Denial

Disclaimer: Jeez, will you get off my case already? No, I did not claim in an exclusive interview with Entertainment Tonight to be the owner of the Harry Potter franchise. Well, okay, maybe I did mention something about secret multi-billion-dollar deals . . . but that's it! I swear!

Author's Note: Alright, I was all set with living life one day at a time, and not fully committing to this fic, because God knows I'm not ready for a full-blown relationship and all that jazz, but, well, the other day we were at an ice cream shop and just looked across the room at one another and something just clicked . . .

So yes. My one-shot, known through the FF.net universe as one of my worst-written-stories-ever, has been expanded into a full-blown fic. *gasp* That's well written, now. *double gasp*

We may even have more than four chapters. This, you know, would be a total record for my Portkey account. Somebody break out the champagne!

Ah-hem. Right. Back to the story . . .

~

Denial

Chapter One: The Rise and Fall of the Gin-inator

~

Monday, September 1^st

Here I am - Hermione Granger, Associate Head of the Department of Mysteries' Research Department, best friend of The-Boy-Who-Lived - and, well . . . I'm writing in a diary.

It's ridiculous. I should be too logical for this. Why on Earth should I need a diary? My life is perfect (admittedly busy, but really, with my job, who wouldn't be pulling a hundred and thirty hours a week?) and therefore I shouldn't have anything to write in a diary about.

Yet . . .

Almost a year ago, on my last birthday, Harry gave this to me. I didn't have the heart to tell him that I would never, even if I was threatened and tortured and forced to watch a marathon of The Bachelorette, or, even worse, every Quidditch game in the World Cup championships, write in a diary.

But Ron got engaged last week (to Luna, of all people. Luna! Back in school, he used to call her `Looney', and yet, for the past three weeks Harry and I have been running around Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade with him, trying to find the perfect ring. Well, Harry was. I was stuck back at home hunched over a table, editing his proposal speech) and because he and Luna bought a house, he's moving out of Grimmauld Place. Soon, it'll just be Harry and I.

Oh, I do seem to sidetrack a bit.

Where was I? Oh, right. So, since Ron and Harry, being boys and therefore incapable of thinking of anyone other than themselves, chose the two best rooms in the house - in other words the two rooms with heating that doesn't rattle and shake and moan - I've decided to move into Ron's old room. It also has its own bathroom.

Well, mine has one too. But there's Gertrude, the ghoul, who, although she is very sweet and constantly tells me hair-smoothing potions, makes the most hideous noises in the middle of the night.

So, obviously, I never use it.

While I was packing up my things, I noticed this little red book sitting under the mattress. And seeing how I never shove anything under my bed, I picked it up, brushed it off, and realized that it was the blank diary that Harry had gotten me.

That was five minutes ago.

Now, I'm scribbling away like a madwoman with a bit of quill that hasn't been sent off to Ron's room yet.

It's absolutely ridiculous. I am a grown woman. I'm twenty-four, for Merlin's sake! What twenty-four-year-old woman scribbles like a madwoman in a journal? So what if Harry gave it to me - that on-again-off-again business with Ginny has proven that he doesn't exactly know what women want!

At this point, Luna would point to my former sentence and tell me, in that blunt way of hers, “Well, what does Harry giving it to you have to do with anything?” If she was a Weasley (which I guess she will be, by December) she would accompany this with a significant waggle of the eyebrows.

And, seeing as this is a new journal and has no way of knowing this - I am not in love with Harry Potter. Why must everyone assume that boys and girls cannot be friends without falling in love?

Alright. So maybe Ron and I dated. Once! For about a month, and then he called me a bint and I called him a lazy git, and he ran into the groping arms of Parvati Patil, and we mutually decided that perhaps it would be better for everyone - including the innocent bystanders - if we just didn't try out the whole dating thing ever again.

I do love Harry, it's just not in the way that everyone wrongly assumes. I love Harry in a sisterly, protective fashion.

Even if I was in love with Harry (the walking-down-the-aisle type of love, not the break-his-heart-and-I'll-break-your-arm type), well, it wouldn't change anything. As I mentioned above, the business with Ginny would certainly destroy any hopes that I had.

Ginny Weasley is, quite frankly, Merlin's gift to the heterosexual male. She is also apparently operating under the assumption that Merlin gave her a personal plaything, and his name is Harry.

Because, if you think about it, that's the only explanation for this uncertain thing they've been messing about with.

First there was sixth year, when they fell in love, and finally hooked up after all the sexual tension buzzing around, then broke up because Harry can't resist being the Boy-Who-Has-An-Incurable-Hero-Complex.

Once we'd put Voldemort six feet under, they got right back together. But in September, Harry had to go to the Auror Academy, and they `took a break' - a break which lasted three years and involved Ginny being engaged to, of all people, Viktor Krum - and when Ginny broke it off with Viktor because he was boshing anything that moved behind her back, the two idiots got back together.

And then Harry met Beth, an absolutely gorgeous Chaser on the Cannons with Ron - who was only on the team because she took beautiful pictures, because, let me tell you, even I could tell she couldn't play to save her life - and he and Ginny broke it off again. But when Beth chucked a crystal champagne flute at his head for always being away on “unexplainable Auror business”, Ginny was there to salve his wounds. With her tongue.

That, however, lasted only so long. Once all the crystal was removed and Ginny went to Fashion Week in New York to launch her new line, she met a German model named Günter and dropped Harry as if he were last year's Kneazle-print slingbacks.

So, really, it would be completely illogical for me to be in love with Harry Potter. Even if Ginny has currently left him for Günter With-No-Last-Name, she's eventually going to get tired of her boy-toy and come crawling back across the ocean like some Mesozoic slime mold.

There is no way that I could love Harry. There just isn't. Nope.

So there.

Oh dear. I just counted, and I denied being in love with Harry three times. According to my father, who watches far too many reruns of that American show, Law & Order, for his own good, the witnesses who deny it three times are the ones who are lying.

But that doesn't make any sense.

I would never be in love with Harry; it'd be like falling in love with my left arm. And I would know, wouldn't I? It'd most definitely be one of those things I'd be able to tell. I know my own heart, for Merlin's sake.

