than the next
fifty years, and I *know* you're it.”

He put his glasses back on and waited for some kind of response from Harry. He could only see
the outline of the younger wizard now, lit slightly by the blues and purple in the western sky
against the pitch-blackness of the east.

“I don't know what you want me to say,” Harry said, very resignedly.

“Think about it for a week or two,” Arthur suggested. “*Really* think about it.” Silence
fell over the pair again, and after about a minute, Arthur could just make out Harry nodding his
head.

“Alright.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Arthur said. He rested a hand on Harry's shoulder for a moment, and then
turned to head back to the Burrow. A thought occurred to him, however, and he paused, back still
turned to Harry.

“The Victory Day Celebration is next Sunday, the 26th, at Hogwarts. You and Hermione
should come…” Arthur trailed off, not expecting a response and getting none. He continued on,
shivering involuntarily as he passed the boundary of the privacy charm. Its power was enormous.

He walked back into the lit yard, where everyone was still mingling. Hermione caught his eye, a
question in her gaze, and Arthur nodded back over his shoulder. She gave him an oddly penetrating
look and then swept on past him into the dark orchard.

-->



18. The Six
-----------



**Bearings**

Disclaimer/Author's Notes: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter.

*How do you feel? That is the question
But I forget…you don't expect an easy answer
When something like a soul becomes
Initialized and folded up like paper dolls and little notes
You can't expect a bit of hope
And while you're outside looking in
Describing what you see
Remember what you're staring at is me*

Stone Sour

*Through Glass*

Chapter Eleven: The Six

Wednesday, May 22nd, 2002

Cruising along in the speedboat at two hundred kilometers an hour had skewed Hermione's
perception of the true size of the lake, and now that she was jogging along the western shore with
Harry, she understood that fact. As they ran easily northward, strides matching, with the early
evening sun casting longish shadows to their right, Hermione considered the length of sandy shore
as it spread out in front of her.

It seemed to stretch into infinity, meeting the horizon at some hazy dark blue and green point
far in the distance. As they slowly passed the Manor on their left, cast in shadow for one brief
moment by the peak of the house, Hermione truly appreciated the beauty of the property, and not for
the first time. The air was a bit cool, but they were running, so Harry had opted for just short
shorts and Hermione wore similar bottoms and a sports bra on top. They'd been running for about
thirty minutes—Hermione hadn't wanted to, but Harry'd said he wanted to stay in some kind
of shape—and she was winded.

“Harry,” she panted slightly. “Can we stop soon?” They ran in silence for at least a minute
before he responded. She looked to the side several times, but he was just staring straight ahead
with an impassive look spread over his handsome features.

“Ten more minutes?” he asked, glancing toward her. He was smiling slightly, as if he understood
her pain but really did want her to join him for the last little bit.

“Oh, I suppose,” she huffed. “Don't forget the others are coming over soon…” She trailed
off, and the only sound that reached her ears for the next two minutes was a soft shirring noise, a
combination of their feet hitting the grassy edge of the beach and the light breeze unfurling its
ghostly tendrils across the property.

“Been a hell of a few days, eh?” Harry asked.

“Sure has,” Hermione agreed, squinting against the glare as they turned away from the lake,
toward the sun.

“And…and it's only going to get more insane,” Harry said, though he sounded like he was
thinking about something, not really sure what he was saying.

“Yeah…” Hermione agreed again. She would have to go back to work soon; her new position as Chair
of the Muggle Liaisons office was there, ready for her to step into. And yet, even though she had
worked so hard for so long for it, she almost didn't want her little holiday to end. June first
would bring with it her new career, true, but it would also bring the end to her purely leisure
time with Harry, during which they had reconnected and formed some kind of relationship.

With the impending meeting with Yankees, in just two days, Hermione was unsure what the future
looked like. She didn't want to think about how complicated things would get if Harry took the
position on the team; she knew that she would have to be with him, wherever he went, though. His
long distance Apparition could make things easier…

“Is your agent just going to meet you in New York?” Hermione asked, broaching a subject she did
not necessarily want to, but feeling like she needed to be informed anyway.

“Guess so,” Harry replied, and not for the first time she heard something like reluctance in his
voice as he talked about the Yankees. “The meeting is at the Stadium in the General Manager's
office at eight o'clock New York time.”

“So we'd have to leave…?”

“I figure we'd Apparate over to Newark around 11:30 or 12 our time,” he replied. They were
nearing the rear entrance to the Manor, off the dining area and kitchen, and they slowed a bit.
Hermione inhaled deeply as her footfalls eased up into a very light jog. The air was ripe with the
scent of summer grass and fresh, cool water.

“Sounds good,” she said, coming to a full stop. Harry came to rest several paces in front of
her. She put her hands behind her head, drawing oxygen into her body, and watched Harry's
sweaty body glisten in the evening sun. He didn't seem to be breathing hard, at all.

He turned to her in profile was silhouetted against the sky for a moment, cutting an impressive
image. Hermione's objective analysis cited his rakish hair, sharp jaw line, nicely formed
muscles, and cool air of power as attractive, and her pulse quickened as, biologically, she
responded to the image in front of her. Evidence of said response could clearly be seen poking
against the light fabric of her sports bra. She didn't care, though.

“That was fun,” Harry said; he turned toward her completely and smiled. She saw his eyes cut to
her chest for a moment, and hid the smirk that wanted to crawl across her lips. Men were so
predictable.

“If you say so,” she said, mock annoyance coloring her tone, and then grinned back at him.
“Seriously, though, I'm bollocks at running. Out of shape, you know,” she commented.

“Then I should get you in shape.”

“You?” she asked, pushing a hand against her hip and cocking her head at him. “And how are
*you* going to get *me* in shape, Harry?”

His eyes flicked to her chest again, where she could now definitely feel her nipples pressing
against her top.

“I could think of a few ways…”

“Don't make promises you can't keep.”

He laughed. “You needn't worry about *that*,” he informed her, and then was suddenly
standing right in front of her. She hadn't even sensed his Apparition, nor had it seemed like
it even occurred.

He wrapped his arms her, and she quivered slightly at the skin-to-skin contact. Goosebumps not
of the temperature flew out across her arms and back, and she felt Harry chuckle against her. He
stepped back two paces.

“Tease,” she pouted.

He shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

“Harry…”

“What?”

She paused, unsure of what she had been about to say. Well, not unsure, just hesitant. She
wondered how he would respond to it.

“I've been thinking—”

“Shocker!” he interjected.

“Quiet.” She locked eyes with Harry. “I've been thinking about living arrangements these
past few days, and I've only just realized I'm twenty-two and still living with my
parents.”

“Go on…” he prompted. She wondered if he knew where this was heading.

“Well, we have something…good between us, right?” Hermione dropped her eyes for a moment, and
then looked back up, to find him right in front of her again. He cupped a cheek in his hand.

“Something very good,” he said, quietly. His shockingly green eyes were boring directly into
hers. She thought she might have been able to see his pupils moving with his heartbeat.

“What do you think about me—”

“Moving in?” he asked. “I've love for you to.”

“Really?” she asked. For some reason, she could hardly believe it. That would definitely make
this burgeoning love—on her end, at least—between them seem more real.

“Of course,” he said. “Hermione, I already gave you full access to this entire property, and
you've spent more time here since we got back than at your house. It's the next logical
step.”

She threw her arms around him and laughed. “Listen to you, talking to *me* about what's
logical.” She hugged him for a second longer, and then released him, to stare into his eyes
again.

“Let's get past Friday, and then we can think about that more?” she asked, hoping the pang
of apprehension she felt at thinking about the Yankees didn't creep into her voice. Harry
smiled brightly at her.

“Sure thing.” He turned slightly, slipping his arm around her back, and they started to walk
toward the sliding glass door. It opened as they approached and they passed through it into the
interior of the Manor. The left side of the kitchen flared with light as the evening sun shone
brightly in through the westward windows, illuminating every edge and corner in sharp contrast.
Hermione could see small motes of dust floating through the golden rays.

They passed in silence through the kitchen and on into the parlor beyond. Someone whistled from
the direction of the west wall. They both stopped and turned to look toward the two portraits
hanging there. Lily and James were reclining on a sofa in their portrait, looking amusedly down at
Harry and Hermione, and Sirius was waggling his eyebrows toward them.

“Yes?” Hermione asked. She smirked at Sirius.

Two days before, on Monday, she had sat down with Harry in front of the portraits as he had told
them everything that had happened in his life. It had taken most of the day, since he'd had to
start from as early as he could remember for his parents, and she'd even seen a tear or two
trail down his face, but it was an oddly cathartic experience, for both of them.

In telling his parents the entire history of his life, Harry'd said he'd been able to
step back and look at all that he'd done and accomplished more objectively than he ever had
before. And while he was still modest and humble to a fault, Hermione could tell that he was now
able to appreciate the full weight of what he'd done a little better.

For Hermione, it had been cleansing because not only had it filled in all of the missing gaps in
Harry's life for her, but it also meant that he trusted her enough and—she thought—*loved*
her enough to let her in on all of his troubled times. The hardest part for her and, she saw, for
his parents and Sirius was when Harry told of the true extent of the Dursleys' neglect. They
had never overtly abused him, as far as he could remember, but what they had done was definitely
criminal neglect and endangerment of the welfare of a child, according to the Muggle laws.

Hermione had wanted to at least bring it to the attention of the Surrey police, but Harry had
adamantly refused to let her. He had said that the Dursleys were in his past and he never wanted to
see them again, and if that meant letting them get away with what they had done, he was fine with
that.

She had left it at that, and had only said a few more words as he'd continued to tell his
tale. She knew it was enough to fill several books, and that many of his and their adventures were
so fantastical no one would believe them as true; she smiled when he recounted the tale of how she
had led Dolores Umbridge to the centaurs, even though she remembered how terrified she'd been
when the centaurs had turned on them. She cringed when Harry told of their sixth year, and all the
turmoil that had been present, but felt triumphant as he told the tale of their seventh year and
how they had all banded together to defeat Voldemort once and for all.

Sirius and the Potters listened with rapt attention as Harry told them the story, asking only a
few questions—the most pressing one was why he had gone to America for four years. Harry had just
shrugged and told them he'd wanted some direction in his life. When they asked him if he found
it, he'd glanced at her and said he thought so. A warm feeling had spread through her at that
simple look and statement.

“Looking good, you two,” Sirius said, flashing them a double thumbs up; his voice brought her
back to the present. Harry nodded at him, chuckling a bit, and glanced at Hermione. She smiled
back.

“What were you doing?” James asked. He was still curled up with Lily on the couch.

“Jogging,” Harry answered.

“Jogging?” Lily asked, her eyebrow arched. “Do most magical folk exercise now?”

Hermione shook her head and answered: “Not really, Lily. In fact, most wouldn't know what to
do if you handed them a hand weight. Harry dragged me out jogging, though, because he wants to stay
in shape.”

“For what?” Sirius asked, quite clearly eyeing Harry's toned body and Hermione's many
curves. It wasn't a lascivious gaze, though—merely a curious one.

She felt Harry hesitate. He hadn't told them of his upcoming meeting with the Yankees and
the decision that would follow; in fact, she didn't think he'd told anyone except for her,
and she honestly didn't know if he would have if she hadn't overheard it the day of his
graduation.

“Just because,” Harry answered, and at Sirius's *harrumph*, he added, “You don't
have to be jealous.”

“Jealous? Me? Of *you*?” Sirius asked, mock incredulity in his voice. Harry shrugged.

“I bet he's jealous of that fine lady on your arm, Harry,” Lily cut in, looking toward the
edge of her portrait where she must have been able see Sirius in his. He looked over at her and
crossed his arms.

Hermione just about glowed at Lily's compliment and tacit approval, but didn't say
anything. She could already hear an argument reminiscent of herself and Ron heating up between Lily
and Sirius, which was only exacerbated by Sirius calling her `Lils', and chuckled at
James's look of resignation. She and Harry waved, which only James saw, and turned to leave the
room. Once they'd exited into the voluminous foyer, they looked at each other and laughed
again.

“You know who they remind me of, don't you?” Harry asked. There was a powerfully nostalgic
look in his eyes.

“Yes,” she nodded. “The three of us.” And they both knew exactly what she was talking about: the
original Golden Trio—Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Without Remus, the three in the portraits had very
similar dynamics to the Trio's.

Suddenly, Hermione caught sight of something on Harry's right ring finger that she
hadn't noticed before. She grabbed his hand and pulled it close to her face so she could
examine the items. Two simple yet elegant rings adorned his finger, one gold with a ruby and the
other silver with an amethyst. She didn't know where he'd gotten them from or why she
hadn't noticed them before.

“Harry, what are these?”

“The Potter and Black family rings,” he supplied, looking at her oddly. “Have you never seen
these before?” She looked at him strangely; surely her reaction was answer enough for that
question.

“That's odd. I've had them on since I went to Gringotts the day we arrived.”

“These signify your lordship over the Potter and Black families, right?” she queried, some
tidbit of knowledge surfacing in her brain. He nodded.

“Yes, and they allow me access to all of the properties in each family.”

“Ok…” Hermione said, thinking. “Ok… So all of the properties are probably Unplottable, which
means that the rings seal the enchantment.”

“How so?” Harry asked. He was looking at her with something akin to wonder, as he often did when
she was talking about something he did not know of.

“They give you access to Unplottable properties, so the enchantments would have had to use the
rings as their anchors. Making something Unplottable is a bit different than a Fidelius, in that
someone can still come across the property if they walk up to it. Unplottability just ensures that
it can't be found on a map or pinpointed with exact coordinates. A Fidelius actually hides
knowledge of the existence of a place or thing.

“So, anyways, since you gave me full access to this house, *and* told me it would be all
right if I moved in, the enchantment must have decided that was enough for me to see the
rings.”

Harry was silent for a moment, considering everything that Hermione had told him. She was glad
there was no look of perplexity on his face; she had always known Harry was brilliant, maybe as
brilliant as her, but he just hadn't applied himself before their seventh year.

“So the rings are hidden from view because they anchor the Unplottable charms.”

“Yes.”

“Wouldn't there have to be some kind of Fidelius to do that, though, at least on the
rings?”

Hermione cocked her head to the side, considering his question. She hadn't thought about
that facet—if the rings themselves had been hidden from her, that would seem to imply a Fidelius on
the rings themselves…but that didn't explain why they'd just shown up, without him telling
her about them.

“I don't really know about that,” she said, and she was surprised that she didn't feel
disappointment at being unable to answer his question. He had raised an interesting and thoughtful
point, one that she would have to research if they really did want the answer, and she wasn't
ashamed that she didn't know the right one.

“Could be some sort of modified Fidelius,” she said, shrugging slightly. He nodded, totally
accepting of her assumption, and the grinned at her. It was disarming, his lop-sided grin, and she
found herself grinning back.

“What, Potter?”

“We're both sweaty,” he said.

“Yeah…”

“And the four others are coming soon. Can't be smelling like rubbish when they get
here.”

“Just what are you suggesting, Harry?”

“Fancy a shower?” he asked, still grinning.

“What, with you?”

Both of his eyebrows rose toward his hairline.

“I dunno…” she trailed off, already thinking of a wet and naked Harry Potter.

“Your loss,” he commented, and she felt the magic coalesce in the air as he prepared to
Disapparate, presumably into the shower. Thinking quickly, she grabbed his arm, and her vision
grayed for a second as the feeling of Apparition washed over her. Sure enough, when the world
righted itself, she was standing in the middle of the large loo, still holding on to Harry's
arm.

“Care to join me, Miss Granger?” Harry asked, as he started toward the walk-in shower. The
running shorts dropped as he went; he stopped and looked over his shoulder when he reached the edge
of the shower. Her eyes were drawn toward his bum…

“Um,” she articulated, looking at his face again. He was smiling mischievously at her. She
nodded and rushed forward. She saw his hand twitch in her direction and suddenly she was naked. She
didn't care. She rushed past him into the large shower and turned on the water, standing back a
little as it adjusted to the right temperature.

She felt Harry come up behind her, pressing against her back and wrapping his arms around her,
just below her chest. She fought a moan as she felt his still-flaccid member pressing against her
bum. His strong arms held her tighter for a second, and then pushed them both forward under the
warm stream of water.

“You know what I would like to do to you right now,” he whispered in her ear, and she shivered
uncontrollably at the lust dripping in his voice. Whatever it was, she would let him. She wanted
him right here in the shower, up against the wall if need be. Harry had the amazing ability to
ignite a fire inside her she hadn't known existed until recently, and this close contact of wet
and naked bodies was fanning those flames rapidly. The water was splashing against her upper body,
and then trailing down her skin toward the tiled floor, adding to the wetness below her waist.

“But,” he said, stepping back from her, “we are going to have company very soon. We don't
really have time right now.” She could hear the real note of sadness in his voice, but knew he was
right. That didn't mean she wasn't frustrated, though.

“You *tease*,” she growled, and turned, the water hitting her back now. She saw his eyes
sweep over her chest and then lower, and once again back to her face. The look in his eyes
wasn't doing anything to calm her, nor was the not-so-flaccid state of his member.

“Ignore that,” he said, must having noticed where her eyes were. He took some body wash from the
little alcove in the wall, squirted a dollop into his hands, and approached her again.

“Want me to wash your back?” he asked. She turned, presenting her back and buns to him. She
could *feel* his eyes on her round, tanned cheeks.

“Yes please,” she affirmed. She pressed back into his strong hands as they began their
ministrations over the long expanse of skin between her neck and her bum.

----------

Hermione and Harry were standing by the gate of the Manor, which was open, waiting for the other
four to arrive. The late evening light was just starting to dim, but would still be bright enough
for another hour for the little excursion out on the lake Harry wanted to take the six of them
on.

Hermione had been with Harry when he'd told Ron and Luna, and then later on Ginny and
Neville, the coordinates of the edge of the property when he'd invited them. They were due to
Apparate in any moment now.

As she leaned against him in the cool silence, she could still feel his hands as they'd
worked their magic on her up in the shower, but he'd never fully *touched* her; he'd
even gone so far as to laugh when she'd pouted at him. But…it had also been oddly satisfying,
exploring each other's bodies without fully committing to the act. Bringing each other to some
sort of edge and then retreating back from it—all with the warm water pounding down on their
skin.

So it was with contentment that she greeted the first telltale signs of Apparition, which were
two *cracks* as Ron and Luna appeared before them. Ron was dressed casually in slacks and a
shirt—he seemed to have picked up some Muggle dressing habits over the past few years—and Luna wore
a white summer dress, almost matching Hermione's beige one.

“Hey,” Hermione greeted.

“Hello, Hermione and Harry,” Luna said, and moved forward toward them. Ron and Harry looked at
each for a moment.

“How are ya, mate?” Ron asked, and Harry smiled at his red-haired friend.

“Doing well,” Harry replied, and returned Luna's hug.

The blond had a similar embrace for Hermione, during which Luna whispered, “You *must* tell
me later why you're so satisfied right now.” Luna locked eyes with her, a knowing light in her
pale gaze. Hermione nodded slightly.

“So you Keep for the Wasps and you're a reporter for *The Quibbler*,” Harry said,
looking at Ron and Luna. They both nodded, and almost as one their eyes turned toward the
Manor.

“You have a lovely house,” Luna commented. Ron's comment was a little more colorful.

“Merlin, it's a bloody mansion. Although you were always filthy sodding rich,” Ron said,
chuckling as he looked at the structure.

“You're both doing very well for yourselves,” Hermione put in, hoping to deflect the
conversation away from Harry's money and fame, at least for the moment. He glanced a silent
thank you in her direction.

“That we are, Hermione,” Ron said. “I haven't lost a regular season game in ages and
Luna's turned her father's rag around, so no complaints here.” Hermione already knew that
information, but she knew Ron was saying it for Harry's benefit.

“Daddy thinks he might have found proof of the Snorkack's existence,” Luna commented, still
looking at the house. Hermione looked to Ron and Harry, who were smiling slightly. Luna had stopped
reporting on sensationalist rubbish, but she still liked to talk about it occasionally. And who
knew, maybe the Snorkack actually did exist?

Just then, two more *cracks* rent the evening air, one slightly quieter than the previous
two and the other slightly louder. The four of them turned to see Neville and Ginny standing there.
Harry swept forward.

“Welcome to my humble abode, Mister Longbottom and Miss Weasley,” he said, bowing low in front
of them. His theatrics went a long way toward breaking the ice, because Ginny stepped forward and
hugged him. When she stepped back, he shook hands with Neville.

“Humble abode my arse,” Ginny said when she caught sight of the Manor. “It's a bloody
castle.”

Harry laughed out loud. “You're more like your brother than you know,” he said, and watched
as Ginny made a face at Ron, who just shrugged.

Hermione looked around at the six of them, all gathered again in one place, excepting the night
at the Burrow, for the first time since the Christmas of 2000. Subtle changes had occurred since
then, changes that could mostly be attributed to becoming adults in the psychological sense. They
were neither children nor young adults anymore. They were grown people, each with their own lives
and relationships and histories—histories that had been diverging since Voldemort's demise.
Maybe now, maybe after four years of personal growth, they could get back some of their old ties
and find that ease with which they'd had with each other.

Maybe, but then again a lot of that probably hinged upon whether or not Harry decided to play
for the Yankees. She didn't know how that would change things, and preferred not to think about
it, but Hermione knew that the time for deciding was nigh upon them. She had only two more days of
reprieve, and then it would be on them. She was dreading it. She didn't want the fairy tale of
the last three weeks to end.

“Well,” Harry said, “how about we head on over toward the lake.”

“Lake?” Neville asked. He looked around, and caught sight of the dark waters off to the east.
“Oh.”

“And that's a pitch over there, isn't it?” Ron asked, pointing to the west.

“Looks like it,” Ginny said, and looked to Harry, who nodded. Hermione saw that Neville and
Ginny were dressed in denims and t-shirts. They were both purebloods and they dressed like Muggles.
She mentally shrugged and moved into Harry's side as they all began walking toward the lake, at
a very sedate pace.

The air was cooling off, and when they reached the sandy shore after another two minutes'
easy conversation, the sand was almost cold beneath their feet. Harry and Hermione were barefoot;
the others had sneakers or sandals on.

“What is *that*?” Ron asked, looking toward the speedboat tethered to the end of the
dock.

“That,” Harry said, “is a speedboat.”

“And we're going to go for a ride in it,” Luna said, stating it more than asking it.

“Sounds like fun,” Ginny commented, eyeing the boat and leaning into Neville, who wrapped an arm
around her.

“How fast does it go, Harry?” Neville asked.

“Uh…about two hundred kph.”

Harry and Hermione started toward the boat, down the dock, but turned after a moment. Ron, Luna,
Neville, and Ginny were standing on the beach, looking uncertain still.

“Well come on then,” Hermione prompted, and they started along the dock toward them. Harry
jumped into the boat and then helped the rest in, all except for Ron and Neville, who just looked
at Harry and leapt in as well. Hermione shook her head. Typical men.

Ron and Luna took the seats in the second row and Neville and Ginny took the seats in the third
row; Hermione sat in the passenger seat and Harry got behind the wheel.

“You guys thirsty or anything?” Harry asked, looking around at everyone. There were two empty
seats in the back. They nodded and he conjured them all drinks. Hermione suddenly had a warm
butterbeer in her hand and she squeezed Harry to her briefly as she sipped the sweet liquid.

The engines roared to life, idled for a moment with guttural growl, and then revved as Harry
inched the throttle forward. Hermione cast a Muting charm to cut the sound of the engine and the
wind as they moved away from the dock and out into the lake. She sat sideways in her seat so she
could look at everyone, and smiled internally at what she saw.

Neville and Ginny, whose red hair was billowing out behind her like some crimson streamer, were
holding hands, sipping their beverages, and taking in the pristine surroundings as they soared
across the smooth waters of the lake. Luna had moved onto Ron's lap, where she curled up, and
they were both talking about something. Hermione couldn't really hear it, though.

Her eyes moved to Harry, and this time she did grin. He had a goofy smile plastered across his
face as he stood driving the boat. His shaggy hair was blowing about and he looked like he was
having a grand old time. She prodded him with a foot, which had been on the leg hanging over the
side of the chair, and he looked over at her. His eyes twinkled at her and they just smiled for a
moment.

“That's cute, you two,” Ron said, amusement in his voice. Hermione looked to him, and then
rolled her eyes. Luna had dropped her head to his chest, curling into his lap even more. Her rather
small stature allowed her to be almost swallowed up by Ron's long, lanky figure.

“As is that,” she pointed out, to which Ron shrugged. He was rubbing small circles on Luna's
back.

“This is quite nice,” Ginny said.

“It is, isn't it?” Harry asked, rhetorically. “And the best part is, this boat never needs
petrol—it's powered by magic.”

A silence settled over them for a moment as they sliced toward the northern shore of the lake.
Hermione then turned to look at Neville and Ginny again.

“How is Hogwarts these days, Neville?” she asked him. She saw him draw his attention in from the
sights all around them and focus on her.

“Good,” he eventually said. “It's not really like it used to be, at all, though.”

“How so?” Hermione asked. The rest of them were listening now, as well.

“Well, for one, there's less petty bickering between houses, which is good, but it's
definitely a different atmosphere from when we were all there.” Nods accompanied his
observation.

“Minerva is a good headmistress,” he continued, “but she doesn't really compare to Albus.
There was always some mystery around him, which made him the perfect headmaster. You never knew
when you were going to catch a glimpse of his real power, if you ever did. Minerva is just
straightforward, which isn't bad, but again…different.”

“Albus was one of a kind,” Luna said, and Hermione couldn't ever remember hearing Luna talk
about Dumbledore before. She wondered what the blonde's insight was on the former
headmaster.

“Indeed,” Harry commented.

“Binns still teach History?” Ron asked.

Neville laughed. “Oh no. The first thing Minerva did after the war was get rid of Binns. Terry
Boot teaches that now. I think she also might have been planning on doing away with Divination, but
Trelawney retired, making that decision rather easy. She just never hired another Divination
teacher.”

“Who replaced Flitwick?” Harry asked, quietly, and Hermione knew he was thinking about the small
man's death at the hands of Voldemort that final day.

“Padma Patil,” Neville answered, just as quietly.

“And…Hagrid?” Harry asked.

“You wouldn't know her…she went to Beauxbatons. Her name is Bernice. She's a little
older than all of us.”

“How's Herbology going for you?” Hermione asked. All of this information was actually new to
her, as well. She hadn't realized just how out of touch they'd all been, if the looks on
Ron and Luna's faces were any indication. They looked like they hadn't known any of it
either.

“Really well,” Neville said, honest enthusiasm in his voice. Hermione saw Harry smile out of the
corner of her eye. They had reached the northern shore and he turned the boat back toward the
south.

“I was actually on the Examination board this past year. I helped write the OWL and NEWT
examinations. There were a lot of archaic questions on them, not just in Herbology I'm sure,
and so I helped bring the test up to date.”

“Tell them about your mastery, hun,” Ginny said. Neville looked at her and squeezed her hand,
and then looked forward again.

“I've almost completed my mastery in Herbology, which is a dissertation on the newly found
properties of dogwood and how they seem to be helping cure or at least stop the Muggle disease
Alzheimer's.”

“It only affects Muggles?” Ron asked. He sounded like he had some knowledge of what the disease
was, though Hermione could not fathom where he'd gotten that information.

“Until recently, yes,” Neville said, leaning back in his chair a bit. He was speaking
passionately now. “In the last decade or so, though, it's begun to affect witches and wizards
as well, so there was a huge push to find a cure within the magical realm.” Hermione made a dirty
look, and Neville must have seen it, because he nodded at her.

“I know, Hermione, I find it despicable too, that we're not using more of our special
talents to help Muggles, and only do so when their maladies affect us as well, but that's not
the kind of change I can cause. Right now, I'm putting the finishing touches on this mastery,
and then after I might try to bring the results to the Muggles. Alzheimer's is a huge problem
for them.”

“I know,” Hermione commented, her memory transporting her back fifteen years, to a time before
Hogwarts and Harry Potter, when her grandmother had been unable to remember her granddaughter's
name.

“My grandmum was afflicted by it, and it got so severe that she couldn't even function
anymore. The disease ate her alive.”

There was an odd silence then, broken only by the muted sound of the wind and the motors, and
then Neville spoke:

“Exactly the kind of thing I hope this research can bring a stop to, but that's only if I
can get it past the International Confederation of Wizards and the Statute of Secrecy.”

“If Albus was still the Supreme Mugwump,” Harry suddenly said, “you wouldn't have a problem
there.” A pause. “Who is the Supreme Mugwump these days?”

Hermione answered instead of Neville, as she had been discussing this about a month previously
with one of her coworkers. “No one, Harry. The Confederation never appointed another one. They
thought it better the position remained vacant than filling it with someone unworthy of the
post.”

“And Chief Warlock…?”

“Amos is the interim Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, excluding any legislative matters. He only
presides over judicial and executive sessions,” Hermione answered. Again, it looked like the others
hadn't known this information, because they were drinking up the knowledge.

How could they all live in a world and know so little about it? Were there lives so demanding
that they could never take a step back and consider everything that had changed since Albus had
died, or since Harry had killed Voldemort? If the six of them had remained close, the knowledge
they individually held would no doubt be collective information. Hermione was amazed at the
simplicity of the rift between them all, but how complete it actually was. She desperately wanted
things to be like they once were, between them all.

“So if Arthur became—” Harry started, but cut himself off abruptly. Hermione saw him press lips
together very tightly, impassivity written across his face.

“What about my dad?” Ron asked.

“Nevermind, Ron, I was just thinking, that's all.”

Hermione wondered why he was suddenly being so evasive, and made sure to remember to talk to him
later about it. They were in the middle of the lake now, and Harry backed off on the throttle, so
that they came to rest straight out from the dock. Hermione canceled the Muting charm and the wind
suddenly rushed to meet their ears. The sun could no longer be seen, and the day was fading
fast.

“So Harry, you still haven't told us all about your time abroad—not the full story, at
least,” Ginny commented, looking up from her and Neville's joined hands to Harry. He turned
around, leaned against the wheel, and regarded them all. Every single one of them was looking at
him, Hermione noticed.

“First, I'd like to know one thing,” he said, looking back and forth between Ginny and
Neville.

“Ok,” the redhead responded.

“Have you two set a date yet?”

“Saturday, December 14th, at Hogwarts, just after the fall term ends,” Neville said,
looking at Ginny and smiling broadly. She leaned over and pecked him on the lips.

“Congratulations,” Harry said, which the rest of them echoed. Hermione could already imagine how
gorgeous Ginny would look in a wedding gown.

“But don't tell mum,” Ginny said, laughing slightly. “She doesn't know the date yet.
Neville and I will tell her soon.”

“Maybe Luna and I will have to tell her our date, as well,” Ron suddenly said, and there was a
shocked silence, in which people processed what he said, and then an explosion of noise, mostly
from Ginny and Hermione.

“You finally proposed—” Hermione said.

“When is it going to be?” Ginny asked, overriding Hermione's dig.

Ron and Luna looked at each; the love they held for the other was very apparent in their eyes.
Hermione wondered if she was that obvious when she looked at Harry. Luna moved her hands from where
they were clasped in her lap, twitched a finger, and a stunning gold band with a sparkling diamond
faded into view. Hermione almost laughed because of the conversation she and Harry had had about
rings earlier.

“We were thinking next summer, June 21st, to be exact. It's a Saturday,” Luna
said transferring her gaze from the ring to Ron's eyes.

“Congratulations to you two, as well!” Harry exclaimed. Hermione saw the grin on his face and
soon enough everyone on the boat was grinning. Harry seemed to be able to do that. If he was happy,
others were. Angry…and others became so. Sad as well. Just something about him had that effect.

“Maybe we'll have a bunch of little Longbottoms and Weasleys running around soon,” Hermione
commented offhand, and then laughed at the stricken looks on the couples' faces.

“Let's just get through the wedding first!” Neville said, and Ron nodded in agreement. Luna
and Ginny just shook their heads, small smiles on their faces.

“So Harry,” Ginny said, turning back to the captain of the boat, “we still need to hear all
about your last four years.”

“We do, don't we?” he asked, turning back to face the wheel. “Let's head back to the
house and get some dinner, and I'll tell you all about it as we eat.” The engines roared to
life once again and this time Hermione didn't bother with the Muting charm as they only had a
small distance to go back to the dock. She saw the last glimmers of light in the western sky, as
they headed in that direction, reflected off the glassy surface of the lake. Twilight had come to
the Manor.

----------

“The house is even more impressive from the inside,” Ginny said. The six of them were taking
their seats up on the third floor western balcony, where the only light left of the day was a deep
purple just above the tree line. Harry had turned on the balcony lights for the Manor, which were
also powered by magic, as Hermione had found out just yesterday, so they were all bathed in a
gentle golden light.

“I would say so,” Ron agreed, sitting next to Luna and Ginny and across from Hermione and
Harry.

“Well,” Harry said, taking his seat last, “you six might be seeing a lot more of it.”

“How so?” Neville queried.

“He's going to give us full access,” Luna commented, looking at Harry with her gray
eyes.

Harry inclined his head in her direction, as if awarding her a point in some contest. “Almost,
but not quite. Ron Weasley, Luna Lovegood, Ginny Weasley, and Neville Longbottom are hereby granted
unrestricted access to Potter Manor and all of its amenities, with the exception of the master
suite.”

Before anyone could react, there was a hissing noise and then a build-up of power, as if there
was magic in the air that was collapsing on all of them. Then, with a strong gust of wind, it
exploded outward in a dazzling ring of white light, leaving everything as it had been. When
Hermione's eyes adjusted again, she saw stunned looks on everyone's faces, except for
Harry's.

“Harry…” Ginny trailed off.

“You didn't have to do that, mate,” Ron said, though he looked like he wasn't going to
argue.

Harry shrugged. “This is far more space than me and—than—than Hermione and I will ever need, so
what's mine is yours,” he said, speaking quickly and then staring around as if challenging
someone to say something. Hermione couldn't have if she'd wanted to, because of what
he'd just said. She searched for his hand under the table and gripped it very hard when she
found it. Their eyes met for a second and she saw the love that had been in Ron and Luna's in
his as well, directed toward her. She took a great shuddering breath, and looked around as
well.

Everyone else was smiling, with perhaps the biggest of all on Ron's face. She laughed at
that, and leaned into Harry. He slipped an arm around her shoulders.

“Just *where* have you been for the past two weeks, Hermione,” Ron asked, with a very
knowing look on his face. Ginny and Neville perked up at this; Luna, on the other hand, smiled
gently and seemed to know exactly where she'd been.

“That's coming at the *end* of my story,” Harry said, before she could say anything.
“Dobby,” he called out. The elf was standing before them an instant later.

“What can Dobby do for you?” the small elf asked. Hermione noticed a slight change in his
language already, after only a few days bound to Harry. The four others didn't look very
surprised to see Dobby working for Harry.

“Have you, Winky, and Libby eaten yet?” Harry asked. Dobby shook his head. “Then could you
please bring up dinner for the six of us, plus you three?”

“Dobby can't believe that Harry Potter wants him and his own to eat with him and his
friends!” the elf said, and it took Hermione a moment to decipher exactly what the elf meant. The
pronouns were a little confusing.

“So is that a yes?” Harry asked, laughter in his voice.

“Of course!” Dobby squeaked and disappeared.

“Winky and Libby?” Ron asked, looking at Harry strangely.

“You'll see,” Hermione said, and moments later, a large amount of food appeared on the
table, followed by an honored Dobby, an amused Winky, and a wound-up Libby. Foregoing her chair,
she jumped right into Harry's lap. He jumped a little at the sudden weight in his lap, but
otherwise said nothing to admonish her. She was literally bouncing on him, looking around at all
the amazed faces staring at her.

“Libby, that wasn't very polite,” Winky reprimanded. Dobby and Winky took their seats
between Harry and Luna.

“It's ok Winky,” Harry said.

“You must be Harry Potter's famous friends!” Libby squeaked out. “Mummy and daddy have told
me so much about all of you, and about how you stopped the evil wizard. It's so great to meet
all of you!”

“It's an honor, Libby,” Luna said, the first to break from her shock at seeing the tiny elf
jump right into Harry's lap. She looked at Dobby and Winky. “How old is she?”

“She is three, Miss Lovegood,” Winky replied.

“Please, call me Luna,” Luna said. “And you can call him Ronald, her Ginny, and him Neville,”
she said, pointing to each one as she named them. Slightly reverential looks flitted across Dobby
and Winky's faces, but they nodded. Harry and Hermione had gone through a similar process.

“Hermione,” Ron said, “I thought you were a crusader for Elf rights? You let Harry bond three
elves to him?”

“It turns out,” Hermione chuckled, “that elves are actually happier, more magically capable, and
smarter when bound, as Dobby so succinctly informed me.” The named elf looked appropriately bashful
as all eyes turned toward him.

“That makes sense,” Neville mused. “The elf bound to my Gran was happy. We treated her right,
though.”

“And I will of course treat all of you right,” Harry put in, patting the top of Libby's head
gently. She was grinning at the attention. “I might have to answer to Libby here if I
don't.”

“That's right!” she exclaimed, and everyone laughed.

Dinner was a relaxed affair, with Libby the amazingly tiny house elf providing enough merriment
for all nine of them. She never did leave Harry's lap though, and even though Hermione knew she
was a House Elf, not a human, she saw that Harry would be a good father. He was attentive to her
when he needed to be, but not overly so. A curiously warm feeling spread through her as she watched
him interact with the elf, all the while regaling all of them with a detailed history of events of
the past four years.

It lasted until well after they'd finished eating and the dishes had been banished to the
kitchen, and after the peepers in the fields surrounding the house had started in on their night
song. Everyone had conjured slightly warmer clothes at different points, to ward off the
encroaching chill of night.

Dobby, Winky, and Libby left near the end of his tale, just before Harry reached the point where
Hermione had shown up, citing bedtime for Libby. The elf complained and looked to Harry for
support, but he only shook head and told her that she should listen to her parents. Grudgingly, she
climbed down from his lap and disappeared into thin air with her mother and father.

There was a kind of collective deep breath then, with everyone absorbing everything Harry had
told them, with nothing but the soft hum of the two lights and the noise of the crickets.

“And then,” Harry said, restarting his stalled tale, “Hermione showed up.” He looked toward her
and found her hand underneath the table, as she had done to him before. She smiled and that warm
feeling continued to spread throughout her.

“Just like that?” Ginny asked, clearly enthralled up to this point by Harry's time in
America. None of them had appeared bored, and had asked good questions now and then. Hermione was
glad they all genuinely wanted to know how Harry's time abroad had been—maybe they hadn't
all drifted apart as much as she'd thought.

“Just like that,” Hermione said, nodding. “Your dad promoted me to Chair of Muggle Liaisons, and
then gave me a month off. I start again on the first, so I had nothing else to do.”

“You're right under dad now, aren't you?” Ron asked.

“Yeah.”

“So wait a second, *you* decided that it would be fun to spend two weeks in America?” Ginny
asked. “I find it hard to believe you did something that impulsive.”

“Well ok,” Hermione said, coloring a little, and amazed that Ginny still knew her so well. “It
took some convincing by mum to get me to go.”

“Jane's a lot like Hermione,” Harry put in, smiling at some memory. “Jane is her mother,” he
added, realizing that the others might not know Hermione's mum's name.

“And you reconnected during those two weeks, or what?” Neville asked. His and Ginny's hand
were clasped together on the table.

“You could say that,” Harry responded. “Suffice it to say that Hermione showed me something
I'd been missing for four years.” Hermione thought of when Harry'd walked in on her splayed
bum—she sure had showed him something that night.

“Aww, that's so cute,” Ron said, sniffling and rubbing a fake tear from his eye. “You and
Hermione warm my heart, Harry,” he said, chuckling slightly.

“I'm glad, Ron,” Harry said. She watched Harry and Ron lock eyes for a moment, and then
glance toward both Luna and Hermione, and nod slightly. They understood each other like only best
friends could, and it touched Hermione that they'd fallen back into their old habits so easily.
Sitting up here with the five of them, late at night on one of Harry's many balconies, she was
reminded very powerfully of how close they'd all been during the last year of the war.
Inseparable was the word that came to mind. And now Ginny and Neville were getting married, as were
Ron and Luna, and Harry had all but said the same thing earlier when he'd made that comment and
him and her living in the house…

Maybe the past years hadn't changed things as much as she'd thought they had. Maybe her
perspective was a little skewed, because she'd spent most of that time up to the tits in work.
It was comfortable with them all, and she missed it. She resolved then and there to make more time
for all of them, not just Harry, and she wondered if the look on Harry's face didn't say
same thing.

“This baseball thing…” Luna started in, with her confoundingly perceptive voice. “Is it over? Or
is there something else you have to do?” The four of them had listened patiently as Harry explained
baseball and how he had played for his university's team. Hermione knew they didn't
recognize it for the big deal it really was—well, Luna might have.

Harry laughed uneasily. “Funny that you mention that,” he said, and then looked toward Hermione,
seeking reassurance. She nodded, and he took a deep breath. “I'm actually meeting with a
professional team on Friday to listen to their offer, and then decide whether or not I want to play
for them.”

Only crickets were heard again, accompanied by the soft humming of the lights, for several
moments.

“In America?” Ron asked. Harry nodded.

“You taking a portkey over there?” Neville wondered.

“Actually, I'm Apparating Hermione and I over there.”

“You can side-along someone *that* far,” Ginny said, incredulously.

“Don't forget, Ginny, that this is Harry we're talking about,” Luna put in, smiling
serenely at all of them. “Which team are you meeting with?”

“The Yankees,” Harry answered, and Hermione wasn't sure if any of them, besides Luna, would
know the name. They had vaguely familiar looks on their faces, though.

“So…what does that mean, exactly?” Ron asked, sitting forward slightly.

“I'm not sure yet, I have to listen to what they have to say first,” Harry said, in a
slightly closed-off tone. Hermione saw Ron glance at her and then shake his head slightly. He
leaned back.

“Well bloody good luck with that,” Neville said, and then stood and stretched. “This has been a
very good night, but I think Ginny and I should get along soon.” Ginny nodded in agreement, stood,
and wrapped her arms around Neville's much larger body.

“Ok,” Harry said, exhaling as if he'd just avoided something unpleasant. “We should do this
more often.” They nodded. “And don't forget what I said—feel free to use this house and
property whenever you want.”

“Sounds good, Harry,” Ginny said, snuggling tighter into Neville.

“Bye,” they said, and Disapparated from the balcony with a low *crack*. Hermione sat back
in her seat and arched an eyebrow at Ron and Luna. They glanced at each other and nodded.

“I think it's a night for us, too,” Ron said.

“Thank you for the superb dinner, Harry,” Luna said, standing and pulling Ron to his feet as
well. “Ronald and I had a wonderful time, and I'm sure we will be taking you up on your offer
every now and then.”

“That we will,” Ron agreed.

“It was nice seeing you two,” Hermione said.

“Yeah, stop in whenever you can,” Harry agreed, and the tall redhead and small blond followed
their similarly engaged friends from the balcony with another *crack*. The noises of the night
greeted Harry and Hermione, who abruptly found themselves alone on the veranda.

“I'm glad we did this tonight,” Harry commented, moving his chair over a little so he was
right next to her.

“Me too,” Hermione agreed, leaning her head against his shoulder. She felt his arm snake around
her back and then press her against him.

“Hermione,” Harry started, and she could hear doubt in his voice. She was curious about the
sudden change in his inflection.

“Hmm?” she intoned, enjoying his solid physical presence.

“You remember when Arthur and I went into the orchard the other night?”

“Yeah, and you wouldn't tell me what you'd been talking about,” she commented. She had
wondered on and off over the past several days if he was ever going to share with her the gist of
that conversation. It seemed the moment had finally arrived.

“That one, yes,” Harry affirmed, obviously stalling for some reason. What had Arthur and he
talked about that was giving him so many problems?

“Just spit it out, Harry,” she told him.

“He…I…well—he ruddy asked me to run with him as his Vice Minister for this November's
election.”

Hermione's brain stopped. “You—what?”

“Amos doesn't want to run for Minister of Magic again, and asked Arthur if he would. Arthur
is going to and he wants me to be his Vice Minister,” Harry said, in one breath. Hermione's
thought process restarted in a rush, with snippets about Harry being her boss and working in the
Ministry and being in Britain and not playing for the Yankees falling over each other in her mind.
She was a bit overwhelmed.

“What did you tell him?” she eventually asked.

“That I'd think about it,” he answered. “What else could I tell him?”

What he said was true, but Hermione couldn't help think, just for a moment, how different
the magical world could be right now if Harry had been Vice Minister or Minister for the past four
years. He would affect change just by being in the position, whether he was consciously advocating
for it or not, and if down the road he was in some kind of leadership position within magical
society, she wondered where he could bring them all…

But that was a fleeting thought, soon replaced by the realities of the moment: their trip to New
York in two days, and how that was now affected by this new knowledge; Hermione's return to
work as Chair of an increasingly busy department on June first; their new (or old?) relationship
and where that would lead them during whatever changes their lives would bring; and, of course,
just what Harry as Vice Minister actually meant.

“Right now, honestly, what do you think about it?” she asked, trying to get a feel for his
thoughts on the subject.

“That I have no fucking idea why Arthur asked me, of all people, to run with him. That I'm
losing my marbles here trying to figure out what I want to do, and keep you in that equation. That
baseball would be fun but it's in America, far away from you and this place that I've
returned to and started to love. That being the Vice Minister would overwhelming and above my
abilities—”

“Harry,” she cut him off, feeling a little magic start to build in the air. “Breathe.” Serenity
fell across the balcony for several moments, broken only by Harry's slightly harsh
breathing.

“I left, Hermione,” Harry said, much more quietly now. “I left and I forgot about everything. If
you hadn't shown up, I don't know if I would have come back.”

“But you're here now,” she said, squeezing him slightly. Emotion unlike she'd ever heard
from Harry was seeping into his voice. “You're with me, with *us*, again.”

“Why would people want me to be one of their leaders? How could Arthur think, that after four
years, the public would want me to be his Vice Minister?”

“You brought peace, Harry—”

“But is that enough?” he cut her off, his voice heating up again. “My defeating Voldemort has
nothing to do with being capable in government, or politics.”

“Yes it does,” she said, her voice a little stronger now. “People rallied around you before,
Harry. You coordinated the resistance, starting way back in our fifth year. You might not be aware
of this, but you have a presence that manifests itself when it needs to be seen, which I've
never seen in anyone else. You command respect because you deserve it, and because you've
earned it.”

“The DA was your idea,” he reminded her.

“But it would have been *nothing* without you leading it.”

“I just don't know, Hermione,” he said, some anguish in his voice. All of this
indecision—from these huge choices—seemed to be eating him up. He was a powerful wizard and a
compassionate human being, and he didn't want to let anyone down. She knew the responsibility
he still carried on his shoulders, whether he would acknowledge it or not. He had saved their world
once, partly in honor of Albus and partly because he'd had to. She knew he still felt like he
owed something to Dumbledore, to protect the world Dumbledore had been carefully guarding for so
long.

“I don't have the answers, Harry. I can't pretend to not be overwhelmed by what
you've just told me. But, why don't we just get past Friday, and then see where things take
us?”

He inhaled deeply and then exhaled, slumping against her.

“Ok,” he said, very quietly. Neither talked after that, and they sat side by side, leaning
against each other on the cool, softly lit balcony for some time afterward. Hermione cleared her
mind and enjoyed being in Harry's arms, which were strong and secure, protecting her from the
worries of life, which would surely be back with the morning light.

-->



19. More Important Things
-------------------------



**Bearings**

Disclaimer/Author's Notes: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. Harry's perspective here.
We've finally come to the softly beating heart of the story. Two paths are diverging and only
one can be taken…. By the way, there is absolutely no chance this story will be finished by
DH's release.

*I need some place simple where we could live
and something only you can give
and that's faith and trust and peace while we're alive*

Goo Goo Dolls

*Better Days*

Chapter Twelve: More Important Things

Friday, May 24th, 2002

“Why don't we get comfortable in here?” Harry asked, leading Dobby, Winky, and Libby into
the Manor's library. The three elves trailed behind him slightly, looking up in wonder at the
tall shelves as they crossed the threshold.

“You've never been in here before?”

Winky shook her head. “The wards prevented us from entering, Harry, without your
accompaniment.”

“Hmm,” Harry intoned. He hadn't considered that possibility when he'd realized the
library was protected so only Potters and those they authorized could use it—he had just assumed
his bonded elves would get automatic access.

“Can you see the books?” he asked the elves, indicating the full shelves with a sweep of his
hand.

They shook their heads. “Are they full, Harry?” Libby squeaked out, bending her head back from
her low vantage point to see up into the highest of the stacks.

“Yes,” he muttered, and then waved them over to the shelf where he knew a familiar book would
be. He summoned a pen as he came near the shelf and spotted the title *The Most Courageous House
of Potter*. He took the book down, and a wave of magic just like last time rippled out from the
tome. He heard the elves gasp as the shelves no doubt filled with books before their very eyes.

He turned and presented the book and pen to Winky. “The three of you need to write your names in
here and then you can use these books whenever you want to.”

Winky took the two items but did nothing for a moment; the three elves just stared at him. He
crooked an eyebrow, waiting for one of them to explain.

“You would trust us with the Potter, Black, and Dumbledore libraries?” Winky asked, very slowly,
as if her brain wasn't even equipped for such a thought. He had almost forgotten that the Black
library had been transferred and absorbed into the Potter library and that the books he'd
received from Dumbledore had disappeared into the shelves as well.

“Of course, Winky. I trust you three with everything else, including my life, don't I?”

Winky's lip trembled then, and Harry saw small pools of water collect on Dobby's bottom
eyelids. The two adult elves looked at each other and then embraced gently. Libby, on the other
hand, was grinning hugely; she glanced at her parents, did a sort of eye roll that reminded Harry
strongly of Hermione for some reason, and then bounded forward to hug Harry's leg.

“Thank you, Harry!” she said.

“Yes, thank you…so much,” Winky said, thickly, and then opened the book and wrote her name in
it. She handed the book and pen to Libby, who had let go of Harry, and she also wrote her name in
it. The tiny elf passed them on to her father, who hesitated for a moment, staring up at Harry with
huge, wet eyes.

“Go ahead, Dobby,” Harry said, gently, for he was realizing how much of a big deal this was for
the elves. Not only was he entrusting centuries—and maybe even millennia—of knowledge to the elves,
but also he was effectively telling them they had the right to educate themselves.

He wasn't placing limits on what they could learn or do, which was contrary to everything
the elves had no doubt been exposed to so far. Harry sighed internally. The Wizarding world had so
many problems, and the bitter irony that surfaced when Harry thought of the Fountain of the Magical
Brethren was only one of them.

He didn't know if he could take Arthur's offer seriously because of those problems. The
Wizarding world lived in the past. Something as drastic as Voldemort's demise hadn't really
even changed that, and Harry wasn't sure if anything ever could.

Dobby touched the pen to the page with a trembling hand and shakily wrote his name. He then
handed the book back to Harry, who saw that the three elves had signed their names with a
`Potter' on the end of each. He was touched for some reason. He banished the pen back into the
ether and put the book back on the shelf. It faded out as soon as he removed his hand.

“Ok, now that that is settled, shall we get started?” he asked, and the elves nodded. They made
their way to a group of comfortable chairs in one corner of the room and sat; Winky conjured a
small book with a snap of her fingers, glanced at Libby who had taken up residence on Harry's
knee, and turned to Dobby.

“Where did we leave off?” she asked. Dobby's ears drooped for a moment, and then he
brightened.

“Chapter 18!”

Winky opened the book, turned to the correct page, and began to read what was written there. For
the next half hour or so, Harry listened in as Winky drilled Dobby on the mechanics of the English
language, for Dobby had advanced past the essentials and was working on the minutiae now. Every now
and then the elves looked to him for clarification, and he provided it as best he could.

After thirty minutes passed, Libby slid off his knee and wandered over to one of the shelves.
Harry watched her peruse the titles, listening to Winky and Dobby as well. It was funny how the
elves had become an extension of his family after so short a time, but he didn't want it any
other way. They were always a joy to be around, and it was quite exhilarating to watch them slowly
adapt to the freedoms he gave them. It pained him slightly when it was obvious they expected to be
rebuked for something, for perhaps taking too much liberty in some activity, but said reprimand
never came.

He would never do that. He might have to have a discussion with them on something every now and
then, but it would never be in the context of punishment. They were not used to personal liberties,
and the acclimation process would naturally be unfamiliar. Harry was not worried about it, and
almost smirked at what someone like Malfoy or even Riddle would have said could they see his elves
now.

Libby came back then with a rather thick book floating before her, climbed back into Harry's
lap, and looked up at him with wide, protuberant eyes.

“Fancy a read?” Harry asked, and she nodded. “What do you have there?”

“*World History, Volume One: 20,000 BC to 5,000 BC*,” she said. Harry saw what looked like
a wooly mammoth being pursued by several cavemen on the cover.

“Weighty reading,” he commented, and she grinned at him.

“I'm *really* interested in history, Harry!” she exclaimed, and then proved the comment
true by settling against his abdomen and cracking open the book. The first sentence read, “*The
earliest historical recordings are paintings done by cavemen around approximately 20,000
BC…”*

“You should ask Hermione for a copy of *Hogwarts, A History*,” Harry responded, dryly. A
soft snort reached his ears after he'd said that and he turned his head to see Hermione
standing in the doorway of the library, surveying the scene with amused eyes.

“Is it story time, Harry?” she asked, lightly, and bounced over to him.

“Why, you want me to read you one?”

“Sure,” she cooed, and sat on the arm of his chair opposite Libby. The small elf started to get
down, but Hermione laid a gentle finger on her minute shoulder.

“No, it's ok Libby, you can stay right where you are. And I will give you a copy of that
book Harry mentioned, if you want.”

“Yes please,” Libby said, looking up adoringly at Harry and Hermione. Harry noticed that Winky
and Dobby had stopped their lesson and were watching the three of them, smiling grandly. Hermione
turned her head toward them.

“How's the English coming, Dobby?”

“Very well, Hermione,” Dobby said, using the correct affirmation *and* pronouncing
Hermione's name right. Harry was impressed. He almost didn't know the elf because his
language had changed so much, but Harry knew Dobby was still the same excitable and humble elf he
always had been. Harry was deeply appreciative of everything Dobby had done for him over the years,
and sometime he would sit the elf down and explain that to him.

“What's the time, `Mione?” Harry asked. When Hermione didn't answer right away, he
looked over at her and saw a wondrous expression in her eyes.

“What?”

“You just called me `Mione,” she near-whispered.

“Oh.” He hadn't even realized. “Sorry, didn't even know, I'll make sure not to from
now—”

“No, Harry,” she laughed, cutting him off. “It's alright, you can call me that.” She
grinned, exposing two rows of immaculate teeth (her parents were dentists, after all). “It just
surprised me.”

“Why?” Harry asked, truly curious. The smile faded just slightly from her face.

“It's something my grandmum used to call me, when I was very little.”

“Oh…” Harry trailed off, a snippet of Wednesday's conversation coming back to him. “The same
one that…?”

She nodded, and then looked at her watch. “It's almost eleven, by the way,” Hermione said,
answering his original question.

“Ok,” he said, exhaling as he did, so that it was drawn out. Hermione cocked her head at him but
said nothing.

It looked like the time had finally arrived to begin their journey overseas—not that it would
take that long—and as he had one errand to run before making the long-distance Apparition, he
wanted to get started.

“I suppose we should get going,” he said, and both Libby and Hermione took the hint, removing
themselves from his chair and allowing him to stand.

“When will you two be back?” Winky asked, setting the book aside and looking up at them
expectantly. Harry glanced over to Hermione, who had bit her lower lip, and then cut his eyes back
toward Winky and Dobby.

“Few hours, I'd imagine, so you three don't need to wait for us. In fact,” he said,
thinking of something, “why don't you all take the day to yourselves.” When Dobby looked like
he was going to protest, Harry held up a hand.

“Nothing needs to be done around here. Seriously, do whatever you want today, as long as
it's not work,” he told them.

“I'm going to read this all day then!” Libby said, proudly thumping the large book floating
in the air in front of her.

“Thank you Harry,” Dobby said, his voice full of emotion. Harry nodded at him and then turned
toward Hermione, who was grinning at him again. He asked the question with his eyes.

“Oh nothing,” she said. “You're amazing, you know that?”

He puffed out his chest and buffed his fingernails on his shirt. “Of course, my dear,” he said,
thickening his accent to almost unintelligible heights.

She chuckled and shook her head. “You're incorrigible.”

“Be that as it may,” he continued, dropping the charade, “I need to make a quick stop at
Gringotts before we head over there.”

She nodded stoically. “Lead the way, oh conquering hero,” she said, in a weirdly distant voice.
She grabbed his hand and, with a wave at the elves, they left the Manor accompanied only by a very
soft *swish* of air.

When Harry's vision oriented itself, it was filled with the gleaming marble facade of the
Wizarding bank Gringotts. He looked around quickly—Hermione was staring up at the building—and saw
that the Alley was pretty busy for a Friday morning. He saw the usual crowd of people outside of
WWW.

“Come on,” he urged, starting up the steps and pulling Hermione along with him. As soon as they
had passed through the ornate doors and into the lobby, a goblin waylaid them.

“Lord Potter-Black, what can I do for you and your guest today?” he asked.

Harry was momentarily shocked at the prompt service from the goblin, but recovered quickly. “I
would like to speak with Griphook about some matters, if that is at all possible.”

The goblin nodded. “Certainly. Follow me,” he said. Harry and Hermione fell in step behind the
goblin, who led them through the same door Harry had gone through during his last visit and into
the familiar hall. Hermione had never been in this part of the bank before, with its opulence, and
was staring around at everything as they made their way along the corridor.

The goblin stopped outside of Griphook's office, knocked twice, and then excused himself
with a swift bow. After he had turned away, the door opened and Griphook stood there, smiling
toothily up at them.

“Ah, Lord Potter-Black,” his account manager said. He then looked at Hermione. “And you must be
Hermione Granger,” he said, nodding at her. “My name is Griphook,” he added, bowing slightly.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Griphook,” she said, sticking out her hand, and this time
Griphook seemed ready for it. He shook it with another feral grin and led them into his office.
Harry immediately noticed another goblin off to the side; slightly taller and older looking than
Griphook, but said nothing of it. He and Hermione took two seats across from Griphook, who had
seated himself behind his desk.

“I hope you do not mind, Harry,” Griphook said, dropping the formalities as Harry had instructed
him to do, “but when I learned that you were on your way back here, I informed Ragnok, our
director, and he wished a personal meeting with you.” His account manager motioned over Harry's
shoulder at the goblin standing off to the side.

Harry turned in his seat and watched as the regal goblin came slowly from the shadows, stopping
a few paces away from he and Hermione.

“Lord Potter-Black,” Ragnok said, slowly, gazing at Harry as he did so. His voice was deep for a
goblin; he had his clawed hands clasped behind his back. “And Hermione Granger,” he added, turning
toward Hermione.

“Please, Director, call me Harry, at least when we are in private like this,” Harry said, hoping
to at least get off on the right foot with this very important person.

Ragnok cocked his head to the side slightly, looking at both Harry and Hermione, and then the
corners of his thin lips rose into a small smile. He glanced at Griphook, who nodded, also
smiling.

“I had a feeling you might say that, Harry,” the Director said. “And I would ask you to call me
by my given name in similar circumstances.”

“Of course, Ragnok.”

“And may I call you Hermione?” the goblin asked.

Hermione nodded. She seemed like she couldn't believe what was happening for some reason.
“Yes, surely, Director.”

Ragnok then emitted a noise that could only have been goblin laughter, his fangs glinting in the
light of the office. “Well then you can of course call me Ragnok.” Still smiling, he went around
Griphook's desk and stood by the other goblin.

“Now that the formalities have been disposed of, I would like to extend my personal gratitude
for the way you have treated the employees of Gringotts,” Ragnok said, looking at Harry with his
beady eyes.

“It's how I would want to be treated,” Harry replied, shrugging a bit. He wondered where all
of this was leading.

Ragnok merely looked at him for a moment, and then turned to Griphook. His account manager met
the Director's eyes for a second, and then Ragnok nodded. He stepped back slightly.

“Wizards could learn from your example, Harry,” Griphook said. “Ragnok was very impressed with
how our last meeting went, and supplemented my salary even more than you did because of it.”

“May the gold flow into your coffers, then,” Harry said, inclining his head slightly, in what he
knew was a show of respect for the business savvy of the goblins. Ragnok chuckled again with that
weird laughing noise.

“And yours,” Griphook returned, smiling toothily again.

“Harry, if I may ask, what are your plans for the future?” Ragnok inquired, speaking up once
again.

Harry almost laughed out loud at the timing of the question, considering his meeting in a few
hours and Arthur's offer he still had to seriously think about. Right at this moment, he had no
bloody idea what his plans were.

“Undecided at the moment, but I should have some idea after this day ends,” he finally said, in
what he hoped was a calm voice. Hermione reached for his hand and gripped it rather painfully. She
had crossed her legs at some point and leaned back into her chair, seemingly content to just
observe this meeting.

“I may have something for you to consider,” Ragnok said, coming forward once again. He rested
his hands on the desk. Harry couldn't fathom what Ragnok was talking about.

“Hmm?” Harry intoned.

“It has been some time, in fact almost a century, since a witch or wizard served as a member of
our board of directors,” Ragnok said. “The last one to do so was none other than your former
Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore.”

Harry sat back a little. Albus had been on the Gringotts board of directors before he'd been
a teacher, and later a headmaster? He wondered why Albus had never shared that piece of
information.

“There have not been any since he resigned to focus on Hogwarts because relations between
goblins and humans have been very strained since then; only recently have they begun to ease up,
primarily because of your defeat of Voldemort.”

“What did Riddle have to do with anything?” Harry asked.

“Wizards bought into his bigoted propaganda, very easily I might add,” Ragnok said, bitterly,
letting some of his goblin roughness through for just a moment, before he contained it. Harry
wondered what it would be like to truly fight a goblin, and then quickly decided that he never
wanted to find out.

“Since you were here last Friday,” Ragnok continued, looking back and forth between Harry and
Hermione now, “I have discussed the matter at great length with the other board members, and we all
feel that it is time we seek out another human to augment our ranks.” He stared directly into
Harry's eyes. “And we all consider you, Harry, to be the best candidate for that position.”

Harry said nothing for at least a minute; instead, he was thinking about how of course this
would happen to him, and on this day of all days. For some reason, instead of becoming less
complex, as his life should have been doing during the course of this day, it was only becoming
more and more so. He honestly did not know how to respond to Ragnok's offer, neither knowing
anything about how Gringotts was run nor what being one of its directors actually meant. Another
squeeze of his hand by Hermione prompted him to look at her, and he could tell from her gaze that
he needed to respond, so he looked back to Ragnok.

“Why me?” Harry asked. It was the best thing he could think of to say.