And what does my father know? He went to school, met my mother, married her, had me, and retired! About as risky as he gets is going sock-less to the market in February! Does this seem to be the sort of man who would know about the trials of love?!

No.

Well, I'm not going to trust my father - or his addictive American crime show - with my love life. Not that what I have with Harry in any way constitutes a `love life', with the possible exception of a `sisterly love life'. However, seeing as how I'm not sure if sisterly-love-life is a term, we'll just stick with my original assertion.

Merlin, what was that? It sounded like a cross between the noise Ron makes when he stumbles down to the kitchen for breakfast, steps on Crookshanks' tail, and Crookshanks in turn sinks his teeth into his foot, and an elephant suffering from a digestive disorder walking through a wall.

I should probably go and investigate, because if it involves Crookshanks no doubt someone is going to spray blood all over my carpeting.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Five Minutes Later

I cannot believe it.

A second - well, more a split-second, if I ran as fast as I think I did - I walked into Ron's room, a Scourgify on my lips, ready to clean up any mess caused by Ron inadvertently stepping on the tail of my cat.

And what, you ask, do I see?

Well, I see Ginny and Harry snogging the life out of each other, that's what.

I did, in all seriousness, think about knocking on the doorway and making one of the snarky replies that Draco Malfoy is known for, like, “If I'd known we needed loud, scary noises I would've just called down Gertrude”, or something, but I seemed to just freeze in place.

For a moment, I couldn't do anything but watch in horrid fascination like the people who witness car crashes do. They know that it's going to scar them for life, but they just can't tear their eyes away.

But then common sense walloped me on the side of the head, and I tensed, prepared to dash off, completely forgetting about the creaky floor plank. I took a step back, and managed to put my toe directly on it. By now, I've gotten used to stepping around it, but in my revulsion I sort of forgot.

Bloody plank.

“INRUDERS! HOW DARE AN INTRUDER PUT A FOOT INSIDE THIS NOBLE HOUSE, HOME OF HARRY POTTER? WHO ARE YOU? WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING, COMING INTO THIS HOUSE? SOMEONE, QUICK! CATCH THEM BEFORE THEY GE—”

Harry and Ginny pulled apart with a noise that, if bottled and sold, would have made a fortune in the toilet-cleaning industry.

“Hermione?” Harry's glasses were hanging, somewhat askew, off of the lampshade on the floor, the only thing Ron refuses to take with him to his and Luna's new flat. He's blind as a bat without them, but seeing as how I was the only one in the house other than he - and apparently Ginny - it wasn't that hard a deduction to make for someone who flew through the Auror Academy at the top of his class.

As Harry fumbled for his glasses and Ginny, lips all swollen and hair all mussed, glared at me nastily, I muttered something unintelligible, turning an unattractive shade of pink, and dashed off to my room at a speed that no doubt broke the sound barrier. There, waiting on my bed, was this little red book.

Without even thinking, really, I grabbed it and the spare quill and ink perched on top, and took the stairs at the end of the hall to the roof. I have a pretty good feeling that Harry will have a hard time finding me up here. That is, if he's looking. Which I doubt, because he and Ginny are probably still licking each other's tonsils.

Not that I care. Really. The only reason I'm disgusted is because I had to watch the two of them go at it in Ron's old - wait a second! My room! They were snogging in MY ROOM on MY BED. Granted, `my room' is empty except for Ron's left-over lamp and my mattress, but still . . .

Merlin's socks, I'm never going to use that mattress again. The second that the coast is clear I am going down to Diagon Alley and buying a new mattress. And - ew! - who knows what they might be doing on my bed right now?

UGH.

That's just disgu- oh, look who decided to emerge from the depths of the tentacles of the Gin-inator. What does he want? I'm going to ignore him. The whistling wind (which doesn't actually exist yet, but if I can hook my toe around my wand, I can probably conjure it up) makes it impossible to hear him.

Harry: Hermione? Hey, are you okay?

Me: Yes. Just peachy.

I can't see him right now, but I have a nasty, niggling little feeling that's telling me why he tried to find me. So I'll change the subject.

Me: Isn't it beautiful up here? The sunset is gorgeous.

Harry: Yeah.

My, aren't we an articulate pair? He's just walked up next to me. Both of our backs are to the door, and we're leaning on the black iron balcony that circles the roof. The formerly non-existent wind has kicked up without any magical help from me; just in time to pull his hair in alternate directions (he really should get it cut - he looks like a delinquent now, not the high-level, workaholic Auror Beth accused him of being) and is probably making mine into a rat's nest.

I bet if Ginny were here, her hair would be doing exactly what it should be, blowing back in a sophisticated, model-esque way. No doubt she and Günter make - or is it made? - an absolutely stunning pair. This I don't mean in an envious way; quite simply, the two of them are drop-dead gorgeous. Not that Harry isn't as attractive as Günter. He's just ruggedly handsome, as opposed to gorgeous.

Now there's just silence. The sun is blood-red, and we're both watching it disappear over the rooftops of the rest of Grimmauld Place. Even those annoying children next door have stopped shrieking for a few moments. It's almost too peaceful to last . . .

Uh-oh. He's clearing his throat. He's about the breech the subject of him and Ginny.

Harry: Hermione . . . I know that you saw . . . what I mean is, I'm sorry that you had . . . it's just that Ginny and I, we never . . . you weren't meant to see . . . well, what I'm trying to say is that, Ginny and I, we . . . kind of . . .

He's pushing his hands angrily through his hair, and mussing it up even worse. I'm fairly certain that the only reason that I'm still writing in this is to keep myself from reaching up to smooth back his hair for him. In a sisterly, protective fashion, of course.

Maybe if I say something he'll go away.

Me: Harry, just, next time, put a locking charm on the door.

I've decided that perhaps it is prudent not to mention the whole mattress thing. Now, I'm expecting him to shoot off a grin, like he usually does. Instead, his eyes darken.

Harry: To tell you the truth, I have a feeling that I won't need a locking charm. Not with Ginny, anyway.