“You do not know?” Ragnok asked, sounding somewhat surprised. He looked at Griphook. “It appears
that the humility you mentioned is genuine.” Ragnok met his eyes again. “You, Harry, because you do
not discriminate against other sentient magical beings, as most other witches and wizards do,
whether they do so consciously or not.”

Harry wasn't used to praise, especially from someone as important as the Director of
Gringotts, and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Hermione saved him from having to say
anything.

“Ragnok, if I may?” she asked. Ragnok nodded at her. “What would Harry's responsibilities be
as a board member?”

“In terms of the day-to-day operations of Gringotts, nothing,” the Director responded. “The
capacities in which board members serve the bank are voting on important issues as well as meeting
with different businesses, institutions, and governments around the world. Also, many advise our
CFO on various issues, as they see fit.”

“So it would not be a primary occupation?” Hermione asked.

“Certainly not,” Ragnok said, nodding as if understanding the direction of her questions.
“Harry,” he said, looking directly at Harry again, “being a board member would not affect your
daily life too much. Mostly, you would be a liaison between goblins and humans.”

Harry exhaled. “I would like to thank you for your offer, Ragnok, and request some time to think
it over.”

“As I expected,” the Director said. “A wise decision, not rushing into things. You are even
better suited for the position than I imagined,” the goblin said. “Now, I have already taken up too
much of your time, so I will excuse myself. After you have thought it over and discussed it,
I'm sure,” he said, with a glance toward Hermione, “please return here and request a meeting
with me.”

“I will do so,” Harry said, standing as Ragnok came around the desk. Harry extended his hand,
which Ragnok took tentatively, and they shook. Hermione offered the same and they shook hands as
well.

“Most curious humans,” Ragnok said, gazing at Harry and Hermione. He then turned and strode
quickly and silently from the office. As the door clicked shut behind him, Harry and Hermione
returned to their seats.

“Let me just say, Harry, that I fully support the board, as do the majority of goblins here, in
their endorsement of you,” Griphook said. “And now, let us get to business. What can I do for you
today?”

Harry blinked twice, focusing his scattered mind, and returned to the task at hand. He could
think about what had just happened later. Hermione found his hand again.

“The first thing I would like to do is give Hermione co-ownership of all of my assets.” Silence
greeted his statement, and then Hermione erupted:

“What?! You can't do that, Harry! That's—”

“Hermione.” She stopped talking. He stared into her eyes. “I don't know how many times
I've told you in the past few days, but I'll tell you again. What's mine is yours.”

“Harry…” she trailed off.

He looked back toward Griphook. “Can it be done?”

Griphook inclined his head, looking between Harry and Hermione quickly. “Yes, Harry, but it will
take at least a few days to add her as co-owner to your businesses and other
less…defined…assets.”

“That's no problem,” Harry said, waving it off.

“I just need you to sign on this and bind it with your magic,” Griphook said, sliding a sheet of
parchment across his desk. Harry did so, and slid it back. It disappeared. “The process is
beginning as we speak.”

Harry nodded, glanced at Hermione, and saw that she was looking at him with gratitude and wonder
and—was that love?—all mixed in one.

“The other thing I would like to do,” he said, looking back at Griphook, “is procure means of
swift payment in both the Muggle and magical worlds for Hermione and I.”

Griphook considered the request for a moment, and then nodded to himself. “I can give you both
Muggle and Wizarding debit and credit cards, if you wish. I can also give you checks, which would
work in both worlds. They would be better for larger purchases, anyway.”

Harry looked at Hermione; when she said nothing, merely shrugging her shoulders, he turned to
Griphook and nodded. “That sounds good,” Harry affirmed. “Do you know how long that will take?” he
wondered, thinking of his meeting with the Yankees in a short time.

“As soon as Hermione's name has been added to your liquid assets, which shouldn't be
more than ten minutes,” Griphook answered. He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a
parchment. “I just need you to fill out this simple form, requesting the cards and checks for both
of you.”

Harry took the parchment from the goblin, filled in the appropriate information, signed it and
bound his magic to it, and had Hermione do the same.

The goblin took it and filed it away in a folder on his desk; just then, a small parcel popped
into the inbox on the corner of the low cabinets behind Griphook. He turned and took the package,
sliding it across the desk to Harry. Harry opened it and took out two wallets, both of which
contained a debit and credit card, as well as two hundred pounds and two hundred dollars. There
were also a hundred or so checks and a register. He handed one of the wallets to Hermione, who took
it while slightly pursing her lips, and then pocketed his own. He tapped the checks with his wand,
sending them off to the Manor.

“Anything else I can do for you today?” Griphook asked.

“No, unless there is any information regarding my accounts you think I should know,” Harry
prompted, thinking that Griphook would have already told him if there was.

“Not as of right now, Harry, but I will of course keep you informed of any future develops I
think are pertinent.”

“Thank you for your time then, Griphook, and may all your ventures be prosperous,” Harry said,
standing. Hermione stood and moved into his side.

“With you, Harry, I'm sure they will be,” the goblin returned, grinning again. And even
though Harry's knowledge of goblin customs was limited at best, he was aware that what Griphook
had just said was one of the highest compliments a goblin could offer someone.

Harry bowed slightly and turned for the door.

“It was a pleasure, Griphook,” Hermione said, following Harry.

“Likewise, Lady Granger,” the goblin said. Harry could hear the smile in the goblin's voice.
Out in the corridor, they headed back toward the lobby, hand in hand. Hermione still had her wallet
clutched in her other hand.

“Harry, you didn't have to do all that,” she eventually said, as they neared the end of the
hallway.

He stopped, turned toward her, and took her face gently in his hands. He looked into her
chocolate eyes.

“Yes I did,” he said, simply. He kissed her chastely on the lips. “Stop questioning it,
Hermione. It's done and I'm happy with it and you should be too.” He kissed her briefly
again. Then he grinned at her. “And don't forget, you're now one of the richest witches in
the world.”

Almost against her will, it seemed, she cracked a smile; she then moved forward to embrace. He
sighed softly as her supple curves pressed against him. He knew the feeling would never,
*ever* get old.

“Thank you,” she mumbled.

“No, thank *you*,” he said, and turned out of the embrace, grabbing her hand and leading
her back into the lobby. The passed outside into the partly cloudy day, with splotchy patches of
sun and shadow, standing atop the marble steps for a moment.

“About what Ragnok said,” Hermione began. “What do you think?” She was looking sideways at him.
He pursed his lips and then stared off down the Alley.

“I think my life couldn't possibly get more sodding complicated.” He knew there was a small
amount of bitterness coloring his voice, and didn't like it, but at the moment it was hard to
keep it out.

“Do you understand the significance of it…?” she trailed off.

“I have some idea, Hermione,” he said looking at her. “But it just seems like they want me for
my name.”

She put her hands on her hips and glared at him, in a way only she could. “Were you listening to
Ragnok?” she asked.

“Of course—”

“Then you should know that he *doesn't* want you because of your name. He wants you
because you're someone who genuinely does not discriminate against goblins and holds a position
of some notoriety, because of all you've done and all you have.”

“Merlin, I've only been back for a fucking week and I have Arthur wanting me to be Vice
Minister and Ragnok wanting me on the Gringotts board of directors. What's next, Chief Warlock
of the Wizengamot?” he asked, wondering where his sudden outburst of anger had come from. Hermione
didn't seem fazed, though.

“Would that be so bad?” she asked. He locked eyes with her, and then looked away.

“Can we just get going and forget about all this for now?” he asked, to which she nodded and
grabbed his arm. He took a deep breath, focused on the bathroom at Newark, and felt the compression
sensation of Apparition. In that incalculable time between places, Harry knew that he'd used
too much magic, and sure enough, all of the mirrors shattered in the bathroom as they arrived. The
stall closest to them shrunk in on itself. Harry threw up a noise muting charm and a small shield
charm in the next instant to prevent anyone from hearing and to protect them from the glass.

After a quick check of the loo to make sure it was empty, and a few *Reparo* spells to
restore it to its former state, he and Hermione strode from the bathroom, ignoring confused looks
from the one or two people that saw them both exit the men's washroom.

“What was that about?” Hermione muttered. They were slowly making their way toward the taxi port
through the thick crowds.

“Guess I should have calmed down more,” he said, shrugging slightly. “You might want to put that
wallet in your front pocket, Hermione,” he said. She jumped slightly, as if she'd forgotten the
small object in her hand, and complied with his advice.

“Are you really all right?” she asked, after another moment's silence.

“As long as you're with me, yes.”

“If I didn't know you better, I would think you're trying to flatter me, Potter.”

“I believe it was you who once said flattery will get me anywhere,” he responded, as they exited
the airport headed toward a waiting taxi.

“Indeed,” was all she said, and they got into the vehicle. The driver looked back at them.

“Where to?” he asked, in a thick New Jersey accent.

“Yankee Stadium,” Harry answered, sitting back against the seat as the driver nodded and pulled
away from the curb. Harry looked out of the window and saw the Manhattan skyline across the water.
He was back in America, and though it had only been a week since he'd left, it had seemed like
a lifetime. An amazing one, too, he knew as he glanced at Hermione, who was gazing out a window. He
found her hand on the seat and closed his fingers over hers.

----------

Harry handed the driver a fifty-dollar note and said, “Keep the change.”

“Thanks!” the man said, and as soon as Harry closed the door, pulled away from the curb as if
worried Harry would rescind the offer.

Harry and Hermione turned on the spot, and looked up at the large and impressive face of the
Stadium. A sign high overhead indicated that the Yankees were playing in some other city at the
moment, which meant the Stadium would mostly be empty. As they approached a small door off to the
side of the ticket counters, a man stepped out and waved them over.

“Harry Potter?” he asked. Harry nodded and stopped two or three paces from him. The man then
looked over at Hermione with a question in his gaze.

“Who's this?”

“Hermione Granger,” she answered. “I'm here with Harry today.” The man shrugged, turned, and
walked back through the door. Harry and Hermione followed; when their eyes had adjusted to the
relative darkness inside, they found themselves in a long concrete tunnel. About halfway along, a
large sign hung down from the ceiling, which in bright red letters said PLAYERS ONLY PAST THIS
POINT.

They continued to follow the man for several minutes, winding deeper and deeper into the bowels
of the stadium. As they went, things became nicer and nicer, and by the time they reached a glass
elevator, the tunnel was no longer just a concrete shaft but had turned into a fairly opulent
hallway.

“This will take you up to the administrative level—it's the button with the A on it. Once
there, just follow the signs to Mr. Cashman's office. Your agent is already waiting for you,”
the man they'd been following said. The doors to the elevator slid open and he waved them
inside.

“Thanks,” Harry said, but the man had already turned and was walking back in the direction they
had come. Hermione reached out and pressed the correct button; the doors closed and they started to
ascend through the stadium. After about 10 seconds, the world around them opened up, and they found
they could see both into the stadium and out into New York. On one side was a field of green and on
the other was a city.

“New York is kind of beautiful,” Hermione commented, looking out over the city. It was just
before eight o'clock, so the sun was still fairly low in the east. Hermione shielded her eyes
against the light.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Harry said, joining her in gazing at the skyline. Their smooth upward motion
suddenly halted and the doors slid open behind them. They turned and exited the elevator. The
corridor they entered simply reeked of money. Several signs on the opposite wall directed people
where to go, and the bottom one told Harry and Hermione the way to Cashman's office was to
their right.

Harry gripped her hand, looked over at her, and then led the way. They passed many doors, some
of which were open, and the rooms they could see into were appointed lavishly with furniture and
other items. If the Manor understated the Potter's wealth, this level of the Stadium surely
overstated the Yankees'. It was almost ostentatious.

Finally, they came to a door that had a small nameplate on it, one that read `Brian
Cashman'. It was ajar and they could hear two voices issuing from it. Harry stopped and looked
at Hermione once again.

“Here we go,” he said, quietly. She nodded and, taking the lead, pressed her hand against the
door and pulled Harry into the room.

The first thing Harry noticed about the office was its grand view of the stadium and field
through the huge panoramic window that took the place of an entire wall. From what Harry could see,
they seemed to be between the second and third decks, and so they were fairly high up. The view was
almost disorienting, as if he could just walk forward and fall out of the office.

Then, he saw that the two voices he'd heard were Cashman and another man, who could only be
his agent. Both were dressed in expensively tailored suits—Harry suddenly felt self-conscious about
his simple slacks and polo shirt—and were standing by the glass, gazing out onto the field and
talking. They turned toward Harry and Hermione as they entered the room.

“Welcome to Yankee Stadium, Harry,” Cashman said, coming around a table with his hand
outstretched. Harry shook it, and when Cashman offered his hand to Hermione as well, she shook
it.

“My name is Hugo, and I'm representing you Harry, per your request,” the other man said,
coming around the table too. “I'm associated with our mutual friend,” his agent said,
significantly. Harry nodded, understanding what he meant, and shook his hand. He hid a frown that
wanted to manifest itself when his agent didn't offer his hand to Hermione.

“How was your trip?” Cashman asked.

Harry and Hermione glanced at each other. “No delays,” Harry said, now hiding a smile.

“That's good,” he responded, and then waved them all back toward the glass. “The first thing
I'd like to do today is give you a tour of sorts of the Stadium, from up here, and then tell
you a little about the team.” He paused, as if waiting for Harry to say something.

“Sure, ok,” Harry responded.

Cashman then launched into a quick and efficient talking tour of the Stadium, pointing out
various things through the glass as he went over the most important items: the dugouts, the VIP
seats, Monument Park, the bleachers and who the Bleacher Creatures were, and although he
couldn't point it out from his office told of the many amenities the Players' Clubhouse had
to offer.

“So, any questions Harry?” he asked, having finished the tour.

Harry shook his head. “No, I don't think so.”

“Where's the team right now?” Hermione asked. Cashman didn't respond for a moment,
instead just looking at Hermione, but then he gave her a small smile.

“I don't believe I ever got your name, Miss…?”

“Granger. Hermione Granger.”

“Miss Granger—ah, of course,” he said. “Anyways, they are on a nine-game road trip at the
moment, and won't be back for four more days.” He looked at Harry. “Harry would join them in
Baltimore if he accepts our offer…”

For some reason, nothing had seemed real to Harry since he'd arrived in America, but now
that Cashman had said that, things started crashing home like he'd expected they would at some
point. He was actually here and he would actually be deciding whether or not to play for the
goddamn New York Yankees in just a short time. He was tempted to press his fingertips to his
temples, to ward off the oncoming headache. Why was his life so impossibly complex?

“Why don't we all sit down?” Cashman prompted. Harry, Hermione, and the agent sat on one
side of the table, and the General Manager sat across from them. They all seemed to regard each
other for a few seconds.

“Before we begin, I'd just like to say that this is a most unusual situation—professional
teams are not normally in the practice of offering amateur players positions right out of college.”
He looked from Harry, to Hermione, the agent, and then back to Harry. “However, you are a special
case, Harry. Most MLB teams were interested in you, so we took the initiative and I myself went out
to Stanford to talk to you right after you graduated.

“Now, don't be alarmed by what I'm about to say,” Cashman continued, and paused to let
them consider his words.

“Go on…” Harry said, wondering what the small man could possibly say to alarm him. Hermione
looked like she was wondering the same thing.

“I know of your world, Harry, and what you've done for it in the past,” Cashman said,
without preamble. It took just a second for Harry to decipher the meaning, and when he did, he sat
back in the chair, looking at Cashman with slightly wide eyes. Harry saw that Hermione was actually
fingering her wand under the table.

“But—” Harry started, at a loss for what to say. This man, the General Manager of the New York
Yankees, knew of the magical world, and by what he said new that Harry had defeated Voldemort? But
how was that possible…unless he had some magical relations.

“I'm sure you're wondering how I know that magic actually exists?” Cashman looked to
Hugo, who didn't seem surprised at all by his proclamation.

“Well—yes,” Harry said, still surprised.

“The nature of my position affords me a unique perspective in certain business interests, which
means that it would be virtually impossible to hide knowledge of the magical world from me. On top
of that,” Cashman said, glancing at Hugo again, “my mother is a squib.”

“So you've known since you were a child?” Hermione asked, shrewdly.

Cashman inclined his head. “Yes, I have.”

“Then why didn't you tell me last week at Stanford?” Harry asked.

“It was too crowded, Harry, and it's really beside the point. I just wanted to let you know
that I might understand some of the predicament you're facing.”

“Not bloody likely,” Harry muttered, so that only Hermione could hear. He noticed her bite her
lip to stop a smile.

“And now, let us cut to the chase,” Cashman said, reaching down and picking a suede briefcase
from the floor, setting it on the table. “I have a meeting to attend very soon, so I will be as
brief as possible; then you and your agent can discuss things. When you're done, you can leave
a response with the receptionist out in the lobby,” he said, nodding toward his office door. Harry
hadn't noticed a receptionist on the way in. “She will have someone see you out, if that's
what you want.”

Cashman opened the briefcase and pulled out a thin sheaf of papers. He arranged them on his desk
and then looked back toward Harry.

“Very simply, Harry, we're offering a ten-year contract for thirteen million a year, plus
other perks and signing bonuses that are detailed in this,” he said, tapping the top page. “Also,
with the contract comes a secured place on a professional baseball team, one with a storied
history, that will offer you a completely different kind of fame and notoriety than what you enjoy
in Britain.”

Harry was tempted to tell Cashman he was misinformed about Harry enjoying his fame back in
Britain, but decided to keep quiet instead. 130,000,000 dollars was a lot of money, no matter which
way he looked at it.

“Before I leave you to discuss this, I just want to say that we're totally serious about
this. Should you accept the offer, I would want you to meet the team in Baltimore on Sunday.
We're playing an interim shortstop at the moment, and you would take his place immediately.
Unprecedented, I know, but we have full faith in you.”

Cashman stood, holding his briefcase, and extended his hand toward them. All three shook it.
“Now I must be off. I hope you consider everything I've told you today,” he said, and then
turned away from them. Harry watched him exit his own office, and as soon as the door closed, he
exhaled and sank into his chair. Hugo reached across the table and pulled the pages toward him. He
began to peruse the contents of the document. Several minutes of silence passed before anyone said
anything.

“Harry,” Hermione said. He looked over at her. “What are you thinking?”

“I don't know, `Mione,” he said, only realizing after he'd said it that he'd called
her `Mione again. She didn't seem to notice or mind this time, though. “It seems like a dream
deal, doesn't it?” he asked her. She blinked once and nodded slowly.

“It does,” she affirmed, though her voice was very quiet. Harry felt a curious squeezing
sensation on his heart when he realized what this was doing to Hermione. But then he knew that it
wasn't only what it was doing to her, but also what it was doing to him. The last week had
been…sublime. And now this…

“It's as Brian said,” Hugo told them, closing the packet and resting his chin on his hands.
He appraised Harry and Hermione with his eyes. “There are a few perks he didn't mention, but
they're all positive things. I can't really see any reason to refuse such a deal.”

And there was the rub, wasn't it? There was no good reason to refuse such an astounding
proposition, except for the fact there were several good reasons neither Cashman nor the agent
could know about. Harry stood abruptly and paced over to the glass, staring out at the field.

He could be playing as a member of the New York Yankees down on that expanse of perfectly
manicured green grass in only a few short days. He could be 130 million dollars richer if he
accepted the deal; he could jet set around the country with a professional baseball team if he
wanted, and as Cashman said he could enjoy a completely different kind of fame.

Harry had never really enjoyed his fame, though; especially considering it had at least
initially existed because of the murder of his parents, because of his mother's sacrifice. It
had its perks, he knew that, but he'd never exploited them. And frankly, the negatives had far
outweighed the positives over the years, if he was going to be truthful about it. Would this kind
of fame be any different?

The press that was fickle in Britain would undoubtedly be fickle here in America as well, so if
he played baseball not everything would be jolly good fun. Fun…an odd word considering how much
`fun' he'd had during the past week, which had included nothing of baseball. In fact, the
only times during the past seven days that Harry'd felt bad about anything were when he was
thinking about baseball.

Hermione had ignited something in him that was beyond passion—it was almost a longing, and it
was something that he had never felt before. It was comforting; it felt almost like a security
blanket, knowing that someone cared for him so much. They had always been the best of friends, with
the exception of when he'd unknowingly distanced himself from everyone, and now that they were
more than just friends he didn't want to ever give that up.

If he played for the Yankees, would he have to? Would Hermione say the hell with it all and
return to Britain to her new job and her family and friends? He knew she'd said that she would
be with him whatever it took, but now that they were both actually faced with the difficult choice,
would the words hold up?

And wasn't he being selfish? She had come along on this trip with him, even though she had a
spectacular job waiting for her back in Britain. If he took the job and expected her to give that
up, what kind of friend to her would he be? Sure, he could Apparate long distances, but the time
difference between Britain and the United States would make that very difficult and tiring, and he
knew they'd both be miserable if he decided to do that.

Back to baseball itself, though, he didn't know if he wanted to play a professional sport
for the next ten years. One of his options after Hogwarts had been professional Quidditch, but
he'd opted away from that because he didn't think it was profound enough for him. At the
time, he'd felt like he'd had something to offer, to someone or somewhere at least, and had
that changed since then? Did he want to be merely a baseball player, or was there something else,
something more important waiting for him?

Neville's words from Wednesday came back to him, when the Herbologist had talked of possibly
finding a cure for Alzheimer's. Neville was making real contributions to society—he was
improving the world in ways a baseball player never could. He didn't feel like he had to
measure up to Neville, but would he be happy with himself if he were playing baseball?

His eyes swept over the field, considering again what it would be like to actually play down
there. He could be shortstop for the Yankees…but that might mean giving up Hermione. The other
option, right now at least, was running with Arthur as Vice Minister, and he wouldn't have to
give up Hermione or his new home to do so. And there was also what Ragnok had asked of him earlier
in the day to consider.

Harry closed his eyes against the field before him. He tried to imagine himself as Vice Minister
of Britain, and then as shortstop for the Yankees. In the first image, there was Hermione, in her
position as Chair of Muggle Liaisons, standing by his side. In the second, she was conspicuously
absent. He opened his eyes, breathed deeply, and turned to face the woman in question and his
agent. They were both looking at him expectantly; Harry saw something like fear in Hermione's
eyes. It hurt him to see that.

“I think…” Harry started, slowly, “that I'm going to have to decline.” He locked eyes with
Hermione and saw them light up with a kind of excitement he'd only seen once or twice before.
The pain from before vanished instantly, and he could hardly contain the goofy grin that threatened
to split his face in two.

“Are you sure, Harry?” Hugo asked, though it was clear that the agent didn't expect Harry to
change his mind.

“Yes,” Harry affirmed. “I am.”

“Very well,” Hugo said, pushing the pages away and standing. “I will let the receptionist know
on my way out.”

“Sorry for your trouble in coming here,” Harry said, pulling out his wallet, and holding out the
150 dollars and 200 pounds that remained there. Hugo hesitated for a moment, and then pocketed the
money.

“Thank you, Harry, I appreciate it.”

“No problem,” Harry answered, and he watched as Hugo left the room. Hermione suddenly leapt from
her chair and wrapped him in a strong embrace.

“Oh, Harry, I'm so glad…” she said, though it was muffled in his shirt.

“Me too,” he said, softly, rubbing small circles on her lower back.

“I don't know what we would have done,” she continued. “It would have been hard, but I
suppose we could have managed, with your ability to Apparate so far. But it would have been very
tiresome, with the time changes and all…” she rambled. There was a deliriously happy tone to her
voice, and this time Harry did grin. He gently lifted her head from where it was pressed into his
chest.

He stared into her eyes for a moment, and then leaned forward to push a languid kiss onto her
lips. She relaxed against him a little more and tried to deepen the kiss, but Harry pulled back. He
chuckled at the slightly disappointed look on her face.

“Not here,” he whispered, and saw her pupils dilating before his eyes.

Suddenly, inspiration struck him. His thoughts of Ragnok earlier had triggered something in his
mind, which had only registered just now.

“Hermione,” he said, backing out of her arms and moving toward Cashman's desk, “what's
your home phone number?”

“Um…” she said, clearly at a loss for why he wanted to know. Eventually, she gave it, and he
picked up Cashman's phone and dialed a number he of course still remembered.

“What are you doing?” she asked, but he just smiled at her.

“Come on you wanker, pick up,” Harry said, impatiently, as the phone rang for the fifth time.
Finally, after eight rings, the voice mail picked up. Harry listened as a familiar voice sounded
into his ear. “Hi, you've reached John Sanders and Erin Lowell, we're unable to pick up the
phone at the moment, leave a message and we'll get back to you.” Harry heard a beep.

“Hey, it's Harry, was just wondering what you've been up to for the past week. When you
get a chance, call me at,” and he gave the number Hermione had given him. “I think I might have a
proposition for you. Talk to you later,” Harry said, and hung up the phone.

“What was that about?” Hermione asked. “And why did you give out my house number?” Her hands
were on hips, though she didn't seem like she was actually mad.

“I've just been struck by an insane idea,” Harry said, smiling mischievously, refusing to
divulge what he was thinking. This was just too good to tell her right now. He wanted it to be a
surprise, not only for her but also for John and Erin. “You remember John and Erin, right?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

“Well, that's all you need to know for now,” he said, and moved toward her. Her eyebrows
crawled up her forehead.

“Harry…what aren't you telling me…” she asked, sounding slightly wary.

He embraced her again and rested his chin on the top of her head. She relaxed into his grip.
They stood there in silence for just a moment, very comfortable in each other's arms.

“You'll see,” he whispered. “Let's go home.” He heard her swallow and then felt her nod,
and suddenly the General Manager's office was empty.

-->



20. Interlude: Family and Friends
---------------------------------



**Bearings**

Disclaimer/Author's Notes: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter.

*I know now, just quite how
My life and love might still go on
In your heart and your mind
I'll stay with you for all of time*

The Calling

*Wherever You Will Go*

Interlude: Family and Friends

Saturday, May 25th, 2002

Dan Granger stopped pushing on the mower and stood still, in the middle of his backyard. The sun
was unusually warm for the morning hour—it was around ten o'clock—and he had to wipe the sweat
from his face that threatened to drip into his eyes. Taking a deep breath, rolling his neck so that
the tendons creaked and popped, he began mowing again.

He'd been up since early that morning, when his wife had sprinted into the bathroom and dry
heaved for at least a full minute. He remembered, somewhat vaguely, what Jane's pregnancy had
been like with Hermione, and knew that things would only get more intense from here. He hesitated
to think `worse' because of the new child they were bringing into the world and into their
family, but neither of them needed the stress at this point.

Shrugging to himself, as there was no one in the backyard to see it, he turned a corner and
paced along behind the mower as it clipped the grass. His thoughts wandered idly for several
minutes; he watched as the shorn grass spit from the side of the machine.

When was the last time he'd seen Hermione? He suddenly realized that it had been at least a
full day and maybe two since she'd been home, and came perilously close to jabbing himself in
the midsection with the push-bar on the mower. He extended his arms and shortened his steps a bit,
to avoid that uncomfortable problem.

Dan frowned slightly. He assumed that she was spending her time with Harry Potter. Call it a
father's intuition, but it really was more than assumption. He *knew* that's what she
was doing. He'd only see the young man briefly, and he had been barely awake then. Jane had
been there well, and the look she had given him clearly said *Keep your mouth shut*.

So he had, and he hadn't broached the subject with either Jane or Hermione since then. Not
that he could have with Hermione even if he wanted to, because he saw less of her since Harry'd
come back than when she was working sixty hours a week. But…

But she had been happy when she'd been home. She'd even conversed with him, and hugged
him, which she'd done very little of since he and Jane had confronted her about Harry over
dinner that one night. Happiness was something he had seen very little of in her during the past
four years, and it was quite rewarding to see his daughter smile again.

It was hard for him to think about an entire world out there that he could never be a part of,
simply because he didn't have magical powers, but he was immensely happy that Hermione had
seemed to grow into her world the older she became. She had taken that same drive to excel from her
youth and applied it during her adolescence, and it had paid off in many ways—namely, her position
near the top of the magical government.

But she had also fought in a war at a horribly young age. Dan had never considered joining the
service, and of course had never seen battle, so he couldn't fathom what it must have been like
for his eighteen-year-old daughter to fight for her life. He had wanted to resent Harry at the time
for leading his precious only child (though she wasn't that anymore) into mortal circumstances,
but he couldn't because Hermione would have never forgiven him. She hadn't even seemed
afraid of the war she was getting into; she had placed, completely, her very life in Harry's
hands.

When they emerged victorious, all of them relatively unharmed, a wave of relief so powerful
swept through Dan that he wanted to find Harry and hug him tight. And he probably would have,
except for the fact that Harry had left Britain. That tiny seed of resentment, which had never gone
away, had started to blossom again when he realized that Hermione was, in essence, a jilted lover.
It made him uncomfortable to think of Hermione as a woman, but some part of him knew that she was
an adult and capable of making her own choices.

Hermione had wiled away the years working harder than he ever had during his life, and he'd
watched her become sadder and sadder. That was why they had tried to talk to Hermione that one
night, but that had backfired in their faces. Hermione had become distant.

Now though, after her holiday in America, she was her old chipper self. And Harry Potter seemed
to be the reason for it. He didn't know how he could resent someone who brought Hermione's
old happiness back to her. And also, he didn't know if he had ever truly disliked Harry, or if
those feelings had been the projection of the desperation he had felt for Hermione, and
*through* her.

Truthfully, he didn't really know Harry. He had only met the boy four or five times, the
last of which was at the Burrow the summer after they'd graduated from Hogwarts, not counting
their brief encounter in the Granger kitchen. That was nearly four years ago now. Had his
impression of a slightly awkward boy proved wrong since then? There was also something hard to
describe about Harry, that made him almost formidable, but that was more of a nuance than a true
character trait, as far as Dan knew.

Dan was shocked to see that he'd completed the mowing. His thoughts had absorbed him so
thoroughly that he'd been mowing the same stretch of already-mowed grass for several minutes.
He let go of the handle and listened as the motor puttered out, and then was distracted by a soft
swishing noise.

Before he could even turn his head, he heard, “Daddy!”

He looked over and saw his daughter moving toward him. It looked like she had just left the arms
of—who else?—Harry Potter.

“Hi baby,” he said, spreading his arms and accepting her embrace. It felt nice to hug his
daughter again. He could still remember when she was three or four and would cling to him whenever
he was around. Too bad those days were long gone.

“Finished already?” she asked, stepping back and looking around. She was wearing light summer
clothes, accentuated by sandals and sunglasses.

He nodded, and glanced at Harry, who had hung back. He was also wearing lighter clothing. “Your
mother was up early today,” he commented.

“Where is mum?”

“Inside,” he answered. “Probably resting on the couch.”

“Ok,” she said, smiling at him. “I'm going to go talk to her for a bit. Why don't you
and Harry get to know each other,” she stated, more than asked, looking back and forth between him
and Harry. And without waiting for a response from either of them, she strode off toward the house
with nary a look back.

Dan looked at Harry in silence for a moment. The young man seemed to be doing the same thing.
Harry had thick, black hair and shockingly green eyes. He thought he remembered glasses on the
younger Harry, but he didn't see any now.

“How are you…?” Harry asked, trailing off, as if waiting for something.

“It's Dan,” he responded. “Dan Granger.” He moved forward and stuck out his hand, carefully
hiding any of his ill thoughts toward Harry. Harry shook it with a strong grip, meanwhile looking
Dan in the eyes.

“Nice to meet you again, Dan,” Harry said, politely.

“Likewise,” Dan said, motioning them both toward the patio. As they ascended the one step and
sat down in two chairs, Dan noticed that Hermione had left the patio door ajar when she'd gone
in.

Then the awkward silence fell. Dan didn't know how he could politely broach the subject he
wanted to talk about, which was Hermione of course, and Harry looked like he'd talk about
anything with him *except* Hermione.

Fishing for something, Dan asked, “What was your degree in?”

“I have a BA in Business,” Harry answered. He sat back a little and Dan noticed, for the first
time, the wand stuck in the young man's front pocket. Briefly, Dan entertained a mental image
of how he supposed Harry had fought with it, but it faded away.

“Plan on going any further?” Dan asked, thinking of a Master's or even a professional
degree, such as the one he held in dentistry.

“Well…” Harry hesitated. “Probably not in Muggle education, but…” Harry appeared to consider
something and then make a decision. Dan found himself looking into those green eyes once again.

“That's one of the things I wanted to talk to you about,” Harry said. “The future, that
is.”

That sounded mightily ominous to Dan—the *future*—and he just arched an eyebrow. Whatever
Harry had on his mind, Dan wasn't going to make it easy for him.

“Do you have a problem with me, Dan?” Harry suddenly asked, totally catching Dan off guard. Not
only was he surprised by the question itself, but also by the tone of Harry's voice. It
wasn't timid or quiet; it was powerful, questioning, and curious.

“Why would you think that?” Dan asked, recovering quickly.

“I've only met you a few times, and you've always seemed a little distant to me,” Harry
said. Dan wasn't used to blunt honesty, especially from someone he barely knew, and said the
first thing that came to his mind.

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” Harry asserted, “and I'm wondering why.”

Now was Dan's chance to tell Harry exactly what his problem was, that Harry had hurt
Hermione deeply and that he'd had to watch as his daughter slowly lost herself in her work
because of it…

But his thoughts of Hermione held his tongue for a moment. What would she do if she heard Dan
telling Harry off? Would she go back to the same cold and distant person she had been before
she'd gone off to America?

Dan knew instantly, as if someone had shouted it into his ear, that he was being immature and
overprotective about this entire thing. Hermione was acting more like an adult than he was, and he
was a little ashamed of his attitude. Harry made her happy, and the young man *had* ended a
war and protected his precious baby girl, and here Dan was ready to lash out at him for something
that happened four years before. Dan didn't begin to know the dynamics of Hermione and
Harry's relationship, and therefore couldn't fault Harry for something that he didn't
understand.

“I watched my daughter go off to war,” Dan started, and held up his hand when Harry started to
interrupt. “I don't blame you for that, Harry, but I wish that I could have done something more
to protect her. And I guess the reason I was a little turned off toward you was that you provided
the protection I could not.”

“But I didn't do much, Dan,” Harry said. “Hermione did and can take care of herself, very
well. And,” Harry continued, taking a deep breath, “the war isn't really what I want to talk
about.”

Dan said nothing again, merely waiting for Harry to continue.

“I…I've recently realized that I'm going to be staying here in Britain.” Harry was
looking off into space now, focused on nothing except his thoughts. Dan just listened. “At the same
time, I realized something that I should have long ago, and that has to do with Hermione.

“We were best friends at Hogwarts, true, but it never occurred to me how much I actually relied
upon her. Now that it has,” he said, looking at Dan again, “I can't imagine it any other way. I
guess what I'm trying to say is that I love your daughter.”

Silence again. How does a father respond to something like that, from someone he barely knew,
except through stories. Stories that were so fantastical he even had a hard time believing them
sometimes. Trolls and dragons and evil megalomaniacs…

The patio door opened then, saving him from having to respond immediately, and both he and Harry
looked toward the door. Hermione and Jane emerged out onto the patio, both with large grins on
their faces. Hermione was looking at Harry with an expression Dan had seen in Jane's eyes from
time to time. Dan had a sneaking suspicion that they'd both heard his and Harry's whole
conversation.

“I love you too, Harry,” Hermione said, erasing any doubt Dan had. Jane made an odd *squee*
sound and embraced Hermione, and they both laughed. Harry looked on amusedly, glancing at Dan as if
to gauge his reaction. Dan didn't know how to react. This was all so new to him.

“And I want to move in as soon as possible,” Hermione said, turning back to Harry.

“What do you—?” Dan started to ask, alarmed by what she had said.

The phone starting to ring cut him off.

----------

Around 2 am, GMT -8 (West Coast US Time)

John Sanders backed tiredly out of his small bedroom, where he'd just tucked Erin in, and
went to find the cell phone he'd inadvertently left in the apartment. He and Erin had just
returned from a trip south to LA, seeking employment, and they were both bone tired. Erin had gone
immediately to bed.

John wanted to join her, but there were a few things he had to take care of before succumbing to
what dreams may come; namely, finding his damned cell phone and making sure everything was ready
for another day of searching for jobs in the morning.

Since he'd graduated from Stanford the week before, he and Erin had moved into a small hotel
suite near the campus and were looking for jobs. They'd spent most of the last week looking in
the Palo Alto area, but when options had dried up there they'd broadened their horizons.
That's why they had gone to LA. Erin had interviewed with an engineering firm there and John
had applied at several accounting agencies. He expected to hear back from them any day.

He had thought for only a day about pursuing baseball, but his blossoming relationship with Erin
and his desire to move on with his young life had ended that possibility. He idly wondered, as he
looked for his cell phone in the small living area, what Harry was doing and if his friend had met
with the Yankees yet. John was slightly envious of Harry for catching the Yankees' eye, but
John loved Erin very much and didn't regret his choice to give up baseball, at all.

Just as he was going to give up for the night, he saw his cell phone on the corner of the table
by the door, where he must have left it just before they'd left for LA. He hadn't realized
he'd left it behind until they were long gone.

He slid the phone open and blinked his eyes at the bright light in an otherwise dark room, for a
moment, and then saw that he had missed one call. It was from an unfamiliar number. There was a
voicemail. He dialed his voice mailbox and punched in his pin, and then brought the phone up to his
ear.

A familiar voice came over the line: “Hey, it's Harry, was just wondering what you've
been up to for the past week. When you get a chance, call me at…” John replayed the message again
after it finished and wrote down the number this time. He looked at it in the light from his phone
for a second, considering the foreign set of numbers. It was definitely an international
number.

John thought it must have been Britain; doing some quick math in his head, he figured that it
must be a little after ten in the morning there, and started punching in the number he had written
down. The call took several seconds to go through, but then a dial tone came through.

After four rings, a click sounded. “Hullo?” a female voice asked, in what sounded to John like a
thick British accent.

“Hi…I was wondering if there was a Harry Potter at this number?” John asked, sure his accent
must have sounded just as thick to the person on the other end.

“Uh,” the person said, and then he heard more words that were muffled, so that he couldn't
totally make them out. “Who's calling, please?” the voice asked.

“My name's John Sanders. I went to school with Harry.”

“One second,” the voice said, and the line went silent. John listened intently; he thought he
heard muttering in the background. Finally, after a minute or so, there was a rustling sound and a
new, familiar voice came through the phone.

“John?” Harry asked, because he knew it was his friend.

“Yeah Harry, it's me. What's up? Where are you?”

“Britain,” Harry answered. He then said something to someone on his end, something that sounded
like `just a second'. John couldn't be sure though. “So I noticed you added Erin's name
to your voicemail,” Harry said, and John could hear the humor in his voice.

“Fuck off,” John said, though he was smiling.

“Aww, I thought it was cute,” Harry returned, and John laughed.

“What's this about?” John asked, after his laughter had died away.

“Well…what are you and Erin up to these days?” Harry asked.

John sighed. “Living temporarily in a hotel suite by campus…and looking for jobs. We haven't
had any luck so far, though we just got back from LA about twenty minutes ago.”

“You're not doing anything with baseball then?” Harry asked, and John was curious why Harry
didn't seem disappointed at all, or even surprised really.

“No…but what about you? What about the Yankees?”

“I turned them down, John,” Harry said, with a weight he had only heard in Harry's voice a
few times.

“So the damn *Yankees* actually offered you a spot on the team?”

“Yeah,” Harry replied. “They did. But baseball isn't what I want to do.”

“I hear ya there, Harry,” John said, understanding Harry's desire to move on from baseball,
or at least thinking he did.

“So what's this proposition you were talking about?” John asked.

“Well…if both you and Erin are still looking for jobs, I might have something for you two. But
it would require an open mind—and I mean really bloody *open*—and a willingness to travel a
bit…”

“If you could set us up with jobs, whatever man. We're both sick and tired of the search
already, and we've only been at it for a week. It's unbelievable how little a
bachelor's degree means these days.”

“Let's see…it's 10:13 now…so that would make it 2:13 where you are, right?” Harry
asked.

“Yeah,” John affirmed.

“Why don't I pick you and Erin up around eleven your time…about nine hours from now?”

“Uh, sure, I don't think that will be a problem,” John said, though something strange
occurred to him. If Harry were in Britain, how would he be getting to Stanford in nine hours?

“Alright mate, sounds good. You and Erin might want to pack for a couple days, at least.”

“Sure,” John said, still confused.

“Then I'll see you soon,” Harry said.

“But how are—” There was a click and a dial tone. Harry had hung up. John stared at his phone,
wondering exactly what Harry had in mind and how, if his friend were thousands of miles away, he
would get to California in nine short hours. Finally, shrugging his shoulders, he slid his phone
shut and headed toward the bedroom. He needed to sleep for a few hours, and then he would tell Erin
of Harry's call.

-->



21. The Deep Breath
-------------------



**Bearings**

Disclaimer/Author's Notes: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. Once you've finished, make sure
to read the concluding author's note. And let me just say, regardless of what happens in
*Deathly Hallows*, I will continue to write.

*It's all the same
And I'll take you for who you are
If you take me for everything
Do it all over again
It's always the same*

Sick Puppies

*All The Same*

Chapter Thirteen: The Deep Breath

Saturday, May 25th, 2002

“Who was that, Harry?” Jane asked, curiously, as he returned to the Granger's small backyard
veranda. Dan had not moved from his chair, and still looked slightly bewildered from what Hermione
had stated. Hermione sat across from her father, either oblivious to his shock or ignoring it. She
and Jane were looking up at Harry with smiles on their faces.

“A friend from Stanford,” Harry explained. “He had no way to reach me, so I hoped you
wouldn't mind me asking Hermione for your home number.”

“No, of course not,” Jane replied. Dan said nothing. “But how would you know he'd call when
you were here?”

Harry shrugged, smiled, and sat down between Hermione and Dan and across from Jane. “I
didn't,” he answered.

“Oh,” Jane commented, and then glanced at Dan. It was only a slight movement of her eyes, but
Harry saw it nonetheless.

“So,” Hermione said, effectively concentrating the attention on her. “I believe I just said that
I'm going to move in with Harry—”

“Yes,” Dan cut her off, “you did.” He looked at her, his brow creased, then met Jane's eyes.
Finally, he swiveled his head in Harry's direction.

“Daddy…” Hermione started, but Dan held up his hand.

“What I want to know is,” Dan started, still looking at Harry, “why all of the sudden?”

“Which part?” Harry asked. He wasn't trying to be cheeky, but some part of him was grinning.
“The fact that I just expressed my love for your daughter or that she wants to move in?”

Dan considered Harry for a moment; Harry thought he looked like he couldn't chose between
anger and humor at Harry's response. Jane was just watching her husband, very carefully.

“Both—I guess,” Dan said. Harry looked to Hermione, who sent a silent glare toward Dan, but
indicated with her eyes that Harry could respond.

“Well, Dan, you are incorrect in assessing my feelings for your daughter as `sudden'. I
think Hermione would agree with me when I say that we've felt something for each other for a
long time, perhaps since we were eleven.”

“That's all well and good, but—”

“And totally true,” Hermione added. Harry thought he saw Dan's eyes flick between his
daughter and his wife, and possibly some of the fight went out of his stance. Even Harry knew you
couldn't win against one Granger woman, let alone two. And the most amazing thing was that Jane
hadn't even said anything; she communicated her disapproval of Dan's attitude with just her
eyes. It reminded Harry strongly of the way he and Hermione occasionally held conversations—without
words.

“As for Hermione moving in,” Harry continued, slowly, “we've been back in Britain for a week
now—and will be staying here—and she's been staying at the Manor more than here, I think.” He
met Dan's eyes, and although he didn't want Hermione's father to dislike him, Hermione
was old enough to make her own decisions, and had plainly said in front of Dan that she intended to
move in with Harry.

“The…Manor?” Jane asked, curiosity filling her voice, as she looked first to Hermione and then
at Harry.

Hermione chuckled. It was a rich and lovely sound, one that filled Harry with warmth completely
unrelated to the already-hot day.

“Yes, mum, the Manor. Harry lives in this brilliant mansion…”

“Oh?” Jane asked, smiling a bit. “Describe it to me.”

“Well…” Hermione started, looking at her father, but he seemed to be awaiting the description as
well. Harry wanted to hear how she would describe his home—no, *their* home.

“It's wonderful, really,” Hermione said, now looking over Harry's shoulder into the
backyard, though she wasn't focusing on anything as far as he could tell. “There's this
amazing lake on the eastern side, and everything is almost completely wide open. It's far north
of here, in the highlands somewhere near Hogwarts, so it's just fields and blue sky for
miles.

“The house feels like an extension of the grounds; there're windows and balconies and
skylights wherever possible. It feels fresh and airy and almost like you're outside, all the
time. There's an enormous library with literally thousands of books—” her eyes lit up at
this—“and beautifully appointed leisure and work rooms, and also an enormous loft that takes up the
entire third floor.

“Most of which,” she concluded, looking back into Harry's eyes, “is wide open also.”

“Sounds incredible,” Jane commented. “Seems to me like you're lucky, Hermione,” she added,
looking warmly at Harry. Harry couldn't have suppressed the smile he returned if he'd
wanted to.

“I'm the lucky one, Jane,” Harry said, most sincerely. He didn't know if he'd ever
be able to properly thank Hermione for showing up at Stanford. He didn't even understand fully
the significance yet. Harry just knew that it felt right, being with Hermione, and if he were going
to move forward with his plans, she would have to be by his side. He didn't want it any other
way.

“Well, you two have my blessing,” Jane imparted. “And, I think, Dan's as well.”

Dan then proceeded to jerk his head in a way that reminded Harry so strongly of the nod of
assent Ron had given him when Ginny and him had kissed during his sixth year, that he fought
recall. Harry wasn't sure why it happened like that, but deja vu was a tricky beast to
tame.

“Yes,” Dan said, glancing at Harry and then focusing on Hermione's dazzling smile.

“Thanks, Daddy!” Hermione exclaimed. Harry felt joy flood his veins at Hermione's
enthusiasm. After a rather breathless hug between father and daughter finished, Hermione jumped up.
She came around the table and pulled Harry up as well.

“Come help me pack!” she said, starting to pull him into the house. As he turned his head in the
direction he was being pulled, he caught the amused wonder in Jane's eyes. Dan also seemed
slightly surprised at something. Harry wondered if it was seeing their daughter so happy.

“Ok, love,” he said, and let her guide him through the house and up the stairs toward her room.
He realized, though, that he had much to accomplish during this day, some of which was moving
Hermione in, and stopped in her doorway. She stood in the center of her room, turning slowly in a
circle, as if figuring out the best way to attack organizing and packing her things.

“Hermione,” Harry said, and she stopped, looking at him.

“D'ya think you can handle most of the packing?”

“Sure, but why?” she asked, crooking an eyebrow at him.

“I need to go to Gringotts and, ah, speak to Ragnok about some things, and I don't think
I'm going to have time later,” he explained.

“Oh…ok.”

He could tell that his answer wasn't quite satisfactory enough for her.

“I won't be gone that long. Just shrink everything and we can Apparate it all up to the
Manor when I get back. Does that sound good?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling again, possibly at the thought of moving in. Harry hoped so, at
least.

He walked toward her, slipping his arms around her smaller frame when he reached the middle of
the room. He pressed a kiss onto her forehead.

“See you soon,” he said, smiling internally as she pecked him on the lips. He stepped back,
through space, and when he oriented himself he saw that he was just outside the doors of Gringotts,
at the top of the stairs. Pushing through the doors into the lobby, he was immediately accosted by
a goblin again.

“What can we do for you today, Lord Potter-Black?”

“I was wondering if I could possibly have a meeting with Director Ragnok?” Harry asked.

The goblin grinned, displaying his pointed teeth. It had ceased to unsettle Harry, who just
smiled back.

“He has been expecting you,” the goblin said. “Right this way, Lord Potter-Black.” And Harry
followed him through the familiar door and down the corridor with many doors, until they reached
the very end, which appeared to be just a wall. The goblin tapped two specific places with a claw,
and the wall slid away to reveal more of the corridor. This section was slightly more ornate, with
fewer doors. On the left side toward the end was one with the inscription `Director Ragnok'.
After the goblin had knocked, he left, but Harry had to wait only a moment or two before the door
swung open.

There stood Ragnok, beaming up at him, looking quite ferocious with his fangs. Harry fought the
sudden urge to laugh at how often he noticed goblins' teeth when they smiled.

“Harry, I'm glad to see you again. Come in!” Ragnok stated, and moved aside to let Harry
into the office. Harry was expecting luxury, since Ragnok was the Director after all, but he was
pleasantly surprised to see very modest accommodations, mostly. The only item that was lavishly
appointed was the goblin's desk, which appeared to be made of the most expressive cherry wood
Harry had ever seen. It had gold and platinum finishing. The rest of the office was quite
unremarkable, however.

“Thank you,” Harry said, taking a seat as Ragnok went around his desk to sit across from Harry.
The Director had to move a pile of folders out of the way to see Harry. “Such a warm welcome,
too.”

“Yes,” Ragnok replied, “but it is how you greet us.”

“I thought you might say something like that,” Harry chuckled. “I wonder, though, how rare this
is?” he asked, indicating himself with a hand. “How many humans have had a casual conversation with
you in this office recently?”

“None; at least not for the last seven years.”

“And I assume the last was Albus?”

“Yes,” Ragnok affirmed, nodding. “You are quite right. Albus and I got along very well. I
wouldn't hesitate to call him one of my closest friends.” Ragnok looked at Harry hard for a
moment, considering something. “And I do hope some day we can call each other the same, Harry.”

Harry was silent for a moment, thinking of something that had just occurred to him, something
that was very important in his mind: whatever shortcomings Dumbledore may have possessed were far
outweighed by the man's ambition to bridge the gap between all of the magical species. For it
had been Dumbledore speaking to the Merpeople during the Triwizard Tournament, in their vernacular;
it had been Dumbledore who alone had been able to quell the centaurs' wrath after Firenze had
started to teach at Hogwarts; it had been Dumbledore who commanded the reverent respect of a legion
of house elves; and it had been Dumbledore who'd befriended the most powerful goblin at
Gringotts.

Harry suddenly wished he knew more about Dumbledore's long life, and exactly what the
man—who was now a legend—had done to befriend so many different species on so many different
levels. But Harry was thinking off on a tangent. Shaking his head, he focused on Ragnok once
again.

“I would be honored, Ragnok, if some day you could call me friend and business partner,” Harry
returned, adding the final two words as a note of respect to the way goblins conducted their
affairs. Ragnok smiled once again, though it was muted this time.

“Yes, hopefully, business partners indeed. But I doubt that you have come here today to exchange
sentimentalities with me, Harry?”

“Quite right,” Harry said, understanding what Ragnok said as an indirect way to move the
conversation along. After all, Harry did not wish to waste any of Ragnok's time.

“I did want to speak to you about the Board of Directors,” Harry said. Ragnok's beady eyes
seemed to twinkle at his words.

“Yes?”

“Well…would there be a conflict of interest with something like, say, the Vice Minister
position?” Harry asked, hoping that Ragnok would understand the real reason he had to ask. He
didn't want to spell it out for the Director, and by the calculating look in the goblin's
eyes, he probably wouldn't have to.

“And are you asking this because you will be running for that position?”

“Yes,” Harry affirmed, finally verbalizing what he'd known for a day or two at least. He
still had to tell Arthur and Hermione, though…and everyone else.

“Who would be the Minister?” Ragnok inquired.

“Arthur will be running for Minister.”

Ragnok leaned forward, steepling his hands beneath his chin; he simply regarded Harry for
several moments, so that Harry was unsure if the goblin had received the news well. Harry
didn't think Ragnok had any reason to be upset over Arthur and Harry running, but what did
Harry know? There were centuries of history between goblins and the Ministry of Magic that Harry
couldn't even begin to contemplate.

“Interesting,” Ragnok finally muttered. “You are sure that you and Arthur will be running this
fall?”

“I still have to finalize things with Arthur, but yes, I'm sure,” Harry replied. It felt
good to finally be able to say, with certainty, he was going to do something. Granted, it was only
*running* for the position, not taking the position, but it was a step in the right
direction.

“Then I can tell you for sure that there would be no conflict of interest between the government
and the Gringotts Board of Directors,” Ragnok replied, smiling now.

“But…” Harry trailed off, wondering how there couldn't be.

“I think I understand your confusion,” Ragnok said, leaning back in his chair once again. “You
are assuming, of course, that as a member of the Board of Directors you would be involved in the
various financial affairs of this institution?”

Harry nodded.

“And you are also assuming that as the Vice Minister you would be involved in certain
legislative processes, especially some that directly involve the way Gringotts is run?”

Again, Harry nodded.

“Of the second, you are correct. Of the first, however, I think I need to explain more fully
what Directors do. Do you know what an envoy is, Harry? Or an ambassador?”

“Sure,” Harry said.

“As a Director, you would be more of an ambassador to other financial institutions, governments,
and even species than any sort of financial officer for Gringotts.” Ragnok paused for a second
here. He appeared to be thinking about something. “I do remember telling you last time that,
occasionally, Directors advised our Chief Financial Officer, but in your case I would advise you
against that.”

“I think I understand,” Harry said, slowly, starting to see a picture of exactly how the future
could be in his mind. It was a bit…overwhelming.

“Do you?” Ragnok asked, a strange intensity coloring his voice. “Do you really?”

Harry said nothing; instead, he just gazed at Ragnok, waiting for him to say what was obviously
on his mind.

“As both the Vice Minister and a Director, you would be in the unique ambassadorial position of
representing both Gringotts and the magical government. The implications are astounding, Harry, and
I'm wondering if you fully grasp them yet?”

Harry wanted to be insulted by what Ragnok said, but instead of retorting like he wanted to, he
thought about it. Ragnok was insinuating that Harry didn't understand what he was getting
himself into, but he wasn't saying that was a bad thing. In fact, if Harry went by the
inflection of the goblin's voice alone, he would say that Ragnok thought it was a very good
thing.

Ragnok had been a close friend of Albus, and therefore had probably seen the last two centuries
or so of wizard strife. There was a depth and reality to the goblin's words that Harry could
only hope to have someday.

“I guess I don't,” Harry finally said. There was something like approval on Ragnok's
face.

“Albus would have been very happy to hear you admit that,” Ragnok said, totally throwing Harry
off guard.

“How so?”

“He was very worried in the last few years before his death over how being thrust into the
spotlight would have affected you. He had nothing to fret over, though.”

Yet another thing Dumbledore had never confided in him, though Harry couldn't find it within
himself to be upset about it anymore. Dumbledore was, sadly, long gone; all that remained was a
whisper of the man that had been, in the portrait at Hogwarts.

“In any case,” Ragnok continued, “you have opened up exciting new possibilities that I and the
other Directors must take time to think about.” As he spoke, Ragnok wrote something on a piece of
parchment and then placed it in the outbox on his desk. It promptly disappeared.

“The offer still—?” Harry started to ask.

“Yes, of course,” Ragnok cut across him, laughing. Harry didn't know if he'd ever get
used to the sound of goblin laughter. “I still want you on our board; that hasn't changed. What
*has* changed, though, is what you might be able to do for us and for the rest of your
society.”

“Ok…” Harry said. He didn't really have time to get into the particulars at the moment, so
he shifted directions. “Ragnok, I wonder what you think about Muggles?”

And for once, Harry seemed to catch the Director off guard, because Ragnok made no response for
a moment or two.

“Why, Harry?” he asked.

“Just humor me.”

“They are just humans without magic, are they not?” Ragnok asked, though Harry could tell the
question was rhetorical. “Witches and wizards are just humans *with* magic…so I don't
really consider Muggles to be much different than you.”

“So you have no problem with them?”

“None,” Ragnok affirmed. “Why?”

“How would you like two more humans to augment your ranks? They are the Muggles I've just
been speaking of.”

Ragnok grinned suddenly. “Harry…you are more like Albus than I think you know.”

“Oh?”

“He made the same offer to me about fifty years ago, except it was three Muggles instead of
two.”

“What did you say then?”

“I of course said that I would meet with them and explore things further, but it appeared that
Albus overestimated their willingness to try, how shall I say it, *new* things. They ran out
of here screaming their fool heads off. Albus ended up Obliviating them.”

“So you would be willing to meet with the two I have in mind, then?” Harry asked, excited that
Ragnok appeared to have tolerance for these things.

“First I would like to hear what kinds of things you think they are suited for.”

“Business finance and engineering…I was thinking as a finance officer and a security
engineer.”

“Security engineer?”

“Yes, such as improving existing security with your vaults and also developing new ideas for
storage security.”

“Hmm,” Ragnok intoned. “I am definitely intrigued by what you're telling me, Harry, but I
will of course need to meet with these mystery Muggles before I can tell you anything for
sure.”

“Yes,” Harry replied, grinning now. “How does tomorrow sound?”

“It sounds good.”

“Then I won't take up any more of your time today, Ragnok. Thank you for meeting with me and
may all your ventures be prosperous,” Harry said, standing and holding out his hand across the
desk. Ragnok did the same and shook Harry's hand, this time with very little hesitation.

“With you, they will be,” Ragnok replied. Harry met his eyes for a moment, sensing some profound
knowledge lurking behind these black, beady marbles, and then let go of the goblin's hand.

“Until tomorrow,” Harry parted, and then Disapparated directly from Ragnok's office. There
was a shriek and a sudden movement as his world righted itself, and his wand was in his hand before
he knew what he was doing. He lowered it soon thereafter, though, laughing at the scene before
him.

He had Apparated directly into Hermione's room, and she apparently had not been expecting
that, because upon his appearance, she'd started and jumped backwards, sprawling out on her
bed. She was peering up at him with a very cross look on her face, though it was melting away
quickly.

“Don't *do* that,” she said, sitting up. “You don't make a warning noise, so
you're just *there*.”

“Sorry,” he said, still laughing. He moved toward the bed and sat down next to her, slipping his
arms around her waist. She leaned into his embrace.

“I see that you've been busy,” Harry said, looking around her room. All the walls and
shelves were bare, and there was a small pile of shrunken boxes and suitcases on the floor by the
door.

“Doesn't take very long when you can use magic,” Hermione commented.

“No, I suppose not,” Harry returned.

“So what did you go to Gringotts for?”

Harry had known that she was going to ask him that exact question, and had an answer ready.

“For John and Erin.”

“Huh?” It was rare that Hermione could articulate nothing more than a monosyllabic noise.

“You'll see, very soon,” he said, leaning into her a little more and nuzzling her neck with
his lips. He felt her relax against him and sigh a little bit.

“Harry,” she half-moaned, as he tickled her pulse point with the tip of his tongue. “Not here,
not in my parents' house.” He pulled back and saw desire in her eyes, but understood what she
said to be true.

“We have our own huge house to break in,” she said, a sparkle breaking through the haze of
desire in her gaze, and he laughed at what she was implying.

“And we shall, room by room,” he returned, earning a chuckle from somewhere deep in her chest.
It was music to his ears.

“First we need to move me into those rooms,” she said, standing and pulling Harry up with
her.

“Yes we do,” Harry agreed, and waved his hand toward the pile on the floor. The boxes and
suitcases floated up and toward them. Hermione directed half toward herself, and once everything
was secure, they both Disapparated from the Granger home, silently.

Although neither had told the other where they were Apparating to, they both appeared in the
foyer.

“Welcome to my home, Ms. Granger.”

“Such a nice place you have, Mr. Potter.”

“I'm glad you think so, Lady Granger.”

“Shall we ascend these stairs, Lord Potter-Black?”

“Aye, milady, your castle awaits.”

Smiling, they mounted the steps and made their way toward the master suite of rooms, where once
they arrived they deposited Hermione's belongings on the large bed they had already shared on
several occasions. Hermione immediately returned a box to its normal size and began to unpack her
things. Harry sat on the edge of the bed, wanting to talk to her about several things.

He paused for a moment, though, just watching as she flitted about the room, placing a few of
her most favorite pictures on the dresser where several of Harry's already stood. She looked so
beautiful; even though she was only wearing jeans and a tee, because of the beatific smile lighting
her face. She was almost glowing with happiness. Harry was amazed someone so wonderful wanted to be
with him.

“What?” she asked, having paused halfway back to the bed and catching him staring at her.

“Nothing,” Harry said, gathering his thoughts back to him.

“What?” she asked again.

“You're amazing, you know that?” he asked. Her smiled turned into that slightly awkward one
she always wore when someone complimented her.

“Thanks, Harry,” she said, and moved the rest of the way toward the bed. Reaching into the box,
she pulled out her first edition copy of *Hogwarts, A History*. Harry watched as her
fingertips traced the raised letters on the cover.

“Remember when you got me this?” she asked, looking up at him. He nodded; he remembered very
well when he had purchased that for her.

“During our seventh year.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “Christmas that year wasn't very spectacular, was it?”

“Oh, I don't know,” Harry mused. “It was just the six of us…”

“Yeah, because we were searching in Glasgow in the middle of that horrible blizzard.”

“If the snow hadn't forced us into that little shop, I would have never found the book for
you,” he said, smiling at the memory.

“True,” she said, turning away and placing the book on the top of the dresser with the pictures.
It had been published in 1755, so it was good for little more than a memento now.

“Harry, I don't know if you remember,” she continued, turning back, “but there is a Victory
Day celebration tomorrow.”

“Oh, right,” Harry said. He had indeed forgotten; he now remembered Arthur telling him about it
when the current Vice Minister had asked him to run.

“Did you want to go, or…?” Hermione continued to slowly unpack and arrange her things.

“It's tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“I, well I know I probably should, but I just don't know if I'm going to have time, what
with all that's going to be happening…”

“Like what?” Hermione asked.

“With John and Erin—”

“So you're really going to bring them over here?”

“I think so,” he affirmed. “They seemed willing.”

“Yes, but they don't know you're a wizard or that magic really exists. What are they
going to say when you suddenly appear before them? And don't even get me started on how
severely you're going to be breaking the Statute of Secrecy.”

“Hermione,” Harry placated, “do you think I would be doing this if I didn't have a good
reason?” She had no response. “And besides, the Statute of Secrecy can be broken if the Muggles are
going to be working and living in the magical world.”

Hermione whirled around to look at him, a few articles of clothing hanging limply in her hand.
Harry tried hard not to look at the lacy black thong amongst them, and not to imagine what Hermione
would look like wearing only that.

“When are you going to tell me exactly what you're planning for them?”

“Tonight, when they hear it, too,” he answered, hoping that would be enough for her. It seemed
to be, because she finished her journey to the armoire and placed the clothing inside.

“About tomorrow, though,” he said, picking up the thread about the V-Day anniversary
celebration. “Do you know what time the party is?”

“Usually starts sometime around four in the afternoon, and goes until very late,” she supplied,
her back to him as she hung up a few dresses in their closet.

“I…I guess we can go,” he replied. “John and Erin would probably have to stay here, though.”

“It's not like you don't have the space,” she commented. He could hear the amusement in
her voice.

“True, but they may be a touch overwhelmed at that point.”