Even though he's gripping the metal bar like it's going to keep him from tossing himself off the roof, I'm feeling a very un-Hermione-like jubilation (because I have my faults, I admit, and being nasty is not one of them). Perhaps Ginny and I do not have the most loving and caring of relationships, despite the fact that her brother and I are best friends.

He's probably expecting me to say something, and frankly, I want to fish for more information.

Me: What do you mean?”

Harry: Well . . .

He's trailing off again, but I know, instinctively, that this is a sentence that he's going to finish. I bet I don't look sympathetic, writing down this conversation, but I can't stop. It's like I have Rita Skeeter's quill nailed to my hand. From the way he's mussing with his hair again, I doubt that Harry's even noticed this journal.

Harry: Ginny and I - we've been trying to make it work. Too hard, really. All this time, we thought that our relationship was going to fit into the mold that everyone else wants it to fit in. But . . . today, when you were in the doorway. I dunno; something just . . . didn't make sense about all of it. Nothing was clicking. What was I doing with her? So . . . Ginny and I . . . we're . . . over.

Yeah, right. I've heard that before.

Me: Well, Harry. I'm sorry that it didn't work out, but I'm glad that you realized it.

Harry: Are you really? I always got the impression that you didn't approve. Of me and Ginny, I mean.

WHAT?!

Harry's never really been that observant about people and relationships. Well, alright, he's fantastic at catching Death Eaters, but no one with two functioning brain cells would let Harry into an interrogation room. How, then, can he have noticed that I've developed a slight, well, dislike of little Ginny Weasley, with her designer job and her constant model boyfriend and her perfect petite body and the way her eyes glint maliciously when she notices something she can manipulate into submission . . .

Ahem.

I've been silent for longer than probably seemly.

Me: Approve of you two? Well, I have to admit that I flashed on Henry VIII . . . with Ginny as Henry.

He's trying to figure out my metaphor, his eyebrows forming a little right angle in the center of his forehead, and all the darkness has left those beautiful green eyes of his.

Now he gets it, because he's smiling like crazy.

Harry: You're the only person who would ever say that.

Before I'm done writing this down, he's darted forward and given me a quick kiss on the check, brushing across my skin before vanishing.

Now he's returning inside, hands stuffed into his pockets against the bitter wind. That delinquent hair is whipping around happily. I'm glad someone enjoys this weather.

He's stopped now. I'm not watching, but his footsteps have paused.

Harry: Thanks. For staying.

He doesn't have to finish his sentence - now that Ron is going suburban, with the wife, house, dog and potential 3.5 kids, it's going to be just be us in large, lonely Grimmauld Place.

Well, and Crookshanks of course.

Me: You're welcome.

I still refuse to turn around. I can hear the door slam behind him. The wind's died down, and the moon is hanging in the sky before me, and Ron's probably all ready to Floo his stuff to storage. And however ridiculous it is, I can still feel the tingle of his lips against my cheek.

Which is stupid.

Because in no way am I in love with Harry Potter.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

WELL . . . what do ya'll think? Has it got potential? Because I'm seriously worried that it'll flop so hard you'll hear it hit the water in the benthic zone.

Ahem. Right. No more Bio references.

Anywho, onto the interactive part of the evening! See, now that you're done puttering around, reading my story and correcting my grammar and tsking as all my mistakes that I have made, you get to go down to that little, eensie-weensie box and type in all that stuff that miffed you off! Have fun, be creative!

But gimme some love, too, if that's deemed acceptable.

Toodles!

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Disclaimer: Despite all begging and pleading and bribing on my part (“Do you like cookies? I make some mean chocolate chip cookies . . .”), I have not been able to procure the copyrights to the Harry Potter franchise. Curses. Foiled again.

Author's Note: I tried to get this put by Valentine's Day, honest. But the stars just wouldn't align and Jupiter and Mars got all wonky when Venus decided to run off with Pluto, who's miffed about not really being a planet . . . and, well, you get the picture.

Second Author's Note: Okay, partly what made this take so long was the decision that I made to make this have a plot. Obviously some kinks had to be ironed out, etc. Forgive me?

Third Author's Note: Please don't kill me! *cowers in a dank corner, alongside the splinched half of Terence Haverford* Right. You'll get that once you read the chapter. If you read the chapter, after all the horrendous abuse I put you all through by not updating.

FORGIVE ME!!

~

Denial

Chapter Two: The Mysterious Lives of the Non-Mysterious

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Tuesday, September 2^nd

It's at times like these when I wish that Marishka Grumbdell would simply keel over dead in her cubicle and save me the trouble of having to arrange the perfect murder. I mean, really, one must wonder about where that woman gets off.

Do you know what was on the cover of The Daily Prophet this morning? Unfortunately, up until five minutes ago, neither did I. This means that when I walked into the lobby of the Ministry, juggling all of the Haverford files and one of those ridiculously flimsy cups of take-away coffee, I didn't know why the gaggle of schoolgirls on a tour had snarky looks on their faces when I stumbled past them. When Melinda shot me a sultry grin and a lascivious wink as she dropped my morning cranes on top of the pile in my arms, I thought it meant she'd finally gotten to that fellow of hers up in the Magical Games and Sports division.

But no. Melinda had not gotten laid last night; those silly schoolgirls in the lobby were not just snarkily glaring at random passerby. This I soon learned when Weatherby sauntered over to my desk and said in his usual bitter little voice, “How nice of you to show up, Miss Granger, what with all of this drama in your life.”

Normally, I am far better constrained around Aldrich Weatherby than I was this morning. However annoying and infuriating he is, the man has a fair hand with Arithmancy. Normally, you see, I respond to his snake-like voice and snidely spoken comments with a disdainful look and artfully raised eyebrow. However, due to the scarring experience of walking in on my best friend playing tonsil quidditch on my mattress with a woman whose vileness could be equated to that of a badly written romance novel, I found myself unable to respond in a restrained fashion.

“Get stuffed, Weatherby,” I growled.

Then, in a truly annoyed fashion, I slammed my purse, insubstantial coffee cup, two feet worth of parchment and half a dozen cranes onto my desk, before giving him what Harry and Ron have dubbed, after a particularly mind-numbing drunken escapade, the Glare to Signify the End of the World. As can be expected, Weatherby took three quick steps backward, and as his reply shoved a crumpled copy of the Prophet in my general direction.