“They seemed like perfectly capable people; I'm sure they will be able to adjust should
*whatever* you're going to show them be of interest.” Harry could tell that she wanted to
know why he was bringing them to Britain.

“Hermione…” he started. She stopped her movements around the room, which he had been following
with his eyes the whole time, and arched an eyebrow at him.

“What is it, Harry?”

“What do you really think of this whole Vice Minister thing?” She cocked her head to the side,
regarding him, and then moved back toward the bed. She sat next to him and slipped her arms around
him, much as he had done minutes before in her bedroom. Her thin, toned arms felt immeasurably good
against his body.

“Are you really asking me if I think it's a good idea?”

“I guess, yeah.”

“Then yes, Harry, I think it's a wonderful idea, if I'm going to be perfectly
honest.”

“You do?” he asked; he couldn't help himself. Some part of him thought she wouldn't like
him as her boss, but that might have been the part left over from the trials and tribulations of
their sixth year.

“I do,” she asserted, leaning back a little so she could look in to eyes. He could stare into
those endless chocolate pools forever. He was almost overcome with emotion, for a moment, when he
realized that the same profound depth he'd seen in Ragnok's eyes was there in hers, as
well. He really wondered why he deserved someone as special as Hermione.

“I just don't know if it's going to matter,” he told her, finally relieving at least one
of his insecurities about the whole thing.

“Of course it will.”

“But…how can I make a difference? I'm just a half-blood, just a boy, really…why would people
want to listen to me?”

“They will whether they want to or not,” she told him. “I doubt whether you'll ever be able
to acknowledge it, Harry, but people listen to you, whether they want to or not. They take notice
of you, whether they want to or not. You will make it matter just by being you.”

“Why, though? The only thing I ever did was knock a tosser off a tower…”

“Defeating Riddle was an accomplishment, but far from your only one.” Hermione took his face in
her hands and leaned forward, so that their noses were inches apart. “You gave our world a chance
to go on, to maybe fix some of its problems. You made friends amongst other species without really
trying, when no one else could have *trying* to.”

“Why are you so good to me?” he asked her, suddenly. He knew that everything she said was true,
to some degree, but she didn't have to say any of it. She had accomplished far more in her life
than he had.

“Because you're good to everyone else,” she replied, leaning forward to peck him on the
lips. “And especially good to me.”

“Do you think I should run?” he asked her, point blank.

She shrugged a little bit. “That's not for me to tell you, Harry. That decision lies with
you and you alone. But I do think you'd do a wonderful job as Vice Minister. I couldn't
think of anyone better suited for the position. Do you *want* to run?”

He took a deep breath: “Yes, I think I do,” he stated.

She leaned back once again and swept her eyes over his face, seeking an answer to some unspoken
question. Finally, she nodded, and embraced him.

“I'm glad you think so.” Her voice was slightly muffled against his chest. “If you and
Arthur win, you'll be my boss,” she added.

“Yes, and how does that make you feel?” he asked, lightly, though he really did want to
know.

“Just fine, Harry, just fine.”

“Somehow I doubt I'll have to interfere with your department at all,” he commented.
“You're highly capably at anything you put your mind, Ms. Granger.”

“So are *you*, Mr. Potter,” she replied, lifting her head.

“I think the jury's still out on that one,” he joked. She laughed a bit, relieving whatever
gravity had flowed into the situation.

“I think we should go tell Arthur the good news,” she said, pulling him up once again.

“Sounds like a plan,” Harry answered, encircling her warm body in his arms and concentrating on
the Burrow's back yard, leaving the Manor empty except for three very content House Elves.

The first thing Harry noticed upon reappearing at the edge of the orchard was the heat, which
had only increased as the day wore on. It was almost stifling, which for the end of May in Britain
was unusual. Harry waved a mild refreshing charm over the both of them, and then set about looking
for signs of Arthur or Molly.

“Think he could be at work?” he asked.

“I doubt it,” Hermione answered, and then pointed toward the shed near the garden, from whence
came various *clunk*ing sounds. Harry knew it to be the place where Arthur kept all of his
Muggle things, since Molly refused to let them anywhere near the house.

They made their way across the parched lawn toward the shed; as they drew closer, the sounds
grew louder, and when they were a mere ten feet away, the door banged open. Arthur emerged from the
haziness within coughing, sputtering, and waving his hands in front of his face.

“Arthur?” Harry called.

“Oh!” Arthur exclaimed, turning to look at Harry and Hermione. “I didn't see you two
there.”

“Alright there?” Hermione asked.

Arthur smiled back at them. “Of course, of course. How about you?”

“We're fine,” Harry replied, looking sideways at Hermione. He saw her carefully concealed
smile.

“What brings you to the Burrow?” Arthur asked, dusting off his robes and leading them back
toward the house.

“I wanted to talk to you about what you asked of me last weekend,” Harry said, causing the older
man to stop abruptly and turn to stare at Harry.

“And the fact that you haven't said `no' yet leads me to believe that you are going to
accept my offer?” Arthur asked, in a surprisingly insightful moment of clarity. Harry and Hermione
just stood there, looking at him.

Finally, Harry shrugged and smiled; Arthur smiled back and continued on his way toward the
house, with them following. As soon as he'd opened the door to the kitchen, he shouted, “Molly,
Harry and Hermione are here to see us!”

As they entered into the much cooler kitchen, Molly came through the door to the living room, a
smile lighting up her face.

“Harry! Hermione!” she said, rushing over and embracing them each. “What brings you here?” she
asked, pushing them into chairs at the table and placing a plate of cookies before them. They
smelled just-baked. Arthur sat across from them and Molly soon joined them.

“We were just getting to that,” Harry said, taking a cookie and biting a hunk off. They tasted
heavenly. “These are wonderful, as usual, Molly.”

“Oh, thank you,” she brushed the compliment off.

“How are *you*?” Arthur asked, looking at Hermione. “Ready to get back to work soon?”

She nodded. “Yes, I think I am,” she replied. “I do thank you for the time off, though, because
it has turned out wonderfully.”

“Yes,” he said, glancing at Harry, “I'm sure it has.”

“Arthur,” Harry said, “if I were to accept your offer, when would everyone find out?”

“What offer?” Molly asked, but Arthur ignored her for the moment.

“Tomorrow, I'd imagine, at the V-Day party,” he responded.

“What are you talking about?” Molly inquired again.

“Your husband has asked me if I would run as his Vice Minister this fall, Molly, and I'm
accepting that offer,” Harry answered, with as little pretense as possible. He always did like
things when they were straightforward.

“But…”

“Amos isn't running again, dear,” Arthur explained. “He asked me if I'd be willing to
run as Minister in his place, and when I agreed I had to find myself a Vice Minister. Harry seemed
liked the perfect choice.”

“Well, of course he is!” Molly fairly exploded, shock turning into happiness at once. “And that
means you'll be staying here in Britain, right?”

“Yes, it does,” Harry nodded.

“That's perhaps the best of news,” she commented, and Harry felt Hermione silently agree
next to him.

“Are you two going to be attending the V-Day celebration tomorrow?” Arthur asked, a new light
glinting in his eyes.

Harry looked at Hermione; she nodded. “Yes, I think we are.”

“Then that will be the perfect opportunity to make our announcement, Harry,” Arthur said,
standing up. “I am going to Floo Amos right now and tell him the news. He will want to hear this.”
Arthur left the kitchen through the door to the living room. They then heard the fire roaring to
life and his muffled voice.

“I'm happy for you two,” Molly suddenly broke the silence, in a very knowing voice. Harry
and Hermione were leaning against each other.

“Thank you, Molly,” Hermione replied.

“And I'm glad you're back, Harry,” Molly added.

“Me too.” He turned toward the woman in his arms and smiled.

----------

“Alright, Hermione, I think I'm going to get going,” Harry called out from the bathroom
where he was washing up. Hermione was still unpacking her things, and their room looked much more
lived in now she'd had a few hours to settle in. She appeared in the doorway seconds later.

“How long do you think you're going to be?”

“Not very long,” he said. It was nearing seven in the evening, so the light coming through the
windows was orange. “I think I'm going to bring them back to the balcony up on the third
floor.”

“Ok,” she said, leaning against the doorframe. “I'll be waiting for you.”

“I'll see you in a little bit then,” he said, and started to gather his magic around him. He
focused on a point just off campus at Stanford, and felt Apparition take hold. Next thing he knew,
he was standing in a small copse of trees, in a small park about a block from campus. The sun was
high in the sky, beating down upon him, because it was only eleven o'clock here.

Harry hadn't actually heard John say the name of the place Erin and him were staying, but
there were only a few hotels near the campus, so his choices were limited. He left the park on foot
and made his way to the nearest, which was only two blocks away. As he passed into the cool lobby,
he wondered not for the first time how John and Erin would truly react to the rather
earth-shattering things Harry was about to show them. He hoped they took it well. He didn't
want to have to Obliviate them like Albus had done to his Muggle friends.

“Sir?” the clerk asked, as Harry stopped at the front desk.

“Yes, I wondering if a John Sanders was staying here?” Harry asked, receiving a curious look
from the man. Harry had no doubt it was because of his accent.

“Just a moment,” he said, and began tapping keys on his keyboard. Several seconds of silence
passed, and then the man nodded. “Yes, Mr. Sanders is staying with a Ms. Lowell in suite 301.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, walking away from the desk, thinking about how easily he had procured
that information. Anyone could have just walked in and found out John and Erin were staying here.
Sometimes Muggles were too free with their information.

As he rode the elevator up to the third floor, anticipation grew in Harry as the moment of truth
drew nearer. The doors *dinged* open and he stepped out into the hall, following the signs
toward the correct room.

Then, he stood in front of the large `301' on an otherwise unremarkable door, and raised his
fist to knock. He paused for a fraction of a second, thinking of how this would change everything,
and then rapped his knuckles against the door.

“Sec!” someone called out, and there was a sound of pattering feet, coming toward the door. It
was thrown open, and there was Erin, grinning at him.

“Harry!” she exclaimed, and threw her arms around him. He laughed, deep and true, and patted her
back. John came into view from the adjoining bathroom, also grinning at him.

“How are ya, buddy?” John asked, as Erin backed up.

“I'm great. What about you two?”

“We're ok,” Erin said, glancing at John. She was dressed in slacks and a tee and John had on
shorts and a polo shirt. They were a very handsome couple, and it was hard for Harry not to notice
the similarities between Erin and Hermione. Obviously, their faces were much different, but their
statures were very close.

“Harry,” John said, with the tone of a question in his voice, “how did you get here so
fast?”

“Well,” Harry said, wondering again what he was getting himself into, “that's one of the
reasons I wanted to come here today—to tell you how I *could* get here so fast.” John and Erin
just looked confused, and understandably so.

“Remember when I told you to have open minds?” Harry asked, looking around the room for their
luggage. He saw it piled in a corner.

“Yeah…” John said. Erin had stepped back so that she was pressed against John's front.

“Then open them” Harry commanded, and waved his hand in the direction of their luggage. John and
Erin turned their heads that way, and watched with widening mouths as the suitcases floated into
the air and shrunk considerably. Harry knew their eyes were following the now much smaller pieces
as they headed for Harry; he snatched them from the air and deposited them into the pockets of his
shorts.

“Harry, what?” John articulated, and Harry made eye contact with his friend. Erin just looked
completely gobsmacked. “What did you just do?” the tall blond managed to get out.

“Magic,” Harry replied, holding out his hand and allowing the *Lumos* spell to effervesce
from his palm. White light slowly filled the room.

Harry snapped his palm closed, ending the spell, and everything returned to normal—except, of
course, John and Erin's eyes. They were wide with wonder and maybe a little fear.

“Now guys, just take deep breaths. Don't freak out or anything,” Harry placated, moving
toward them slowly. “John, didn't you ever wonder why I never told you much about my life in
Britain?”

John nodded stupidly, still staring at Harry's closed hand, where the light had emanated
from. Erin was as white as a ghost.

“That's because I *couldn't* tell you. I would have broken something called the
Statute of Secrecy, which basically means that wizards and witches can't reveal the magical
world to Muggles. There are a few exceptions, however, and this is one of them.”

“Um, ok,” was all John said in reply. Harry fought a grin that wanted to spread across his
face.

“Just bear with me, ok?” he asked them. He held out his arms. “Each of you take a hand, and hold
on tight,” he said. Slowly, hesitantly, they reached out and grasped his hands. Erin's was
trembling slightly.

“Where are we going?” she asked, and Harry looked at her oddly for a moment. How did she know
they were going anywhere?

“To Britain,” Harry responded, and gripped their hands firmly. He felt Erin squeeze back a
little stronger, and in that moment he knew that they would ok with everything. He concentrated on
the balcony where he knew Hermione was waiting, and then let his magic fill his veins. The three of
them left the room with the tiniest of *pops*, and then Harry was making sure John and Erin
didn't fall over as they materialized on the balcony.

“Whoa, what was *that*!” John exclaimed, looking back and forth between Erin and Harry and
rubbing his chest slightly.

“Felt like being squeezed through a rubber tube?” Harry asked, now unable to contain the
smile.

“Yes,” Erin answered, shaking her head slightly.

“Well, you two are taking this much better than I would have,” a new voice said, and all three
turned toward Hermione, who was sitting at the table, eyeing them.

“Hermione!” John and Erin said at once, and then looked back and forth between Harry and
her.

“So wait, does that mean, are you—?” John asked, apparently unable to say the word, as if he
didn't believe it yet. And he probably didn't, because Harry didn't when Hagrid had
told him, at least not right away. It hadn't taken much, of course, but that might have been
his supreme desire to believe he was different than the Dursleys.

Hermione nodded, and suddenly Erin had to sit down. Harry caught her arm and helped her to a
seat. John followed and sat next to her. Harry took the seat next to Hermione and found her hand
underneath the table.

“I'm not sure what's going on here, but are we really in Britain?” John asked, looking
out over the edge of the balcony, toward the west where the sun was beginning to set.

“Yes,” Harry answered, also looking out over the grounds. This was a great time of day to be
outside at the Manor, because everything looked so idyllic.

“So you just took us from California to Britain in the blink of an eye?” Erin asked, sounding a
little breathless. Harry looked back to the table as Hermione reached across with her other hand
and grasped Erin's. The two women made eye contact for a moment and some kind of understanding
seemed to pass between them.

“It's called Apparition,” Harry supplied. “I Disapparated the three of us from that hotel
and Apparated us to here.”

“So…so magic is real?” John asked, all in rush, as if asking the question would, at the same
time, sound foolish and make everything they'd just witnessed real.

“Yes,” Harry and Hermione answered at once. “Very real,” Harry added. “Sometimes too real.”

“But that is neither here nor there,” Hermione cut in, sending Harry a warning glance as if to
say there were some things they didn't need to know yet. “It's simply important for you to
understand that there is magical world that's been hidden from you all of your lives, and will
remain hidden from most Muggles—that's non-magical humans—all of their lives.”

“I would say you're both lying and playing some huge practical joke on us, but there's
no way you could have set up that thing with our luggage,” John said. He was looking at Harry and
Hermione with a very curious expression.

“So you believe us?” Harry asked. John shrugged and looked at Erin, who shrugged as well.

“What's the alternative?” she asked. “It's hard to forget what we've just seen and
felt.”

“There are ways…” Hermione said. “But only if you wanted to,” she added, quickly, seeing their
looks of fear.

“There *are* ways to make someone forget something, but they're spells normally done
with consent,” Harry said. “And we would never do something like that unless you wanted us to.”

John started laughing then, and Erin, Hermione, and Harry looked at him, waiting for him to
explain. As he calmed down, wiping tears from his eyes, he looked at Harry with his characteristic
toothy grin.

“Listen to you, talking about spells and magic and fuck-if-I-know what else…and look at us,
taking it all with no problem at all.”

“Is there a problem?” Harry asked, quietly.

“No, I don't think so, Harry, but you have to know this is a little hard to believe at the
moment. Granted, I always thought there was something a little strange about you, the way you
carried yourself differently from everyone else, and now I think I know why. It's because you
*are* different from everyone else…” John said. Erin was nodding along with him.

“But I'm not really that different,” Harry returned. “Sure, magic sets us apart, but we both
played baseball, we were both business majors, we both did well in our classes, and we both have
beautiful women sitting next to us.” Hermione tightened her hand in his for a moment, and Erin
smiled at him.

“This magic you do—I still can't believe this is real—is a pretty big difference, I'd
say,” John commented.

“Only if you make it out to be,” Hermione cut in. “Our ability to do magic makes some things
easier, sure, but there are plenty of things Muggles can do that magical people can only dream of.
We each have our advantages and disadvantages, but when it comes down to it, we're all
human.”

“She's right, John,” Erin said. “But I still don't quite understand what this magic is.
So you can do tricks, or what?”

“Tricks is one way to put it,” Harry said, laughing, “but we can do most anything with magic, if
we really want to—”

“Well, maybe *you* can, Harry,” Hermione interrupted. “You see, John and Erin, what Harry
would never tell you because of his modesty is that he is a very powerful wizard, perhaps the most
powerful alive today.” Silence greeted her revelation, and Harry watched as, almost comically, John
and Erin's eyes slid toward him, their minds trying to absorb this new piece of
information.

“Don't let Hermione fool you, though,” Harry said. “She's one of the most powerful
witches alive.”

“So what are you, like fucking Merlin or something?” John asked.

Hermione laughed out loud, soon joined by Harry. Erin and John looked back and forth between
them, nonplussed.

“You two aren't exactly making this any easier,” John commented, looking quite surly. He
didn't seem to be shocked anymore, though. Erin, on the other hand, still looked slightly
shaky.

“I'm sorry,” Hermione said, through her laughs. “It's just,” she tried to continue, “you
have no idea how close you are to the truth.” Harry stopped laughing immediately, looking at
Hermione. He had thought she was laughing at the absurdity of John's statement, not the
veracity of it.

“Oh, come on Harry, don't be so modest,” she said after seeing the look on his face, and
hitting his arm lightly. “You defeated the darkest bloody wizard since Morgana.”

“What?” Erin asked.

Harry and Hermione looked toward her. “Eh…that's a story for another day I think,” Hermione
told her, looking slightly apologetic.

“So why exactly are we here?” John asked. “You said you had jobs for us, Harry?” He looked
slightly hopeful, and Harry knew John had been totally serious when he'd said the search for
jobs was already wearing on them.

“Yes, I do,” Harry responded, settling down a bit. “But first I want to make sure that you two
aren't going to lose your minds if I reveal anything else?”

John shrugged, and Erin said, “None of this has sunk in yet, Harry, so by all means, keep the
hits coming.”

“There is a problem in my world at the moment,” Harry started, not realizing his use of the
possessive, “which simply defined is one of discrimination. There are many different sentient
magical species—humans are just one of them—and for the longest time we have held prejudiced views
toward the rest.

“I'm going to be staying in Britain now that I'm done with school to try and correct
those wrongs, both indirectly through the government and directly as an ambassador to one or more
of the other sentient species. I brought you two over here because the Wizarding bank, Gringotts,
is run by goblins, and they're looking for a few humans to help them heal relations between
humans and their species.”

“Goblins?” Erin asked, weakly.

Harry inclined his head. “Yes, goblins, though very unlike any goblins you might have seen in
the movies. They're highly intelligent and ambitious, and about as savvy as they come with
regard to business.”

“You want us to work for *goblins*?” John asked, incredulous. Whether it was toward the
concept of goblins or that they would be working for them, Harry was unsure.

“Yes,” Harry answered. “I set up a meeting tomorrow with the Director of Gringotts, Ragnok, when
we can discuss all of this in more detail. But basically, John you would be a finance officer of
some kind and Erin you would be a security engineer.”

And seemingly despite themselves, both John and Erin sat up a little straighter at the mention
of jobs they could have. Harry hoped he was breaking through to them.

“And we would be working to improve—how did you put it—`relations' between species as well?”
John asked, slipping his arm over Erin's shoulder.

“Not only that,” Hermione said, cottoning on to what Harry had in mind, “but also between
Muggles and magical people. You would be in the unique position of working amongst goblins but also
in a position normally reserved for someone with magic.”

“Freedom is the right of all sentient beings, whether magical or human or not, and I think you
two can help me make that a reality,” Harry said, quietly, staring out over his darkening property.
Twilight was creeping up on them.

Silence fell across the balcony for several minutes, as each was absorbed in his or her
thoughts. Harry wondered how much easier things would be if his mentor was still alive, or if his
parents were, or even Sirius, but he knew that such suppositions would get him nowhere. If he were
going to move forward, then he would do it with Hermione and all of his friends and family at his
side, regardless of whether they were there in spirit or person. It mattered not which to him.

“Can we have some time to think things over?” John asked, looking at Erin.

“Of course,” Hermione said. “Have you two eaten?” she asked.

“Not today,” Erin answered.

“This change in time is going to mess you two up, isn't it?” Harry asked.

John shook his head. “We're still beat from our trip to LA, so I don't think we'll
have any trouble sleeping tonight.”

“Where's the rest of your stuff?” Harry asked, thinking of everything that had filled
John's and Erin's rooms at Stanford, all of which surely couldn't have fit inside the
few suitcases still in his pockets.

“We put it in storage back in Cali,” Erin said.

“Well, I might have to get it tomorrow evening,” Harry said, standing. The three others stood as
well.

“Let's head down to the dining room,” Harry said, hoping Dobby would know to stay away just
now. Erin and John had enough to think about at the moment.

“After you, Mr. Wizard,” John said, some of his trademark wit entering his voice.

“Ha ha, Sanders,” Harry laughed, sarcastically, and led them all through the glass doors into
the huge third floor loft. He smiled to himself at how the day had turned out. Things were looking
up.

**Author's Note: We're nearing the end of what I consider to be part one of this story.
In fact, the next chapter will wrap up this piece of the saga. I have two more parts planned, but I
need to know if you all want me to continue. Parts two and three aren't any shorter, and
we've already come over 150,000 words. Leave a comment, not only for this chapter, but also
indicating whether you're interested in seeing `Bearings' continue. Thanks.**

-->



22. The Plunge
--------------



**Bearings**

Disclaimer/Author's Notes: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. I've been humbled by your
overwhelming support for this story and desire to see parts two and three. All that I can really
say in response is a genuine “Thank You!” I hope that you are all as entertained by where this
story is going as where it's come from. And now, the conclusion of part one…

*Never knew I could feel like this
Like I've never seen the sky before
I want to vanish inside your kiss
Every day I'm loving you more and more
Listen to my heart, can you hear it sing
Telling me to give you everything
Seasons may change, winter to spring
But I love you until the end of time*

Ewan McGregor

*Come What May*

Chapter Fourteen: The Plunge

Sunday, May 26th, 2002

Consciousness came to Hermione like a warm summer wind; she turned her head to the side and
smiled as her eyes slid open. Her bedroom—yes, her bedroom, which she now shared with Harry—that
was bathed in a faint light greeted them. She knew it was very early in the morning and decided not
to wake Harry as she slipped from under the warm covers into the chillier air of the room.

Goosebumps immediately flashed out along her skin, of which all was exposed, so she slipped into
sweat pants and an old shirt lying by the bedside. It smelled of Harry, and not unpleasantly, so
she shrugged to herself and left her…lover…sleeping amongst the sheets.

She moved through the Manor silently, hoping not to wake John, Erin, or any of the House Elves,
because they all needed their sleep. Hermione did want to check on John and Erin, though, to make
sure they hadn't lost their marbles during the night, or something equally as unlikely. As she
proceeded from the master suite into the guest section of her large house, she mused upon the
events of the past few days.

To say they were a whirlwind would be an understatement, and she smiled to herself as she
thought about how far and wide Harry had Apparated since two days prior, to finish up at the end of
it all back in their bed, sound asleep. It was amazing how life could carry someone so far away for
such myriad reasons, and then bring them back to where they started.

She wasn't only thinking of the past two days, either, as images of the past four years
swept through her mind's eye. Harry had started off as the slave child of a despicable pair of
human beings, had ended up saving countless people from a madman, and then had gone off to another
country to go to uni. And now, after it all, here he was, back in Britain, and most importantly of
all back in her arms.

And that was where he'd always belonged, she now knew—in her arms. She remembered very well
telling him, at the end of their first year together, that he was a great wizard, and that there
were more important things than books, like friendship and bravery and—

But she had never finished that sentence, because the look he had burned into her soul at that
moment had solidified her feelings for him, though she didn't know it for sure until nearly
three years later. Hermione's older, wizened mind new that final quality she had been about to
list was love, but that was a hard word for a twelve-year-old to say, especially to a member of the
opposite sex.

She blinked her eyes rapidly two or three times to focus on the present, and wondered at the
depth of the history between her and Harry, and also between them and Ron; and further between the
three of them and Ginny, Luna, and Neville. Theirs were relationships forged through the test of
time and the chaos of battle. There was no way to describe them properly, except to say that they
defied description. They simply existed, and Hermione had a sudden and very strong urge to get the
six of them together again—or the eight of them, if she was counting John and Erin.

She now stood outside of their room, poised to quietly *Alohomora* the door to make sure
they were still sane. She did so and, hoping that they weren't in the throws of passion or some
other embarrassing scenario, pushed the door in just slightly.

There was John, tangled up in the sheets and sleeping very soundly. Early morning light fell
across the foot of bed, where she only saw one pair of feet, and knew immediately that Erin
wasn't in the room. The woman, who looked so much like Hermione, wasn't magical, so
Hermione couldn't reach out with her magic and find her that way.

Hermione shut the door without a sound and looked around, seeking a clue to where Erin had gone.
She spotted it after a moment—a door normally kept closed that led down a back hallway to a rear
entrance on the main staircase, which was now open. Hermione moved in that direction, following the
hallway as it opened up on the stairs through another door that had been, by the looks of it,
thrown open. Hermione had heard nothing in the rest of the house; she looked up and knew by some
intuition that Erin had ascended to third floor loft. She Apparated into the middle of the very
large room, silently, and looked around for signs of the other woman.

A draft hit her face. She turned in that direction and saw her quarry: there, standing on the
third floor balcony Harry had brought them to the evening before, was Erin, huddled against the
morning chill and staring out across the faintly purple sky in the west. She looked almost
mournful, standing out there on the high balcony with her arms wrapped around herself, and Hermione
frowned slightly at the realization that Erin was probably somewhere between overwhelmed and
frightened.

Hermione paced toward Erin, keeping her footsteps silent as she approached so that she could
just observe. When she reached the open doors, she raised a hand and rapped her knuckles lightly
against one of the large panes of glass. Erin started slightly and turned around, surprise and the
last vestiges of sleep still written on her face.

“Sorry,” Hermione said lowly, a small smile gracing her features. “Didn't mean to scare
you.”

Erin shook her head slowly; Hermione watched as straight brown locks swung around her head. “No,
it's alright,” Erin said. Hermione didn't know what to make of the slightly raspy tone of
her voice. “But how did you find me?”

“Just followed the signs, is all,” Hermione answered, moving out onto the balcony and standing
next to Erin at the railing. “And besides, even in this massive place, there are only a few places
one usually goes when one needs to think…”

“Yes, thinking…” Erin trailed off, turning to once again stare out across the grounds. The pitch
dominated the view from this balcony, and Hermione suddenly realized that the Quidditch hoops
probably looked awfully strange to Erin.

“You must think I'm being awfully stupid here, don't you?” Erin asked, slowly, after
several long moments of silence. “The fact that I'm finding it very hard to believe all of
this?”

“No,” Hermione answered, shaking her head. “I don't think it's stupid at all. In fact,
I've felt almost the exact same thing before.”

Erin turned toward Hermione, leaning her side against the railing. Hermione cocked her head in
that direction, seeing the befuddled eyes of Erin.

“What do you mean?”

“I didn't know magic was real until I was eleven.”

“But…why?” Erin asked, still looking as though she couldn't believe she was participating in
this conversation. Hermione had seen her brows knit together on the word `magic'.

“Both my parents are like you—non-magical, also known as Muggles. For some reason, and I have
never been able to find a satisfactory answer, I was born with magic.”

“But you didn't know until you were eleven?”

Hermione nodded. “Yes, it is the practice of the magical world to keep Muggleborns in the dark
until they are of Hogwarts age, which is eleven.”

“Hogwarts?” Erin asked. Hermione had to stifle a chuckle at how hard it would be to talk to John
and Erin about the magical world for at least a little while. Their ignorance was truly total,
though she knew that was through no fault of their own.

“The school of magic Harry and I went to for seven years,” Hermione explained. “Magical children
attend it from eleven to seventeen.”

“Oh,” was all Erin said, with a resigned sort of sigh. She turned back toward the grounds,
leaning over the railing and resting her elbows on it. Her hair partly obscured her face from
Hermione.

“What Harry said yesterday…about your world having problems. Is that true?”

“Unfortunately,” Hermione said, staring at the screen of hair, wishing she could see the look on
Erin's face, “yes.”

“So why does he feel like he has to fix it all? Surely all of these problems aren't his to
fix…” Erin trailed off. Hermione was impressed by her cool logic in the face of something so
unbelievable, and her respect for Erin grew just a little bit.

“You're both right and wrong,” Hermione started, assuming a similar position to Erin, so
that she could stare out into the dawn light. “None of the problems are really *his*; but
that's not to say he can't fix them. Or that he doesn't want to try to.”

“And he can? They seem like terribly overwhelming things—prejudice, discrimination, how does one
man expect to fight it all? Those problems aren't exclusive to the—magical—world, and yet no
one has the ability to stand up and say `I'm going to fix all of this' where I come
from.”

“That's because there's no one else like Harry,” Hermione said, completely truthfully.
Erin looked at her. There was a very skeptical look spread across her face.

“Erin, I'm being completely honest here…you haven't seen some of things Harry can do or
some of the things he *has* done—”

“No, but I do know that he didn't take advantage of me when he could have,” Erin cut her
off, surprising Hermione by the tenderness in her voice. Taking advantage of Erin? What could the
other woman possibly be talking about? There was so much about Harry's time at Stanford that
Hermione didn't know about, and probably never would, and this seemed like one of those things.
There was four years of minutiae Hermione could never get back between her and Harry.

“What do you mean,” Hermione asked, softly, her curiosity getting the better of her. To her
great surprise, when she looked closely at Erin again, she saw wetness in her eyes.

“Oh, nothing,” Erin said, hastily wiping her eyes and looking away again. “Just that I don't
find it so hard to believe that Harry is different.”

Hermione had no response.

“But how does one man fight against so much? And how are John and I to help him, if we don't
know *anything* about what we're fighting?”

“It's not just one man, when it comes down to it,” Hermione answered. “Many witches and
wizards support Harry; some have for a little more than two decades now. Most of the others have
only for the past four years or so.”

“He only just graduated from college, though?” It was clear to Hermione that Erin was trying to
apply the principles of the Muggle world to the magical society, and that just would not work.

“The Wizarding world isn't like the Muggle one,” Hermione said, trying to help Erin
understand. “Age doesn't really matter when influence is really about who you are and who you
know, and blood…”

“Blood?” Erin asked, now totally perplexed.

“Purebloods, half-bloods, and Mudbloods,” Hermione said, not really caring about the last. It
had ceased to offend her, though she didn't like saying it. “Purebloods are those born of two
magical parents; half-bloods from one magical and one Muggle; and Mudbloods from two Muggle, like
me.”

“That's sounds awful,” Erin said, wrinkling her nose.

“What, Mudblood?”

“Yes.”

“That's because it is,” Hermione told her. “It's a very offensive term to most that
isn't used in polite conversation, unless you happen to believe all of the pureblood
propaganda, in which case most of your conversation probably isn't very polite…”

Silence settled over them like a blanket for two or three minutes. Hermione didn't want to
say anything more, thinking she had reached the saturation point for Erin, and Erin just continued
to stare out over the pitch. She hadn't yet asked about the hoops, though Hermione now wondered
if she even noticed them.

The wind rustled their hair; on it, Hermione could smell the waters of lake and the scent of the
distant pine forest. She drank in the aroma, marveling at the serenity of the place once again. She
could get lost in this view, in this house, with Harry.

“So it's not just between the different magical species, then?” Erin asked, suddenly.
Hermione looked at her, surprised. “Like Harry said? There's prejudice between the different
magical humans, too? And between magical humans and Muggles—is that what you call us?”

“Yes, but I'd rather just call you Erin,” Hermione said. “Or friend.”

Erin smiled.

“But you are right, things are not *quite* as simple as Harry laid them out yesterday,
which is one of the reasons why he really does need your help.”

“I just don't know,” Erin agonized. “I left everything in America, I don't know if I can
just leave my family behind like that.”

“There are ways of getting you back and forth…”

“I still can't believe that happened,” Erin observed. “I shouldn't be standing here
right now, in *Britain*.”

“But you are,” Hermione returned.

“But I am,” Erin sighed. She pushed up off the railing and stood straight, facing Hermione.

“You never told me *how* he plans to make a difference,” Erin stated. Hermione faced her
and arched an eyebrow.

“Would you believe me if I told you?” Erin stared stoically at her for a second, and then
cracked a small smile. Hermione couldn't resist smiling back, glad that Erin could still find
it in her to smile.

“I'd have to, wouldn't I?”

“Probably, yes,” Hermione agreed. “He's going to be running for Vice Minister of the
Ministry of Magic, which is the magical government here in Britain.”

“Vice Minister—?”

“*And*,” Hermione continued, “he's going to take a spot on the Gringotts Board of
Directors, which no human has done for quite some time now.”

“He's going to be a leader in your government, and he's only twenty-two,” Erin stated,
sounding rather nonplussed. They seemed to have finally reached the limitations of believability.
Why exactly it was harder for Erin to believe Harry as a leader than it was to believe in magic,
Hermione did not know.

“He *might* be,” Hermione corrected, deciding she didn't really need to know the
details of what and why Erin believed whatever she did. “Probably will be, actually. But he has to
be elected.”

“When does that take place?” Erin asked, but before Hermione could even open her mouth to
respond, she heard noises coming from inside the house. She and Erin passed some look between them
that implicitly said they'd continue the conversation another time, and both turned toward the
men just now emerging onto the balcony.

Hermione grinned at the smile spread across Harry's face, and noticed one equally as lovely
spread across John's. They were laughing about something, probably some stupid joke, but they
were both happy. John seemed to be in rather good spirits, or at least better than Erin was; he
didn't look too fazed about everything that had been revealed.

“Good morning, ladies,” John said, enthusiastically, and swept over to Erin. He lifted her off
her feet and twirled her briefly, before placing a light kiss on her lips and setting her down.
During that, Harry came to stand by Hermione and slipped an arm over her shoulders. She wanted to
laugh at the bewildered look on Erin's face as John stepped away slightly.

“What's gotten into you?” she asked.

“Harry just showed me something you might like,” John said, mirth coloring his voice. He reached
into the back pocket of the jeans he wore and pulled out a small white lily, handing it to Erin.
She looked at it oddly, made eye contact with John, and then slipped the stem behind her ear, so
that the petals faced out.

“What did he show you?” Erin asked.

“This,” Harry said, flourishing his hand and then revealing his palm, on which another white
lily faded into existence. He looked over at Hermione, arched an eyebrow, and gave the flower to
her. She decided to emulate Erin and placed the flower behind her ear.

“Magic can be pretty too,” Harry said, attempting to keep a straight face, but failing
miserably. Before the first sound of laughter came out of his mouth, though, Hermione was already
laughing, because that was probably the corniest thing she'd ever heard Harry say. Now she
thought she knew why he and John had been laughing earlier.

“John, what do you think about all this?” Erin asked, abandoning pretense. Harry, Hermione, and
John sobered immediately.

“Do I believe it?” John asked. Erin nodded. “Yes, I do,” he stated, reaching up and caressing
her hair, brushing his hand over the lily in the process. She closed her eyes at his touch, and
when she reopened them Hermione's breath caught at the emotion displayed there.

“Do you want to help Harry?” Erin asked, slowly. John took his hand from her hair and turned to
stand next to her, facing Harry and Hermione.

“I don't know *how* we can help Harry,” John said, looking at him. He then looked at
Hermione, who returned his gaze. “But I think we should.”

“You'd really just leave your home like that?”

“What are we going to do back there? Endlessly search for jobs in a market that's already
inundated? Toil away eternally in some dreary accounting or engineering firm so we can make ends
meet?”

Erin was silent. Hermione held her breath, waiting for some kind of decision between the two of
them.

“Or we could really try to make a difference here, from what Harry was telling me on the way up
here. I don't think I understand what we're getting ourselves into, though I'm not sure
if that's a bad thing.”

Hermione felt Harry squeeze her against him. He then pressed a soft kiss into her hair, and she
leaned into him some more. She loved how they could support each other without speaking.

“Then…let's do it,” Erin said, looking at John. They stared into each other's eyes and
Hermione felt suddenly uncomfortable, as if she was intruding upon some very personal moment.

“Ok,” John nearly whispered, and turned back to Harry and Hermione. “We're in.”

“Great,” Harry said, sounding genuinely happy and relieved. “How about a tour of the Manor?”

----------

“Who's hungry?” Harry asked, as the four of them entered the dining area from the parlor.
James, Lily, and Sirius had been shocked at first to see Muggles—as shocked as John and Erin were
to see talking portraits—but soon embraced John and Erin when Harry told them of what they might be
doing. Hermione watched, with a warm feeling spreading through her, as James and Lily both seemed
very proud of Harry, perhaps more than they'd been for anything else he'd told them. She
thought Harry had noticed, because his step seemed a little lighter at the moment.

“I'm starving, actually,” John commented, taking a seat at the table and staring around the
room.

“Me too,” Erin said. “You know, Harry, your house is fucking huge,” she said, grinning.
Everything paused for a moment, as they all looked at Erin, and then Harry started laughing like a
fool. He soon had tears rolling down his cheeks, and although Hermione thought Erin's abrupt
use of the obscenity was rather amusing, Harry was going overboard.

“I think he's finally lost it,” Hermione told John and Erin, over the noise of Harry's
laughter.

“Yes, probably,” Harry said, gasping a little bit. “I'm sorry, but the way you said
that…”

Hermione looked at Harry for a moment, considering his actions closely. He almost never laughed
out loud like that, at least as raucously. Something had to be going on in that head of his.

“And I've just been struck by another idea,” he said, now calmed down enough to look at the
three of them without having to wipe his eyes. “I don't know why it didn't occur to me
before, but the Manor *is* `fucking huge', so why don't you and John move in
here?”

John and Erin just looked at Harry. They obviously hadn't been expecting that. Hermione knew
immediately that it made perfect sense, however.

“If you want the jobs, of course,” Harry added.

“Harry, you don't have to do that. I'm sure we could find…somewhere…to live,” Erin said,
looking back and forth between John and Harry.

“Nonsense,” Harry said, waving his hand. “I invited you both over here, I'm setting you up
with Gringotts, the least I can do is offer some of this cavernous Manor for you to live in.”

“Then we'd want to pay some kind of rent,” John told him, in a tone that brokered no
argument from Harry. Hermione smirked because she knew Harry would not have that, either.

“No, I don't think so,” Harry said in a light tone, but equally as final. “Hermione and I
have more money and property than we will ever need. Just consider us roommates,” Harry finished,
smiling once again.

A look passed between John and Erin once again, and for just a moment Hermione thought they were
going to continue to argue, but then John nodded.

“Alright,” he said.

“Good,” Harry said, nodding his head once. “Now I think it's time for you to meet three of
my friends, though you should know they are not human.”

“Not human?”

“Are they goblins?” John and Erin asked, speaking over each other.

“Not human, and not goblins,” Harry clarified, and Hermione knew he was talking about Dobby,
Winky, and Libby. The elves had kept away since Harry'd returned the night before, which was
probably a good thing as John and Erin hadn't needed new information to process, but now they
might be able to handle it.

“They're called House Elves,” Harry said. “They're kind of like servants, to some
witches and wizards at least, but they have thoughts and feelings and can be just as smart as any
human. They're loyal to a fault and would protect my friends and I with their lives. And,”
Harry added, holding out his hand, palm down, over the floor, “they're about this tall.” His
hand was about mid-thigh level.

“You have servants?” John asked, and Erin looked mildly disgusted. Hermione decided to jump
in.

“He said *some* magical people consider them servants, which is just one more facet of the
prejudice we were talking about last night, but Harry and I don't; nor do any of our close
friends. Dobby, Winky, and Libby—their names—are more like family to us.” John and Erin looked
properly chastised; Hermione made eye contact with Harry and nodded.

“Dobby, Winky, Libby,” he called out, to thin air. Three small *cracks* split the air of
the room, and suddenly the three elves were standing there. John's eyes widened and Erin looked
like she had fought the urge to scream at their appearance.

“You called for us, Harry?” Dobby asked, looking at John and Erin curiously. His education in
language seemed to have completed, or almost, because he spoke normally.

“Yes,” Harry affirmed. “I would like you three to meet John and Erin, two Muggle friends of
mine. They might be living here for awhile.”

Libby, who had looked excited and ready to burst since first appearing, leapt forward at once,
looking up at John and Erin from her very low vantage point.

“Nice to meet you!” she squeaked. “Any friends of Harry are friends of I!” A smile spread across
John's face, slowly at first and then faster until he was grinning down at the little elf. Erin
looked on in wonder at the tiny being.

“Nice to meet you, too…?” John said, trailing off at the end, waiting for her name.

“Libby,” she said, looking at both of them. “I'm Libby, and that's my dad Dobby,” she
told them, pointing to her father, “and my mum Winky,” she finished, pointing again.

“It is an honor to meet you, John, and you, Erin,” Winky said coming forward and standing next
to Libby. Her daughter looked up at her and smiled. Hermione was watching the whole thing with a
tiny smile on her lips. She really did love the elves.

“Yes, it is,” Dobby added, standing next to his wife. “As my daughter said, any friends of Harry
are friends of us.”

Erin moved from her chair and knelt in front of the elves. John rested a hand on her shoulder,
looking down at the three small beings lined up before them.

“It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Erin said, presenting her hand to the three
elves. Dobby and Winky both shook it, but Libby just looked at it for a moment. Hermione didn't
think Libby would refuse to shake Erin's hand…

Suddenly, and this time Erin did shriek, Libby launched herself onto Erin and hugged her
fiercely. Granted, her arms barely fit across Erin's torso, but it was a worthy effort. Erin
recovered quickly, and gently patted Libby on the head, smiling wonderfully. Dobby and Winky looked
at each other; Hermione watched a tear of what she assumed was joy slide down Winky's face.

“I just hugged a Muggle,” Libby said, wondrously, as she backed away from Erin. “I just hugged a
*Muggle*,” she repeated.

“What about this Muggle?” John asked, looking like he was surpremely amused by the entire thing.
“Do I get a hug?”

The words were barely out of his mouth before Libby literally jumped up into his lap and gave
him a hug, or tried to. His body was much bigger than Erin's. He hugged her back, gently. She
hopped back down after and stood next to her parents. The look on her face said, very plainly, that
she did not believe she'd just hugged two Muggles.

“Harry always has picked good friends,” Dobby commented, looking at Harry and then glancing at
Hermione. She was shocked for a moment at the knowing tone of his voice, and suddenly wondered if
it had always been there, just masked by his poor language? For all she knew, Dobby was absolutely
brilliant, but had been held back all these years because of the ridiculous discrimination all
around.

“Thank you for that vote of confidence, Dobby,” Harry said dryly, though he was clearly happy
how things were going. John and Erin seemed surprised about the House Elves, but were taking it in
as they had everything else. What else could they do, at this point? Run from the house screaming?
Hermione thought that highly unlikely. They were in it for the long haul now…

“So who wants to eat?” Harry said, standing and moving toward the preparatory side of the
room.

“Winky and I can make the four of you breakfast,” Dobby said, moving with Harry.

“That's ok,” Harry replied. “Why don't you and I *both* make breakfast for
everyone?” Harry asked, looking down at Dobby. “That means you and Libby can sit down,” Harry
added, looking at Winky and Libby, who had started moving in his direction. They paused, looked
about to say something, and then nodded.

As Harry and Dobby prepared the meal in the background, Hermione, John, Erin, Winky, and Libby
conversed idly about how the morning was going. John seemed fascinated by the House Elves and
Hermione knew Erin's heart was melting over Libby, as hers had. Only a few minutes had passed
by when plates, silverware, and several platters full of food floated onto the table. John watched
the flying food with an arched eyebrow; Erin just took a piece of toast off a plate as it settled
onto the table.

“That's convenient,” John commented, filling the plate that had landed in front of him with
some toast and other tasty looking foods. “Flying breakfast.”

“Dobby and I are just amazing, when it comes down to it,” Harry responded, airily, sitting down
between Hermione and Dobby, who had taken the seat next to Winky. Dobby looked at Harry with wide
eyes, but said nothing.

“Come off it, Potter,” John said, munching on his toast. His speaking with his mouth full rather
reminded Hermione of Ron.

“John, don't speak with your mouth full,” Erin said, leisurely, smacking the back of the
blond's head. He frowned in a mock-hurt look, rubbing his bruised ego with his hand.

“See what happens when you don't believe me?” Harry asked, beginning to eat as well, and the
meal progressed on from there. Hermione was amazed at how John and Erin seemed to transition before
her eyes, from bewildered half-believers to accepting believers. She wondered if they'd truly
gotten over their shock by the end of the meal, and supposed they would want to talk to Harry and
Hermione in much more detail about magic sometime, but when that time came she would gladly tell
them whatever they wanted to know.

Dobby, Winky, and Libby departed after the dishes had been washed—Harry had let Winky help him
this time, and Hermione had gotten up to help, as well—for wherever it was they went within the
Manor, leaving just the four of them in the dining room again.

“Those aren't normal, err, Thingies are they?” John asked, reddening slightly at forgetting
the name of the elves.

“Thingies?” Harry asked, smiling.

“I forgot what they're called.”

“House Elves,” Erin told him, looking with very affectionate eyes at her boyfriend.

“Ok, they aren't normal *House Elves* are they?”

“That depends on your perspective,” Harry said. “They're not normal if you consider most of
the rest of the House Elves in the Wizarding world, but they are if you think of them as the only
ones who aren't just lowly servants.”

“What do you mean?” Erin inquired.

“House Elves have been bred to be subservient,” Hermione explained, “which is partly unavoidable
because they're actually healthier when bonded to a master. That means they're loyal to
whomever they serve and protect their interests.

“But Wizards have corrupted that notion over the last few centuries, making House Elves
virtually chattel slaves. It's not the same in all Wizarding homes, to be sure, but no Elves
are treated as well as Dobby, Winky, and Libby are.”

“That's horrible,” Erin muttered. John had a particularly dark look on his face.

“Yes, it is. They couldn't understand at first that I wanted to treat them as equals. No
one's ever treated them as friends or family, and they really are members of my family now, but
they couldn't accept it right away. We're slowly getting there, I think,” Harry said,
looking at Hermione, his eyes seeking verification. She nodded and reached for his hand, squeezing
it.

“I would say so, yes,” John agreed, nodding at Harry.

“Are you two ready to meet *another* magical species?” Harry asked.

“And they're treated just as poorly?” Erin asked.

“Well, not directly,” Harry started to explain, but left off when Hermione squeezed his hand
again. She would take this one.

“Goblins aren't mistreated, exactly, but they do not have the same rights as humans and are
often shunned from Wizarding events. It's ironic that things are this way, though, because they
manage the entire Wizard economy. To think what they could do to our world if they really wanted
to…”

“But they don't,” Harry continued for her. “They—at least the ones I've been in direct
contact with—want to coexist with us in peace, and with the same rights. They do not trust many
humans, though, so that is a hard goal for them to obtain.”

“They trust you, though,” Erin pointed out. She had a very thoughtful look on her face.

“Some do,” Harry said. “This is why I want to bring you two into Gringotts—you can help me begin
to build that trust between goblins and humans.”

“And between Muggles and magical humans,” Hermione added, looking to Harry for confirmation. He
seemed to take a deep breath, glanced at John and Erin, and then nodded to them all.

“Yes, that too.”

“Well, let's go meet these goblins,” John said, sounding as if he couldn't believe the
words coming out of his mouth.

“Ok,” Harry said. “Let's all get into something more professional,” he suggested, and the
four of them made their way toward their rooms. Harry selected a simple business suit he'd
purchased sometime during his years at Stanford, with a nice Wizarding cloak over the outside.
Hermione put on a dark skirt and a white blouse, with a matching dark blazer. She drew her hair up
into a ponytail and freshened both of them up with Refreshing charms.

“You look delicious,” Harry commented, moving toward and slipping his arms around her waist. He
leaned in for a quick kiss, just gently brushing his tongue against her lips, and then backed away.
She glared at him.

“You better finish what you started later.”

He smirked. “I plan to.”

They met John and Erin down in the foyer. John had a tailored tan power suit on, which both
Harry and Hermione were impressed with. He told them he'd acquired it before the recent trip to
LA. Erin was dressed similarly to Hermione. Hermione secretly thought they could pass as fraternal
twins if they wanted to.

“Ready?” Harry asked, his tone completely serious.

“As we'll ever be,” John answered.

“Then hold onto my hands, all of you,” Harry commanded, though Hermione doubt Harry knew his
voice had assumed that distinct leader quality.

Hermione reached out and grasped his right hand, and John and Erin both took hold of his
left.

“Here we go.” They vanished from the Manor.

Reappearing in Diagon Alley near Gringotts, Hermione made sure John and Erin did not fall upon
arrival. They seemed to take their second Apparition much better than the first, though Harry was
also watching them closely. He motioned with his hand toward the large white marble structure
behind John and Erin, and they turned to stare up in awe at Gringotts.

“That's the bank?” Erin asked.

“Impressive, I know,” Harry commented, moving toward it. John's voice stopped him,
however.

“What is this place?”

Hermione saw that John was looking back down the Alley, away from Gringotts. Sunday was a busy
day for Diagon Alley, and there was much activity around the various shops. Witches and wizards,
children and adults, were bustling to and fro, conducting their business as they would on any given
day. Little did they know there were Muggles in their midst.

“The magical center of commerce,” Hermione said, moving with Harry toward Gringotts. “We'll
show you around later,” she added, and John and Erin got the hint, following Harry and Hermione up
the shiny marble steps toward the large door.

“Are those goblins?” Erin whispered. They had reached the top step and two goblin security
guards came into view, flanking the entrance to the bank.

“Yes,” Harry answered, moving toward one of them with a purposeful stride.

“Lord Potter-Black,” one of them said, coming to a kind of salute. Hermione thought she saw
Harry wince.

“Lord?” John asked, in a low voice.

“Just another thing about Harry you never knew,” Hermione supplied. John just raised his
eyebrows, though he never took his eyes off the two goblins. Hermione supposed they looked rather
imposing, what with their claws, fangs, and fierce faces. John and Erin showed nothing more than
mild interest, though, and Hermione applauded them in her head for their restraint.

“I would like to see Ragnok, if at all possible,” Harry said, looking at the security goblins.
They looked at each other and then back to Harry. “Follow me, Lord Potter-Black…and guests,” the
goblin added, glancing at Hermione, John, and Erin.

So they did, traversing the route through the bank Hermione had taken two days before, but this
time they went past Griphook's office, through a hidden door into a concealed part of the
corridor, and stopped outside Ragnok's door.

“He has been waiting for you, Lord Potter-Black,” the goblin informed them. “You may proceed
into his office,” he directed, though he also sounded like he couldn't believe the words coming
out of his mouth. As he hurried away, Hermione thought she heard the goblin mutter `most
unusual'.

Harry pushed open the door before them and passed into the office, with the rest of them
following. Hermione admired the way his cloak billowed out behind him, thinking it was a very
dramatic effect. Now if only she could just add a light fanning charm to that one limp corner—

But her musings were interrupted by the voice of the Director of Gringotts: “Lord Potter-Black,
Lady Granger, how nice to see you once again.” Hermione watched as the goblin came around his
ornate desk—the only ornate item in the room, Hermione noticed—and approached Harry, clawed hand
outstretched. Harry did not hesitate and, smiling, shook Ragnok's hand. Hermione moved forward,
offered her hand, and shook Ragnok's as well.

“Glad that you could meet with me again, Director Ragnok” Harry said, moving to the side
slightly so Ragnok and John and Erin could see each other. “These are the two friends I was talking
about, John Sanders and Erin Lowell,” Harry introduced them. They stood still as Ragnok considered
them with his small, black eyes.

“So you are the Muggles Harry speaks so highly of,” he finally said. John moved forward, slowly,
holding out his hand toward Ragnok. Ragnok stared up into his eyes for just a second, as if gauging
if the act was genuine, and then extended his hand. Erin followed suit, passing the same
judgment.

“Thank you for meeting with us, Director Ragnok,” Erin stated, and Hermione thought the
gratitude in her voice was indeed genuine. Hermione was impressed with them both again; here they
were, meeting another completely new species, and they were treating Ragnok like an equal. Harry
looked especially pleased.

“Yes, we appreciate it, Director,” John added.

“And I appreciate equally your willingness to accept me as I am,” Ragnok stated, holding his
short arms out wide, “and being able to move past our obvious differences. To put you at ease
immediately, I will tell you that I trust Harry implicitly, though he may not know it yet, so I am
very pleased to meet both of you.”

A sigh of relief seemed to sweep through the room, though no one had uttered a sound, and Ragnok
directed them all to the four comfortable chairs set before his desk. They sat and he went around
his desk, sitting in his own chair.

“Getting right to business,” Harry started, meeting Ragnok's eyes and grinning briefly
(Ragnok nodded, conceding something unknown Hermione), “John is here to interview for a finance
position and Erin for a security position.”

“Ah,” Ragnok said, reminding Hermione very strongly of both Albus and Harry for a moment, though
she couldn't put her finger on exactly why. “I thought you might say that. But I have some good
news,” he said, looking at John and Erin. “There will be no interview here today; instead, just a
simple test to corroborate what Harry's told me about your abilities.”

Harry sat back, nodding. “That sounds appropriate, of course.”

“As I said, I trust Harry, so if he says you are both suited to careers with Gringotts, I have
no reason to doubt that. But I hope you will allow me a simple measure of where to place you,”
Ragnok said, speaking directly to John and Erin. They nodded, looking a little thrown off. Hermione
knew she would have been if she'd just been told she had a job, but had to pass a placement
test.

“So, for you John, I have a financial question.”

“What is it, Director?” John asked, appropriately keeping things formal with the goblin. Harry
had earned the right to call the Director by his given name, so Hermione was glad John hadn't
just assumed he could as well.

“If I wanted to invest 50,000 pounds,” Ragnok started, using standard Muggle currency, “how
would you recommend I do so?”

Hermione watched John think about it for a moment. She knew Harry was quietly watching as well,
but didn't turn to him because she didn't want to interrupt this moment.

“I assume that Gringotts has all the financial options Muggle banks do?” John asked. Ragnok
nodded, and there was already a pleased look on his face.

“Then I would recommend splitting the funds in at least five different ways, perhaps 10,000
pounds five times over or some other combination. The first 10,000 I'd place in a certificate,
for assured dividends on at least one fifth of the total. Since those funds are penalized on
withdrawals, though, I'd place another 10,000 in some kind of money market account, because
they would be able to be withdrawn with no penalty.

“Another 10,000 I'd invest in the exchanges in New York, here in London, Dubai, and Hong
Kong, after some careful research for which IPOs look the most promising. The next 10,000 I would
place in a mutual fund, most likely as diverse as domestic, foreign, and high- and low-risk. And
since the third and fourth segments of your money would not be earning guaranteed dividends, but
the first and second would, I'd take the final 10,000 and buy shares of a high-risk stock,
hoping for major gains.”

Ragnok and John stared at each other for a moment as silence enveloped the room. John's face
was impassive and Ragnok appeared to be deep in thought.

“Unorthodox,” Ragnok said, “to split the money in so many different ways, especially since
it's only 50,000 pounds, but I see that you are trying to tap almost every financial market
available. I have another question for you, if you don't mind?” John nodded.

“What's the rate of return you'd expect from a venture like that?”

“Well,” John answered, slowly, “a good quarter would be anywhere over 20% and a bad quarter
would be near the opposite. But anything over 20% would be hard to attain, because two of the five
sources are fixed dividends; and also, dipping below a ten or twelve percent loss would be
difficult, because of those same guaranteed gains.”

“So you're preventing a total loss by insuring some dividends come, regardless, and helping
any gain with those earnings?”

“Yes,” John nodded. Ragnok turned at once to Harry, smiling. Hermione rather enjoyed the
ferocious look on Ragnok's face, now that his fangs were fully exposed, because it meant the
Director was very happy. John had apparently done well.

“Thank you, Harry, for Mr. Sanders here. He will bring much profit and business to
Gringotts.”

Harry inclined his head at Ragnok. He then smirked slightly. “I wondered if a Stanford Business
Finance degree was good for anything…and apparently it is.” He turned toward John.
“Congratulations, John.”

“Yes, congrats,” Hermione said. She actually was impressed with how John had laid it all
out.

“I believe congratulations are in fact in order, Mr. Sanders. For you will be the first Muggle
to ever work for Gringotts, assuming you want the job of Wizarding Financial Officer?”

“Oh, yes, of course I do,” John responded, barely able to contain his enthusiasm. “Thank you,
Director Ragnok!”

Ragnok merely smiled, and turned to Erin, who had been smiling for John but now grew serious.
“And Ms. Lowell, I have but one question for you, as well.” Erin nodded.

“What's the most effective form of security?”

Hermione hoped Erin answered the question satisfactorily, because it was awfully broad. A small
smile seemed to touch the other woman's lips, though.

“Anything that can think and reason for itself,” Erin responded, confidently enough. “From a
purely theoretical standpoint, the most effective security is sentient, able to understand the
changing variables of an evolving situation and adjust accordingly, beyond the parameters of any
program or structure that could be developed.

“Logistically, though, that's not always possible, so if it is not then I would say a
combination of something nearly sentient and more conventional means. Sentient beings should
*always* oversee any security system, so that flaws can be identified and fixed quickly.
Speaking as an engineer, I know that the weakest point of any system is its access point, so of
course that being must be someone who can be trusted. If not, then the entire operation falls
apart.”

Ragnok did not have to think over it very long. “Again, Harry, you seem to have picked very
well. That was a very thoughtful answer, Ms. Lowell.”

“Thank you.”

“Assuming you want it, the position of Security Engineer is yours,” Ragnok told her. Hermione
was so glad this had turned out so well. John and Erin hadn't come over here for nothing and
the Director of Gringotts was actually embracing Muggles as employees.

“Yes, thank you, Director,” Erin replied, a wonderful sense of accomplishment filling her
voice.

“Now I think it is time we meet the rest of your supporters,” Ragnok said, looking at John and
Erin, and then glancing at Harry. “And your colleagues, Harry.”

Just then the door to the office opened, and the four of them turned in their seats to see the
new arrivals. Hermione understood after about three seconds, as goblin after goblin filed into the
room, that they were meeting the rest of the Directors of Gringotts. Many looked older and more
wizened than Ragnok, though two or three were quite obviously younger. She glanced at John and Erin
to make sure they were holding everything together.

“I would like to introduce the rest of the board members,” Ragnok said, coming around his desk
and standing next to Harry, who had left his seat. Hermione, John, and Erin stood as well.

Introductions were passed around; Harry shook hands with every board member and talked briefly
with several. They seemed almost awkward with Hermione, John, and Erin at first, but Hermione
attributed that to their very limited contact with humans. One or two seemed rather reluctant to
interact with them at all, even Harry, but Ragnok's presence seemed to spur them to at least be
cordial. Hermione wasn't surprised because she'd always assumed that support for Harry
wasn't universal.

After several minutes of this, Ragnok spoke once again, to everyone: “I have a few announcements
to make, before we wrap things up for today. Mr. Sanders and Ms. Lowell, for your compensation, the
other board members and I agreed upon 70,000 pounds at first, with bonuses and incentives of course
for a job well done.”

Hermione knew approximately the current exchange rate and knew immediately that they would make
more money than she did at the Ministry. But that was just a passing observation, because she never
needed to worry about money again. She looked at Harry tenderly as she remembered him giving her
access to everything he owned. 70,000 pounds was equal to around 14,000 galleons or 140,000 US
dollars.

John must have known the exchange rate, because his eyes widened slightly, and he looked to
Erin. She looked as shocked.

“That sounds wonderful, Director. Thank you again,” Erin responded for them.

“Will you two be able to start on Monday, June 3rd?”

“Yes, I think so,” John replied.

“Then I would like you two to report here at 8 am on the third. John, your mentor for at least a
few weeks will Griphook, and Erin yours will be Pilk, one of our senior security officers. They
will be in the lobby ready to meet you both.”

“Yes, ok,” Erin said. Both John and Erin looked like they couldn't believe they were now
employed. And they especially looked a bit overwhelmed their employer was a goblin-run bank.

“Now,” Ragnok continued, turning to Harry, “I think it is time we welcomed you to our
board.”

“I would be honored to serve,” Harry replied, as he stood in the middle of the rest of the
directors. Many looked very satisfied at his words.

“Very well, Director Potter. We would be delighted to have you. A formal induction ceremony will
take place some time next week,” Ragnok answered, grinning once again. Several of the other goblins
grinned as well. Hermione had to bit back a sudden surge of emotion as she watched Harry
effortlessly interact with the goblins, graciously accepting their offer to become one of their
Directors. Only Harry could do it.

“Just let me know when, Director Ragnok,” Harry said, shaking Ragnok's offered hand.

“We will,” the Director smiled, and turned to the rest of the occupants of the room.

“I think that concludes our business for today,” he said, and the other Directors muttered their
goodbye. Some approached Harry before they left and shook hands with him again. It appeared to
Hermione like they couldn't get over the novelty of shaking hands with a human.

“Thank you Ragnok, for everything,” Harry said to the Director, after the rest of the goblins
had left.

“The same, Harry,” Ragnok returned, sitting once again behind his desk. “I look forward to what
the future will bring.”

“So do I,” Harry agreed. “But, as usual, we have taken up your time for long enough. May your
funds flourish,” Harry said moving toward Hermione, John, and Erin and holding out his hands.

“Yours as well, Lord Potter-Black and Lady Granger.” Hermione smiled at Ragnok, reached for
Harry's hand, and suddenly the world tilted as Harry took them all away from Gringotts.

They arrived just outside the front door of the Manor, and Hermione turned to John and Erin to
congratulate them again, but she was confused by what she saw. They had started wandering away from
the house, with very confused looks on their faces. She made eye contact with Harry, who looked
concerned, and then looked back toward the two Muggles.

Then it dawned on her: they were *Muggles*. The Manor most likely had Muggle-Repelling
charms on it, but they hadn't noticed before because Harry had taken them directly into the
house. The charm only worked if they were outside.

“Harry, there has to be a repelling charm on the house,” Hermione said, and understanding
flashed across his face.

“I give John Sanders and Erin Lowell complete access to Potter Manor, except the master suite,”
he commanded, and they suddenly stopped. No flash of magic had erupted like last time, but Hermione
supposed that was because they weren't magical. The wards had to adjust to them, rather than
their magic adjusting to the wards.