I snatched it out of air as he hastily retreated and smoothed out the front page . . . only to see a picture of myself and Harry outside of the Muggle ice cream parlor around the corner from our apartment. Harry had a towering cone of chocolate in his left hand that was tipping at a dangerous angle because he was laughing hard enough to be almost doubled over. I was joining in his hysterics as I attempted to wipe a smudge of chocolate ice cream off of his nose.

Underneath was a second picture of Luna and Ron in the sushi restaurant where Ron had proposed. Picture-Luna's eyes were glittering with tears as picture-Ron, no doubt for the sixtieth time this morning, slid a silver ring with a large oblong opal onto her left ring finger.

The huge headline, which occasionally turned pink and spitted spurts of tiny red hearts into the margin, read: RONALD WEASLEY ENGAGED TO QUIBBLER EDITOR LUNA LOVEGOOD: Hermione Granger, Heartbroken, Seeks Solace in Arms of Harry Potter.

I have to admit that this wasn't the first time that rag has attempted to link Ron, Harry and I into some sordid love triangle - sometimes for kicks they add in Luna or the Gin-inator - but this was the first time it was on the front page. Usually they stuffed it in some dank corner far back enough that I could happily ignore it.

But no - this was scrawled out in huge letters directly underneath the Prophet letterhead, which, as I stared in horror, was drowned in a flood of little red hearts. The article took up the entire bloody page.

At that moment, I truly regretted getting my parents a Daily Prophet subscription. My father was waking up right now, taking his morning cup of Earl Grey from my mother, sitting down at the cheery breakfast nook in the kitchen . . . and seeing a front-page article speculating on the sex life of his daughter.

Poor Mum. She's been after me for years to settle down with “some nice boy” and get her grandchildren. I've told her and Dad for years to never trust anything written in the Prophet, especially about me and Harry, but I doubt she's going to heed this advice when she sees this bloody article.

Harry! Damn! If I don't intercept the Prophet on its way to his office, I won't have to worry about Marishka Grumbdell keeling over dead because a certain high-profile Auror is going to do the honors for her. I better get up to the Auror department . . . Weatherby better not get in my way, or else someone's going to be growing incisors out of their ears.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

11:47 a.m.

Yes, well, it's all good and well that Ron finds this all so amusing, but some of us have sociopathic coworkers who would like nothing more than to make our lives miserable. Some of us have parents who actually take the Prophet at face value. Some of us can't wander around laughing about this sort of thing. Some of us have to latch our friends to their desk chairs with their tie to keep them from murdering a prominent Daily Prophet reporter.

So while Ron may laugh, I just spent an hour talking Harry out of a one-way ticket to Azkaban. “Oh Harry, Grumbdell's just a hairy old hag” is what he said when he finally wanders in. And then laughed. “Hermione,” he continued, “untie Harry before he implodes.”

Being momentarily stunned that he properly used the word `implode', I found myself unable to comply. “Hermione,” sighed Harry finally, wiggling his fingers in my general direction, “I'm the second ranking Auror in the entire Ministry. I could get out of this with one eye and no wand. Please untie me.”

Somewhat suspiciously, I did so, and when Harry ruefully rubbed his wrists, I felt the teensiest bit of guilt. Then, upon remembering what he would have done had I not tied him down, I squashed all guilt beneath the heel of my eminently sensible thick-soled shoes.

I have no doubt of Harry's wand prowess - after all, we've worked on a few cases together, not that he'd remember, due to the Ministry-standard Obliviate that follows all cases when Mysteries work with Aurors - so I didn't point out the obvious, which was ask why he didn't untie himself if he could do it with one eye and no wand.

“Honestly, the two of you should realize that this is a conclusion the entire Wizarding world has already come to,” pointed out Ron lazily from the doorway as Harry undid his tie and attempted to retie it around his neck.

“What?” I asked, my voice veering onto shrill. From my position hunched over the side of Harry's desk, I whipped around to look at him.

“You and Harry live together,” pointed out Ron. “Everyone at the Ministry knows that the three of us shared a flat, and everyone also knows that Luna and I are getting married. You don't need to be an Auror to work out that you two are going to be together alone. And seeing as how Ginny was seen pretty cozy with that Gunerth fellow at some posh place on numerous occasions, and Viktor Krum's snogging his male teammate, that leaves the two of you desolate, seeking solace in each other, right?”

“Günter,” I corrected absently, reaching across a messy mountain of paperwork - honestly, Harry has a secretary, he might as well use her - to assist Harry with his tie. I hated realizing this, but Ron actually had a point. Was the entire Wizarding world really thinking this? It did make a great deal of sense, if one considered it logically . . .

“Hmm?” asked Ron and Harry at the same time, the later giving me a grateful smile as I pulled the deep blue silk - my recent Christmas gift - out of his clumsy fingers.

“Günter,” I repeated. “Ginny's model. His name in Günter, not Gunerth.” Now that I thought about it, Lavender Brown had made the strangest comment the other day at the Order reunion, something about if I'd considered a baker for the wedding, seeing as how her cousin Brooke had a magic touch with pastry. At the time, I'd thought she meant Ron and Luna, but I should've known better, especially where Lavender is concerned.

“Riight,” replied Ron skeptically, leaning his lanky form against the doorframe. His grasp of foreign affairs (and pronunciation) is as abysmal as it was when we were in school, despite the fact that I heard him distinctly converse with Harry once, pre-Luna, on the merits of women of certain cultures. They were far more enthusiastic in said conversation than they would have been had they known that I was still in the house.

The corner of Harry's lips twitched as I finished his knot, and he said, “Thanks for the insight into the mindset of the Wizarding world, Ron. Because Hermione and I wanted to know that everyone thinks we're shagging.” He rolled his eyes.

“You look like a teenage girl when you do that,” pointed out Ron, and when Harry attempted to stop swallowing his tongue, Ron turned to me and said, brightly, “Luna wanted me to send you a crane about stopping by tonight to help her start with wedding plans, but I might as well tell you now.”

And then he was gone, in the usual Ron fashion, and Harry grimaced. “Sorry about going off like that,” he said apologetically, pushing the knot up to his throat. “Sometimes it really gets me what they put in the Prophet headlines.”

Headlines? “Harry,” I asked slowly, “did you actually read the article?” I'd assumed he had, by the shagging comment, but he could've just inferred that from Ron's wordy explanation.

“No, why?”

And if he was that incensed over the headline, then the innuendoes about former threesomes were going to assure Grumbdell's future dismemberment and hairy death.

“No reason,” I said as cheerily as I could, surreptitiously sliding his copy of the Prophet off his desk. “Just don't. It's complete trash.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

2:31 p.m.

I told myself that I was going to put away this ridiculously juvenile little red journal, and take out the Haverford file - honestly, you have to wonder about men like Terrance Haverford, who splinch themselves across dimensions; how much free time does one need on ones hands to travel ones' left side into the Regency era - and get to work on the Arithmancy equations that Weatherby was supposed to have on my desk two hours ago, but I've discovered something a little strange.

Haverford's equations work out perfectly. I've checked and double checked and triple checked, and even gone so far as to have the odious Weatherby go over them for me. There is no explicable reason why he should have splinched himself, other than that his magic was a tad dotty.

But in the past few weeks I've been going over his personal history and all of his written records, and frankly the man is something of a magical genius - it took me a little less than a month of nonstop research and experimentation to even access his files, they were so heavily warded. It is highly improbable that his magic is suspect. I'd even say it was impossible, but I've been working in the Department of Mysteries too long to make such wide-sweeping declarations.

Still, it's absolutely peculiar that a man known throughout the intellectual world for impeccable equations and faultless magical theory would bungle up the project that he's been working on for decades with a smidge of spotty charm-casting. Haverford's in his fifties, his magical prime, with no recorded health defects, and I'm having a hard time explaining his mistake.

Because, as far as I can tell, he didn't even make a mistake.

Even Melinda pointed out over sandwiches from the cafeteria - I had to skip lunch with Harry, due to the multiple checking of Arithmancy equations - that the whole situation is a bit off. And while I'm not exactly going to go about trusting staff that's just out of Hogwarts and reads Witch Weekly with enthusiasm normally reserved for the birth of new family members or a first edition Sir Walter Scott, Melinda is an extraordinary witch; else she wouldn't be working for me.

I'd go and ask Harry's opinion, if it weren't for the Secrecy Oath that I had to take up accepting a position with the Department of Mysteries. I'd like to keep the Obliviating of my friends down to bare minimum.

Of course, now that I've written all of this down, I suppose I'll have to go through the trouble of bespelling this journal, won't I? At least it'll give me something to do, other than stare in frustration at the mounds of scribbled files on my desk. I desperately need someone to bounce ideas off of, someone who understands my thought process, and however bright Melinda is, she simply won't do.

I suppose I'll bespell this, go over these equations one final time, and then go owl Grey. Of all the times for his wife to be having triplets, it had to be now, hadn't it?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

8:21 p.m.

I deserve to be shot. Honestly, how could I have been so stupid? Of course Haverford would have monthly rotating wards - he had enough material that it would take at least three to read all of it, and another to put it all together. I should've known that three weeks was too little time to disable the wards of someone as intelligent as Haverford.

After owling Grey - a useless enterprise, seeing as how he has yet to reply - I decided to do a bit more reading about the history of Haverford's research, and found that the pages and pages of his writing were about as legible to me as Gnomish, meaning I could pick up a phrase or two, but not really the entire idea.

Damn. Damn. I should've taken precautions when I finished disabling them. I am so absentminded I could bash myself over the head with Melinda's solid marble bust of Mageret the Bulbous-Nosed. Argh. Grey honestly couldn't care less - Haverford may have splinched himself into the Regency era, but apparently his left half is stuck in the dank corner of some abandoned monastery where no one's ventured for centuries for fear of ghosts, or some other superstitious nonsense, and thus utterly safe - but I hate to face Weatherby and see his smarmy grin.

It doesn't matter that I'm well aware that Weatherby couldn't disable Haverford's wards with both hands and a Remembrance - I'm just completely annoyed with myself.

To make things worse, when I went out to get some take-out supper at the market on Birchwood Street, I must have hit some sort of geriatric rush hour, because every woman over the age of a hundred and thirty was there shopping.

I got stuck in line behind two of them that were particularly slow. The one directly in front of me turned as the first shuffled off with her groceries to say to me in what I suppose she considered to be a conspiratorial whisper, but was really terribly loud, “My, you are certainly a lucky young lady.”

I was mentally calculating if I had enough cash on me to pay for the sandwich and lukewarm coffee, and for a moment wasn't sure what she was talking about. “I'm sorry?” I asked politely, leaning forward.

“That man of yours is quite handsome,” she declared, and gave me a crusty wink as she pushed her small basket towards the bored cashier whose entire forearm rattled with bracelets as she reached for a box of cornstarch. I wondered for a moment if she was mistaking me for someone else, when she gestured to the rack of Daily Prophets across from us. “You'll have absolutely beautiful children, you know. All that lovely hair of yours with his complexion.”

I could feel my cheeks flush with blood as the cashier ceased snapping her gum and shot me a look of interest. The three old women who had piled up behind me leaned around to see where she was gesturing. Their eyes landed on the Prophet and lit up. “Oh no,” I corrected her quickly, willing the flush to leave my cheeks. “Harry and I aren't dating. That's a load of rubbish.”

She frowned, returning her gaze to the picture for a moment. It was just my luck that picture-Harry chose that moment to attack picture-Hermione with his chocolate ice cream cone, and the two tumbled off into the corner of the picture, still laughing hysterically. The cashier and women behind me gazed on in rapt enjoyment as she continued, “Well, the two of you certainly seem a bit more than friends.” She looked significantly at the picture. “. . . and I do insist that your children will be lovely.”

There was a chorus of agreement from the three other patrons as she held out a few coins to the cashier. I distinctly heard one mutter knowledgably to another, “In my day, we didn't call a kneazle a jobberknoll, you know,” as the woman before me gathered up her small bag of groceries and hobbled out of the store.