“Why are we over here?” John asked, as he and Erin walked back to Harry and Hermione.

“There are magical wards on the house,” Harry said, as they passed through the front door into
the high, sunlit foyer. “They prevent it from being plotted on any map and from Muggles just
happening upon it randomly. I instructed the wards to grant you access.”

“Oh,” John said, trying to understand what Harry said.

“Harry,” Hermione cut in, thinking of the time. “We should really get ready for the Victory Day
Celebration, and then head on up to Hogwarts.”

“Ok,” he agreed. “So you two are definitely taking the jobs?” Harry asked.

John and Erin only looked at each other for a second. “Yes, of course,” Erin answered for them,
smiling beautifully.

“That's brilliant,” Harry said, moving forward and hugging her. He then slapped John on the
back and stepped back.

“We're going to need to wrap up things in America during the next week, though,” John said.
“Tell our families that we at least have jobs over here, though I know we can't tell them what
we're really doing. And we need to get the rest of our things.”

“That's no problem,” Harry told them. “I can take you back and forth for whatever you need
starting tomorrow. Today, though, Hermione and I have to make an appearance at a Victory Day
celebration, and we have to get ready for it soon.”

“Victory Day celebration? Victory over what?” Erin asked.

Harry laughed uneasily, glancing at Hermione. She answered for him: “That's a story for a
long, rainy afternoon.”

“Yes,” Harry affirmed. “Today, you two can just enjoy the Manor. Explore if you want;
there's a beach and a speedboat down at the lake, and I think it's fully fueled. I'm
sure Dobby, Winky, and Libby would be happy to keep you company, if you wanted.”

“I'm sure we'll think of something,” John said, looking at Erin. She nodded and gave him
a sort of half-smile.

Erin looked back to Harry. “Thank you,” she said, sincerely. He merely smiled back.

“You're welcome.” He turned toward Hermione, offered her his arm, and then they started up
the stairs toward the master suite.

“Try not to break anything, Sanders,” Harry called over his shoulder.

“Try not to become too conceited, *Lord* Potter-Black,” John called back, though his tone
was not serious. Hermione chuckled and continued up the stairs on Harry's arm.

----------

Hermione and Harry sat next to each in the thestral-drawn carriage as it rocked slightly back
and forth, slowly moving toward the large castle they could see through the windows. Hermione
admired what Harry was wearing, because he looked rather dashing; in a kind of Wizarding tuxedo, he
had placed a satin black traveling cloak over his shoulders, which went well with the deep emerald
green color of his attire. Every once in awhile she caught Harry eyeing her cocktail dress, and she
fought the flush that wanted to crawl into her face.

Too say that the black dress was revealing might have been an understatement, but after all she
would be on Harry's arm today, and she wanted to play the part. He deserved only the most
beautiful witch, and though she didn't necessarily think she fit that role very well, her small
black dress that accentuated her hips, her long legs, and her bosom helped that.

In any case, the way Harry eyed her every now and then was enough for her, so sod everyone else.
She would let him rip it off her later if he wanted to, but before her thoughts spiraled away from
her, the carriage drew to a stop and the door opened automatically. Harry stepped out first and
then turned around, offering his hand to Hermione.

“My lady,” he said, bowing slightly. Though it was just for show, Hermione was secretly glad for
the help out of the carriage. Her stilettos weren't easy to walk in.

“Thank you, my lord,” she responded, now on solid ground.

“Anything for the stunning witch on my arm,” Harry replied, holding out his arm, which she
took.

She smiled demurely, trying to hide the blush, but she thought he noticed it. They moved toward
the large front door of the school, ascended the steps, and passed through the entrance as it
opened for them. There were a few witches and wizards mingling in the entrance hall, but it seemed
that most of them had already entered the Great Hall.

“Your cloak, sir?” a house elf squeaked, having appeared out of nowhere. Hermione glanced at
Harry, seeing the frown reflected there for half a second, and then gently handed his cloak over to
the little elf. He vanished and they continued on their way toward the Hall. Hermione was aware of
murmurs of recognition as they passed the scant people, and she was sure Harry was too, but they
both ignored them.

As they entered the Great Hall, they paused for a moment to take in the lavish decorations.
There were forty or fifty smaller tables where the four house tables would have been, each set with
expensive dinnerware. The tone of the decorations was definitely jubilant, though there was
something understated about it Hermione couldn't quite articulate.

“Harry, Hermione, over here!” a voice called, ending any debate over whether they would be
immediately recognized. They turned toward the voice and saw Arthur waving them over toward a table
where he and Amos were sitting, along with a few people Hermione recognized as Aurors. Arthur's
call to them had also drawn the attention of nearly every other witch and wizard in the room, which
was a considerable amount of people.

Hermione walked alongside Harry, still arm in arm, to the table, feeling like a bright spotlight
had suddenly been lit in their direction. A general murmur started up at once, as it had been
before, but this time most were still looking in their direction.

“Glad you two could make it,” Arthur said, as they sat down. He was wearing dark gray formal
robes. The Minister wore something similar, except he had the Ministry of Magic's seal
emblazoned on his left breast. The Aurors said nothing, though they did look curiously at Harry,
and perhaps a little lasciviously at Hermione. She glared at them.

“Yes,” Harry responded, helping Hermione into her seat and then taking one himself. He glanced
around at the many eyes still on them. “Did no one know I was back?”

Hermione realized that it had never occurred to either one of them to either announce
Harry's return or check if it had been announced, so neither of them had any idea if people had
known he had been in Britain for the past week.

“It was reported in the *Prophet* last weekend that you had purchased two brooms at Quality
Quidditch Supplies, and during the past week they've claimed to see you entering Gringotts
several times, but they've had no proof. I suppose now they do,” Arthur explained.

Amos leaned forward. “So, ready for your big announcement, Harry?” he asked.

“As ready as I'll ever be,” Harry said. “How is it going to work?”

“I'll start off the party with a bit of toast, mostly to you—so sorry about that—and then go
right on into my announcement that I will not be running again,” Amos told them. “Then you and
Arthur will have the stage to make your announcement.”

Harry nodded. “How long till we start?” Amos checked his watch.

“About another ten minutes.” Harry nodded again, and then sat back in his chair. Hermione saw
out of the corner of her eyes several people edging toward them, and smirked slightly at how many
hands Harry would undoubtedly have to shake today.

“So Hermione,” Amos started. She focused on the Minister. “Ready to get back to work on the
first?”

Hermione inclined her head. “Of course, Amos. Things haven't fallen apart while I've
been gone?” she asked, teasingly.

“Well, I'm not going to lie and suggest that you didn't hold things together in your new
department, so it will be a relief for us all when you start again.”

“Thank you, Amos,” Hermione said, graciously.

A group of people entering the Hall drew her attention toward the rear, and she immediately saw
that it was their friends. She nudged Harry and he turned in that direction.

“Oi, over here!” he called, and six heads swiveled in their direction. Ron, Luna, Neville,
Ginny, Remus, and Tonks all started to move toward the table next to them. They were all dressed in
formal attire, and all looked very nice.

“Didn't think you two would make it,” Ron said, sitting down at the next table over,
directly behind Harry and Hermione. The others filled in around him.

“Well…we had a reason to,” Harry said, rather mysteriously, glancing at Hermione. She just
smiled back at him, and turned to Ron.

“Well don't you clean up well,” she said, raising her eyebrows.

“Blame Luna,” he said, gesturing as if to wash his hands of the whole thing.

“Blame the Nargles,” she countered, looking around the room, clearly very interested in the
decorations.

“It's good to see you again, Harry,” Remus said, having slipped an arm over Tonks's
shoulders. They looked quite content.

“And you, Remus,” Harry replied. “Of course it's always enchanting to see you,
Nymphadora.”

She waggled her finger at him. “Careful Potter, I might still know a few tricks to get you with…
After all, I *am* the wife of an original Marauder.”

“Where's Minerva?” Hermione asked Neville, since she assumed he would know. She hadn't
seen the Headmistress since arriving.

“She had family business to attend to,” Neville supplied. He was leaning against Ginny's
side a bit. “She wanted to be here.”

“Oh,” Hermione said.

The next several minutes drifted by comfortably, with more conversation passing easily between
the old friends. A few witches and wizards Hermione did not know came up to greet Harry, who
returned their greetings amiably. Finally, Amos stood and started to make his way toward the front
of the Hall. On his way, all took their seats, and when he arrived at the podium he picked up a
glass. Everyone did the same.

“Shall we get this party started?” he asked. There was a general affirmative. “I would like to
thank you all for coming to this fourth anniversary party for Victory Day. Four years ago today,
Harry Potter defeated Tom Riddle, the so-called Lord Voldemort, and ended one of the darkest
periods of our history.

“For these events we normally do not have in attendance the person we are honoring, but today he
is amongst us once again, so I raise my glass to Harry Potter,” he called out, raising his glass
high over his head. Hermione thought she saw Harry's cheeks redden just slightly. It was cute.
She raised her glass, making eye contact with Harry.

“Thank you, Harry,” Amos called, and drank. There was a call of `Thank you, Harry', and then
everyone drank. Many were looking in their direction, some with gratitude written on their faces
and some with simple smiles.

“Now,” Amos continued, “before we get started today, I have one more announcement to make.
Arthur, Harry, will you join me?” he asked. Both men stood, and with a peck on Hermione's
cheek, Harry followed the older man toward the front. All eyes followed them.

“After careful consideration,” Amos soldiered on, with Arthur and Harry standing on either side
of him, “I have decided against running for reelection this November.” Whatever he said next was
drowned out by a general outcry from the people, but he held up his hands, and silence reigned once
again.

“I tire too easily these days,” he explained, “and I want the Wizarding world to have a capable
and energetic leader. It has been a magnificent four years; these last two terms have seen much
change within our society, hopefully most of it positive, and I think we can continue to move
forward in the future. However, it will not be with me as Minister, and with that I give you Arthur
Weasley and Harry Potter.”

Amos then stepped back amidst confused applause and muttering, as if people weren't quite
sure what was happening. Arthur and Harry moved together to stand side by side at the podium.

“I know I am not alone when I express my gratitude for everything that Amos has done for us,”
Arthur started, turning slightly to make eye contact with the current Minister. Many in the
audience said something to the effect of `hear hear!'

“I do understand his wish to move on with his life, though, and after equally careful
consideration, I have decided to run in his stead for the Ministerial position.”

For just a second, there was silence in the hall, everyone not having been prepared for such a
blunt announcement, but then uproar could be heard. Most were cheering. They quieted down
eventually.

“Since that will leave the Vice Ministerial position vacant, I have asked Harry Potter to run
with me—”

Someone shouted, “I knew it!”

“—and he has agreed to. So come this November, Harry and I will be running together!” Arthur
finished, enthusiasm seeping into his voice toward the end. Harry was nodding and smiling slightly,
looking back and forth between Arthur, the audience, and the two tables toward the back where
Hermione and the others were sitting.

Hermione heard Ron say something that sounded like, “Wicked!”

As Arthur and Harry moved away from the podium, rejoined by Amos, they were immediately
enveloped by a swell of people moving to meet them. Hermione sat back in her seat, knowing it would
be sometime before Harry could rejoin her.

----------

Several hours later, Harry and Hermione sat down, breathing a bit heavily, having just finished
dancing rather vigorously. Many people were still out there dancing, though the partygoers had
begun to trickle out the doors.

“When did you learn how to dance?” Hermione asked, joking.

“Erin taught me,” Harry smirked at her, as if she would fall for it.

“Suuuuuure,” she responded. He just shrugged and leaned into kiss her. She fought the urge to
crawl into his lap as his lips pressed gently against hers.

“You look so amazing,” Harry said, after they'd separated. She blushed, but preened
slightly.

“You look quite debonair yourself, you know,” she replied.

“Only because you dressed me up.”

“True… Maybe later I can dress you down?” she asked, raising an eyebrow toward him. His smile
grew immediately into what could only be called his famous lop-sided grin.

“That sounds like a date, Lady Granger,” Harry affirmed, moving his chair toward her so that he
could slip his arm over her bare shoulders. They turned their seats slightly so they could see the
dance floor, where Ron was currently twirling Luna. Ginny and Neville were across the Hall talking
to several older witches Hermione did not recognize; Tonks and Remus were dancing near Ron and
Luna; Arthur was chatting jovially with another witch Hermione did now know; and Amos had already
left with his cadre of Aurors, leaving two behind for Arthur.

“So much has happened in so little time,” Harry commented, staring out across the Hall.

“Yes,” agreed Hermione. After a moment: “Do you regret any of it?”

Harry blinked once and looked at Hermione. His green eyes were filled with love, and she smiled
wonderfully at him. “No, of course not,” he responded, leaning in to once again kiss her. It
languished for a second, and if he kept doing that she would be taking him and dressing him down
sooner rather than later.

“I'm glad,” Hermione said. They leaned into one another, watching and laughing at the antics
of their friends.

Hermione was looking forward to the future and what it could possibly bring. Harry was running
for Vice Minister and he was a member of the Gringotts Board of Directors; she had achieved the
Chair position of the Muggle Liaisons office and would be starting once again in just a few days,
and she had just moved in with Harry; two of Harry's Muggle friends, whom Hermione was quickly
calling *her* friends too, were working for the goblin bank…

And all of it was accentuated by her love for Harry and all that he had done for her, and
continued to do. She didn't know how things could have turned out differently, now that she
thought about it, because they were so right for each other. She loved Harry and that would never
change, no matter what happened in the coming weeks, months, and years. They had found some
direction for their lives and were running with it.

**Author's Note: SPOILERS. I try to avoid post-chapter notes, and I know this is the second
chapter in a row to feature one, but there are two things I must comment on. 1)** **Deathly
Hallows****: I did not like it. It didn't flow with the other books. The epilogue read like
badly written fanfiction. Albus Severus? You have to be kidding me. 2) The rest of**
**Bearings****: As I said earlier, I will be continuing with the story. It will all be posted
under this title. Fanfiction has been a nice outlet for my frustration since HBP and it especially
will be now. I'm looking forward to contributing to this community for a long time to come! PS:
An IPO is an initial public offering.**

-->



23. Intermission:  Time Passes
------------------------------



**Bearings**

Disclaimer/Author's Notes: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. I need a longer author's note
here, so bear with me. Some of you have noticed that the last few chapters are a little too
perfect, and I will say that you are astute if you have. Part one was originally the entire story,
so I naturally wanted to close many of the smaller story arcs as we came to the end. However,
somewhere around the `Variations on a Boy Who Lived' chapter, I realized that I had so much
more to say about the characters, and especially now that I've read and had time to think about
*Deathly Hallows.* So I sketched out exactly where I wanted to go with the story, and the
picture became clearer as I reached the end of part one: part one is the transition from war to
some place of normalcy, part two is the time of change and some tumult as everyone settles into
their respective roles and families, and part three is where they go from there. Hence, if the end
of part one felt too perfect, then you're right. It was. One last thing: I'm going on
hiatus for four or five weeks. Enjoy the rest of the summer!

*I came across a fallen tree
I felt the branches of it looking at me
Is this the place we used to love?
Is this the place that I've been dreaming of?*

Keane

*Somewhere Only We Know*

Intermission: Time Passes

Or: Part One: Epilogue

May 27th - October 30th, 2002

May passed into June, spring into summer, and Harry and Hermione into a new phase of their
relationship. She started again at the Ministry, in her new position, on June 1st, and
so they both had to adjust to the real world once again. She worked long hours, though not as long
as she had, and Harry began to get busy with his campaign trail. Arthur still had a day job as the
Vice Minister; so much of what he and Harry did together was at night or on weekends—the only time
Hermione was home.

For the first time since returning to Britain, they felt a pressure on them, not necessarily a
strain on their relationship or their feelings for one another, but more of a compulsion to
*make* time in their schedules to be with each other. It was not a problem, but they certainly
had to adjust, and it was the first of many they would have to make.

John and Erin effectively moved into the Manor and Wizarding society that same week, June
3rd; the presence of two more people in the Manor, which previously had been silent and
nearly unoccupied for so long, brought more life to the large house, and both Harry and Hermione
were coming closer and closer to thinking of it as home. Dobby, Winky, and Libby helped with this,
placing themselves more into the role of *family* than ever before: it was not unusual to come
upon the five or the seven of them in the library, reading or chatting, or each doing his or her
work.

John and Erin started at Gringotts, too, (supplied with a permanent Portkey by Harry) and they
were slowly coming to terms with what that really meant. Harry and Hermione took John and Erin to
Diagon Alley halfway through June to show them various points of interest, and introduce them to
the finer points of magical Britain; it goes without saying that the presence of two Muggles within
the heart of Wizarding commerce struck a nerve.

Whether that was good or bad was not immediately apparent, however, and because Hermione was the
Chair for the Muggle Liaisons department, many assumed it had something to do with her everyday
duties. The general public slowly learned the truth as the summer dragged on, that two Muggles were
now working and living in the magical world, and John and Erin had to field many questions from
curious and some resentful wizards and witches about why they were there.

They did their best at answering anything truthfully, and pointing out that the Statute of
Secrecy, of which Hermione had informed them, was not in breach because they needed knowledge of
magic to work where they did, therein shouldering most of the responsibility. Both Harry and
Hermione noticed the quieter rumblings—Hermione as head of her department and Harry as the Boy Who
Conquered and the favorite candidate for the Vice Ministerial position—of discontent at John and
Erin, but chose not to share it with them. The burden of adjusting to their new life was
enough.

As summer officially began, Jane and Dan made their first visit to the Manor. Harry provided
them with a portkey directly in the foyer, so as to avoid any hassle with the wards, and after
showing Hermione's parents around the expansive house the four of them had a quiet dinner up on
everyone's favorite balcony.

Jane was at the end of her first trimester, and had just begun to show, and much conversation
passed that night about the new child and what it meant for Dan and Jane. Dan was still somewhat
reticent around Harry, but he seemed to open up as the evening progressed, and was even drawn into
a speculative conversation about whether or not Hermione's younger sibling would be magical.
None of them new why or how two Muggle adults could produce a magical child, and so they did not
know if it would or could happen again.

The child was due near Christmas that year and Hermione realized for the first time what it
would actually mean to be twenty-three years older than her brother or sister. She would be a
forty-something when they were old enough to drive or go off to uni, and probably nearing fifty
when he or she decided to marry. It was odd thinking about that because if she and Harry did
eventually have children, her first child would be near the same age as her younger sibling.
Unusual family dynamics, to be sure.

Heat like never before fell across Britain during July, even up in the highlands where the Manor
was located. Harry and Hermione did not have much time to enjoy their lake, though. His campaign
with Arthur took him periodically to places he had never visited before, which made for very long
days or weekends. It seemed to be going well, but there was always a sense of disbelief from the
wizards and witches they met. It was as if no one could quite believe the Chosen One was running
for government. Hermione always supported him whenever he came close to expressing doubts, and that
helped.

Harry had his first serious meeting with the other Directors of Gringotts in July, wherein they
discussed the possibility of expanding the bank to Ireland and Wales, and also Hogsmeade. Beyond
that, much of the discussion centered on how Harry's possible position within the government
would affect him as a Director—good, bad, or somewhere in between. They eventually concluded that
they would have to see how things developed.

Ragnok pulled Harry aside at the end of the meeting and asked him if he would be willing to make
a trip during the fall, probably somewhere on the Continent. Harry agreed, wondering what the trip
could be about, and Ragnok said he would tell Harry more when the time was right.

July 31st came upon everyone, and just like that, Harry turned twenty-two. During the
week leading up to it, Hermione would not tell Harry what she was planning, but he knew there was
something, and sure enough on the night of the 31st, when he returned from a rally in
Glasgow with Arthur, all of his friends and family were gathered at the Manor to celebrate another
year gone. Hermione, Ron, Luna, Neville, and Ginny were there of course, as were John and Erin;
with Remus, Tonks, and William; and Fred, George, and Molly (Charlie was in Romania and Bill and
Fleur were in Paris); and Minerva and finally the three house elves rounding out those
gathered.

The party was a boisterous affair, with much laughing and revelry, but many seemed to know that
the coming months would be challenging, with the election drawing near. Everyone supported
Harry—Ron and Neville thought it was `bloody brilliant'—and they all wished to see him in
office, but they knew it wasn't that easy. There were a few opponents to Arthur and Harry, all
of whom were not taking such a hard line against discrimination in the magical world, and the
conservatives *could* prevail in that regard.

Harry and Hermione's friends and families were delighted, for the most part, to meet John
and Erin, though they of course had many questions for the Muggles. A few in attendance were
surprised Harry had put himself out there for them, but knew not to express that sentiment. Harry
had enough on his mind.

The night passed well, and with it an idea occurred to Hermione: why not get everyone together
more often? There was certainly enough space within the Manor itself, and with everyone's busy
lives, a night of fun at least once a month wouldn't hurt anyone.

And as July turned to August, and August to September, she put her idea into motion. Twice in
August and once in September everyone who could came to the Manor. It was a good time for everyone
in the `Chosen Clique' to catch up with each other; during their get-together in September Bill
and Fleur even showed up. Charlie could not get away from the preserve, though, and no one had
heard from Percy in quite some time.

With September came cooler weather, but the damage from the persistent heat was all around. The
vast grounds upon which the Manor sat were brown and withered, and down at the lake it was very
clear how much the waters had receded. The respite from the heat was welcome.

Autumn came early and hard to the Scottish highlands, following on the heels of the end of the
heat wave, which surprised Harry and Hermione, because they couldn't remember it ever being so
sudden at Hogwarts. One day, during the middle of September, it was pleasant, cool, and breezy, and
the next day there was frost and temperatures barely crept above freezing.

The following weeks—the rest of September and most of October—were filled with heavy, cold,
windswept rain, and it was all they could do to keep the mournful weather from dampening their
spirits. Another social night for everyone at the Manor at the beginning of October helped with
that, but the main topic of conversation was Arthur and Harry's upcoming election. To say that
they were both stressed would be an understatement, but Hermione and many others thought they were
handling it well.

Harry was concerned with the election system, which had to do with casting a Patronus at the
ballot, and expressed this worry to Hermione, but she didn't know what to tell him. It had
always been like that in the Wizarding world. Harry wondered about the people who couldn't cast
a Patronus and whether or not they could vote; Hermione of course knew they could not. Harry was
extremely irritated by this, because he saw it as another example of Wizarding prejudice, but
Hermione advised him against going after that in the last month before the election. He didn't
want to turn anyone away now.

October also saw the breaking of ground for the Hogsmeade branch of Gringotts. Erin was very
busy thereafter, because Ragnok had assigned her and her mentor, Pilk, to oversee the security
arrangements. She had taken to her new job quite well, and one time when Harry had gone to
Gringotts, he had seen her laughing about something a goblin said. John was quickly learning the
ins and outs of the wizard economy, and was enjoying his job. Both he and Erin expressed their
gratitude to Harry on numerous occasions.

November approached, and with it, more rain. Whereas at the end of the summer the Manor had been
parched, it was now sodden, and cold. The anniversary of Harry's first defiance of Voldemort
approached, as well as his parents' deaths, and he spent much time that week speaking with
James, Lily, and Sirius about everything that was happening in his life. He knew what he wanted,
and he thought he knew how to get it, but he wanted to know they approved of where he was going in
his life.

Lily told him that as long as he supported Hermione and she supported him, they would find their
way in life. He considered her words as he readied for bed that night, October 30th, and
couldn't help thinking of how lucky he was to have Hermione, staring down at her already
slumbering form. He crawled into bed that night was a smile on his face, drawing Hermione to him,
because through everything that had happened in his life, here and now he was glad to be alive with
her.

-->



24. Eleventh Hour
-----------------



**Bearings**

Disclaimer/Author's Notes: I present part two of *Bearings*.

*Qui dove il mare luccica e tira forte il vento
Su una vecchia terrazza davanti al golfo di Surriento
Un uomo abbraccia una ragazza dopo che aveva pianto
Poi si schiarisce la voce e ricomincia il canto*

Paul Potts

*Caruso*

Chapter Fifteen: Eleventh Hour

Thursday, October 31st, 2002; 2:23 am

*BOOM…*

*Harry winced as the large explosion rocked the floor and walls of the castle, trying not to
notice the looks on all of the other faces around him. It was only a matter of time before the
wards, built and then strengthened by Dumbledore before the old man's untimely death, would
fall to Voldemort.*

BOOM…

*Harry looked around him eventually; every teacher and most of the older students were
gathered in the Entrance Hall, staring at the door. Some expressed abject fear, others grim
determination, and most of the rest blank shock. Harry sighed and turned partially back toward the
door.*

BOOM…

*There was a distant scream as a Death Eater undoubtedly vaporized from the power of the
wards. They were strong, yes, but they would hold only so long.*

*“Harry,” Hermione whispered, moving into his side so not to be overheard. “How long do you
think we have?”*

*“Few minutes,” Harry whispered back, thinking desperately of how this ragtag bunch of witches
and wizards could stand against the Darkest army in history. At some point, Harry had been made the
de facto leader of the resistance—it probably had something to do with the way he could say
`Voldemort' without fear—and now it was up to him to form the defense of Hogwarts.*

BOOM…CRASH!

*“That'll be the wards,” Harry muttered, turning to face everyone again. “This is it,” he
called out, voice unknowingly switching to leader mode. “He's breached the wards. As soon as
the doors open, let loose with everything you have—don't hold anything back. They're here
to kill.”*

*Harry turned around and stepped back, so he was at the head of the group of people, in the
middle. Straining his ears, he could hear the yells and shouts of the Death Eaters (and whatever
they had with them) moving toward the Castle. Hermione, Ron, and Luna stood to his immediate left
and Neville and Ginny were on his right. He gripped his wand tightly.*

*“They can't blast through the walls—the castle is too strong—so they'll have to come
through the doors, right at us,” Harry called out, continuing to talk because he couldn't think
of anything else to do. “Take any Death Eater you can, but don't get separated from the rest of
us! Leave Voldemort for me, though,” he continued grimly, purposely ignoring the twitches from
several of his classmates.*

*The sounds from outside were growing louder, and then, without warning, the large doors
shuddered and quaked with a thunderous crunching noise. Dust and specks of wood flew off and fell
toward the floor. Harry raised his wand before him—then a white flash distracted him. He looked
over and saw Colin Creevey had raised his camera instead of his wand.*

*Harry almost said something to him, but realized this was neither the time nor the place. Not
when the Dark Lord himself was battering the castle doors…*

*The right door cracked. Everything stood still for just a moment—there was a collective deep
breath—and then it started to fall into the Entrance Hall. Harry and the rest didn't have to
worry about backing away; they were well enough away from the doors, but it meant the castle was
finally breached. He glimpsed a dark swarming mass before a blinding explosion rent the air and the
other side of the door fell in. There, standing amongst his army, was Voldemort.*

*“Now!” screamed Harry, running toward the Dark host. He knew, without looking, everyone had
followed him. Spells were already sizzling past his shoulders and over his head as his classmates
and instructors fired the opening salvo in what would later become known as the Battle of
Hogwarts.*

*Harry raised his wand, watching as Voldemort did so. The end of the snake-faced wizard's
wand glowed sickly Killing Curse green, and Harry dove through the air, pushing all of his magic
into a simple, yet powerful curse:*

*“*Reducto!” *Harry thundered, feeling the recoil in his wand arm from the force of the
spell that emanated from the eleven inches of holly in his hand. As he hit the floor, taking the
brunt of the impact on his shoulder and then sliding on it, he saw a massive blue bolt leap through
the air toward Voldemort.*

*There was something like a snarl on Voldemort's face. It appeared he had to change spells
hastily, because the green faded and a shield very like the one he had conjured against Dumbledore
appeared in his hands. The blue bolt reflected off it toward the ceiling, driving Voldemort back a
step. Harry rolled to his feet, and as he did so he saw a student whose face was concealed fall to
a Killing Curse—*

Harry sat bolt upright in bed, breathing heavily. For just a moment, he had no idea where he was
or, more importantly, *when* he was, but then he noticed his hand resting against something
warm and soft, and it all came back to him.

He was safe in the Manor, in bed with Hermione. It was very dark, so it must have been the
middle of the night, and also rather cold, Harry noticed, shivering slightly. He could hear the
rain, which was still falling heavily, through the open balcony doors.

He squinted into the darkness. The doors shouldn't have been open. They hadn't been open
for some time, because of the rain. He shivered again, goose bumps breaking out along his skin. He
drew in another deep breath, considering the dream that he hadn't suffered through in two or
three years now, and a different kind of coldness pierced his lungs.

His eyes went wide—no, it couldn't be, could it? But it was so dark; he didn't know for
sure—where could it be, though? Suddenly, he leapt out of bed, silently summoning his wand to his
hand, and called forth the happiest thing he could think of: Hermione coming to Stanford to remind
him of everything he'd left behind.

“*Expecto Patronum!*” he bellowed, and the room was bathed in a soft, white light as Prongs
leapt from the end of his wand. In the new light, he saw his quarry immediately—a dark, floating,
cloaked Dementor on the opposite side of the room. It was floating slowly toward Hermione, who had
just woken up from his shout and the light and was looking around in just-awakened confusion.

“Get it!” Harry ordered the stag, and it obeyed. With an unsettling growl, it leapt over the bed
and impaled the Dementor on its horns. There was an otherworldly wail and then the Dementor was
gone, leaving behind nothing but a slightly smoking cloak. Silence descended over the bedroom for a
moment, as both Harry and Hermione processed what had happened, and then they spoke at the same
time:

“Hermione, are you alright—?”

“Was that a Dementor—?”

They stared at each other. Harry blinked and walked around the bed to where Prongs stood over
the fallen Dementor. Harry patted his Patronus's flank and squatted to examine the remains of
the Dark creature. He heard the sheets rustle and Hermione joined him, wearing nothing except dark
silk panties and a matching brassiere.

“How the bloody hell did this get past the wards?” Hermione mused, her voice slightly higher
than normal.

“More importantly, *why* is it here?” Harry asked. “I thought all of the Dementors were
destroyed after the war.”

“So did I,” Hermione said, looking at Harry. He saw her worrying her lip and put an arm around
her shoulders. The light from Prongs still bathed them in a soft white glow.

An unpleasant thought occurred to Harry. “D'you think this has anything to do with…with the
election?” he ventured. Hermione sagged and then sighed a little. She was prodding the cloak with
her wand, but it was completely empty.

“Probably,” Hermione answered, rising into a standing position. Harry joined her.
“*Conflagrate*,” she said, having pointed her wand at the cloak. It burst into flame and soon
enough no evidence of its existence remained, not even ashes. Harry glanced at Prongs—the Patronus
seemed to be staring out into the rainy night, through the still thrown-open balcony doors. Harry
wondered if there were any more Dementors out there.

“I guess we'll have to modify the wards soon,” Harry said, leading Hermione back to bed with
him. “Prongs, can you guard tonight?” Harry asked, knowing it was absurd to ask an extension of his
magic a question but somehow discerning the Patronus would be able to understand him.

Prongs glanced at Harry for just a second, seemed to nod, and then resumed staring out into the
night. Harry waved his wand and the balcony doors clicked shut, cutting off the sound of the rain
and the chilly draft. At that, the stag began to slowly edge around the perimeter of the room,
looking all around with its white head.

“What about John and Erin?” Hermione suddenly asked. Harry's heart missed a beat, and the
next thing he knew he was standing in a dark corner of his friends' room. His jump had been
silent, so as not to wake them, and he prowled around for a minute or two to make sure all was as
it should be. Everything seemed in order, including their entwined forms beneath the sheets—which
Harry only glanced at once—but he cast a strong Imperturbable Charm over the room just in case.
They would be able to leave, but nothing could enter.

He Disapparated from the room as silently as he'd come, materializing just a step from
Hermione. She reached out for him and pulled her to him; her embrace was strong.

“Everything good with them?” she queried, leading him the few short steps to their comfortable
bed.

“Yes,” Harry answered.

He and Hermione slipped underneath the sheets and cuddled into one another; he enjoyed and
appreciated her warmth and softness. They faced each other, on their sides, so they could look at
the other.

“You ok?” she asked, sleepily, burrowing the side of her head into the pillow.

“Yeah,” he returned, around a huge yawn. “You?”

“Always,” Hermione answered, and soon enough, she had drifted off to sleep once more. It took
Harry a little longer, as thoughts of the long dormant memory of the final battle and the
apparently rogue Dementor plagued his mind. But he eventually did succumb to sleep, and the last
thing he knew was the comforting glow of Prongs.

----------

10/31/02; 7:15 pm

“So there's nothing we can do before next Friday?” Harry asked, loudly, as his anger was
barely concealed. He and Arthur Weasley were standing just outside of the largest of the
Wizengamot's convening chambers. Other witches and wizards were streaming out of the chamber
around them.

Arthur sighed a little and rubbed his eyes. “No, I'm afraid not, Harry,” the older man—and
the prime candidate for the Minister of Magic—responded.

Harry leaned against the cold stone wall and deflated a little. “Well that's bollocks,” he
groused, watching a group of older wizards clandestinely glance his way. They sneered at him and
turned away, heading toward the lifts that would carry them up from the ninth level of the Ministry
of Magic.

Generally speaking, the Wizarding public had been supportive of him and Arthur, though the
totality of that support was a bit ambiguous since their platform was magical equality. Harry often
wondered if the bulk of the support for him was due to what he had done that day at Hogwarts,
rather than what he was actually running for. The wizards he had just seen were perfect examples of
the part of the public that was less inclined toward him as Vice Minister.

“Harry?” Arthur asked, and when Harry refocused on his face, he saw concern there.

“Yeah, sorry, drifted off there,” he said, standing straight once again. He and Arthur slowly
started toward the lifts, leaving the Wizengamot's chamber behind. If Harry hadn't been so
distracted, he would have appreciated the irony of taking part in the final meeting of the
governing body in the same room he had been put on trial when he was fifteen. But irony escaped him
at the moment, as did many other things. He was focused on the election and with it only a week
away, he didn't have much brainpower for anything else. Add to that the disturbing dream
he'd had the night before and the sudden unexpected presence of a Dementor—so he had reason to
feel a little strained.

“Like I said, there's not much we can do before the election on the eighth, but assuming we
are elected, we can try to affect change then…” Arthur trailed off, hinting to Harry something the
two of them could do immediately upon entering office—again, assuming they were elected. The
opposition wasn't strong, but it was there, and politics had already proved very resistant to
the best laid plans.

“It just seems so wrong that the right to vote hinges upon being able to cast a powerful and
difficult charm,” Harry whinged, not caring about sounding petulant when there were no other ears
to hear him than Arthur's. They stopped in front of a lift and pressed the up button; far
above, they heard the lift start to descend toward them.

“It is unfair,” Arthur agreed, “but that's how it's always been, unfortunately.”

“What percentage of voting age witches and wizards can cast a corporeal Patronus?” Harry asked,
genuinely curious, because his future depended so much on that little fact.

“I'm not completely sure,” Arthur answered. The following silence—broken only by the
descending lift—stretched on long enough for Harry to glance at Arthur, to see why the man
hadn't continued. He appeared to be thinking about something. As the lift dinged open and they
shuffled in, Arthur opened his mouth to speak again.

“Albus did say at one point during the first war that Order of the Phoenix membership was so
restricted because all members had to be able to cast a corporeal Patronus, and that most witches
and wizards couldn't.” The doors closed and they began to ascend.

“So what does that mean?” Harry asked, once again reminded of all the history he did *not*
know. So much had happened during his parents' generation that he would never know because they
weren't around to regale him with stories. A brief but powerful wave of sadness swept through
him.

Arthur shrugged. “Twenty percent?” he asked, rhetorically. “Maybe something like that?”

The sadness gave way to anger once again. Things that were absolute truths to Harry, indeed so
much so that he didn't even know they were part of the fabric of his character were decidedly
absent throughout much of the Wizarding world. For just a moment, a part of him wished that he had
never come back, but that faded quickly. He'd decided when he turned down the Yankees to return
permanently to the Wizarding world, and why had he done that? Although there were other, smaller
reasons, he'd decided against baseball largely because of Hermione. He was happy—ecstatic
really—that he'd found a depth of feeling with her he hadn't known to exist before. But
these ruddy elections and the very backward Wizarding world grated on his nerves.

“Harry…” Arthur said, lowly, with a warning implicit in his voice. Harry shook himself from his
angry thoughts and looked at him. Arthur was staring at Harry's clenched fists.

Harry looked down and saw that random bolts of magic were arcing from his knuckles to the floor
of the lift. Little black scorch marks dotted the tile.

Harry let out the breath he hadn't been aware of holding and allowed his anger to fade away.
The charged atmosphere of the lift likewise faded.

“You have to be careful,” Arthur warned, taking out his wand and waving it at the floor. The
black marks disappeared, and with them, the evidence of Harry's near-outburst. “I understand
that you're frustrated about some of things standing in our way—believe me, I am too—but you
can't afford to lose control of your magic. *We* can't afford it.”

Feeling rather like a teenager getting rebuked for letting his emotions get the best of him,
Harry just nodded in favor of actually speaking. He would have to work on controlling his stronger
emotions in public from now on, since one of the *perks* of running with Arthur was all the
*lovely* public exposure. Every now and then he wondered if he'd truly thought over the
decision to run enough.

They finally clanged to a halt and the doors opened upon the Atrium, where the statue of the
Trio stood. Harry stepped out of the lift and turned toward it, as he had every time since being
supremely shocked at seeing it the first time back in the Atrium. The likenesses of Ron, Hermione,
and himself were actually quite good, but he'd always thought something was missing from the
statue.

“You know, there were three more that helped greatly in that final year,” Harry commented,
absently, still staring up at the statue, where it rested across the large Atrium.

“Hmm?” Arthur intoned, having been looking in the opposite direction.

“The statue,” Harry said, motioning with his hand. “It's missing Ginny, Neville, and
Luna.”

“Oh,” Arthur comprehended, staring from the statue to Harry. Then a small smile graced his face.
“Well perhaps that's something else we can work on when we're in office.”

“Maybe,” Harry replied, noncommittally.

“I'm actually surprised you don't hate that,” Arthur commented, pulling out his wand and
preparing to Disapparate.

Harry shrugged. “Hating it won't change that it's there.”

Arthur's smile widened. “Indeed. Tomorrow then?”

“See you then,” Harry affirmed, and Arthur disappeared with a loud *pop*.

Sighing, Harry prepared to Disapparate also. He turned on the spot, in a slow circle, taking in
the large room, which was mostly empty now, and wondering if he really had the strength to
accomplish everything he wanted to. Silently, he disappeared.

Immediately, before his vision had reasserted itself, he knew he had missed his destination
slightly, which was a true testament to how distracted his mind was. He was a master Apparator—even
he knew that—and yet he had missed the foyer of the Manor by about 30 meters.

He now stood in front of the large house, in the middle of what appeared to be some sort of
Scottish tempest. Fierce rain and wind assaulted his figure; he knew that Impervious and Warming
charms would do nothing now. Shivering slightly, his shoes squelching in the mud, he started to
make his way through the storm toward the front door. He could Apparate into the foyer from here,
but a lot of good it would do now. So he decided to let the rain and the wind batter him. In a way,
it felt good to let external stimuli take over the internal war he had been having.

Lightning flashed somewhere overhead and only a second after the harsh *crack* of thunder
rent the air around him. He felt his magic flex in response to the electricity in the air, or maybe
the powerful sound waves, but ignored it. If his magic wanted to lash out at the storm, then he
would let it. He wasn't feeling destructive, really, but the morose timbre of his emotions did
not urge caution in the face of the storm.

As he reached the door, lightning flashed again, this time much closer, and there was barely any
delay before the earsplitting sound of thunder crashed around him. There was that flex again…and
this time, it didn't flex back. His magic kept reaching, for what he did now know, and he
paused to allow whatever was going to happen to take place. It kept pushing and pushing, and
finally a brilliant blue bolt of energy arced out from his body toward the Manor gate, lighting up
the yard like day.

Momentarily dazzled, and somehow purged of many of things he had been feeling, he stood on the
porch for a few moments longer. Lest he actually be struck by lightning, though, he eventually
shuffled through the door, into the warmly lit and heated foyer. Before more than three drops of
water reached the floor, he cast a powerful drying charm over himself. Three seconds later, he was
dry (and so was the porch through the closed door behind him—at least for a few seconds, before the
magic of his charm faded away).

“Harry?” a falsetto called out, from the direction of the library, and Harry's heart started
to race as he let Hermione's voice wash over him. It was almost a physical thing, the comfort
it provided. He started to move in that direction.

“Yeah, it's me,” he called back, and soon enough he had passed into the library. He stopped
just over the threshold, drinking in the sight before him.

There was Hermione, in comfortable and casual (yet somehow still sexy) sweats, with her
sometimes uncontrollable hair tamed in a loose pony tail, sitting cross legged on the squashy sofa
in the center of the library. Several books were laid out on the coffee table in front of her, and
there was one in her lap. She looked in his direction and grinned broadly; her rosy cheeks and full
lips immediately captivated his attention.

“Hey, love,” she said, beckoning him to her with her hand. He needed no further persuasion, and
strode across the room to where she sat.

“Hey yourself,” he said, softly, coming up behind her and leaning over the back of the sofa to
bury his nose in her hair. Vanilla hit his nostrils at once.

“Everything all right?” she asked, a smile coloring her voice, as she reached up and around to
tangle her fingers in his inky locks. He lifted his head slightly and sighed, watching as her hair
puffed out around his lips.

“Just a tiring day, is all,” he responded, straightening up and bringing his hands to her
shoulders. He began to rub, very lightly, the exposed skin at the joint of her neck and
shoulders.

“Mmm,” she nearly purred, leaning back into his hands slightly.

“What about you? How was your day?” he asked, enjoying what he was doing as much as she was. Her
skin was soft and smooth.

“Busy,” she said, quietly. “We've been trying to finalize the new Knightbus policies, but
there's some strong opposition to the clause allowing werewolves and vampires access.”

“But they already both use it,” Harry pointed out, wondering why, of all things, wizards were
being so obstinate about who could use their public transportation (which, coincidentally, most
thought was beneath them).

“Yes, but making it official would mean they have to acknowledge that fact,” Hermione responded,
settling more into the couch and his hands. He twitched his finger and a magical rip appeared down
the middle of the back of Hermione's sweater, revealing to him in all its glory her long,
sinuous back. There was no bra strap to obstruct the progress of his hands.

“Just what do you think you are doing?” Hermione asked, archly. She made no move to stop him,
though. In fact, she might have even leaned forward a tiny bit to allow his hands free reign over
her skin.

Harry pushed aside the two halves of her sweater and pressed his thumbs into the nerves just
under the points of her shoulder blades. With his other fingers, he alternately caressed and
massaged the thin muscle over the blades themselves.

“Helping you relax,” he said, smiling slightly as he felt goose bumps break out across her skin,
which he knew had nothing to do with the warm temperature of the library.

“What if John a-and…Erin come in here?” Hermione asked, leaning forward even more. Harry's
hands followed her.

“They won't,” Harry responded, running his index fingers down either side of her spine,
stopping only to gently press on nerve endings near her lumbar vertebrae.

“How do you know?” Hermione asked, breathily. Harry was having a hard time not looking at the
top of Hermione's bum, which had ridden out of her sweatpants when she leaned forward. It
looked so soft and was just calling to him to touch and rub it.

“Because you would have stopped me already if they were around,” Harry pointed out, now pressing
his thumbs into the very base of Hermione's spine, so near her enticing bum. Resisting
temptation, he began working his way back toward her neck.

“You know me too well,” she replied, making a noise in her throat as his hands wandered around
her sides to tease the sides of the swells of her breasts. The very tips of his middle fingers
brushed the edges of her noticeably hard nipples.

“That's not fair,” she gasped, as he withdrew his hands and continued his upward progress.
He didn't respond, and after a few minutes, he withdrew his hands, twitched a finger again, and
the sweater was whole. Hermione leaned back and looked up into his eyes—hers were very dark, almost
black—and reached up to bring his head down to hers.

There lips crashed together and they snogged breathlessly for another minute. Harry quite
enjoyed the odd upside-down position they were in. He enjoyed most new things. Eventually, though,
they had to breathe, and he let her luscious lips go. Her tongue trailed behind, moving over his
lips one final time as he stood straight once again.

She turned sideways on the couch, so she didn't have to look over her shoulder at him, and
raised her eyebrows. He did the same.

“After such a long *hard* day, don't you think you need a shower?” she asked him,
shifting slightly on the couch. One of her hands drifted toward her waist. “I know *I*
do.”

Harry smiled. He knew where this was heading, and his biological response was already
manifesting itself. “Are you trying to tell me I stink?”

Hermione nodded. “That's right. You ruddy reek.”

Harry gave a mock-defeated grunt. “Alright, shower it is,” he allowed. Before he could react,
Hermione leapt over the back of the couch, circled her arms around him, and Apparated them into
their large bathroom.

Harry laughed and hugged Hermione tighter to him. He heard the water turn on in the
glass-enclosed shower behind him, and suddenly Hermione's sweats melted away like water through
his hands. She stood naked in his arms.

“That was impressive,” he murmured into his hair. He felt her laugh, her breasts vibrating
against his clothed chest, and then his clothes melted away in a similar fashion. It felt like
emerging from a warm pool.

“It's a charm I read about,” Hermione whispered, backing up slightly. She averted her eyes
for a moment, seemingly inexplicably embarrassed by their nakedness, but it was only passing.
Harry's eyes were riveted on her form. They flicked upward to meet her when she looked at his
face again, and there was nothing but pure desire written there. The smooth upper swells of her
chest, her flat tummy with that maddeningly sexy navel ring (that he still couldn't believe
Hermione had), the simple curve of her hips from her waist to her thighs…all of it, all of
*her,* set his blood on fire and racing south. Indeed, he was already aroused just looking at
her.

And the best part of it all was the incredible mind her gorgeous body held. Hermione's most
salient charm was her amazing intelligence, but Harry wouldn't deny that her more physical
aspects charmed him as well. He loved her for all that she had done for him through the years, and
how well she understood him, but he *wanted* her for how beautiful she was, and how caring,
and how understanding…

But he could stand there and stare at her all night as those thoughts whisked around in his
head, or he could lead her by the hand into the waiting shower behind him, where warm water
cascaded down the smooth marble walls and smoky glass of the walk-in enclosure.

“You're beautiful,” he managed, finally breaking from his trance. She smiled, looked down
for just a second again, and then looked back at him with a challenge in her eyes.

“You're randy.”

Harry didn't even need to look down to know she was right. And her simple statement made him
even more so.

“And…?” he asked, holding out his hand. She took it daintily and he began to back up toward the
shower.

“And nothing,” she responded, moving into him and pushing him back faster. They crossed the
threshold and backed under the showerhead, where warm water flowed in rivulets through their hair
and down over their bodies.

Slick with the water, they embraced again, and Harry lost himself in the feeling of her wet,
warm skin pressed against his. He breathed deeply, feeling his chest press into her supple bosom,
and he suddenly ached with an emotion he could not name. It was almost like he was longing for
something he already had—Hermione in his arms—and his mind was trying to commit this moment to
eternal memory, because it would surely be gone in a few minutes…

He felt her lips on his collarbone, and then her tongue, and he caressed her back and she worked
her mouth across his chest. Not wanting to break the moment, but unable to stop himself he opened
his mouth and asked:

“Hermione, am I doing the right thing running?” He had to suppress a gasp and she took one of
his nipples in her teeth and then flicked it with her tongue. It was an exquisite feeling,
somewhere between pleasure and pain.

“I think so,” she eventually said, working lower with her mouth over his diaphragm and onto his
abs. They contracted involuntarily and she ran her tongue down the center toward his navel.

Surprisingly, or maybe not so, that was all the reassurance his overworked and now lust-filled
mind needed, so he just grunted an `Ok' in response. His hands found her wet chocolate mane and
tangled within it. She tilted her head back and he looked down at her, staring in her dark brown
eyes. They slid closed as he massaged his hands through her hair and over her scalp, and when they
reopened he saw something like mischief in them. She slid the rest of the way to the wet floor and
kneeled there, with the warm shower water still running over them both, and licked her lips.

Harry's eyes followed her pink tongue from one corner of her mouth to the other, and then
with widening eyes he watched as it extended from her mouth and she leaned forward, to touch the
very tip of it to the very tip of him.

“Hermione—” he gasped, not believing what she was doing. His eyes slipped closed. The tongue
withdrew and he mourned the loss.

“Just relax, Harry,” she said; her voice was low and throaty. “We've both had long
days.”

He nodded stupidly and opened his eyes, looking back down at her. Their eyes met for one long,
timeless moment, where nothing less than infinite words and emotions passed between them, and then
it was all he could do to keep standing as she leaned forward and captured him in her mouth.

----------

Saturday, November 2nd, 2002; 8:35 pm

The inky blackness of the Manor's backyard receded about ten meters from the Manor itself,
due to the blazing lights in most of the house. Harry stared out at that scene from the kitchen and
dining area, waiting for his tea to finish heating up the Muggle way. Tea always tasted better to
him heated on a stove.

Fat snowflakes wafted down through the night air. Harry followed a few of these with his eyes as
he shifted slightly on his feet. His thick socks rustled against the hardwood floor. He also wore
jeans and Weasley sweater. During the last forty-eight hours, it had become quite cold on the
Scottish highlands, as evidenced by the presence of snow instead of the incessant rain of the last
month or so.

Faintly, he could hear noises coming from far above him, and he smiled at the people he knew to
be gathered there. Tonight was there last little soiree before the election, and the atmosphere had
been surprisingly relaxed all evening. Some of Harry's tension had receded two nights previous,
when he and Hermione had spent at least an hour in the shower, and it hadn't had the chance to
seep back in yet.

Noise signaled the readiness of his tea, and grabbed the cuppa and headed out of the kitchen and
into the parlor. He cradled the warmth of the beverage in his hands and brought it close to his
face, where he inhaled the sweet steam.

“Going soft on us, Harry?” a voice asked, and he stopped and looked toward the two magical
portraits on the wall. One was empty, however, because Sirius, James, and Lily all occupied his
parents' frame.

Sirius was sprawled out on the sofa, Lily was reading in a chair off to the side, and James was
staring through a window in the portrait, though at what Harry did not know.

“And what's that supposed to mean, Snuffles?”

“Sniffing your tea like some old codger,” the older man returned, grinning.

“I thought it was precious,” Lily said, not even looking up from her book. She crossed her legs
and leaned back. James turned away from the window and moved to stand behind the couch where Sirius
lay.

“You'd be doing the same thing if you knew how cold it is here right now,” Harry said, also
smiling a little bit.

“Snowing yet?” James asked, and Harry nodded. Lily marked the page in her book, closed it, and
stood up. She joined James where he stood.

“The big day is close, isn't it?” Lily asked, slipping her arms James's waist.

“This Friday,” Harry affirmed. He took a sip of the strong tea, appreciating its warmth.

“You've nothing to worry about, Harry,” Sirius said, waving his hand idly and sitting up.
Lily rested her other hand on his shoulder as it came level with her abdomen.

“We'll see,” Harry replied.

“We're proud of you, son,” James said. Lily nodded and smiled down at Harry. He looked into
those green eyes of hers, so eerily mirrored on his own face, and saw genuine approval there.

“Thanks mum and dad. And Sirius,” he said, nodding to his parents' best friend. “I'll
stop in again soon, ok?”

“Sure,” Lily agreed, and Harry gave them all one last smile and turned away, leaving the parlor.
He rose through the house from the foyer, preferring the silent journey through the halls of his
home to an Apparition directly into the loft for some reason. The solid physical presence of the
walls, halls, and stairs of *his* home comforted him somehow, as did the knowledge of the five
people waiting for him. He took another sip of tea as he mounted the final set of stairs that would
take him to the loft.

Emerging through the center of the large space—the stairs deposited their occupants in the
middle of the loft—he turned toward the lounge and bar area at the western end, near the balcony
they so often frequented. Sitting in the squashy chairs, around the large screen television
(currently turned off), were Hermione, Ron, Luna, Neville, and Ginny. Harry walked in their
direction and watched as Ron magicked a Butterbeer from the bar through the air into his hand.

“…all the students are complaining about the sudden cold,” Harry heard Neville saying as came
within hearing range.

“Well, they've got the bloody right of it, don't they?” Harry asked, coming around the
chairs and dropping into one next to Hermione. The comfortable chair accepted is presence with a
*whoosh* of escaping air.

“Hey, look who's back,” Ginny said. “We thought you got lost in your own house.” She swept
her long red hair over her shoulder and smiled at him. She sat sideways in her chair, her head
resting on one of the arms and her legs thrown over the other.

“Nah, just stopped for a second to chat with mum, dad, and Sirius.”

“Oh,” a few said at once.

“Anyways,” Harry continued, breaking the suddenly awkward silence, “this weather supposed to
break soon? Or has winter come for good now?”

“For good I'd say,” Ron answered. He had his chair reclined and was sipping from the
Butterbeer. “Though it is nice in London still—had to go to an administrative meeting for the Wasps
today.”

“Administrative?” Hermione asked. She reached over and laid a hand on Harry's arm, still
looking at Ron with a curious expression on her face.

“They've got some new blood,” Ron explained, “And they wanted my opinion on them.” He
shrugged. “I've got the Keep position for as long as I want it, but the other ones are more
fluid, and Bern is retiring after this year…”

“He's their Seeker,” Luna said, looking at Harry. He thought she winked at him. “You should
try out, Harry.”

“Ha ha…” Harry replied. He drank deeply of his tea. “I think, for now, I'm all set in the
job department. After all, if I'm not elected, I do have the Board to fall back on.”

“So you and dad have finalized everything, then?” Ginny asked. “I know he's been quite
stressed lately, though in the past week or so that seems to have dropped off.”

“I think so,” Harry affirmed. “There's not much else for us to do between now and this
Friday, except for some last minute appearances Wednesday and Thursday. If people are going to vote
for us, they'll most likely have already made up their minds.”

“They would have made up their minds as soon as the Boy Who Lived announced his candidacy,” Ron
interjected.

“Well, yes—”

“Ron,” Hermione cut Harry off, rolling her eyes. “Do pay attention to what you're doing,
you're spilling Butterbeer all over the chair,” she said, amusement glittering in her eyes even
though her voice held only chastisement.

“Oops,” Ron answered, not abashed at all. He tilted his Butterbeer upright so it would stop
slopping over the chair, took out his wand and Banished the mess, and then looked at Hermione.

“Happy?” he asked.

“Undoubtedly,” Hermione responded, dryly.

“For a second there I thought we were going to be treated to one of the famous Granger-Weasley
rows,” Neville said.

“I haven't had to yell at Ron in quite some time.”

“Hey, come on, I'm not all that bad,” Ron objected.

“No, you're not,” Luna agreed, and leaned over the edge of her chair to kiss Ron.

Ginny conjured a fluffy stuffed rabbit and threw it at the kissing couple. It whacked Ron
solidly on the arm, sending more Butterbeer sloshing over everything.

“Oi!” Ron called, suddenly drenched in the liquid. He magicked the rabbit back at his sister,
but it stopped midway, hovered for a second, and then disappeared. Everyone looked to Harry, whose
hand was held up. He just arched an eyebrow at them all.

“Oook,” he said, waving his hand and once again cleaning up the spilled Butterbeer. “None of
that, now.”

“You spoil all our fun,” Ginny groused, though she didn't seem too put out.

“I'm still having fun,” Harry quipped, grinning broadly at them all.

“Well now that *that's* settled,” Ron returned, rolling his eyes.

“Where're are John and Erin?” Hermione had asked the question, but before Harry could
respond with the words `shopping' and `London', two voices in unison called out:

“Right here.”

They all turned and saw the two people in question walking toward them, still wearing their
heavy overcoats. The last few months had seen minute changes in John and Erin, most noticeably the
slight darkening of John's blond hair (due to the lack of California sunlight) and the
straighter, taller way Erin carried herself. Harry supposed working closely with and being accepted
by another species for the past few months had done something positive to her self-esteem.

“How was London?” Harry asked.

John shrugged while Erin said, “Alright, getting chilly there, too. We got some quality shopping
in before calling it quits.”

Ron raised his eyebrows. “Shopping, mate?” He was addressing John.

The Muggle shrugged again. “It can be fun. I let Erin here pick out my clothes so I don't
have to…and I think I look pretty good because of it.” John preened a bit, all the while removing
his and Erin's overcoats and throwing them over a nearby sofa. They took seats in two chairs of
their own.

“Oi, not that shite again,” Harry cut in. “I thought you got over that after Stanford.”

“What's to get over?” John asked, haughtily, though he was grinning. “I snagged Erin here,
didn't I? I must be good for something.”

Erin chuckled and shook her head. “I know at least one thing you're good for…”

“Too much information!” Harry stated, waving his arms. “Although, if I remember correctly, it
was *I* who introduced you two to each other…”

“Your point…?” John asked.

“So maybe I `snagged' Erin for you?”

“Hey now,” Erin said, leaning forward slightly and narrowing her eyes slightly at Harry. “No one
`snagged' me, thank you very much. I'm capable of deciding for myself what I want and when
I want it.”

“Oh, I have no doubt about that,” Harry muttered, though he was smiling.

“What was that, Potter?” Erin asked, sharply.

“Nothing,” Harry trilled, smirking at her and sitting back in his chair. He reached for
Hermione's hand and squeezed it. He could tell without looking at her that she had a smile on
her face. How he knew that, he wasn't sure.

“So Ginny,” Hermione said, and, indeed, Harry could hear the smile, “how are plans for the
wedding coming along?”

“Just fine,” Ginny answered, looking between Harry and Erin once, and then settling on Hermione.
“As you already know, the date is Saturday, December 14th. We think we have our guest
list finalized, and invitations should be going out in the next week or so. And before you say
anything, we know it's a bit late for invitations, but there was a hang-up with exactly how
many Weasleys we wanted there.”

“Huh?” Ron articulated, eloquently. “Wouldn't you want all of us?”

“You prat, I meant our extended family. There are so many Weasleys all over Europe now, some of
whom we've never even met, and I had to fight with mum for awhile over limiting the number we
were inviting.”

“Oh.”

“As it is,” Neville spoke up, “we have almost one hundred and fifty people on the guest list. We
didn't need any more than that.”

“Wow,” Hermione stated. “That *is* a lot.”

“We'll manage, though. Minerva is graciously providing Hogwarts' facilities free of
charge for our use, so that helps quite a bit.”

Ginny nodded, agreeing with her fiance, and Harry was nodding, too. It made sense to him that
Minerva would be so accepting of Ginny and Neville. “Makes perfect sense, you know,” he stated,
drawing the attention toward him once again. “Two of her star pupils getting married…of course
she'd want to have it at Hogwarts.”

“We can get into the school for the wedding, right?” Erin asked, and Harry noted some concern in
her voice. “I know you once told us, Harry, that the school is charmed so Muggles can't get
near it.”

“Exceptions can and will be made,” Harry responded. And if McGonagall somehow didn't realize
Erin and John wouldn't be able to attend the wedding without modifications to the wards, he
would personally allow them entrance the day of the wedding.

“How's the transition going?” Luna asked, looking at John and Erin. “You both have been
quite accepting of everything these past few months. If I didn't know better, I'd have
thought you'd been infested with Wrackspurts—they do confuse Muggles, you know.”

John and Erin looked slightly bewildered; Ron rolled his eyes and reached for Luna's hand;
Harry, Hermione and Neville smiled; and Ginny chuckled a little bit at the blond's
characteristic oddness. Even though it had settled some in the intervening years, it sometimes came
out.

“Quite well,” John answered, recovering first. “Six months ago if I had known this was my
future, I might have lost my mind, but all things considered, I'm very happy.” He smiled and
reached over to squeeze Erin's shoulder.

“To be honest, I've learned more with Pilk than I ever did at Stanford, and these are actual
practical applications. And once you get to know them, goblins really aren't very different
from humans, at least in terms of intelligence.”

“I spoke with Ragnok the other day,” Harry said, and John and Erin perked up immediately, at
hearing news of the highest supervisor. “He told me to tell you, Erin, that he was impressed with
the plans you and Pilk were able to come up with for the Hogsmeade branch, and you, John, that
several of your recent investments—specifically one in `Google', have returned huge profit
margins.”

They both graciously accepted the praise. “We have you to thank for it all, Harry. If you
hadn't thought of us, then we wouldn't be in the positions we are now. Nor would we be able
to help you with what you're trying to accomplish—getting nervous about the elections yet?”
John asked.

“Oh, maybe a little bit,” Harry said, waving it off, “but my friends have all helped me along
the way.”

“You'd do the same for us,” Luna said. Harry had no response, and simply inclined his
head.

During the next several hours, conversation passed from subject to subject with no general
direction, as they were wont to do, and eventually the group split along gender lines. The four
women moved across the large room to the small library, and although to Harry it appeared they were
perusing the books, by there surreptitious glances and laughter he knew they were talking about him
and his male friends. He just shook his head in resignation. Women!

The men watched television for a short while, but soon grew bored with it, and moved out onto
the familiar balcony. A combination Warming and Bubblehead charm courtesy of Harry ensured they
would not freeze in the cold, snowy night.

There they discussed their jobs, Quidditch and even a little baseball, and eventually their
significant others. At times the discussion became rather ribald, but they were all more than a
little buzzed, so raucous laughter was the only thing that accompanied statements like `Luna's
ass is amazing' and `I bet Erin's is even better'—which of course sparked a
conversation between John and Ron over the merits of anal sex. Harry only had a few things to say
about Hermione, preferring to let her body speak for itself to his friends, and also wanting
*some* privacy in their relationship, but he did let slip during one hilarious moment that
Hermione could `take it all without gagging'.

And though he thought he might have been hexed if she found out he said that, he was sure the
women had been having at least a similar kind of discussion, if not as obscene. He wondered how
much about his body Ginny, Erin, and Luna now knew…but preferred to leave it at wondering.

Eventually, the hour grew late, and the eight found themselves again seated in the squashy
chairs. Neville and Ginny were the first to leave and John and Erin soon retired to their own room.
Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Luna chatted for awhile longer, and then Luna yawned widely and said she
should be getting home.

“Ok. If it's alright, I think I'll stay here with Harry and Hermione for a little while
longer,” Ron said, standing and pulling Luna into his arms. She gave the three of them a
significant look and nodded, and then kissed Ron goodnight on the lips.

“I'll leave the light on for you, Ronald,” she said, and then was gone with a slight
*pop* of displaced air.

Ron retook his seat and an easy silence settled over the Trio for several minutes. Hermione
ultimately broke it:

“I'm glad you two are so happy,” she said. Her words had just the slightest trace of a slur
in them, which Harry knew was mirrored in Ron's and his.

“Yeah,” Ron said, and then sighed contentedly. He leaned back in his chair and laced his hands
behind his head. He stared vacantly up at the high ceiling of the loft.

“When did you know?” Harry asked, suddenly, breaking himself from the stupor he had slowly been
settling into.

“When did I know what?” Ron asked, still staring into space.

“That you wanted to be with Luna for the rest of your life?”

Silence descended again as he watched Ron furrow his brow in thought. Harry glanced at Hermione,
but she was also watching Ron, waiting for him to respond.

“I think,” the redhead started, slowly, “that some part of me knew as far back as our seventh
year. But I would never have been able to admit it until well after you'd left for
America.”

“How come?” Hermione asked.

“I was an immature git,” Ron spat, looking angry for just a moment. “You know all about that,
I'm sure, Hermione. And you, Harry, you too.”

“Ron—” Harry started, but was interrupted.

“No,” Ron said. “No excuses. You know it's true. I wasn't a very good friend for a long
time, to either of you really, and I have to say I'm sorry. It might not mean much after all
these years, but it's the truth. I wouldn't have been anything without you two there to
back me up and push me along, even when I didn't want it.”

Harry and Hermione looked at each other, startled by Ron's sudden torrent of words. Harry
wondered how long Ron had wanted to say something like that, but had never had the opportunity.

“There's nothing you have to apologize for, to me at least,” Harry responded. Ron still
wasn't looking at them. “But for what it's worth, I accept your apology.”

“I do too, Ron,” Hermione added.

Ron sighed again. “Thanks. After you left, Harry, I was at loose ends for awhile. It had always
been the three of us, for as long as I could remember. But when you left…Hermione, you buried
yourself in your work, so I didn't know what to do with myself. I think I might have actually
been going into a depression, but Luna forced me to talk about it and it was at that point that I
realized how special she was.”

“You certainly have grown up,” Hermione stated, softly, after a few moments. Ron smiled wryly
and looked at them both for the first time in awhile.

“Thanks…but maybe not as much as you'd like to think.”

She shrugged. “Everyone needs a bit of youth in them.”

Ron laughed. “You should tell that to your lover there,” he said, motioning to Harry with his
hand. “Mr. Vice Minister.”

Rather than joking back at Ron, Harry asked a serious question. It was something that had been
weighing on his mind for a long time. “You're all right with it, though? All of you, I mean,
not just you and Hermione?”

“Sure, why wouldn't we be?” Ron asked, genuinely surprised. Harry glanced at Hermione and
saw that she had pursed her lips, probably in annoyance at his self-doubt.

“Dunno…it's just, I've been gone for so long, and now I'm back, and all the
attention is on me once again…”

“Harry—” Hermione started, but Ron waved her off.

“The attention would be on you anyways,” he said. “You're Harry bloody Potter, the ruddy Boy
Who Conquered, et cetera…even if you weren't going balls out with this whole candidacy thing,
you'd be in the press simply because you're back.”

Hermione arched an eyebrow. “Balls out?”

“You wouldn't know; you don't have them,” Ron shot back.

And then Harry laughed. “I should hope not!” he exclaimed, through his laughter. Hermione looked
like she wanted to say something back at Ron, but she bit her tongue and just smiled instead.

“It's been a long since we've done this,” Ron said, once Harry's laughter had died
away.

“Hmm?”

“You know, the three of us, just sit around and talk,” he explained.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, thinking of the last time the Trio had actually done anything meaningful
together. “I suppose so.”

“The little boy with dirt on his nose became a Quidditch star,” Ron reminisced.

“The bossy, bookish know-it-all became head of her own department,” Hermione added, smiling and
nodding at some memory.

“And the scared, scrawny boy might be Vice Minister…” Harry finished.

“You forgot your most important accomplishment,” Hermione told him.

“Oh? And what's that?” Harry asked.

“Vanquishing Voldemort,” she supplied, in a tone that told Harry he should have known that.

He smiled at her. “Don't you mean *our* accomplishment?” He looked from Hermione to
Ron.

“We haven't done half bad, have we?”

“No Ron, we haven't. Not at all,” Harry affirmed, thinking of how far the three of them had
come since that scary day on the Hogwarts Express. Eleven years later they were still able to sit
around and talk to each other.

“It's certainly taken a lot to get us to this point,” Hermione said, almost wistfully.

“Time and blood and sweat…and tears,” Ron added.

Harry grinned at them. “It was all worth it.”

-->



25. Reality Check
-----------------



**Bearings**

Disclaimer/Author's Notes: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. I am sure many of you are wondering
why my stories seem to thrive with bursts of updates and then languish with long periods of
dryness. The reason for this is quite simple: I am in between my third and fourth (final) years of
undergraduate coursework, so during the semesters from approximately late August to December and
late January to May, I have very little time for creative writing. This is compounded by the fact
that I have been working on preliminaries for my thesis for quite some time now, which I will be
working extensively on in the coming year. I also will be applying to several PhD programs across
the country, and then hopefully moving on to graduate school next fall. The demand upon my time has
not only distanced my mind from the Potter Universe, but also made it incredibly difficult to keep
up with my own stories (and their slightly skewed universes). However, having so little time to
myself has made me appreciate what little creative writing I am able to do, so I would like to say
here and now, and with some kind of finality, that my stories will never be abandoned, but they may
also never be completed. Both *Bearings* and *Growing Up Granger* are extended works of
creative fiction, with the former projected at 500,000 words and the latter at over one million
words. Both stories have always seemed slightly over-ambitious to me, especially considering I may
be working toward my PhD in literature for the next five or six years, but it is *without fail
you the reader who has kept me coming back to my stories and the Potter Universe*. So I guess
what I'm trying to say is that as long as Portkey and fanfiction.net exist, my stories will
continue, in the hopes that someday they will be complete. Thank you for your patience and your
enduring support over the past three years. And now, on with the show.

*One day our generation*

*Is gonna rule the population*

*So we keep waiting*

*Waiting on the world to change*

John Mayer

*Waiting on the World to Change*

Chapter Sixteen: Reality Check

Friday, November 8th, 2002; 5:25 am

Harry Potter had a lot on his mind. If the issues weighing on him were the mundane problems of
every day life—such as sleeping through the alarm, running out of a necessary grocery, or needing
petrol for the auto—then he most likely would have been much less stressed. But because Harry was
not an ordinary human being, his problems were similarly less normal, and more along the lines of
the impending general Wizarding election, further acclimation to the Gringotts Board of Directors,
and the agonizingly slow process of reassimilating into magical Britain.

So who could blame Harry for feeling drawn somewhat thin as he entered the kitchen for
breakfast? Today was the big day, as far as his political career was concerned; wizards and witches
all across the kingdom would vote for their new Minister and Vice Minister as the day wore on,
assuming of course they could cast a corporeal Patronus. He ran a frustrated hand through his
thick, dark locks as he considered that issue yet again, and realized there was absolutely nothing
he could do until after he was (hopefully) elected. The bias for the magically capable—and
therefore the best educated and most likely the wealthiest—was astounding, but it was only one of
the countless problems facing Arthur and Harry if they were elected.

As the campaign had intensified through the summer months and into autumn, it had become more
and more readily apparent to Harry, who had already known generally that Wizarding Britain was very
backward, that he and Arthur had a huge task in front of them. Their ultimate goal, as far as they
had discussed, was complete equality for all magical sentient beings, or as complete as could be
realistically obtained. Obviously the Merpeople, who were limited to water, wouldn't be able to
set up shop in Diagon Alley. Really, though, it was about a complete and utter paradigm shift in
the overall magical consciousness; it was staggering to think about, especially in such explicit
terms, but Harry's desire to even run with Arthur had been predicated upon egalitarianism.

Today he would face the general public, most of which had seemed to be clamoring for him and
Arthur in the previous months, and hopefully assume the secondary position of power in
Britain's magical government. To top it all off, he was only twenty-two, and had been out of
college for a mere six months. The doubts that lingered just below the surface of his consciousness
were given voice by the quiet opposition that had also grown; he honestly did not think the
opponents had enough support to beat Arthur and him, but the unsettled feeling that all things
would not turn out well would not leave him. There was nothing specific to make him feel this
way—all political battles were vicious and uncompromising—but as he sat at the table with his small
breakfast, he wondered what exactly would go wrong.

Harry wasn't usually given to this kind of direct pessimism, but the recent scare with the
Dementor and some latent worries over the safety of his friends, especially the relatively
defenseless John and Erin, had forced him to view things through a more realistic lens. His life
had been rather idyllic for a month or two at the start of the summer, but nothing that good ever
lasted. And even if nothing overtly bad happened, he knew his running and the presence of two
Muggles working within the magical world had sowed certain seeds of resentment in the more
conservative sectors of the public.

He preferred to think of the far right as “backwards” because of how close-minded most of them
seemed to be, but he had an idea that perhaps lumping them all into that category was not fair to
them. Sure, many of the ultra-conservatives hated the idea of equality and wanted to preserve the
old ways, but only a select few were as extreme as the Pureblood bigotry Riddle and his followers
had spouted off. It was the fact that those were the most vociferous of the more
conservative-minded witches and wizards that had made the campaign so trying toward the end,
because they rallied against Arthur and Harry. Harry had been called naive and inexperienced, and
Arthur had been called Muggle-loving and crazy. Never mind that Harry had put an end to
Riddle's twenty-five year reign of terror, and that Arthur had worked for the Ministry quietly
and efficiently for about three decades.

Honestly, Harry's pessimism came more from weariness at this point; he just wanted the
campaign to be over with and the election to happen, so he could end this ceaseless wondering over
whether or not he would become the new Vice Minister. This was because on top of the push for
election, he had also been as active as possible at Gringotts, working closely with Ragnok,
Griphook, and the board members to facilitate the transition of the Wizarding world from a
classist, racist, and sexist society toward something much more equitable. The financial sector
that Gringotts represented was one of the fundamental pillars of any society, so knowing he was a
part of the internal power structure that could implement ground-breaking changes helped him to
accept his workload, but it did not lessen his weariness.

He could remember only one other time when he had felt this fatigued, and that was directly
after he had finally watched Riddle plummet from the Astronomy tower; now was different than then,
of course, because before disillusionment and a feeling of helplessness had filled him, but it did
not comfort him to have only that one other time with which to compare his current feelings.

A small smile graced his face has he considered the other big difference between then and now,
which of course was Hermione and their stunning relationship. Occasionally Harry would reflect on
all that had happened in his life since the middle of May, and the most unbelievable thing to him,
even with all of this election business and John and Erin living and working in the magical world,
was how well and easily things had gone with Hermione.

What they had with each other was absolutely exquisite, and there was really no other way to put
it, in his mind. They had developed an incredibly strong and fruitful friendship when they were
young, and somehow it had changed into this magnificent and fulfilling relationship. At times he
wondered how someone so perfect could want to be with him, but a tiny voice in the back of his head
knew she wondered the same thing about him sometimes—not because he was perfect, of course, but
really because they'd had so few problems since coming back together at Stanford. Domestic
bliss was a relatively new concept to Harry, but he had come to depend on it as a fountain of
strength during the last few months.

Another voice in the back of his head would sometimes ask him if he planned to make it official
with Hermione, and he had always told it that something like that would have to wait until after
the election was decided. And now that the day of judgment was upon them all, it looked like his
reason for delaying was coming to an end. His heartbeat increased a bit as he considered what
actually asking Hermione the big question would be like: he had no problem with giving speeches in
front of hundreds of people, but the prospect of asking Hermione to marry him made him nervous. He
supposed it was something all men felt before they proposed—will she say yes?—but that did not make
it any easier. He loved Hermione and longed to spend the rest of his hopefully long life with her.
Taking that next big step would require courage, though.

Soft noises near the kitchen alerted Harry to the presence of another person, and sure enough,
it was Hermione who ambled through the door. She was tying her hair into a loose ponytail and
smiled at him as she passed on her way to the refrigerator.

“Morning, Harry,” she said.

“Good morning, Hermione,” he answered, watching her bend slightly at the waist to look for
something.

“You sleep well, love?” she asked, straightening up and bringing the orange juice to the
counter. He thought she might have caught him looking at her bum, because there was amusement
sparkling in her eyes. She took a glass down from one of the cupboards and poured herself some of
the juice.

“Just ok, really,” Harry answered. He sighed. “Tonight will be better because I will finally
know either way.”

Hermione nodded and sat across from him, wrapping one of his hands with both of hers. They were
warm and soft, and he squeezed them gently. “I think I already know what the outcome will be,” she
said, with another soft smile.

“Oh?”

She nodded. “Of course, Vice Minister Potter.”

He couldn't help but smile. “Let's not get too hasty, Director Granger. We can't
know that for sure yet.”

“Oh nonsense,” she said, releasing his hand and turning in her chair. She grabbed a banana from
the fruit bowl on the counter behind her. “Everyone at the Ministry knows you and Arthur are a
lock, so enough with this skepticism!”

Harry shrugged. “If you say so,” he said, and the two of them ate in silence for several
minutes. Harry appreciated Hermione's support, and knew that she wasn't just building him
up, but the lingering doubt would not recede.

“When are you voting?” Hermione asked, after a time. She had finished her banana and continued
to sip the orange juice.

“Arthur and I are voting sometime after lunch in the atrium. It's a publicity stunt, mostly,
but it should at least push some of the fencers in our direction.” Harry had begun calling the
undecided witches and wizards `fencers' because of their position on the fence regarding the
election.

“Maybe I'll come and watch,” she said, tossing back the last drops of juice. “I'll
probably vote sometime during lunch—it's actually going to be a rather busy day,” Hermione
said, standing and moving toward the sink. Harry joined her with his dirty glass and bowl, and they
rinsed the dishes side by side.

“Yeah? What's on your plate for the day?” he wondered. He supposed if he was elected he
would become much more familiar with Hermione's department, but for now he had to rely mostly
on what she told him about her job. It was easy to forget that she was the Director of one of the
busiest departments at the Ministry, because she handled everything so well. She'd cut her
hours down to around forty-five per week, from the sixty or more she had been working before
getting the promotion, and as far as Harry could tell was balancing work and life much better
because of that.

“I have an interdepartmental meeting first thing, with all the other directors,” she started.
“Mostly we just update each other on the status of our various departments, but it can be long and
tedious if there are any big events planned.”

“Like an election?”

She looked at him. “Yeah, like that. Anyways, after that I have to finalize some paperwork
dealing with some Knightbus policy changes, which will hopefully fix the most recent Muggle
sightings of a `giant, three-story purple bus.' I also review the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts
register daily, or as close to daily as possible, to make sure that nothing big has slipped our
notice. That takes some time, and can be especially stressful if something on the list stands
out—”

“Like what?” Harry wondered, truthfully curious.

“Well, last week there were several cars that had been modified to literally eat their owners
and then spit out the remains through the exhaust. I had to deal with the Muggle authorities, who
were quite understandably bewildered at what had happened; I also had to straighten out the Motor
Vehicle Authority, because they thought they had the jurisdiction to impound the cars. Because they
were magical evidence, which I could only explain to one person because he was a squib, I had to
confiscate the cars and impound them in the Ministry collection… It's a long and fairly boring
story, but basically I try to smooth things out with the Muggle power structure as much as I can.
Magical people are constantly taking advantage of Muggles—”

“You mean like Harry did when he Apparated us over here?” John's voice cut across the room.
Harry and Hermione turned to see their housemates entering the kitchen, and smiled at them.

“I didn't take advantage of you,” Harry disagreed.

“Then what would you call it?” Erin asked, sitting at the table with John. “Implied
consent?”

Harry laughed, and so did Hermione. “No, no,” he said, finishing with the dishes and turning
toward them. “I was thinking something more along the lines of plausible deniability.” John and
Erin started to laugh also. The morning had suddenly turned merry.

“You're certainly in a good mood this morning, Potter,” John commented, after he stopped
laughing. Erin nodded in agreement. “You're not nervous at all?”

Harry shook his head. “On the contrary,” he said. “I'm quite anxious. These ruddy elections
just need to be over with.”

“Well you hide it well,” Erin said.

“Thanks,” Harry commented, rolling his eyes at her. “But if you two will excuse us, Hermione and
I need to shower and change for the day ahead of us.” He took Hermione's hand, glanced at her
for agreement, and prepared to Disapparate from the kitchen.

“How long do you think they'll be in the shower?” John asked, loud enough for Harry and
Hermione to clearly hear. Harry paused, just before he Disapparated, and both he and Hermione
looked at John and Erin.

“I don't know,” Erin said, looking at them and grinning. “It depends on how *active*
they were last night.”

“Wouldn't you like to know,” Hermione said, though there was clearly humor in her voice.

John just raised his eyebrows at them. “Are you two or are you not both magical? You should
seriously consider soundproofing the master suite every now and then…”

Harry grinned cheekily at them. “We could say the same about you two, but alas, you're
Muggles. We've soundproofed our room *because of* you two before,” he said, winking, and
then Disapparating soundlessly into the master bathroom with Hermione.

“Sadly, though, I have to get going soon,” Harry said, turning to Hermione with a pout. She
patted him on the shoulder.

“It's ok. There's always tonight, Vice Minister, when we will most certainly be
celebrating your win.”

He chuckled slightly for a moment, watching Hermione casually strip for the shower. “For both
our sakes, I hope so.”

----------

Harry and Arthur were finally able to Disapparate from the Ministry at 6:30 that night. They
appeared behind the Burrow, because before Hermione had left for the day she told them Molly was
getting everyone together to wait for the results of the election.

It had been a whirlwind of a day, filled with public appearances, rallies with supporters, and
now the agony of waiting. Harry had watched with mounting frustration as many witches and wizards
attempted to vote, only to eventually give up on casting the Patronus. The unofficial tally, last
he'd heard, was eighteen percent; that is, less than twenty percent of voting age magical
people in Britain successfully voted. That number also accounted for those who simply never showed
up to vote. Harry thought it was quite ridiculous.

“Now we wait,” Arthur said, turning toward Harry and slipping his arm around the younger
man's shoulders. Harry nodded and they walked in amiable silence toward the house. It
truthfully shouldn't be very long until they knew one way or the other—a few hours at the
most—but this was the culmination of several months of work, and a lifetime of
disenfranchisement.

“What do you think? Honestly?” Harry asked, as they approached the rear door. They passed
through, into the kitchen, and could hear people gathered in the living room beyond.

Arthur sighed heavily—an ominous sound, for sure—and turned toward Harry. The Weasley patriarch
looked extraordinarily tired, but Harry also saw something like hope and vigor in his wizened eyes.
It was a comforting sight.

“I think it will be close,” Arthur answered, seeming to consider his words carefully. “My gut
tells me that we did it, that we won, but instincts aren't always correct.”

“True,” Harry said, though he could think of few times when his instincts had led him astray. It
was too bad they were deathly quiet at the moment, because they might have eased his nerves.

“This is a pivotal moment, though,” Arthur continued, sitting at the table, and motioning for
Harry to do the same.

“You mean for us?” Harry wondered, sitting across from Arthur.

“Well—yes, but for our world too,” Arthur said. “Remember when I asked you to run with me I told
you that Albus had been worried in the years before he died about the Wizarding world stagnating
and eventually drying up?”

Harry nodded; he remembered the gist of what Arthur had said that evening at the Burrow several
months ago. That had been the same night they had played that wonderful Quidditch game, when both
Bill and Charlie had been present.

“If we lose this election, Harry, I think we might find ourselves in that situation soon enough.
There's no forward movement anymore; no new ideas or new relations. All the magical populations
have been becoming more and more isolated from each for the past several decades, and we've all
become so complacent as a society that the rut will continue to deepen.”

Harry just looked at him. “You don't paint a pretty picture.” Even Harry's fairly
negative view of the magical society wasn't quite as bleak.

Arthur shrugged. “But it's the truth, and I think you know it. The conservatives clamoring
for things to remain unchanged ad infinitum don't realize that change is healthy; progress
doesn't necessarily mean bigger and better, because we all know that history and time are
essentially cyclic, but if we can't learn from the past to affect the future, then what are we
even doing?”

“If we don't win, where do you see us in twenty years?” Harry asked, referring to magical
Britain in general.

“The government will have split into many smaller, rivaling factions, each vying for some kind
of power; the goblins will have abandoned us and will most likely take our economy with them; and
institutions such as Hogwarts will most likely close down indefinitely.”

Harry's eyebrows crept up his forehead. “So basically, if the Wizarding world doesn't
wake up soon, it will do a better job ruining itself than Voldemort would ever have.”

“Something like that.”

“Then we better win,” Harry said, standing up and turning toward the living room. Arthur joined
him.

“Yes, we better,” the older man agreed, and then they moved into the next room. Many familiar
faces greeted them, with all of their close friends and family—except Bill, Fleur, and Charlie—in
attendance for the results. Harry's eyes immediately sought Hermione, and she paused in her
conversation with Ginny and Luna to meet his eyes for a moment and smile. He returned the gesture,
and then was herded by Fred and George toward Ron and Neville. Arthur drifted off to chat with
Molly and Minerva.

“Ah, the prodigal son has finally returned,” Fred said, when the five men stood together. “And
how are the prospects looking?”

“Your father seems to think it will be close, but that we will win in the end; I, on the other
hand, have absolutely no idea. We'll just have to wait and see how the chips fall.”

“Harry bloody Vice Minister Potter,” Ron said, sounding slightly awed for a moment. Harry gave
him a skeptical look, and then Ron shook his head a bit. “Although, what's one more title when
you already have twenty or so?”

“Ha, ha, Ron…” Harry said, though he smiling.

“He hasn't earned it *quite* yet,” George cut in. “But I will wager any one of you 50
galleons that before the night is over, he will have.” The twin looked around for several seconds,
waggling his eyebrows.

“That's a fool's bet,” Neville said. “We all know Harry and Arthur will win.”

“We do?” Harry asked.

“Oh come off it,” Ron scoffed. “Of course you're going to win, Harry—you never lose.”

For some reason Harry thought of what he *had* actually lost, namely his parents, Sirius,
and Dumbledore, but he didn't say that out loud. He didn't want to ruin the generally
jovial mood of the evening.

“And I do not think he will lose tonight,” a new, rather feminine voice said. The men looked up
to see Ginny, Luna, and Hermione moving to join them. The parted slightly so the three women could
slide into their natural positions next to Neville, Ron, and Harry. Luna had been the one to assert
Harry's victory.

“Merlin, all this boring chatter about winning and losing! There's nothing anyone can do
about the results now, so why don't we just relax for a little while and, when the time comes,
the broadcast over the Wireless will tell us for sure,” Ginny said, glancing around at them
all.

Harry nodded. “Perhaps some of the most sensible advice you have ever given, Ginny,” Harry said.
Constantly discussing whether or not he thought he won or lost was annoying and honestly rather
boring now, so instead they joined the rest of those in attendance and caught up on recent
events.

Remus and Tonks, Harry found out, were away on vacation with their young son; they had made it a
point, however, to prove before they left they could cast corporeal Patroni and were planning to
send in absentee ballots. Harry hadn't talked with Remus in any meaningful sense since before
he'd left for Stanford, and he missed their quiet, introspective discussions. Perhaps sometime
in the near future, when Remus returned from his vacation, Harry would seek him out and get to know
the older man once again. After all, Remus was the last of the Marauders, and Harry was sure he
would love to see the portraits at the Manor.

But that was neither here nor there, and the general drift of the conversation soon turned
toward Hogwarts, with Minerva and Neville leading the discussion and fielding several questions by
those who had become unfamiliar with the school since graduating. Enrollment was up, curriculums
were improving, and the house rivalry had been reduced to healthy competition, rather than blood
and class rivalry.

“Oh, Harry,” Neville said, apparently suddenly remembering something. “I proofread the most
recent edition of *Hogwarts, A History*, and you now have an entire chapter to yourself.”

“Wonderful,” Harry articulated, dryly. Hermione, who had her arm around his waist, gave him a
comforting squeeze. He knew she couldn't wait to get her hands on the new edition, though. He
gave her a sidelong, knowing glance. She just smiled innocently.

“Yes, I thought you might say something like that,” Neville continued. “The chapter is called
*The Harry Potter Era: War and Salvation, 1991 - 1998.* They gave the preceding chapter a new
title as well: *The Modern Era: Albus Dumbledore and Thomas Riddle, 1945 - 1991.*”

“I hope you five are at least mentioned in the newest chapter,” Harry said, referring to the
five others who had stood by his side at the very end. Neville nodded.

“We are, as is everyone here, actually. The last two chapters are more of a brief history of the
Wizarding world, rather than just Hogwarts.”

“Do not forget, Neville, that Hogwarts holds an intrinsic place within the fabric of Wizarding
history, especially since Dumbledore took over as Headmaster. He, more than anyone else, worked to
unite the disparate reaches of our society,” McGonagall chimed in, making Harry think of all the
various lectures she gave them at Hogwarts.

“I think we all know that, and appreciate it,” Harry said, quietly, looking around at everyone.
Perhaps some of them were thinking how wrong it was that Dumbledore wasn't here to see his
protege most likely step forward and assume major responsibility in the world. Harry certainly felt
the weight of the former Headmaster's legacy, as well as the monumental expectations that had
been placed upon his shoulders by Dumbledore and, by proxy, those who had known the man.

The rather somber silence was broken by laughter coming from the direction of the kitchen, and
soon after John and Erin walked into the room. They were holding hands and smiling about
something.

“Hey all, sorry we're late, but we got hung up at work. Some of the goblins were throwing a
party in hopes of Harry and Arthur winning the election, so we stayed and mingled a bit. Who knew
the goblins could have a bit of fun?” John asked, rhetorically.

“We all knew *you two* could have a bit of fun, at least,” Harry put in, prompting some
banter between him and John. The mood eased up a bit with their effortless camaraderie, and time
passed as the evening wore on toward night. Someone was always within hearing distance of the
Wireless for when the results of the election were announced, but Harry was trying to keep his mind
occupied, lest he dwell any more than he already was on the outcome. The large group of his closest
friends provided comfort and distraction enough, so when Ginny suddenly announced around 8:15 that
the results were coming up, Harry couldn't believe how quickly the time had passed.

They all crowded around the Wireless set to listen to what could, according to Arthur, make or
break of the future of the Wizarding world. Harry doubted many of the others understood the
implications as well as Arthur, or even wanted to think about them, so these results meant many
different things for different people. For John and Erin, celebration would ensue because they
supported Harry and wanted to see him succeed. Harry had told them one reason for their inclusion
in the magical world—the betterment of relations between magical people and Muggles *and*
between goblins and humans—but they had not yet been a part of the world long enough to completely
understand. For Arthur, it meant the eventual survival or destruction of the world. For Harry, it
meant some definite direction in his life and also the ability to fulfill the legacy of his
mentor.

Hermione squeezed in next to Harry and gripped his hand. He looked into her eyes for a moment,
seeing nothing but love and support, and leaned in for a quick kiss.

“Good luck,” she whispered.

“Thanks,” he whispered back, and they held onto each other.

“Good evening, witches and wizards across Britain,” a voice emanating from the Wireless began.
“Tonight is an historic night for us, because of how close the election for the new Minister and
Vice Minister was. Separated by only two percent of the votes, the winners and runners-up garnered
forty-eight and forty-six percent of the votes, respectively.”

Harry felt the tension increase in the room. He looked toward Arthur and locked gazes with the
older man. Rather than speak now, Harry Legilimenced a simple thought to Arthur: *whatever
happens, it has been a pleasure running with you*.

Arthur's eyes widened momentarily, probably a bit stunned by hearing Harry's voice in
his head, but nodded soon thereafter. He mouthed `likewise' to Harry.

“So without further ado,” the voice continued, “the votes are counted and the results are in:
your new Minister is Arthur Weasley”—many gasps and cheers all around, and Harry's chest
started to swell—“and your new Vice Minister is none other than Harry Potter.” And then Harry was
temporarily deafened as the cheers broke out in earnest around him. He would only preserve
snapshots of the next ten minutes in his memory, because of how loud and celebratory they were; two
things that stood in his mind were Molly's tears of joy and Hermione's intense, prolonged
embrace, during which she whispered words of congratulations and support in his ear.

Harry was the new Vice Minister. He was second-in-command of the Wizarding government. While he
didn't formally take office until December 1st, he had been elected. What would that
mean? What would he accomplish as a high-ranking member of the government? Only the future would
tell, and for the rest of that night he enjoyed the prospect of embracing the unknown with high
expectations.

---------

Monday, November 11th, 2002; 8:58 am

“Thank you all for being here an hour earlier than we normally meet,” Ragnok addressed everyone
in the room. Harry glanced around, and saw that the Board was only missing one of its members, who
would likely meander in within five or ten minutes. The goblin in question, Kregg, was notoriously
late for everything. John and Erin flanked Harry, which was highly unusual because only Board
members attended Board meetings, but several of the issues to be discussed involved the two
Muggles. Ragnok had asked Harry the previous night through owl post if he would bring them.

“I would have liked to begin at ten o'clock, as usual, but our newest member has another
engagement at 10:15, and one that bodes extremely well for the future of Gringotts and
wizard-goblin relations,” Ragnok continued, looking at Harry with his beady eyes. Harry inclined
his head, acknowledging what Ragnok was referencing: at 10:15, Harry had to stand before the
Wizengamot with Arthur to be provisionally sworn into office. As the Minister- and Vice
Minister-elect, the two men were of course expected to attend, unless some unforeseen emergency
made that impossible.

Harry could still hardly believe that he had actually been elected, but it had slowly started to
sink in over the weekend; perhaps when he swore to uphold and fulfill the expectations of office,
it would become more real, but for now it still seemed like fantasy.

“Along those same lines, I would like to formally congratulate Director Potter on his election
to the office of Vice Minister.” Ragnok looked directly at him once again. “Well done.” There was
some light clapping, and even a few cheers—or noises that might have passed as cheers—and Harry
received it all with a smile. He was glad the goblins had supported him, and he hoped he didn't
let them down.

“Now, to get started,” Ragnok said, switching gears and rifling through some papers, “we need to
discuss our plans for envoys to the Continent—”

Ragnok cut himself off and looked toward the side of the room, where a door had just swung open.
Sure enough, Kregg entered and walked over to the table, taking his customary seat. Ragnok and
Kregg stared at each other; Harry wondered why Ragnok let the other goblin treat the Board with
such disrespect, especially considering how much esteem Ragnok actually commanded among
goblins.

“Nice of you to finally join us.” Kregg said nothing. “If you will direct your attention this
way,” Ragnok indicated, pointing his arm toward Harry, “our Muggle friends are joining us today so
we can discuss some matters in which they are involved.”

“Good morning,” Kregg croaked. His voice sounded like a bullfrog. Then he resumed staring
straight ahead. Harry thought his behavior was very strange. Ragnok looked at the goblin for
another few seconds, shook his head slightly, and then turned back to his papers.

“Alright, the envoys,” he said, jumping back into what he was saying. “Our next one is scheduled
for just after the New Year, to Rome. We are supposed to be meeting with the magical leaders of
Italy to discuss future plans for Mediterranean branches of Gringotts.” He looked at Harry, who had
been listening to all of this silently. “Director Potter, if you are available on the second
through the fourth of January, I would much appreciate it if you could go. We have no presence in
Southern Europe, so I do not know how well- or ill-received our actual presence will be on Italian
soil.”

Rome? Harry had never been, but he couldn't think of a reason why he would be unable to
accommodate Ragnok's wishes. “As long as I'm available, I would love to go and meet with
the Italian government. It probably also is a good opportunity to speak with them about my
*other* position,” Harry said, earning a smile from the Director.

“Assuming Rome goes well, we have other trips planned for Madrid, Valencia, Marseille, Naples,
Palermo, and Athens. Though no dates have been determined yet, I would like for you to go on as
many of these trips as possible.”

Harry nodded. It looked he was going to become a world traveler. His long-distance Apparition
skill was going to come in handy.

“But for now, I need three volunteers to accompany Director Potter to Rome, so we have four
Directors present for the meetings. Who would like to go?”

Ragnok looked around the room. All was silent; Harry looked to John and then Erin with an arched
eyebrow, expressing his dubiousness at having no goblins immediately volunteer for the trip. After
several moments, two goblins sitting next to each other raised their clawed hands. They made eye
contact with Harry, and he quirked his lips into a small smile, thanking them.

“Thank you, Directors Hillmook and Nebnar. I need one more—I would go myself, but the new
Hogsmeade branch is scheduled to open on the third of January, and I have to be present for the
ribbon cutting ceremony and grand opening.”

The goblin that had come late, Kregg, then raised his hand. Ragnok and the other goblins seemed
surprised, for some reason, at this development. Kregg merely stared at Ragnok with his hand in the
air.

“Then you will be the fourth Director, Kregg,” Ragnok said, after recovering. “So Directors
Potter, Nebnar, Kregg, and Hillmook will be heading to Rome, hopefully opening up more business
throughout the Mediterranean. Like I said, if all goes well, more trips are planned. So be ready
for those in the future.

“Now I'd like to turn the floor over to Erin Lowell, one of our security engineers and
someone with whom all of you are most likely familiar. She will be detailing us on recent
improvements to overall security, as well as future improvements we have planned and what our
security teams have lined up for the Hogsmeade branch.”

Harry heard her take a deep breath and she slowly rose from her seat. He looked up at her and
smiled, lending her some support in this toughest of crowds. John, on his right side, was beaming
at her.

“Thank you, Director. May your vault be well-guarded,” she started. Ragnok grinned at her. “As
he said, we have been working on some improvements in security—”

“Improvements?” cut in a goblin, staring at Erin and then looking to Ragnok. “Since when have we
needed help with guarding our secrets?” An awkward silence passed then; the goblin that spoke was
Yart, long known for his antipathy toward humans and especially those that intruded upon Gringotts
business. He had been one of the only dissenting opinions as far as Harry joining the Board was
concerned.

“Yes—Director Yart, is it?—improvements are in order—”

“My question was directed toward Director Ragnok,” Yart cut in again, glaring at her and then
once again looking at Ragnok. The Director was staring down at the polished table, tapping his
claws against the hard surface in a rhythmic manner. The room was filled with
*clickclickclickclick… clickclickclickclick… clickclickclickclick…* Harry could tell that
Ragnok was frustrated. Other board meetings had had similar interruptions and awkwardness because
of Harry's presence, but all that had faded through the fall; it seemed that the presence of
two Muggles in the Gringotts boardroom was still too much for Yart, though. The few other goblin
Board members known to have more conservative leanings stayed quiet.

“Would you continually interrupt me if I was giving this status update?” Ragnok asked, in a low
voice, still staring at the table. Harry had never seen the goblin leader truly angry, but there
seemed to be some genuine anger seething beneath his words and controlled demeanor.

“Of course not, Director,” Yart responded, not sounding chagrined at all.

“Then you would do well to show Miss Lowell the same courtesy and respect you would show any of
us.”

“Be that as it may,” Yart said, plowing forward, obviously unaware of Ragnok's concealed
frustration, or not caring, “why do we need to improve our security? I could count the number of
times we've had breaches on one hand.”

And then Ragnok glanced up, but it was not at Yart; instead, he glanced toward Harry, who was
astounded to see the rage and anguish obviously apparent in Ragnok's eyes. If Harry were
pressed, he would say that Ragnok wanted to kill Yart just then.

So Harry took the bull by the horns, so to speak, and quickly stood from his chair. He made
quick eye contact with Erin, and by the time he looked back to Ragnok, the goblin had resumed
staring at the table. The focus of the room zeroed in on him.

“Why shouldn't we work to improve security?” Harry stared at Yart, hoping he wasn't
overstepping any boundaries, now that he had Ragnok's tacit approval. “Yart, could you explain
to me why you think we *shouldn't* continually strive to better ourselves?”

Yart looked supremely surprised, almost comically so. He spluttered for a moment. “This—this is
an outrage—how dare you—”

“No, Yart,” Harry said, cutting the goblin off, and then holding his breath for half a second to
see if there would be any retaliation. Surprise still seemed to override any anger or aggression,
however. “What's *outrageous* is your inability to separate yourself from the past.
Director Ragnok brought me onto this Board—and I brought Mr. Sanders and Miss Lowell into
Gringotts—to work against exactly the type of conservative, bigoted policies you support.

“I don't understand how you can resist change so much, because, as far as I can tell, your
past consists of persecution, estrangement, and belittlement. Goblins for many centuries now have
been treated like refuse, so I'm wondering why you want things to stay like this? I know you
are questioning the need for new security, but what you're really asking is why the three of
us”—Harry indicated John, Erin, and himself with a sweep of his hand—“are here in the first place.
Am I wrong?”

Nothing but shocked silence came from Yart, who was staring open-mouthed. Harry looked around
the room quickly, and saw all eyes riveted upon him; even Ragnok was looking at him now. Kregg had
an enigmatic smile on his face. The rest of the goblins were quite impassive.

“I'll take your silence as a confirmation,” Harry said, placing his palms flat on the table
and leaning forward. He was looking at and speaking directly to Yart now. “I was elected Vice
Minister on a platform of equality, but for that to happen—for *you* to reap the benefits of
what we *all* may sow in the future—you have to *want* that equality. I can't help
you if you don't want to help yourself; someday I would love to see goblins and humans mingling
with unbiased feelings toward each other, but that will not and cannot happen unless both sides are
willing to take a long, hard look in the mirror.

“We wizards need to address what we've done in the past to suppress other magical species
and bend them to our will, and other species, such as goblins, need to be willing to work with us
and move forward with a positive attitude, instead of this bloody negative, close-minded mentality.
Now, if you have no further objections, I will let Erin continue with her report.”

Harry raised his eyebrows at Yart, staring hard at the goblin, having been completely swept up
in the moment and not realizing that every single living being in the room could feel the pulse of
his magic in time with beat of his heart, and that rather than fear they were experiencing awe. The
two exceptions were Ragnok, who looked calmly and approving at Harry, and Yart, who was simply
dumbfounded. Harry nodded, more to himself, and sat down.

In the ensuing silence, John leaned into his side. “That was something, Harry,” he whispered. “I
think I could actually feel your magic…”

Harry briefly closed his eyes. He'd forgotten about that little aspect of his core—whenever
he was excited or passionate about something, his magic would bleed into the atmosphere. It must
have been particularly strong this time if John, a Muggle, could felt it as well.

“It happens sometimes,” Harry whispered back, leaning back in his chair a bit and motioning for
silence, because Erin had just taken a deep breath. She'd been carefully avoiding eye contact
with Harry since he'd stopped talking.

“…thank you. As I was saying, we have recently made several improvements to existing security.
Pilk would normally be giving you these updates, but he's in Hogsmeade today overseeing the
placement of some rather…*sensitive*…safety measures, so here I am. First and foremost, the
vaults of the oldest magical families, and those containing rare and precious gems, have been
retrofitted with a new blood ward, designed to paralyze the intruder in a kind of stasis-like
condition. Senior security officers and all security engineers now carry one of these,” she said,
holding up what looked a small, ornate wristwatch. “It's designed to alert us if the new wards
are triggered, so that we can take immediate action.”

She paused here for a second, and looked to Harry. He was listening with rapt attention, since
this was new information to him. The old blood wards had just trapped the thief in the vault until
they starved or someone opened it and found him or her.

“We have started moving away from lethal measures, unless absolutely necessary; in the next few
months and years, we would like to head toward protocols involving detainment and prosecution,
rather than death or injury. Pilk and I have been discussing this extensively, and while most of
the old security measures were certainly effective, they appeared brutish and unreasonable to many
humans. I am not condemning those practices, but in a world supposedly moving toward tolerance,
summarily executing thieves is not the best way to go.

“We can show our commitment to justice by actively pursuing charges in either a goblin tribunal
or a Wizarding court, and we can show our rationality and temperament by preserving life wherever
possible.”

Harry nodded to himself as he listened to the explanation, because it made much sense to him. If
the goblins wanted equal rights in the Wizarding world, appearing more humane and tolerant to their
human counterparts would be one large step on the long road to equality. Erin, Pilk, and the rest
of the security team were showing remarkable foresight with these changes. He would have to tell
her he was impressed with her work.

When no one said anything, Erin continued: “There are other significant changes in the pipeline,
but none of them are ready to be rolled out yet, so suffice it to say your security teams are hard
at work protecting both current and future investments.

“Now I would like to speak briefly about the new Hogsmeade branch, and then return the floor to
Director Ragnok,” she said, and collected her thoughts for a moment. “There will be a limited
number of vaults there, because we wanted to focus mostly on expanding membership and enlightening
a disconnected public with the services Gringotts offers. The branch will be fully equipped with
normal financial services, but if someone wants to deposit large amounts of money or material
possessions, they will still need to come to this central branch to acquire a vault.

“The few vaults there are at Hogsmeade are for Hogwarts—the castle, the staff, and the students.
Pilk has told me Hogwarts contains unknown, but most likely staggering, amounts of priceless
artifacts, and the student body has grown such that more space is needed. So not only will the
vaults contain these artifacts, after they've been itemized and appraised, but also the rarer
and less-used books from the world famous Hogwarts library.”

Harry knew this was rehearsed information, because Erin had never actually been to Hogwarts. It
was slightly odd to think the school was farming out its storage to Gringotts, and almost
bittersweet that it would be losing things that had been a part of it for over a millennium. He
knew it was necessary, and it was a big step for the relations between humans and goblins; if
Hogwarts, the premier magical school in the world, was ready to entrust the goblins with pieces of
its truly priceless heritage, then others might follow suit. He imagined that the Hogsmeade branch
might become a museum of sorts.

“The students and staff have also been informed of a few vaults—no more than five—where they can
store belongings for the summer. It is a service we will provide them for a nominal fee, which will
help revenue during the slow summer months when Hogsmeade consists of only the local
population.

“Anyways, because there will be a reduced number of vaults, security at Hogsmeade will focus
less on external threats and more on internal function. We've been working on automated systems
for exchanging pounds to galleons and vice-versa, as well as providing tellers with galleons for
withdrawals. Are there any questions?”

She looked around the room, but there were none. “Ok then, thank you for listening, and if you
have any questions in the future you can ask any security personnel you find. Director?” Erin sat
down and Harry felt her sigh of relief. He thought she had done an incredible job recapturing her
poise after Yart's little interruption.

Ragnok stood once again. “Thank you, Miss Lowell. You have provided us with much-needed insight.
Now, if we can all shift gears slightly, we need to discuss more clandestine matters…” Ragnok
started, and the Board meeting proceeded from there. John spoke briefly about the trends of the
global rates of exchange, explaining why the galleon had lost slight ground to the pound in recent
months. It had been around a five-to-one ratio for a very long time, but recently the rate had
slipped to 4.65:1. John told them all that the pound was one of the strongest Muggle currencies in
the world at the moment, so losing against it was understandable and would most likely continue,
albeit at a very slow rate, for quite some time.

The discussion of savings and loan rates, the new rules for the calculation of equity, and a
passing mention of the recent accounting woes for many large corporations—mostly American—reminded
Harry strongly of the types of conversations he'd had in his business classes, and he was
attentive for the entire meeting. Though he would never want to be a financial officer, money
matters intrigued him, and he felt good about his decision to join Gringotts' Board of
Directors. He was certainly a mouthpiece and an instrument of change, but he also got to see the
backend of a large financial institution.

When the meeting ended shortly after ten o'clock, several goblins including Yart left
immediately, obviously still sore about the unexpected tongue-lashing their human counterpart had
given them. Harry hoped the repercussions would not be too serious, and that he hadn't done any
permanent damage to relations, but what he'd said had all been relevant and necessary. Some
goblins—and some humans, of course—needed a wake-up call, and Harry was happy to provide them with
one.

“Fabulous job, Erin,” Harry said, congratulating her as John moved to her side. The three of
them stood in a small circle for a moment.

“Thanks for what you said too, Harry,” she said. “I wasn't sure what was going to happen,
but you seemed to have Yart under control.”

“Yes, quite the show, Potter,” John said, grinning at him.

“Glad you enjoyed it,” Harry replied, sarcasm coloring his voice.

“Harry?” another voiced asked, and John and Erin moved apart to reveal Ragnok standing behind
them. They looked at each other.

“We're going to get to work,” Erin said. “Good luck with the ceremony. See you later!”

“Thanks, you two. Have a good day,” Harry told them, and they turned to go, leaving Harry alone
with Ragnok. Most of the other Board members had left by now.

“Ragnok, if I was out of line—”

“Not at all, Harry,” the elder goblin said, overriding what was going to be his apology. “In
fact, you saved John and Erin from witnessing something that potentially could have been very
ugly.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sparing you the specifics, conflict has been brewing between Yart and I for some time. We have
been largely unsuccessful in resolving our issues. The only way these types of things end in the
goblin nation is through mortal combat. I have no doubt in my mind that I will crush Yart, because
he is rather weak and unskilled with a weapon, but I don't want to kill him. I just wish he
wasn't so close-minded and obstinate.”

Harry thought he had seen murderous intent in Ragnok's eyes, and understood that the goblin
had allowed Harry to speak in order to avoid that eventuality.

“I'm glad I could help, then.”

“You have, and you are, and I'm sure you will continue to for many years. But now I think it
is time for you to be sworn in, so I will not keep you any longer. Thank you, Harry.”

“You're welcome. See you soon?”

“Of course,” Ragnok said, nodding. Harry shook his hand and then Disapparated from Gringotts,
appearing inside the atrium of the Ministry of Magic, near the statue of the Trio. Arthur was
leaning against one of their legs, waiting for him. When the older man saw Harry, he smiled and
moved toward him.

“Good morning, Harry. Did the Board meeting go well?”

Harry chuckled briefly. “Well enough. Now, are you ready for this?”

Arthur nodded. “Yes, of course. But are you?” he wondered, looking closely at Harry, who met his
eyes. “I know the Wizengamot's chambers represent a bad moment in your history…”

Harry pursed his lips. “I don't think I'll ever feel completely comfortable in that
room,” Harry said, as they moved toward the lifts. The room they spoke of was of course the same
one Fudge had moved his trial to before his fifth year of school. “But we will be dealing
extensively with the Wizengamot, so I will have to put it in the back of my mind for now.”

“Those trumped up charges were utter rubbish,” Arthur commented. They were now in the lift and
descending toward the ninth level. “Fudge should have been sacked then and there.”

“Long before that, actually,” Harry grumbled, thinking of the Ministry's complete and utter
ineptitude during all of his years at Hogwarts. Scrimgeour had not been an improvement, instead
just another version of a bureaucratic stooge.

Harry turned his head toward Arthur and smiled. “Let's hope you do a better job than Fudge,
eh old man?”

Rather than take the bait, Arthur gave Harry a serene look. “Let's hope.”

The lift rattled to a halt and then the doors opened; they exited into the ninth level and
turned towards the convening chambers of the Wizengamot. They were en route to being provisionally
sworn in as the chief executive officer and second-in-command of the government, and although it
was a private, closed-door affair, Harry had half-expected there to be some people present. The
level was deserted, though.

As he listened to the echoes of their footsteps, he decided he would take a stroll through
Diagon after the ceremony. It had been quite some time since he'd simply immersed himself in
Wizarding culture, so a few hours of mingling with the people would be a fun and welcome change.
Later on in the afternoon he'd stop by Hermione's office (the possibility of an afternoon
delight was not lost on him) and tell her about his day, especially how the board meeting had
turned out. He was already more energized, just by thinking of Hermione and how her face would
light up when he walked through her door. Merlin, he loved her.

“Here we are,” Arthur said. They looked at each other for a second. “The start of something
extraordinary?” he asked Harry, holding out his hand. Harry took it and shook it.

“Yes, I believe so,” he answered, and they passed into the chamber. The entire Wizengamot had
convened for this ceremony, so there were robed Wizards filling about half of the seats. There was
a smattering of applause and possibly some boos when they walked in, but as Arthur and Harry
approached the lectern on the dais, the Wizengamot quieted down. Amos sat to one side of the
lectern, and another Wizengamot member sat to other side.

Harry knew the lectern was for the Chief Warlock, and that the position remained conspicuously
vacant; it had remained so, in fact, since Albus died. Harry remembered Neville saying something
about Amos acting as the interim Chief Warlock for certain things, but this apparently was not one
of them. It was an oddly melancholic sight, to so explicitly see one of the many manifestations of
Albus' absence. Harry would have swelled with pride had Albus overseen this ceremony, because
he would have been fulfilling the Headmaster's lofty expectations. And as much as Harry
disagreed with Albus over certain things, the old man had always had the best interest of the world
at heart. Arthur's description of his final conversation with Albus had stuck with Harry, and
some part deep within him wanted to move forward with the Headmaster's legacy on his shoulders,
carrying it far into the future.

Amos and other Wizengamot members stood. “Good morning, Arthur and Harry. This will not take
very long. Both of you need to come up here and go through the motions,” Amos explained, pointing
to the lectern.

Harry followed Arthur up the short staircase onto the dais and to the lectern. He knew this was
mostly a formality, and that the actual swearing-in would take place at the beginning of the next
month, but there was a certain sense of gravitas about the whole thing. This was the first public
acknowledgement—even though only Wizengamot members were present—of his position as the new Vice
Minister. Perhaps sensing Harry's slight reluctance, Arthur moved to stand behind the
lectern.

He looked around the large chamber, and then took a deep breath: “Members of the Wizengamot,
convened here this day the eleventh of November two thousand two, I, Arthur Weasley, formally
acknowledge my position as the Minister-elect, to be sworn in with due accordance to all procedures
and policies the first of December two thousand two. I promise to uphold, preserve, and fulfill
every aspect of the office of Minister of Magic, with no reservations and no intent to ever defame
the office of Minister of Magic, the Ministry of Magic, or the Wizarding public. Thank you,” Arthur
finished.

As one, the Wizengamot said, “Understood, Arthur Weasley. Your oath here the eleventh of
November two thousand two is accepted.”

Arthur nodded to them all and stepped back. Harry moved forward and braced himself against the
podium. He wondered how many times Albus had addressed the Wizengamot from this very position? He
could almost feel the essence of his mentor as he stood there, looking out at the crowd. Whoever
the next Chief Warlock was, he or she surely had an impossible legacy to follow.

“Members of the Wizengamot, convened here this day the eleventh of November two thousand two, I,
Harry Potter, formally acknowledge my position as the Vice Minister-elect, to be sworn in with due
accordance to all procedures and policies the first of December two thousand two. I promise to
uphold, preserve, and fulfill every aspect of the office of Vice Minister of Magic, with no
reservations and no intent to ever defame the office of Vice Minister of Magic, the Ministry of
Magic, or the Wizarding public. Thank you.”

The Wizengamot responded to Harry: “Understood, Harry Potter. Your oath here the eleventh of
November two thousand two is accepted.”

Harry stepped back from the lectern, glad to vacate the position. Some memories were still too
recent and some scars ran too deep to ever heal; he saw in his head Albus Dumbledore sitting at the
far side of the chamber, smiling and twinkling up at him at the podium. Perhaps he would have to
have an extended talk with the portrait sometime, if only to put his that particular internal ghost
to rest.

---------

Sometime after lunch, Harry was wrapping up his casual tour of Diagon Alley when he happened
upon the jewelry shop tucked into a corner near Gringotts. He wanted to see Hermione, and that
desire gave him an idea—one that sent his heart rate skyrocketing—so he wandered into the shop.

His time in the Alley that afternoon had been checkered with conversations with witches and
wizards, and most supported him and Arthur. Only a few had been openly negative toward his position
as Vice Minister elect. Overall, he was happy with their support; he would never have universal
support, in fact no one ever could, and as long as his presence wasn't divisive enough to stall
governmental processes, he could manage. Arthur was well-liked and respected by even those who
opposed his point of view, which went a long way toward mollifying Harry's anxieties.

“Oh, Vice Minister Potter! Can I help you?” a stout woman asked, coming around the counter. He
smiled at her.

“Just Harry is fine, Miss…?”

She blushed. “Fairweather. Roberta Fairweather, at your service.”

“Thank you, Roberta. I think you can help me, actually. I'm sure you understand the need for
discretion—”

“Say no more, Harry!” she cut in, holding a hand over heart. “I wouldn't *dream* of
breaking your trust, whatever reason you're here.”

He had to suppress the smile that threatened his lips at her enthusiasm. “Ok, thank you. I'm
interested in an engagement ring for someone very special,” he said, getting the words out all in a
rush. Merlin, his heart was pounding!

Suddenly a genuine and appreciative smile crossed Roberta's face, and it made her look
twenty years younger. “I understand, Harry. I'm so happy for you—our engagement rings are over
here,” she responded, directing him to a case with countless rings, all of which were
extraordinarily beautiful.

After much deliberation and discussion with Roberta, who turned out to be incredibly
knowledgeable and useful, Harry settled on an elegant white gold band with three flawless,
colorless diamonds. They were each 1.25 carats. If Harry had understood more about the way diamonds
were rated, he would have known how precious his purchase was, but it was precious enough because
it represented his lasting love for Hermione and his determination to spend his life with her. He
paid an incredible twelve thousand galleons (55,800 pounds) for the ring.

Riding the wave of euphoria the engagement ring brought, coupled with the fact that he would be
seeing Hermione very soon, he exited the jewelry shop into the Alley without a care in the world.
The sun was high in the sky and very bright, though it was cold, so he paused for a moment to let
his eyes adjust.

*“Avada Kedavra!”*

-->



26. Interlude:  Wrath
---------------------



**Bearings**

Disclaimer/Author's Note: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter.

*Am I that strong*

*To carry on?*

*I might change your life*

*I might save my world*

*Could you save me?*


Fuel

*Falls On Me*

Interlude: Wrath

Monday, November 11th, 2002; 1:55 pm

The new sign outside of their shop had afforded George Weasley with countless hours of casual
entertainment, and this afternoon was no exception. Even though it employed Legilimency as its main
feature, the Ministry had cleared its existence as non-invasive because it could only skim the
outermost edges of someone's consciousness. Therefore, what George saw when he used the sign
were the fleeting images of an active mind; sometimes it was impossible to decipher any one from
another, and other times he received a clear and vivid image of whatever was on the person's
mind.

Other than taking the mickey out of passers-by, the sign was also good for keeping an eye upon
the Alley at all times. George loved people watching—he always had—and Diagon Alley was perhaps
unique the world over for the diversity of its patrons.

He had been manning the sign since lunch, because it was a rather slow day in the shop, and he
had almost immediately recognized Harry among the shoppers. His out-of-control raven hair was hard
to miss, as were the many people crowding around him at various times. He had almost gone out to
say hello to Harry at one point, but his younger friend looked calm and undistracted in a way that
George couldn't remember seeing, so he let Harry enjoy the Alley as it was.

As the minutes ticked by, George continued playing with people as they walked under WWW's
flashy sign, and at the same time he kept a casual eye on Harry's progress through the Alley.
He had just been elected Vice Minister, and it was interesting to George how the public reacted to
Harry; as far as George could see, everyone that Harry had talked to seemed happy and
congratulatory, though he did notice several people purposely avoid Harry.

He had just flashed *Might want to tell your wife to get some new knickers* at someone when
he noticed Harry entering the jewelry shop on the other side of the Alley. It was overshadowed by
the massive white building that housed Gringotts. He saw Harry look up at the marble facade for
several seconds before passing into the shop.

George smiled to himself. This was an interesting, albeit not unexpected development, one that
he would soon have to share with Fred. He and his twin had often wondered when Harry would pop the
question to Hermione; George thought sooner rather than later, while Fred thought they might wait a
year or two before they got married and had a gaggle of little Potter sprogs. Either way, it seemed
inevitable, and had for a very long time. Even with Harry's sojourn across the pond, the twins
had never believed Harry and Hermione would end up with anyone other than each other.

While Harry was in the shop, a few people had stopped to rest at the bench just outside. Two
were chatting with each other and the third looked to be staring off into space, though at this
distance George wasn't sure. Suddenly, the third person stood up and turned toward the door to
the shop, pulling something from within his or her robes. Again, it was impossible to tell from
this far away if it was a man or a woman. George thought the person's behavior was a little
odd.

The door to the shop opened and Harry appeared in the strong sunlight. He had an absolutely
radiant smile on his face, and George knew that Harry had bought a ring. He just knew it, and he
would definitely have to tell Fred. Just as he was about to leave the sign station to find his twin
brother, a sickly flash of green clouded his vision. His heart stopped.

“…*avada kedavra…*” reached his ears, well after the curse had faded.

George blinked. Lying on the ground outside the jeweler's shop was Harry Potter. The person
George had seen standing by the doorway was gone, and some screams started to reach his ears as the
occupants of the Alley discerned what had happened. He saw witches and wizards running towards
Harry's prone body. George couldn't believe what he was seeing.

“*Fuck*—FRED!” he screamed, turning and falling out of the raised platform they used for
the sign, and rolling in the direction of the counter. He refused to believe what his eyes had
shown him. Harry Potter was *not* dead.

“What?!” a bewildered voice called back, and Fred appeared in the doorway to the back of the
store, wand in hand.

Meanwhile, George had reached the counter, and he pulled their two unregistered wands from
beneath, which they kept there for emergencies. Fred's eyes hardened when he saw George take
the wands.

“*What?!*” Fred asked again, more insistently this time. George leapt over the counter and
tossed Fred an extra wand in one fluid motion.

“Harry's been attacked in the Alley,” George told him, breathlessly; the green flash kept
repeating over and over in his head. “I dunno—he might be dead—we have to help—”

“*Dead?*” Fred asked, sprinting alongside George to the front door. The few patrons in the
shop had frozen completely and were listening with shocked ears. “But, but—impossible!” was all
Fred managed to say.

George flicked his wand at the doors and they crashed open, flooding the front of the shop with
bright sunlight. The world opened up before them as they crested the Alley, bright blue sky and
strong sunlight above them and a panicked Alley all around them. It took a moment for George's
brain to process all that was happening. He looked left and saw a crowd gathering around where
Harry had fallen, and he couldn't see Harry anymore. There were too many people.

“Send your Patronus to the Ministry,” George instructed Fred, now noticing the odd amount of
people flocking in Harry's direction. And some of them were looking behind them, to the
brothers' right, with shock and awe and fear plastered on their faces…

George looked right, and his mind boggled. Floating down the Alley toward them, in the same
direction everyone was running, were Dementors. There had to be a dozen of them, or possibly even
more.

“Oh fuck—Fred, do it now!” George said, pointing to the host moving relentlessly and mercilessly
toward them. Thankfully it looked like people had known to stay well enough away from the cloaked
creatures. “And go see about Harry—I'll hold off these things as long as I can!”

“Right-o,” Fred said, absently, and then fired off his Patronus in the direction of the
Ministry. It contained a quick message: *Diagon Alley under attack, Potter down, send help*.
George turned and charged the Dementors just as another Patronus from Fred rocketed past him to
meet the Dark creatures. He looked over his shoulder and saw his twin brother plunging through the
crowd of people to get to Harry.

When he turned back, the reality of the situation settled upon him, as did the horrible coldness
of the Dementors' aura. He could feel as his usual good cheer was ripped from him.

He had been trained well, though; Harry had personally taught both Fred and George during the
last year of the Second War how to effectively cast a Patronus and how to resist the Dementors'
effects as long as possible, so George called this knowledge to the fore. As Fred's Patronus
ripped through the middle of the host, he set himself and cast three of the shining silver spells
in a row.

Fred's spell was doing a decent job of confusing the beasts, and they were more than
unsettled by George's three Patroni circling them, but their forward movement continued
ceaselessly on. If Harry wasn't dead, perhaps they were going to finish the job; George could
only hold them off for so long—he cast several more Patroni, but already the draining effect of the
Dementors and the power required to cast each spell were wearing him down. He glanced behind but
could only see the mass of people surrounding Harry and presumably Fred, if his brother had reached
their comrade.

George backed up a few paces, casting two more shining spells in the direction of the advancing
creatures, and knew that he only had a few more left in him. He set his jaw; if he had to give his
life to save Harry's—and the hope for the future of this world—then so be it. He would charge
into them if he had to and distract them long enough for help to arrive. They wouldn't be able
to resist a fresh soul…

He cast one more Patronus, but it was weak and translucent. As soon as it reached the Dementors,
it faded into nothingness. George drew in a deep breath, nodded at nothing in particular as if to
assert with certainty what he had to do, and started running at the cloaked beasts. The wave of
coldness and despair that crashed over him almost sent him tumbling to the cobbled road, but he
managed to keep moving forward.

*BOOM!*

A noise like the loudest thunder George had ever heard in his life crashed through the Alley,
reverberating up and down and off the buildings several times before fading into a low rumble in
the distance. He pulled up as he watched the Dementors ease up as well, and his nose twitched as
the smell of ozone invaded his senses.

It was then that he realized the Alley had gone eerily silent, so he turned to search for a
cause. Three-quarters of the way around, his eyes widened in joy as hope was restored to his heart.
There in the middle of the Alley, almost perfectly halfway between the crowd of people and the
Dementors, was none other than Hermione Granger. George had never been happier to see her, nor had
he ever been this frightened by her appearance.

Her arrival in the Alley must have caused that caucophonous noise, because the ground she stood
upon was slightly depressed, almost crater-like. She was dressed in her Ministry robes—she must
have been at work—and they were flapping about her madly, even though the air in the Alley was
quite calm. Her hair was doing the same thing. Her wand was gripped in her left hand and pointed
straight at the ground.

Unless George's eyes were deceiving him, and he doubted they were, her eyes were completely
black. He shivered as those eyes looked directly into his. The last time he had seen Hermione even
close to something like this was during the final battle at Hogwarts…and even then was nothing like
the raw power she now exuded, both with her physical presence and the magic he felt upon the
air.

“Harry?” she asked, very quietly, though George was sure everyone in the Alley *felt* her
words. He motioned with his eyes over her shoulder, where Fred had finally reappeared from the
crowd of people. Harry's prone form floated in front of him.

The ground rumbled from somewhere deep underneath as Hermione saw this and took a step in their
direction, but Fred held up his hand and yelled, “He's alive, thank Merlin! I'll take him
to St. Mungo's—you take care of *that*.” His twin pointed behind George, where the group
of Dementors had started moving forward once again. The sight of Harry must have prompted their
motion.

“Step aside, George,” Hermione commanded, and he did as he was told. Her voice, normally soft
and mellifluous, was hard-edged. He retreated back to the front of his shop and watched with
arrested eyes as Hermione faced off against twelve Dementors. All other eyes in the Alley were
glued to the scene as well.

George had time to fleetingly wonder where the rest of the Ministry was—the Hit Wizards, the
Aurors, and the simply curious—before Hermione braced herself against the cratered cobbled stone
and raised her wand toward the Dementors.

*“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”* Hermione screamed, like a banshee straight out of the darkest depths
of hell. George had to shield his eyes from the intense white light that flared from her wand,
washing out everything else for just a moment.

When the glare settled, George saw a truly tremendous otter swirling around and around Hermione.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as her magic permeated the air around him.

“Get them,” he heard Hermione growl, and the otter shot forward toward the Dementors. It left a
trail of glowing magic as it sped toward the dark beasts. Instead of plowing into the center of
them, though, it turned at the last second and began to circle them. The Dementors had stalled
completely by now, and were moving back and forth in a curiously rhythmic pattern, trying to get
away from the circling Patronus.

Hermione started walking slowly toward the trapped Dark creatures. George was a powerful wizard,
but his Patronus was neither that large nor that bright; his couldn't corral twelve Dementors,
either. Hermione seemed to be doing a fine job by herself, so he was content to stand by the front
of his shop and watch.