I handed the cashier my Galleons as quickly as possible, eyes averted to over her right shoulder, as she looked me over with obvious interest. “You know,” she said in a raspy voice as she thoughtfully handed me back a few Sickles, “the woman does have a point. I mean, you an' Harry Potter an' all. That Ginny Weasley seems a lit'le like a bitch, don't she?”

My eyes snapped to meet hers, encrusted in heavy black eyeliner and bejeweled fake eyelashes, and I smiled at her companionably as I gathered up my sandwich. As confused as she may have been about Harry and my relationship, she saw through the clever disguise of the Gin-inator, and that deserved a little recognition.

Goodness, why is my clock ticking at me angrily like that? It's only 8:30 . . . oh no! Damn! Dinner with Ron and Luna! Oh, this ridiculous Haverford file is driving me positively bonkers. No doubt Ron will be alight with delight that Hermione Granger is late for once in her life.

Hmph.

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Disclaimer: Oh, just shut up already.

Author's Note: In regards to the OotP trailer, I have to say: oh my god, Daniel Radcliffe, stay away from the cutting shears. What the hell is up with that crew cut? For god's sake, use your hotness for the power of good, not evil.

~ Note: Wow . . . totally weird. I wrote that after the first OotP trailer came out . . . and now the movie's in theaters!! ~

Anywho, thanks to all of you for the MARVELOUS reviews! I mean, god, I have 75 reviews for two chapters at this point. It's amazing! I feel loved, I tell you, positively adored. *sniffle*

Second Author's Note: *hums off-key* Due to the precipitous occasion of the BEGINNING OF SUMMER (whoot!) I hope that I'll be able to post quicker than usual (my anal-retentiveness means that it takes me two days to write the chapter and two weeks to edit it) . . . but yaya! Hot weather! Cool pools!

. . . I love life.

Third Author's Note: (written a week later) Okay, so I sort of missed the beginning of summer mark. Whoops. I honestly intended to have this up before I left for London, I did! I bum internet off of my neighbor's wireless sometimes, and unfortunately their system was down, so no uploading could be done. But ignore my rambling. Enjoy!

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Denial

Chapter Three: Of Secretary-Stealers, Black Vortexes, and Yellow Frocks

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11:57 p.m.

I love Luna, I really do. Goodness knows that she's my best friend - of the female gender, at any rate - and we do get along marvelously; but there are times when I wonder about where her rather . . . exotic tastes stem from. The Lovegoods are from Ottery St. Catchpole, which is hardly a neighborhood that is of the eccentric persuasion. Admittedly at times I wonder about the MacMillan family, but it's Ernie's fault for thinking he could change Romilda Vane simply by marrying her.

Anyway, upon stumbling, in a somewhat unattractive fashion, through the soot-encrusted fireplace in Ron and Luna's newly-shared house, I discovered my aforementioned best friend sitting cross-legged on her striped blue and magenta sofa, flipping through bridal magazines. A whole stack of them, all portraying attractive society flirts in dresses that varied from prudish to garish to downright revealing, was perched on the Eiffel Tower of brown cardboard boxes. There were similar structures arrayed about the living room, all evidence of Ron's recent defection from Grimmauld Place.

She looked up as I staggered out of their red brick fireplace - which was in desperate need of a good dusting, seeing as how neither Luna nor Ron are terribly worried about cleaning things - coughing up approximately half the alveoli and their respective capillaries in my left lung.

“Hullo Hermione!” said Luna brightly, tossing aside her bridal magazine and receiving an indignant huff from the jet-haired hussy on the cover. She hopped up from the couch to help me with my bags, a half dozen of which contained the Haverford files, which were so heavily warded by their esteemed writer that I only needed to bother with a few minor distraction charms. Luna's earrings, a pair displaying a cluster of ceramic spinach leaves dangling from a red wooden bead that I had gotten her for Christmas before last, were horridly tangled in the wispy blonde hair that had valiantly escaped from her semi-drooping ponytail.

“I was thinking yellow,” she declared in a voice that was terribly firm (for Luna, anyhow), settling my bags on a ratty leather armchair that looked as though it had seen better days, no doubt around the era that Henry VIII was still on his third wife. Confused, and still slightly breathless, I could only silently follow her through a Minoan labyrinth of cardboard boxes to the kitchen.

“Yellow,” she continued as she pulled down two mismatched tea cups and saucers from the cupboard above the stove. “Chamomile? Or peppermint?”

“Peppermint,” I wheezed, coughing up a small plume of black smoke. Luna, appearing not to notice the rapid change in air composition around me, mumbled something about raspberry-glazed biscuits. I politely refused and, grimacing, accepted the tea she proffered and took a delicate sip. It spread across my soot-lined throat and washed away the acrid taste of burnt metal that had been lingering on the back of my tongue. Absentminded Luna may have been, but she could brew a cuppa with the best.

Mind you, Luna's not as loony as she was before the Second Blitz roared over London. I suppose that most of the time she acts that way, pretending, like we all do, that those horrible years never really happened. Ron's the same way; there are times where he'll be so utterly responsible and deviously clever that I'll think, in a most unflattering way, that it almost isn't Ron. Because Ron, you see, is blunt without exception; never dense, per se, but he's also not the sort of clever that makes Lucius Malfoy's perfect hair turn green with envy. But then the strange moment passes and he's back to being the old Ron, crabby and impolite, but still just dear old Ron.

And Harry hasn't been able to shake that dark glint in his eyes, the one that I know Ron and I can see, and sometimes share, but maybe it isn't quite as visible to anyone who doesn't know him as well as we two do. It's from killing them, I know, all of those Death Eaters and Voldemort, the ones who deserved to rot away in Dante's seventh circle of Hell for all of eternity, but whom we still had to kill to put there.

I worry about Harry, because I know that being an Auror isn't all paperwork and stake outs and information gathering, it has its dangers and its violence - not as much as when we were in the War and it was just a handful of competent Aurors and schoolchildren against one of the most darkly powerful wizards the world has ever seen, but the danger is still there - and I know that in his mind he's wondering whether or not he's become too good at being detached, at killing them, and that he isn't suited to doing much else. That's when the glint gets bigger, and his green eyes harden as if his heart is doing it as well.