“*Incendio,*” Hermione said, very casually, and flicked her wand to the side. George took
several more steps back, now almost pressed against the front of his shop, as the overwhelming heat
from the flames created by her spell rippled through the air. Directly underneath the circling
otter, flames grew into a ring around the Dementors. They rose six or seven feet in the air and
then continued to burn, feeding merrily off the plentiful oxygen and Hermione's seemingly
limitless stores of magic.

Every breath for George was like inhaling brimstone. He shied away even more as Hermione flicked
her wand again, reinforcing the spell. She was now within twenty yards of the roaring inferno,
though oddly enough the flames did not touch the Dementors. It was almost as if Hermione wanted
them to be trapped in that ring of fire.

“Hot enough for you?” Hermione called, jeering the Dementors.

George was tempted to roll his eyes. Only Hermione (or Harry) would taunt twelve Dementors. He
looked around quickly, and noticed that the reinforcements had finally showed up. They were all
staring at Hermione, however, rather than contributing to the fight.

“How about *now*?” she yelled, reinforcing the flame spell once again. They rose another
three or four feet in the air. George could barely see the cloaked forms of the Dementors within
the ring of fire. The flames were too tall and too intense.

“Or *now*?” The flames rose again.

“Or—“ she started again, but George decided it was time to intervene.

“Hermione!” he called, and she paused. She turned her head to look at him and he fought back the
urge to run away as fast as he could as her black eyes locked with his. “Enough already! Just
finish it, if you can!”

She smiled grimly. It was not a smile of satisfaction. It was not a smile of anger or irony. It
was simply a smile of murder.

“Get everyone back,” she said, and George knew that was all the warning they were going to get
for whatever she had planned for the Dementors.

He turned and ran in the opposite direction, waving everyone back with his hands, and then
amplifying his voice so they could all hear his warning. Reaching what he thought was a safe
distance, he then turned and saw Hermione setting herself once again. The ring of fire was a hazy
conflagration beyond her, and the Dementors must have sensed their impending doom, because he saw
them quite frenzied within.

Hermione reached to the heavens, pointing her wand straight to the sky.

And then nothing happened for several moments. Hermione had frozen completely, though her
Ministry robes and brown hair continued whipping around her body as if she stood in the middle of a
gale.

She suddenly faded in and out of existence several times, as if she was trying to Apparate and
was running up against wards. This continued for several seconds, but eventually she was wholly
solid once again. George felt that prickle on that back of his neck for the second time in as many
minutes, though now it was much more powerful and even more unsettling. If he could feel
Hermione's magic from this far away…

“Do it for Harry,” George muttered, thinking of his brother in all but blood. The poor bloke had
so much on his shoulders, and now this had to happen. The world never gave him a break—it looked
like Hermione was about to provide him with one, though.

“*BURN!!*” he heard her scream, or shriek rather, and the air seemed to be *sucked*
toward the Dementors. It was as if the atmosphere was collapsing toward some singularity, some
focal point caused by Hermione's magic—

“*EXURIS IGNIS EXUSSUM**!*” she shouted, once again at the top of her lungs. She
brought her wand down toward the ground, toward the Dementors, with both hands and as hard as she
could.

For a moment absolutely nothing happened, and then an odd keening sound reached George's
ears. It sounded almost like a Muggle jet engine at full throttle, and it was growing louder and
louder with every passing second.

“Look up!” someone shouted, and the eyes of the Alley turned toward the sky as one.

George unconsciously took a step back as he saw some *presence*—some disturbance of the
air—plummeting toward the ground, heading directly for the ringed-in Dementors. He saw Hermione
tilt her head toward the sky, though he couldn't see her face because her back was to them.

The jet-engine noise grew louder and louder and the disturbance appeared to pick up speed. The
only thing it could be was whatever spell Hermione had cast, and George was amazed that it had such
a physical presence. Even Hermione took a few a steps back as it neared the ground, and George
waited with wide-open eyes as it fell the last fifty feet.

With a terrifyingly loud and deafening sound, the spell ignited twenty feet from the ground; the
roiling fireball that propagated from its hot-as-the-sun center was truly magnificent, and it
struck the ground with a noise George couldn't describe. It was a cross between an engine
revving to redline and several hundred industrial tires popping at the same time.

Hermione's spell had flash-ignited the oxygen in the air within that small ring of fire, and
in doing so had incinerated everything down to the very last molecule. The fireball burned off as
quickly as it had come, because there just wasn't enough fuel to sustain something that hot for
very long, but the wave of superheated air that passed over their heads was enough for George to
simply marvel at the spell's power.

Then silence settled over Diagon once again, and within the ring of the fire, George saw that
the cobblestones were glowing molten red. There was no trace of the twelve Dementors. Hermione was
down on one knee, though her head was held high. Without thinking, he sprinted away from the crowd
toward her.

It was a good thing, too, because just as he reached her she leaned to the side and would have
toppled to the street if he hadn't caught her. She was lucid, however. He saw that the ends of
her hair and eyebrows were singed. Her robes were very hot.

“Hermione?” he asked, looking into her eyes and seeing once more the familiar chocolate
irises.

“George…” she whispered. Her voice was extremely hoarse.

“That was incredible,” he told her. “Where did you learn that spell?”

She smiled tiredly, though it fell away quickly. “I still have a few tricks up my sleeve every
now and then.”

“I'll say,” he agreed, then chuckled slightly. He shifted slightly to support her weight
more evenly across both of his legs, and that seemed to wake her up a little.

“Harry?” she wondered, looking anxious and afraid—quite the contrast from the Hermione that had
just roasted a dozen Dementors.

“Fred took him to St. Mungo's.”

“Take me to him, George,” she whispered, and he nodded. He helped her to her feet, and without a
glance over his shoulder at the amazed crowd behind them, *cracked* out of existence with
Hermione's hand held tightly in his.

-->



27. And the Heavens Shall Tremble
---------------------------------



**Bearings**

Disclaimer/Author's Note: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter.

*And if you wait for me*

*I'll be the light in the dark if you lose your way*

*And if you wait for me*

*I'll be your voice when you don't know what to say*

*I'll be your shelter*

*I'll be your fate*

*I'll be forever*

Ryan Star

*Last Train Home*

Chapter Seventeen: And the Heavens Shall Tremble

Tuesday, November 12th, 2002; 4:50 am

*Beep … beep … beep … beep … beep …* *beep …*

Hermione struggled to stay awake as the new day was about to begin all around her. With every
individual beep from the charm monitoring Harry's heart rate, her eyelids felt heavier and
heavier. She had been up for nearly twenty-four straight hours, and had magically exhausted herself
during that time. Her brain was still functioning, but she knew that it was running on the reserve
tank, and even that was consuming fumes at this point.

*Beep … beep … beep … beep … beep …* *beep …*

Her bloodshot eyes settled on Harry's motionless form—with the exception of the slow rise
and fall of his chest—and she wanted to cry, but she was too tired even for that. He looked oddly
peaceful, laying there under the barren white sheets on the sterile metallic hospital bed. There
were a few magical devices attached to him, one of which was producing that incessant and sleepy
beeping noise as it counted the pulses of his heart.

*Beep … beep … beep … beep … beep …* *beep …*

Hermione slouched in her chair and rested her chin on her chest, closing her eyes and rubbing
them with her index fingers. She was still wearing her Ministry robes and she knew they smelled
like burnt fabric; she hadn't had any reason to move from this chair since she'd first seen
Harry on the bed, so she hadn't even bothered to take them off. Fred, George, Ron, and Luna had
brought her dinner late the previous night, sometime after eleven o'clock, but otherwise she
had eaten nothing. Her stomach made its anger known as it rumbled lowly throughout the room.

*Beep … beep … beep … beep … beep …* *beep …*

Most of their closest friends and family had visited throughout the previous day and into the
night, though there had not been anyone in three or four hours. She knew word had made it back to
her parents about what had happened, and felt slightly guilty about them not being able to see
Harry, at least not yet, but there was nothing she could do at the moment. Several of the visitors
had described the extraordinarily tight security outside the hospital room, so Hermione did not
want to deal with the headache of bringing her Muggle parents here right now.

Hermione's fearsome intellect had been grappling with the reality of Harry's
near-assassination since she had showed up in Diagon Alley, and the one solid conclusion that she
had reached was anger. It wasn't the all-consuming wrath she had felt upon seeing those
Dementors bearing down on Harry's fallen form, and it wasn't an angry kind of despair;
instead, it was seething, teeming, and unsettling fury at the world in general, which added up to a
dull ache behind her eyes that was not going away.

*Beep … beep … beep … beep … beep … beep …*

Yesterday was supposed to be Harry's proudest moment. He had successfully won the office of
Vice Minister and was looking forward to making an impact. Hermione knew Harry valued his current
position and what it had taken to achieve far more than his defeat of Voldemort, because as the
Vice Minister he could expose and possibly fix the weaknesses of their society Voldemort had
exploited. Just when Harry was apparently savoring his victory, though, *someone* had
attempted to end it all and kill him.

Hermione had seen Harry in battle. His presence in combat was legendary for very good reasons,
and she could still vividly remember times when he had turned the tide of skirmishes just by being
there. With that in mind, he must have been *truly* blind-sided to have been exposed enough to
take a Killing Curse. But why should he have been watching out for stray *Kedavras* in the
middle of Diagon Alley? Voldemort was long gone and nearly all of Harry's most insipid enemies
were either dead or in prison. Political opposition could be blamed, but Hermione refused to
believe until she heard a confession given under Veritaserum that this was a politically motivated
attempt on his life.

*Beep … beep … beep … beep … beep … beep …*

It was all just too incongruous; her instincts were telling her something else was going on
here. During Arthur and Harry's campaign, there had been opposition—and it had been loud and
persistent at times—but it had never been violent or threatening. The days of mortal combat over
blood purity and surnames had passed into not-so-fond memory when Voldemort plummeted from the
Astronomy Tower, so for it to return four years later meant one of two things: the attack was
either personal in nature or perpetrated by some heretofore unknown element, the proverbial wild
card.

That was as far as Hermione's thoughts led her before her tiredness overpowered her
analytical skills, so for the past several hours she had sat by Harry's bedside, waiting for
him to wake up. The Healers were confident that he would eventually wake up, because as far as they
could tell the only thing wrong with him had been total magical exhaustion, so Hermione wanted to
be the first thing he saw when he regained consciousness and wondered just what the hell had
happened. If the last thing he remembered was the Killing Curse filling his world, he would be
understandably upset when he regained awareness.

*Beep … beep … beep … beep … beep … beep …*

Her index fingers moved from her eyeballs to her temples, attempting to reduce the tension
headache that had been lingering for hours. Dehydration and magical exhaustion combined with
slightly overheating from being too near her spell had taken its toll on her, and having no rest
did not help. Hermione still was not sure why she had cast the `Flame Ignites Flame' spell, as
it was loosely translated into English, when she could have picked any one of several hundred other
spells. She might not have been as powerful as Harry, but she was aware that few witches and
wizards, with the possible exceptions of Dumbledore and McGonagall, knew more actual spells than
her.

The spell had cost her a tremendous amount of energy, nearly depleting her magical and physical
reserves. She could have used half or one third of the spell power on some Patroni that would have
contained the Dementors until Aurors decided what to do with them. There was also the large
audience to consider, none of whom had likely ever seen that kind spell or witnessed such an
overwhelming expenditure of power. The Dementors were long gone, yes, but it had knocked her out of
commission for several days, at least.

Harry was honestly to blame for her incredible display of power; if he had not shown her how to
bring her magic to full readiness—the Apparition trick they had discussed back in May—she probably
would not have been able to cast the spell at all. But in her moment of instinctual action, fueled
by both the protection of the one she loved and vengeance for his fall, she had called her magical
core to its fullest potential and used one of the so-called Doomsday spells. She was sure her
actions would cause problems, regardless of how justified they may have been at the time.

*Beep … beep … beep … beep … beep … beep …*

The cherry on top of this grueling day was what the Healers had found in Harry's pocket.
They had shown the item to her, and though she was indescribably happy, she was also crushed for
Harry. She had not opened the little jewelry box they'd found on him, but she had a very good
idea what it contained. She of course looked forward to spending the rest of her life with Harry,
but she hadn't wanted the surprise of a proposal ruined; she would have to be very careful to
conceal her foreknowledge when Harry actually proposed to her, because she did not want him to know
this attempt on his life had prevented the surprise.

She lifted her head and opened her eyes, and looked down upon the man who was, for all intents
and purposes, her future husband and father of her children. He looked so vulnerable at the moment,
so lost and little and abused by a world that had only used him as its savior and then thrown him
to the winds. And now that he was standing up and doing something with his ideals, to hopefully
make the world a better place and one their children might someday be proud of, that same world had
tried to snuff him out. Nothing had ever broken his spirit before, as far as she knew, and she
hoped this most recent tragedy would not either.

He had left Britain after the Second War because of disaffection and bitterness; this
assassination attempt was sure to breed similar emotions within him, though magnified tenfold. But
perhaps she wasn't giving Harry enough credit—she really was soul-wearyingly tired—because he
had stood firm in the face of impossible odds countless times in the past. And as horrible as it
was to think this, Hermione knew he would respond much better to an attempt on his life than, for
instance, a similar attempt on her life or any of their friends'. His guilt would have been
unstoppable if anyone *other* than himself had been cut down.

*Beep … beep … beep … beep … beep … beep …*

Her strongest desire at this moment was for Harry to wake up. It would solve many of her
immediate problems and worries, and it would return the one she'd loved since she was a
teenager into her waiting arms. She had placed the jewelry box back in his pocket and would let him
work out the proposal on his own time. It was the least she could do, because she was not supposed
to know about the ring, and it would be one very bright spot for him to hold onto when he woke
up.

She already knew her answer—a resounding *yes!*—and could imagine herself without any
trouble whatsoever as Hermione Jane Potter. Her lips curled into an ironic smile as she realized
their initials would be the same: Harry James Potter and Hermione Jane Potter. It was fitting,
somehow, that things would turn out that way. Call it fate or coincidence or just blind and bloody
dumb good luck—it all meant the same thing in the end. However much time and circumstances had
interfered, they were together now and that was all that mattered.

She marveled at how far they had come since Hogwarts, at how far the six of them had come. One
Hogwarts Professor, one Healer, one professional Quidditch player, one world-renowned journalist,
one Chair of a Ministry department, and one Vice Minister. They had each done different things
after school and after the Second War, but just as time had split them apart it had also brought
them all back together.

*Beep … beep … beep … beep … beep … beep …*

Three light taps on the door interrupted her internal dialogue. She sat up in the chair and took
a deep breath, giving herself a shot of much-needed energy. She blinked a few times and rubbed her
eyes.

“Come in,” she called, softly.

The door clicked and then swung inward; it revealed the rather tired looking form of Ginny
Weasley, dressed in her beige Healer robes with her fiery hair swept into a professional bun. She
moved into the room and closed the door behind her, but not before Hermione glimpsed the Aurors
stationed at either side of the door.

“Hey, Hermione,” Ginny said. She stopped at the end of the bed and looked between Harry and her,
and then took her wand and waved it over his still form.

“Hullo, Ginny,” Hermione returned, watching her younger friend run what appeared to be some
diagnostic tests on Harry. “What are you doing here so early?”

Ginny shrugged and continued to test Harry. After a minute or so of this, she nodded and stowed
her wand in a side pocket. She moved a chair from the corner of the room next to Hermione's and
sat down heavily.

“I didn't sleep well last night,” the redhead said. “I doubt anyone did. I figured I would
get an early start to the day.”

“Oh.”

“Everyone was already up, anyway. Dad wanted me to tell you an emergency meeting of the
Wizengamot and Department Chairs has been convened. It starts in a few minutes.”

“Bollocks,” Hermione said, frustrated. A sigh escaped her lungs. Ginny turned her head and
looked closely at Hermione. Their eyes slowly met.

“How are you holding up?” Ginny asked. She removed her wand from her pocket and waved it over
Hermione, who made no move to stop her. Ginny's eyebrows showed her consternation at what she
learned.

“Hermione, you're exhausted. You need to sleep, and you need to let your magic recover for
several days. A week might be better.”

But Hermione just waved it off. “I know all that. I'd sleep if I could. In fact I'd kip
out right here with Harry if I could, but I guess I have this bloody meeting to attend and then I
should probably see what else needs to be done.”

Ginny shook her head. “That's not going to happen. You can go to the meeting, but I'm
going to tell dad you need a day or two off to recuperate. He's your boss so he can tell you to
do that.”

“But…” Hermione wanted to argue, but there was no fight left in her.

“Don't argue with me, Hermione,” Ginny said, sounding eerily like her mother for a moment.
Then her expression softened. “Gather yourself together and in a few days you can get back to work.
Harry should be awake by then.”

“You think so?” Hermione asked, hopefully; she locked eyes with Ginny again, and could see the
truth reflected there.

“Yes, most likely,” Ginny affirmed. “As far as we can tell, the only thing wrong with Harry is
utter magical fatigue. The only remedy for that is time, and when enough has passed he should wake
up.”

Hermione was aware of how much worse his injuries could have been, especially because George had
told her the Killing Curse had been used. She was thankful that he had somehow avoided that fate
once again, but was also mystified. As far as she knew, he was the only wizard or witch to survive
the Killing Curse, and he had done so twice now. Granted, George wasn't sure if the curse had
actually hit Harry or not, but why else would his magical core be so stressed? It must have done
something desperate to save him this time.

“That's good to know,” Hermione said. “Has there been any word from the Department of
Magical Law Enforcement?”

Ginny shook her head slowly. Some stray strands of her red hair that had escaped the bun swung
around her face. “Nothing that I know of. Dad said the MLE has been fully deployed since six pm
yesterday; they're treating this like a terrorist attack. He said the Ministry's top
priority at the moment is apprehending those responsible.”

“Good,” Hermione said.

“Hermione,” Ginny continued, and Hermione could hear the question in her voice, “does this make
any sense to you?” Ginny's forehead crinkled as she leaned back in the chair. “I mean…Harry had
a lot of enemies when we were in school, but that was years ago now. Were there any signs that this
might happen during the last few months?”

It seemed like Ginny had reached many of the same conclusions Hermione had, so she just shook
her head. “I don't think so, Ginny, at least not with what Harry'd told me and what I'd
seen for myself.”

“So this is some fanatical bigot that's been hiding for all these years?”

Hermione shrugged. “Could be, but that doesn't really explain the Dementors.”

Ginny conceded the point with a gesture. “No, it doesn't. I thought all the Dementors were
destroyed.”

“I think we all assumed that. It was what we were told, in any case.”

“Hmm,” Ginny intoned, pondering things. The two women sat in silence for a brief time.

“I should probably get going. There is that meeting, after all,” Hermione said, pushing herself
from the chair. Her body ached, and all she wanted to do was lay down, regardless of whether or not
she could sleep.

“I should make my rounds,” Ginny said, standing as well. They headed for the door, but something
suddenly occurred to Hermione. She stopped and turned back to the bed.

“Dobby?” she called out. Ginny turned and watched her.

Two seconds later, the House Elf appeared in the room with a faint pop. He glanced at Harry and
his ears drooped. By the look on his face, Hermione knew he had been expecting Harry to be
awake.

“Hermione?” he asked, looking up at her.

“Do you think you could sit with Harry, in case he wakes up? I have to go to a meeting for a
little while, but I should be back in an hour or two.”

Dobby nodded vigorously. He hopped up onto the chair Hermione had vacated and fixed his eyes on
Harry. “Of course, Hermione,” he said. “Would you mind if Libby sat with him too?”

Hermione smiled down at Dobby. “Not at all. If he wakes up when I'm gone, I can't
imagine two better people to greet him.”

“You're making me blush, Hermione. You're too kind.”

“And you're too modest. I'll be back soon,” Hermione said, turning toward the door.

“Libby!” Dobby called, and Hermione didn't have to see to know that Libby had suddenly
appeared in the room. Ginny opened the door and as they were about to pass through, Hermione did
look back. What she saw nearly rent her heart in two: Libby stood on the bed next to Harry, looking
down at him, with her ears pulled forlornly down past her shoulders.

Hermione passed into the corridor, and as she was closing the door, she heard, “Why daddy?”

It would be difficult for Dobby to explain the circumstances of Harry's unconsciousness to
his young daughter without upsetting her, and perhaps impossible. There were certain harsh truths
that Libby would eventually learn, and any parent could delay that for only so long.

They passed several other Aurors and Hit Wizards on their way through St. Mungo's, all of
whom greeted them in some way. Hermione was Chair of one of the Ministry's departments and
Ginny was the daughter of the Minister-elect, so they were easily recognized by the MLE
employees.

One of the Aurors had a message for Hermione, and she took the proffered parchment with some
curiosity. The first thing she noticed was the Gringotts wax seal binding the scroll. She broke the
seal and unrolled the missive. It read:

*Lady Granger,*

*Your Department of Magical Law Enforcement will not let me anywhere* *near* *Harry.
You should have seen the uproar I caused when I walked into the lobby of the hospital. I would like
to speak with you at your earliest convenience, and because I cannot come to you in the hospital, I
would be honored if you could see me at my office. I will* *be* *at Gringotts all
day.*

*Thank you,*

*Director Ragnok*

“What's that?” Ginny wondered, as they came closer and closer to the Disapparition
point.

“Ragnok wants to speak with me,” Hermione said, showing Ginny the note. “I have a good idea what
he wants to say, but it will have to wait until after this meeting.”

“You and Harry have a decent relationship with the goblins, don't you?” Ginny asked, handing
the parchment back to Hermione.

“Yes—well, Harry does. They probably tolerate me because of him.”

“Sure. And I'm Luna Lovegood.”

Hermione actually chuckled, and it felt good to laugh. They had reached the Disapparition
point.

“Good luck, Hermione,” Ginny said. Hermione pulled her into a hug. It had been some time since
the two women had embraced.

“Thanks,” Hermione said, backing away slightly. She prepared to Disapparate.

“I'll check on Harry when I can,” Ginny told her, and with a nod Hermione disappeared from
St. Mungo's.

She reappeared in the Atrium, which was completely deserted at this ungodly hour of the morning,
and made her way to the ninth level where the Wizengamot met. When the lift clanged open, she saw
Arthur, Fred, and George waiting for her.

“Merlin, Hermione, you look like shite,” Fred said, joking weakly. Hermione half-returned the
smile he gave her and raised her eyebrows at the three Weasley men.

“So what's this about?”

“It's an informal commission to figure out exactly what happened in the Alley,” Arthur
explained, getting them all started toward the large chamber. “I don't know if Ginny told you,
but we are taking this very seriously. Amos and I are here this morning to cut through any
bureaucratic woolgathering the Wizengamot might run into,” he explained, and Hermione could hear
latent anger lacing his voice. Arthur was one of the most reserved human beings she had ever met,
so for him to be so obviously angry and frustrated was somewhat surprising.

Fred and George were still wearing their WWW robes, and it looked like they hadn't slept,
either. Arthur wore informal robes and had his glasses hanging from the collar. The lines on his
face were especially pronounced this morning.

“Any change with Harry's condition?” George asked. Hermione appreciated the hope and concern
in his voice.

“Not really,” she informed them. “He's still unconscious, though Ginny thinks he should wake
up in the next day or two.” She reached back to retie the pony tail her hair had been set in, and
tried to ignore the various tangles she felt. Showering might have been a good idea at some point
between yesterday afternoon and this morning, but it had slipped her mind.

The four of them entered the large chamber and immediately a hush swept around the room. All
eyes were upon them as Arthur went to sit with Amos at the lectern and Hermione joined the other
Department Chairs. Fred and George were the only non-governmental people in attendance, so they sat
in the empty section usually reserved for the audience. Most of the other Chairs nodded at
Hermione, and she nodded back. All heads turned toward the lectern as Amos stood and approached
it.

“Good morning everyone,” he started. “I want to thank you all for coming on such short notice,
and so early.”

There were general murmurs of assent throughout the chamber. Many of the witches and wizards
present looked either tired or haggard—some both, like Hermione knew she did. Many curious glances
were sent in her direction. She sat with an impassive air, just letting the proceedings continue on
around her.

“The primary purpose of this meeting is to gather information about yesterday's attack on
the Vice Minister-elect, Harry Potter. No one is under suspicion yet, but we have mobilized the
entire Department of Magical Law Enforcement and are working on several leads.”

Amos paused and leaned onto the lectern, bracing himself with both arms. He stared around the
room for several seconds.

“Let me make this clear: this attack is something we are taking very seriously and will
investigate and hopefully prosecute to the full extent of the law. Not since the days of
Riddle—*never* in my time as Minister—has anything like this happened, and it is totally
*unacceptable*!” he went on, smashing his fist into the podium on the last word. It echoed
through the large circular room. Some Wizengamot members who might have been dozing jumped slightly
in their slights.

“Arthur and Harry won the election through entirely legal means, and we cannot let someone or a
group of people subvert that legality with this kind of bullshit. We have worked tirelessly over
the past four years to end extremist reactionary events such as this, and until yesterday we were
largely successful. And it is only through some unforeseen luck that Harry Potter is still with us
today; if he were not, then every single one of us would be questioned under Veritaserum. If
nothing turns up soon, that avenue may be explored regardless.”

There were some uncomfortable looks around the chamber at this revelation, but nothing overtly
conspicuous, so Hermione attributed it to the early morning shock of this tirade from Amos. She
respected him for holding nothing back in his assessment of the situation, because it deserved
nothing less than a vigorous and ruthless investigation.

“Now,” Amos said, taking a deep breath and standing straight once again, “news of the attack
will break across Britain and the rest of the world in the morning's newspapers, and there will
be of course a wide and varied response, but that cannot distract us from finding out what
happened. I want this resolved before I leave office on December one, and I want your full
cooperation.

“I know I'm somewhat of a lame duck at the moment, but Arthur is the Minister-elect and
fully supports these measures. With that in mind, it goes without saying that I expect full
cooperation; whether or not you support Arthur and Harry means nothing for the next several days.
You are a part of this government and we need to work together to bring this ugly episode to an
end. Are there any questions?”

When no one said anything, Amos asked George and Fred to describe their experiences in the
Alley. Everyone listened raptly as George told them about seeing Harry wandering the Alley, the
mysterious cloaked person, the Killing Curse, and so on. When he reached Hermione's entrance,
Amos stopped him. He glanced at her before asking George if there was anyone with Hermione.

“No,” he replied, “and I was wondering about that. Fred sent his Patronus to the Ministry in
general, so we both thought the response would have been swift and collective. Hermione was at
least two minutes ahead of everyone else.”

“There's a good explanation for that, isn't there?” Hermione asked, rhetorically. She
looked sideways at Conrad Murther, the Chair of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

Conrad shrugged, looking very uncomfortable with the attention of the chamber suddenly on him.
He was middle-aged, balding, and quickly developing a rather rotund belly. The switch to
administration from field duty had not agreed with him, unfortunately.

“Conrad?” Amos asked.

“Yes, Amos?”

Amos made an impatient gesture. “Why was there no immediate response?”

“You know just as well as I do there are protocols that need to be followed,” Conrad answered.
Hermione sensed his anger and frustration building quickly beneath the surface of his words. He had
probably been put through the ringer several times since yesterday afternoon.

“When we receive random distress signals,” Conrad continued, “such as the one Fred Weasley sent
in the form of his Patronus, there are several things that need to happen before we can mobilize
anyone. First, we had to verify its authenticity, and then we had to determine the available
response versus the needed response—”

“But how would you know what an appropriate response should be without sending an avante garde
or something like that? With no advance information, how do you determine your reaction?” Hermione
cut in. She probably wasn't supposed to interrupt the flow of the meeting, but she was so
personally invested in what had happened—both because of Harry's involvement and her
annihilation of twelve Dementors—that she couldn't stop herself.

“Excuse me, but what the hell would you know about it, Granger?” Conrad asked, looking angrily
at her. Hermione recoiled in shock at his direct personal attack. “Our response is predicated upon
an assurance of some modicum of safety. I do not send out Aurors or Hit Wizards until I am positive
they will not be ambushed.”

“And you wasted precious time that could have cost Harry his life,” Hermione shot back, aware
that all eyes in the room were now on the two Chairpersons. “I left for Diagon the *second* I
heard Fred's message, and—”

“Which was an immature, hasty, and completely out-of-control response,” Conrad spoke over her.
“It is the MLE's job to respond, anyway, so you broke protocol—”

“Hey, *fuck* your bloody protocol,” George said, overriding the argument completely. The
attention of the chamber refocused on him, and his language shocked everyone into submission. “The
Patronus distress call is a very strong indicator of something seriously wrong, and Hermione was
right to respond as quickly as she did. If she had arrived in the Alley ten seconds later, I would
have been dead and the Dementors would have been moving toward the people.”

If Arthur or Amos were upset at George's usurpation of control over the meeting with his
words, neither showed it. Amos just looked calmly at the Weasley twin.

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said. I had already cast several Patroni by the time Hermione showed up, and my
magic was giving out on me. So I was about to do the only thing I could think of—distract them with
myself to draw them away from Harry. Hermione prevented that outcome, though, and thankfully,” he
finished, looking at her and smiling. She inclined her head toward him.

“Describe for us what happened then,” Amos prompted, and George continued his tale. He told of
Hermione's magnificent Patronus, her ring of fire, and then finally the Doomsday spell she
used. He didn't call it that, though, because he probably didn't know that classification
even existed. He simply described the spell. Hermione received several strange looks as some
members of the Wizengamot no doubt recognized the spell for what it really was.

“Then I took her to St. Mungo's, where the Healers were already attending to Harry.
That's about all I have for you,” George finished, shrugging one shoulder.

“Thank you, George,” Amos said. He moved onto Fred, who described pushing through the crowd of
people to find Harry sprawled out on the ground. After checking his pulse and ascertaining that
Harry was alive, he described Hermione's arrival in Diagon very similarly to what George had
said. Then he had taken Harry to St. Mungo's, and that was as far as his story went.

Amos questioned two Wizengamot members who had been shopping in the Alley at the time. One of
them had Apparated away as soon as he had seen the Dementors—he hadn't realized Harry had been
cut down—and the other described the scene almost exactly as George had. The way he described
Hermione's final spell suggested he knew what it was, but wasn't willing to say.

Amos then relinquished the podium to Arthur. The eldest Weasley removed his glasses from where
they were hanging on his collar and pressed them to his face. He took a moment to collect himself
before speaking.

“The Aurors and Hit Wizards who arrived just over two minutes after Hermione have all been
debriefed, and their accounts of the incident corroborate with everything that has been said so
far. We only need to hear your perspective, Hermione,” he said, looking directly at her, “and then
we can proceed with this investigation and any countermeasures that might be necessary.” She saw
the apology in his eyes.

“Fine then,” she said. “I heard the message from Fred, as did I think everyone else throughout
the Ministry, and responded immediately. I did not even give it a second thought—I just
Disapparated directly from my office to Diagon—”

“Your office is warded against Apparition and Disapparition, as are all the offices,” someone
cut in. It was an older female member of the Wizengamot that Hermione did not recognize. “The
Atrium is the only location Apparition and Disapparition are allowed.”

“Well, the wards didn't stop me, did they?” Hermione asked, rhetorically. “It may explain
the noise everyone heard when I arrived in Diagon and the depressed cobblestones where I stood.
Leaving the Ministry through the wards probably amplified my arrival power, and the air and ground
had not compensated for that by the time I materialized.”

“Still, it's impossible to Apparate through those wards,” the woman persisted.

Hermione laughed at her, in what she knew was a very condescending way. “Not impossible…just
improbable. Wards dramatically increase the power needed to leave or arrive at any location, making
it *nearly* impossible for most witches and wizards to ever make it through. Even for the most
powerful, it significantly raises the chances of a splinching and other catastrophes.”

“Suffice it to say that Hermione arrived in Diagon in one piece,” Arthur said, ending any
further debate. “Continue please,” he requested, nodding at her.

“So when I arrived I saw twelve Dementors bearing down on George. They stopped and turned
towards me. I asked about Harry and George pointed behind me; Fred had Harry free from the crowd
and said he was alive and that he was going to take him to St. Mungo's. That left the
Dementors, so I took care of them—”

“What does that mean?” another nameless Wizengamot member asked, and Hermione had to repress
words of frustration as they threatened to explode from her lips.

“What do you think it means? You all heard the testimony. I destroyed the Dementors,” she
eventually said, trying to be as succinct as possible.

“No one has been able to identify the spell you used,” Arthur cut in, gently. “Would you mind
telling us the incantation?”

“*Exuris ignis exussum,*” she said, knowing that, without a doubt, some would react poorly
to that fact. And sure enough, several Wizengamot members, Conrad Murther, and even Amos Diggory
looked upset or confused as they considered the spell.

“And can you describe what the spell does?” Arthur asked, and again she could see the apology in
his eyes. He obviously didn't want to question her about all of these things, but she supposed
the facts had to be known.

“It forces oxygen into an area where combustion is already taking place and then flash-ignites
all of that oxygen. Because of the higher-than-normal concentration of the gas, the resulting
fireball is abnormally hot and dissipates very quickly.”

“Correct me if I'm wrong,” Conrad said, slowly, though he sounded like he knew he was right,
“but isn't that one of the twenty-seven Doomsday spells?” Murmurs swept through the chamber as
the new information was perceived by those who hadn't already known.

“Yes, it is,” Hermione said. “What is your point?”

“Those spells were outlawed in 1775 when foreign nationals used some on American
revolutionaries,” Conrad said, looking smug.

“But not officially,” Hermione corrected him. “They were simply considered taboo and fell out of
common usage—but what is this, an interrogation? I saved countless lives by stopping those
Dementors—”

“You could have just contained them—”

“Oh, stuff it Conrad! You bloody well know that we are better off without those foul creatures,
so don't get all high and mighty with me. I did what needed to be done!” Hermione countered,
standing from her seat and raising her voice.

“And you fucked our evidence in the process!” Conrad yelled back, also standing. “What the hell
are we supposed to do with a burnt out crater in the middle of Diagon Alley?”

“Please—” Arthur tried to interrupt, but Hermione did not heed him.

“Use it as a reminder of your ineptitude, and your department's complete lack of a response.
Why is that *one single witch* had to prevent twelve Dementors from wreaking havoc throughout
the Alley?”

“Listen, you uppity twat, just because you and those other spoiled kids pulled the victory
against You Know Who out of your arses doesn't mean you garner special privilege here—”

“ENOUGH!” Arthur boomed out, and it was his palpable anger more than anything else that silenced
the room. “I will not have you disrespect each other! That is not why we are here today—we want to
*solve* problems, not create more. Now both of you sit down and listen!” he commanded, and
gone was the genial attitude to which everyone was accustomed.

“Our priorities here are figuring out who attacked Harry and where the Dementors came from.
Obviously with the duly noted lack of physical evidence, the Dementor problem may be more difficult
than we originally thought, but that should not stymie any of our efforts. Hermione may have
overreacted slightly, but she prevented what could have been great loss of life. There is no
apologizing for that, and no need to second guess it.”

Hermione was still smarting from being called an `uppity twat,' but Arthur's words had
calmed her enough to where she could be rational. The Doomsday spell hadn't been the smartest
of ideas, but as she had told them all, she had been operating on instinct. In fact, it was
something Harry would do—act before thinking. Perhaps he was rubbing off on her a little.

“Amos and I will be using the executive offices as a war room, so I expect constant updates
throughout the day on any progress that's made. I think that is all for now; just remember
people, you need to work together so we can end this as quickly as possible. You will have to
answer directly to me if you jeopardize this investigation in any way.”

He looked at Amos. “Anything you would like to add, Amos?”

“If for no one else, do your best work for the Vice Minister-elect. He almost made the ultimate
sacrifice yesterday. What have you given recently for your world?”

It was a rhetorical question, because Amos pounded the gavel on the lectern immediately
following his words. Chatter erupted around the chamber and some witches and wizards rushed here
and there. Hermione looked stonily at Conrad as she passed him—he ignored her completely—and met up
with Fred and George by the exit. She caught Arthur's eyes on the way and they seemed to tell
each other to be careful and good luck.

“That was something,” Fred said, very sarcastically. The three of them left the chamber and
headed for the lifts.

“That Conrad is a right git,” George said, an evil gleam filling his eyes. “Think we should
prank him, O brother of mine?”

“He *did* approve the MLE using our equipment…” Fred trailed off, and then glanced at
Hermione. “But he called our Hermione an ugly name, so I think you're right George. Let's
take some time with this one and make it good.” He rubbed his hands together like a little
child.

Hermione laughed at them, glad that they were still able to see the silver lining, no matter the
situation. “You two are too much. Be careful, ok? Don't get caught. He could make your lives a
living hell.”

Fred looked hurt. “O ye of little faith!” he cried, mock swooning. “Have we ever been
caught?”

“Umbridge,” was all Hermione said, and the twins flinched.

“Point taken,” George said. “We shall be careful, Hermione. Don't you worry about a thing.
But we have to defend your honor, you know that…”

She just smiled at them. “Thank you.” She hugged them both. “Thank you for being there when
Harry needed you.”

Their faces had sobered with her hug. “We were just hoping the cavalry would arrive,” Fred said.
“And it's a bloody good thing the cavalry was *you*.” He looked oddly at her for a moment.
“George showed me his memory of what you did to the Dementors…it was incredible, Hermione. I had no
idea you were that powerful.”

“Neither did I,” she said, and then laughed a little uneasily. She hoped her relationship with
the twins wouldn't change now that they'd both seen her take out those Dementors. “You have
Harry to thank for that rather heavy-handed display of power.”

“Oo, the boyfriend rubbing off on you?” George asked, making eyes at her. Then all three of them
realized the double entendre in his words, and they burst out laughing simultaneously.

“Honestly, George, that's disgusting!” Hermione said, swatting his shoulder playfully.

“Rubbing…off…on…her…” Fred repeated, when he could draw enough breath to speak. He wiped the
tears from his eyes as they all came down from the sudden high.

“You know, that felt good,” George said, and Hermione and Fred nodded. “It reminds of something
Harry once said.”

“And what's that?” Hermione wondered. What could Harry have possibly said that had anything
to do with rubbing off on her—on second thought, maybe she didn't want to know.

“He told Fred and me that our joke shop was a worthy endeavor because the world needed laughter,
no matter how rough things became.”

“Ah, I remember that well,” Fred said, and his eyes turned inward. Hermione knew he was thinking
of the circumstances surrounding Harry's statement.

“When did he tell you this?” she asked.

“It was the end of our sixth year, right after the Triwizard Tournament fiasco and
Moldyshorts' return. He gave the winnings to us, and when we refused, he told us what George
said. In fact, I still remember his exact words: `We could all do with a few laughs. I've got a
feeling we're going to need them more than usual before long.'”

The lift shuttered to a halt at the Atrium, and the three were engulfed in silence as
Harry's words washed over them. It was almost like he was standing there with them, and it was
eerie and unsettling.

After a moment, Hermione asked, “What are you two doing now?”

Fred and George looked at each other. “Opening up the shop early,” Fred said. “We're moving
forward with our plans to open a Hogsmeade branch, so with the early start we can get in some
R&D. What about you? Are you going back to the hospital?”

“Shortly,” she said. “But first I have to stop by Gringotts and see Ragnok.”

Both Fred and George looked impressed. “What do you have to see the head goblin for?”

“He wants to speak to me about Harry.”

“Probably wondering when he's going to get his star Director back?” George asked, though it
was not a serious question.

Hermione smiled at them. Life would simply not be as entertaining without the twins. “Something
like that,” she said, and then prepared to Disapparate. “See you two later?”

“Of course, Miss Granger,” Fred said, bowing.

“Until we meet again, dear Hermione,” George said, bowing as well and kissing the back of her
hand.

She chuckled. “You two are impossible.” She felt the compression of translocation and found
herself just outside of Gringotts, at the bottom of the wide marble steps. She ascended toward the
bank proper and was met by two armed goblins at the top. They bowed slightly and motioned for her
to enter.

“This way, Lady Granger,” one said, leading her through the deserted lobby. The bank was closed
because it was still very early in the morning. “Director Ragnok has been expecting you.”

She walked through the side door and found herself in the familiar wide, plush corridor. She
strolled all the way to end with her goblin escort, their steps muted by the thick carpet beneath
their feet, and stopped outside Ragnok's door. The two goblins bowed again and left. She rapped
twice on the doorframe.

“Enter!” came a voice, one she knew to be Ragnok's.

She pushed on the door and eased into the Director's office. Ragnok quickly finished some
paperwork as she took a seat in front of his desk. He looked up and gazed at her; she met his eyes.
Finally his features settled into an enigmatic smile, oddly enough concealing his fangs. Some
random piece of information clicked in her brain—it was a sign of mourning in the goblin
nation.

“Lady Granger, I am glad you received my note,” he told her.

“I'm sorry you could not deliver it personally, Director Ragnok,” Hermione said. “It most
likely would have saved you some time.”

He waved it off with a clawed hand. “Let's dispose of the formalities, Hermione.”

“Fair enough, Ragnok,” she said, relaxing into her a chair a little. “What's this
about?”

“What else?” he asked, ironically. “Harry, of course.”

“I figured as much.”

“I had the doorguards from yesterday afternoon provide me their memories of the incident in the
Alley,” Ragnok said, leaning forward over his desk. “Sadly, they did not clearly see Harry's
confrontation with the unknown person, but they did witness in some detail your destruction of the
Dementors.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “Quite frankly, I was very impressed, Hermione. Harry has told me you are
almost a match for him, and certainly that you know more spells than he ever could, but I suppose
the truth is in the seeing. That spell must have taken its toll.”

Hermione considered her aching muscles and headache before nodding. “It did, Ragnok. I've
never been this tired, not even during the war.”

“It was for a worthy cause, though,” he said, to which she could only nod again. She wondered
where Ragnok was heading with all of this.

“Hermione…I just wanted to personally tell you that the goblin nation is not taking this attack
lightly. As a member of our Board of Directors, any attack upon Harry's person or family is
considered an attack upon the security and safety of Gringotts itself, so with that in mind we have
launched a full inquiry into yesterday's events.”

“I understand, Ragnok,” she said, and she had been expecting this. “I believe it is prudent you
know, however, that the ministry is concurrently investigating what happened.”

“I had no doubt in my mind that they would,” Ragnok asserted. “But the Ministry is constrained
by certain…”

“Protocols?” Hermione provided, thinking of the argument that had occurred during the
meeting.

“Yes. The Ministry is constrained by *protocols* the goblin nation might not necessarily
observe,” he said, very carefully, though he was grinning. His fangs were showing now. “What humans
typically call red tape we call occupational hazards; that is, we don't just cut *through*
red tape—we totally obliterate it.”

“Again, I understand. For Harry's sake, though, try to avoid anything with which he would be
uncomfortable,” Hermione said, hoping she hadn't offended Ragnok with her forwardness.

But he nodded, clearly seeing her point. “I've taken that into consideration, and we will do
nothing *extreme* until he wakes up and can consult with us.”

“That sounds good,” Hermione said, glad that Harry would not have to wake up to full-scale
goblin anger on his behalf. “Thank you very much, Ragnok. I appreciate everything you have done for
Harry and are doing.”

He stared at her for a second, and there was an undefined emotion in his beady goblin eyes. It
almost reminded her of the way Dumbledore had looked at times.

“There's no need to thank me, Hermione. Harry is one of our advocates, and also one of our
most trusted allies. It may sound odd, coming from me, but he deserves our thanks more than we
deserve his.”

She smiled then, aware of the magnitude of what Ragnok was implying. “I think Harry would
understand, as much as he wouldn't want to admit it.”

“Yes,” he agreed, chuckling in a gravelly sort of way, “you are probably right. Unless there is
anything else you need to discuss,” he continued, “I would suggest returning to Harry. I can see it
in your eyes, Hermione—you two are very lucky to have each other.”

“Thanks,” she said, giving him an odd look. Approval from Ragnok for her relationship with Harry
was the last thing she needed, but it was strangely comforting in any case. “I will see you soon,
I'm sure,” she said, standing and offering her hand. Ragnok came around his desk and shook it,
and then nodded at her.

She Disapparated directly from his office and appeared in the lobby of St. Mungo's. All she
wanted to do was curl up with Harry and actually get some rest. She ignored the Aurors and Hit
Wizards on her way to Harry's room, and they seemed to know to avoid idle chatter this time.
The same two Aurors were posted outside of his room that had been there before, and they did not
bat an eye as she pushed open the door and closed it behind her.

Dobby was still sitting in the chair she had watched from all night, and Libby was asleep on his
lap. His huge eyes turned to meet hers.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and he nodded at her.

“Will we be seeing you at the Manor soon?” he whispered back, shifting Libby in his arms.

“I hope so, Dobby,” she responded. He breathed deeply, as if he wanted to say something else,
and then popped out of the room with Libby. She was alone with Harry once again. He had not moved
since she had last seen him.

Hermione flicked her hand at the bed and watched as it magically expanded. She conjured several
blankets and finally discarded her Ministry robes. She transfigured the jeans and t-shirt
underneath into something more comfortable and lay down next to Harry, throwing the blankets over
them. She turned toward him and threw her arm over his chest, resting her face near his
shoulder.

Her eyes slipped close and sleep claimed her. The only sign of life in the room was the faintly
beeping heart monitor.

*Beep … beep … beep … beep … beep … beep …*

-->



28. Signal To Noise
-------------------



**Bearings**

Disclaimer/Author's Notes: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter.

*Welcome to the fallout*

*Welcome to resistance*

*The tension is here*

*Between who* *you are and who you could be*

*Between how it is and how it should be*

Switchfoot

*Dare You To Move*

Chapter Eighteen: Signal To Noise

Wednesday, November 13th, 2002; 6:36 pm

*“You sure you don't want to come with me?”*

*“Not tonight, mate,” Ron answered.*

*“Ok…” Harry said. “But why?”*

*The redhead shrugged, staring at the chess board between them. Harry was losing
spectacularly, as usual.*

*“Don't feel like it.”*

*“But it's* Hermione*,” Harry emphasized.*

*Ron glanced up at Harry and shrugged again. Harry wanted to reach out and hit his best friend
in the face. Why was he so indifferent about this whole thing?*

*“I know,” Ron said, moving his Knight. “Check.”*

*Harry consi**dered his next move for three or* *four seconds* *and then
decided to throw the rest of the game. He moved* *his* *King behind his Queen, which Ron
would take next. The hour was late and he wanted to get to the Hospital Wing before Madam Pomfrey
kicked out* *all* *visitors.*

*“She would go for you,” Harry said, watching as his Queen fell.*

*“Check,” Ron said.*

*“And you know it,” Harry added, moving his King again. The game would be over soon.*

*“Yeah, probably…” Ron trailed off, cutting down another of Harry's pieces. He looked up.
“Checkmate.”*

*Harry sat back, watching detachedly as his remaining pieces raised their fists at him and
marched off the board.*

*“So? Why won't you come?”*

*Ron sighed, sounding quite exasperated. “Because I've bloody been there almost every
night for the past two weeks. Can I just have a night to myself?”*

*Harry frowned at Ron. “This isn't supposed to be a chore, Ron. It's Hermione
we're talking about here.”*

*“Yeah, a Petrified Hermione. Honestly, what trouble can she possibly get into without being
able to move a muscle?”*

*Harry couldn't believe Ron was being so callous about this. Their mutual best
frie**nd was sidelined indefinitely**,* *partly* *because of their actions, and
he did not even want to go see her for five minutes.*

*“I don't really think that's the point, Ron.”*

*“Would you just let it go?” Ron asked, putting the chess pieces away. “I'll go tomorrow
night.”*

*“If she can still hear us, she will know that you aren't coming with me,” Harry told
him.*

*“Oh well,” Ron said. “I hope she isn't too disappointed.”*

*Harry stood up and paced away from his friend; he was sorely tempted to hit Ron, unlike he
had ever wanted to hit anyone in his life, so moving away was the best option.*

*“Suit yourself,” he said. “See you later.”*

*“Later, mate,” Ron said, infuriatingly unconcerned.*

*Harry seethed for a short while as he traversed the silent and empty corridors, but his anger
faded as he neared the Hospital Wing. Honestly, if Ron didn't want to visit Hermione* every
*night, that was his prerogative; Harry supposed he shouldn't be angry* *with*
*Ron**—or at least not completely furious.*

*The hush of the cavernous stone corridors, where every footstep produced a muffled echo,
turned into a completely different kind of silence as he pushed open the doors of the Hospital
Wing. His thoughts of Ron were quickly forgotten as he crossed the muted space, with its
row**s* *of beds and sterile smell. He could see Madam Pomfrey in her office; she was at
her desk doing some work b**y the flickering gaslight of a* *lamp. She looked up and
smiled warmly at him, and he waved back.*

*Being careful not to disturb any of* *the* *patients, he moved to the far end of
the Wing. A familiar tangle of brown hair greeted his eyes as he drew closer, though it was splayed
across a white pillow, hard and unmoving. Pomfrey had told them all to be the most careful with her
hair, because if touched or handled improperly, it could break apart. Strands of hair that had been
turned to stone were very delicate.*

*He stopped by the end of her bed for an undefined period of time, just staring down at her
serene and unmoving features. Her eyes were half-open and he could just make* *out*
*her* *auburn* *irises; otherwise, she looked like she was asleep. He knew she
wasn't, of course, and that was a fantasy he could not afford to lose himself in at this point.
She had been affected* *by* *the malignant force inside Hogwarts, and he had made it
his* duty *to use her last clue and hunt the Basilisk to its death. He had no idea how he
would accomplish that, however, so he ventured here every night to draw some silent inspiration
from his best female friend.*

*Even though she couldn't respond or move, he had a funny feeling that she might be able
to hear what he said.* *So his nights here inevitably turned into one-sided conversations as
he talked about whatever was on his mind. His brain would fill in what he imagined Hermione might
say to his comments or questions. He knew it was futile and probably pathetic, but he missed her
daily presence in his life. It was odd without her there to remind him about emphasizing the second
syllable of* wingardium*, to fill his plate with toast in the mornings, and to be the last
face he saw every night before climbing the stairs to his dormitory. He supposed by sitting here
with her, she still was one of the last faces he saw every day, but there was big difference: she
was usually smiling or laughing at something he'd said, instead of staring impassively with
hooded eyes at the ceiling.*

*Harry sat down in the chair beside her bed and rested his elbows next to her body. The bed
creaked slightly with his added weight. He wondered when the Mandrake juic**e would be ready,
and hoped it* *would be very soon. He couldn't wait for her to wake up—he smiled when he
thought of how distraught she would be upon realizing how many classes she'd missed—and wanted
to be there for her when she did. He hoped being one of the first things she saw after nearly
coming face-to-face with a Basilisk would quickly set her mind at ease.*

*“Hu**llo, Hermione,” he whispered. “I know you probably can't hear me…but I wanted
to say hi anyway.”*

*He paused, willing her to somehow respond. Nothing happened, of course. He sighed and
continued gazing at her frozen face. There were* *faint* *freckles across the bridge of
her nose he had never* *before noticed**.*

*“**I miss you,” he said, though he'd wanted to say something about how odd it was
not having her around. Instead, those words had jumped from his mouth. He said nothing more as he
considered the disconnect between his brain and his mouth.*

*“I* do *miss you,” he repeated, eventually. “Ron's great and so is everyone else,
but it's not the same without you around. I keep turning to you in class to ask a question and
you're not there.”*

*Harry fiddled with the edge of the sheet. He was never very good at this type of thing,
talking about his* feelings*—though Hermione was always the one who could get him to open
up.*

*“This is probably pointless, as usual, but I'm going to walk you through today's
classes,” Harry said. This was another reason for visiting her every night; on the off chance she
could hear him, she would not fall behind everyone. So for the next half hour,* *he recounted
as much as he could remember* *about the day's classes, going over the lecture, the
practical, and anything interesting or funny. It was…cleansing…to tell Hermione all of this, even
if his words weren't reaching her. It brought him closer to her when she was the furthest from
him she'd ever been. She was locked inside of her own mind and he had no way of getting to
her.*

*“Ron didn't come with me tonight,” he concluded. “So it's just plain old me, talking
to myself by your side.”*

*After his long monologue, the stillness of the Hospital Wing was almost oppressive, so he
laid h**is head on her bed and closed his eyes. He pulled the chair a little closer so he
wasn't straining to reach the soft mattress.*

*A very low* thump… thump… thump… *reverberated through the bedclothes into the ear that
was pressed into the mattress, and with an honest and beautiful smile he realized it wa**s
Hermione's heartbeat. Petrifi**c**a**tion wasn't death**, so of course
her heart would still be beating! He decided not to wonder about the mechanics of a stone heart,
and instead marveled at how close he felt to her in that moment. He was listening to her only sign
of life like no one else had. Hermione was there, underneath that distant and gentle heartbeat—all
he had to do was listen to it like he had never listened to anything in his life.*

*“Hermione, can you hear me?” he asked. “If you can hear me, I can hear* you*. I can hear
your heartbeat.”* *What did he hope* *to accomplish with this? He didn't know, but he
wasn't about to stop now.*

*The soft thud of her heart continued, uninterrupted and unchanged. “Madam Pomfrey said
yesterday that the Mandrake juice should be ready sometime in the next two weeks.” Still
nothing.*

*“And that's great news because you'll be able to get back to classes at least two
weeks before finals,” he added.* Thump… thump… thump.. thump.. thump. thump. *Harry's eyes
widened as he, undeniably, heard her heart* *rate increase.*

*“You can hear me!” he exclaimed. “I knew it all along. Oh, this is wonderful!” he said, quite
loudly. His words drew the attention of Madam Pomfrey.*

*“What's this about?” she wondered, coming over to Hermione's bed and looking down at
both of them.*

*“She can hear me!” Harry said.*

*“How do you know?” Pomfrey wondered, and Harry heard skepticism in her voice.*

*“Her heartbeat—it sped up when I told her she should be able to get back to her studies
soon,” he said, looking down at his best friend's face. It was odd, looking at her unchanging
features, when he knew she could hear and that she was probably just as excited as he was right
now.*

*“But that's impossible, Mr. Potter,” Madam Pomfrey said, moving closer and waving her
wand over Hermione's body. “She's Petrified—she's all stone, even her heart.”*

*“But…” Harry started, suddenly crestfallen. He had been so excited. “But how is that
possible? She's still alive, so how could she be* all *stone?”*

*Pomfrey gave him a sad, almost condescending smile. He frowned at her, which she did not
notice. He did not need her pity.*

*“It's just how it works, I'm afraid,” she told him. “She did not look the beast
directly in the eyes and can therefore be cured, but that does not change the fact that she is
completely stone. Even her brain.”*

*Harry did not believe her. He supposed his denial was irrational, but how else could he
explain that soft and rhythmic* *pulse* *he'd heard when his ear was against the
mattress? He clung to the idea that Hermione could in fact hear him and that it was her heartbeat
he was listening to, and ignored Pomfrey's further conversation. She seemed to take the hint
and went back to her office after a minute or so. He pushed her sympathetic look out of his
mind.*

*After placing his ear against the mattress once again, he found the reassuring sound of what
he knew was her heartbeat and let it wash over him for awhile. It grounded him to the reality that
Hermione* would *wake up and that she* would *be with him again. He couldn't wait for
that day.*

*“I know you're in there, Hermione,” he whispered. The noise sped up again. “I'm here
for you.”*

-----------

Every single inch of his body ached. Several interminable moments passed as Harry hovered
between the dream-flashback and true consciousness, and gradually he was aware that he was awake
and alive. It was an underwhelming realization, after hearing and seeing the Killing Curse rushing
in to end his life, but startling nonetheless. There had been absolutely nothing to do—the Curse
had hit him and he'd felt his magic flare up, impossibly high and fast—and then nothing.
Just…darkness.

He breathed deeply, reveling in the feeling of pulmonary expansion for the first time in however
long he had been out. Blinking several times, he tried to make sense of the bright and blurry
surroundings, but his eyes were still clogged with sleep and addled with the hallucinatory memories
of his dream. There was a warm form next to him and he knew without looking it was Hermione. He
just *knew*.

He had vague and disconnected memories of dreams and flashbacks, and he was already quickly
forgetting all of them, but the last image remained indelibly etched upon his brain: Hermione
during their second year, Petrified because of the Basilisk.

Harry's brain was trying to catch up to his sudden awakening, and finally the attack hit his
mind like a speeding lorry. Someone had tried to kill him! But it wasn't just
*someone*…

He had seen her face in that last instant before the green light of the Killing Curse had filled
his vision. Her mouth etched in a rabid snarl; her eyes gleaming with wretched triumph; her
platinum hair tucked into her dark hood…

“Harry?” a voice thick with sleep asked, and his train of thought derailed as Hermione stirred
beside him. He turned his head toward her voice and blinked a few more times, mostly clearing his
eyes of their blurriness. His neck creaked as it pivoted. It could use a good massage.

He found himself staring into depthless chocolate orbs. They were warm and inviting, and he
could see the concern smoldering beneath the surface emotions. But there was one more emotion
prevalent in her eyes, and it was love. It was the love he also felt for her, which she could
undoubtedly see in his green eyes. Her pupils dilated slightly and the silver and bronze speckles
swirled around the dark center as her irises adjusted.

Harry tentatively reached over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. He smiled at
her, and then his eyes were drawn to her lips as they started trembling. She returned his smile as
tears began to drop from her eyes.

“Hi, Hermione,” he responded, and she began to cry in earnest. She moved into his side and
buried her head in his chest. He turned slightly, ignoring for now his screaming muscles, and
tucked her into his body with his arms. She was soft and firm at the same time, and he felt like he
knew every curve. Holding her was like going home.

“Don't you…don't you *ever* leave me again,” she said, and he distinctly heard
every word, muffled though they were by his body. “Oh Merlin, Harry, I missed you so much. I was so
worried…” She sniffled and lifted her head slightly to look him in the eyes once again. Harry felt
an odd pressure behind his eyes—odd because he couldn't remember the last time he had cried or
even wanted to cry.

“I'll try, Hermione,” he whispered, and his voice was raspy from lack of water. He cleared
his throat, even though there was a funny lump in the middle of it. He swallowed but it didn't
help. “I love you.”

She squeezed him tighter and he returned the gesture. “Love you too,” she whispered, and they
lay like that for quite some time. At some point, Harry suffered a moment of panic as he remembered
what he had been doing just before his run-in with Death—but a quick inventory of his body told him
the box was in the pocket of his pants. Funny…he thought he remembered putting the ring into his
robes after making the purchase. He shrugged internally; the last five minutes before leaving the
jewelry shop were hazy.

“What day is it?” he asked, after a time.

“Wednesday evening,” Hermione answered, and then lifted her arm into the air. She waved it
casually and whispered, “*Tempus.*”

Golden letters appeared out of nowhere, shimmering slightly, and arranged themselves to form
**Wednesday, 13 November 2002, 19:05:23**. The last two digits increased by one with every
second that passed. Hermione waved her hand again and the image faded.

“So I was out for two days?” Harry wondered. It hadn't seemed like very long at all; yet, it
also seemed like an eternity. He fleetingly wondered if it was possible to get lost within
one's own mind.

Hermione nodded against him. “Yes, and I hated every minute,” she said.

“Do you know what happened?” Harry asked, thinking once again of the familiar and completely
unexpected face under the dark hood. It was someone directly out of his nearly-forgotten
past—certainly a past from which he had successfully moved.

“Do *you*?” Hermione asked, looking at him with her penetrating eyes. Vivacious and
intoxicating were only two of the many words he could use to describe those wonderful eyes.

“No,” he told her. “Not really, at least.”

“Just that *someone* tried to kill you?” Her voice had quickly become hard and bitter, and
he entwined his fingers in her hair and gently stroked.

“And failed,” he reminded her. “I'm still here. You can't get rid of me that easily,” he
joked, and was rewarded with a tiny smile from Hermione. It was still tinged with sadness and
anger, though.

“How?” He received that same penetrating look. “Harry, *how*?” she wondered.

“I don't know,” he answered, truthfully. He had apparently survived the Killing Curse twice
now, something no creature had ever done *once*. “I honestly don't know. I felt a burst of
my magic just as the Curse hit me, but nothing else. I didn't even have time to *think*
about Disapparating.”

“Not that I'm complaining, mind you…”

“I know, Hermione.”

“Fred and George were at their shop, and I guess George saw the attack because he was using that
sign of theirs. They rushed into the Alley and Fred sent his Patronus the Ministry; meanwhile,
George tried to fight off the Dementors—”

“Dementors?” Harry asked, disbelieving.

Hermione nodded. “Yes, Harry. Dementors… Perhaps we should have followed up on that Dementor at
the Manor?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Hermione shook her head slightly. “Moot at this point; anyway, Fred's Patronus arrived at
the Ministry and it broadcast the emergency message through the whole building, or at least the
administration and Magical Law Enforcement levels. I immediately Apparated to the Alley without
even a second thought.”

“Through the anti-Apparition wards?”

“Through them,” Hermione asserted. “It was easy, actually. Probably because I wasn't
thinking at the time—it was just instinct, really.”

Harry pulled her against him and pressed a soft kiss into her hair, glad that she had been there
to save his arse once again. He'd cheated death more than a dozen times in his life and
Hermione was responsible for at least half of them.

“Sounds like something I'd do,” Harry told her.

She pulled back a little and had an interesting little smile quirking her lips. “It does, but
that's nothing compared to what happened in the Alley.”

“Do tell.”

“When I arrived I saw twelve Dementors bearing down on George. Everything stopped when I got to
the Alley; Fred had you and said you were alive and that he was bringing you here. I don't know
what happened then. I think it must have been my rage at someone trying to kill you, and my
frustration at the apparent lack of response by the DMLE, and the anguish of knowing you were
hurt…but I completely lost it.”

“How do you mean?” Harry wondered. He couldn't remember seeing Hermione truly angry, unless
he counted that time during their sixth year when she'd sent the canaries at Ron.

“I mean I just lost it, Harry. I told George to get out of the way and then I destroyed the
Dementors.”

“*Destroyed?*”

She nodded, and he thought he could see some fear in her eyes. Or perhaps it was apprehension.
Whatever the emotion was, Harry didn't like it.

“I burned them,” she continued. “I used one of the Doomsday spells and incinerated them. I did
that Apparition trick you taught me—you know, when you draw your magic to the surface like
you're going to Apparate.”

Harry nodded, waiting for her to continue.

“I scarred Diagon Alley, Harry. I melted the cobblestone in the process of destroying the
Dementors. I didn't know I was that powerful.”

“I did,” Harry said. She just looked at him, and he could see some moisture shining in the
corners of her eyes. “I always know you were special, Hermione, and not just because you were my
best friend. You were always the first to get spells right and the last to stop practicing them.
And it never tired you out; you always had more to give. And then this past spring when we were
doing those *lumos* spells you saw for yourself what you could do. And now you tell me you
destroyed twelve Dementors? Well, I can believe it. And I want to thank you for once again saving
my skinny little arse.”

She sniffled. “No need to thank me, Harry. I know you would have done the same for me…and your
arse is *not* skinny.”

“I would have destroyed *one hundred* Dementors if you were down, and you know it,” Harry
told her.

“You've already saved someone from that many, Harry,” Hermione said, obviously thinking of
Sirius. “We'd have to up the ante to two or three hundred to really challenge you…”

Harry chuckled, though it was a weak gesture. “I'm just glad I woke up to your beautiful
face. I love you, `Mione.”

“Mmm, I love you too, Harry,” she said, scooting up the bed slightly and capturing his lips with
hers, so soft and warm and pink. She palmed the side of his face; he felt his stubble scratching
against the surface of her hand as they deepened the kiss. His tongue ran over her lip and she
parted them slightly, allowing him access to her mouth. His tongue met the tip of hers and then
swirled around. It was the passionate kiss of lovers separated not by distance or time but by
tragedy. He was desperate to feel her against him and to reaffirm her physical presence in his
mind.

His body was reacting to the kiss in very obvious ways, and because they were lying against each
other, Hermione noticed and slid against him several times. She moaned into his mouth, breaking the
kiss briefly and pulling his bottom lip with her teeth. When she let it go, she captured her own
lower lip in her teeth. Her face was flushed and her hair was scattered about her temples. He felt
her chest push against him with every rapid breath she took.

“Harrrrrry…” she moaned, and the blood rushed through his veins even more hotly and urgently. “I
missed you so much. Even when you were right here I couldn't *get* to you…” She leaned
forward once again, trailing her hot lips against the edge of his jaw toward his ear. She left a
burning trail of nerves in her wake.

“I know, Hermione,” he gasped, as she teased his ear lobe with her tongue. “I was dreaming—about
the same—exact thing,” he told her, through his shuddering breaths. She moved from his ear down the
side of his neck, turning him slightly with her body weight and laying half her body over him. Her
full and firm curves felt amazing against his body and as she half-straddled the evidence of his
arousal, he knew he wanted her more at this moment than at any other time in his life.

“I was in the Hospital Wing,” he said, as she banished his shirt and continued trailing her
awe-inspiring kisses down his torso. “And I was sitting with you—it was during Second year—and
talking to you even though you were Petrified.”

“And?” she wondered, briefly breaking contact with his skin to prompt him. When she returned to
his body, she engulfed one of his nipples in her mouth and swirled her tongue around the slightly
raised nub. Then she took it between her teeth and bit down gently. He arched his back off the bed
as the sensations radiated out from his chest, many of them heading south toward his raging
erection. It was so intense—yet so good—that he almost told her to keep moving down. But she would
go at her own pace.

“And I was convinced that you could hear me,” Harry continued, as she switched to his other
nipple. “Pomfrey told me that was impossible—but—but I could hear your heartbeat,” he finished,
losing words for a moment as she moved further down, trailing her tongue over his sternum onto his
abdomen. Merlin, she knew how to push his buttons.

“Like I can hear yours right now?” she wondered. “It's racing, Harry.” She pressed a few
kisses to his stomach, focusing on his navel.

“I wonder why?” he asked, rhetorically, and then laughed as her warm breath tickled his lower
abdomen. “Look what you do to me,” he observed. Her body was now pressed fully into his erection.
All that remained between her and it was his pesky clothing.

“I can *feel* what I do to you,” she said, licking across the very top of his pants. “And
you should feel what you're doing to *me*,” she added, looking up the length of his torso
into his eyes with a mischievous glint in hers.

“Give me a chance and I expect I will,” he returned, grinning. Her eyebrows crept up her
forehead and quite suddenly he was very naked. His arousal was pressed against her t-shirt, just
above her breasts. She reached up and placed a warm hand over his hard member.

Harry closed his eyes at the wonderful pressure and waved his hand in the direction of the door.
There was a soft squelching noise as he sealed the room against intruders. Nothing would break this
moment between them.

She lowered her head to his skin and kissed further down, maneuvering around his most sensitive
areas as she rubbed them slowly with her hand. She moved from his erection to his balls and back
again. He wanted to burn the feeling of her hands into his brain—

“Oh, shit—Hermione,” he said. She had pushed his cock toward his navel and lowered her mouth to
his balls, and now she was swirling her tongue over them. She sucked one into her mouth as she
began to pump him in earnest; then she sucked the other into her mouth *and* swirled her
tongue around it at the same time. Harry couldn't even form coherent thoughts anymore. His
entire consciousness was focused on her grasping mouth and what it was doing to him.

His right nut left her mouth with a *pop* and then he shivered involuntarily, emitting a
formless cry of pleasure, as she licked from the base of his cock to the fully engorged head. The
coarseness of her taste buds against the super-sensitive skin just below the end of his rock hard
member almost sent him over the edge; he entwined his hands in her hair, willing himself to hold on
just a little longer, to enjoy this treatment for as long as his body could take it.

“Herrrrrmioneeeee,” he moaned. His mouth opened wide and then closed again as she engulfed the
head in her mouth and then slowly worked in his entire length. He felt her throat close around his
head as her nose bumped against his stomach. His hands closed into his fists, though somehow he was
careful not to pull her hair. She swallowed and the action of her throat against his cock was
unlike anything he had ever felt in his entire life or would likely ever feel again.

She developed a rhythm, bobbing gently up and down, but never coming more than three or four
inches from his stomach. As she moved up and down, her tongue swirled around his swollen member;
when she went all the way down, she stuck out her tongue and moved it over his balls. She'd
pleasured him orally before, but never anything like this. It was beyond amazing. But he knew the
end was near—he wouldn't be able to last much longer.

“I'm—going—to—come,” he panted, and she nodded with him still in her mouth. But she
didn't let up at all; instead, she increased her pace and when he bucked up off the bed several
times, she went all the way down and stayed there. There was an enormous pressure at the base of
his cock, waiting to explode, and when it did waves of the most pleasurable sensations he'd
ever experienced flooded through his body. He gushed into her mouth, and once again he felt her
throat working against the head as she swallowed everything he released.

When his body stopped pulsing and he could think again, she slowly—inch-by-incredible-inch—moved
upward and eventually released him from her mouth. He was covered with a glossy sheen of saliva.
When she looked into his eyes once again they were consumed by lust and had darkened considerably;
her lips were red and swollen and looked impossibly and intoxicatingly luscious.

“Wow,” was all he could say.

She smiled. It was a smile of triumph and knowledge and perhaps even power.

“That was… It was…” he trailed off, not wanting to say `incredible' because it would sound
lame.

“Why don't you show me how it was?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. He needed no second
prompting and reached down to move her up so she was face to face with him again. He kissed her and
tasted himself on her tongue, but he didn't care. He ran his tongue over her lower lip and
sucked it into his mouth.

He twitched a finger as the kiss slowly ended and was rewarded by the feeling of her skin
against his skin. Her clothing had magically disappeared. He ran his hands up and down her smooth
back, from the swell of her bum to the nape of her neck. He felt her firm breasts press against his
chest; her nipples poked against his skin and he felt her wriggle slightly to place his erection
between her legs. The heat emanating from her core was incredible.

“We both end up naked quite frequently,” he said. She giggled.

“Yes we do.”

“But that's ok with me,” he added, and she nodded in agreement. She leaned down to kiss him
again and without breaking it he turned them over so he was on top. He trailed his left hand over
her stomach and then up to her chest, loving the feel of her firm yet somehow soft breast as he
cupped it in his palm. The hard nub of her nipple pressed against the center of his hand, and he
wound his whole hand over her breast for several moments, feeling and loving her excitement at the
pleasure.

He lowered his mouth to her other breast and suckled on her nipple; she whimpered in pleasure
and arched her back. He took as much of her in his mouth as he could and kneaded it with his
tongue. Eventually, as her whimpers grew, he removed his mouth from her plentiful mounds and kissed
his way toward her burning center.

He stopped to tweak her navel, but she impatiently pushed his head further down. He smiled into
her mons as her insistent hands wound their way into his hair. As his lips encountered her
*other* lips, her fingernails dragged against his scalp and she twisted on the bed. A growl of
something escaped her lungs and he found himself pressed face-first into her moist folds. He parted
the outer lips with his tongue and found the hard little nub buried in there.

“OH!” she cried, and bucked once as he played with her clit for a moment. She smelled and tasted
wonderful, and she was so soft down here that he could suck on it for ages and never get tired or
bored. Moving his tongue from her clit, her pushed apart her inner lips and sought her entrance; he
darted in and out of her several times, moving his hand to her moist nub to pleasure her even
more.

“Just like that…keep doing that, Harry,” she panted, though when she said his name it was
guttural and animalistic and nothing at all like her normal voice.

She pressed her thighs together and he found himself wedged in between her most intimate of
places and her firm, toned legs. He was surrounding by her warm skin and he was currently sucking
in and out of his mouth her wet folds; he couldn't imagine a better way to show Hermione just
how much he loved her at this moment.

He reached under her and lifted her legs; she took the hint and wrapped her arms around them,
behind her knees, and pulled them back to her chest. This left her completely open to his exploring
tongue and hands, and he took advantage of the clear invitation. He focused on her clit once again
with his tongue, teasing it with the very tip, and pushed two fingers into her. She cooed as they
slid deeper and deeper.

When they were in as far as he could reach, he gently retracted them and sucked her entire clit
and the surrounding skin into his mouth at the same time.

“Fuck—Harry! That's *amazing*—do that again,” she told him, and he did as he was told,
though he couldn't keep the grin off his face. As his fingers slid in and out of her—as her
slick juices coated his index and middle fingers—he continued sucking on her nub. He felt her
clench several times around his fingers and he knew she must be getting close. His eyes followed
one of her hands as it went to a breast and started tweaking the nipple. He always loved watching
her pleasure herself.

“Mmmmm,” she intoned, grinding her hips and letting her legs down a bit. Harry adjusted to keep
the same access, and continued his ministrations of her most sensitive parts. “I'm getting
close,” she whispered.

He rapidly pistoned his fingers in and out as he felt her climax building; he eased off her clit
at the last moment and gently licked up and down her slit around his quick fingers. She shuddered
and mewled and went crashing over the edge, tightening around his fingers and leaking out even more
of her wetness.

“So good…” she moaned as she continued to ride the high.

After the clenching stopped he let his fingers rest inside of her; they made eye contact and he
saw love, lust, longing, desperation, and passion. Her breathing was ragged and his eyes were drawn
to her heaving breasts. Her nipples were swollen and very dark. He withdrew his fingers from her
core and waved his hand toward his face, erasing the sticky evidence of his oral adventures.

Harry slithered up Hermione's body and rested against her. They were both slightly sweaty,
but their warm bodies felt very comfortable against each other. He threaded his legs through hers
and rested his head against the side of hers. Their breathing settled and soon enough their hearts
were beating as one. He could feel the *thump* of hers in time with his.

“Before all this happened,” Harry said, after a long time, “there was something I was going to
ask you.”

“Oh?”

“Yes…can you un-banish my clothes?” he wondered. He couldn't help the bemused smile that
stretched his lips when he heard her giggle at his request.

“Sure, Harry.” Two seconds later, his clothes were in a pile at the end of the bed. He reached
down and retrieved the pants, feeling the hard object in the pocket. He lifted his head from hers
and saw something like…expectation?

“Before anything else happens to us,” Harry started, fumbling around in the pocket, “I have to
pose this question to you.”

“Ok,” she said, staring at him intently. He gripped the box and pulled it from his pants.

“Hermione Jane Granger: will you marry me?”

He lifted the box into view and opened it, showing Hermione the breathtakingly gorgeous
engagement ring within.

Her eyes slid from his to the ring and then back to his; an adorable smile then lit up her face
all the way to the depths of her russet eyes. She placed her hands on his cheeks and leaned
forward, pressing a gentle kiss onto his lips.

“Oh Harry…yes. Of course. Yes a thousand times. I would *love* to be your wife,” she said,
speaking quickly and almost gushing.

Relief flooded through him and he kissed her back. They broke apart and he lifted her left hand
in his, sliding the ring onto her fourth finger. They both stared at it as it sparkled in the light
of the room. It was then that he noticed the purple of her nipples beyond her hand.

He started laughing.

“What? What's so funny?” she wondered.

“Hermione, I just—I just proposed to you completely naked,” he told her, through his laughs. She
smiled and then chuckled a few times.

“And I accepted…also completely naked.”

“A sign of things to come?” he wondered, after he stopped laughing.

“Hopefully. If they're anything like *that*…” she trailed off, signaling what they had
just done with her eyes. There was that same mischievous glint in them.

She sighed and curled into him, wrapping her arms around his body. He reveled in the feeling of
their skin-to-skin contact now that they're all-consuming passion had passed for the moment. It
was nice just to lay there with her and enjoy the feel of her body as it moved gently against him
with every breath.

“I love you, Harry.”

He shifted, turning so that he spooned her. She pressed back into him, wriggling to place his
flaccid member between the cheeks of her bum. If she kept that up, she would get a quick repeat of
what had just occurred.

“I love you too, Hermione.”

“Husband…father of my children…lover…keeper…” she said, with long spaces between each.

“Wife…mother of my children…lover…soul mate…” he told her.

She craned her neck to look into his eyes.

“Really?”

“Really.”

She nodded in acceptance and looked forward again, resting her head on the pillow. He dropped a
kiss to her bare shoulder and she made this endearing cooing-giggling noise.

“I can handle that,” she said.

“I'm glad,” he told her. “I'll have to get you some matching Potter and Black rings,
too,” he added, looking at the two rings he wore. “You'll be Lady Hermione Potter-Black, after
all.”

“Lord and Lady Potter-Black,” she mused. He watched her twirl the engagement ring around her
finger with her thumb.

He was reminded of Sirius for some reason. Perhaps it was the mention of his surname, but his
thoughts of Sirius led to the favorite cousin, Tonks, and then to her mother and her sisters.
Andromeda, Bellatrix, and—

At that moment, he suddenly thought of the face of the attacker once again. It came from the
depths of his subconscious to the very fore of his mind. Almost without realizing what he was
doing, he drew in the air to speak:

“Hermione, I know who attacked me.”

“Huh? What—?” she asked, sounding quite startled and trying to turn over to face him. He cut her
off.

“It was Narcissa Malfoy.”

----------

Saturday, December 14th, 2002; 7:15 am

Harry was trying to cope with how busy his life had recently become, and although he thought he
was doing a fine job, he wished he could enjoy his new engagement to Hermione more. Because they
were both at work most of the day, they only had time for fun and games two—or sometimes
three—times a day. If he had his way, and if Hermione had hers, they would never leave the bedroom.
He hoped that never changed.

But life intervened in the usual way; it prevented him from doing what he loved (Hermione) and
instead made him focus on other priorities, like his new position as the Vice Minister of Britain.
He and Arthur had been officially sworn into office on December first, and the turnout from the
Wizarding public had been surprisingly large. It might have been because Harry had kept an
extremely low profile since leaving St. Mungo's and the multitudes wanted to catch a glimpse of
their almost-fallen hero, but whatever it was the ceremony had been moved from the Ministry Atrium
to Diagon Alley.

He had started in the next day with very little time for transition, and even he was a little
surprised at how much work had been figuratively piled on his desk since day one, hour one.
Apparently the government had faith in his ability to be the second-in-command; he had received
very little guidance and was expected to fulfill all of Arthur's former responsibilities. The
new Minister had taken to his job very well, and Harry joked that the elder Weasley loved the
spotlight and would get used to it very quickly. Arthur usually just shrugged his shoulders and
gave him that small smile.

Settling into his new governmental duties had taken the majority of his time during the past two
weeks, but he also had his responsibilities as a Board member of Gringotts to consider, and he had
almost daily communication with Ragnok and the other Directors over financial matters. He had
privately met with Ragnok twice since leaving St. Mungo's; their first meeting had consisted of
Ragnok telling Harry the goblin nation would see his attacker brought to justice; during their
second meeting, they had finalized their plans for the trip to Rome. He would be leaving with
Kregg, Hillmook, and Nebnar the morning of the third of January.

Even more pressing than all of these things, though, was the ongoing manhunt (or womanhunt) for
Narcissa Malfoy. At first Hermione thought Harry might have been mistaken, but he showed her his
memory of the incident through the use of a Pensieve, and she eventually agreed that it was quite
unmistakably Narcissa Malfoy who had attacked him. They of course couldn't rule out Polyjuice
or other appearance-altering magic, but they saw no reason for someone to impersonate Narcissa
before attacking him. Before that day in the Alley, she'd had almost zero effect on Harry's
life; in fact, Harry couldn't remember ever meeting her, though he couldn't be sure. It had
been a long time since he'd been a student, and an even longer time since he'd had daily
contact with her son…

Those thoughts had led to the consideration of what had happened to Draco during their Horcrux
hunt. He had then asked Hermione if perhaps this was motivated by vengeance for Draco's death.
She had shrugged and told him it was possible, though why Narcissa had waited so long remained a
mystery.

Suffice it to say that when the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had been informed, its
forces were rapidly deployed. If Narcissa was in Britain, surely she would have been found by now;
the Aurors and Hit Wizards, among others, had canvassed all of England, Wales, Scotland, and
Ireland. Nothing substantial had turned up. Even the long-deserted Malfoy Manor was scoured, but of
course it was empty.

The one sunny and warm spot in his busy life was his new engagement to Hermione, which at times
he still could not believe. If someone had told him when he was eleven years old that the slightly
annoying girl from the train would eventually become his fiance…he probably would have thought they
were absolutely nutters. But here he was—here *they* were—engaged and moving forward with
their lives. He often found himself wondering what the next ten or twenty years would bring; these
daydreams usually included several children that looked suspiciously like him and Hermione.

His days were roller coaster rides, for sure, and he was glad he finally got a chance to slow
down for at least a day or two this weekend. He was considering all of these things as he descended
through the Manor from the master suite to the kitchen, looking forward to a hot cuppa and some
delicious breakfast.

Two of their friends were moving ahead with their lives in a way Harry hoped to repeat in the
near future—today was the day Neville and Ginny were getting married. The ceremony was scheduled
for one o'clock in the Great Hall and all their friends and some of their classmates they
hadn't seen in years were going to attend. Harry was looking forward to watching two of his
oldest friends tie the knot. It gave his past a certain kind of closure, one which he didn't
quite know how to express.

Now that two childhood friends were getting married, the reality of adulthood was in fact more
*real*. In a way, it validated his new direction, his coming back to Britain and taking upon
his shoulders the mantle of the Vice Minister position. If his friends were moving on with their
lives and emerging into adulthood relatively unscarred from their chaotic youths, then he had
nothing—or very little—to fear in attempting to do the same thing. And with Hermione at his side in
all things, he looked forward to the future in a way that he had never before experienced.

As he sat down at the table, provided with some sustenance by the ever-helpful Dobby, Hermione
entered the kitchen and greeted him. She sat opposite him and Dobby served her as well.

“Why don't you sit with us?” Harry asked, speaking to the Elf. “You can enjoy your breakfast
with us. And by the way, this is very good,” he said, enjoying the bangers Dobby had cooked.

“Thank you,” Dobby said, sliding into a seat.

“Where are Libby and Winky?” Hermione wondered.

“Still sleeping,” the Elf replied, smiling.

Hermione nodded and the three of them continued to eat; soon thereafter, they were joined in the
kitchen by John and Erin. Harry's two Muggle friends had been extremely upset about the
assassination attempt and even more upset about all the red tape they would have had to go through
to see him in St. Mungo's, but Harry told them it was a part of his life and always had been.
If people weren't trying to kill him, they were obsessing over him.

“What about you two?” Harry asked, looking at John and then Erin.

“Huh?” John articulated, through his breakfast.

“Well…you two are the only ones left out of the eight of us who aren't engaged…” Harry
trailed off, seeing the looks on their faces and grinning.

“Fancy that,” Hermione added, reaching across the table and grasping Harry's hand. “So how
long before the happy news?”

“I dunno,” Erin said, propping her hand underneath her chin and looking sideways at John. “Am I
going to have to kick your arse to get you moving with that proposal?”

John looked like he had just been punched in the face. “Why are you all ganging up on me?” he
asked, mock whining. He ran his fingertips through his short, dirty blond hair. “What does a guy
have to do to decide on *his own* time how he wants to propose to his girl?”

“Just love her,” Harry said, now genuinely smiling at his friends. They had settled so easily
into the housemate roles that sometimes Harry forgot they had only been living in Britain for seven
months.

“I think I have that covered,” his friend said, locking eyes with Erin. “Soon enough is all
I'll say,” he added, smirking at them.

Erin arched her eyebrow in a very Hermione-like gesture. “Mm hmm…when are we leaving for
Hogwarts?”

“Probably around noon,” Hermione answered, looking to Harry for confirmation. He nodded.

“Ok…” Erin said, trailing off a little wistfully. “I'm so happy for Ginny and Neville. And
then Ron and Luna are doing it this summer…and now you two!”

“Oh boy,” John mumbled. Both women snapped their heads toward him.

“Yes dear?” Erin wondered. Harry shook his head at his friend's tactlessness. Hermione and
Erin were as sharp as they came; nothing got past them.

“What?”

“Why did you say `oh boy'?”

John shrugged. “You were starting to gush.”

“There's nothing wrong with that. Is there, Hermione?”

“No, I don't think so,” she responded. “Especially when it concerns your close friends.”

John conceded the point with another shrug. “You're right.”

“I'm glad you think so,” Erin said, smiling and winking at John. He waggled his eyebrows at
her.

Harry put his palm to his face and groaned.

“What's the matter?” John asked.

“You two are just impossible. Do you know that?”

“You love me, Potter,” John asserted. He had a cocky smile on his face. Erin giggled under her
breath and she and Hermione smiled at each other.

“Ha!” Harry exclaimed. “Hardly!”

“Oh come on, don't lie, you know you do.”

“Actually Sanders, I love Hermione. I might *like* you just a little bit, but love?
That's reserved for this beautiful witch,” he told John, looking at Hermione.

John threw up his hands in defeat. “I know I can't compete with Hermione. I guess I'll
have to settle for now.”

“Excuse me?” Erin asked. “*Settle* for me?”

“Nice job Sanders,” John told himself, laughing through his words. “You always know how to put
your foot in your mouth.”

“Couldn't have put it better myself,” Erin agreed, nodding at his words.

“Have you four actually been talking about anything?” Dobby wondered. He had been quietly
listening to the early morning banter all along.

“Uh…not really,” Harry laughed.

“Thought not,” Dobby asserted. This caused the four of them to grin at their diminutive
friend.

“Does it bother you?” Hermione asked.

Dobby shook his head. “Of course not, Hermione. I think I will try this on Winky
sometime—perhaps I will even wake her up right now with some of this meaningless conversation,” he
told them, getting down from his chair and leaving the kitchen. The four of them looked at each
other across the table and burst out laughing.

The morning passed quickly; Harry strolled through the expansive Manor for the first time in
months, just enjoying the space he could call *his*. He chatted briefly with the Portraits,
filling them in on the wedding and other various little things. They had been shocked and angry
about the attack, but their glee at his proposal to Hermione had offset that reaction. Lily had
cried and James had held her while Sirius mimicked giving Harry a high-five. James called Hermione
`quite a catch' and Lily agreed through her tears.

The four of them met in the foyer around noon, dressed in their finest clothing, and prepared to
leave for Hogwarts. Harry and Hermione linked hands with John and Erin and told them to hold on
tight. They had only experienced Apparition a few times and still were not comfortable with the
sensation, though they trusted Harry implicitly. After all, Apparition was how they'd entered
the Wizarding world in the first place.

“Just meet us there, Dobby,” Harry said, after the Elf had told them Winky was a little late
getting ready.

“We can do that,” Dobby said. “We'll be there shortly.”

“Sounds good,” Harry responded. “Here we go.”

There was a pause the length of a shutter-click and then four of them *popped* out of the
foyer with almost no noise. They arrived in Hogsmeade where a carriage was waiting for them. Once
they were inside it started moving toward Hogwarts.

“Thestrals are pulling this, aren't they?” Erin wondered, having heard enough about them to
guess correctly.

“That's right,” Hermione said.

“And you both can see them?” Erin asked.

“We can,” Harry affirmed, keeping his voice level. Erin nodded and they chatted about easier
things the rest of the way to the castle. After arriving at the large marble steps and exiting the
carriage, they entered and headed across the Entrance Hall for the Great Hall.

Harry had asked McGonagall to have the wards modified so John, Erin, and Hermione's parents
could attend the wedding, and she had complied without reservation. They were meeting Dan and Jane
here—McGonagall had supplied them with a Muggle-safe Portkey—along with the rest of their friends
and family.

Upon entering the Great Hall and after listening to John and Erin marvel over the ceiling's
enchantment, they headed for their table. Along the way, Harry was stopped by several people he
hadn't seen in years, including Hannah Abbot, Seamus Finnegan, and Colin Creevey. They all
congratulated him on his success in the election and wished him well in the future. They were
shocked he was attacked but knew he would recover—he was the Boy Who Lived, after all.

Hannah surprised him when she said she was attending Muggle graduate school. Harry hadn't
realized any of his classmates had taken a similar path after Hogwarts. Seamus owned several pubs
and two clubs in London and Dublin. Colin was an affluent and well-respected photographer,
evidenced by his tailored suit and polished manners. There was none of the fanboyishness Harry
remembered from school. He thought Hermione might have told him Colin worked for *National
Geographic*, but he couldn't remember for sure.

After wading through his old schoolmates, he encountered his close friends and family. Luna
looked radiant in the robes reserved for the Maid of Honor; Jane looked enormous and must have been
getting close to her due date, because to Harry she honestly seemed about ready to pop. In the
busyness of their lives, Hermione's impending baby sister was something they had discussed only
very briefly. Remus and Tonks were also there, with their young son William, and Harry chatted with
them. It had been quite some time since he'd just sat down with the last of the Marauders and
talked about nothing in particular, and he hoped to change that in the near future. Maybe Remus
could offer some perspective on married life and fatherhood, something he would certainly need
considering what he wanted for his future.

McGonagall greeted him and Hermione and they talked about Hogwarts for several minutes. Harry
still felt slightly uncomfortable returning here, but his time back in Britain had done a good job
easing that feeling. He didn't think he would ever feel completely at ease within the halls of
Hogwarts, due to the countless time his life and the lives of friends had been threatened—or lost
entirely—but the past was something everyone eventually moved on from. Time healed or lessened all
wounds, and perhaps one day he might enjoy the Room of Requirement or the Quidditch pitch
again.

Around one o'clock everyone took their seats because the ceremony was about to begin;
Neville came in with his Best Man, Ron, and headed for the front of the Hall. Hermione had asked
Harry if he was offended or jealous at all about Ron being Neville's best man, to which Harry
had responded with an emphatic no. He knew that his absence from Britain for nearly four years had
changed the dynamic of his friendships, and if that meant he wouldn't stand up with Neville as
his Best Man, then so be it. He didn't hold it against his longtime friend, nor did he think he
should. Hermione had accepted his explanation with a smile.

Luna came next. There were some appreciative murmurs at how well she filled out her dress in all
the right places; she was quite attractive with her blond hair and gray eyes. Harry had never
really thought about it before, but Hermione, Luna, and Ginny were all extremely striking, but in
different ways.

As Ginny entered the Great Hall, a hush fell upon the spectators as they all basked in her
beauty. She wore a strapless gown with a white tiara, which shimmered in the light of the hall; her
hair was drawn up into a beautifully woven bun, and her face was lightly made up. Her pale skin and
darker freckles meshed well with the stunning dress.

Harry watched Neville's eyes widen as he first caught sight of his bride. The official who
was presiding over the wedding got things started when Ginny reached the front of the hall, and the
ceremony passed quickly. Harry looked over to Hermione as Neville and Ginny were saying their final
vows and pressed her hands in both of his. There were quiet tears in the corners of her eyes—a
quick look around told him most of the women had similar expressions—so he just gave her hands a
reassuring squeeze.

“I love you,” he mouthed at her.

“I know,” she mouthed back. They returned their attention to the wedding, which was just
concluding with the spectacular kiss. Ginny pulled Neville down a bit and threw some passion into
their lip lock, generating some cheers and applause from the audience. When they parted for air,
their smiles were positively radiant.

----------

2:45 pm

“And then I told her to get her arse over to America and talk to this Harry bloke,” Jane Granger
said, winking at Harry and smiling at her audience. The reception was under way and he was at a
table with Dan and Jane Granger, Hermione, Neville and Ginny Longbottom, Molly and Arthur Weasley,
Ron, and Luna. Remus and Tonks had left soon after the actual ceremony ended, citing their rather
cranky young son. Harry thought William Lupin's fifth birthday was sometime soon; it was
another thing he would have to ask Remus about.

“And she did,” Harry supplied. “And I'm happier because of it. It's interesting how
things turned out this way…”

“What way?” Molly asked.

“Ginny and Neville,” Harry started, nodding at the newlyweds. They were still basking in the
afterglow of their official marriage. “And Ron and Luna,” he added, looking at the Best Man and
Maid of Honor.

“And you and Hermione,” Arthur added, gazing at them with a knowing look, strongly reminding
Harry of the way Albus might have looked at them all. His thoughts turned toward the fallen
Headmaster for a moment, briefly considering how much the man would have enjoyed this day. Seeing
the students who had been most affected by the Second War were moving on with their lives and
successfully navigating the tricky route from late adolescence to early adulthood would have been a
nice validation of his work as Headmaster and mentor.

“Yes,” Harry agreed, after a moment's silence.

“Doesn't seem like it could have turned out differently, now that we're here and can
look back on it all,” Neville said. His arm rested over Ginny's bare shoulders. “Does it, Mrs.
Longbottom?” he teased.

She giggled. “No, definitely not.”

“Mrs. Ginevra Weasley Longbottom…” Molly said, trailing off and looking wistfully at her
youngest child. Harry recognized the look in her eyes. It was powerful nostalgia and it was
sweeping her away on its wings toward some distant memories.

“I'm so proud of you,” Arthur said. “Both of you—all of you.”

“Thanks…dad,” Neville said, carefully. Arthur nodded at him.

“That's the spirit! You're welcome, son.”

“Or should I say: thanks, Minister,” Neville amended.

“Dad will be just fine,” Arthur told him, laughing a bit.

Jane grunted and shifted in her seat. Dan leaned toward her and placed his arm around her
shoulders. Harry loved how easy Hermione's parents were with their affection toward each
other.

“You alright, Jane?”

“Yes,” she said, shifting again. “She's kicking a bit.”

“When are you due?” Molly asked, perking up at the mention of the baby. Harry smiled at the
predictability of the whole thing; he hoped Ginny and Ron were ready for how spoiled their children
would be at the hands of Grandmother Molly Weasley.

“Monday, actually,” Jane said. “So anytime, really.”

“Have you decided on any names yet?” Ginny asked. All of them women at the table, with the
exception of Luna who was staring at the ceiling, had leaned forward with interest at Jane's
news. For Hermione it was understandable because it was her little sister.

“Maybe,” Jane said, coyly, looking sideways at Dan.

“When she's born we'll let everyone know what we decide,” he said, playing along.

“Come on, daddy, that's not fair,” Hermione said, pouting. Harry and Ron laughed at the look
Dan gave his daughter.

“*That's* not fair and you know it, Hermione,” he said. “What father can resist his
daughter's pout?”

“So what are you considering?”

“You'll find out when she's born!” Dan told them, grinning.

Jane suddenly jumped a little in her seat and then looked mildly alarmed. Harry looked at her,
as did the rest of them. She reached under the table.

“Umm…that might be sooner rather than later. My water just broke.”

-->



29. Interlude: The Newest Granger
---------------------------------



**Bearings**

Disclaimer/Author's Notes: A little teaser. More to come soon. JK Rowling owns Harry
Potter.

*Hit me like a ray of sun*

*Burnin' through my darkest night*

Beyonce

*Halo*

Interlude: The Newest Granger

Saturday, December 14, 2002; 9:20 pm

Remus stood in the corner of the waiting room, quietly watching all that had gathered to support
Dan and Jane Granger. Although this day was supposed to be for Neville and Ginny, they had gladly
accompanied the group to St. Mungo's as soon as Jane had announced that her water had broken.
They were taking this slight interruption in stride, and Remus was glad that they were not letting
it affect their wedding day. A wedding and a birth… quite the day for what he had come to think of
as the Potter clique.

His eyes were drawn toward Tonks and William. His son rested against Tonks, sleeping; she caught
his eyes and they smiled at each other. He still couldn't believe his luck for catching the eye
of such an incredible witch, but he loved Tonks with all of his heart and he knew that she felt the
same. William had been somewhat of a surprise, because with his lycanthropy and her metamorphmagus
abilities, they had been unsure if they would be able to have any children. They had quickly found
out otherwise, though, and had brought their own little bundle of joy into the world almost five
years ago already.

Remus marveled at how time passed. It had already been four and a half years since the Second
War had ended. Between the First and Second Wars, the conflict with Voldemort had been raging for
nearly four decades, so the end of it all had brought such relief and respite that the daily
passage of time had gone largely unnoticed for many of them. Their society had been pockmarked and
gouged by Voldemort's campaign of terror, but that same passage of time had filled in many of
those gaps, returning the world to some semblance of normalcy.

Of course, when Harry Potter was involved, things were hardly ever normal. Now that Harry had
been back in his life for about a decade, Remus knew he took for granted the amazing capacity Harry
held within himself for empathy, gratitude, and a host of other endearing traits. It was easy to
overlook the fact that Harry was an incredibly formidable opponent in magical combat because of his
mostly mild-mannered demeanor, but Remus had seen Harry in battle with his own eyes. There were
some things one could never forget, and Harry casting spells at the height of his battle readiness
was one of those things.

His eyes slipped from Tonks to Harry and Hermione. They were sitting close together, talking
quietly, seemingly oblivious to the rest of the room. While they still moved, sounded,
and—yes—smelled like Harry and Hermione, the two people he was looking at were very different from
the two people that had graduated from Hogwarts. One had been a restless hero, ready to exit the
spotlight as soon as possible; the other had been an incredibly brilliant sidekick, hopelessly in
love with the aforementioned hero.

Though he hated to admit it, Remus thought their time apart had been good for both of them.
Hermione was not in love with the Boy Who Lived, as Ginny had been at one time, but she *was*
in love with someone Harry could not have been just after the war had ended. Harry's entire
life had been leading up to that confrontation with Voldemort, and he was not ready at that time to
settle down into what Remus considered a normal existence. It had been worthwhile for Harry to
spend some time away from Britain, to gain some much-needed perspective on his life and the lives
of his friends. The same could be said of Hermione, but perhaps she had attacked her work too
thoroughly.

All of that was water under the bridge at this point, because Harry was back in Britain, he was
with Hermione, and he was now the Vice Minister. When Remus thought of that thirteen year old boy
to whom he had tried to teach the Patronus spell, he could almost see this physically, mentally,
and magically powerful young man. There had been some kind of leap, though, that Remus had missed
during Harry's time abroad. He thought they all must have missed it, because although Harry
Potter would always be Harry Potter, there was something different, something *more* about him
now.

Hermione was a very lucky woman and Harry was a very lucky man. Remus expected great things from
them—greater than from anyone else, even himself—because they were the heart and soul of their
little group, as they had been from the beginning. Harry had been a flashpoint because of his name
and his legacy, and Hermione had been the same because of her incredible mind. The Trio (and later
the Six) had been a stroke of luck for the Light, because without those teenagers, Voldemort would
have surely won.

He shook those thoughts away as his gaze continued around the room. Luna and Ron were there, as
were John and Erin, Winky, Dobby, Libby, Minerva, Fred, George, and Arthur and Molly. This clique
was the Potter group, his closest friends and family, and Remus felt privileged to be included. Not
only did that mean he was at the forefront of what was happening in the magical world, but it also
meant that he still had a link to his oldest and dearest friends. James and Lily Potter had been
two of the most extraordinary people Remus had ever met, and he was glad to see their personalities
manifest themselves in Harry every now and then. It reminded him that all of the sacrifices of the
past were not in vain, and that the future of their world was in very good hands. He would never
say something like this to Harry, but Remus could not wait to see where the Vice Minister brought
their society.

He left the corner and moved to sit next to his wife, on the other side from William. His son
was snoring lightly, and Remus grinned at Tonks as she rolled her eyes at him. As he settled in
next to hear, he slipped an arm around her shoulder.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey yourself.”

“Like what you saw?” she asked.

He looked at her. “What?”

“You were watching everyone,” she pointed out. “And thinking about something. I could almost see
the steam coming from your ears.”

He laughed. He squeezed her to him for a moment. “I guess I was,” he said, through his smile. “I
was…I was just thinking about everyone here and how much has changed, I suppose.”

Tonks nodded. “I figured it was something like that.”

“It's hard to believe, sometimes… you kind of get lost in the memories,” he continued. “Here
we are, safe and secure and comfortable. I find myself forgetting the reality of the hard times
more and more.”

“It *is* nice,” she said. “Peace…and security. And love.” She leaned against him; William
shifted against her and his snores came just a little louder. Listening to William, Remus was
struck by one thing: he loved his life. He would change nothing about it, neither the past nor the
present, because everything had transpired to get him to this point, this moment. He had his wife
and his son in his arms and all of his friends around him.

Movement caught his eye and he turned his head to see Harry and Hermione extract themselves from
their seats and move toward them. Several pairs of eyes in the room tracked their progress, though
no one else moved. The young couple sat across from Tonks and Remus, both looking at William with a
slight quirk of their lips.

“He's precious,” Hermione said, quietly.

“Glad you think so,” Tonks said, running a hand through William's thick, dark hair. “We
don't think he's half bad, either,” she added, smiling up at Remus. He nodded his
assent.

“Give it a few years, and you two will be joining us and your parents, Hermione,” Remus told
them, enjoying the brief, alarmed looks that passed over their faces.

“There's plenty of time to think about that,” Hermione said, and Harry nodded.

“Some day, yes,” he said, enclosing one of Hermione's hands in his. “But for right now,
I'm just happy with what I have right here.” Somehow Remus knew that Harry's main subject
was Hermione, but that he was also talking about everyone else in the room.

“Ah, to be young and in love again…” Remus said, smirking.

“You certainly wouldn't know anything about being young,” Harry shot back, “but I think you
have the `in love' thing covered very well.” His eyes tracked to Tonks and William. For just an
instant, Remus was reminded of the way that James had looked at Harry himself.

Before Remus could say anything else, the door to the waiting room shot open, revealing a
sweaty, disheveled Dan Granger. All heads turn his way; Harry and Hermione jumped up and started
toward him. The grin on Dan Granger's face was like a beacon, and Remus found himself grinning
along with the other man. He knew what the grin meant.

“She's here!” Dan exclaimed. “A healthy baby girl!” He was positively glowing.

Hermione and some of the other females in the room made an excited squeak. She and Harry were
the first to reach Dan.

“Can we see her? What's her name? How's mum?” Hermione asked, all at once. Dan looked
flabbergasted.

“Yes, as soon as soon as the doctors say you can. Your mum's fine, she said it was much
easier this time. As for her name…”

“Well?” Hermione asked, impatiently. The room was engulfed in silence as every single person
waited for Dan to reveal the name of Hermione's new sister.

“Viola. Viola Granger,” he said, obviously relishing the sound of his new daughter's name as
he said it aloud.

“Viola…” Hermione breathed. She was smiling and there were tears in her eyes. “My baby sister is
Viola.”

She turned to Harry and melted into his arms, still whispering that name over and over
again.

-->



30. Holiday On The Highlands
----------------------------



**Bearings**

Disclaimer/Author's Notes: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. Remember, I started this story
between HBP and DH. Though I was never convinced that canon!Snape was evil, in this story he was.
And Hermione's sister's name is pronounced “VIE-oh-luh,” not “vee-OH-luh.”

*If I had just one wish, only one demand*

*I hope she understands*

*That she can take this life and hold it by the hand*

*And she can greet the world with arms wide open*

Creed

Adapted from *With Arms Wide Open*

Chapter Nineteen: Holiday on the Highlands

Sunday, December 22, 2002; 3:50 pm

The Ministry was almost completely deserted. The last place Harry wanted to be on the Sunday
before Christmas was in his office, but he had been slightly neglecting his duties during the past
week because of Hermione's new sister. Viola was…amazing. He had spent as much time with
Hermione and the new baby as he possibly could, but there were some things he had to finish up
before Christmas.

Hermione was also in her office, but they had set a deadline of four o'clock. He was
supposed to meet her in the Atrium then, so he started making separate piles of all the papers on
his desk. His mind wandered to the beautiful infant who would someday be his sister-in-law, even
though she was more than twenty years younger than him. No one had yet been able to determine
whether Viola was magical—McGonagall had said that it took anywhere between two weeks and two
months to be absolutely sure either way—but Harry hoped that she was.

He didn't want Hermione's little sister cut off from the world that was so integral to
him and his friends; however, if she was not magical, that would not change the love and support
she would receive from any of them, and he knew that. Hermione had said something to that effect,
and Dan and Jane had also expressed their extreme curiosity over the subject.

He *nox'd* the lights in his office and closed the door behind him, exiting into the
large foyer of the Ministry's executive suite. There was only one other senior administrator at
the office, and Harry waved to him as he headed for the lift. The other man also appeared to be
putting the finishing touches on his day's work.

The artificial windows were showing heavy snow in the day's fading light as Harry strolled
down a corridor toward the lift. He heaved a sigh as he thought about how short the days were
during the dead of winter. He stepped into the lift and it clattered upward, depositing him into
the Atrium. Hermione was standing by the statues of the Three, staring up at their tall
figures.

Ron's likeness was on the left, Hermione's was in the middle, and Harry's was on the
right. Their expressions had remained frozen since their inception, but the sculptor had done a
marvelous job making them seem lifelike. Their body language was spot on and Harry felt a powerful
wave of some feeling, something resembling nostalgia, as he came closer to Hermione and the statues
rose far above him.

“Hey there,” he said.

She turned her head, smiling at him as he stopped next to her. Her Ministry robes were slung
over an arm; her hair fell in waves past her shoulders. She had been glowing since Viola had
entered her life, and that joy was still on her features.

“Hey,” she responded, leaning into him and wrapping an arm around his lower back. She lowered
her head to his shoulder. “Did you get enough done?”

Harry made a noncommittal noise. “For now, sure. There's always work to be done, but
it'll have to wait until after Christmas. You?”

“Just enough to relax for the next few days,” she answered, and he could sense the smile in her
voice. “I think we will both be putting in some long days after the New Year…”

“You're probably right,” he chuckled, and she tightened her arm around him. He felt the tiny
pull of her magical core as she prepared to Disapparate.

“Wait,” he said, softly. That inkling of her magic faded. “When is everyone due at the
Manor?”

“Dinner's at six. They'll all probably start arriving between five and five thirty.”
Harry considered this for a moment, imagining the wonderful scene of family and friends that was
only a few short hours away. Molly and Hermione had both wanted to throw big Christmas dinners, so
they had compromised: Hermione and Harry were having everyone over to the Manor today and the
Burrow would be receiving everyone again on Christmas Eve. Unlike other years, when the whole group
joined together on Christmas Day, each couple and family would take that day for themselves.

“Is there anything you need me to do before the party starts?” Harry asked.

She shrugged. “I don't think so. Why?”

“I need to make a quick trip to Hogwarts,” Harry told her. “It shouldn't be more than an
hour or so.”

“For what?” she wondered, facing him and looking into his eyes. There was concern buried deep in
her brown irises.

“I've wanted to talk to Albus for awhile now,” he explained. “Our last meeting with him
wasn't exactly pleasant, and not that I feel like I have to, but I want to clear the air a
bit.”

She nodded. “I understand. Do you want me to come with you?”

“If you want to,” he said.

“I think I'll skip it for now. Sometime, though, I'd like to go back with you. I have
some questions for Albus.”

“Ok. So I'll see you back at the Manor?”

“You know it, mister,” she said, and leaned in for a kiss. It was quick, only a phantom whisper
of her lips against his; when he opened his eyes, she was gone. Her Disapparition had been silent.
He stood there staring at the empty space, letting the lingering scent of her perfume tease his
nostrils, and then Disapparated as well.

He reappeared outside the main gates of Hogwarts, which were ajar. Snow was falling heavily and
silently around him; the sky was a gloomy gray and visibility was already disappearing as the night
began to fall across the Highlands.

As he passed through the gate, he felt a tingle of magic that he assumed was caused by the wards
around the school. He passed through quite unmolested, though, and walked for several minutes along
the snowy path toward the castle. As he rounded the final corner, Hogwarts came into view, in all
of its gothic glory. The tallest turrets and towers were barely visible in the falling snow.

He turned toward the lake instead of continuing to the castle, trudging through the deepening
snow, without the aid of any charms, around the far shore. His destination blended almost perfectly
with the accumulating whiteness, but he knew where it was without any visual cues.

The White Tomb was an impressive piece of masonry, almost as impressive as the statues in the
Atrium. Its pristine marble had remained immaculately maintained since Albus had been formally
buried here, and as Harry laid a hand across the top of the ivory sarcophagus, warmth not of the
air permeated his skin.

Out here on the far side of the lake, with the Forbidden Forest pressing in on his left, the
darkening day held a muted, hushed quality. The insulation of the falling snow contributed to this
feeling, and Harry couldn't have thought of a more peaceful final resting place for Albus. The
warm stone beneath his hand almost hummed against the twilight, and he mourned the loss of the
unnatural warmth as he turned from the tomb. He wanted to get inside Hogwarts before night actually
fell, so he cast several charms to melt the snow and keep him warm.

A few minutes later, he was mounting the final staircase to the corridor before the
Headmistress's office. Hogwarts was just as deserted as the Ministry had been; Harry had
thought he had seen Mrs. Norris, but other than that, the corridors were dark and soundless. The
gargoyle moved aside without him having to give any kind of password, nodding at him as he passed
under its outstretched wing. There seemed to be some kind of intelligence lurking behind those
eyes, and Harry wondered if the gargoyle was really only very advanced magic.

He knocked on the door to the office as a courtesy, but he did not expect McGonagall to be
there. She was due at the Manor in less than two hours, so she was probably either in her quarters
or at her home away from Hogwarts. If there were students at the castle for the holiday recess,
Harry had not seen any of them.

No answer came, so he turned the knob and entered the office. It was dark and deserted. He waved
his hand at the sconces on the walls, restoring light to the large, circular room. Several
portraits blinked in surprise at the light and there were murmurs of shock at seeing Harry Potter,
but he ignored them for the most part. His eyes were singularly focused on the large portrait
hanging over the desk on the back wall.

“Harry,” it said, with surprise in the voice. Albus stared down at him with wide blue eyes,
looking nothing like the calm, cool, and benevolent Headmaster he had seemed in life.

“Albus,” Harry responded, moving to the desk and sitting sideways on it. “You seem surprised to
see me.”

“Forgive me, Harry. It is nearing Christmas and with the way our last meeting went, I would not
have expected you to visit for some time.”

Harry smiled; it was a hard look, hearkening back to the days of the war. “I am not as juvenile
as I once was, Albus,” he said.

The portrait inclined its head. “And I never said you were. I do think I must apologize for what
I said, though. You had a war to win, and although Mr. Malfoy might have been redeemable, he was
acceptable collateral damage. I still think it is odd he had the Horcrux in his possession,
though…”

“As do I,” Harry agreed. “But that is not why I came here today. I also want to apologize for
the way I acted. I had only been back in Britain for a short time, and I was unprepared for how
quickly I had to adjust to everything. I think I took it out on you, Minerva, and Hogwarts.”

“Hogwarts, Harry?” Albus asked. Harry's eyes went to the window behind the desk, focusing on
the steadily falling snow. The light of day was almost entirely gone now.

“When I came back, I never wanted to set foot in this school again,” Harry elaborated, though he
stopped, thinking about all of the aspects of his life that were encapsulated by the school.

“Why?” Albus prodded, when Harry's silence stretched on.

“I felt betrayed one too many times while here,” he finally continued. “It was like the home the
Dursleys never gave me, but it was a constant struggle. There were the old prejudices, the lack of
guidance for students raised in the Muggle world, the ever larger threat of Voldemort, and
expectations that I honestly did not know how to deal with as a teenager.”

“I am truly sorry I was not there at the end, Harry…”

Harry waved it off, still staring at the snowstorm. “It wouldn't have been your battle to
fight. Or win. I had to be the one, at the end, to finally do it.”

“But to put all of that on you, when you were so young?”

Harry glanced back to the portrait. “When did you become so sentimental, Albus? You knew all
along that it would be me in the end.”

The portrait's mouth widened into an ironic smile. “Death rearranges your priorities, my
boy. When you are alive, hindsight is something in which you indulge only occasionally. When you
are dead, hindsight is the only thing you have left. My days are filled with thoughts of how things
could have been different.”

“There are some things I would change if I could go back,” Harry said. “But we also did finally
win against Riddle and have purged many of the old prejudices since the end of the war… So I'm
not sure how much I would actually change. Except for you dying, of course,” Harry added, glancing
up at Albus. He hadn't wanted to sound callous, and it would have made certain things much
easier if the old man was still around.

“I would have been dead by now, anyway,” the portrait said. “I was old, Harry. *Very* old.
As I am sure you know, I made several enormous mistakes at the end, some of which contributed to my
death.”

Harry conceded the point. “You're right, I suppose. I do sometimes wish you were still here,
though…” He was now staring at the portrait. If a painting could express emotion, the picture
looked somber and regretful.

“You have done fine on your own, Harry,” Albus said, quietly. “I would have only been in your
way.”

“I don't know about that,” Harry responded. “I've had to make some large decisions
recently, none without consequences and repercussions, and I just hope I'm doing the right
thing by everyone.”

Harry had voiced these concerns only to Hermione; she had of course told him he had made all the
right decisions and was doing a wonderful job balancing all of his responsibilities, but it almost
felt like the fate of the world had sunk back onto his shoulders during recent months. When he lay
awake, with nothing but the sound of Hermione's breathing to break the stillness of the dark
night, he sometimes wondered if he was strong enough to protect the ones he loved and move forward
with his plans. He was aware of what some people called his savior complex, and it had kicked in
once again after he'd been elected. There were so many things he wanted to accomplish, and most
of them were dangerous or at least could possibly *be dangerous* to the ones he cared about
the most.

There was no open warfare like there had been during his teenage years, but just because the
pureblood resistance was quiet did not mean it was any less stubborn or potent. Narcissa's
attack on him, regardless of whether it was motivated by the policies he and Arthur wanted to
implement, was the most visible effect of Harry's election. His presence had always galvanized
forces in the Wizarding world—good *and* bad—and this time was no different. His four-year
absence had allowed things to settle back into some kind of normalcy, but that wasn't good
enough.

It wasn't good enough at all. The status quo would never be good enough for Harry; it would
also never be good enough for Hermione, which meant that he would never rest until there was
equality, accountability, transparency, and opportunity for all in the Wizarding world. Hermione
was the perfect example of what could have happened if the marginalization had been complete:
magical Britain, and the entire magical world, would have lost one of its most brilliant minds.
Harry quite honestly expected great things from Hermione, though he would never put that kind of
pressure on her by telling her something like that, just as he expected great things from himself.
He knew he was his own worst critic, but there were things that needed to be done and he was likely
the only person able to accomplish a few of those things.

“I think you will make a brilliant Vice Minister. Though there will always be those out there
who oppose you, violently or not, you should know that you have the ability, the presence, and the
loyalty of more than enough people to make your years as Vice Minister successful. You should not
let the recent attack on your life stymie your efforts because, as you once again proved, those
that stand against you have little chance of success,” Albus stated. There was no doubt in his
voice, and Harry felt a little better. Even though Albus was just a collection of memories embedded
in a magical painting, there was still something reassuring about his voice, his wisdom, and his
insights.

Harry just continued to stare at the Headmaster. Slowly, and quietly at first, there were noises
of agreement from many of the other portraits around the office. Harry rotated his head to look at
all of them, catching many of the past headmasters and headmistresses smiling and waving at him.
Some were nodding vigorously in agreement with Albus.

“I hope I live up to expectations,” Harry commented, sarcasm dripping from his voice. He was
smiling now. There was something serene about this conversation, something that eased a festering
worry deep within his psyche.

“I have no doubt that you will,” Albus returned, laughing slightly. “Except perhaps your own?”
he then questioned.

“What…?”

“Harry, I know what it is like to have everyone looking to you for answers. I know what it is
like to be able to sway popular opinion just by uttering a few choice words. Leaders—the best of
them, that is—always have some kind of objective feeling for their responsibilities, which is then
always subordinated by a subjective qualification of their performance.”

“Right…”

The chuckles continued. “If you do not yet fully know what I mean, you undoubtedly will in the
near future. Just know that *I* *know* you will be marvelous as one of our leaders. Your
priorities have always been in the right place; you have no tolerance for intolerance, and you are
usually very receptive to the opinions of others, no matter how extreme they might seem at first. I
think Hermione might have helped you on that last one, if I am not mistaken?”

A genuine smile flit across Harry's face. It made him look like he was fifteen again. “Yeah,
I think you're right.”

Albus was quiet for a moment, prompting Harry to look back to the portrait. The old man was just
staring down at him, bemusement coloring the corners of his lips.

“It is good to see you so happy.”

“Thanks, Albus. It's good to actually *be* happy for once.” A shadow then crossed over
the portrait's face, but Harry ignored it. If Dumbledore still felt guilty over Harry's
childhood, there was nothing he could do to change that. He had long since moved on from the
neglect and abuse; he was exquisitely happy moving forward in his life with Hermione and his
friends all around him. There was just so much work to be done, though.

“Albus…regarding that attack, how does the Killing Curse actually work?” Harry suddenly asked,
voicing a question that had been on his mind since he woke up next to Hermione in the hospital
bed.

“Well Harry,” Albus started, transitioning smoothly into teaching mode, “there has never been
any concrete information collected on the Killing Curse, but our best magical theorists have
concluded that it annihilates the magical core. The body then undergoes an almost instantaneous
shutdown, similar to what would have happen if the brain suffered severe, irreparable damage.”

“Do you have any idea how I could have survived it again?”

“Not in the least,” Albus admitted. “But I am *very* thankful you did.”

“No one else has ever survived the Killing Curse, right?”

“None other than you.”

“And now I've survived it twice…” Harry said, trailing off and considering this information.
On top of everything else that made him special, he had survived the unsurvivable. He sighed,
resigned to his fate of being *different.*

“Harry,” Albus said, after another minute of silence. There was an uncharacteristically hesitant
quality to his voice. Harry merely raised an eyebrow in the direction of the large portrait.

“Have you ever thought about coming back to Hogwarts?”

Harry had to suppress the smile that threatened to spread across his lips. He had actually
expected something similar to the question the Headmaster had just asked.

“What do you mean?” Harry responded, preferring a question of his own.

“Suppose you were Vice Minister for two terms,” Albus began, obviously sounding something out.
“And then perhaps you go on to be Minister for another two terms. You would then be in your late
thirties, possibly ready for a career change. I was merely suggesting that Hogwarts could be the
right environment for you, after your political aspirations have run their course.”

“But my work will never be done, Albus, and you know that. There will always need to be someone
fighting for the freedom of all our sentient species. There will always need to be a voice for the
voiceless, someone powerful enough to stand for the powerless.”

Harry stood from the desk and moved to stand in front of the window, which overlooked the dark
grounds. He searched the sky for any traces of light, but it seemed that night had officially
fallen over the Highlands. Snow still swirled past the glass, shining in the warm glow of the
office's lights.

“I completely agree. I could not have said it better myself. But there will always be avenues
for someone like yourself to do those things, even if you are not an executive administrator in our
government.”

“I've only just started,” Harry responded, now sounding tired. His brain was spinning with
the possibilities. “And now you want me to think about what I'm going to be doing *after*
my time as Vice Minister is over?”

“Not necessarily, Harry. I just want to suggest that you can and should think about these things
occasionally. And, more than anything else, Hogwarts could use you. One day in the future if you
decided to grace her halls with your presence, you could do great things. You would be influencing
the future of the Wizarding world in ways only an educator can.”

Rather than respond directly, Harry took a moment to properly imagine what teaching could be
like. His mind first went to History of Magic, which was excruciating, but somehow he thought he
could make his classes more interesting. Then he thought of Potions, primarily with Snape, and his
lip curled involuntarily into a snarl of disgust. That hated man had been the harbinger of horrible
things, and the less he thought about the deceased traitor, the better. He really had a hard time
imagining himself as a Professor. Hermione was better suited for that position.

“I just don't know, Albus. Maybe we can revisit this topic in twenty years,” he concluded,
laughing weakly.

“Maybe,” Albus replied, and Harry knew without looking that the damned portrait was twinkling
down at him.

“Now that we have my future out of the way, I do need to go,” Harry said, moving away from the
window. He levitated a crumpled parchment from the wastebasket by the desk.

“I am glad we could spend some time talking,” the portrait said.

“Me too, Albus.”

“Visit anytime you want,” the Headmaster added. “Hogwarts could use a little *celebrity*
every now and then.” This time Harry did look at the portrait, and Albus's blue eyes were
indeed twinkling out of the canvas. Harry did not know—nor did he want to know—how that was even
possible.

“*Portus*,” Harry said, watching as the parchment glowed blue for a brief instant.
“I'll think about it,” he said, and reached for the Portkey.

“Goodbye, Harry. Happy Christmas.”

He made eye contact with the Headmaster as he felt the familiar tug at his navel.

“Same to you.” Then the world became a rush of color and he was gone, into the nether between
Hogwarts and the Manor.

Less than two seconds later he arrived at his destination, which was the master suite of his
large house. A quick check told him that Hermione was somewhere else in the house; he could feel
the presence of her magic, though he couldn't pinpoint its exact location.

He shrugged out of his Ministry robes and laid them across the bed, turning to his closet to
find more relaxed clothing for the party that would shortly be getting underway. He chose a dark
button down shirt and faded jeans, raking his messy hair back along his skull. After walking past
the mirror and passing his own quick inspection, he left the master suite to find Hermione. He
thought about ascending to the loft, but intuition told him that she was probably in the kitchen,
waiting for their guests to arrive and attending to any last minute preparations.

When he reached the landing directly above the foyer, the delicious smell of many freshly cooked
dishes reached his nose, and he stopped briefly to inhale the mouth-watering scents. Hermione's
cooking had vastly improved since their Hogwarts days, but he assumed that Dobby and Winky must
have been helping her prepare the meal. Only House Elf cooking could smell *that* good. When
he reached the bottom of the stairs, he turned toward the kitchen; when he reached his destination,
he leaned against the doorframe, crossed his arms, and stared in with a wonderful smile at the
scene before him. Dobby and Winky were indeed tending to a few things on the stove and in the oven,
and Hermione was watching them, asking questions here and there. She had her hair pulled back into
a tight bun and her sleeves rolled up, looking somehow sexy in even the most practical
clothing.

She must have sensed his presence, because she turned toward him about five seconds after he
stopped in the doorway; her face cracked into a huge smile.

“Harry!” she exclaimed, moving toward him and opening her arms. He received her, hugging her
like he hadn't seen in her thirty years, rather than only forty minutes. He saw Dobby and Winky
watching them from over her shoulder. He winked and, shockingly, Dobby winked back.

“Just in time, too,” Hermione said, breaking away from him and leading him into the kitchen by
the hand. Hers was warm and soft and… Damn, he was so easily distracted when Hermione was touching
him, even if it was completely innocent. “Dobby and Winky were showing me the finer points of
making the perfect chocolate cake. We'll be having their coup de grace later on in the evening…
I don't think anyone will be disappointed!”

“Is anyone ever disappointed with Dobby or Winky?” Harry asked, squatting by his House Elf
friends and peering through the glass into the oven. The chocolate cake looked positively
marvelous, wavering in and out of focus within the enclosed heat of the oven. Dobby and Winky
looked sideways at him, smiling shyly. After all this time, they were still unable to openly
receive any kind of praise.

Harry stood, feeling his knees pop, and looked around the kitchen. “Where's Libby?” he
asked, searching for the tiny Elf.

“Right here!” an impossibly high voice called, and he turned toward the sliding back door. Libby
was pushing the door closed with her physical strength and just a hint of magic. She was partially
covered in the steadily falling snow; when she turned toward the interior of the kitchen, Harry
could see that her miniscule nose was pink from the cold. She shook herself, sending some of the
snow flying to the floor. Some House Elf magic took care of the mess and she grinned up at
everyone

“Hi!” she said, coming toward them all. “I was making a snowelf! But then I got too cold.”

“A snowelf?” Hermione asked, smiling down at Libby. “That sounds like fun. We'll have to try
to make a really, really good one tomorrow.”

“Deal!” Libby said. Before there was any more conversation, slight popping noises from the foyer
announced the arrival of the first two guests.

“In the kitchen!” Hermione called. All eyes tracked to the door and they waited for the visitors
to appear.

Flaming red hair beneath the hood of a thick, yellow parka announced the arrival of the
newlyweds. Neville was just behind Ginny as she entered the kitchen.

“Neville! Ginny!” Hermione cried. “You're back!” she added, receiving Ginny in another
crushing embrace. When they separated, Hermione banished their heavy winter coats to another
room.

“Well, well, well,” Harry said, coming around the island in the center of the kitchen. “If it
isn't the newlyweds themselves, back from the honeymoon. Somehow I doubt you're both
freshly rested…”

Ginny glared at him half-heartedly and Neville laughed out loud. Harry clapped him on the back
and stepped forward to hug Ginny. She looked radiant—as radiant as Hermione and Jane had looked
recently—and Harry basked in her warm glow as they hugged. It was odd to think that, instead of
Ginny Weasley, he was now hugging Mrs. Ginny Longbottom. An image of her at the foot of Salazar
Slytherin's statue in the Chamber of Secrets flashed through his mind. He had only been twelve.
An entire *decade* had passed.

“Happy Christmas,” Harry told them, backing away from Ginny.

“Yes, Happy Christmas all around,” Ginny responded, looking around the kitchen. “No one else
here yet?”

Hermione shook her head. “Nope, but they'll all be coming—”

Several more *pops* announced the arrival of more guests; Harry could hear Ron's
resonant laughter coming from the foyer, as well as Luna's musical giggles. There were voices
mixed in belonging to others that Harry didn't immediately recognize.

“Here are some more,” Harry said, pushing open the door to the foyer. Ron and Luna were just on
the other side, still bundled against the winter night, and Fred, George, Arthur, and Molly were
behind them. “Hi everyone,” Harry said, smiling at them. He received Luna and Molly in hugs, shook
hands with Arthur, and greeted Ron, Fred, and George in less cordial ways. Hellos and happy
holidays were spread all around, and soon enough ten witches and wizards, Dobby, Winky, and Libby
were standing around the kitchen. The warm light in the room, the delicious smells, and the smiling
faces gave it all a very enjoyable atmosphere.