He looked like that when he killed Voldemort, when all that light rushed around them, leaving just Harry's dark eyes.

Alright.

No more talk about Voldemort, not now, when I've got Luna's ridiculous wedding plans to dissect. Because, you see, while I (rather naïvely, I hesitate to admit) assumed that she was talking about the Quibbler when she rambled on about yellow, she was, instead, talking about her bridesmaid dresses.

Bright yellow. When she showed me a photo of the particular swath of fabric she had in mind, which turned out to be a tablecloth, of all things, at the post-nuptial soiree of a young fashion protégé's spring wedding, my retinas all but screeched in mortal agony.

“Erm.”

“Isn't it marvelous?” gushed Luna, gazing down at the glossy magazine page happily. “I know that brunettes with your porcelain skin tone are supposed to be lovely in yellow, or so assures Margery. Ginny's dress might need a little work, but I suppose we could lighten it up a bit, and she'll look fine.”

I tore my eyes from the page to Luna's wide blue eyes, framed by the haphazard fringe that, despite its lack of care, manages to accentuate her long face perfectly. The view was obscured by scattered white splotches in the general shape of a series of square tables. “Yellow?” I repeated dumbly. In my mind I was divided between making a mental memo - Note to self: Hex Luna's secretary - and imagining gleefully the stunningly beautiful Ginny in a garishly yellow bridesmaid gown bedecked in ribbons and lace; I imagine that despite this, I quite resembled a landed cod as I gaped at her.

I'd realized after so many years of friendship that Luna's tastes were terrible, but goodness, not that terrible.

“Yes, yellow,” replied Luna patiently. She looked down at her swath of fabric and gestured vaguely in the general direction of the napkins folded under bright purple cocktails in the next picture. Luckily, this yellow appeared to have been bleached heavily of its neon undertones; unluckily, it had sparkles.

“I figure that if I show Madame Malkin these pictures, she'll be able to rustle up some fabric to match. Mrs. Weasley's offered her help with making the dresses; isn't that kind of her?”

My nose twitched as I attempted to calmly take a sip of my tea without snorting. The day I allowed Mrs. Weasley within three hundred yards of my wedding plans was the day that my groom was Draco Malfoy. It isn't as if I don't love Mrs. Weasley, because I do. But I'm afraid that our tastes don't mesh terribly well, and I am perfectly aware that we are both just too stubborn to ever compromise on any of our disagreements.

But then again, Luna's bluntness allows her a certain amount of leeway when it comes to dissenting opinions with Mrs. Weasley. I suppose that's one of the reasons why she's marrying Ron, and I dumped a bowl of boiled greens over his head two hours after he told me he fancied me.

I spent the next two hours talking Luna into a more tolerable shade of creamy yellow (that would better suit both complexion and optic nerve) for the bridesmaid dresses and writing innumerable lists about the wedding. While neither Luna nor Ron appear to be that worried about the fact that their wedding is two months away, between Mrs. Weasley and I all necessary worrying is covered.

I suppose that if they wanted a small wedding then it would be a different matter altogether; but when the Weasleys are involved, nothing can ever be completely small. There's Ron's parents, his five siblings, their significant others (or, in the case of the Gin-inator, insignificant other), their children, plus aunts, uncles, cousins, and work and school friends. Then there's Luna's family, which is surprisingly large, considering how I always got the impression she and her father were awfully lonely.

Then again, it's always surprising how many relatives come out of the woodwork when one is getting married. It's rather like coming into a large sum of money, I imagine.

But either way, Luna's wedding is going to be quite large. Considering how the Prophet latched their teeth into the proposal (although I suspect that it had more to do with me running, desolate, into Harry's eagerly awaiting arms), I don't doubt that the bridal magazines Luna was drooling over will be sending her owls soon. Luna's far too sensible to actually entertain such notions, but we'll have a good laugh or two over them and their pink stationary.

I made it back to Grimmauld Place, leaking notebook paper, just in time to see a heavily made-up Gin-inator stalk angrily out of the house. Behind her, the door shut with a great clang, the peeling paint at the top swaying back and forth on their precarious perch. The top two buttons of her clingy crimson blouse were undone, and I, with great relish, stopped her to point out that the lacy top of her brassiere was showing. She shot me an evil glare that would have meant hairy death in any language, and flounced off, the spindly heels of her stilettos clacking against the cement squares leading up to the house.

I found Harry hunched over a few fingers of Firewhisky in the parlor. Because he looked like he needed a distraction, not my unmitigated glee at the failure of the Gin-inator, I shuffled into the doorway with a huff. “Care to give a girl a hand?”

He looked up, and I could see he was grateful by his smile and the way he quickly placed the crystal glass of liquor next to the decanter on the rickety mahogany side table. “Planning on invading Poland?” he inquired politely, taking more than half of my overflowing bags and shoving them onto the couch with barely visible effort. I attempted not to be jealous and failed miserably.

“Goodness no,” I declared, adding the last few to the pile and sinking down into the dusky green Queen Anne chair nearby. “That's just to get me across the Channel. I'll have to double it at least for Poland.” Harry quirked an eyebrow in reply, but I could already tell that his fingers were twitching towards the sofa. “Oh no you don't,” I said warningly, pulling myself out of the delicious warmth of the chair and propelling my body between my housemate and paperwork.

“What, is it Mysteries business?” inquired Harry, grinning. I'd explained to him once how those within the Research subsection of the Department were called Mysteries, while everyone else were referred to as Unspeakables. He'd found it highly amusing, and made some good-natured rumblings as to how it was the perfect place for me, as even the nicknames were organized. Ever since he'd made sure to use the proper nomenclature of the Department of Mysteries personnel.

“Yes,” I replied, sniffing as haughtily as I could. I came off my high horse as I burrowed myself between two leaning towers of files on the sofa with a contented sigh. “I'm hungry enough to eat a horse,” I continued, reaching up a leaden hand to massage my still-sore eyes. “One look at the fabric Luna wanted for her bridesmaids' frocks and I lost my appetite completely.” Harry raised an eloquent eyebrow, reaching out to take a sip of his Firewhisky, and I told him the entire story, complete with adjective-riddled descriptions of the fabric swatches.

He clucked sympathetically at all the correct moments, and when I finished we moved into the kitchen, where he made me a thick turkey sandwich that we split and enjoyed in companionable silence. I ultimately decided against bringing up the amusing anecdote of the geriatric supporters of our non-relationship - and not because I thought it would raise any awkwardness between us, due to unacknowledged romantic feelings, or other ridiculous somesuch.

I didn't tell him because I saw no reason that he would get any merit from it, other than a good chuckle. So I decided to save the anecdote for a particularly thunder-riddled rainy day, and lugged my fourteen thousand pounds worth of paperwork up to Ron's my bedroom to do some late-night work.

I always do best at the ten-to-one in the morning hours, so in reality I should probably be working on decoding Haverford's notes, not writing about my daily escapades in this journal at midnight. However, this has become surprisingly addicting. Who would have thought that sensible Hermione Granger with her sensible shoes and such would become addicted to journaling?

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Wednesday, September 3^rd

This is complete and utter bollocks. Honestly, who does Grey think I am? Grunheld the Explorer? Do I seem to be the type who would work better while “in the field with first-hand information coming at me?”

Really? Do I? I guess I was under the rather mistaken impression that the reason I work in the Department of Mysteries, rather than in the research division of MLE, is that I cannot think on my feet, and would most likely be blasted into a pile of ash if I ever ventured out onto the field against an opponent more dangerous than a diricawl. Because I had thought that during my interview with Grey when I said, “Sir, I can apply myself best in a library environment,” I was telling the truth.

I suppose, though, I must be mistaken on this account. Because, you see, Grey has decided that rather than letting me sacrifice the next seven months - which is a conservative estimate, I have to admit - to unwarding Haverford's files, instead he's going to send me, along with an Auror, the Regency era and that dank little monastery to convince Haverford to give me the codecharm for his notes.

I asked why I needed an Auror to accompany me - after all, they catch dark wizards, and from what I've read on Haverford (and believe me, with Delta Spark clearance I have access to all sorts of restricted files) the man was just about as dark as a billywig - and Grey replied, his mysterious tone somewhat belied by the screeching of his newborn triplets, “If you're right, Granger, and there was nothing Haverford did wrong, then someone decided to interfere with his work. The Auror's there to make sure that he or she doesn't splinch your large brain in half, too.”

Somewhat mollified by this - but not enough to ignore the loud danger! danger! shrieks in the back of my mind - I opened my mouth to protest when Grey quickly withdrew his head from the fireplace. Harrumphing, I settled back on my heels. My office isn't really a proper office at all, although I do have a strange sort of half-wall that rises slightly about the height of Harry's head and is thick enough to hold a fireplace. In front of that is my desk, where I quickly relocated to sketch out a request for the Auror department. It was all the classic paperwork sort of thing, until I arrived upon the purpose and destination part.

Somehow I had a feeling that “Grey intends on sending an Auror and I into the Regency era to possibly find a dark wizard who is willing to splinch a man in half in order to keep easier methods of time travel undiscovered” wouldn't be what Kingsley meant by purpose and destination. So I meandered around the issue, making rumblings about possibilities of danger and only mentioning the Regency era once in passing.

I folded up the parchment, tapped it with a few wards, and made my way out of my oasis of isolation to find Melinda. I had to weave around the two lumpy armchairs and the half-moon of filing cabinets holding the shrunken reports of every case I've ever worked on (and a few that I haven't) in order to leave my office/clearing. Finding my way to the front doors involved meandering through the stacks upon stacks upon stacks of bookshelves that extend endlessly on three sides and only moderately so on the fourth (so I can leave my office without having to bring along rations). It was along the fourth side that I traveled, which lead to Melinda's desk beside the large double doors that lead back into the main foyer of the Research Division.

After Lucius Malfoy revealed, under Veritaserum at his trial, that he and other Death Eaters posing as Ministry officials had been hacking into the classified owl posts between departments, the Ministry had stopped using owl posts and instead had Auror-couriers, a useless and inefficient system involving Aurors having to carry their own messages for the cases they were working on.

The odious Weatherby and I - in our only collaboration - jointly petitioned the Minister to install a new system that was neither inefficient nor easily intercepted, and we ended up with the Black Box system. A square opening about the size of a first edition Hogwarts, A History is cut into the wall, where it accesses the `black vortex' (or so Harry called it, rather unprofessionally) that goes fluidly throughout the entire Ministry building. With a tap of the wand of anyone working in the office, the black box is operational, and one simply says the office name, puts in the piece of parchment or package, and the walls carry the message to the requisite office.

Unfortunately, my office has no walls connected to the Ministry building, so I have to go to Melinda every time I wish to use my Black Box; I sent Grey a petition months ago asking that he get in a maintenance worker to connect my false wall to the floor, but he went on paternity leave not long after, and his secretary isn't terribly trustworthy.

I arrived at Melinda's desk to find it deserted. She had left a piece of parchment on her desk explaining that Weatherby had rudely demanded her assistance with some meaningless chore, and she would be back by eleven at the latest. Honestly, Weatherby has to stop his aggravating attempts at bothering my work flow - Melinda is my secretary, and he and Tennebaum share Yewdell, who I know is quite capable of doing his job properly! His office politics are absolutely juve----------

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I am still not terribly experienced at portraying how a character is startled and jerks their pen off the page, because whenever I do it in real life, I get ink all over my neat handwriting and the letters turn unintelligible . . . But I hope I got the point across.

Anywho, I have returned from my vacation in London/Spain . . . and then my vacation in Chicago . . . and will post this chapter. Never fear! Summer is here, thus my time spent on this story will increase exponentially. However, I sort of drowned my iPod in London, so first dibs on time goes to the job paying for its replacement. Me sorry!

P.S. I realize, as someone pointed out, that I wrote in passing that Harry and Hermione share a flat in the last chapter. I apologize. This is actually the only fic I've really written where they share Grimmauld Place . . . it was habit, which is my only excuse.

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