Harry and Arthur began talking to Fred and George about their new defense contract with the
DMLE, which had just kicked in and meant that all of the department's offensive and defensive
gear came from WWW. It was a big step for the Twins, because it completely legitimated the aspect
of their business that had begun only as a side project during the Second War. Weasley's Wizard
Wheezes had since become the premier producers of magical combat gear in the world, and Harry
wouldn't be surprised if other governments began to contact them about their products.

During the middle of that conversation, Minerva, Remus, Tonks, and William arrived. Minerva
looked resplendent—and many years younger—in flowing crimson and gold robes; Harry commented that
the Gryffindor colors looked very good on her.

“Oh, you always were a flatterer,” she responded, with emphasis on the r's in the last word,
due to her Scottish burr. Harry knew she suppressed her regional accent when she was at school, so
it was always somewhat surprising to hear it come out in force when she was with friends.

“Just playing the host,” he sing-songed, smiling wickedly at her and turning to find Hermione.
He heard McGonagall's laughter as he headed toward the sliding glass door, where the three
younger women had congregated. Hermione's back was to him; Ginny and Luna were facing him and
the interior of the room.

“…leave the room at all?” he heard Hermione ask, as he drew nearer.

Ginny did not answer, inclining her head over Hermione's shoulder in Harry's direction.
As Hermione turned her head, Harry came up against her back, wrapping his arms around her abdomen
and resting his chin on her shoulder.

“Sounds like I'm missing some interesting conversation,” Harry joked, pecking Hermione on
the cheek. He felt her press back into him, eliminating all space between their bodies. Merlin, he
loved her.

“Oh, we were just discussing how many times Neville and Ginny had sex in one day on their
honeymoon,” Luna said, as if nothing could be more normal. Harry began to chuckle, followed soon
thereafter by Hermione and Ginny.

“Thank you, Luna,” Ginny said. “I'm sure Harry *really* cares to know that
information.”

“I dunno why,” Luna said, either missing the irony in Ginny's voice or purposely ignoring
it. “Ronald and I managed twenty-five times during the first day of our honeymoon. Nothing too
remarkable.”

“If you say so, Luna,” Ginny said, sounding extremely skeptical. Harry had to hold in more
energetic laughter; he would have to hassle Ron over the information Luna had so casually just
divulged. If the number was accurate…damn. Congratulations were in order. Harry didn't think
he'd want anyone or anything to touch his bits if he did it *twenty five* times in one
day.

“Ouch,” Hermione whispered to him, obviously thinking similar thoughts. Harry shook his head
lightly, squeezing Hermione gently and separating from their backward embrace.

Harry cocked his head to the side. If he was not mistaken, the sound of a baby crying could now
be heard over the din of conversation in the kitchen. He tapped Hermione on the shoulder, pointing
toward the foyer.

“I think your parents are here,” he said. She looked up for a moment, listening, and then
nodded. Harry had given Dan and Jane a Muggle-safe Portkey for travel to the Manor, and even though
he had pumped some extra magic into its creation to smooth out the ride, he had expected Viola to
disagree with the abrupt transition. Her crying seemed to have proved him right.

The kitchen door opened again and Dan and Jane came in; she was holding Viola in the crook of
her right arm. They both looked slightly harried, though the immediate and intense attention given
to their new daughter by the occupants of the kitchen obviously brightened their mood considerably.
Viola was a complete hit within their little group.

Harry approached the week-old infant and her parents with Hermione, slipping an arm around her
back as they came near.

“Hullo, Harry,” Dan said, shaking his hand. “Hermione,” he said, wrapping her in a one-armed
hug.

“How are you two holding up?” Hermione asked, taking Viola from her mother and inspecting her
little sister up close. Viola had stopped crying, but her eyes were red and the tear tracks were
still visible. She cooed at Hermione as their noses almost touched. Harry watched, fascinated, as
big sister and little sister shared a moment.

“Tired,” Jane said, though there was a trace of humor in her voice. “I think we forgot how much
work it is to raise a child,” she added, looking to Dan. He nodded.

“I wouldn't trade it for anything, except perhaps a little more sleep,” he said.

“Oh Dad,” Hermione laughed, passing Viola to Ginny, who was waiting to hold the precious little
girl. Harry watched as Hermione passed her gently to their friend, wondering what it would feel
like to see Hermione pass their own daughter to Ginny. He suddenly yearned to be a father, in that
explicable, inexpressible way that washes over the uninitiated when they see the progeny of others
fawned over. If only his children were that beautiful, that much of a wonder to behold…

“What are you thinking about?” Hermione asked, quietly, as their friends and family continued to
*ooh* and *aah* over Viola. Harry met her eyes for an instant, catching something
maternal in them.

“Probably the same thing you are,” he told her.

“That you can't wait to have a few little Potters running around here?” Hermione wondered,
stepping close to him again. They embraced and he kissed her lightly on the lips.

“Exactly,” he said. “All in due time, though.”

“Oi, no more displays of affection!” Ron called, making a disgusted noise in his throat. As
Hermione opened her mouth for a retort, Dobby`s voice rose over the noise in the kitchen:

“Dinner's ready!”

“Woo hoo!” Fred and George called, in unison. “We're starving, and it's been ages since
we enjoyed Dobby and Winky's splendiferous cooking!”

Hermione led the mass exodus to the formal dining room that had been set up for their many
guests. After conjuring a high chair for Viola—the one oversight in her preparations—and making
sure everyone was seated, Harry and Hermione returned to the kitchen. Dobby and Winky were
levitating all of the food, waiting for their return. Libby was standing on the counter, watching
her parents.

“I'll just take those,” Harry said, overriding the Elf magic with his own and taking control
of the Levitation spell. “Now you three can go take your seats at the table,” Harry said, gently.
There was no mistaking the undertone of command in his voice. Dobby and Winky looked like they
wanted to argue with Harry, but they must have sensed it would get nowhere, because they
nodded.

“Come on, Libby,” Dobby said, and Harry watched as the three of them walked into the dining
room.

After the door had swung closed, Hermione turned to Harry. “Even after all this time, they still
didn't expect to sit with everyone tonight?”

“The change is going to be gradual,” Harry responded, shrugging. “Changing all of the old ways
in our society is going to take an enormous amount of time and effort, which this clearly shows.
They *know* that they are always welcome at our table, but it was such an ingrained habit to
be maltreated and ignored that they still question good, *normal* treatment.”

“Harry, the way we treat Dobby, Winky, and Libby is not normal,” Hermione said, sounding quite
sad.

“It *should* be,” he countered. She agreed with him and then led the way into the dining
room, into which he carefully brought all of the delicious food. Dobby and Winky had truly outdone
themselves, and even if they didn't think so, Harry knew they more than deserved their seats at
the table.

After levitating all of the dishes into suitable places, he took his seat at the head of table.
He knew that Hermione had carefully orchestrated the seating so that he would occupy the primary
position. He thought Arthur, the Minister of Magic, should get his seat, but he didn't want to
argue with Hermione about it. No one had said anything about their seating arrangements, so he sat
without comment.

He then found all eyes on him.

“Yes?”

“Perhaps a few words, Harry?” Arthur asked. Harry thought he saw a tiny smirk on the older
man's face.

“Wouldn't that be a task for the Minister?” Harry replied.

“Or the Chosen One?” Arthur countered.

Harry was silent. Then: “Touché.”

“This oughta be good,” George mumbled, leaning back and crossing his arms.

“Hush!” Molly said.

“Thanks for coming and happy Christmas!” Harry suddenly said, reaching for the nearest dish. If
only he could reach it and put food on his plate, he could avoid this speech nonsense—

“Not. So. Fast,” Minerva said. Harry's hand bumped against an invisible magical presence,
which the Headmistress had silently and wandlessly cast. “As your former Professor, I know you can
do better than that.”

“Fine, fine,” Harry said, with mock annoyance. He paused, letting the moment pass, and then
refocused.

“I'm glad you all could make it tonight,” he started, looking around the table. As he
settled on each face, he briefly made eye contact. “It means a lot to me and Hermione that our
friends and family could be hear to celebrate the holidays. We know that you all have busy
lives—just like ours, I'm sure—so we think it's important to take some time, step back, and
reconnect with everyone.

“The last six or seven months have been barmy, but we made it through because we had your
support and love. I know I was absent for awhile there, so I want to personally thank all of you
for welcoming me back with open arms.”

Hermione was on his immediate left, so she was the last person with whom he made eye contact.
“And I want to thank *you*, Hermione, for helping me pull my head out of my arse when I needed
it most. I couldn't imagine life without you now that we're together, and I hope we can
celebrate Christmas with everyone for many years to come.”

She smiled beautifully and leaned forward to lock lips with him, prompting some *awws* from
the gathered witches and wizards. Ron made another disgusted noise, to which Harry raised a
solitary finger, eliciting guffaws from Fred and George. Even Arthur laughed a bit. When the kiss
ended, Harry saw unconditional love burning in Hermione's gaze. He knew the emotion was
mirrored in his.

----------

7:45pm

“*Lumos magna!”* Harry yelled, pointing his wand toward the lake. He, Hermione, and his
guests were gathered around the front the entrance of the Manor, all bundled up in their winter
clothing. Jane was inside with Viola, unfortunately unable to join the outdoor festivities so soon
after the birth, but Dan was there with them.

Hundreds of lights suddenly flashed into existence, brightly illuminating a path through the
snow from the Manor down to the lake. They were arranged on both sides, every ten meters or so.

“Wow,” Ginny breathed. “That's some magic, Harry,” she said.

“Just wait,” Hermione commented. “You haven't seen anything yet.”

“Come on, everyone,” Harry said, starting toward the lake. “Hermione and I have planned a little
surprise tonight.”

Some had originally been skeptical after dessert when Harry and Hermione mentioned going
outside, but they had been coerced by the promise of some spectacular fun. Many had just been
convinced to brave the weather by Harry's little display of magic, so they were willing to
follow Harry and Hermione along the glowing path toward the shore of the frozen lake. The snow had
abated during dinner, slowing to mere flurries. Harry thought it was actually quite beautiful,
watching the sparse snowflakes waft down through the magical light.

After two or three minutes of walking, during which the couples had normally gravitated toward
each other and were now walking arm in arm, they arrived at the shore of the large lake. The lights
ended just in front of them, so the dark expanse stretched out of sight into the blackness.

“That's eerie,” Neville observed, pointing across the lake. “Who knows what could be out
there?”

“A little spooked?” Ginny teased, leaning against her tall husband. He shrugged, smiling.

“Fear no more,” Hermione said, locking eyes with Harry. He nodded, knowing what she intended to
do; they pulled out their wands and pointed them at the lake.

“*Fresco illuminatus,”* they incanted, at the same time. Vibrant blue magic shot from their
wands, pooling on the ice for a moment before spreading out in all directions. As the magic moved
across the lake, it visibly melted the snow and hardened the ice. After about twenty seconds, an
ellipse formed of smooth, hardened ice stretched in front of them. The blue magic remained at the
edges of the clear expanse, providing ample light by which to see.

“Ooo, I like it when you two do magic,” Fred said, watching the blue light sway lazily in the
chilly winter breeze.

“So what's this about?” Ron asked. Harry glanced at him, not surprised to see genuine
puzzlement etched on his face. Of course Ron wouldn't know about Muggle winter sports.

“We're all going to do some ice skating!” Hermione announced. “*Revelo*,” she said,
pointing her wand about five meters to her right. A pile of ice skates suddenly came into view.

“What's ice skating?” George asked, and he wasn't the only one. Harry grinned, knowing
this would be a fun, if not slightly frustrating, introduction to ice skating for many of the
magical people around him.

He and Hermione had decided on this when they were trying to figure out how to pass the time
after dinner. She had suggested some kind of physical activity, but the time of year had put some
constraints on what they could do. They had eventually decided on ice skating because of the large
lake adjacent to their home, so they had set up the path and rink in advance. Their spells had
really only revealed work that had been finished for several days.

There were some minor accidents at first as everyone became used to their skates and the
sensation of gliding over the smooth ice, but soon enough there were shouts of joy mingled with
boisterous laughter as the general skill level increased. After retrieving Luna from the snow
beyond the edge of the rink, and after making sure Molly didn't break Arthur's hand from
squeezing it too hard, Harry and Hermione were finally able to skate around the edges of their
makeshift ice rink, arm in arm and essentially alone. No others were within earshot, nor could any
of the others keep up with them.

“I love you, Hermione,” Harry said, squeezing her hand and leaning to the left, bringing them
around the north edge of the rink.

“Oh Harry,” she said. He looked at her. Her rosy cheeks and pink nose made her incredibly
beautiful in that moment. “I love you too. Thank you for such a wonderful night.”

“You're welcome,” he said, moved again by the look in her eyes. Delighted screams
interrupted their reverie for a moment, and they looked up to see Ginny and Fred racing across the
southern portion of the rink. Fred crashed halfway across, sliding to a stop at the snowy edge.
They watched as Ginny, laughing, pulled her older brother up.

“I just had a strange thought,” Hermione said, refocusing Harry's attention.

“Do tell,” he urged.

“I hope our children can make these kinds of memories,” she said. “Ours, and Ginny and
Neville's, and Ron and Luna's,” she clarified. “Could you imagine what this would be like
with a bunch of first years speeding around the ice?”

“Chaos!” Harry yelled, throwing his head back and enjoying the sensation of the cold air rushing
through his hair. “But I probably wouldn't trade it for anything. I know I wouldn't trade
*this* moment for anything,” he finished, maneuvering a little and coming around, so that he
was skating backward while facing Hermione. He placed his hands on her hips and lifted her up,
twirling them around in a few circles as they moved along the ice. Her face split open in an
amazed, joyous grin; she leaned down and he looked up. They kissed in mid-spin.

After a few breathless seconds, the kiss ended. Harry gently put Hermione back on the ice and
moved back to her side, so that they were facing the same direction again. He leaned left and this
time they arced around the southern edge of the rink.

“That was amazing, Harry!” Hermione exclaimed, wonder filling her voice. “You're
amazing.”

“I must get it from you,” he said.

“Maybe,” she told him, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. After that, they skated in silence for
about five minutes, content to watch everyone around them. Arthur and Molly were linked by the arm
and skating quietly around the rink as well, though they were opposite Harry and Hermione. They
appeared to be talking about something; both were grinning.

“And to think, after Christmas we have to go back to work,” Harry said.

“Don't ruin it!” Hermione chastised him, though she was only kidding. “But that does remind
me about something. When do you leave for Rome?”

“January second,” Harry supplied. “I should be back very late on the fourth.”

“And who's going with you?”

“Three of the other Directors: Hillmook, Nebnar, and Kregg.”

“What do you think of them?” Her questions were coming one after the other. Harry could sense
some latent worry beneath her words, but he chose not to point it out. She did not need the added
stress at the moment. After the attack on him in the Alley, Ragnok had wanted to cancel the envoy
to Rome, but Harry had insisted that he still be allowed to make the trip for Ragnok and Gringotts.
Ragnok had relented, albeit reluctantly. Harry supposed it showed how far their relationship had
come, for the supreme Goblin to acquiesce to Harry on something so large.

“Hillmook and Nebnar seem fine,” he explained. “They have been supporters of me all along and
Ragnok expressed his confidence in them. That's enough for me. Kregg, on the other hand, is a
bit of an enigma. Ragnok has never said anything overtly bad about him, but Kregg seems to be the
only Director to directly undermine Ragnok's authority without any repercussions. He's
very…passive-aggressive? Or maybe just passive. In any case, it will be interesting to see what he
does during our talks with the Italian government.”

“Oh,” Hermione intoned. “Hmm…are you going to be speaking in Rome as the Vice Minister too?”

“If the opportunity presents itself. I need to start being as diplomatic as possible, if Arthur
and I are to accomplish any of our goals.”

“You'll be brilliant, love,” Hermione told him, skating closer to him. Their hips touched
and she leaned her head against his shoulder. As he pressed a kiss into her cool hair, the magical
fireworks they had purchased for the final surprise of the night began to go off.

All skating immediately stopped and every eye turned toward the night sky. Harry watched as the
exploding fireworks reflected off the upturned faces of his friends and, most importantly, the love
of his life. He just stared at her until his gaze tore her eyes from the fireworks.

“What?”

“I know I just said it, but I'll say it again. I love you.”

The corners of her eyes crinkled as she smiled again, and she leaned forward. This time the kiss
was deep and languid, an expression of all the passion and love they felt for each other. Harry
thought she tasted and felt like heaven.

They eventually broke the kiss and resumed watching the fireworks, side by side with an arm
wrapped around each other. The exploding fireworks illuminated a similar scene across the rink,
where the most were standing with their significant other.

That is, until Fred hit Ginny squarely in the back of the head with a large snowball.

“Fred!!!” she screeched. “This means war!”

-->



31. In Absentia
---------------



**Bearings**

Disclaimer/Author's Note: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter.

*When you cried I'd wipe away all of your tears*

*When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears*

*And I held your hand through all of these years*

*But you still have all of me*

Evanescence

*My Immortal*

Chapter Twenty: *In Absentia*

Thursday, January 2, 2003; 6:15 am

There is a familiarity associated with sleeping in the same bed as another person, something
which the mind and the body grow accustomed to without conscious realization. For Hermione, it was
the reassuring and strengthening presence of her first friend and lover, one Harry Potter. Whenever
she was near him—as she was when they were sleeping—there was a faint tingle along her magic that
she had always associated with their magic responding to each other. Therefore, without moving or
opening her eyes or really using any of her senses, she knew Harry was not beside her. She just
*knew*.

So it was with disappointment that she awoke to find herself alone in their master suite;
Harry's side of the bed was already as cold as it was empty. She had known that he would have
to leave very early for his trip to Rome because, after all, the Italian city was an hour ahead of
the United Kingdom, but she had half expected and hoped that he would at least say goodbye.
Granted, the trip was only to last about forty-eight hours, but they would be two days too long for
her.

She sighed and stretched, rolling onto her back and staring at the high ceiling of their room.
She threw her arms out, so that she was across most of the bed, and just laid there. Her relaxed
breathing was the only sound in the room, and after awhile it had almost lulled her back to sleep.
Just as she knew she was in danger of dozing off, she shook her head and sat up, pulling the sheet
with her. It was chilly in their room and she usually slept in only her undergarments.

Hermione considered drawing the sheet around her and walking to her armoire like that, but then
she rolled her eyes as Ron's voice echoed around her mind: *Are you a witch or not?* She
summoned her wand with her hand and cast a low power heating charm over herself. The sheet fell
away as she left the bed, revealing her lithe and, quite honestly, very attractive body. An
objective part of her knew that she had certain assets many women would die for—namely, great legs,
a killer bum, and a well-proportioned chest. Her hair, on the other hand, was always something that
had bothered her, but she had learned to accept it along with everything else. Harry constantly
said he loved her hair, which was adorable and eased her self-doubt a bit. There would always be
that insecure eleven year old lurking in her somewhere, no matter how powerful or authoritative she
could seem. Those that knew her best, that knew the *real* her, were aware of its
presence.

As she glided forward, the framed pictures along the wall above her dresser caught her
attention. Early morning light had just begun to leak in around the curtains, and the images were
vaguely illuminated in the gray dawn.

When Harry and Hermione had permanently moved into The Manor, they'd both had a set of
pictures stretching over the years of their Hogwarts careers. Harry had given his to Hermione—some
of which were identical to hers—and said that she could hang them however she wanted. She smiled at
that thought. Harry was many things, but interior decorator was not one of them.

In any case, she had decided to simply hang the best of them in chronological order from left to
right, storing away the more mundane photos for whenever they might be needed. These were the
photos she found herself viewing, having caught the flicker of the golden snitch in the leftmost
one out of the corner of her eye. She was normally not very nostalgic and preferred to look forward
both in theory and practice, but for some reason she now could not help herself from looking at
each picture. Perhaps it was Harry's absence that prompted her to look at these
doppelgangers.

The aforementioned first picture was of Harry just after winning his first Quidditch match in
his first year. He held the Snitch in his right hand; Ron stood at his right side, grinning at his
friend. Harry had his left arm over Hermione's shoulder, at his left. They were all grinning
stupidly and enjoying the moment of pure bliss.

Merlin, they all looked so young in that first picture. Had Hermione actually been that small?
She watched as her younger self kept sneaking glances at the charming young man to her right, and
Hermione smirked as she realized something: even that early, during their first year, Harry had
already held a special place within her heart.

The next picture was something of an oddity, in which she found herself sitting cross-legged
next to a large cauldron. Harry and Ron were at either side, watching her intently as she added an
ingredient to the simmering vessel. It was an acutely staged shot, which she had procured by
borrowing Colin Creevey's magical camera and setting the timer. This image of course recorded
their infamous brewing of the Polyjuice potion during their second year. *That* particular
incident had landed her in the Hospital Wing with whiskers and a tail.

The third image contained only Harry and Hermione, though Buckbeak was standing in the
background. She was never sure how Harry had received this picture, because it was a candid of them
talking about something, and it must have been sometime *after* they'd rescued the
hippogriff during their third year. She couldn't remember anyone being there, especially
because at that point they had passed back into the time stream.

She shrugged, continuing along the line of pictures. The next two were action shots. The first
was off Harry out-flying the Norwegian Ridgeback during the First Task of the Triwizard Tournament;
the second was Harry, Hermione, and Ron having a three-way duel sometime during their fifth year.
The entire DA was assembled in the background, watching, in some cases, with awe. In the picture,
Ron was incapacitated fairly quickly, leaving Harry and Hermione to fight each other. They were
nearly evenly matched, so the duel was intense and prolonged. The image reset just as Hermione was
in the process of blocking a strong Stunner.

There was no image from their sixth year—or at least no image that Hermione wanted to hang on
their wall—so the images skipped to the summer between sixth and seventh year. It was also an
action shot, but it had been taken by a Muggle camera. Harry was in the process of Side-Along
Apparating Ron, Neville, Luna, and Ginny; Hermione saw that she was Disapparating herself. The odd
thing about this picture, and ultimately why Hermione had hung it on the wall, was the splash of
color between their six bodies. If one stared at the picture for long enough, it almost seemed as
if there were rainbow bands of lights running from person to person.

It could have been a trick of the midday sun on the lens of the camera, but Hermione thought it
might have been Harry's magic. Obviously, her rational side told her that was impossible
because no Muggle or Muggle device could see any kind of magic, but Harry had been known to do some
very strange and unexpected things. So perhaps those weird bands of light really were Harry's
magic preparing everyone for the Apparition.

Shaking herself from her thoughts, she quickly dressed and left the master suite. She had a full
day ahead of her, and she wanted to get an early start at the Ministry. It wouldn't do to dwell
on memories of the past when there was so much to do, here and now, to accomplish the goals Harry
had set forth for everyone in their world. Hermione knew that Harry did not realize it—*could
not* realize it, truthfully—but the Wizarding world was going to be a very different place after
he had finished with it. He was so ignorant of many old customs and traditions, most of which were
reprehensible, at best, and repulsive, at worst, that he would have no problem simply eliminating
them.

Their world had better be ready for a wake-up call, because if it wasn't, Harry would splash
cold water over everything and force witches and wizards everywhere to pay attention. He was one of
the nicest human beings that Hermione had ever encountered, but he could also be one of the most
inspired and imposing. That leader persona was always hovering just underneath the surface; it
would take only a spark of injustice or a whisper of discrimination to set it free.

These thoughts carried her down the grand staircase toward the foyer. When she reached the final
landing and turned toward expansive foyer, she stopped as she felt magic tingle along her arms. She
reached for her wand, unsure of what was happening for a moment, but relaxed as two familiar forms
materialized in the middle of the foyer. She rushed down the rest of the stairs, opening her arms
and heading for the first person.

“Erin!” she called. The brunette looked toward Hermione and grinned, receiving her friend in a
welcoming hug. Hermione turned to the other person after a moment.

“John!” she said, and hugged him as well. The arrivals were bundled in their winter clothing and
had some luggage with them, which they had dropped to the floor upon landing in the Manor.

“Harry's Portkeys give you any problems?” Hermione asked, stepping back and looking at her
friends. They looked well-rested and refreshed, and that was a good thing.

“Of course not!” Erin responded, laughing. “The trip was quick and painless.”

“That's good,” Hermione said, smiling along with them. “Why don't you two put your
things away? I'll be in the kitchen putting together some breakfast for us.”

“Sure thing,” John said, picking up their luggage. Hermione watched them briefly as they
ascended the stairs, then turning toward the kitchen. When she pushed open the door, she saw that
Dobby was already hard at work making them breakfast.

“Good morning, Hermione,” the House Elf said, not taking his eyes off the food in front of
him.

“Morning, Dobby,” Hermione replied. “Anything I can do to help?”

He looked at her. “Thank you, but I'm almost done,” he said, smirking at her. Since when had
Dobby smirked?

“Sure you don't want me to burn the toast?”

Dobby actually laughed. “I'm sure.”

Winky and Libby came in shortly thereafter; Winky went to assist Dobby and Libby took a seat at
the table, next to Hermione.

“Where's Harry?” Libby squeaked.

“Yes, where *is* Harry?” Erin asked, entering the kitchen. John was right behind her.

“Business trip to Rome,” Hermione said.

“Oh?” John wondered.

Hermione nodded. “Yes, he'll be back on Saturday.” John nodded, leaning back in his chair
and slipping an arm around Erin. “So how was your trip home?” Hermione asked.

John and Erin looked at each other, smiling, and Hermione felt a warm glow spreading through her
heart and soul as she watched her friends. They clearly loved each other deeply; she and Harry
looked at each other like that every day they were together.

“Amazing,” Erin said. “My parents have only met John once, so they enjoyed spending more time
with him.”

“And I can say the same thing,” John added. “We spent some quality time with our families,
though they were naturally curious about what we've been doing.”

“What did you tell them?” Hermione wondered.

Erin shrugged. “What we had planned to say, that I work for an engineering firm and John works
for an investment bank.”

“They were fine with you two being so far away?”

“Sure, Hermione,” John said, smiling appreciatively as Dobby brought breakfast to the table.
“Thank you, Dobby. It smells and looks delicious.”

“Yes it does, Dobby,” Erin agreed.

“You're welcome,” Dobby returned, smiling graciously and sitting with Winky in the remaining
chairs. They all tucked into their meals.

“But yeah, they were happy for us. And like you said when we first came over, there are ways for
us to travel back and forth that are much faster than flying…”

Hermione nodded. “I just want to make sure that we're not stealing you away from your
families.”

Erin put her fork on the table and leaned forward, taking Hermione's hand in hers.
“Hermione, you know that we both made a conscious decision to help you and Harry. It was an added
benefit that we were getting good, high-paying jobs as well, but when we decided to *stay*
here, it wasn't something we would take back.”

“Well, thank you,” Hermione said, powerfully moved by her friend. She squeezed Erin's
hand.

“Thank *you*,” John said, wiping the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “You and Harry
gave us the opportunity of a lifetime—of several lifetimes—when you decided to introduce us to your
world. There are so many things that Erin and I have encountered that are just so… overwhelming…
and enlightening… we really don't know how express our gratitude.”

“There's no need,” Hermione said. “And if Harry were here, he'd say the same thing.”
John inclined his head, and they all continued eating in silence as their thoughts consumed them.
The Elves had contented themselves to listening to the conversation between the humans.

“So you had a good holiday, then?” Hermione wondered, finishing off her juice and putting her
silverware down. The breakfast had been scrumptious. Dobby really was an amazing chef.

“Oh, absolutely,” Erin answered. “We saw our families and received some nice gifts.”

“It was good,” John said, “but Erin's mum wouldn't stop pestering me about when I'd
make an honest woman out of her daughter!”

Hermione laughed. “Did she give you grief about your Britishisms as well?” John just gave her a
blank look. “You said mum instead of mom.”

“Oh,” John said, looking surprised. “Didn't even notice.”

“I think we might slowly be becoming English, John…” Erin said, looking sideways at her
boyfriend.

John looked suitably horrified. “Anything but that! If I ever have a cuppa or put all my shite
in a boot or drive a lorry, I might die.”

“Give it enough time and you might,” Hermione retorted, sticking her tongue out at her American
friends.

Conversation moved on from there. They talked a little more about the holidays, but their banter
soon sobered as the discussion turned toward work. Hermione was always busy as the Director of
Muggle Liaisons, and John and Erin were no slouches either. Erin was the provisional head of
security for the new Hogsmeade Branch that was to open tomorrow, so she would have many full days
ahead of her. John had been given more and more responsibilities as most of his initial investments
had proved fiscally sound; he was now handling several top tier accounts and advised the upper
level financial management on a daily basis.

Truth be told, John was one of the most sought after investors at the moment, even though he may
not have known it. Hermione had heard through the grapevine that his advanced knowledge of Muggle,
Wizarding, and goblin monetary systems made him an invaluable asset for cross-world investing. Not
to be left out, however, was Erin: Hermione had heard that she had earned the trust of her goblin
counterparts because she treated them as equals. She never referred to them as anything other than
friends or colleagues. To Erin, they were not goblins. They were coworkers.

Hermione allowed herself the brief indulgence of wondering where John and Erin would be in
twenty or thirty years. At the rate they were going, they would probably be somewhere in upper
management, probably as senior administrators. But Hermione let those thoughts slip away, because
that was a long time into the future. As she had reminded herself earlier that morning, the present
was what mattered for now. If they could all make the necessary changes in the here and now, the
future would work itself out.

After a time, they went their respective ways, thanking Dobby effusively of course. Hermione
returned to the master suite to dress for work, stopping only for a moment to stare at the empty
bed. She wondered what Harry was doing in Rome at this moment, and how he was faring with his
double-sided mission of diplomacy (as the Vice Minister) and quasi-solicitation (as a Gringotts
Director). She did not dwell on it for too long. She knew that Harry was more than capable of
handling himself. She wouldn't be surprised if the Italian Ministry came crawling to her
Ministry on its hands and knees by the time Harry had finished with them. He was just a magnetic
personality, no matter what he did our where he went. He didn't even have to try. She smiled to
herself as his shockingly ebony hair and his green eyes flashed through her mind's eye.

After showering and donning her Ministry robes, she Disapparated from the Manor. Her destination
was the Atrium of the Ministry; when she arrived, there were only a few other witches and wizards
present at this early hour. As they did every single time Hermione found herself in the Atrium, her
eyes cut to the left toward the statues of Harry, Ron, and her. After eyeing them, she made a
mental note to talk to Harry upon his return. Several additions to those statues were long overdue,
as much as Ginny, Neville, and Luna might disagree.

After taking the lift to her level, she stepped off and headed to her office. The letters on the
frosted glass of her door always gave her pause: *Director Hermione Granger, Department Chair,
Muggle Liaisons*. She had earned the position through hard work and applied effort, so the title
meant more to her than she would admit to anyone except Harry. She was a Muggleborn and, even in
today's Wizarding world, disadvantaged as far as advancement was concerned. Yet, somehow, she
had become an administrator.

She sat at her desk and began her work for the day; she first reviewed some provisional changes
to policies regarding Notice Me Not charms; then she signed off on several Muggle Repelling charms
for some Wizarding businesses within metro London; and finally she turned to her pet project, which
she had been working on for some time now. With Harry's help (and Harry's money), she was
thinking about setting up some kind of renewable scholarship or trust fund for Muggleborn students
that could not pay for magical education. It was still in the early stages as she could only work
on it when she wasn't otherwise occupied, but it was just one thing on a long list of items she
and Harry wanted to do.

Then there came a knock on her door.

“Yes, come in,” Hermione said, without looking up. She was in the middle of figuring inflation
rates for tuition and how that would affect a baseline, one year scholarship to Hogwarts.

“Director Granger?” a voice asked, one that she recognized. Her pen (for quills and inkpots were
too much of nuisance for her) paused in its trek across the paper on her desk. She looked up and
closed her eyes briefly at what she saw. Conrad Murther, the Chair of the Department of Magical Law
Enforcement, stood in her doorway. The last time she had spoken to him was when he'd called her
a twat before the Wizengamot and assembled administrators.

“Director Murther?” she returned, keeping things as formal as he had.

He appeared to hesitate. “May I come in?” he asked, after a moment. One of Hermione's
eyebrows curled upward as she considered his attitude.

“Of course, please,” she responded. She waved her arm at one of the chairs before her desk.
“What can I do for you today, Director?” she asked, leaning back and crossing her legs.

He smiled painfully at her. “I imagine it must be hard for you to act civilly toward me.”

Hermione shrugged, waiting for whatever he was going to say.

“Which is actually why I wanted to come by your office today,” he continued, taking her silence
as a sign that she was listening. “I wanted to…well, to apologize for my behavior back in
November.” He distractedly ran a hand over his balding head.

Hermione was nonplussed. “Why now?” she asked.

“Well,” Conrad started, shifting in his seat. “It's long overdue, for one, and I've felt
bloody badly about what I said.”

“I suppose I may have overreacted as well…” Hermione started. Conrad held up his hand.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Hermione. May I call you that?” Hermione nodded. “You were
provoked and were simply responding in kind. We were all under a lot of stress at that point, which
is not an excuse but rather the truth, so anything you might have said is excused.”

“Um…thank you?” Hermione was somewhat flabbergasted, really. She had not even remotely
considered that this would be a part of her day.

“Contrary to what people might think,” Conrad continued, smiling rather ironically, “I'm not
always such a hardass. I do actually appreciate what you kids did during the Second War, and I do
recognize your talents.”

“Then why such a hostile reaction before?” Hermione asked, unable to stop herself.

“Because you did my job that day better than I ever could have,” Conrad answered, as openly as
Hermione had ever heard the man speak. “True, you did destroy what little evidence we might have
gathered, but you responded faster and more efficiently than even our most seasoned veterans would
have. Our Aurors and Hit Wizards are well-trained, but most of them do not have as much practical
experience as you or your friends.

“Honestly, if I had Apparated into the midst of a dozen Dementors, I probably would have been
too terrified to do much of anything. I can hold one or two off, but twelve? I think not. So
however shocking it was at first to find out that you had used one of the Doomsday spells, I
quickly realized that nothing else could have been done. If the Dementors hadn't been
neutralized so quickly, they could have run roughshod over the Alley.”

“Not that it means much now,” Hermione said, having listened to Murther's speech, “but
you're welcome. I was acting on instinct alone and expended a ridiculous amount of magical
energy. It might even be said that I briefly lost control, which I try not to do very often.”

“You saved countless lives *and* the Vice Minister,” Conrad said, shrugging. “I think that
can be overlooked.”

Hermione stared at Conrad for several seconds. She bit her lip, considering her next words
carefully. He could be a very powerful ally within the Ministry if she played this right.

“You surprise me, Conrad. May I call you that? I don't really know what to think about you
anymore.”

“I'm on your side, Hermione,” he told her, nodding.

“What do you mean?”

“I know what the Minister and Vice Minister are trying to accomplish,” he answered. “And I think
that change is long past due in our world.”

“I'm sure Arthur and Harry will be glad to hear it.”

“They already know,” Conrad said. “After Harry took office, I met with both of them and told
them that the DMLE was at their disposal. Voldemort only existed in the first place because our
world had decayed enough for him to feed on its weaknesses.”

Now both of Hermione's eyebrows crept up her forehead. “You continue to surprise me, Conrad.
I had no idea you were this…articulate.”

“Some of my extended family were casualties of both the First and Second wars,” Conrad
provided.

“I'm sorry.”

He waved it off. “I just thought it might partly explain my position. Anyway, I am sorry for how
I acted. It was unprofessional and unfortunately out of character.”

“Apology accepted. I look forward to working with you,” Hermione said.

“As do I,” he responded. “But that's not the only reason why I came here.”

“Oh?”

“Arthur called a meeting for—” he looked at the watch on his wrist—“now, actually, for all of
the Chairs and other senior administrators.”

“Where?” Hermione wondered, shuffling some papers on her desk and putting her pen into her
pocket.

“Executive boardroom,” he answered, standing as she stood from her chair. “Shall we?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” she replied, following him out of her office after dousing the lights and
shutting the door behind her. They guessed at what this meeting might be about on their way to the
administrative level. By the time they arrived at the large, posh boardroom, it was nearly full to
capacity. Most of the other senior administrators were already there, though the Minister was
nowhere in sight.

Hermione found a seat, greeting the others as they all waited for the man of the hour to make an
appearance. Hermione smiled to herself as she supposed that being the Minister allowed one to make
an entrance when one pleased, rather than the punctuality she had normally associated with Arthur
Weasley. He may have been tied up with something on his way, but she somehow thought he wanted
everyone to be comfortable before he came in and started things.

After the last person to arrive had been seated for two or three minutes, the Minister of Magic
strolled into the boardroom. When everyone began to rise from their seats, he waved them off and
headed for his own chair.

“Please, please, no need for that kind of formality,” Arthur said, sitting and watching as
everyone settled back into their chairs. “Thank you all for coming on such short notice. I hope you
all had a wonderful Christmas and an exciting New Year. Now that we are all back to work once
again, I think it is high time that we talk about this administration.”

“Where is the Vice Minister?” someone asked.

Arthur nodded. “That is actually the first order of business. Some of you may know this already,
but Vice Minister Potter left for Rome early this morning.”

“Why?” another voice called.

“He's travelling abroad on a joint diplomatic mission for our Ministry and for Gringotts.
His agenda includes speaking with the Italian Ministry about ambassadors, study abroad
possibilities, and, on behalf of the goblins, their financial system. We would like to formally
extend our hand in friendship to the Italians, as would Gringotts, and the Vice Minister is in the
unique position to serve both parties.”

“When is he due back?”

“Saturday. You can expect a full report from him by Tuesday; I expect *full* cooperation
from your various departments on whatever he may have lined up.”

“But…”

“Yes?” Arthur asked, looking down the long table at the witch who had started to say something.
Hermione did not recognize her, but she could not be expected to personally know everyone at the
Ministry.

“What is our purpose? What are our goals?” she asked. All eyes turned back to the Minister.

He nodded, pursing his lips and regarding the ceiling. “A valid question, one that I would have
answered anyway. You see, this administration will not and *cannot* be content to sit within
our national borders. For too long, we have allowed the rest of the world—both the Wizarding
*and* Muggle worlds—to accelerate past us in terms of interspecies cooperation, magical-Muggle
relations, and diplomacy.

“Britain has been hindered by a long string of very conservative administrations. By itself,
conservatism is not necessarily a bad thing, but combined with the entrenched aristocracy and the
pureblood traditions that have held sway for centuries, our world was stagnating. As I told the
Vice Minister before he agreed to run with me, *real and lasting change* needs to be injected
into our society for it to survive the next fifty years.

“With that in mind, our primary goal is to inject new life and new attitudes into our world.
Conservatism and liberalism do not have to be at odds; in fact, they can be almost entirely
ignored. These issues are not about bipartisanship or fights for political power. These issues are
about human and nonhuman rights; they are about the freedom *for* and acceptance *of*
each magical species as it is, not as what we want it to be. Working together, we can make Britain
a better place to live.

“However, it does not help that so many witches and wizards are completely removed from the
zeitgeist. Some barely know what electricity is. These kinds of gaps cannot stand for very long
with what the Vice Minister and I have in mind, and we want your help in ensuring that we achieve
some of our goals. We do realize, of course, that most of these changes are only attainable in the
long term; it is unlikely that we will see the progeny of centaurs attending Hogwarts in the next
twenty years, though some day it is certainly a possibility.

“In short, everyone assembled here has a duty, both to me and the Vice Minister *and* to
the world at large. Britain has long been the laughing stock of the Wizarding world—how many other
cultures regularly have so-called Dark Lords on their hands?—and we aim to change that.”

Silence hit the boardroom as Arthur stopped talking. Hermione had listened with rapt ears to his
speech, agreeing with each of his points as they rolled off his practiced tongue. He had assumed
the role of Minister, however reluctantly, with ease, and his comfort was evident in the way he
controlled this room.

“Let me just add one more thing,” Arthur said, and his voice had dropped into a slightly deeper
register. His words were slower and more forceful. “Vice Minister Potter and I are not fooling
around. This is not your mother's or your grandmother's or even your older sibling's
government. If you do not do your job effectively and efficiently—and absolutely *without*
corruption—no amount of money or posturing will save you.

“Any questions?”

----------

10:15 pm

Hermione blew her hair out of her face as she materialized in the foyer of the Manor, having
just finished one of her longest days of work in recent memory. After the meeting with the
administrators, which had gone about as smoothly as could be expected, her day was filled with more
paperwork and meetings. She had only had a little more time to work on that scholarship project,
but it would be waiting for her tomorrow, and the next day, and many days after that. As the Chair
of Muggle Liaisons, many of the changes Arthur and Harry might implement would affect her
department directly, and that meant more work for her. She wasn't complaining, because she
loved being busy and being in the thick of things, but long days meant very little time to
herself.

She shrugged out of her robes as she started up the staircase, skipping a trip to the kitchen
because she had snagged a bite to eat in Diagon earlier that evening. She was tired, so she just
wanted to crawl into bed and close her eyes. After reaching the master suite and hanging up her
robes, she quickly changed out of the rest of her clothing and slipped between the sheets. She
doused the lights with a wave of her hand and finally had a chance to relax and unwind as the
darkness and the silence settled in all around her.

But…thoughts of her empty bed crept into her mind after only a few minutes. The busy day had
done a good job taking her mind off of Harry's absence. Now that she was alone, however, and in
a prime position to *feel* that very absence, it settled into her bones like an unwanted
chill.

She missed Harry. She missed his smile, his laugh, his affectionate and subconscious touches,
and his joyful attitude. He had only been gone for one day and she missed him so much that it
ached. She didn't know how she could go more than two or three days without him by her
side.

Unexpectedly, she felt emotion welling up inside her. The bed just didn't feel *right*
without Harry's form lying next to her, and she couldn't hold up against the tears that
wanted to come. She knew it was stupid, she knew that he would be back after only one more day, but
she wanted him now. She wanted him to hold her and tell her that he loved her. And she wanted to do
those things for him, too.

As the first fat tears began leaking from her eyes, tears she was powerless to control, a
familiar and most welcome sensation shot along her body. She sniffled and strained her eyes against
the darkness as the feeling grew and grew, eventually making the hairs on her arm stand on end. It
could only mean one thing…

“Hermione?” a voice asked, as if out of a dream.

“Harry?” she breathed, hearing the emotion in her own voice.

“What's the matter?” he asked, rather sharply, and lighting the room with his hand. She
squinted against the white light emanating from his palm, trying to make her eyes adjust to the
sudden brightness. Harry was blurry due to some of her unshed tears.

“Oh nothing,” she said, sitting up and receiving him in her arms. He felt so good and so real.
Merlin, she loved him so much. “Just missed you, is all.”

He chuckled lightly against her as they held each other, nodding as well. She breathed deeply
and held him tighter, not wanting him to ever leave again. Eventually they parted; Hermione wiped
the back of her hand across her face; Harry extinguished the ball of light in his palm. She felt
more than heard or saw him moving around toward the other side of their bed.

“I thought you were in Rome until Saturday,” Hermione said, slipping beneath the covers once
again as Harry settled in next to her. She rolled on her side and he moved against her back,
spooning her. One of his strong arms came over her body, finding one of her hands and resting in
it.

“I am,” he answered, whispering in the darkness. “But I missed you too. And I figured since I
can Apparate vast distances, well, you know…”

“But I didn't even hear you come in,” she said. “It was completely silent.”

“I'm improving,” he told her, and she heard the smirk in his voice. She sighed contentedly.
“I couldn't sleep,” he continued, shifting slightly. “I found myself unable to cope with my
empty bed in that hotel.”

“I was having the same problem.”

“I think we've both had this problem before,” he said.

“I think you're right,” Hermione replied. “But with you able to Apparate to the moon and
back, I don't really ever see that being a problem.”

“Unless I'm somewhere with a time difference of more than just an hour.”

“Mmm,” Hermione intoned, feeling sleep coming upon her quickly. It was a most welcome feeling,
especially in the arms of Harry.

“Have you heard anything about Viola?”

“If she's magical or not?” Hermione questioned. She felt Harry nod against her back. “No,
not today.”

“Oh,” he breathed.

“What time do you have to leave tomorrow?”

“I should Disapparate by 5:15 at the latest.”

“Wake me and kiss me goodbye this time, please,” she told him. “I was a little disappointed this
morning when I woke up and you were already gone.”

“I'm sorry,” he said, squeezing her. “You looked too cute to wake up.”

“Nice save, Potter,” she mumbled, snuggling further into him. “Just don't forget…”

“I won't,” he said. “Good night, my love,” he whispered. She never answered, having already
succumbed to the darkness.

----------

Saturday, January 4, 2003; 11:25 am

True to his word, on Friday morning Harry had woken Hermione and kissed her goodbye. Rather than
falling back to sleep for another hour, she had started her day as he had Disapparated from their
bedroom. After having breakfast by herself and leaving a little note wishing Erin best of luck for
the grand opening of the Hogsmeade branch, she dressed and left for the Ministry. As it had been
before six in the morning, she nearly had the entire place to herself. Her productivity that
morning was enormous because there were so few distractions; only Arthur dropped in at one point to
briefly discuss some zoning issues they were having with Diagon Alley.

The rest of Friday passed smoothly; she worked well into the evening again, returning the manor
around ten that night. After eating and checking in with John and Erin—apparently the grand opening
had gone off successfully—she headed for her bedroom. When she arrived, Harry was already waiting
for. She smirked at him as she let her Ministry robes fall to the floor.

“You *do* know that international Apparition is actually illegal, right?”

“Of course,” he responded, and she could feel his eyes on her as she continued undressing.

“So if I were an Auror I could arrest you on the spot for illegally crossing international
borders.”

“But you aren't.”

“True, but don't you think you should be setting a good example? You are the Vice Minister,
after all.”

She had gone to their bed dressed in nothing more than some rather scanty undergarments, lying
across the end and staring at Harry. There was desire radiating from his eyes.

“How many people in the world can do it?” he wondered.

“Other than you? Probably not many.”

“Then I don't really think it's an issue,” Harry said. “I don't plan on abusing the
ability—in fact, with this ability I've been able to come home the last two nights. I thought
you would have liked that,” he said, pouting.

She eyed him, licking her lips and rubbing one of her hands along her thigh. His eyes followed
her every move.

“Hmm…” she considered. “I *do* like men with power…”

Harry leaned forward, crawling across the bed toward her. “Harry Potter, Vice Minister, wizard
extraordinaire, at your service.” Her laughter was cut off by their lips crashing together.

That had been the story of the previous night. Currently, Hermione was daydreaming in her office
about what mischief they had found themselves in *after* that heated kiss; just thinking about
it made her want to find Harry and do it all over again. She did not have to work on Saturdays, but
with Harry still out of the country, she had nothing better to do. He was expected back sometime
within the next several hours, so she passed the time accomplishing more items on her long list of
things to do.

Just as she was readying herself to leave for lunch, a braying klaxon alerted her to some kind
of impending danger. That noise meant only one thing: the DMLE was expecting trouble, so she
grabbed her wand and ran from her office. Her robes trailed behind her as she ran like the wind
through the corridors. She was half-tempted to just Apparate into the DMLE, but she did not want to
cause unnecessary trouble, since Apparating from anywhere in the Ministry except for designated
Apparition points was technically impossible.

She tapped her foot impatiently as the lift ground its merry way toward the floor with the DMLE.
The klaxon was still sounding bracingly throughout the Ministry. During her flight from her office,
she had seen some rather startled witches and wizards, but not nearly as many as she might on a
weekday. There was only a skeleton crew here at the moment.

Finally arriving at her destination, she slipped from the lift as the doors were still opening
and sprinted down another corridor. She burst into the DMLE, expecting at least some commotion due
to the blaring alarm, but she discovered that there were only four people present. One of them was
Conrad Murther.

“Director Granger?” he queried, turning toward her upon her entrance. The other three people
with him were dressed in Auror's robes, though she did not personally recognize their
faces.

“What's going on?” Hermione asked, twirling her wand in her fingers as she approached them.
The nameless Aurors were looking at her with something akin to awe, which made her
uncomfortable.

“Well—Hermione—quite frankly we're unsure at the moment. That siren can be activated
externally, and our sensors indicate that Vice Minister Potter was the one to sound the alarm.”

“Harry?” Hermione yelped, looking at Conrad with shocked eyes. “Is he alright?” she asked,
clenching her wand in her hand. She would charge the gates of hell once again for him if she had
to.

“Relax, relax,” Conrad placated, raising his hands, palm outward. “There has been nothing to
indicate that the Vice Minister is in harm's way. Something must have happened, though, to
warrant his activation of the alarm.” He then looked at her strangely. “What are you doing here on
a Saturday?”

“Had some work I needed to finish,” she shrugged. “So what do we do now?”

“We wait,” he said. “There's nothing else we can do for the moment.”

Hermione hated it, but she understood that Conrad was right. They simply did not have enough
information to act. She couldn't bear not knowing what was happening to Harry and why he might
have tripped the alarm, but she resigned herself to waiting anyway. During the next several
minutes, when the Ministry was filled with the eerie noise of the braying alarm, several more
employees trickled into the DMLE, all looking as bewildered as Hermione felt.

She knew that Harry could handle just about anything, so for him to cause a ruckus like this,
one of two or three things must have happened: there could have been some kind of diplomatic
incident or perhaps he did not have the authority to handle the situation, not *wanting* to
cause an international incident.

Suddenly, noise drew her attention toward the far end of the DMLE. She ran over there with
Conrad and the three Aurors behind her; when she rounded the final corner, she stopped and put her
hands to her mouth. There was Harry, looking perfectly fine, except for the stony expression on his
face. He looked furious.

“Harry?” she called. Instead of responding to her, however, he looked at Conrad, who was
standing next to her.

“Were there any detainees brought here in the past ten minutes?”

“Detainees, Vice Minister?”

Harry nodded. “Yes, you know, prisoners? They might have been accompanied by a goblin named
Kregg?” he clarified, gesticulating wildly.

“Um…no,” Conrad answered, at a loss for words. Hermione thought all of this was very strange.
She stepped forward and Harry finally focused on her.

“Harry, what happened?”

He passed a very distracted hand over his face, staring at the floor for a moment. When he
looked back into her eyes, he had regained some of his focus.

“We ran into some trouble as we were preparing to leave Rome,” he explained, coming forward. “It
seems as if Narcissa—” he spat her name out—“followed us to Rome with some of her chums. They
ambushed us about twenty or twenty-five minutes ago,” he continued, looking at his watch.

“Narcissa was in Rome?” Hermione questioned, shocked. Conrad was also listening intently.

“Yes,” Harry nodded. “The goblins and I dueled with them for a bit, eventually capturing them. I
told Kregg and the others to bring them *here* and wait for me, as I had some last-second
business to attend to, but it seems as if they might have gone elsewhere.” He sounded very
frustrated.

Hermione remembered what Ragnok had told her about the goblins wanting justice brought to
Harry's attacker. Perhaps Kregg and the other goblins had transported their prisoners to
Gringotts.

“What about Gringotts?” Conrad asked, following Hermione's train of thought.

“It's a possibility,” Harry agreed, “though I hope they didn't.”

Conrad looked confused. “Why not?”

“Because most Wizarding laws don't apply within Gringotts,” Hermione explained. “Goblins do
not have any kind of due process.”

“Oh…” Conrad said, cottoning on to the problem.

“Well, I need to get to Gringotts then,” Harry said, rather darkly. “I hope Ragnok has not taken
any liberties with our prisoners.”

“I'm coming with you,” Hermione said. “And I think you should send your Patronus to Arthur,
to let him know what's happening.”

Harry nodded. “*Expecto patronum!”* he yelled, without the aid of a wand, and Prongs burst
forth from his palm. The Patronus stared at Harry momentarily, and then it blinked out of
existence.

“I'm coming too,” Conrad said, stepping forward. His eyes were still on where Prongs had
disappeared.

Harry sighed. “Very well. Both of you hold on,” he instructed, holding out his arms.

“You, you, and you,” Conrad commanded, turning to the three Aurors. “Meet us outside Gringotts
in Diagon.” They nodded and turned, hurrying away from them.

Hermione grabbed Harry's arm and watched as Conrad reached for the other. She met
Harry's eyes and they nodded at each other.

“Let's go,” Harry said, and they were gone.

-->



32. Conclusion
--------------



**Bearings**

Disclaimer/Author's Note: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. I honestly do not have the time to
write two stories anymore, so this will be the final chapter of *Bearings*. It will
encapsulate just about everything I had originally planned for the story, hopefully satisfying your
curiosity and providing a terminus for this long-gestating work. I sincerely appreciate the support
of all my readers over the years—you have kept me coming back to Harry Potter every time I thought
I was gone for good—and I apologize for being unable to do this story its proper justice. Again,
thank you so much.

*Rise up and take the power back, it's time that
The fat cats had a heart attack, you know that
Their time is coming to an end
We have to* *unify and watch our flag ascend**
They will not force us
They will stop degrading us
They will not control us
We will be victorious*

Muse

*Uprising*

Conclusion: From *Wizarding Britain, A History*

After the Voldemort Era (1960-1997) came the Potter Era (1997-2095), which began surprisingly
enough with Potter's exodus from Britain. Following his defeat of Voldemort in the spring of
1997, Potter decided to pursue his education at Stanford University, in the United States. He
completed a degree in Business while excelling at NCAA Baseball and received an offer to play from
the New York Yankees upon graduating, but the future Mrs. Hermione Potter persuaded him to return
to Britain instead. He brought two Muggles with him—John Sanders and Erin Sanders née Lowell—that
remained in the British Wizarding World until their deaths; we will return to their instrumental
involvement in the Potter Movement shortly. Upon returning to Britain, Harry Potter was almost
immediately asked by the then Vice Minister Arthur Weasley to run with him in the next election:
Harry would step in as Vice Minister and Arthur would ascend to Minister, replacing Amos Diggory
(who lost his son Cedric to Voldemort in the Triwizard Tournament of 1994). Arthur and Harry led a
strong campaign throughout the rest of 2002 and ultimately were elected to the top two positions in
the Wizarding government of Great Britain.

This marked the beginning of what has become known as the Potter Movement, which sustained its
momentum until Harry's retirement from public life in 2095. Other than Harry Potter and
Hermione Potter née Granger, the other key players are as follows: Ronald Weasley and Luna Weasley
née Lovegood; Neville Longbottom and Ginevra Longbottom née Weasley; John and Erin Sanders; and
Arthur, Fred, and George Weasley. Other minor players in the Potter Movement are: Viola Granger,
younger sister of Hermione; and Jude and Zoe Potter, son and daughter of Harry and Hermione. The
true network of support for the Potter Movement extends far beyond these names, but due to space we
can only list the most influential here. You can check the bibliography in the back of this book if
you want more specific information on the Potter cadre.

After assuming the position of Vice Minister, Harry was immediately confronted with more
trouble. Narcissa Malfoy, due to the death of her husband and son in 1997, was leading a
multi-national, underground pureblood resistance to the Weasley-Potter government. She orchestrated
an attempt on Harry's life on November 11, 2002; although it was ultimately unsuccessful, her
Killing Curse rendered Harry unconscious for two days, sending ripples of anger and fear through
the Wizarding government that had not been felt since the mid-90s. Hermione Potter used one of the
legendary Doomsday spells to protect Harry from twelve Dementors, destroying them in the process
and revealing to the world her true magical capabilities. The fallout from the assassination
attempt was rapid; the British government coordinated with other magical governments around the
world (in what is probably the first good example of Arthur and Harry's diplomacy) to find the
perpetrator, and Harry personally coordinated with the goblins of Gringotts. Due to Harry's
position as a Director at Gringotts—the first human board member in more than a century—Ragnok and
his constituents worked tirelessly to track Narcissa; on a diplomatic trip to Rome with other board
members, Harry was assaulted by Narcissa once again, but this time he captured her with the help of
the goblins. And even though the goblins wanted to mercilessly torture the information about the
underground resistance out of Narcissa, Harry would not let them. She was instead given a fair
trial and sentenced to life in Azkaban (coincidentally now guarded by the goblins) with a possible
chance of parole if she revealed all she knew about the pureblood resistance.

That possibility loosened her lips and she spilled everything she knew, which led to the
eventual capture of more than two hundred witches and wizards the world over. This was the decisive
factor that cemented Harry's position within the political realities of the magical world: not
only was he arguably the most powerful wizard in the world, but he was also able to play the
political games to accomplish what he wanted. Arthur and Harry served two more terms as Minister
and Vice Minister, spreading their messages of tolerance and progress across Britain and the world.
In the election of 2014, Harry ran for Minister and Griphook, his longtime goblin confidant and
friend, ran as Vice Minister. At the time, it was an incredible and unbelievable step toward
magical equality; their margin of victory was as impressive as it was unexpected, because none of
the commentators of the age thought Britain had been ready for a human-goblin led government.

The Harry-Griphook partnership quickly ushered in the golden age of magical equality and
political progress; by the time Harry left office after three terms as Minister in 2026, most
sentient magical creatures had nearly as many rights as humans. Even Hogwarts, which had long been
purely for witches and wizards, began admitting children of other races in 2019 (Logan, the son of
Libby, a Potter House Elf, was the first of his kind to attend). The school's former enrollment
of 280 swelled to over 1000 in 2025, which was when the two newest houses were opened and the two
newest wings were commissioned. 2026 was also the year when Minerva McGonagall finally took her
much-deserved retirement; Neville Longbottom replaced her as the head administrator at Hogwarts,
where he would remain as Headmaster until his death in 2099. When Harry left the formal magical
government in 2026, Griphook ran for Minister with Hermione Potter as his Vice Minister (she had
formerly been the Chair of Muggle Liaisons, where she had significantly reduced the magical-Muggle
divide). They ran nearly uncontested and won a landslide victory over the last conservative
vestiges left in the government; for the next seventy years, the Equality party dominated Wizarding
Britain, pushing through changes that were unfathomable during most of the twentieth century.

The Chief Warlock position in the Wizengamot had been vacant since the death of Albus Dumbledore
in 1996, and immediately after leaving the position of Minister, Harry Potter found himself
nominated by an overwhelming majority for it. So in July of 2026, Harry formally became of the
Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot of Wizarding Britain. His wife, Hermione Potter, was the Vice
Minister; Neville Longbottom was the Headmaster of Hogwarts; Ginevra Longbottom was the Chief
Executive Officer of St. Mungo's Wizarding Hospitals, which had grown from one location in
Diagon Alley in 1997 to forty-three locations the world over in 2026. Luna Weasley was the
Editor-in-Chief of Quibbler, Inc., which produced three of the world's most popular magazines,
one of which was (and still is) intended for Muggle audiences; Ronald Weasley was the general
manager of the European Quidditch Association; John Sanders was one of the three Chief Financial
Officers of Gringotts; Erin Sanders was Vice President of Security for Gringotts (Europe); Viola
Granger was in Muggle graduate school completing her Ph.D. in quantum and nuclear mechanics, which
would lead to her revolutionary studies on the physics of magic; Jude Potter, born in 2006, was a
successful chaser on the Chudley Canons; and Zoe Potter, born in 2009, had just finished her
seventh and final year at Hogwarts, graduating with near-perfect marks.

The older members of the Potter Movement, as you can see, all occupied positions of considerable
power in the Wizarding world, which explains their lasting influence. Harry became the Chief
Warlock of the Wizengamot in 2026 and would remain in the position until 2095; shortly thereafter,
in 2029, he also took the position of Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of
Wizards. Like Albus Dumbledore before him, he occupied what many consider to be the two most
powerful Wizarding positions in the world (due to the strength and influence of the British
government). He wielded his considerable magical and political power for the good of many, though,
and by the middle of the twenty-first century, when Harry turned seventy, sentient beings of all
races mingled in all areas of life with almost no second-thought. To call this period a golden age
is an understatement when compared with the paranoia, bigotry, and discrimination present in the
late-twentieth century (and at all moments before then, really), but the sense of the term is
correct.

After serving as Vice Minister and then Minister for a total of 5 terms, Hermione Potter left
office in 2046 to pursue her true passion: Muggle liaisons. She set up her own firm in the years
that followed to foster magical-Muggle relations, and by the time she handed it over to her
daughter Zoe in 2065 (when Zoe was 56 and Hermione was 86), it had become the premier firm of its
type. Hermione's lifelong passion never fully breached the magical-Muggle divide—the Statute of
Secrecy still stands to this day—but her tireless efforts make complete integration a real
possibility within the next few decades. After Zoe took control of the business, Hermione was a
traveling lecturer, bringing her cause and her concerns to the rest of the world.

By 2095, when Harry Potter formally resigned from his tenures as Chief Warlock and Supreme
Mugwump, the Wizarding world had been irrevocably changed. Sentient magical creatures of almost
every race co-existed peacefully, Muggles were slowly becoming more than just inferior creatures,
and the dark days of the twentieth century—from Grindewald to Voldemort—were a long-distant memory,
accessible to only the oldest left alive. Harry Potter started in the Wizarding world as a
malnourished and neglected eleven year old, but with the help of his loving wife Hermione Potter,
he died in 2115 a legend. Following are dates of birth and death and last known occupations of the
members of the Potter movement:

Harry Potter: July 31, 1980 - August 12, 2115. Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and Supreme
Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards.

Hermione Potter: September 19, 1979 - January 25, 2109. World-famous guest lecturer and speaker
about Muggle Liaisons; Professor Emeritus of Muggle Studies at Hogwarts.

Jude Potter: July 30, 2006 - November 8, 2130. Owner of the Chudley Canons and international
talent scout, EQA (European Quidditch Association).

Zoe Potter: April 23, 2009 - December 31, 2148. Lead Counsel and Owner of Potter & Potter,
Muggle Liaisons.

Viola Granger: December 14, 2002 - February 19, 2103. Magical Physicist.

Ronald Weasley: March 1, 1980 - September 21, 2105. General Manager, EQA.

Luna Weasley: May 4, 1981 - May 4, 2021. Editor-in-Chief of Quibbler, Inc.

Neville Longbottom: July 30, 1980 - June 23, 2099. Headmaster of Hogwarts.

Ginevra Longbottom: August 11, 1981 - March 29, 2100. CEO, St. Mungo's Wizarding
Hospitals.

John Sanders: October 31, 1979 - January 17, 2062. CFO, Gringotts.

Erin Sanders: July 4, 1980 - April 21, 2059. Chief Security Officer, Gringotts.

Arthur Weasley: February 6, 1950 - March 30, 2064. Minister of Magic.

Fred Weasley: April 1, 1978 - September 12, 2096. Joint Owner, Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes
and Weapons.

George Weasley: April 1, 1978 - December 23, 2104. Joint Owner, Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes
and Weapons.

Even though all of the members of the Potter Movement are now dead—the last, Zoe Potter, died
thirty years ago—you can still hear and feel their presence if you walk through the Ministry,
Gringotts, St. Mungo's, and Hogwarts. Harry's inscription from 2022 around the dome of the
atrium at the Ministry still stands, even though it has faded in the intervening 156 years. It
says:

*Out of the Ashes of the Rise and Fall of Voldemort,* *We Have Found Our Bearings.*
*We Promise to Promote Equality Across Britain and the Rest of the World**, and* *We
Work Toward True and Lasting Change.* *HJP*

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